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all we have is a supposition.” Charles saw Carrie looked somewhat disappointed. “However, it’s a great supposition, and I’ll bet anything you’re right on the money.We just need to go the next step and figure out what the money represents.”
    “I’m not sure about the money, but the initials make sense.” Carrie took Charles’s notebook and began to fill in names against the initials. She listed five very quickly. “I can spot five matches without too much effort: Delores Chaney, Judy Marshall, Pat Sloane, Terry Conan, and Marilyn Armstrong.”
    “Wow, sort of a who’s who of the lady members of the Tri-County Country Club.”
    “I wonder what these sweet Club women were doing with Todd Barrington.”

arrie finished as much of her work as she could for a morning when she wasn’t concentrating on her writing. In fact, she spent most of the morning petting Baxter, who liked to sit on a pillow right next to her computer monitor. Every time she expressed a new thought about the murder, she would say it out loud to Baxter. So far none of her thoughts had impressed him. He would lift his head while she was explaining her thought, but the minute she was finished, he would flop his head back down and close his eyes.
    It was more than a week since Todd’s murder. Charles had gone to his office. He said he needed to clear up some paperwork for the upcoming issue of the
Tri-County Monthly
. However, Carrie knew he really wanted to get things in order in case he was arrested. Charles was convinced the detectives had him as their number one suspect.
    She’d been working hard since 7:30 a.m. on an article for the
Tri-County Monthly
magazine. Although she’d supportedherself for years as a freelance writer and photographer, everyone now assumed that when she got an article published in one of the family publications, it was because of Charles.
    Who said a writer’s life was easy?
she thought. She looked at her watch; it was now 9:30 a.m. She decided to go ahead and make the call.
    “Hello,” the voice answered slowly and sleepily.
    “Marilyn, hi. It’s Carrie Faraday. I haven’t called too early, have I?” Carrie felt intimidated by members of the ladies’ committee at the Club. Her voice sounded like that of a little girl who was about to be scolded for doing something wrong.
    “No, no, I’m awake now.” Carrie was sure she heard a muffled yawn. “Frank and I were out somewhat late last night playing cards. Then I got up early with Frank to drive him to the airport for a flight to Chicago. He’ll be fine because he can sleep on the plane, but I decided I needed to go back to bed.” Carrie thought this last statement was made through a stretch, which sounded through the phone. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m still asleep. Who is this?”
    “Oh, Marilyn, I’m sorry to call so early. This is Carrie Faraday, but I wanted to catch you before you went out for the day.”
    Marilyn’s husband, Frank Armstrong, was senior partner in one of the largest law firms in the city, and Marilyn had worked as his paralegal when the firm was first getting under way. As the firm and the children grew, Marilyn was no longer needed at the office. For the last ten years she’d spent hours working with the local PTA and various charities, but now devoted most of her free time to committees, events, and affairs of the Club.
    “Carrie, how delightful. I wanted to say hello to you at the dance, but after the dancing started, I didn’t see you again. How are you?”
    “I’m fine. In fact, I’m feeling terrific.”
    “Are you still working? Although I guess with your profession, work is when you want it.”
    Carrie bit her lip. Like many people, Marilyn assumed that because Carrie didn’t leave her house and commute to a job, she wasn’t really working. “Yes, I’m still writing at home.” She tried to sound pleasant.
    “Well, Frank and I’ve never understood why you spend so much time working when Charles is one of