On Thanksgiving Day, LAPD homicide detective Kate Delafield and her partner, Ed Taylor, are called to an apartment building on the edge of Beverly Hills to investigate a premeditated and pitiless murder.
No one appears particularly grieved by the shocking end to old-time Hollywood director Owen Sinclair. Surely not three other tenants of the Beverly Malibu, who worked in the motion picture industry during the blacklist years and loathed Sinclair.
Nor is Sinclair's latest ex-wife grieved or even his children. Nor film actress and former paramour Maxine Marlowe. Nor Dudley Kincaid, whose brilliant screenplay Sinclair stole. Nor landlady Hazel Turner, whose husband, Jerome, is deceased but not exactly gone . . .
Kate sifts through tantalizing clues: a set of handcuffs fastening the murdered man to his bed of death; an album of a Wagner opera; a bourbon bottle lightly dosed with arsenic; a silver frame missing its photo.
She is also in a quandary over her fascination with Paula Grant, who discovered the murdered man. Until she is suddenly confounded by a wholly new aspect of herself uncovered by Aimee Grant, Paula Grant's remarkably beautiful young niece . . .
