But in that brief time away from my suite, I received seven phone calls. Four were from media people; my respite from them evidently had ended. Seth Hazlitt called from Cabot Cove to say he was coming to Boston the next day to do some shopping, would be staying at the Ritz-Carlton, and would get in touch when he arrived. Another call from Cabot Cove was from Mort Metzger, our sheriff and my good friend. The only message he left was that he would call again. Rachel Cohen’s message was that she was having dinner with a friend at Terramia, and if I changed my mind, I could join them there. I decided to not return any of the calls, and tried to resurrect my quiet evening alone. I got into my nightgown and robe, finished the appetizer platter I’d ordered earlier in the evening, and settled in to start reading, once again, the book I’d given up on. My second attempt was no more successful than my first; the events of that day kept intruding upon my concentration. I pulled a yellow legal pad from my briefcase, sat in an overstuffed chair by the window and wrote down what I knew up to this point.