(1995) Gail represents an old law school friend in a fight over the estate of a wealthy Miami Beach socialite. When the action turns deadly, Anthony wants Gail to bow out.

        The night she was murdered, Althea Tillett had hosted a party for her best girlfriends. The four of them usually played bridge on Wednesdays, but tonight was special, the last bridge game before Althie would fly off to Europe for a month. Ignoring the cards after the first round, they went through three bottles of wine and ended up singing old show tunes around the grand piano.
        Jessica's driver showed up promptly at ten o'clock, as instructed, waiting patiently in the foyer while the women all shrieked with laughter, trying to aim their feet into the right shoes.
        As soon as the taillights disappeared past the bougainvillaea, Althie came back in and locked up. The house seemed quiet now, strangely empty.
        Through the high windows she could see the black waters of Biscayne Bay and in the distance a line of streetlights twinkling through the trees on the Miami side. She glanced at the mess they had made-napkins, plates, glasses, an empty bottle on the carpet. The grandfather clock chimed the quarter hour.

         Humming to herself, Althea unsteadily climbed the stairs, coming back down in her kimono and wooden Japanese sandals. She put Madama Butterfly on the CD player, the scene where Pinkerton marries Cho-Cho San. Hands folded geisha-style at her breast, Althie sang with them in Italian. Bowing, she bumped into a plaster replica of Winged Victory, then grabbed its rocking pedestal just in time, laughing at her reflection in the windows. A post-middle-age broad in a red silk robe. She untied the belt and flashed the darkness. The best thing about this house, Althie noticed when her late husband, Rudolph W. Tillett, moved her into it, was the privacy. When the kids were gone, she and R.W. used to walk stark naked through the place, and turn up the stereo so loud the chandelier would rattle.
         They had met at the opera. She had bought a seat for herself and by chance his was adjacent. During La Boheme she saw the tears on his cheeks and pressed her handkerchief into his hand. A year later, just after his invalid wife passed away, they married. His black-haired twins-a boy and a girl-were perfect little brats about it, but she didn't give a damn. Her friends warned her about R.W., said he was a selfish bastard, but she told them sweetly to shut up. He loved her. What else did she need to know?
         R.W. had indulged her. He let her redecorate the house, whatever she wanted. She got rid of the French Empire furniture and the dusty velvet curtains and brought in a mix of Art Deco, modern Italian, Persian rugs, carved Chinese panels, and mementos from their trips abroad. The landscapes were banished to the attic and replaced with abstract impressionists. In the living room Althie hung a convincing copy of a Gauguin Tahitian nude, and in the master bedroom a Picasso drawing-a real one-of a devil with dark, heavy genitals.
         She hadn't expected such passion from this man. When the mood struck, he would put on his tuxedo and sit in an armchair, sending puffs of cigar smoke over his shoulder, his deep-set gray eyes fixed on Althie. With the Mozart buzzing on the windows, or the Bizet, or Verdi, she would slide out of the Pappagena bird outfit or flamenco dress or Egyptian wig, or whatever it was she had on. If he ever noticed that she dimmed the lights a little more as the years passed, he had the tact not to say so. Barefoot, Althie would dance over to him, loosen his bow tie, take the studs out of his pleated shirt . . .
         For their fifteenth anniversary they went to a spa in Switzerland. He got a penile implant and she, a face-lift. Afterward, they spent a week in Paris. A small hotel. It had rained. Delicious, whispery rain.
         Memories. They always made her eyes sting. Althie went over to the bridge table, began to stack plates, then signed. Let Rosa tidy up in the morning. Althie unlatched the sliding door and walked out onto the terrace on the swelling crescendo of the Metropolitan Opera Chorus. The bay was dead calm, the air thick and heavy. She flapped the side of her robe, making a little breeze. Summer goes on forever in Miami, she thought.
         Three and a half years ago, in winter, the sky shimmering with stars, she and R.W. had put on a new Wagner CD, dropped their bathrobes on a chaise, and took their steins of pilsner into the hot tub. He found the ledge to sit on and held out his big hand. Laughing like a witless teenager, Althie pushed through the bubbles to settle down across his thighs. A little later, whose whimpering noises he made- She could barely hear them over the Götterdämmerung pouring through the open doors. Clinging to his shoulders, she thought he was having a ferocious climax. But no. His implant still stiff as a piling, the rest of him went limp, and he slid off the ledge and under the steaming water.
         On Monday, she would fly to the Aegean one last time. Surely R.W., wherever he was, would forgive these little flings of hers. But soon she would look silly dancing in a tavern with a man half her ago. One more trip to Mykonos, then come home to sink into respectable dotage. She would never remarry. Oh, R.W., my man, my love, my only love . . .
         Kimono fluttering, Althie abruptly crossed the dark terrace and slid the glass door shut, twisting the lock. The orchestra was leading up the "Un Bel Di Vedremo." She turned down the volume, then clopped through the arched entranceway to the kitchen in her wooden sandals. The silvery soprano followed.
         " . . . Vedi? E venuto! Io non gli scendo in contro . . ." Do you see? He is coming.
         Thirsty, Althie held a glass under the tap on the refrigerator, watched the water swirl closer to the rim.
         ". . . Che dirà? Che dirà? Chiamerà 'Butterfly' dalla lontana . . ." He calls "Butterfly" from far away.
         Althie sang softly to herself. And then her voice leaped into a cry of confusion and panic.
         Something had grabbed her hair, violently pulling backward. The glass dropped, hit the floor. Icy water splashed her ankles. Now an arm was across her throat.
         Someone had come into her house. A man who didn't belong there. This could not be. The alarm system-
         She tried to cry out, could only choke. The arm tightened. She clutched at the wrist and her hands slid on leather. He lifted her off the floor and she kicked madly, connecting once with the wooden sandal. He cursed and swung her around, and for an instant Althie saw her own face, eyes gaping, in the window.
         He slammed her into the counter, pinning her. His body was solid, his breath hot on her temple. Her throat was caught in the crook of his elbow. Now his other hand moved to grip the back of her head. She wheezed, gagged. Her head was forced around and back. Out of the corner of one eye she saw things on the counter-bowl of peaches, a coffee cup, a novel she had begun. With a pang of regret, she realized she would never know how it ended.
         The soprano was still singing in a voice pure as sunlight.