(2000) Gail and Anthony have called off their engagement, but they become reluctant partners in defending a young ballet dancer accused of murder.

        It was the dog that awakened her, the strange noises he made. A yelping whine, then a bark. Then nothing, and she drifted back to sleep with the soft whirr of the air conditioner. Rain tapped on the roof of the cottage, and dim light came through the window. Then the barking started up again.
         Diane thought Jack might come down from the house and see about it, because after all, Buddy was his damned dog. She remembered that Jack had thrown a party last night, and he'd been happily drunk when she'd gotten home at midnight. It had been three in the morning before the music and laughter had quieted down.
         Roof-roof-roof. Roof-roof. Hyeeeeeeee--
         Diane shoved the pillow off her head and squinted at her clock. 6:45. "Oh, great." In plaid boxers and a camisole, she stumbled out onto the small wood porch. Nothing stirred in the yard. All she could see of Jack's house was some white clapboard and the steps to the screened porch. In the other direction, past the mildewing seawall, lower Biscayne Bay gleamed as dully as an old nickel.

        No dog anywhere in sight. "Stupid mutt."
        A walkway ran across the yard, vanishing under a cedar trellis and into a thick stand of palm trees. He was in there. Roof-roof. Roof.
        "Buddy! Come!" What was he doing? Diane thought of bufo toads-huge, slimy creatures with poisonous skin. Buddy would taste anything. She ran down the steps and across the yard, then under the trellis. Vines decades old kept out the rain, and the light dimmed. Dead leaves stuck to her bare feet. There was a fountain farther on, and Diane could hear it. The path turned, then opened up to a semicircle of teak benches, beds of bromeliads, and hanging baskets of orchids.
        Jack's black Lab stood right in the middle of the path. He turned his head and looked at her, and his tail wagged. Diane came closer, then stopped. There was something just past him. The low, overcast sun barely penetrated the shade, and the thing-whatever it was-lay halfway under some bushes. Gradually the details became clear. A man's legs in tan slacks, feet pointing upward. An arm.
        Barking, the dog loped toward her. Diane stumbled, caught herself, and raced back the way she had come, along the path, under the trellis, and across the wet grass to Jack's house, then up the steps. Her hair fell from its knot and into her eyes. Buddy danced in circles around her. She flung open the screen door, leaving him in the yard.
        A spare key was hidden in a conch shell. She retrieved it in trembling fingers and jammed it into the lock. The back door opened into the kitchen. "Jack! Jack!" She ran through the hall, slipping as she rounded the corner. Dim light came from a globe held aloft by a bronze nude.
        "Jack!" Her feet thudded up the stairs. "Jack, get up!"
        His door swung open and Jack came out in old hiking shorts. "I'm up! What in the name of God's little angels is going on?" He was pulling a faded green T-shirt down over his belly. His eyes were puffy, and his big sandy mustache was turned up on one end, down on the other.
        "There's a man by the fountain. On the path-oh, my God, Jack-he's dead. I heard Buddy barking, and I went to see-" Diane steadied herself on Jack's shoulder. "And there was a man lying on the ground. I think he's dead."
        "What do you mean, dead?"
        "I mean not breathing, Jack! Not moving."
        "Maybe he's sleeping."
        "No. Buddy's been barking forever."
        "Well, who is it?"
        "I don't know! I was afraid to look!"
        "Calm down." Jack rubbed his face. "My. How inconsiderate, right in my backyard. He's probably asleep. Wait for me downstairs. I'm going to get some shoes on."
        "Do you want me to call the police?"
        "No. If you want to be helpful, ma petite, go make some coffee."
        The door closed. Diane heard a woman's voice. Then Jack's low murmur. A few seconds later he came out in his old leather boat shoes. The door closed, but not soon enough to cut off a view of tangled red hair and a sheet clutched to somebody's breasts.
        Jack's stern glance admonished Diane for not being downstairs already. At the landing she whispered, "That was Nikki."
        "Shhh. You saw nothing, child." He nudged her along.
        Jack looked out the kitchen window as if the wild landscaping would part and reveal whatever was there. He held aside the curtain with one hand and with the other twirled the ends of his big mustache into points.
        "I had hoped, on this drizzly Sunday, to spend the day in the sack. No hope of that now." He dropped the curtain. "If my guest ventures downstairs, tell her to stay in the house. I'll go have a look-see."
        "What about the coffee?"
        "Of course. Start the coffee-not that I need it after this jolt."
        Jack pushed open the back door. The dog rose from the mat, and its swaying tail tipped over a beer bottle. More of them littered the porch. The ashtrays were full, and a roach clip lay on a side table. Dead? Dead drunk was more like it. Guests had occasionally been found in the yard, sleeping it off, but not, he had to admit, this time of year, not with mosquitos chewing on exposed flesh and humidity so high one could work up a sweat breathing.
        The drizzle was turning to rain. Jack touched his .38 snub-nose through his pocket. The neighborhood was generally safe, and he didn't expect to see any strangers, conscious or otherwise, but one never knew. Buddy trotted along beside him.
        The main walkway from the house, paved with old keystone, arrowed to the seawall and a boathouse, where Jack kept his fishing boat raised on davits. Stepping-stones curved left toward the cottage, and another path meandered through a collection of rare plants and palm trees to the grotto. That had been his cousin Maggie's mad creation. She had piled up coral rocks and studded them with tacky Florida souvenirs, then set a bronze manatee on its tail. The sea cow's hippo-like mouth spurted water into a pond where fat carp wove among purple swamp lilies.
        Jack could hear the splash of water as he took the path under the trellis. It blocked the rain, and intermittent drops spattered onto the keystone. Jack swept a spider web off his face. Then he saw it-a man's legs and feet. White canvas deck shoes with leather laces. Khaki pants soiled with dirt and bits of rotten leaves. The rest of the man lay just beyond a clump of elephant-ear philodendron.
        "Hey!" Jack knew already, but called out, "Wake up!"
        Drops of water fell from the trellis onto a philodendron leaf, which moved slightly, as if shuddering. Buddy whined through his nose. Jack pointed toward the house. "Go home!" The dog circled, panting and wagging its tail.
        Walking closer, Jack felt a sharp crunch under his shoe-a snail, smashed like a tiny brown porcelain cup. Slime trails crisscrossed the path. Standing alongside the man's thighs, Jack slowly peered around the huge leaves of the philodendron, holding the edge of one to pull it aside. He saw the other arm-muscled, golden-haired-and at the end of it a hand covered in blood. The shattered bones of the wrist gleamed purplish through the skin.
        Without his volition, Jack's eyes traveled upward, quickly taking in details that mounted in horrific impact. A torso in a white knit shirt, neat little red holes in it. And so much blood. Not on the shirt. On the face. The left half was bathed in red, and streaks of it ran into the man's ear and matted his hair. One blue eye gazed upward. The other was a pulpy mass of glimmering black. It seemed to be moving. Then Jack saw the ants. Swarms of them.
        "Oh, sweet Jesus," he moaned, letting go of the leaf, which gaily bobbed and dipped. Hands on knees, he waited for the dizziness to pass, then stood up. "Buddy, come!" His voice cracked.
        Walking slowly through the rain, he gathered his thoughts. Water dropped off his eyebrows and chin, and his T-shirt clung to his back. Diane was on the porch. She pulled open the screen door, and her eyes took him in, finding the answer. She whispered, "He's dead, isn't he?"
        Jack went inside, shaking his head when she asked who it was. He grabbed a dishtowel and ran it over his face and neck. The smell of coffee filled the kitchen, but he had no taste for it.
        Nikki sat at the table, green eyes wide open. Jack absently smoothed his mustache and stared across the kitchen.
        Diane spoke again. "Jack? Who is it?"
        He beckoned to Nikki. "Come with me into the study for a sec. Diane, be a good girl and tidy up the back porch, will you? Don't go anywhere. I won't be long."
        He took Nikki down the hall, their footsteps reduced to soft thuds on an ancient oriental carpet gone to threads at the edges. The house was too cold. He had turned the air conditioner down to sixty-something before Nikki had slid into bed, giggling. In the study, gray light filtered through wooden blinds.
        "What is going on, Jack? Say something. What happened out there? Somebody died?" Her glossy pink mouth was open.
        He set his hands firmly on her shoulders. "I want you to be very calm. Can you do that?" Nikki nodded. "It's Roger. He's been shot."
        She stared, then blinked. "Roger? Roger is . . . dead?" She dropped onto the sofa. "Oh, my God."
        He sat beside her. "This is a mess, baby."