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from
The Advocate.
Ironically I rarely cross paths with Brendan Shaw. Our work schedules must be very different. It was only when I saw Brendan at the parish-council meeting that I remembered to call him about our coverage.
    The agency is composed of a small reception area, Brendan's inner office, and a cubicle that's used by the salesmen he sometimes hires part-time. The current receptionist-secretary-assistant is Patsy Shaw, Brendan's wife. She is a ruddy blonde with a comfortable plump air about her that befits the mother of four sons. Idly I wondered if any of them was interested in carrying on the family business.
    “Brendan's tied up for a few minutes/' Patsy informed me in her friendly, open manner. She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Mrs. Gotrocks is in there with him. Let's hope she's buying a couple of million-dollar policies. Except for some of the construction workers on the college, business has been sl-o-o-o-w. As usual.”
    I was puzzled. “Mrs. Gotrocks?”
    Patsy nodded, her tightly permed blonde curls dancing. “You know—Ursula O'Toole.” Patsy made a face. “I mean Ursula Randall. Soon to be Wells. I was two years ahead of her in school. You know, she was kind of a snip even then. Which is strange, because the O'Tooles werejust plain folks. Mr. O'Toole had a comer grocery store in those days, where Itsa Bitsa Pizza is now. But I always thought that Mr. O'Toole was one of those fathers who doted on his daughter. You know—the Little Princess syndrome.”
    I did know; I'd seen it among my own peers. Sons were taken for granted, expected to be strong and brave and hardworking. The daughter—there was always only one—was protected, pampered, and put on a pedestal.
    “So how did Ursula end up marrying a doctor?” I asked. Vida hadn't seen fit to go into Ursula's marital history.
    “She got married right out of high school to a kid from Index who'd already joined the army. Six months later, he was killed in Vietnam. Ursula wanted to get away, so she left Alpine. I think it wasn't grief so much as it was her feeling that she was entitled to Bigger Things.” Patsy sniffed in disapproval. “Ursula got a job at some big hospital in Seattle and met her first husband while he was an intern.”
    “I wonder why she came back,” I remarked, keeping an eye on the closed door to Brendan's office.
    Patsy shrugged. “Maybe she got tired of being a big frog in a big puddle. In Alpine, she can be a huge frog in a tiny puddle. And I gather that Warren wants to—”
    The sharp signal I made with one hand silenced Patsy. Ursula Randall was backing out of Brendan's office, bidding him a gracious adieu. When she saw me, her thin face with its high cheekbones grew perplexed. I sensed that she was trying to recall the rock under which she'd last seen me crawling.
    “Hi, Ursula,” I said in my most cheerful voice. “Emma Lord,
The Alpine Advocate.
We met a couple of weeks ago after the ten o'clock Mass.”
    Ursula assumed a rueful expression. “Of course! Weak coffee and … some sort of stale confectionery.” She laughed, that husky, gleeful sound that would have beenmore appropriate for jumping on bugs. “Tell me, dear, when are they going to run the article Mrs. Rumplemeyer wrote?”
    “Runkel,” I said with emphasis, not daring to look at Patsy, who was trying to stifle a giggle behind her hand. I was certain that she, too, knew perfectly well that Ursula hadn't forgotten Vida's last name. No one ever forgot Vida. “It's in today's edition,” I went on. “You'll probably have it in your box when you get home.”
    “How nice.” Ursula lifted a hand in apparent salute. “I do hope the pictures are flattering. I'm afraid I'm the most unphotogenic person on earth!” With that declaration, Ursula Randall departed the insurance agency just as Verb Vancich came in.
    “Hi, Verb,” Patsy said in greeting, then noted the harried expression on the newcomer's face. “What's up? Don't tell me the