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other committee members rose as one.
    After about a minute, Betsy went to the door. Cars had stopped in the street, their headlights shining in a pouring rain. A wind had sprung up, turning the rain into silver lances splintering on the street and sidewalk. A dark sedan and one of those pickup trucks so big it had twin tires in back had collided. The car, naturally, had gotten the worst of the encounter. It was facing the wrong way, apparently having been struck with enough force to spin it around. Steam was coming out from under the crookedly lifted hood and fluid was making a puddle under the engine compartment. One front tire was no longer vertical. The truck, which was white and had a farm or company name on its door, was still running, a streamer of exhaust fluttering out. Its bumper and right front fender were crumpled and torn.
    Lars, accompanied by one of the men from The Barleywine, was speaking through the broken window to the driver of the car. It was clear from the slow patting gestures he was making that he was telling the driver to sit still—and another patron was on his cell phone, doubtless summoning an ambulance.
    But then Lars stepped back, the car rocked slightly, and the passenger door opened.
    Ryan McMurphy stepped out, raised his arms in a touchdown stance as the ring of charms—which had proved an excellent cover for a set of keys—tumbled over one hand, and gave a victory cry so loud Betsy could hear him all the way over to the brew-pub door: “Ta-dah!”

Three

    I WISH they could keep him—but of course he’ll be out as soon as bail is set.” Shelly Donohue was speaking as she examined a small overhead projector for sale in Betsy’s shop. It was late Friday morning. She was trying to keep her voice calm, using the projector as an excuse not to look at Betsy, but Betsy could sense her anger and frustration.
    “I’m just amazed that Ryan wasn’t injured in that accident last night,” said Betsy. “I suppose it was because he was so drunk.” She remembered how often she’d read of drunks climbing out of car wrecks without a scratch on them, a phenomenon no one could explain. Ryan had certainly been celebrating his near escape, though his triumphant stance in the glowing, rain-lanced street had quickly been taken down by the strong grip of Lars. Ryan had only added to his problems by struggling to break free.
    Betsy gestured at the projector, which was sitting on top of its box. “This is the last one I have, but it’s been here so long I’m prepared to cut you a deal in addition to your employee’s discount just to get rid of it.” Designers often used a projector to cast a picture onto a piece of even-weave fabric or canvas. Shelly, after years of stitching, was moving into designing cross-stitch patterns.
    “It’s good news for me, I suppose, that there aren’t a lot of pattern designers in the area.” Shelly was about thirty-five, more striking than beautiful, with lovely big eyes and masses of brown hair pulled into a careless bun. Her figure was voluptuous and there was a long string of brokenhearted third and fourth graders in her educator past. She was divorced, childless, and she shared her house with a sweet dog, and, currently, with her live-in boyfriend, Harvey, whom Betsy had not met.
    Shelly turned from her examination to say, “I actually believe Ryan has a guardian angel who specializes in drunks and fools. Of course, he’ll tell you it’s the hundred and one protective charms he carries.”
    Betsy said, “I should have been suspicious when Lars asked for Ryan’s keys and Ryan pulled that little ring out of his shirt pocket. But he said there were only charms on the big ring. I wonder how long he’s been carrying two sets of car keys?”
    “For about a week less than people have been demanding his keys when he’s drunk—which is for the last two years, at least. How much for the projector?”
    Betsy named a price a fraction over her cost, then said, “I