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“It’s in a neighborhood like ours on the other side of the town square.”
    At five-fifteen I turned onto Rosemary Street and soon spotted the house. I had to park half a block away, and as I escorted Laura down the walk we both admired the beautiful houses. This neighborhood, like mine, dated from the latter years of the nineteenth century, when the fashion was for large, multistoried houses. The lots were generous, and there were plenty of trees to help shade the houses. The hot summer sun turned the faded red brick of 1744 to pink, and I felt the heat radiating from it as we headed up the walk.
    I was perspiring freely by the time we reached the front door, and I itched to lose my jacket and tie. Laura, on the other hand, appeared unaffected by the heat. I rang the doorbell, and we waited.
    And waited. I rang again. Sounds of merriment from inside reached us easily, and I suspected no one could hear the doorbell.
    “Let’s just go in.” Laura reached for the knob and swung the door open. I felt a welcome blast of cold air and followed her inside.
    The noise was much louder now, and I decided I should have brought earplugs along with a big stick. I’d have a headache before long, thanks to this din. I pulled out my handkerchief and mopped my face and the back of my head. I stuck the sodden linen in my jacket pocket.
    We approached a nearby doorway and paused to observethe scene inside the room. The space was large, perhaps thirty by forty, the furniture and wooden floor worn but clean. I counted sixteen people spread out around the room, and they all seemed to be talking and gesturing at once. I recognized one of them as the host, Ralph Johnston, or Montana, as he now insisted he be called.
    There were a few vaguely familiar faces, but no one who I could put a name to besides Ralph. I hated making cocktail-party chitchat with people I didn’t know, but for Laura’s sake I’d make the effort.
    Even so the next couple of hours could well seem like twenty.

FOUR

    Ralph—I had a hard time thinking of him as Montana—glanced our way and frowned, looking puzzled. Then recognition seemed to dawn. He left his companion, a heavyset woman in a pink-and-orange caftan, and approached us.
    Ralph’s protuberant eyes blinked rapidly. His sallow, egg-shaped head with its orphaned blond forelock and shiny bald dome never failed to remind me of Tweety, the cartoon bird. He even flapped his hands slightly as he halted in front of Laura and bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet.
    “You are Laura Harris,” he said in a reedy tenor. He stopped flapping and bobbing long enough to extend a hand, and Laura took it with a friendly smile.
    “And you’re Professor Johnston,” she said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you finally. Thank you for hiring me for the semester. It’s going to be brilliant.”
    “Oh, my dear, I’m sure it will.” Johnston couldn’t take his eyes off my daughter, and I felt the lack of a stick keenly.
    I cleared my throat and stuck out my hand. “Evening,Johnston. Good to see you. I hope you don’t mind my tagging along as Laura’s escort.”
    The erstwhile playwright wrenched his gaze away from Laura and looked blankly at me. Then his eyes cleared, and he shook my hand. “Right. Harris. The librarian.” His glance darted to Laura and back to me. “Hard to believe such a beautiful creature sprang from the loins of an old librarian. Though she does have your coloring. Interesting.”
    He fell silent and stared at Laura.
    Now I remembered why I avoided the man whenever we were in the same room at a college function. He and tact were barely acquainted.
    “How about something to drink?” I raised my voice to penetrate our host’s apparent fog. “I’m pretty thirsty.”
    “That would be lovely.” Laura smiled, and Johnston came out of his reverie.
    “Drink. Uh, yeah.” Before he said anything more, a short, frowzy redhead in a worn yellow jumpsuit approached and grabbed his arm. From the