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the wine rack.
    Judith studied him with new appreciation. The bumptious exterior obviously masked a great deal of intelligence and cunning. Not to mention genuine talent. Spooning up the last bit of cider, Judith shook her head. “Amazing. Really, it is. The reason we were talking about you was because we’d just run into—” She caught Renie’s warning glare and stopped. “Actually, we just met someone else who went to Heraldsgate High and it made me remember…”
    Spud broke in on Judith’s fumbling explanation. “Maria, right?” He jabbed Judith in the upper arm, knocking the spoon out of her hand. “Oops, sorry. I know, that’s what I mean about old home week. My wife and I are here for Max Rothside’s Sacred Eight reunion. We’re staying with them at the Hotel Clovia.”
    Suddenly, the resurfacing of Spud and Maria didn’t seem like such a coincidence after all.

THREE
    F OLLOWING S PUD F ROBISHER ’ S announcement, Judith and Renie had eyed each other surreptitiously. Old home week indeed, Judith was still thinking, and knew Renie would agree. The waiter had returned, whisking away the empty plates and pouring more wine. Spud groped at his wristwatch. “Hey, it’s going on two o’clock! Gotta run, I’m supposed to meet the wife at some boutique on Queen Charlotte Street. Maybe we’ll see you around.”
    â€œYou can’t avoid it.” In brief, Judith summed up the cousin’s plight over lost reservations and Maria’s gracious invitation. Spud seemed delighted. They’d have a real hoe-down come the cocktail hour, he asserted, and almost knocked over the Pakistani waiter on the way out.
    â€œThis is the genius who directed that highly acclaimed revival of Long Day’s Journey into Night? ” gasped Renie over coffee. “I don’t believe it!”
    But Renie had no choice. Spud might be a Midwestern rube, but it appeared that professionally he was a city slicker. Or so Judith contended as the cousinsprowled the small, smart shops of Prince Albert Bay. Two hours later, with feet dragging and arms full, they headed back to the hotel, taking Renie’s shortcut through an alley that led from the neighborhood’s commercial strip.
    â€œAre you sure Bill’s Cuban cigars won’t get confiscated?” Judith asked dubiously as a sleek Siamese cat that bore no resemblance whatsoever to Sweetums arched its back next to a dumpster.
    â€œThey never do,” Renie answered blithely. “Bill’s been buying them up here for years.”
    Judith said nothing, her mind veering off onto Joe. He, too, was a cigar smoker, and policeman or not, no doubt would have been elated with a gift of contraband Havanas. But Judith and Joe weren’t exactly at the present-giving stage. Maybe they never would be, she told herself, and felt Renie stiffen at her side.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” asked Judith, but a glance at the other end of the alley answered the question. A rotund figure in a tasseled cape pushing a popcorn wagon was heading straight for them.
    â€œPretend you don’t speak English,” hissed Renie. “Act like you’re deaf and dumb. Hold up a plague sign. Just don’t let Bob-o get started or we’ll be here all night.”
    But the warning was in vain. Within ten feet of the cousins, Bob-o began his spiel, the sound of Bow Bells in his singsong voice. “Pretty ladies, spent every ’aypenny, now it’s time for tea. What ’ave you got there, something nice for me?”
    Judith opened her mouth to reply, but Bob-o had barely paused for breath: “Got me a parakeet, pretty as you please. Speaks like a proper lad, sits in the trees. Born on Armistice Day, when we beat the Kaiser. Been all over ’ell and gone, growing old and wiser. ’Ad me a collie dog, when I was…”
    The voice rattled on as Judith and Renie stood imprisoned next