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made them look sad.
    Except for her coloring, she could have been the woman
in the oil portrait.
    “Dr. Delaware and Ms. Castagna? I’m Pam, Dr. Moreland’s
daughter.” Soft, musical, slightly reticent voice. She had
a fetching smile but looked away as she extended her hand.
I’d had patients with that tendency to avert; all had been
painfully shy as children.
    “Doctor
herself,
” Picker corrected. “All these
accomplished
femmes
and everyone’s playing the modesty
game.”
    Pam Moreland gave him a pitying smile. “Evening, Lyman.
Jo. Sorry I’m late. Dad should be here shortly. If not,
we’ll start without him. Gladys has done a nice Chicken
Kiev. Dad’s vegetarian, but he tolerates us barbarians.”
    She smiled beautifully but the eyes remained sad, and I
wondered if physical structure completely explained it.
    Picker said, “Just gave our new chums a history lesson,
Dr. Daughter. Told them scientists shun this lovely bit of
real estate because Margaret Mead showed the key to
stardom is witch doctors, puberty rites, and bare-chested, dusky
girls.” His eyes dropped to Pam’s bodice.
    “Interesting theory. Can I get you
some coffee?”
    “No thanks, my dear. But a refill of this wouldn’t
hurt.”
    “Ly,” said Jo. She hadn’t moved from her corner.
    Picker kept his back to her. “Yes, my love?”
    “Come here and look at the sunset.”
    He nibbled his mustache. “The old distraction technique?
Worried about my
liver
?”
    “I just—”
    He swiveled and faced her. “If
Entamoeba histolytica
and
Fasciola hepatica
failed to do the trick, do you really
think a little Wild
Turkey
will succeed, Josephine?”
    Jo said nothing.
    “Lived on metronodizole and bithionol for months,” Picker
told Pam. “Long overdue for a physical. Any referrals?”
    “Not unless you’re going to Philadelphia.”
    “Ah, the city of brotherly love,” said Picker. “Don’t
have a brother. Would I love him, if I did?”
    Pondering that, he walked away.
    “I
will
take that refill, Dr. Pam,” he called over
his shoulder.
    “The man who came to dinner,” Pam said very softly.
“Excuse me.”
    She returned with a quarter-full bottle of Wild Turkey,
thrust it at the surprised Picker, and returned to us. “Dad’s
sorry about not being able to greet you properly.”
    “The jellyfish,” I said.
    She nodded. Glance at a Lady Rolex. “I
guess we should get started.”
       
    She seated Robin and me with a view of the sunset, the
Pickers on the other end, herself in the middle. Two empty
chairs remained and moments later Ben Romero came out and
took one. He’d put on a tan cotton sportcoat.
    “Usually I go home by six,” he said, unrolling his
napkin, “but my wife’s having a card party, the baby’s
sleeping, and the older kids are farmed out.”
    “Next time we’ll have Claire up,” said Pam. “She’s a
marvelous violinist. The kids, too.”
    Ben laughed. “That’ll be real relaxing.”
    “Your kids are great, Ben.”
    The food came. Platters of it.
    Watercress salad with avocado dressing, carrot puree,
fricassee of wild mushrooms with walnuts and water chestnuts.
Then the chicken, sizzling and moist.
    A bottle of white burgundy remained untouched. Picker
poured himself the rest of the bourbon. His wife looked the
other way and ate energetically.
    “Gladys didn’t learn to cook like this at the base,”
said Robin.
    “Believe it or not, she did,” Pam said. “The commander
thought himself quite the gourmet. She’s very
creative, lucky for Dad.”
    “Has he always been a vegetarian?”
    “Since after the Korean War. The things he saw made him
determined never to hurt anything again.”
    Picker grunted.
    “But he’s always been tolerant,” said Pam. “Had meat
shipped over for me when I arrived.”
    “You don’t live here?” said Robin.
    “No, I came last October. It was
supposed to be a stopover on the way to a medical convention
in Hong Kong.”
    “What’s your specialty?” I