nice it must be to run the world. Or to believe you did.
“You’re just going to make things worse,” he told me. Melinda appeared fascinated. “I want you to stop.”
“Such a loss,” she mourned transparently. “Faye Anne was a great asset to the garden club.”
By which she meant the one she ran: there were two garden clubs in Eastport. The official one held its meetings in the gloriously restored Gerrold Bannister house, now home to popular children's book author Sylvia Harrington, on Boynton Street. Sylvia had put in formal gardens, espaliered fruit trees, and a topiary menagerie, to create the perfect setting for the official club's officers, agenda, regular educational speakers, garden-tour program, and hybridizing projects.
The other club, its membership consisting mostly of people whom the official one had jettisoned, was Melinda's.
“Why, just the other night we were saying at the meeting how much we missed Faye Anne,” Melinda said. “Although we missed you, too, of course, Peter,” she added with a sly glance at him. She wasn’t even shivering, although it was so cold I felt that if I breathed in too fast my teeth might shatter.
The garden club schism began when Melinda announced she didn’t like being pushed around by the first club's leadership. Translation: she wanted to do the pushing around herself. Only Ellie belonged to both clubs. But then, Ellie could bring peace to the Gaza Strip.
“I even called her right from the meeting,” Melinda said, “in case she needed a ride. But of course Merle answered. He said Faye Anne wasn’t home. And I feel awful about it now, of course.”
She pulled down the windshield visor, applied clear lipgloss in its little mirror, and adjusted the long, gold-fringed paisley scarf she always wore. All to demonstrate, I supposed, just how awful she felt.
Peter said to me: “You leave me out of it. I mean it, I’d better not hear my name mentioned in this anymore. I can get a lawyer, too, you know.”
Interesting, since I’d left Clarissa's office so recently. Either Peter was psychic or Faye Anne wasn’t the only one he was keeping tabs on. Also, what did he think he needed a lawyer for?
Then the light dawned: I knew what Melinda had meant by her sly remark. “Maybe you should get a lawyer anyway,” I said, and noted his anxious flinch.
Beside him, Melinda simpered prettily. “Peter's helping me set up my new computer,” she said, as usual turning the conversation back to her own concerns. “We’re going to do it now, and I’m going to address all my holiday cards electronically.”
We were saying at the meeting how much we missed Faye Anne…. and you too, Peter. Melinda meant that Peter and Faye Anne had been together, on the night of Merle's death. Her comment, light as the flick of a whip, had been aimed at him. And knowing Melinda—her motto was, why bother having it if you can’t flaunt it?—I came to a simple-arithmetic conclusion:
Melinda was Peter's other current girlfriend, the second-stringer everyone knew he always had. Now she’d moved up to first place without wasting a bit of time, and to show how secure she felt in her new position, she’d delivered her little jab. Not realizing, perhaps, just how sharply pointed it was.
Or maybe she had. Melinda could be as reckless as a child, and as heedless of the mischief she created. I considered telling her that before her computer would spit out holidaygreetings, she would have to type the recipients’ names and addresses in.
But let Melinda learn that, I decided, for herself. Besides, who wants a computer-printed holiday card?
“Anyway, Peter,” I said, “if you do end up wanting a lawyer don’t bother asking Clarissa Arnold. She's already too busy. I just saw her, and—oh, but you already know that, don’t you?” I tipped my head in pretended thought. “Funny, I didn’t see you. But I guess you’re pretty good at spying on people without their knowing it, huh?
“You’re just going to make things worse,” he told me. Melinda appeared fascinated. “I want you to stop.”
“Such a loss,” she mourned transparently. “Faye Anne was a great asset to the garden club.”
By which she meant the one she ran: there were two garden clubs in Eastport. The official one held its meetings in the gloriously restored Gerrold Bannister house, now home to popular children's book author Sylvia Harrington, on Boynton Street. Sylvia had put in formal gardens, espaliered fruit trees, and a topiary menagerie, to create the perfect setting for the official club's officers, agenda, regular educational speakers, garden-tour program, and hybridizing projects.
The other club, its membership consisting mostly of people whom the official one had jettisoned, was Melinda's.
“Why, just the other night we were saying at the meeting how much we missed Faye Anne,” Melinda said. “Although we missed you, too, of course, Peter,” she added with a sly glance at him. She wasn’t even shivering, although it was so cold I felt that if I breathed in too fast my teeth might shatter.
The garden club schism began when Melinda announced she didn’t like being pushed around by the first club's leadership. Translation: she wanted to do the pushing around herself. Only Ellie belonged to both clubs. But then, Ellie could bring peace to the Gaza Strip.
“I even called her right from the meeting,” Melinda said, “in case she needed a ride. But of course Merle answered. He said Faye Anne wasn’t home. And I feel awful about it now, of course.”
She pulled down the windshield visor, applied clear lipgloss in its little mirror, and adjusted the long, gold-fringed paisley scarf she always wore. All to demonstrate, I supposed, just how awful she felt.
Peter said to me: “You leave me out of it. I mean it, I’d better not hear my name mentioned in this anymore. I can get a lawyer, too, you know.”
Interesting, since I’d left Clarissa's office so recently. Either Peter was psychic or Faye Anne wasn’t the only one he was keeping tabs on. Also, what did he think he needed a lawyer for?
Then the light dawned: I knew what Melinda had meant by her sly remark. “Maybe you should get a lawyer anyway,” I said, and noted his anxious flinch.
Beside him, Melinda simpered prettily. “Peter's helping me set up my new computer,” she said, as usual turning the conversation back to her own concerns. “We’re going to do it now, and I’m going to address all my holiday cards electronically.”
We were saying at the meeting how much we missed Faye Anne…. and you too, Peter. Melinda meant that Peter and Faye Anne had been together, on the night of Merle's death. Her comment, light as the flick of a whip, had been aimed at him. And knowing Melinda—her motto was, why bother having it if you can’t flaunt it?—I came to a simple-arithmetic conclusion:
Melinda was Peter's other current girlfriend, the second-stringer everyone knew he always had. Now she’d moved up to first place without wasting a bit of time, and to show how secure she felt in her new position, she’d delivered her little jab. Not realizing, perhaps, just how sharply pointed it was.
Or maybe she had. Melinda could be as reckless as a child, and as heedless of the mischief she created. I considered telling her that before her computer would spit out holidaygreetings, she would have to type the recipients’ names and addresses in.
But let Melinda learn that, I decided, for herself. Besides, who wants a computer-printed holiday card?
“Anyway, Peter,” I said, “if you do end up wanting a lawyer don’t bother asking Clarissa Arnold. She's already too busy. I just saw her, and—oh, but you already know that, don’t you?” I tipped my head in pretended thought. “Funny, I didn’t see you. But I guess you’re pretty good at spying on people without their knowing it, huh?
Similar Books
