Reassured that Dermot was returning, I studied my list of shower preparations. I’d asked Maxine Fortenberry to make the punch, because hers was famous. I was picking up the cake from the bakery. I didn’t have to work today or tomorrow, which meant a big loss in tips, but it was turning out real convenient. So my to-do list was like: Today, complete all preparations for the baby shower. Tonight, kill Victor. Tomorrow, guests arrive for shower.

In the meantime, like any incipient hostess, I was going to be all about the cleaning. My living room was still below par since the attic stuff had been sitting in it, and I started from the top down: dust the pictures, then the furniture, then the baseboards. Then vacuum. I worked my way down the hall, visiting my bedroom, the guest bedroom, and the hall bathroom. I got a squirt bottle of all-purpose cleaner and attacked the kitchen surfaces. I was about to mop the floors when I saw Dermot in the backyard. He’d driven back in a battered Chevy compact.

“Where’d you get the car?” I called from the back porch.

“I bought it,” he said proudly.

I hoped he hadn’t used fairy enchantment or something. I was scared to ask. “Let me see your head,” I said, when he got into the house. I looked at the back of his skull where the gash had been. A thin white line, that was all. “Amazing,” I said. “How do you feel?”

“Better than I did yesterday. I’m ready to get back to work.” He went into the living room. “You’re cleaning,” he said. “Is there a special occasion?”

“Yes,” I said, smacking myself on the forehead. “I’m so sorry I forgot to tell you. I’m giving Tara Thornton—Tara du Rone—a baby shower tomorrow. She’s expecting twins, Claude believes. Oh, she got that confirmed.”

“Can I come?” he asked.

“It’s all right with me,” I said, taken aback. Most human guys would rather have their toenails painted than come to such a party. “You’ll be the only man there, but I assume that won’t bother you?”

“Sounds great,” he said, smiling that beautiful smile.

“You’ll have to keep your ears covered and listen to about a million comments about how much you look like Jason,” I said. “We’ll need to explain you.”

“Just tell them I’m your great-uncle,” he said.

For one fun moment, I envisioned doing just that. I had to give it up, though with some regret. “You look much too young to be my great-uncle, and everyone here knows my family tree. The human part of it,” I added hastily. “But I’ll think of something.”