I had to do a double take before recognizing Robyn, also in a Victorian gown, although I recognized hers as one borrowed from the drama department’s wardrobe collection.

Riddick Hedges was also there in costume, which was unfortunate, because unlike Michael and the other men from the drama department, he had no idea how to carry it off well. He was squirming as if the whole outfit was profoundly uncomfortable, and if I’d been casting David Copperfield he’d have been a shoo-in for Uriah Heep. It was perhaps a measure of his discomfort that he was not only willing but eager to fetch pitchers of water to refill the urns, haul away bags of trash, or perform any other chore that allowed him to disappear from view. In between errands he appeared to be attempting to fade into the wallpaper along one side of the lobby. No doubt he was unaware that he was standing directly beneath one of the dozen ornate Victorian mistletoe balls that dotted the room. I suspected he’d be mortified if anyone pointed this out.

I shelled out for tea for me and cider for the boys. Josh bolted his and had to be told to drink his second helping more slowly. Jamie was already sipping so slowly that I suspected he thought he’d be taken home to bed when his cup was empty.

“Take your time,” Mother told me. “Rose Noire and your father are saving seats for all of us.”

“Unfortunately, no one from Henry’s department will be here tonight,” Minerva said.

“Are they still trying to locate Jerome Lightfoot?”

“And not having much luck,” Minerva said. “It’s beginning to look as if after killing poor Mr. Vess he went straight home, packed his suitcases and took off. They’ve got a bulletin out on his car.”

“I hope they catch him soon,” I said. “Actually, I hope some other county catches him soon.”

“I confess, I agree.” Minerva shook her head. “I’d purely love to hear that he’s been spotted a good long ways from here and locked up in someone else’s jail. I had words with that man, more than once—if I’d known what kind of man he is! A cold-blooded killer!”

“Actually, I’m not sure cold-blooded could ever describe Mr. Lightfoot,” one of the other Baptist ladies said. “I’ve never seen him when he wasn’t in a temper over something.”

“A hot-tempered killer, then,” Minerva said. “And running around loose, and him knowing full well that I’m one of the people who’s been trying to get him fired. Makes me feel all funny.”

“Sit down, Minerva, dear,” Mother said. “And have some tea.”

“I can’t blame you one bit,” the Baptist lady said.

“I don’t see how any of us will sleep tonight,” exclaimed an Episcopalian.