“You ought to try this, Mouse,” she said, coming into the living room with her hair plastered against her head. “I was looking at your hair this morning at the cemetery and thinking it would look okay if it weren’t so gray. Here,” she handed me a plastic bottle, “there’s plenty left.”

“Gee, thanks for your kind thoughts. But it might turn out like Lolita’s.”

“Don’t be silly. She’s ruined her hair with chlorine. This will just make your gray look a little blonder. It’ll shine more, too.”

“I like my gray.”

“You’re lying.” Sister sat down and checked her watch. “Twenty minutes.”

I was reading The Destin Log, the biweekly newspaper that keeps everyone abreast of the local news. In this issue, pictures of Millicent and Emily were on the front page. I laid it on the coffee table so Sister could see the story. “Says right here that Lieutenant Major Bissell says progress is being made in the murder investigations of the two women.”

“Hah. He still thinks he’s going to blame it on that sweet Fairchild.” She picked up the paper and looked at the story.

“Well, he sure had a motive. A million dollars and maybe a Jack Berliner.”

“Nonsense. Fairchild wouldn’t lay a finger on Millicent or anybody else.” She folded the paper. “You know what I wonder? Who are the Berliners, anyway? I mean, face it, Mouse, commuting to Atlanta doesn’t make sense. And, for that matter, who is Jason Marley? We don’t know a hill of beans about him either, except he has money and likes pink.”

“I’m sure the police know.”

“I’m not sure the police know diddly.” Mary Alice pulled a strand of hair out, dried it on the towel and asked how it looked. It looked great, a nice golden blonde.

“There’s plenty left for you. It’ll do wonders.”

God forbid! In sixty years how is it that I haven’t learned a damn thing? The new me turned out as redheaded as Lucille Ball.

“Look at this!” I moaned. “I’m ruined.”

Sister looked over my shoulder into the bathroom mirror. “I don’t understand. It didn’t do my hair that way. Maybe you should have done the patch test.”

A knock on the door prevented a third murder.

“Don’t let anybody in!” I screeched. “Not until I can get to a beauty parlor and get this stuff out.”

“A beauty parlor won’t do any good. It says on the box it won’t come out for twenty-four shampoos.” Mary Alice opened the door for Major Bissell.

“Mrs. Crane, is it okay if I talk to you a few minutes?” he asked. “I’ve just left Mr. Weatherby, and you could save me a trip.”

“Sure,” Sister said. “Come on in.”

I pulled a towel over my head.

“Mrs. Hollowell,” he greeted me. “You okay this afternoon?”