I didn’t answer. We drank our coffee in silence. Later on, I left another message on Sister’s phone that I had an idea Frances Zata might also want to be included in the adventure.

“I’m not your imagination,” Sister grumbled. She was sitting on my back steps looking through the newspaper when I got back from taking Woofer for a walk. “How come I’m supposed to plan things for you? You’re still blaming me because we were in Sweden when Chernobyl blew up.”

“I am not. I know it wasn’t your fault.”

“Gee, thanks.” She folded a page of the paper and handed it to me. “Look, Mouse. Here’s a picture of Berry and I at the museum reception.”

“Me. Berry and me.”

She snatched the paper back. “Do you want to see it?”

“Yes.”

“Then quit correcting my grammar.”

“For heaven’s sake, Sister, you wouldn’t say ‘here’s a picture of I.’”

“I might.”

I snatched the newspaper back and looked at the picture. In it Sister was standing between a man and a woman. All three smiled at the camera and held up wine glasses. The caption read, “Janet Rotten, Mary Alice Crane, and Berry West enjoy the bubbly at the recent champagne reception at the Birmingham Museum of Art.” Sister was a foot taller than either of the others. I was startled. This man was an Adonis? This short, balding man was the one for whom she was planning on turning time around? Not that I’ve got anything against short people, God knows. At five-one I fit right in. But this man’s nose would fit into Mary Alice’s cleavage when he hugged her.

“He’s a little shorter than I am, but isn’t he cute?” Sister asked.

“Cute,” I said. I studied the picture. That’s not the word I would have used. But then I felt guilty. He was probably a very nice man. It was just that Sister had built his looks up so. An Adonis! Enjoy the bubbly? I thought as I handed her the paper. “How come you’re sitting out here in the heat?”

“I couldn’t find the dog turd.”

“Fred thought it was one of Woofer’s and picked it up with a trowel and threw it over in the ivy. I’m not about to look for it; there’s poison oak all in that ivy patch.”

“Looks like it would have clinked on the trowel.”

“Must not have.”

“Why didn’t you tell him the key was in it? That thing cost me eight dollars.”

“I did. He forgot.”

“Shows you how real it looked. Sure beat that fake rock you had by the steps. Where’s the key now?”

“Under the pot of begonias over yonder. I’ve got my own, though.” I got up from the steps. “Come on in and tell me about your date with Berry.”