“The poor fellow is impotent and suffering. I think he needs a penal implant.”

“Penile,” Haley said from the floor.

“Whatever. He needs one of those things you pump up.”

“But, Sister, it’s just a character in a story.”

“No way. He knows too much.”

“I knew a man had one of those,” Frances said. “You really couldn’t tell the difference.” We all looked at her. “Well, that’s what his wife said.”

“Y’all ready?” Haley asked. “I think I’ve got Elizabeth Taylor at the door.”

Sister reached for a Kleenex. “Let her rip.”

It was early the next morning that Sister got the phone call. She was talking as I went into the kitchen, and she pointed toward the carton of orange juice on the counter and handed me her empty glass.

“No,” she said. “I’m sorry, I’m on my way out. I’ve got to be at Sunnyside at the conference by nine. Can’t you just tell me on the phone?”

I handed her the refill on her orange juice. “Who is it?” I mouthed.

“Laura,” she mouthed back. And then into the phone, “We’ll be through about four.” A pause. “Sure, I’ll call you tonight. Can’t you at least tell me what it’s about though?”

I poured myself some juice.

“Okay. I’ll see you then.” Sister hung up the phone, looked at me, and shrugged her shoulders.

“What was that about?” I asked.

“Damned if I know. Laura says there’s something she’s got to tell me about Fairchild and Blue Bay Ranch. She wouldn’t tell me on the phone, though. Said it was,” Sister held up her fingers like quote marks, “‘too complicated.’”

“Complicated? What’s she talking about?”

“Doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“Maybe you better go talk to her now. Be late to the conference.”

“Don’t be silly. You know how melodramatic Laura can be.”

I’d never known Laura to be melodramatic about anything. “Go talk to her,” I insisted.

“I don’t have time. You go.” And with that, Sister sailed out of the door.

Fifteen minutes later, showered and dressed, I was knocking on Laura’s next-door apartment. There was no answer. I turned, walked past our apartment, and knocked on Fairchild’s door. Laura opened it, and when she saw it was me, she looked disappointed.

“Hey, Patricia Anne,” she said. “I thought you were Mary Alice.”

“She’s gone to the writers’ conference. She said you sounded upset. Anything I can do to help?”

“I’m sorry, Patricia Anne. I don’t mean to be rude, but this is something I need to talk to Mary Alice about.”

“Sure.”