“Barbara said her mother had requested no funeral. She wanted to be cremated and have her ashes sprinkled in the bay. So that’s what they’re going to do.” Fairchild paused. “The Stampses are pretty shook up, especially Eddie. The same folks from the sheriff’s department keep bothering them, too. Asking them if Millicent and Laura had had an argument, trying to get Laura involved. I swear it’s a mess, isn’t it?”

“They’ll figure it out, Fairchild,” Mary Alice assured him.

He put the backs of his hands to his eyes to wipe away tears. “It won’t bring Margaret and Emily back.”

“Millicent,” Sister mouthed to me.

I looked at the picture again, at the three smiling friends enjoying a picnic on the beach. And then I studied the picture, studied the rest of the pictures while Sister comforted Fairchild with stories of her husbands’ deaths.

I broke into the middle of Philip Nachman’s demise in the shower, which flooded the bathroom, to say we had to go. Right now. Mary Alice looked at me, surprised, but, give the woman credit, she didn’t argue with me. “We’ll check with you later, Fairchild,” she said, and after we were in the hall, “What’s the matter?”

“Emily Peacock didn’t commit suicide.”

“I don’t think so either.”

“But I know she didn’t.” I waited for Sister to ask how I knew.

“How do you know?”

“Emily shot herself in the right temple, didn’t she? Remember how she was slumped over on her left side?”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

“And the gun had slid from her right hand. Now,” I made Sister wait a moment, “think about that picture. She’s eating potato salad, right?”

“I think it was slaw.”

“I think it was potato salad, but whichever, she’s eating it with her left hand. The fork’s in her left hand.”

“Maybe she already had something in her right hand, like a cracker.”

“Nope. That’s why I looked at some more pictures. Emily was left-handed.”

Sister thought about this a moment and a slow grin began to light up her face. “Mouse,” she said, “that’s pretty good.”

A compliment from Sister!

When we went into the apartment, Frances was sitting on the sofa with the afghan over her head again.

“Woe,” she moaned through green-and-blue crocheted squares. “Oh woe.”

“What the hell is she talking about?” Sister asked me. “Whoa like a mule or woe is me?”

“Woe is me,” Frances wailed.

“Is David all right?” She hadn’t heard from him since he left for London with his new wife. I snatched the afghan from her.

That put the spark back in her. “Of course he is. Doesn’t have time to call his mother because he’s getting his brains screwed out by that hussy, but other than that, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“Then what’s the matter?”