“Pardon me for trying to inject some class into the event.” Vera puffed up like a porcupine about to discharge her quills. “I seem to recall last year’s gala at River Hill got downright rowdy, and there were several complaints from your neighbors. Although apparently that’s nothing unusual.” She sniffed and twiddled with the oversized collar of her dowdy pea green dress. The color did not flatter her sallow skin.

The annual duel of the antebellum mansions, I thought. From what I’d heard before I joined the Friends board two months ago, Vera and Miss An’gel argued over the site of the gala every year. Miss An’gel usually won. The Ducotes, after all, had lived at River Hill ever since it was built way back in 1838. Vera Cassity and her husband, Morton (“call me Morty”), bought Ranelagh from its impoverished owners only fifteen years ago. Vera has apparently been trying to wrest control of Athena society away from the Ducote sisters ever since.

“Can Dickce and I help it if people actually have fun at River Hill?” Miss An’gel’s sweet tone fooled no one, I was sure. “The point of a gala is to loosen people up so they’ll whip out their checkbooks and write numbers with a bunch of zeros in them. The looser they are, the bigger the donation, darling. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”

“Getting people drunk, even in the name of charity, is downright disgusting.” Vera bared her teeth in her version of a smile. “But I suppose River Hill has seen its share of heavy drinking.”

Sissy Beauchamp smothered a laugh, while both Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce regarded Vera with catlike disdain. “The Ducote men have always enjoyed their liquor, I must admit.” Miss Dickce coughed delicately. “Before I forget, Vera, honey, how is your poor brother doing these days? Is he comfortable down at Whitfield?”

Whitfield was the state mental hospital near Jackson, and everyone in Athena knew that Vera’s brother, Amory Hobson, had lived there for the past thirty years. According to local gossip, Amory was crazy as a betsy bug and given to stripping off all his clothes and running around hugging anyone he saw.

Vera’s face turned an angry red, and she gripped the arms of her chair so hard I feared she’d rip the sixty-year-old fabric.

Before she could form a reply, Teresa Farmer—brave soul that she was—attempted to scale back the hostilities. “Miss An’gel, Miss Dickce, Mrs. Cassity, it’s really wonderful that you all want to host this year’s gala. If it hadn’t been for your support over the years, the Friends wouldn’t be the highly effective, respected group it is. Everyone in Athena has benefited from your efforts, and I hope we can continue to work together for even more success this year.” As head of the Athena Public Library now, Teresa had to play peacemaker. I knew she hated confrontations like this as much as I did, and I didn’t envy her the challenges of her new job.