From the private car, swathed head to toe in black silk and crowned with raven feathers, stalked the Widow Whiteway.

The newspaper publisher turned beseechingly to the Van Dorn Agency’s chief investigator. “I thought she was in France,” he whispered. “Bell, you’re best man. It’s your job to do something. Please.”

The tall, golden-haired detective squared his shoulders and strode to the cattle chute. Scion of an ancient Boston banking family, polished at boarding school and educated at Yale, Isaac Bell was steeped in the tradition of best men saving the day, whether by locating lost rings or defusing inebriated former fiancées, but this was as far beyond his ken, as if he were a Texas cowhand asked to rope a rhinoceros.

He offered his hand and a princely bow.

“At last,” he greeted the groom’s uninvited mother, “the ceremony can begin.”

“Who are you?”

“I am Isaac Bell, Preston’s best man and a devoted reader of your columns in the Sunday supplements.”

“If you’ve read them, you know I cannot abide divorce.”

“Neither can Josephine. Were her unfortunate marriage not properly annulled, she would never marry again. Here she is now.” Josephine was hurrying from the altar with an open smile.

Mrs. Whiteway muttered, “She’s braver than my son. Look at him, afraid of his own mother.”

“He’s mortified, madam. He thought you were in France.”

“He hoped I was in France. What do think of this girl, Mr. Bell?”

“I admire her pluck.”

Josephine approached, eyes warm, extending both hands. “I’m so glad you made it, Mrs. Whiteway. My own mother couldn’t, and I felt all alone until now.”

Mrs. Whiteway looked Josephine up and down. “Aren’t you the plain Jane?” she announced. “Pretty enough, but no beauty, thank goodness. Beauty spoils a woman, turns her head . . . Who is that woman in maid-of-honor costume directing those men to point moving-picture cameras at me?”

“My fiancée,” said Bell, who had already stepped out of the line of focus, “Miss Marion Morgan.”

“Well, there may be exceptions to what I said about beautiful women,” Mrs. Whiteway harrumphed. “Young lady, do you love my son?”

The aviatrix looked her in the eye. “I like him.”

“Why?”

“He gets things done.”

“That is the one good trait he inherited from my husband.” She took Josephine’s hand and said, “Let’s get on with this,” and walked her back to the altar.

Mrs. Whiteway was settled in the front pew, and the bishop’s stand-in was repeating for the third time “We are gathered here today . . .” when through the skylight above Josephine and Preston the heavens suddenly glowed a steely green.

“Twisters!” cried the Texas plains dwellers who knew that weirdly tinted sky could only mean tornadoes.