“Come on, Tom, don’t—”

“If you tell me don’t be so hard on myself, I might hit you.” The match he lit flared weakly, went out.

Nat Cole’s voice flared, much like the flame, on “it’s in-credible—” and died down.

Tom lit another match. That died too.

Jury was about to take out his ancient Zippo, then thought better of it. “I wasn’t going to tell you that. I was going to say, don’t let forensics outweigh your intuition.”

Over the third lit match, Tom said, “No you weren’t. Forensics is forensics.” The match burnt Tom’s fingers before it died. He regarded the cigarette uselessly. He shrugged.

Jury thought this was not a man to shrug off anything. There was a mystery here, a deep and disturbing one. “What was she like? Daisy?”

Tom looked at the cigarette he couldn’t light and then tilted his head toward the jukebox as Nat Cole wound down. “That.”

“‘Unforgettable.’” It wasn’t a question.

There wasn’t an answer.

6

“I’m in!” declared Mrs. Withersby, standing with her mop and pail hard by the window-table in the Jack and Hammer, at which sat the pub’s regulars and Long Piddleton’s most prominent citizens. Withersby, herself the small town’s most prominent char, gave not a whit for the vast wealth and fame of the indolent lot sitting at the table.

“But in what category do you picture yourself, Withers?” said Marshall Trueblood. He had just read them the article about family rentals, a new enterprise that Trueblood wished he had thought of himself.

“What in heaven’s name could they be thinking?” said Vivian Rivington. “It’s ridiculous.”

“Just what it says: if you want a family, or any part of one, you can hire one. Husband, wife, kids, cousins. They’re all rentables … Oh, don’t look so horrified, Viv. Just consider the time and effort saved in searching for and finding your own husband, marrying him and then being disappointed. With this new thing you just send him back and get someone else.”

“I do see one big problem with that,” said Diane Demorney, who could find a big problem with anything, from the ratio of vodka to vermouth to hiring a husband.

“What?” said Joanna Lewes, who could write an entire suite of books without a big problem.

“Alimony,” said Diane. “I wouldn’t get anything, so what would be the point, anyway?”

Vivian said, “That’s not the only reason to have a family.”

“I’m not talking about a family.” If there was one thing Diane Demorney didn’t need, it was a family.

“There is love, Diane.”

About to pull a cigarette from her silver case, Diane just stared.