Betty placed a hand on her sleeping daughter’s torso, and then resumed her imaginings of the delighted smiles and gentle praise for her perfect Christmas party cuisine. Soon she began to worry her way through ideas for the perfect holiday music. Twenty minutes after that, she was pacing in her closet, her thoughts turned to the perfect holiday wardrobe.

Betty had quickly forgotten all about Ginger Pye finding the school where her owner Jerry went, Little Bitty’s bad dream and hamburger hair, and Vivian Dalton and the phone call. The Christmas party had consumed her thoughts again. She was particularly concerned with finding just the right dress. It really was the most important aspect of the event. The dress had to be just right. She had been thinking about it the day before, but had been distracted by Charles Junior’s frightening episode on the swing set in the backyard. It was, of course, too cold and snowy for swinging, but leave it to Charles Junior to discover the second most dangerous activity for a seven-year-old. It had been quickly remedied with a glass of warm water poured over his tongue to disengage it from the metal bar, but Charles Junior’s awkward screams had disturbed her train of thought.

But, the dress. The dress was what she needed to focus on. Something tasteful, but still a bit tantalizing. Charles sometimes needed reminders of how good he had it, and it wouldn’t hurt to show some of the other husbands how good Charles had it, either. She had been scouring Beulah Bechtel’s for the past two weeks, but hadn’t seen anything remotely close to what she wanted. She might have to make a trip up to Akron.

Shrimp turnovers! Betty thought as she sat in her peach satin nightgown, brushing out her hair in front of her vanity mirror while Charles snored in bed. Shrimp turnovers were just the thing.

Chapter 5

“Daddy, I have just the thing for you,” had been the forceful, over-enunciated, and breathless greeting from his doorstep back in June, just after his personal disaster. J. Ellis had had to take a moment to process that, instead of the hordes of photographers with their infernal flashbulbs popping like cap guns, his daughter Betty was standing unaccompanied on the expansive fan of bricks. Purposeful, businesslike, and holding an ivory enameled cake carrier.

Now he rubbed both eyes with the heels of his hands, as if trying to rub out the memory of June altogether. The den was dark and quiet as he preferred it, with only the glow of the desk lamp illuminating the items resting in front of him on the smooth leather ink blotter. He reached for his fountain pen, scrawled his signature on the check for Phil Stanley and then did the same on the Christmas card for Betty, Charles, and the children. The one Florence had picked out for them.

J. Ellis Reed was one of the most respected men in Wooster. Depending on whom you talked to. He was definitely one of the wealthiest, if you could ignore the fact that his bank had been robbed of $250,000 six months ago. It had been all over the newspapers that week, and the town had refused to talk of anything else. “Quite a withdrawal Gilbert Ogden made there, eh, Ellis?” He had been furious and shaken, Wooster had been in a grand uproar, and then Betty had shown up to make everything all right with some sort of cake.