Now any decent human being would have had the grace to look ashamed. But not Marybeth. She just sat there with that infuriating smile on her face.

“It’s true,” she said, her chin raised in defiance. “Marty and I are in love. We’ve been seeing each other for months. We knew we were meant for each other from the day our eyes met over the heated towel racks.

“Poor Rochelle.” She tried to put a comforting hand on Rochelle’s knee, but Rochelle flicked it away. “Face it, honey. Your marriage was over way before I came along. Marty outgrew you years ago. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else.”

She reached for the bowl of guacamole.

“You’ve got to look on the bright side, Rochelle. It’s not the end of the world. It’s the start of a whole new beginning. Remember. Today is the first day of the rest of your life!”

If she uttered one more cliché, Strunk and White would rise from their graves and throttle her.

“Would somebody pass me the chips?” she chirped.

Like an automaton, I passed her the chips.

We all watched, amazed, as, without a shred of remorse, she scooped a wad of guacamole onto a chip.

“Rochelle, sweetie. This is probably the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Rochelle stared at her with glazed eyes.

“Drop dead,” she said, her voice hard with fury.

“I know you don’t really mean that. You’ll forgive me in time. You’ll dance at my wedding. You’ll see.”

Marybeth popped the chip in her mouth and chewed happily for a second. Then suddenly her fresh-scrubbed cheeks turned a most unbecoming shade of gray. The next thing we knew she was on the floor, writhing in pain.

“Peanuts,” she gasped. “Somebody put peanuts in the guaca—”

But she never did get to finish her thought. Because by then she was dead.

So much for dancing at her wedding.

Chapter 9

We all stood there, frozen, staring at Marybeth, who for once had nothing positive to say. Then Rochelle started wailing at the top of her lungs. The angry Rochelle had vanished; the old Rochelle was back and scared half out of her mind.

“Oh, my God!” she cried. “Does anybody know CPR?”

Doris got down on her knees and felt for a pulse.

“It’s too late for CPR. She’s gone.”

At which point we all joined Rochelle in her hysteria and started babbling.

Someone with her wits about her (it certainly wasn’t me) called the police, and minutes later, we heard sirens screaming. In no time, the place was swarming with cops. They ushered us across the foyer into the dining room while they scurried around, taking pictures and bagging items for evidence.