Marveling at his ability to enunciate clearly while under the influence, I fetched a bottle of water from the bar and brought it back to him. Teresa stood by, watching Eagleton intently for signs of further distress.

I twisted the cap off. “Sip this.” I held the water to Eagleton’s lips, and his right hand grasped the bottle. He tilted it up and chugged down two-thirds of the contents.

“Thank you.” Eagleton grimaced. “I must apologize for my disgraceful behavior. One does tend to fret over these social occasions, and sometimes one forgets to eat before indulging in a wee dram or two of scotch.” He started to rise, but I indicated he should remain where he was.

“Let me fix you a plate,” I said. “You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten a bit.”

“Of course you will.” Teresa sat beside Eagleton and patted his arm. “And if there’s anything else you need, let us know.”

Leaving our host in Teresa’s capable hands, I went over to the table. Betts was still at the bar, I noticed, and the scotch bottle appeared empty now. Della Duffy stood at the window, plate in hand, seemingly unaware of the rest of us. She and Betts probably knew each other, given their devotion to their collections, but I guessed they weren’t all that chummy. Frankly, it was hard to imagine Betts having friends of any kind—except, perhaps, imaginary ones.

I took a full plate back to Eagleton, and he tucked into the chips and dip with great enthusiasm. How long had it been since the man had eaten? I wondered. I had seen swine at the trough take longer to chew their food.

I motioned for Teresa to join me, and we ambled over to the bar. I warned her, sotto voce, to avoid the wine at all costs. Betts was rooting around in the cabinets, no doubt in search of more hard booze. Teresa and I grabbed water bottles.

“Gotcha.” Betts faced us triumphantly, a bottle of Laphroaig in hand. “I knew he had to have the good stuff hidden somewhere. Never goes anywhere without it.” He opened the whiskey, smiling gleefully. “You want some?” he asked after he filled his own glass, sans soda as befit a true connoisseur.

“No, thank you,” Teresa and I responded in unison.

“Suit yourselves.” Betts shrugged and sipped his whiskey. “What’s up with Winnie? He toasted already?”

Teresa frowned. “I think he was suffering from low blood sugar. He simply needed something to eat.” Diplomatic of her, I thought approvingly, but sadly, patently false.

Betts snickered. “Yeah, and Nancy Drew was really Frank Hardy in drag. Tell me another one.”

I’d bet even his imaginary friends thought he was a jerk.