Teresa and I turned away and walked back over to Eagleton. He had emptied his plate and finished the rest of the water. He smiled and got to his feet. “Thank you both again for your kind ministrations.”

“You’re most welcome,” Teresa said and patted his arm.

We all turned at a loud knocking on the door, and Eagleton started toward it. “Let me,” I said and stepped past him. I wasn’t sure he was steady enough yet.

Eagleton didn’t protest, and I went to admit Marcella Marter and Mrs. Cartwright, swathed once again in black. Marcella pushed in without a word. “Come on, Mother, or you’ll never make it in time.”

“Marcella, don’t be rude.” Mrs. Cartwright tried to pull her arm loose but Marcella clung to it.

“Is something wrong?” I asked, careful to move out of the way.

“Mother needs the restroom.” Marcella grimaced. “Right away. Where is it?”

I glanced around. This suite appeared identical to others in the hotel I had visited, and I remembered there was a bathroom in the hall between the living room and the bedroom. I pointed. “That way, I believe.”

Marcella Marter didn’t bother to thank me, though Mrs. Cartwright smiled. Marcella hurried her mother toward the hall.

I shut the door and rejoined Teresa and Eagleton. “Restroom,” I responded to their looks of inquiry, and Eagleton actually blushed.

“When, ahem, the esteemed ladies return, we should perhaps propose a toast to the dear departed Carrie Taylor, don’t you think? We must acknowledge the lack of her presence tonight, I am sure.” Eagleton nodded. “Yes, certainly. I shall prepare myself for the toast, if you will excuse me for a moment.”

“Of course.” Teresa and I nodded, and Eagleton moved toward the bar.

Teresa whispered, “This is dreadful. I wish now I’d told Mr. Eagleton I was busy tonight.”

“Me, too,” I said with a quick laugh. “Too late, but it surely has to get better.”

“It could hardly be worse.” Teresa grimaced.

The room fell silent. Della Duffy remained in position in front of the window. Betts had propped himself against one end of the bar, Laphroaig in hand. Our host retrieved a fresh bottle of water and stood at the other end of the bar.

After what seemed several agonizing minutes—but was probably only five at the most—Marcella and Mrs. Cartwright returned to the living room. Marcella guided her mother to the sofa and sat her down. “What would you like to drink, Mother?”

“Whiskey, if there is anything decent on offer.” Mrs. Cartwright adjusted the scarf at her neck, then her dark glasses. Marcella scowled but headed for the bar.

“Good evening, Mrs. Cartwright, Mrs. Marter.” Teresa moved over to the sofa and sat by the author. “How are you tonight?”

“Thirsty.” Mrs. Cartwright laughed. “Otherwise, I’m doing just fine, my dear. And you?”