Dee Dee, aka Denim Shirt, asked Golden Girl Grace, “That’s two noticeable earthquakes in one day. Is that significant?” She turned to me. “Grace here was once a science teacher. She knows about earthquakes in general and Yellowstone in particular.”

Grace sat up a bit straighter. “Well now, the Mule Shoe is less than five miles from the Yellowstone caldera, the so-called Yellowstone supervolcano.”

Several young women in jeans and western-cut shirts started serving salads. Grace waited until everyone was served and she again had our attention. “A supervolcano, by definition, must eject at least 240 cubic miles of material and is capable of measuring a magnitude eight or more on the Volcanic Explosivity Index.”

I braced for a pop quiz.

She noted Bram’s furrowed brow. “The VEI is rather like the Richter scale for earthquakes. It’s logarithmic, with each level representing a tenfold increase. Compared to the Mount St. Helens eruption in 1980, Yellowstone’s would be two thousand times larger, and the worldwide devastation would be unimaginable.” She took a delicate bite of lettuce, chewed on it a moment, then said, “One possible sign that the volcano is waking up is an increase in seismic activity. More earthquakes.”

I put my fork down and shifted in my chair. The salad was unappealing juxtaposed against worldwide destruction. Whatever happened to less upsetting topics like politics or religion?

Dee Dee gave a forced chuckle. “I guess forewarned is forearmed. If we feel a big earthquake, it means the volcano is about to explode—”

Grace shook her head. “If the volcano explodes, we’ll all be wiped out immediately.”

All of us stared at her, then silently returned to our salads.

“Well now.” Dee Dee cleared her throat. “Volcanos seem to be a conversation killer. Bram, I know you’re a police officer—”

“Sheriff—”

“Right. What do you do, Darby?”

“You first, Dee Dee.” I smiled at her.

“I don’t do much of anything except spend my late husband’s money.” She returned the smile. “And indulge my love of art, classical music, and Native American jewelry. Back to you!”

Flapperdoodle. Maybe I could steer the conversation to dog literature.

Our waitress, a young woman whose name tag said Zofia, with Poland underneath, returned and cleared our plates, then brought the main course. Each plate had a rustic plate cover, which the waitresses removed with a flourish. “Elk steak medallions.” Zofia spoke with a thick accent. “With huckleberry red wine sauce, twice-baked Idaho potatoes, and roasted vegetable medley.”

I hoped everyone would dive into their dinner and forget Dee Dee’s question.

After taking a bite, closing her eyes, and moaning, Dee Dee repeated the question.

“I work for a company called Clan Firinn.”

“Clan Firinn?” Dee Dee asked.

“Scottish Gaelic for ‘Family of Truth.’” I felt Bram’s gaze on me. Looking down, I pleated my napkin.

“I’d bet your career has something to do with words,” Bram said.