Tuesday#2

Agnes was driving him crazy with the buttery pepper and sausage smells. She frowned down at the pan as she talked, her cheeks flushed from the heat from the pan, her sweats sticking to her with the humidity, and that wasn't helping his concentration, either.

"The baker quit yesterday, so I'm making a wedding cake," she was saying, "Golf Magazine did a rave article on Palmer's latest golf course, the Flamingo, calling him a genius of green design, and he's only twenty-eight, so we're all very proud. Doyle told me I was going to have to replace the driveway bridge pretty soon or learn to swim, and I told him I have no money and to shore it up with whatever fell off the house next."

"Doyle?"

"Handyman." Agnes peered over her steamed-up glasses at the pepper. "I moved in and he showed up." Shane focused. "How long ago?"

Agnes used the back of her hand to push her glasses back up her nose. "About three months. I don't think he's spent them sneaking up on Rhett, if that's what you're getting at." She tipped the eggs into the pepper and butter and then picked up the pan, tilting it so that the egg covered the bottom. Then she looked up. "Listen, nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Well, except for the kid with the gun. And you."

The phone rang and she answered it. "Good morning, Reverend Miller. Yes, I'm sure Maria's a good Christian girl. What?" Agnes scowled, her face twisting behind those big red-rimmed glasses. "Of course she's been baptized—she's a Catholic. Yes, I know for sure, I'm her godmother, I was there." She listened another moment, shaking her head the entire time. "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Right. You bet. You're welcome. See you Saturday. Good-bye." She hung up and said, "Moron," and turned back to her eggs.

Shane decided to let that conversation pass. "Okay, let's go back to the dog. How many people know Rhett is here?"

"Anybody who read the flyers I put up when I found him on the front porch. Anybody who's been out here in the past four months. Anybody who gets the County Clarion." She stuck a spatula under the slowly cooking egg and lifted it so that the uncooked stuff ran underneath it, concentrating on it as if it were the most important thing in the world.

"The County what?" Shane said.

"The County Clarion. The local newspaper. One of the papers that prints my column. I did one on cooking for dogs, and instead of my usual column picture they ran a big one of Rhett and me."

Shane sighed. "And you wait until now to mention this."

"What? The paper?" Agnes looked up at him. "Big deal. I'm telling you, everybody around here already knew about Rhett. He rides with me in the truck every time I go into town. There's nobody on the side of the road that hasn't been hit with his flying spit. He is not a secret." She picked up the cheese, took a grater from a hook on the wall, and began to grate cheese over the eggs in long pale strips.

Mozzarella,Shane thought. Memories of Joey's diner sizzled in his brain. "When did this paper come out?"

"Yesterday morning."

Shane closed his eyes. It was a damn good thing she was cute. "And you didn't think this was significant?"

Agnes kept an eye on the cheese and the eggs, and at exactly the right moment, she flipped the omelet over and slid it onto a plate. She took down a knife, halved the omelet with one clean slice, and transferred half onto another plate. Then she piled sausage on both plates, the smell making Shane dizzy with memory and hunger. "No," she said, handing the plate to him. "Salsa?"

"Yes, please," he said, and she went around the counter and put a jar on the table and motioned him over. "So this paper?—"

"Toast, English muffins, or bagels?" she asked as he moved to the table.

"Muffin," Shane said, trying not to go headfirst into the omelet. It had looked so simple when she'd made it, but when he cut into it and tasted it, he realized he'd missed some stuff while he'd been making coffee. There were herbs in there or spices or something, and the egg was light—Fluffy, he thought— and the pepper still had crunch to it but was buttery, too. "This is good," he said without thinking.

"Thank you." Agnes sat down across from him with her omelet.

Then, having waited to show he was tough, he cut into the sausage and tasted it. "Damn."

"I know, it's amazing, isn't it?" Agnes said. "I don't know where Joey gets it, but it's fabulous."

Shane put his fork down. Fucking Keyes and memories. He picked up his fork again and began to eat. "So the paper?—"

"Are you suggesting that somebody looked at the picture in the paper and developed a burning desire to own Rhett?" She shook her head. "You didn't see the picture."

"No, but I'd like to." Shane loaded his fork with omelet and sausage together.

"I threw mine out, but Joey will have one."

The muffin halves popped up from the toaster on the counter behind him, and she stood up to get them, the scent of her mixing with the hot yeasty smell of the muffins, and the buttery, peppery smell of the eggs, and the fat, spicy smell of the sausage, and Shane lost track of where he was in the conversation.

"What?"

"The Clarion." Agnes put a hot muffin in front of him and passed him the butter. "Joey will have one."

It was real butter. He'd been pretty sure it was from the smell when she'd cooked his eggs in it, but now he bit into the muffin and the taste exploded in his mouth. A man could get used to food like this. "Okay, was there anything in the article?—?"

Agnes shook her head, her curls bouncing, and he stopped talking to watch her. "The article was about making your own dog biscuits. There was nothing about Rhett, the house, or anything else that would make anybody want anything here."

He plowed through breakfast in a semi-trance, overwhelmed by the sharpness and the creaminess of it all, which was distractingly like

Agnes, and then his cell phone vibrated and he pulled it out. The letters that scrolled across the screen were unintelligible groupings of five. Wilson. The real world was calling. So was his breakfast. He put the cell phone away. He'd decode what the world wanted later.

"More coffee?" Agnes said, and when he nodded, she got the coffeepot and filled both their mugs, leaning closer to him to fill his. She smelled good, he thought. She smelled—he searched in his mind for a word. Delicious.

He also liked it that she didn't ask him about the phone or the message.

A door slammed somewhere in the house, and Shane stood, his gun out.

Agnes stared at it. "Where did—?" Shane put a finger on her lips.

She leaned closer and whispered, "It's probably Doyle."

"Why—" Shane began, but then a loud voice with a thick Irish brogue echoed through the house. "Top of the morning, lass."

Shane put the gun away just as a hulking man limped into the door from the hall. Probably a boxer in his youth, given the poorly healed broken nose and the old scars crisscrossing his ruddy forehead under his shaggy white hair and bushy beard.

"Morning, Doyle," Agnes said. "Want some breakfast?"

"No thank you, lass, although it's mighty tempting." Doyle looked at Shane with piercing blue eyes. "And who is this fine strapping lad?"

"This is Shane, who is staying with me for a while. Shane, Doyle."

"Pleased to meet—" the old man began, and then he caught sight of the tear in the wallpaper to his right and stiffened. "And what in the name of all that's holy happened here?"

"Turns out I have a basement. Look." Agnes went over and pushed on the wall so that the hidden door swung open. "A kid broke in and said, ‘I come for your dog,' and then he fell into the basement and died."

"Saints be," Doyle said, his joviality gone, and went over to poke his head into the doorway.

Shane drank the last of his coffee and pushed his chair under the table. "Thank you for breakfast. I'm going into town to see Joey. If you think of anything else, let me know." He looked around and picked up a piece of paper on the counter, turning it over to find a blank space. "Got a pen?"

Agnes reached into a cup on the counter by the back door and retrieved a pen. He took it and wrote down his cell phone number and gave it to her, thinking that now four people had it. A crowd. His life was getting complicated.

"Thank you for the number." She took the paper, tore it in half, scribbled something on it, and held it out to him. "Here's my numbers. Home and cell. What about Rhett? Should I keep him inside?"

Shane took the paper. "No, I'll take him with me just in case anybody else comes after him."

"He likes to hang his head out the window and snort the air," Agnes said. "Sometimes the snot gets intense."

"Great." Shane whistled to the dog.

Rhett looked at him as if he'd said a dirty word.

"Go on, baby," Agnes said to the dog. "Go with your Uncle Shane. He's going to take you for a ride."

Rhett lumbered to his feet, and Agnes bent to pet him, her sweatpants stretching against her butt again.

Uncle Shane turned his eyes away and headed for the hall door, Rhett padding obediently behind him.

He turned back to see Doyle watching him and Agnes standing in the sunlight from the back door, smiling at him surrounded by the scent of coffee and butter and sausage.

"Did you forget something?" she said.

Yeah, he thought I forgot this part of Keyes.

"Be careful today," he said.

"You, too," she said, and he nodded and left.

Shane had toured Two Rivers the night before, checking to see if anyone had been hiding there, and he checked all the rooms again before he left, going through the empty, generously sized living and dining rooms on the first floor; the four comfortable if sparsely furnished bedrooms on the second floor, two of them filled with wedding presents; and the two rooms at the top of the narrow stair up to the attics, the front attic rough, but the back, riverside room now a finished bedroom with white woodwork and pale blue walls, the low windows in the half walls softly lighting the big, low, blue-satin duvet-covered bed. It would be nice someday, he thought now, as he double-checked the partially finished bathroom that flanked it. Hell, it was nice now, a lot better than the narrow housekeeper's cell Agnes was sleeping in.

Not that he wouldn't move in there in a second if invited. Breakfast had pretty much sealed that deal.

He went outside and walked around to the back of Two Rivers, shaking off the well-organized comfort of Agnes's house. He felt the weight of the phone in his pocket and knew the message from Wilson was waiting and that an attempted dognapping was not his priority, but something was threatening the world that Agnes had created with her hot breakfast and her warm kitchen, and he had to take care of that before he went back to his own world.

Rhett watered the fence around the air-conditioning unit, which gave Shane a chance to see why the house was never cool—a place as big as Two Rivers needed a unit twice that size or at least another same-sized unit—and then the dog snuffled his way to the gazebo, its white wood freshly painted, its red roof neatly patched, one of the few things about the outside of Two Rivers that looked restored. The house was still stately with its double porches and tall columns, but it had been scraped in preparation for painting and it looked like it had a bad case of house mange.

He heard heavy footsteps behind him and turned, hand instinctively going for his gun, but he stopped when he saw it was Doyle lumbering toward him.

"Special place, isn't it?"

"It's something," Shane agreed, moving on toward the river. "Special woman, our Agnes," Doyle said, moving with him. "She's something," Shane said, moving on faster. "You be staying long?" Doyle asked, catching up. "Long as it takes."

"To do what?" Doyle said, and Shane thought of Agnes on that blue bed upstairs and moved on before the old man could read his mind.

He stepped up onto the dock, which creaked ominously, and looked back at Two Rivers, ringed on three sides by tidal marsh and the deep waters of the Intracoastal and the Blood, cut off from the forested land on the farthest side by an inlet, the ancient bridge its only link to the road out. It was beautiful but isolated. Like Agnes?—

"So how long will you be staying?"

Shane sighed. "Who would break in to steal the dog, Doyle?"

Doyle blinked at him. "That dog? Nobody."

"Somebody did. Who would want to hurt Agnes?"

Doyle scowled. "Nobody. Everybody likes?—"

"Somebody did. I'll be staying until I find out what's going on. If you don't like it, take it up with Agnes." He turned and walked along the edge of the property until he could see the bridge ahead to his right. He heard the sound of cars and moved to where he could see the road but be hidden by the foliage, his hand drifting toward the butt of his pistol.

Two cars appeared, a big white Lexus leading the way, followed by a baby blue ‘80s-era Cadillac. They crept over the wooden bridge and even at this distance, Shane could hear the creak of protests from the bridge supports. Both cars stopped in front of the house, and the driver's door on the Cadillac opened first.

A curvy little platinum blonde wearing a fluttery blue dress got out and surveyed the place like she owned it, her hands on her hips. She turned and looked in his direction, and he recognized her despite the years: Brenda Fortunato. She was still a beauty, passing for early forties in full sunlight even though she had to be in her fifties. She tilted her head as she looked at the house, and she did not look thrilled, possibly because with most of its paint scraped off, Two Rivers looked like hell.

The other car door opened, and the driver of the Lexus stepped out. She was tall where Brenda was tiny, trim where Brenda was curvy, pale where Brenda was tan, tailored in beige where Brenda fluttered in blue, low-heeled where Brenda spiked, and she did not put her hands on her hips or look at Two Rivers as if it were hers; she just tucked her purse under her arm, nodded politely to Brenda, looked at the house and winced, and then began to walk toward the wide central steps. She oozed class and money, and Shane thought, Evie Keyes. Mother of the groom and First Lady of Keyes, South Carolina. Which was pretty much like being Queen of the Landfill, as far as he was concerned.

Then Agnes came out the front door and down the steps with a tray of drinks, dark curls bouncing and red-rimmed glasses sliding down her nose again, wearing some kind of red dress with straps that tied on her shoulders and a skirt that whipped around her legs in the breeze, and Shane's thoughts jumped track until she led the other two women around the side of the house to the gazebo.

Agnes had damn good legs. And a great back. One pull on those ties— And she'd smiled at him, standing there in the morning sunlight. Might have been an invitation. Might not have been, too. Probably should make sure before he started untying things.

"You be a watchful sort of fellow," Doyle said from behind him.

"Shouldn't you be painting?"

"Shouldn't you be doing something someplace else?"

Shane considered arguing, but since he was guilty of the thoughts that Doyle suspected him of, he called to the bloodhound and moved away, and Doyle headed back toward the house.

Rhett padded across the inlet on an old log and immediately lost himself in the palmetto on the other side, and Shane followed, so focused on what might be ahead that when the dog stopped suddenly, he tripped over him and hit the ground just as a branch less than six inches from his head exploded in splinters, the sound of the shot echoing through the vegetation.

From the prone, Shane fired twice in the direction of the intruder. Rhett bayed and charged forward, and Shane cursed, realizing the dog was moving into the line of fire. He squeezed off four more rounds as fast as he could pull the trigger, then lunged to his feet and sprinted after the dog, hunched over, not quite believing he was putting his life on the line for a dumb old bloodhound. He continued to fire, dropping the magazine out of the well as he moved, zigzagging, slamming a fresh clip home, firing once more. Then he dived onto Rhett, grabbing the dog's collar as he rolled behind a log, holding the bloodhound to his chest.

Rhett bayed once more, then began licking Shane's face. Shane stared up at the palmetto fronds above, half-expecting to see bullets whipping through them, but they were perfectly still. Since the initial shots, the intruder had not fired, which meant he was either waiting to ambush Shane if he got closer or else had split while the getting was good. Or Shane had hit him and taken him out, which he doubted, given he had fired mainly for cover not effect, having no solid target.

He waited, letting time tick away. He was in no rush and knew waiting put the burden on his opponent, if he was still around. If the guy was a pro, the wait could be long. After fifteen minutes, Shane turned to Rhett, who appeared to be sleeping, and poked him. Rhett opened one eye. Shane poked him again and the dog opened both eyes and took a deep sniff.

No baying. No alert.

Shane got to one knee, pistol still at the ready, and looked around. No sign of the intruder. Between his eyes and Rhett's nose, he felt confident they were alone.

He walked forward, on alert, Rhett trailing him, and stopped when he saw his battered black Defender. He pulled out his remote opener and tapped the small status button and then watched as a small green light flickered green a dozen times, then surprisingly turned red and stayed that way. Shane stared at the Defender. Something or someone had set off the vehicle's motion detector.

He slowly circled the truck, eyes going over every inch. Nothing seemed amiss, but given he had just been shot at, he wasn't willing to bet his life on it. With a resigned sigh, he got down on his knees in the muddy ground, then lay down, sliding forward, feeling the damp soil ooze into his outer clothes as he angled himself so he could see the underside of the high-riding truck. Then he froze.

The shaped charge on one of the plates was easy to spot: it was directly under the passenger seat—whoever had put it there had not taken into account it was a right-hand-drive European vehicle. No wires. It looked like one of Agnes's large mixing bowls painted black and stuck to the plate. A small red LED light glowed, indicating it was armed. Shane doubted it was on a timer since whoever had placed it wouldn't know when he was coming back to the truck.

But no one should even have known he was here. At least no one who had the sophistication to make and plant such a device. The kid in Agnes's basement wasn't anywhere near this level of professionalism. But whoever had just shot at him obviously was.

Shane took a deep breath, then slid to where the bomb was right in front of his face. It couldn't have been armed until it was in place, thus there was an arming mechanism. Which meant there was a disarming mechanism.

He placed both hands on the bowl and slowly twisted it counterclockwise. The bowl moved smoothly and Shane unscrewed it until he felt it give slightly. He carefully lowered the bowl of explosives inside the metal frame to the ground, exposing a small metal canister hung below the plastic top that had been glued to the bottom of the car and into which it had been screwed. He reached up and removed the battery that supplied power to the detonator.

He stuck it in his pocket, then ripped the plastic off the bottom of the truck. He pulled the entire contraption with him as he crawled out from under the Defender. He opened the rear of the truck and placed it all inside, then went around and opened the door.

"Come on," he called to Rhett, who had watched the disarming of the bomb with no interest at all.

The dog jumped, feet scrabbling at the edge of the seat, and then he was in, moving over to the window, where he looked at Shane disapprovingly, a smear of snot on the dark glass.

"It's bullet- and blast-proof glass," Shane said, trying to explain why he wasn't rolling down the window.

Rhett gave Shane a look that said, I just saved your life, but that's okay.

Shaking his head, Shane violated standing operating procedures and lowered the passenger window. Rhett stuck his head out, a happy camper.

Shane spared a moment for what Wilson would say if he ever had to explain this—The dog wanted the window rolled down, and he'd saved me from being shot, so I violated procedure from gratitude—and then headed for Joey's.

If he wasn't careful, Keyes was going to be the death of him.

Agnes had heardthe car doors slam and had said a fast prayer before she smoothed down the skirt of her red cotton sundress in an attempt to look like a lady or at least like Brenda, shoved her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and picked up the tray of lemonade and sweet tea.

Then she'd carried the tray into the hall and out through the beautiful big carved double front doors, propped open now for some cross-ventilation because it was hotter than hell in the house; across the lovely veranda that would be even lovelier if it had some goddamn paint on it; down the wide gracious front steps that were a real bitch to negotiate with a tray that heavy not to mention sandals with heels, thank you; and over the front lawn to meet the new arrivals: Brenda, looking beautiful as ever in a full-skirted rayon number, and

Evie, looking cool and boring in white piped beige Chanel and pearls, all but screaming, I got good taste and you don't.

"Agnes, you look lovely," Evie said as she glided toward her.

"Evie, I'm sweating like a racehorse," Agnes said. "Let's have the tasting in the gazebo, shall we?"

"Certainly," Evie said, changing course around the house toward the gazebo without missing a step.

"Oh, Agnes, honey," Brenda said, slowing as she saw the front door open. "You shouldn't leave that door open, sugar, it's bad for my grandfather clock."

You shouldn't leave your grandfather clock here, it's bad for my hall,Agnes thought, and then felt guilty because Brenda had given them such a deal on the mortgage, especially the first three months' payments in exchange for holding the wedding there, so she just said, "Well, whenever you're ready to move it out, Brenda, it's right there waiting for you," and steered them around the side of the house.

"The gazebo looks beautiful," Brenda said, gliding along the flagstone walk in her three-inch heels, and Agnes smiled because it really did and because Brenda was pleased with it. Then Brenda added, "That fresh paint just gleams, Agnes," and let her eyes slide to the scabby-looking house.

"Doyle's putting the primer on the house today," Agnes said, feeling guilt swamp her. "By Saturday, this place will look like Tara." With butter.

"I do hate to see you go to so much trouble," Evie said, sweetly, "when the country club is just?—"

"No trouble," Agnes said brightly. "Wait till you see the gazebo ceiling. It's going to be perfect for the ceremony. Maria and Palmer will look adorable up there." Did I just say ‘adorable'? She shook her head and led them across the lawn and up the steps to the table inside. "There now. Isn't this lovely?"

"You know, it is," Evie said, sounding surprised as she looked up at the rafters that Doyle had painted blue and Agnes had added gold-leaf stars to.

Brenda looked up at the ceiling and said, "Oh, Agnes, you do like things bright, bless your heart."

Agnes smiled uncertainly and looked up at the stars again. She'd thought they were beautiful, like an illustration out of an old book. Maybe she should have checked with Brenda first ...

"Well, I think they're very nice," Evie said firmly. "Neoclassical."

Agnes blinked at her in surprise.

"Of course," Brenda said, smiling at Evie. "Neoclassical. Maria's coming with Palmer. They're just so darling together, don't you think?"

"Yes," Evie said, with a noticeable lack of warmth. Her face remained smooth, so it was hard to tell if the coolness was for Brenda for being too familiar with a Keyes or for Maria for having the audacity to marry into the family. Nobody could object to Maria herself, but it might very well be sticking in Evie's craw that this wedding meant she was eventually going to be the grandmother of a child who shared a bloodline with Frankie "Two Hands" Fortunato, now deceased, the whereabouts of his body unknown but presumably shod in paving material.

On the other hand, Evie could rest assured that her grand kid would not be getting beat up on the playground nearly as regularly as his father had.

Brenda said, "Agnes, where is that sweet old bloodhound of yours?"

"Rhett? He went into town?—"

The bridge rattled and gravel crunched, and Agnes looked back to see a plain dark sedan pull up and Detective Hammond get out.

Wonderful."I'll be right back," she said, and crossed the lawn to tell him that he could do anything he wanted in her basement, not adding, as long as you stay away from the gazebo so they don't hear words like attack and death. And frying pan.

She went back to the gazebo, and Brenda and Evie leaned away from each other, as if they'd been conferring about something.

Brenda looked past her and said, "Isn't that Robbie Hammond? Whatever is he doing out here?"

"Checking on some things," Agnes said. "Now, I'll go get the cakes?—"

"He was Maria's first boyfriend," Brenda said, sitting back with a fond smile. She turned to Evie. "They were very close."

What the hell are youdoing? Agnes thought as Evie's eyes narrowed, but before she could say anything, a bright pink Mustang convertible came over bridge. "Mother of God," she said, appalled at what had been done to a classic car.

Evie sighed. "The people at the Flamingo are very pleased with the golf course Palmer designed," she said faintly. "So they sent the car."

"It's pink" Agnes said, still staring.

"Flamingo pink," Evie said. "Palmer gave it to Maria."

"He's no dummy," Agnes said without thinking.

"Well, isn't it the cutest thing?" Brenda said, exchanging a glance with Agnes of mutual agreement that it wasn't while Evie grew grimmer.

"I'll just go inside and get the cakes," Agnes said.

When she got back with the cake plate, Maria was in the gazebo, looking incredibly lovely, her long glossy dark hair caught up in a knot at the top of her head, making her big brown eyes and pointed features even more striking. For once, Palmer wasn't staring at her adoringly, his slightly foolish features and slightly receding blond hairline fixed in her direction. Instead he was surveying Agnes's extensive lawn, an unfocused look in his eyes, a dress bag draped over his arm as if he'd forgotten it was there.

"Agnes!" Maria threw her arms around Agnes.

"Hello, honey." Agnes hugged back with one arm while she held the cake plate steady with the other. "How are you?"

Maria smiled at her at little too widely, her eyes a little too bright. "Fine, now that I know you're doing the cake." She leaned closer and whispered, "Can you really do this?"

"Yep." Agnes sat the cake plate down to get better traction on the hug. "I have some ideas to cover up the fact that I'm not one of the world's great cake artists, but I will bet you six MM'S that you will have a beautiful cake anyway, and I swear it will be delicious, much better than Bern the Baker's. His cake tastes like cardboard because he's always concentrating on his sugar paste."

"Six MM'S. High stakes." Maria grinned the way she had when she'd been little, and Agnes felt her heart tug at the memory. "You're on."

"Such a pity Bern canceled on you," Evie murmured, watching her son from the corner of her eye, as if waiting for a sign that he wanted out of his engagement.

"I was shocked when Bern told me he wasn't going to do it after all," Brenda said, her lovely face growing serious. "Some people do not know their places."

"So true," Evie said, looking at Brenda.

Mean,Agnes thought, and moved closer to Brenda.

Off in the swamp, somebody fired a gun several times, and Agnes jerked around, expecting to see a guy in a bandanna come out of the swamp and demand her dog, but nothing happened except that Evie looked displeased. She didn't legally own all of Keyes, but spiritually she did, and she clearly hadn't put in an order for gunfire this morning.

"So we'll all sit down," Agnes said brightly to cover up her nerves and the gunfire that continued. Damn hunters. "And we'll taste cake. Palmer, you sit here, and I'll get another chair?—"

"No, no." Palmer turned and smiled, a genuine smile that surprised Agnes with its sweetness. "I tagged along and I don't deserve cake. But I'd like to look at the lawn if you don't mind."

Brenda looked up, puzzled. "Why would you want to look at my lawn?—?"

"Not yours," Evie murmured.

"The lawn?" Agnes said. "Of course I don't mind."

Palmer kissed Maria's cheek. "Pick a winner, darling," he said, as if by rote.

Maria patted his shoulder. "I already did, baby," she said, equally without warmth.

That doesn't sound right,Agnes thought, but her real interest was in the woods where the shots had come from. All she needed was a stray bullet picking off a member of the wedding party, and there'd be hell to pay.

Palmer draped the dress bag over the gazebo rail and wandered off, and Maria sat down and said, "So. Cake. Chocolate raspberry?"

"The cupcakes," Agnes said, concentrating on the important stuff, since the gunfire seemed to have stopped. "I know that's your favorite, Maria, but the cake has to be strong enough to support the fondant, and that one's pretty delicate. It'd be wonderful served with raspberry sauce at the rehearsal dinner, though. The raspberry sauce is in the silver bowl. The heart-shaped cakes are Italian cream cake and the round ones are pound cake, which is the only kind I'm positive will hold up the fondant. The square ones are a coconut pound cake that I'm trying out. I think it might work if you're afraid plain pound cake is too boring, but I'm warning you now, I'm not an expert cake decorator, so the stronger the cake you give me to work with, the better chance you have of getting something that makes it through the reception." Agnes picked up a plate.

"I have to confess that I am concerned that the house isn't painted yet," Brenda said as Agnes put cakes on the first plate, and Agnes flinched.

"It will be." Agnes handed the plate to Maria. "Bride first." Maria handed the plate to Evie. "Absolutely not. Mother of the groom first."

Evie accepted the plate. "Thank you, my dear. You have such lovely manners."

"Because if the house won't be ready—" Brenda began.

"It will be."Agnes plopped cake on a second plate and then shoved that plate at Brenda, wondering what her problem was.

Brenda frowned at the plate. "Now is this the china you'll be using for the wedding, sugar?"

"No," Agnes said, distracted again. "Taylor's got china on order to stock his catering kitchen in the barn, and we'll be using that."

Brenda shook her head. "There's an awful lot that isn't in place —"

"It will all be here," Agnes said firmly. "The china, the house, the cake, the flowers, everything. Which reminds me, I tried calling the florist this morning to double-check on the delivery times, but I couldn't get through. That's not like Maisie. Is she sick?"

"Oh, Maisie." Brenda took the plate, shaking her head. "Poor old Maisie, always did have more boobs than brains, bless her heart." She forked up a piece of the Italian cream cake, taking care not to drop any crumbs on her own significant cleavage. "You're not going to believe this. She canceled."

Agnes stopped filling the third plate, and Evie and Maria froze, too. "What?"

Brenda bit into the cream cake, hesitated, and shook her head. "Oh, I think that's just a touch too sweet, Agnes, but then it's too soft for your fondant anyway. What? Oh, Maisie. Well, you know how disorganized she is, incompetent really. She just felt overwhelmed by the whole thing and canceled." She tasted the pound cake and pursed her perfect lips, although her forehead did not wrinkle. "I think the pound cake may be too dry. And you know you'll have to cover it with the fondant at least the day before, probably two. So if it's dry now ..." She shook her head and then met Agnes's eyes. "What? Oh, Maisie? Yes. I'm afraid you'll have to do the flowers, too."

Agnes felt her temper rise, took a deep breath, and put the last cake on the plate. This isn't like Brenda, Brenda's on my side, I'll just stay calm and find out what happened later, everything will be fine. She turned to Maria, whose jaw was set, but who did not look surprised. "I'll fix it, you'll have flowers," she said quietly, while beside her Evie looked grim.

Very good, Agnes. You control your anger; your anger does not control you.

The morning's not over yet, Dr. Garvin.

Agnes turned and smiled at the table. "Look at this, I've been so anxious to get you all cake, I didn't serve drinks. What have I been thinking?"

Evie picked up the lemonade pitcher and began to pour. "This coconut pound cake is just delicious, Agnes, you have outdone yourself. Lemonade, anyone? Or sweet tea?"

"You know, the chef at the country club does a nice cake," Brenda said, taking a glass of lemonade.

"This chocolate raspberry cake is really good," Maria said, straightening.

She had two bright spots of color on her cheeks and fire in her eye, and Agnes forgot Brenda's betrayal for a moment because Maria was looking a lot like her mother. Lisa Livia may have grown up in the South, but she was descended from a long line of dons and hitmen and Brenda. And, Agnes thought with a sinking heart, Maria was descended from a long line of dons and hitmen and Brenda and Lisa Livia.

"So, the cake," she said in her best aren't-we-all-glad-to-be-here voice, waving her cake plate in Maria's general direction to distract her from whatever was about to set her off.

"I'm just thinking with everything that's gone wrong, the wedding might be better at the country club," Brenda said, and Evie perked up.

Rot in hell, Brenda, Agnes thought, but before she could say anything, Maria said, "Did you hear about my dress?"

"Your dress?" Evie said, but Maria was smiling at Brenda. Fixedly.

Oh, God, what did Brenda do to the dress?Agnes thought, seeing the entire wedding go south as the bride killed her grandmother in the gazebo with the cake knife. Barbie Clue.

"Oh, yes, the dress." Brenda sipped her lemonade, looking blonde and lovely as ever. "Maria had ordered one from New York, but there was no tradition in that, so I canceled it?—"

"What?"Evie said, putting down her lemonade.

"—and I'm giving her my wedding dress to wear." Brenda smiled fondly at Maria, who smiled back. Not fondly.

"She's at least a foot taller than you are," Evie said, appalled. "You canceled that dress? She loved that dress. We all loved that dress!"

"It's all right," Maria said, still smiling.

It's not all right,Agnes thought, trying to think of how she was going to get the dress back. And how she was going to get Brenda psychiatric help because she'd clearly gone round the bend. And how she was going to keep Lisa Livia from killing her mother, something that had been imminent all LL's life anyway. "I?—"

"In fact, I've been thinking," Brenda said, and a silence fell over the table, even Evie turning to Brenda to see what was coming next. "What with Two Rivers not looking its best—I'm sorry, Agnes—and the florist quitting, and all, well, I have to agree with Evie that the country club is very beautiful, and they have flowers there anyway, so we could probably just use their flowers. ..."

Her voice trailed off as three women looked at her in horror.

"Well, it's too late to get another florist, everybody would understand that, and we can't have it here," she said, the voice of reason. "This place isn't even painted."

You have lost your ever-lovin' mind, Agnes thought.

"We cannot use the country club's flowers," Evie said firmly. "But I do agree that Two Rivers is a little shabby for a wedding of this stature, so I think that moving it to?—"

Agnes said, trying to keep the panic from her voice, "Well, I think?— "

Maria stood up. "You know, I just love my grandpa's big old house. It's just... the South, don't you think?" She turned to look at it in all its scraped and scabby glory, Tara with leprosy, and turned back hastily. "And I do want a Southern wedding, in the fine old Keyes tradition. I do believe in tradition, don't you, Mrs. Keyes?"

Evie nodded, not buying anything yet.

"But I do want a wedding that will make people sit up and take notice," Maria said, looking at Brenda. "I want a wedding that says, Look at us, we have arrived, we belong. Right, Grandma Brenda?"

Brenda looked up at her, and for a moment she looked hungry, even vulnerable. Agnes thought, She wonts to belong, she feels as alone as I do.

Maria moved between Brenda and Evie. "That's what I want my wedding to be, tradition and innovation, the best of both worlds, having it all!"

The two older women looked at each other, united in confusion.

Agnes frowned. It was a nice picture, Maria uniting the two fighting houses, but she was Lisa Livia's kid, and her cake, her flowers, and her dress had just been canceled, and now Brenda and Evie were trying to hijack the whole damn thing to the fucking country club.