Make No Bones

that bus because we'd driven him to it. We were—we were ashamed of ourselves. So we talked it out, and we agreed that no purpose would be served by telling anyone else about it. And we haven't. Childish, perhaps, but that's the way we saw it.'

Gideon shook his head. “Nellie, I'm sorry, but it doesn't ring true. I can see some of the others going along with covering it up, but it just doesn't sound like you. I mean you, personally. It's not your style.'

'I suppose I should take that as a compliment,” Nellie said gruffly. “Well, damn it, you're right, it's not my style.” He slid back down into the chair. The pipe came out of his pocket, and the Latakia, but once they were in his hands he seemed to forget about them. “Do you know what it was, really? It's not very deep.” He looked up at Gideon from under his eyebrows. “You know what happened at the roast, I gather?'

'I know it got out of hand, I know Jasper took offense—'

'Yes, well, that's it right there. Jasper took offense.'

He began stuffing the pipe methodically with tobacco. “You certainly couldn't call Albert a model human being, Gideon. I know how the others think of him—a slave driver, a martinet—and there's some truth to it. But you know what it is they're really complaining about without even knowing it? His standards. Mortifyingly high, true; uncompromising, true—but if you could meet them, if you could deliver, then, my God, the man could stretch you! Everything I know about this profession of ours stems from him. Without him, there wouldn't be any profession. He made it a science, Gideon.” A match was struck and held to the bowl of the pipe. It was trembling very slightly.

'I realize all that—” Gideon began, but Nellie, sucking on the bit, shook his head: There was more.

The match was shaken out, the first smelly cloud of smoke expelled. “All of us owe that man a great debt, me more than anybody, and the fact of the matter is, I couldn't stand—still can't stand—the thought of his last recorded moments being so—so—squalid. Drunk, ranting, bawling...I felt I owed it to him to protect his memory.'

'His memory,” Gideon said.

'Yes, and so I—well, I suppose I imposed my will on everyone else. I made them promise to keep that last awful scene to themselves. And they, good souls that they are underneath it all, humored me.” He hesitated, looked awkwardly down at his lumpy knuckles. “And that's all there was to it. I hope you believe me.'

'I do,” Gideon said. Loyalty. Fidelity. Obligation. It sounded like the real Nellie Hobert, all right, just slightly askew.

Nellie smiled wryly at him. “I guess it was pretty dumb, wasn't it?'

'Pretty dumb.'

'Well, you know what they say: 'Mit der Dummheit kampfen Gotter selbst vergebens.’”

Between Gideon's rudimentary German and Nellie's impenetrable accent, not much got through. 'Mit der...?'

''With stupidity the gods themselves struggle in vain.’ Schiller said it.'

'Ah,” Gideon said. Schiller wasn't the only one. John Lau said it too: Smart people do the goddamn dumbest things.

* * * *

At 5:00 P.M. that afternoon, Miranda convened a special meeting of the FMs to consider an unanticipated problem: The Whitebark Lodge catering department, not having received instructions to the contrary, had begun preparing for the traditional Friday-evening Albert Evan Jasper Memorial Weenie Roast, Singalong, and Chugalug Contest. With the rain having stopped, the mesquite fire in the cookout area had been started and the tables were in the process of being set up. However, having belatedly learned of the recent tragic events that had befallen WAFA, the caterer now wished to know if the cookout should be canceled.

'I would say so, yes,” Callie said with a dismissive laugh. “This is hardly the time for a weenie roast.'

'It is steaks we're talking about,” Miranda reminded her gently, “not weenies.'

'Whatever. The longer we put off dealing with the trauma and depression associated with what's happened, the longer it will be before we can get on with our lives in a constructive way. As a matter of fact, I've been thinking that this evening would be a good time for some co-supportive grief work sessions for those who'd like them.'

'I don't know that I'd go as far as all that,” Leland said, “but it's certainly not the time for a biennial picnic. It would be entirely out of place.” It was the closest he'd come to agreeing with Callie in Gideon's or anyone else's memory.

'Well, but that creates a small problem,” Miranda said. Leland gave her the lorgnette look. “And what problem is that?'

'They've already gone ahead and bought the supplies. Forty-five T-bone steaks, ten chickens, wine, beer, charcoal, plastic plates, the works. The bill comes to $432. We'll have to pay for it in any case.'

'Oh,” Leland said after a moment. “That's different.” He considered. “Well, perhaps we could think of it as a joint memorial picnic—for Harlow as well as Albert? That might be more appropriate. In fact, we might think about keeping it as the Jasper-Pollard Memorial Dinner in the future.'

'Hey, at the rate we're getting knocked off, we better just start calling it the General Memorial Weenie Roast,” Les said.

Callie glared at him. “One of our members has been murdered. Two, if you include Jasper. The murderer or murderers are still at large and would almost certainly be in attendance, have you thought of that? Under those circumstances, I think it's repellent even to be discussing this.'

'Yes, I think so too,” Nellie said. “You know, if the wastage is what's bothering people, we can always have the food served in the dining room as the regular dinner tonight.'

'Turn forty-five choice T-bones over to the regular kitchen staff?” Miranda cried. “To the same people who were responsible for Rhoda's Meatloaf? Instead of having them grilled over an open mesquite fire? Please, are we sure we don't want to give this some serious thought?'