own funds. I noticed only one very distant relative among the list of fleeced locals. Apparently Hollingworth solidarity had kept most of Mother's family using one of the half-dozen relatives who were brokers or investment advisors. Lucky for us.
Dad had bookmarked all of these articles. He'd also bookmarked Mrs. Fenniman's 'Around Town' columns for the summer. I read them, too, but did not find any enlightenment in Mrs. Fenniman's meticulous recountings of who entertained whom, who was engaged to whom, and who had returned from vacationing where.
I saw an interview with Michael's mother on the opening of Be-Stitched. No picture, alas, and not much personal information. Widow of an army officer. She'd moved to Yorktown from Fort Lauderdale to be nearer her only child, Michael, who was an Associate Professor in the Theater Arts Department of Caerphilly College.
I was impressed. Caerphilly was a small college with a big reputation located about an hour's drive north. Michael was doing all right.
As I moved back in time, I saw the occasional reference to people visiting Mrs. Wendell in the hospital or Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Wendell being honored for their generous donation to various local charities. Quite the philanthropist, Jake--or was it Emma? I checked the columns since her death. If Jake was still supporting the local charities he was doing it more quietly.
Moving still further back, I found a short article welcoming the Wendells to town. Emma Wendell was the daughter of a wealthy Connecticut state supreme court justice. Jake had just retired from Waltham Consultants, a Hartford-based engineering consulting firm where he'd held the post of senior executive administrative partner in the special projects training division. Whatever that might be. A desk jockeying bureaucrat, no doubt; it was hard to picture Jake as an executive. They were overjoyed to be in Yorktown, and hoped that the milder winters would be good for Mrs. Wendell's delicate health.
Beyond that, Dad had only marked the occasional article. One or two mentioning Mr. Brewster's law firm. One or two about various neighbors and relatives. One about the use of natural plant dyes in colonial times that I presumed he'd marked because he'd found it interesting, not because it had anything to do with the case.
I didn't feel I'd learned anything in particular. Dad's investigation seemed to have been following the same frustrating dead-end paths as mine.
I thought of tidying up a bit, then thought better of it and returned the key to Pam.
On my way home, I ran into Eileen's dad.
'Meg! Thank goodness!' he said. 'I was looking for you.'
'Why, what's wrong?'
'We've got to do something about these wedding presents!'
'What about them?'
'They're all over the house, and people are starting to call to ask if we've gotten them. We need to do something.'
'Why doesn't Eileen do something?'
A stricken look crossed Professor Donleavy's face.
'She says she won't have time, and asked me to take care of it. And I have no idea what to do.'
I thought he was overreacting, but I let him drag me back to the house and he was right: the presents were taking over the house. The professor had started piling them in the dining room, and had run out of room. The living room was filling up fast, and some of the larger things were overflowing into the den.
'I wish Eileen had mentioned this,' I said. 'This would have been a lot easier to deal with gradually.'
I promised him that I'd come around tomorrow to unpack and inventory the presents. So much for taking the weekend off.
Saturday, June 25
I was already in a bad mood when I showed up at the Donleavys' to unpack and inventory the presents. Imagine my dismay when the front door was opened, not by Eileen's father but by Barry.
'What are you doing here? I thought you were in Richmond with Steven and Eileen.'
'Helped set up,' he said, with shrug. 'Don't need me till tomorrow afternoon. It's only two hours.'
Wonderful. Well, if Barry was going to be underfoot, I was going to do my damnedest to see he didn't enjoy it. First I had him move all the presents from the dining room into the living room. Then I had him bring in a few at a time. I unwrapped them--what was wrong with Eileen, anyway? Present opening wasn't work unless they were someone else's presents--and made up an index card with a description of each present and the name and address of each giver. It took hours. Even Barry began showing signs of restlessness toward the end.
'That's it,' I said finally. 'I guess I should take the index cards with me; they'll only get lost around here.'
I turned to leave the dining room only to encounter an obstacle. A very large obstacle. Barry's arm.
'Don't go yet,' he said.
'I have things to do, Barry,' I said, backing slightly away from the arm. 'Let me go.'
'Stay here,' he said. I backed up a little further, against the dining room wall, which was stupid, because it gave him the chance to put an arm on either side of me. I looked up and saw on his face the unmistakable, slightly glassy-eyed look of a man who has made up his mind to make his move. The sort of look that sends pleasant shivers down your spine when you see it on the face of the right man. And on the wrong man, makes you mentally kick yourself and wonder why the hell you didn't see this coming and head it off.
'Don't even think of it,' I said.
He reached up to take my chin in one hand. I put my hand against his chest and shoved slightly.
'Go away,' I said.
He didn't budge. I felt suddenly a little afraid. Barry was so much larger than me, and stronger, and so aggressively determined, and Steven and Eileen were not around to provide a calming influence ... and then a wave of temper replaced the fear.
'I mean it, Barry. Move it or lose it.'
He leaned a little closer.
I mentally shrugged, grabbed his arm with both hands, and twisted. Hard.
'Owwwwwwwwww!' he yelled, and jumped back, nursing his arm. Thanks to self-defense courses, I knew exactly how to do it. Thanks to my iron-working, I'm strong for my size. And I'm not small. Barry glared at me, resentfully.
'You didn't have to do that,' he said, taking a small step closer. 'What's wrong?'
I lost it.
'What's wrong!' I yelled. 'What's wrong! I told you to let me go, and I meant it. Did you think I was kidding? Flirting with you, maybe?'
'Don't be like that, Meg,' he said, taking another step closer.
I grabbed a candlestick off the buffet. A nice, heavy iron candlestick that wouldn't fall apart if you banged it around a little. I should know; I made it. I got a good two-handed grip on it and waved it at Barry.
'Come one step closer and I'll use this,' I said.
Barry paused, not sure what to do. 'Am I interrupting anything?'
I glanced at the doorway to see Michael. He hadn't adopted his usual pose of leaning elegantly against the frame with one hand in his pocket. He was standing on the balls of his feet, looking wary, alert, a little like a cat about to pounce. More than a little dangerous.
'Barry was just leaving,' I said. Barry looked back and forth between Michael and me. I gestured to the door with the candlestick. Barry finally slouched out.
I put the candlestick down and sank into a chair.
'That was stupid,' I said.
'I thought it was rather impressive. Remind me not to bet against you in an arm-wrestling contest.'
'Yeah, I'm stronger than I look,' I said. 'Fringe benefit of my career.'
'I didn't realize pottery was quite so strenuous.'
'I'm not a potter; I'm a blacksmith.'
'You're what?'
