A Midsummer Night's Scream

particular. She was probably mad at her husband for no reason. Mel wasn’t looking forward to dealing with her tomorrow. He wished he could deal with her husband, who was obviously grieving. He was more likely to want to talk about his son.

Twenty-one

    The needlepoint group was really making progress. Sam had taken out all his sections that were too tight and redone them. Shelley’s sampler was more than halfway done and looked gorgeous. Jane was only slightly behind Shelley. Jane, like Sam, had been forced to remove one section that hadn’t worked out, and discovered that it was harder to work with canvas that was slightly limp from already being used. Jane and Sam sympathized with each other over this unpleasant surprise.
    “Next time I do a sampler, I’ll remember to do it right to begin with,“ Jane said.
    “I hope I will, too,“ Sam agreed.
    Again, Tazz hadn’t turned up, which was a relief to Jane. She wondered whether Tazz was embarrassed or furious or both that Jane had bluntly turned down the idea of writing Tazz’s costume book for her. Or maybe Tazz’s absence had nothing to do with Jane.
    Elizabeth, who apparently had more time than most of the group to work on her sampler, had only four sections to finish. Jane was still doubtful about Elizabeth’s choices of colors, but apparently Elizabeth had an eye for contrasts that really did look good.
    After they had all complimented each other, Elizabeth asked Ms. Bunting what her husband was doing today while Ms. Bunting was at the meeting.
    “The old fool is looking for his missing golf club at secondhand stores,“ she said with a laugh. “Nobody but an idiot, or a rich person wanting a receipt for an antique to reduce his taxes, would turn it over to a secondhand store. If I were looking for it, I’d go to pawnshops. Or order a duplicate on eBay.“
    “What’s eBay?“ Elizabeth asked.
    The rest of them looked at her with astonishment. “It’s a place on the Internet that holds thousands of auctions,“ Shelley said.
    “There are also lots of golf club sites in other places on the Internet,“ Sam put in. “Some sell restored antique golf clubs. My son-in-law is an avid collector of them. It makes it really easy to buy him birthday and Christmas presents.“
    “What will we do when we’re all through with our samplers?“ Elizabeth asked Martha, clearly not interested in the subject at hand. She had no interest in the Internet. Jane suspected that Elizabeth had never, and probably never would, own or operate a computer. And was undoubtedly proud of herself for it.
    “We’re going to master basket-weave patterns,“ Martha said. “I’ve noticed that none of you seem to have used this valuable stitch. It’s the most durable of all of them. We’ll be making a pillow, blocking it, adding special stitches around the edging, mastering trim for the surround, and stuffing the pillow properly when that’s done. If you want to take the second level of classes later, those deal with creating your own designs. Mazes, animals, Christmas stockings, using beading and ornaments.“
    Shelley’s eyes lit up like beacons. “I can’t wait to take that class.“
    Only Jane knew of Shelley’s vast collection of pretty beads, little buttons, and tiny ornaments. Shelley never had figured out what to do with them. Now she knew.
    The worst part of Mel’s job used to be taking people to the morgue to identify their nearest and dearest. For one thing, it was fiercely cold there and stank of formaldehyde and antiseptic. Thank goodness, eight years ago they’d changed this. Now the body, with only the face showing, was wheeled into a room with a glass partition. No odor. No hint of the stem-to-stern autopsy. There was a curtain behind the glass that would open when the people responsible for identifying the body were in place.
    Still, it was shocking.
    When the curtain opened, Mr. Roth looked as if he was about to faint. Mel led him to a chair nearby. “I’m sorry I have to ask, but is this your son?“
    Mr. Roth had bent forward, hands over his eyes, and was trying gulp back his urge to cry.
    “Of course it’s our son,“ Mrs. Roth said. “Harry, get a grip. We have to face up to this.“
    As if Harry had to be told this, Mel thought.
    Mrs. Roth frowned at Mel and demanded, “Close those curtains. We’ve seen enough.“
    “Come along when you’re both ready,“ Mel told them. “I’ll be waiting in the hall for you. There are questions I