Black Ribbon

from people who didn’t even try to keep them secret. No one came right out and said that the police should’ve talked to me, of course; that’s just my own conclusion. But according to gossip, the police had concentrated on Heather and Sara, who owned the A-frame; on Everett Dow, who’d built it; and on the proprietor of the hardware store where Everett had bought the hinges and chains. For information about Waggin’ Tail, they’d turned to Maxine. Neglected, I was thus virtually forced to keep my knowledge of the grips, signs, and passwords all to myself. I don’t blame the police. From the unenlightened perspective of their own fraternal order, they were following what must have seemed like the sensible course of posing questions about Eva’s death to people who might have been expected to know the answers.
    Having been seated among the elect on the previous evening, I was hoping to demote myself back to my own level, but Maxine McGuire snagged me, and I got stuck at her table again. Heather and Sara had escaped to a far comer of the dining room, but as on the previous night, Cam and Ginny were at Max’s table, as were Don and Phyllis Abbott and Eric Grimaldi. Everyone but Phyllis was drinking pretty heavily, it seemed to me, and I’m not exactly a teetotaler. In the places previously occupied by the agility people were Craig and Joy, who were undergoing what I took to be the first steps in an initiation into the fancy.
    “Craig’s been bitten by the bug,” Don Abbott informed me in a Scotch-thick voice smoothed by the burgundy he was pouring down. “He’s been asking about where he can get a show dog.”
    Joy giggled. Giggled. “And what to do once we get it,” she added in the tone of someone who deludes herself into believing she’s uttered an exceptionally clever remark.
    Craig, who apparently shared the delusion, gave her a protective hug. He squeezed her lightly, as if she were a fragile puppy unable to withstand a solid grown-up thump. What made me uncomfortable about the two of them, I realized, wasn’t just Joy’s stereotypical ultrafeminine, helpless, vulnerable, and infantile manner, or even the possibility that some misguided individual might misuse her as a basis for making assumptions about me or about other women. No, that was just the least of it. What really bothered me wasn’t Joy alone, but the couple, Joy and Craig in combination, because taken together, Joy so little-girlish, Craig so unnaturally overmuscled, the two of them, despite the clean, wholesome appearance of the individuals, somehow exuded an air of child molestation: victim and perpetrator, wife and husband. I wondered whether Joy could possibly have remained a virgin bride.
    Don, Phyllis, and Eric gave no sign of entertaining such speculations. Tactfully avoiding any reference to Lucky’s deficiencies as a show dog, Eric offered numerous helpful recommendations about getting started in dogs. Go to a show, he suggested. And read Don Abbott’s terrific book! Stretching a point, Don asked whether they were thinking of another Cairn. Yes, they were. Well, Don would be happy to get the names of reputable breeders in their area. Showing dogs was really a lot of fun, Phyllis said. Among other things, you got to meet wonderful people; you made friends for life.
    Meanwhile, Maxine was expressing considerable annoyance at Wayne Varney, who, she said, could have dealt with the whole matter very competently himself. She’d never before suspected Wayne of suffering from such low self-esteem. And why on earth did they need an autopsy? When she lost a dog for no known reason, she always had one performed, but this was different. Plainly speaking, Eva had gotten conked on the head. What more obvious cause of death could there be?
    Paying no attention to the content of Maxine’s complaints, Ginny spoke almost exclusively about Bingo: good lines, sire finished, dam pointed, eyes and hips clear on both sides, lovely temperaments, and on and on in the eternal manner of dog breeders. Cam listened patiently. What could she possibly have replied?
    Except to insert food, I kept my mouth shut. The clam chowder was Cape Cod style, a white sauce with chopped quahogs, not Maine clam chowder, which has a relatively thin but strong-tasting broth and swims with whole steamers, bellies, chewy necks, and all, delicious, but not to the squeamish, I suppose. The main course, seafood lasagna, wasn’t bad, and I’d drenched my salad in