Bride & Groom

distinguishing between my imaginings and what’s really out there. And tonight, someone really was out there. Is out there. Maybe.” I paused. “And here’s something I’m not proud of. And I’m not telling this to anyone but you guys. But I’m different from Victoria Trotter. And I’m different from Bonny Carr. I don’t pass off other people’s work as my own, and I’m not some self-aggrandizing phony. I try to be kind, honest, and all the rest! And that difference made me feel safe. Now it doesn’t. And I don’t like feeling threatened. So, what do I do? Call the police and report that I heard, quote, a noise, unquote? Do I take the two of you out there and poke around? Do I take India? Victoria’s dogs were in her house. Bonny Carr’s dog was crated in her car. Yes, exactly. What if the dogs had been right there?”
    Rowdy and Kimi gave my monologue their full attention; they did so in the happy expectation that I was about to feed them treats. I ended up doing just that, but only because they tagged along when I went to the bedroom, opened the closet door, stood on tiptoe, and retrieved the ultrafeminine Smith & Wesson case that contained the world’s weirdest hostess gift, a Ladysmith revolver once presented to me by my father as a token of his thanks for my hospitality. Rowdy’s and Kimi’s interest in the weapon made me uneasy, not because the dogs were capable of firing it, of course—even malamute brilliance has its limits—but because the innocence of the dogs’ curiosity jarred with the reality of its object. Still, instead of leaving the Ladysmith in its case, I crated the dogs, fed them treats, and dug ammo out of a locked file drawer in my office. Then I loaded the revolver. I grew up in Maine. Therefore, I grew up with guns. I’m not the sort of person who accidentally discharges a firearm, nor am I the sort who cowers helplessly in her house because she suspects that an evildoer lurks outside.
    After slipping on a jacket, pocketing my keys, and grabbing a flashlight, I quietly entered the back hall and eased open the outer door. The floods, both old and new, showed my car and Rita’s BMW; everything looked normal. Moving slowly, I descended the stairs. With the flashlight in my left hand and the revolver in my right, I made a sudden sprint past the barrels and around the comer of the house. Almost to my disappointment, the narrow strip of land was empty. As if to justify my presence there, I aimed the flashlight at the wet ground and walked the length of the passageway. The beam showed wet leaves that I hadn’t bothered to rake. If it also showed footprints, I didn’t see them. Feeling foolish, I made my way back along the length of the house and had just stepped onto the brightly illuminated driveway when a human figure appeared on the sidewalk. The figure was female. Taking a look at me, she opened her mouth in a giant O that could have come right out of Munch’s famous painting titled “The Scream.” And scream Rita sure did.
     

CHAPTER 24
     
    “Don’t give me this line of yours about Maine and guns,” Rita said. “The world is full of people who grew up in Maine and don’t go around brandishing deadly weapons.”
    “Name one,” I challenged.
    We were seated at my kitchen table. I’d explained about Steve’s feline emergency, invited Rita in, unloaded the Ladysmith, and returned it to its case, which I’d stowed safely in the bedroom closet. After locking the ammunition in the file drawer, I’d let Rowdy and Kimi loose. Then I’d opened a bottle of a red wine that Steve was considering for our reception. It was called Mad Fish. The name suited the present occasion. Rita was furious at me, and we were on a subject intimately related to fish and fishing, namely, the State of Maine. Then, too, there was the unmentionable matter of fishy Artie Spicer.
    “The late Senator Margaret Chase Smith,” Rita said. “Stephen King. Your own mother.”
    “As it happens, my mother was an excellent shot, and for all we know, so was Margaret Chase Smith, and I have no idea whether Stephen King owns a firearm of any kind, but since he lives in Bangor, it’s perfectly possible that he does, although he obviously doesn’t need one to scare people, does he? And I was not ‘brandishing a deadly weapon.’ You make it sound as if I’d been standing in the middle of Harvard Square taking potshots, and speaking of stupid behavior, exactly what were you doing wandering around