Fear of Frying

toss-up.
    Before anyone could launch a conversational gambit, another man entered the room and Marge went to meet him. “Sam, this is Shelley Nowack and her friend Jane Jeffry.”
    Unlike the rest of them, who were dressed for the outdoors, Sam Claypool had on dress slacks, a crisp white shirt, navy blue tie, and a blazer. If Jane hadn’t known better, she’d have sworn he was an accountant, not a car dealer. He, too, was tidy—but too much so. His hair was a little too short, the creases in his slacks were perfect, his handshake was cool and impersonal. He needed rumpling, Jane thought. He’d come to dinner with a legal pad and hand-held calculator, which didn’t strike Jane as especially sociable, even though she herself, like Marge, always had a paperback book somewhere on her person.
    “Where’s Eileen?“ John asked.
    Sam looked around. “I don’t know. She was with me a minute ago.“ He had already sat down at the table and was punching in numbers on his calculator and making notes on the legal pad. Shelley was studying him ominously, as if considering giving a short lecture on social niceties.
    Eileen Claypool, John’s wife, turned up a moment later. “Sorry, dears, I had to take a potty break. The bathrooms here are amazing!“ She was a perfect match for her husband—loud, oversized, and cheerful, like him. She had big blond hair, a huge, toothy smile, and was swathed about with an extraordinary number of accessories. Besides innumerable layers of clothing, she wore three necklaces, rings on every finger, a large purse, and two tote bags. “What a wonderful place this is. I’m Eileen. Who are you?”
    Jane and Shelley introduced themselves again. Eileen proved to be a “hand holder,“ hanging on to them while the cloud of her expensive perfume encircled them. “Oh, you’re those friends of Suzie Williams, aren’t you?“
    “Friends and neighbors,“ Shelley said, trying in vain to disengage her hand. “How do you know Suzie?“
    “I’ve got a little dress shop. Just a hobby, really. Large sizes. I send a lot of my ladies to Suzie to get fitted for“—she lowered her voice to a muted bellow—“undergarments.“ Suzie, a big, gorgeous, vulgar platinum blonde whom Shelley and Jane were crazy about, was the head clerk of the lingerie section at the department store located in the neighborhood mall.
    “Here, let’s sit down. I want to know all about you ladies,“ Eileen said, dragging them over to the table. “Oh, Marge dear, I didn’t even see you there. Got your books, I see. Marge always has her nose in a book,“ she explained. “Can’t see how she does it. Reading puts me straight to sleep. Always has.”
    They were spared the full force of Eileen’s attention by the arrival of yet another camper. “Oh, good, you haven’t started eating yet! Hi, everybody. I’m Bob Rycraft. Mrs. Jeffry... Mrs. Nowack, how you doin’? I didn’t know you’d be here. Mr. Claypool... Mr. Claypool, good to see you guys. I don’t think I’ve met your wives.”
    While yet more introductions were conducted, Jane watched Bob move around the table. She didn’t know him well, but had always liked him. He was a big, handsome, tawny man in his late thirties who moved with the lazy grace of a lion and had formerly been an athlete—football, Jane thought. Or maybe it was baseball. He and his wife and four little girls had moved to their suburb five years ago. Bob ran an apparently successful mail-order business that sold specialty paper products to companies all over the world. He was an extremely civic-minded guy, coaching at the YMCA and several schools, serving as Parks and Rec chairman on the city council and generously donating envelopes, packing boxes, and such to practically every good cause in town.
    “So how are all those girls of yours?“ Shelley asked him when they were all seated.
    “Girls, girls, girls. I’ve got so darned many of them, I lose track,“ he said with a grin. “If we have any more, we’re going to run out of names and have to start numbering them.”
    Shelley smiled back. Even though he was a man designed by nature to be father to mobs of rough-and-tumble boys, he was known to be besotted by his flock of dainty blond daughters.
    “So who was the guy sneaking around outside?“ Bob asked his table-mates.
    “Sneaking?“ Jane asked.
    “Yeah, little scrawny guy. Was looking in the window and leaped away like a deer when he spotted me coming.“
    “Must of