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“Her. Coming to help us. But Buzzy didn't know. Or maybe he did. I suppose that's why he came home.”

Spreading the tuna mixture on bread, I added potato chips and the rest of the gherkins. Then I sat down at the table. “I'm confused, Laura,” I admitted. “What are you talking about? With Ursula, I mean.”

Laura crammed three potato chips in her mouth at once. “Money,” she said, though as she chewed, it sounded like
mungey.
“Ursula was bringing money. She'd promised Buzzy. But she didn't come and didn't come and didn't come. I blamed Buzzy for not being nicer to his sister. That's when he left.” She bit off a
quarter of the sandwich, a defiant gesture indicating contempt for her husband, lingering hunger, or both.

I tried to cling to the narrative thread. “That was— when? That Buzzy left, I mean.”

“Which time?” Laura asked after swallowing her food.

“How many times did he go?” At this point I wasn't sure that I knew what we were talking about. Nor could I imagine Laura serving on the school board. I might as well have cast a write-in vote for Crazy Eights Neffel.

“Twice,” my unfit candidate answered. “Wednesday and Friday.” A slight frown creased Laura's narrow forehead as she stared at what was left of her sandwich. “The first time we had a fight. About money. It's always about money. That's when Buzzy took off.”

“Is he still working at the Grocery Basket?” I didn't want to stray from the original topic, but it seemed to me that Jake probably paid his brother a fair wage.

“I guess.” The question didn't seem to hold much interest for Laura.

“So Friday, Ursula was supposed to come to your house with a … loan?” I felt as if I were playing a word game, Fill in the Gaps.

Laura nodded once. “Buzzy talked to her, and she promised to give us some money. She was coming over around seven. But she never did.”

“So you and Buzzy were waiting for her?” It seemed like a logical supposition.

Laura nodded again, then brushed crumbs off her jacket. The sandwich was almost gone. “We waited and waited. Like I said, she never came.”

That figured. Ursula couldn't come because she was dead. But I didn't make the obvious statement to Laura. “What time did Buzzy come by to wait for Ursula?” I inquired, hoping to sound casual.

Laura scowled. “It was after seven-thirty. I was getting mad, because he was late. He's always late. It wouldn't be right to keep his sister waiting, not when we were
asking for money.” Laura paused to gobble a few chips. “So then we waited together. But Ursula never showed up. I figured Buzzy had made her mad, too. I told him so. That's when he left. But he forgot his keys, so he had to come back. The sheriff came then and told us Ursula had drowned. Buzzy went off without saying another word.”

In the brief silence that followed, the rain pummeled the kitchen window. Canopies notwithstanding, the weather wasn't conducive to a picnic.

“Did you talk to Ursula Friday?” I asked, offering the bag of chips to Laura.

Taking the bag, she shook her head emphatically. “No. Why would I do that?”

“Well … to arrange the time.” I knew my smile was artificial. “To see when it was convenient for all of you to get together.”

“Buzzy talked to her.” The gray eyes struck me as slightly furtive. “Didn't I say that?”

“Yes.” Once more I hesitated. “Did you see much of Ursula after she moved to Alpine?”

Licking a piece of potato chip off her lip, Laura considered. “Twice. She had us and Betsy and Jake to dinner. Another time I ran into her at—”

A pounding at my front door interrupted Laura and startled us both. I rose, calling out that I was coming. Buzzy O'Toole stood on the porch, looking distressed.

“Emma?” he said, as if he were surprised to find me living in my own house. “Is Laura here? Or is it Mike?”

“It's Laura,” I informed Buzzy, stepping aside to let him in. “She had a flat.”

“I know.” He nodded in a jerky fashion. His faded denim jacket was damp from the rain and his blue jeans had a hole in the knee. In Buzzy's case, I didn't think it was a fashion statement. “I saw the Fury in front of your house. That's why I stopped.”

We were standing in the middle of the living room.

Laura remained in the kitchen, though I knew she could hear every word we said.

“Won't you join us?” I asked Buzzy. The polite request sounded fatuous in my ears.

Buzzy looked terrified. “No. No, thanks. I just wanted to make sure that… there hadn't been another … accident.”

I was puzzled.
“Another
accident?”

Again, that jerky nod: “Yeah, like Ursula. This family' sjinxed.”

There was no point in urging Buzzy to stay or in arguing about his family's run of bad luck. I started walking him to the door when Laura's voice called out from behind us.

“He's got a spare. Tell him I need it.”

I didn't say anything. It was annoying to be put in the middle of a domestic squabble.

Buzzy stopped but he didn't turn around. “Tell her it won't fit the Fury. It's for the VW van.”

I still didn't say anything.

“Tell him to get one from Cal's and bring it back here.” Laura's tone was surprisingly strong.

Another brief silence ensued, as if some invisible translator was relaying the messages between estranged husband and wife.

“Tell her she wouldn't know what to do with it if I did. Tell her she shouldn't be driving the Fury anyway. Tell her she shouldn't be driving at all, because she's too damned dumb to—”

“Shut up, Buzzy!” Laura's voice had acquired a rasp, like radio static. “You don't drive so good, either! What about the other night, when you said you were late because you couldn't start your stupid van?”

Now Buzzy did turn around. I stepped out of the way, seeking safety behind the sofa. “It was the carburetor, you moron! I can drive just fine—but I'm not a mechanic!”

“You sure aren't!” Laura screeched. “If you were, the
gas station might not have gone broke! You aren't much of anything, if you ask me! You don't even have the guts to stick around and support your family!”

Buzzy advanced on Laura, but she held her ground. “I gave you most of my paycheck! What did you spend it on—tabloids? Why don't you stop reading about Princess Di and find a job? Why is it always
meV

“I got kids to raise, that's why!” Laura's pointed chin jutted. “Like you ever stayed home with them, even when you could? I'm stuck there in that dump of a house while you go off drinking beer with your friends and working on your crummy cars! You're a joke, Buzzy!”

Buzzy lunged at Laura, his hands around her throat. She retaliated with feet and fists and ear-rending shrieks. I stood frozen, wondering what to do. Never in my life had I witnessed such a sight.

The O'Tooles were grappling and pounding and yelling in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. Buzzy finally got a good grip on Laura's windpipe, stifling her cries. Her knees began to buckle; her face was very red. I thought about the Colt .45, thought again, and picked up my copy of
The American Heritage Dictionary
, third edition. With all my might, I brought it down on Buzzy's head.

The blow stunned him just enough to relax his hold on Laura. Staggering and gasping, she slipped out from under his hands. He whirled on me while Laura collapsed into a kitchen chair.

“What the hell are you doing?” he shouted, his gaunt features contorted.

“What the hell are
you
doing?” I shouted right back. “This is
my
house! How dare you come in here and act like you escaped from the zoo?”

Panting, Buzzy seemed to be trying to get himself under control. “We don't have a zoo,” he mumbled, then pulled a red-and-white handkerchief out of his pocket
and wiped his high forehead. “Sorry. But Laura ticks me off.”

“Jeez!” I threw up my hands.

Stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket, Buzzy turned to look at his wife. She was leaning against the chair, still gasping, still red in the face. “FU go get your damned spare,” he bellowed. “But I won't put it on!”

Laura made a small, scornful gesture with one hand. Buzzy squared his narrow shoulders and stomped out of the house. I retrieved my dictionary and set it back down on the desk.

If the pen is mightier than the sword, maybe a book is more persuasive than a gun.

But I doubt it.

Cal Vickers showed up twenty minutes later with his tow truck. He told me that he wasn't sure he had a spare to fit the Fury. With the picnic in full swing at Old Mill Park, there was a lull in business, so Cal had left the station in the care of his assistants and driven up to my house. It was no big deal, he said. The O'Tooles had had their share of hard luck. He didn't mind doing them a good turn. What were friends for, after all? I praised Cal for his generosity, but knew darned well that he must feel a twinge of guilt for helping put Buzzy out of business.

Meanwhile I had coped with Laura. She wasn't really hurt, though she might have some bruises on her throat in a few hours. I couldn't help but ask if Buzzy often got violent. But Laura didn't want to talk about it. She spent the remainder of the time under my roof drinking coffee and staring at the refrigerator door. I felt pretty helpless, and a little hopeless, too.

After Cal and Laura left, I decided to go to the picnic. The rain had let up to an intermittent drizzle. Since the Labor Day affair was potluck, I stopped at the Grocery Basket to buy a package of hot dogs and buns. Jake O'Toole was up front, doing something with the safe.

I was tempted to say something about Buzzy and Laura, but didn't know how to begin. It was Jake who brought up family matters, though it wasn't his brother he referred to but his sister.

“Ursula's funeral is Wednesday at St. James Cathedral,” he said as I pulled out an empty grocery cart from the queue by the main entrance. “I guess you won't be able to have it in the paper beforehand.”

“What a surprise,” I said, though the irony was lost on Jake. It seemed that
The Advocate
was missing out on several news fronts in the past few days.

“Betsy and I'll go,” Jake said, his face looking drawn. “I don't know about Buzzy and Laura.” There was a question in his voice. He'd brought up the subject of the other O'Tooles. It was no good pretending that their problems weren't any of my business. Laura and Buzzy had brought them right into my living room.

“Your brother and his wife don't seem to be getting along,” I said frankly. “They just made a scene at my place.” Seeing Jake's dismayed expression, I held up a hand. “Don't worry, I won't put it in the paper.” Briefly I summarized what had led up to the row. “Maybe,” I concluded as Jake anxiously rubbed his forehead, “they'll be able to call a truce for the funeral. Of course, I don't know if fighting like that is typical, or if it's something new.”

“They've always fought,” Jake said, trying to keep a smile in place for passing customers. “It's not like Betsy and me—with us, it's kind of a … game. But the physical stuff with Buzzy and Laura is new. I don't like it.”

“Nobody does.” My eyes ran along the expanse of the front end, where all six checkout stands were busy. Despite the rain, there were still tourists in town, their carts loaded with foodstuffs suitable for camping, picnicking, and snacking. “Did Buzzy work today?”

Jake shook his head. “I gave him today off. He'd put in
six straight, seven to five. I thought he could use the overtime.”

“They seem hard up,” I remarked, hoping to sound more sympathetic than curious.

“Yeah, well …” Jake paused to answer a charcoal-briquette query from a young couple. “Buzzy's making decent money now,” he went on after the young couple headed for Aisle A-2. “The trouble is, they got so far into a hole after the gas station folded. They're still playing catch-up. And Laura's no money manager. Betsy's tried to help her, but Laura either can't or won't get the hang of it. Friday was payday, so Betsy went over there to see if she could lend a hand paying bills. But Buzzy hadn't shown up with the money. Betsy got tired of waiting and left.”

“Yes,” I said matter-of-factly. “I gather Buzzy didn't get to the house until seven-thirty.”

Jake regarded me with mild interest. “Is that right? Betsy didn't get home until around eight-thirty. She must have stopped someplace.”

The small awkward silence was broken by a request for Jake's approval of an out-of-town check. I trundled my cart down Aisle F-2, in search of hot dogs and buns. Ten minutes later I was making my way through the drizzle to one of the picnic tables in Old Mill Park.

A three-piece jazz ensemble was playing, a sack race was under way, and a mime acted out something that looked like scalping a small child, but hopefully wasn't. The air smelled of wood smoke, barbecue, and damp earth. Some teenagers were climbing the bronze statue of Carl Clemans, Alpine's founder, and posing for pictures. According to the schedule Vida had posted in the paper, the official program wouldn't start until three. It wasn't quite two, so maybe I could eat and run.

By chance, the table I had chosen was also hosting Monica and Verb Vancich, Ronnie Wenzler-Greene, Greer Fairfax, and a pale blond man who I assumed was
her husband, Grant. The Vancich children were playing under the wooden benches, bumping into the legs of anyone foolish enough to sit down, such as me.

Ronnie was the first to notice my arrival. “Are you covering the event?” she asked. “I'm giving a brief talk about education.”

I said I was merely another carefree picnicker. Vida would cover the story, but it would be mainly a photo essay.

Ronnie was disappointed. “You really should include more text. What I have to say is rather important.”

“Really?” I tried to look intrigued. “Then you should have mentioned it when I interviewed you Monday.”

The parochial-school principal's fair skin flushed slightly. “I did, in a way. But I intend to make my points more forcefully today. Better quotes, you see. For you.”

Aware that Ronnie was trying to pacify me, I smiled. “Then Vida will use them, I'm sure.” Pulling my legs away from one of the rampaging Vancich children, I turned to Greer, who was on my left. “I don't believe we've officially met. I'm Emma Lord.”