I stepped over to the kitchen counter, filled my empty flour cannister with water, and plunked the flowers in. “What else have you got there?” I asked, carrying the roses across the room and setting them down on the table. I hoped he’d brought something edible.

Anything edible. (I was so hungry I’d have eaten a hamster, providing it was properly cooked).

“Just wait till you see!” he warbled, his enormous blue eyes glistening with glee. “I’ll open this one first.” Tearing the brown paper wrapping off one of the parcels, he proudly produced a bottle of champage. “Voilà! Isn’t this fabulous? I believe every holiday should be celebrated with sparkling French wine, don’t you? Quick! Put it in the refrigerator before it gets warm.”

I happily did as I was told. (Nothing like a bottle of champagne to turn a blue mood bubbly.) When I returned to the table, Willy was unwrapping a box of Russell Stover chocolates.

“Here!” he said, opening the box and holding it out toward me. “Have one. You look like you need it.”

“Thanks,” I said, popping a chocolate-covered caramel in my mouth and chewing it like gum. “Mmmm. Thith ith good.” (It’s hard to enunciate when your teeth are stuck together.)

When I swallowed that, I took a nougat. My mood was sweetening by the second.

“I’ve brought other goodies, too,” Willy chirped, taking lots of small jars and tins out of a large paper bag and arranging them on the table. “We’ve got beluga caviar, Vienna sausages, deviled ham, smoked oysters and clams, sardines and anchovies, lichee nuts, pickled beets, Greek olives, and capers!” The way his pudgy, freckled hands were gesturing toward the lavish display of delicacies, you’d have thought he was presenting jewels at Tiffany’s. “And here’s a beautiful baguette!” he added, pulling a long, thin loaf of French bread from another brown paper bag and setting it down on the table with a flourish.

All I could say was, “Mmmm.” My mouth was watering too much to speak. I had never tasted any of those unusual things before in my life (except for sardines), but I couldn’t wait to get started.

“Shall we have our feast now, or wait till later?” Willy asked.

“Now, please,” I said. I was probably whimpering like a hungry puppy.

Willy took a step back, folded his arms over the top of his pink-and-orange-swathed potbelly, and studied the table scene as if it were a movie set. “Do you have a pretty tablecloth, honey? No offense, but this yellow formica is atrocious! I won’t be able to eat a thing until it’s hidden from my sight.”

Oh, brother! I was annoyed by Willy’s criticism. I’d always thought my yellow tabletop was cheerful. “I’ve got one,” I reluctantly admitted, “but I never use it. It’s on the top shelf of my closet upstairs. It’s hand-embroidered white linen and it belonged to my grandmother.”

“Perfect!” Willy whooped, clapping his hands in delight. “While you’re getting the tablecloth, I’ll open the wine. Where do you keep your champagne glasses?”

Ha! Did Willy think I was a relative of the Rockefellers?

“I don’t have any,” I said. “All I have are four tall water glasses and three small jellyglasses.”

He wrinkled his freckled nose and shrieked, “Eeeeeeeek! What a disaster! If only I’d known, I would have brought some from home. You can’t drink champagne from a jellyglass! It’s a travesty!”

“Would you rather drink it from a shoe?” I snapped. I was getting a little tired of Willy’s high-pitched histrionics. “I’ve got an old pair of pumps upstairs.”

Startled by my peckish tone, Willy gasped and gave me a hurt look. Then he stared down at the floor in shame. “I’m sorry, Paige,” he mumbled. “I can be a little overbearing sometimes. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was just trying to forget about Gray, and Flannagan, and all the ghastliness of the last few days. I was just trying to make everything elegant and festive.”

I felt like a heel. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Willy! Please forgive me for being so short-tempered. I was in a really bad way before you came, and now, thanks to you, I’m about to enjoy some fabulous food, fine wine, and good company. You

have made everything festive, Willy. And as soon as I bring down my grandmother’s tablecloth, it’s going to be elegant, too!”

Willy raised his eyes from the floor and gave me a shaky smile. “You really mean it, Paige?”

“Of course I mean it. And to prove it, I’m going to run upstairs and get the tablecloth right now. It’s party time! So hurry up, pal. Pop the cork and pour the champagne, willya?”

“You bet I will!” he squealed, bounding over to the refrigerator to get the bottle. “Where do you keep your jellyglasses?”

AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER WE WERE still sitting at the kitchen table, telling each other our life stories, nibbling chocolates and sipping champagne. My grandmother’s tablecloth was littered with bits of caviar, a few stray capers and olive pits, and enough bread crumbs to feed all the pigeons in the park (I’m talking Central!). Our plates and most of the tins and jars were empty; our stomachs were full.

Except for the lichee nuts, which I found to be pretty yucky, I had relished every peculiar morsel.

“That was really good, Willy. Weird but wonderful. Where did you get all this stuff anyway? Every store in the city is closed.”

“I had it all at home. Even the roses. I’m always prepared for emergencies.”

“That’s good to know,” I said, smiling. “Next time I have a smoked oyster crisis I’ll give you a call.”

He giggled, took another sip of his wine, then turned serious. “Thanks for letting me come over today, Paige. You saved my life. One more afternoon of Flannagan’s relentless questions and accusations, and I’d have jumped right out the window.” His bulbous blue eyes were on the verge of tears.

“I’m glad you came, Willy,” I said, really meaning it (and hurrying to stop the saline flow). “You saved my life, too. But now do you think you could stand it if I asked you a few more questions? About you and Gray and the murder, I mean. I’m working on a story, and I’m hoping I can figure out who the real killer is before Flannagan hangs the rap on you. And there’s so damn much I need to know!”

“Fire away!” Willy said, poking a chocolate-covered cherry in his mouth. “I’m really grateful for your support.

You can ask me anything.”

“Okay, here goes.” I sat up straighter in my chair, determined to find out everything Willy might know, even if my intrusive inquiries embarrassed him. I took a deep breath and began: “First things first. Are you a homosexual?”

“Of course I am, honey!” he squeaked. “I thought you knew that already!”

“I sort of did, but since we’ve never spoken the actual

word…”

Willy gave me an indulgent smile. “Sticks and stones may break my bones, and words will also hurt me. So let’s get them all out in the open right now. I’m not just a homosexual; I’m a fairy and a queer and a faggot, too. I’m a flit, a fruit, a queen, a pansy, and an auntie. I’m a sodomite and a pervert and a deviant. And according to some people-Detective Flannagan included-I’m also a sex fiend and a psychopath. There! Are those enough words for you? Did I leave anything out?”

“Gay,” I said. “You didn’t mention that you were gay.”

Willy cracked up laughing, as I’d hoped he would. (Laughing feels better than crying, wouldn’t you say?) He laughed so hard his pale face turned as pink as the hibiscus blooms on his Hawaiian shirt.

I waited until he’d expelled his last snicker, then continued the discomforting inquest. “‘Auntie?’” I probed. “I never heard that word used in this context before. Is it a very common term?”

“It’s not as popular as ‘fairy’ or ‘queer,’ but it gets tossed around a bit. Even by the fags themselves.”

“You mean they call each other ‘auntie’?”

“Not exactly. What they do is use the word in a nickname. If I had a good friend named Salvatore, for example, I might call him Auntie Sal or Aunt Sally. It’s a term of endearment. But only when it’s used by one homosexual talking to another. When a straight man uses the word, it’s totally derogatory.”