"Roe, this is Robin." I caught my breath and practically hugged the answering machine so I wouldn't miss a word. "I'm leaving tonight for maybe three weeks in Europe, traveling cheap and with no reservations, so I don't know where I'll be when. I won't be working at the university next year. James Artis is over his heart attack. So I'm not sure what I'll be doing. I'll get in touch when I come back. Are you doing okay? How's Arthur?"

"He's married," I said to the machine. "He married someone else." I rummaged in my junk drawer frantically. "Where's the address book? Where's the damn book?" I muttered. My scrabbling fingers finally found it, I searched through it, got the right page, punched the numbers frantically. Ring. Ring. "Hello?" a man said.

"Robin?"

"No, this is Phil. I'm subleasing Robin's apartment. He's left for Europe."

"Oh, no," I wailed.

"Can I take a message?" the voice asked, tactfully ignoring my distress.

"So he's going to be coming back to that apartment when he returns? For sure?"

"Yep, his stuff is all here."

"Are you reliable? Can you give him a message in three weeks, or whenever he comes back?"

"I'll try," the voice said with some amusement.

"This is important," I warned him. "To me, anyway."

"Okay, shoot. I've got a pencil and paper right here."

"Tell Robin," I said, thinking as I spoke, "that Roe, R-O-E, is fine."

"Roe is fine," repeated the voice obediently.

"Also say," I continued, "that Arthur married Lynn."

"Okay, got it... anything else?"

"No, no thank you. That's all. Just as long as he knows that." "Well, this is a fresh legal pad, and I've labeled it ‘Robin's Messages,' and I'll keep it here by the phone until he comes back," said Phil's voice reassuringly.

"I'm sorry to sound so—well, like I think you'll throw it in the wastebasket—but this is the only way I have to get in touch with him." "Oh, I understand," said Phil politely. "And really, he will get this."

"Thanks," I said weakly. "I appreciate it."

"Good-bye," said Phil.

"Parnell? This is Aurora Teagarden."

"Oh. Well, what can I do for you?"

"Madeleine showed up at Jane's house today."

"That dang cat! We've been looking for her high and low. We missed her two days ago, and we were feeling real bad, since Jane was so crazy about that durn animal."

"Well, she came home."

"We sure got a problem. She won't stay here, Aurora. We've caught up with her twice when she started off, but we can't keep chasing after her. As a matter of fact, we're leaving town tomorrow for two weeks, going to our summer place at Beaufort, South Carolina, and we were going to check her back in the vet's, just to make sure everything went okay. Though animals mostly take care of themselves."

Take care of themselves? The Engles expected pampered Madeleine to catch her own fish and mice for two weeks?

"Is that right?" I said, letting incredulity drip from my voice. "No, I expect she can stay at the house for that two weeks. I can feed her when I go over there and empty her litter box."

"Well," said Parnell doubtfully, "her time's almost up."

The cat was dying? Oh my Lord. "That's what the vet said?" I asked in amazement.

"Yes, ma'am," Parnell said, sounding equally amazed.

"She sure looks fat for a cat that sick," I said doubtfully. I could not understand why Parnell Engle suddenly began laughing. His laugh was a little hoarse and rusty, but it was from the belly. "Yes, ma'am," he agreed with a little wheeze of joy, "Madeleine is fat for a cat that's so sick."

"I'll keep her then," I said uncertainly.

"Oh, yes, Miss Teagarden, thanks. We'll see you when we come back." He was still barely controlling his chuckles when he hung up. I put down the receiver and shook my head. There was just no accounting for some people.

SIX

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As I retrieved my Sunday paper from my seldom-used front doorstep, I could tell it was already at least 83 degrees. The paper predicted 98 for the day, and I thought its forecast was modest. My central air was already humming. I showered and reluctantly put my hair up in hot curlers, trying to bring order into chaos. I poured my coffee and ate breakfast (a microwaved sweet roll) while I burrowed through the news. I love Sunday mornings, if I get up early enough to really enjoy my paper. Though I have my limits: I will only read the society section if I think my mother will be in it, and I will not read anything about next season's fashions. Amina Day's mom owned a women's clothing shop she had named Great Day, and I pretty much let her tell me what to buy. Under Mrs. Day's influence I'd begun to weed out my librarian clothes, my solid-color interchangeable blouses and skirts. My wardrobe was a bit more diverse now. The paper exhausted, I padded up the stairs and washed my glasses in the sink. While they dried, I squinted myopically into my closet. What was suitable for the girlfriend of the minister? Long sleeves sounded mandatory, but it was just too hot. I scooted hangers along the bar, humming tunelessly to myself. Shouldn't the girlfriend of the minister be perky but modest? Though perhaps, at nearly thirty, I was a bit old to be perky.

For a dizzying moment I imagined all the clothes I could buy with my inheritance. I had to give myself a little shake to come back to reality and review my wardrobe of the here and now. Here we go! A sleeveless navy blue shirtwaist with big white flowers printed on it. It had a full skirt and a white collar and belt. Just the thing, with my white purse and sandals. All dressed, with my makeup on, I popped on my glasses and surveyed the result. My hair had calmed down enough to be conventional, and the sandals made my legs look longer. They were hell to walk in, though, and my tolerance time for the high heels would expire right after church.

I walked as quickly as I safely could from my back door across the patio, out the gate in the fence around it, to the car under the long roof that sheltered all tenants' cars. I unlocked the driver's door and flung it open to let the heat blast escape. After a minute I climbed in, and the air conditioner came on one second after the motor. I had worked too hard on my appearance to arrive at the Episcopal church with sweat running down my face. I accepted a bulletin from an usher and seated myself a carefully calculated distance from the pulpit. The middle-aged couple on the other end of the pew eyed me with open interest and gave me welcoming smiles. I smiled back before becoming immersed in figuring out the hymn and prayer book directions. A loud chord signaled the entrance of the priest, acolyte, lay reader, and choir, and I rose with the rest of the congregation.

Aubrey was just beautiful in his vestments. I drifted into an intoxicating daydream of myself as a minister's wife. It felt very odd to have kissed the man conducting the service. Then I got too involved in managing the prayer book to think about Aubrey for a while. One thing about the Episcopalians, they can't go to sleep during the service unless they're catnappers. You have to get up and down too often, and shake people's hands, and respond, and go up to the altar rail for communion. It's a busy service, not a spectator sport like in some churches. And I believed I had been to every church in Lawrenceton, except maybe one or two of the black ones.

I tried to listen with great attention to Aubrey's sermon, since I would surely have to make an intelligent comment later. To my pleasure, it was an excellent sermon, with some solid points about people's business relationships and how they should conform to religious teachings, too, just as much as personal relationships. And he didn't use a single sports simile! I kept my eyes carefully downcast when I went up to take communion, and tried to think about God rather than Aubrey when he pressed the wafer into my hand. As we were folding up our kneelers, I saw one of the couples who had spoken to Aubrey while he and I were in line at the movies. They gave me a smile and wave, and huddled to talk to the man and woman with whom I'd been sharing a pew. After that, I was beamed on even more radiantly, and the movie couple introduced me to the pew couple, who asked me about twenty questions as rapidly as they could so they'd have the whole scoop on the pastor's honey. I felt like I was flying under false colors—we'd only had one date. I began to wish I hadn't come, but Aubrey'd asked me, and I had enjoyed the service. It seemed now I had to pay for it, since there was no quick exit. The crowd had bottle-necked around the church door, shaking hands and exchanging small talk with Aubrey.