“Many times,” Jack says.

“And? What did we decide?”

“That it can’t be a blast as long as he’s with us.”

It’s true, we did cover the possibility of a small bomb and quickly realized that the killer would never use a method that had any risk of hurting the rest of us. As long as Strad is with us, no explosive would be used on him.

So I’m outraged at Jack and Georgia’s unnecessary exchange and offensive double meanings aimed at insulting Strad. Have I not just told them to act normal? Do they not care how their weird behavior will reflect on Lily? I guess they don’t, come to think of it.

Trying to hide my annoyance, I say, “I thought we decided not to be eccentric tonight?” I put a little water and Strad’s flowers into a small plastic vase. “If I detect even a whiff of eccentricity this evening, you will not hear the end of it.”

I take Strad’s belongings (except for his violin case, which he’ll need) and put them in my bedroom, because the killer might have cleverly hidden a weapon in Strad’s bag or coat earlier.

I then pour the wine into a lidded plastic jug and I lock the empty wine bottle in my bedroom with all the other glass items.

Strad strolls around my living room, looking at the costumed mannequins. He stops in front of my ballet bar and asks me, “Why do you have a ballet bar if you don’t use it?”

“What makes you think I don’t use it?”

He looks me up and down. “Wild guess.”

I feel slapped in the face on behalf of overweight people who do use a ballet bar. “The previous owner installed it,” I explain. “She was a ballet dancer. And I do use it for my costume design work with actors.”

“Fun piano,” Strad says, standing in front of the mirror piano. “The sound must suffer a bit in that kind of casing, but it’s great-looking. Am I right, Lily, that the sound suffers?”

“Yes, it suffers,” Lily says.

The thought of suffering reminds me that we’re due for some, right about now. “Speaking of music, weren’t you going to play a little something for us?” I ask him.

“Oh, yes, why don’t you bless us with some of your music,” Georgia says, with an impressive lack of sarcasm.

“Sure!” Strad goes to his violin case.

I follow him. He opens it.

“Can I see this case? It’s so beautiful,” I say.

“Sure.”

I hold the case, caress the lining, examine it thoroughly inside and out and when I’m relatively certain that it’s safe, I say, “And can I see your violin too?”

He hands it to me. I’m not sure what could be hidden in a violin, but why not be thorough? As for the rest of him, I didn’t use the metal detector on him because I didn’t want to freak him out. Plus, no one is supposed to touch him. If anyone stashed a weapon on him in advance and tries to pickpocket him during the evening, we’ll put a stop to it before anything can happen.

I give him back his violin and he positions himself in front of the couch area, where we all take a seat.

Georgia raises her hand. “Oh, I’ve got an idea. Maybe Lily should accompany Strad on the piano. That would be so nice.” Her motive is all too clear to me: she’s hoping Lily’s music will mask Strad’s. But the pretext she gives is, “This way, Strad, you’ll be able to hear for yourself if the piano suffers from its casing.”

“Sure,” Strad says. “If you want to join me toward the end, Lily. I’ll signal you when I’m ready.”

Lily nods and sits at the piano. He plays for ten minutes, which is mildly unpleasant, before he gives Lily the nod.

She starts improvising, and I don’t know if my perception of her playing is influenced by my knowledge of her feelings for him, but her notes seem to coat his in silk. Her playing wraps itself around his in a manner that does not take us long to sense is rather erotic. Her sounds are caressing, clinging to his sounds, dripping from them, climaxing with them. Her notes are practically raping his notes, though the one thing they’re not really able to do is to beautify them. Lily’s power is not quite strong enough to counteract the mediocrity of his art.

When they’re done, Strad plops into an armchair. “That was exhilarating! I don’t think the sound from the piano suffered much.”

“Oh, I think it suffered,” Georgia says.

Jack starts talking to Strad about his acting ambitions.

Georgia walks by the low side table next to Strad’s armchair without noticing that the bottom of her long cardigan is getting caught on the bouquet of flowers Strad brought me. Jack is the only one besides me who notices what’s about to happen and lunges at the vase to steady it before it topples over and spills.

The only thing the three women notice is Jack lunging in Strad’s proximity. Misinterpreting his abrupt movement as an attempt on Strad’s life, they hurl themselves at him and he falls under their weight. On his way down, his lip and nose get smashed against one of my ottoman cubes. He is now face down on my thin rug, the women on top of him holding his arms and sitting on him like hens.

“Stop! Stop!” I cry, hurrying toward them. “Get off him. I saw everything.”

They stare up at me, not convinced, and not getting off him. They’re waiting for me to offer an explanation, which they know I can’t give them in front of Strad.

“I order you to get off of him right now,” I tell Georgia, Penelope, and Lily in a calm but commanding voice.

They finally obey, reluctantly. Not only can I not give them an explanation, but they realize they now have to help me come up with a fake one because Strad is watching us, horrified.

“Why did you just attack him?” he asks them.

Jack struggles to his feet, his nose and lip bleeding. He touches the side of his face, where he’ll undoubtedly have a bruise.

He gazes down at the floor. There lie the flowers and plastic vase on the wet rug.

Strad looks at all of us, waiting for our explanation.

We stare back at him, stumped, having no idea what to say.

In the silence, the cuckoo clock tick-tocks like a metronome.

I try to buy us some time by fetching a paper towel and an ice pack for Jack.

Perhaps I could say the women thought Jack was headed toward the stereo, and he has terrible taste in music.

“Why isn’t anyone speaking?” Strad asks. “Lily? Why did you pounce on Jack?”

Lily doesn’t reply. Instead, she busies herself picking up the flowers and wiping up the spill.

I can’t stand the silence anymore, so I’m about to blurt out my absurd answer, but just before I do, Georgia casually says, “Training.”

I exhale softly, having complete confidence in her powers of fabrication.

“Excuse me?” Strad says.

“It’s training.” She shrugs.

“Training? To be what, Charlie’s Angels?”

“No. We’re training him. He asked us to attack him at unexpected times as part of his ongoing maintenance program. It keeps his reflexes sharp.”

“Is that true?” Strad asks Jack, with a twinge of excitement.

“Yes. It improves my reaction time,” Jack says.

“For what?”

“For my job. I’m a cop, you know.”

“I thought that was over. I thought you worked at a senior center now.”

“Only part time. I’m also an undercover cop.”

“But I thought you couldn’t be a cop because of your limp and your cane and the fact that you can’t run.”

“That’s why it’s a great cover.”

“So you can run?”

“No, that’s why it’s a great cover.”

“What’s a great cover? Not being able to run?”

“Yes. That’s what makes it really good.”

“But how can you be an undercover cop if you can’t run?”

“By doing special training, like you just saw.”

“That makes up for not running?”

“More than makes up for it. You saw how intense it was. The women did an excellent job, I must say. I’d been reproaching them lately for not going at it with enough conviction.” He takes the paper towel and ice pack and presses them to his face. “I just never thought they’d attack me when a guest was here. Which, of course, is why it’s the perfect time to do it.” He chuckles and turns to his aggressors, giving them a thumbs-up. “Nice work, by the way.”