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compassion in this situation.”
    â€œDo you?”
    â€œYes. And it all goes to my good friend Millie.”
    â€œYour good friend Millie? You just met her.”
    â€œWe were fellow thespians. Sisters of the stage. You should be used to my methods by now. The reactions I’m gathering will help us catch her killer.”
    â€œ If she was killed,” I reminded her. “We don’t know that for sure.”
    â€œYet.”
    Sushi, having enough of this, barked.
    I sighed. “Baby wants her supper.”
    Mother bestowed a smile upon me. “Then why don’t we table this matter, dear, until our evening meal?”
    I agreed. We knew we needed a breather from each other, and returned to our respective rooms.
    An hour later, Mother and I were seated in the dining room at a table for two beneath a framed print of ferocious hounds chasing a frightened fox, the picture’s once vibrant colors having faded from sunlight.
    A few other customers were dining, as well—a portly couple in the dessert phase (bread pudding), and an elderly man reading a Des Moines Register over coffee.
    Seabert, wearing a too-tight three-piece suit even more out of style than his wife’s attire, came over with a wine list, which we declined.
    Unhappy with our decision, he snatched up our wineglasses so they wouldn’t get sullied.
    â€œWe’ve got shepherd’s pie or bangers and mash,” our host declared with an offhand finality that said there were no other options. He really was John Cleese without the comic timing.
    Mother had the pie; I took the bangers.
    After Seabert left—and rather than reopen the wound of her insensitivity—I shared with Mother the conversation I’d had with Chad in the vending machine hallway, just before she’d arrived with the dire news about Millie.
    Mother’s magnified eyes behind the large glasses narrowed to near normal size. “So the young man was opposed to how his grandmother was running the New Vic.”
    â€œYes, and he was especially opposed to the way she was using her own money to keep it afloat.”
    Mother nodded. “The poor boy had to just sit there and watch his inheritance fritter-flutter away. I would call that a good murder motive.”
    I leaned across and whispered, “ Must you see mayhem everywhere you look?”
    Mother’s eyebrows crawled above the rims of her glasses like caterpillars chasing a leaf. “The way you talk, one would think I enjoy solving murders.”
    Since I wasn’t at that moment drinking from my water glass, I denied the few other diners that age-old theatrical fave, the spit-take. Mother, across the table from me, was spared that refreshing spray, as well.
    She put a splayed hand to her chest. “Dear, it distresses me that you think so poorly of me. Surely you must know that beneath my hard, cold mask, I am suffering from the tragedy that befell poor Millicent. . . . Oh, goodie, here comes our food!” She leaned in with a conspiratorial smile and said, “I hope the pie is as good as my recipe, although frankly I can’t imagine it could be.”
    Â 
    Mother’s Shepherd Pie
    Â 
    1 tbl. olive oil
1 clove garlic, crushed
1 onion, chopped
1 carrot, chopped
1 can cut green beans
1 lb. lamb, minced
1 beef cube stock
1 lb. tomatoes, chopped
3 tbl. tomato puree
1 tbl. corn flour
2 lb. potatoes
¼ lb. butter (1 stick)
pinch of salt and pepper
    Â 
    Heat olive oil in a skillet, add the onion, garlic, and carrot and cook until soft. Add minced lamb and stock cube, then cook until brown and crumbly. Stir in the canned green beans, tomatoes, and tomato puree, then add the corn flour. Let simmer, stirring occasionally, for about fifteen minutes or until thickened. Meanwhile, peel and chop the potatoes and boil until soft, then mash with the butter, add salt and pepper to taste. Put the meat filling into a deep oven dish, top with the mashed potatoes, and put