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and he was overjoyed to have it.
    "I remember now!" he said with rising excitement. "Ma said the dollhouse had a nursery just like the real one in Eagle's Nest. And there was a nursemaid doll just like her, only the doll's uniform was longer than the fashion then, and Ma said — yes, I remember this! — she said the fella who was repairing the dollhouse actually shortened the dress to match the hemlines of ' 47."
    A beatific smile lit up his face, as though he'd made a quick stop in heaven. "God almighty, Bill! How can you not remember?"
    The twins exchanged looks, and then Terry snorted and said, "A grown man, playing with doll clothes? What is he, a pervert or somethin'?"
    Comfort Atwells sucked in her breath. "Not another word, Terrence Atwells. Leave the table this instant. The rest of your pie can stay right where it is. What kind of talk!"
    Timmy got shooed away next and screamed bloody murder over it. "What'd I do? I didn't do anything! Can I at least have the rest of his pie? Ma-an ... "
    That left the grownups, if you counted Allie as a grownup. And Wyler was doing exactly that. The whole Atwells family was interesting to him, the way any cohesive group was interesting, whether they were cops on a squad or kids in preschool.
    But Allegra Atwells! She was mesmerizing. No question, she was every man's fantasy. Violet eyes; full lips; hair the color of a gleaming clarinet ... no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't take his eyes off her.
    ****
    From across the table, Meg Hazard watched Tom Wyler with a mix of amusement and pity. Lieutenant Wyler had fallen into The Trance. She knew it, and everyone else at the table knew it. Like everyone else, Meg could just be nice and ignore it.
    Or not.
    "Well, Mr. Wyler," she said, following the direction of his gaze. "You look like you're ready for bed."
    The detective flushed and said with obvious irony, "You seem to've read me like a book, Mrs. Hazard."
    Like that was so hard. "We don't stand much on ceremony around here, Mr. Wyler," she said, letting him off the hook. "So if you want to pack it in for the evening — feel free."
    She added a wry smile. "I think you'll find most everything you want in your room, except an extra blanket. Don't let this heat wave fool you; our nights get cool. I'll bring you a spare."
    "Don't bother, Meg; I'll get the blanket," Allie volunteered, jumping up from the table.
    "No, you won't, Allie-cat," Everett Atwells said with a benign and fatherly smile. "Meg's been running you ragged ever since you got here. You're having a nice cup of tea with me in the parlor; you can catch me up on all your news. Trouble with our Meg is, she forgets there's more to life than work."
    "Silly me," said Meg, rolling her eyes at Allie. "Whatever was I thinking? Comfort — great meal, as usual."
    Everyone agreed and then everyone took off: Everett Atwells, with his newfound daughter; Lloyd, for a rendezvous with the furnace; Comfort, with a stack of dirty dishes; and Meg, with the limping detective at her side. Only Uncle Bill stayed behind, with his Dutch Master cigar and his bottle of Canadian Club, ruminating. They let him be; it was his way.
    "I seem to have made myself pretty obvious back there," Wyler said when he and Meg were alone in the upstairs hall.
    "Everybody does; we're used to it."
    "She's very beautiful."
    "Yes."
    "How old is she, anyway?" the detective ventured as they stopped to pull a blanket from a linen closet in the hall.
    "Allie? Oh, she looks twenty-five, but don't let that fool you; she's really seventy-two."
    He laughed — a musing, pleasant laugh.
    It was nothing new, this relentless cross-examination about her younger sister. Even so, Meg was a little disappointed in Tom Wyler. She'd have thought a Chicago homicide detective would be less ... impressionable, somehow.
    "And she's still not married?"
    "Nope. No one wants her."
    "What?"
    "That's another joke." Meg looked him in the eye and smiled. Really, men could be so pathetic.