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because they want to control the legacy of a loved one. Sometimes they talk to celebrate an accomplishment. Sometimes they need the public’s help to solve a crime. Often they talk because in the course of an interview they also gain information.
    And of course, there are those who talk because they’ve always wanted to be on TV.
    Right now Libby and I were slumming outside Cup ‘n’ Cone, a local ice-cream shack that had reopened after being closed for the winter. The sun was warm, the sherbet cool. Small children chased each other in a circle around a fallen kiddie cone.
    But best of all, the maid of honor was full of delicious gossip.
    Like how some of the wedding guests were miffed to have been cheated out of the celebratory feast, especially when they heard that Madeline’s mother had directed the caterers to box up the steak and scallops and wedding cake for a St. Paul homeless shelter where the clientele was unlikely to appreciate such a spread.
    And how others were perturbed that they couldn’t return the wedding presents because Madeline and Mark’s gift registry specified that the linen, crystal, and silver all be engraved with their initials: MM.
    And how Libby figured Mark must really be something in bed, because otherwise what could Madeline see in him?
    “I’m not saying she was as gorgeous as Julia Roberts or he was as homely as Lyle Lovett, but it was a mismatch on a lot of levels.”
    She did concede that the two might have felt a bond because they both lost their fathers as children. She didn’t know what happened to Mark’s dad, but Madeline’s had been struck by lightning while playing golf at the Dellwood Country Club, a mile from their home.
    Libby had never met him, but from a picture in Madeline’s bedroom of herself as a toddler holding hands with her father, he resembled Madeline’s older brother. Tall, dark, handsome.
    “She doesn’t talk about her dad much. Hardly at all even. He died when she was four. Her brother was going to walk her down the aisle.”
    We sat there a minute, not speaking, both of us likely visualizing the same image: a feminine white figure with a male companion who was much too young for the situation.
    Probably to change the subject, Libby also said Mark made Madeline laugh.
    “I went with her to that comedy club one night. I didn’t find his humor all that funny, but she couldn’t take her eyes off him.”
    She told me that Madeline and Mark wrote their own wedding vows but Madeline’s mother had to insist he not include any jokes.
    “That was where Mrs. Post drew the line,” Libby said. “That and the prenup, of course.”
    “And Mark was okay with that?”
    “It was nothing personal. All Post spouses sign prenups. The joke ban he took a little harder.”
    She also confided that the big rock on Madeline’s ring finger was a family heirloom.
    “So Madeline was fine becoming Mrs. Mark Lefevre?”
    “It doesn’t have quite the same social ring, does it?” Libby said.
    “According to the marriage license, she was going to use the name Madeline Post Lefevre. I never got to sign it as a witness.”
    No point in trying to get a copy. Since the wedding never took place, the license wouldn’t have been filed with the county.
    “Did her family raise any objections to him or his career path?” I asked.
    Libby explained that before Madeline introduced Mark to her mother and brother, she reminded them that the Post family has always supported the arts and she expected no less for her betrothed.
    “Of course the kind of art they had in mind was highbrow, like the Saint Paul Chamber Orchestra or the Guthrie Theater or the Ordway Center,” Libby said. “Not some guy who, at best, belittles politicians they hold dear or, at worst, finds farts amusing.”
    “Maybe you should be the comedian,” I said, laughing.
    She shook her head and smiled. “Not my world. Good comedians have to make fun of themselves. I just like making fun of other people.”
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