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said. “Hubba hubba.”
    â€œI’m surprised you’ve had time to notice, with Roma calling you with her latest tale of woe every time you turn around,” Binny said, her tone dark.
    My gaze volleyed between the two women. The sense of trouble brewing between them was clearly on point.
    â€œShe’s an uneasy soul,” Patricia said mildly. “You need to cut her some slack.”
    Binny turned and headed back to the work area. “I’ll give her enough slack to hang herself,” she tossed over her shoulder. “Nice to have you back, Merry. Maybe you can start baking muffins again. Patricia is too
busy
for muffins most of the time.”
    Patricia shrugged her ample shoulders. She’s a big woman, like Janice, but favors comfortable yet kind of fashionable Alia plus-size wear, today a pair of tan capris and a madras blouse in pastels, her long hair wound up into a bun on the top of her head. She glanced back, then leaned toward me. “Binny doesn’t like Roma, as you can tell.”
    â€œThey’re really different women,” I murmured. If Patricia was a fan, then I wasn’t going to spoil Roma’s friendship by giving my own opinion of the diva.
    A customer entered to order a birthday cake, so I returned to Janice, who stood waiting outside. As we walked on to the antique store, I told her what had gone down.
    â€œI don’t blame Binny a bit.” Janice sniffed. “That Roma is a pain. Got Pish wrapped around her pinkie, and Patricia, too? That’s too much. I was promised—
promised!
—that the next piece our group did would
not
be an opera. We were supposed to do an operetta or a musical, like my favorite,
The King and I
!” She waltzed down the sidewalk and sang a snatch of “
Getting to Know You
.”
    I was pleasantly surprised. She had a lovely, light soprano voice perfectly fit for operettas. You wouldn’t have known that from her last performance, as Queen of the Night from
Die Zauberflöte
.
    She stopped and turned. “Instead, thanks to Roma, we’re doing an awful rendition of
Much Ado About Nothing
, with her royal highny in the lead part. Pish wants me to be Dogberry.
Dogberry!
”
    I gave her a look of astonishment, since that was clearly what was called for.
    She stared at me for a minute. “You don’t have a clue who Dogberry is, do you?”
    â€œNot a single clue,” I admitted as we got to her shop.
    â€œDogberry is the foolish constable,
and
he’s a he,
and
a tenor!” She went in and slammed the door, then poked her head back out and said, “Say hello to Hannah and Gogi for me, will you?”

Chapter Three

    H oping to see both Gogi and Doc, I retrieved the Caddy and drove to the Golden Acres retirement home. The seniors’ residence started life over a hundred years ago as a gracious home on a quiet, shady street a few blocks from downtown. Gogi had expanded it with a modest two-floor addition that stretched behind the house, giving room for a couple of dozen folks of varying abilities.
    The front of the residence had been kept much as it was as a private home. I pulled up to the curb and parked, gazing up the sloping lawn to a grove of maples along a smooth pathway. The day had warmed up swiftly; upstate was suffering a hot and dry September. Several of the residents were sitting on benches in the shade, chatting. My favorite, Doc English, was not among them, I was disappointed to note. I was looking forward to seeing him.
    I strolled up the walk, nodding to folks as they watched my progress, pausing in their conversations to do so. I entered through the double doors, passed the reception desk,and headed for one of the common areas, a living room furnished with comfortable but supportive sofas and chairs.
    Bookshelves lined the walls, except for a table that held urns of tea and coffee. In the corner on a sofa sat Doc, my favorite old-timer, with a book held up to a