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over?”
    “How do I know? I never met the woman until last night,and the only time I talked to her she was in a snit about her bad hair.”
    “Her hair looked fine.”
    “Bonnie Blue said she looked like the Bride of Frankenstein when they got there. Some kind of curling mousse she’d used.”
    “Maybe that’s what killed her,” Mary Alice said. “Maybe she was allergic to the stuff and had one of those fatal attacks like Molly Dodd’s boyfriend had just before they got married. Remember that? She was pregnant and they were going to the opera. What do you call it? Some kind of shock.”
    “Anaphylactic. And who died of it?”
    “On The Days and Nights of Molly Dodd . You remember. Didn’t have a laugh track. Her boyfriend.”
    “Of course. Ate some shrimp by mistake.”
    “Was it shrimp? You ought to be able to spot shrimp.”
    “Maybe it was something else,” I said. “You die right away with that stuff, though. If Mercy was allergic to the hair spray she’d have been dead when we got there.”
    “Well, this is just unbelievable. And so sad.”
    “Did she have any children?”
    “I don’t think so. I’ve never heard any mentioned.”
    We were both silent for a moment, thinking.
    “You got anything special planned today?” Sister asked.
    “No. I was thinking about getting the Christmas decorations down from the attic.”
    “Then let’s go see Fay and May.” These precious identical twins belong to Mary Alice’s daughter, Debbie. They are almost two years old and are their grandmother’s heart. Mine, too. Mary Alice says a trip to see the babies is better than Prozac. She’s even resigned herself to the fact that Debbie, a successful single lawyer in her mid-thirties, opted for a sperm bank instead of a husband.
    “What about Mrs. Claus? The sex slave?” I asked.
    “Oh, God. I forgot that. Damn.”
    “Maybe I could bring them to see Santa Claus.”
    “That would totally confuse them.”
    “Kids are always confused about Santa Claus anyway.”
    “That’s true. I’ll check with Debbie and call you back.”
    I got the paper out of the kitchen door and looked to see if there was anything about Mercy’s death. There wasn’t. I put on my sweats, grabbed a handful of dog treats, and went to walk Woofer.
    The weather was changing. The cold front that had been sitting over the Midwest was rapidly approaching. High clouds of moisture from the Gulf were already dimming the sunlight. By nightfall, we would probably have thunderstorms.
    I walked along and thought of the party the night before. It had been so cheerful, so fitting for the holidays. I thought of Claire Moon and how she had changed, and of Thurman Beatty. Had he loved his wife deeply? Was he devastated by her death? I would call Bonnie Blue when I got home and see if she knew any more of the details.
    And then I saw it, the mother lode of plywood! A neighbor making a nativity scene had piled the leftovers by his garbage can. I looped Woofer’s leash around my arm and picked up several pieces. The Wise Men were empty spaces surrounded by plywood. As were the manger and Mary and Joseph. It was slightly eerie that they were so recognizable. A little Christmas Zen.
    There was enough for two trips. Abe Butler was going to love this.
    “We’re not through with our walk, old boy,” I assured Woofer. Bless his heart.
    As we came around the house, he started barking. “We’re going back,” I said as he began to pull at his leash. “Let me put this plywood down.”
    I was holding the pieces in front of me and the back steps were blocked from my view. When I put the wood down, though, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Sitting on the steps was what looked like a very dirty child. Woofer was barking like crazy, and I backed up a step just as the child looked up.
    “It’s me, Mrs. Hollowell,” said Claire Moon. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anywhere else to go.”
    She looked, as Sister is fond of saying, like the wrath of God. Her