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over there where the parking lot is now,” he yelled, gesturing to his left, “was moved to this building when it was occupied in 1750. Now let’s go see that staircase, original in the first convent building and finished in 1734.”
    The crowd, about thirty of them, shuffled down the hall, Heaven bringing up the rear. Before she got around the corner she heard a choked gasp coming from their guide, then, “Oh, dear Jesus, what the hell?”
    Screams popped out of a few Minnesota throats. Heaven pushed into the entry hall of the convent where the staircase led to the second floor, a graceful curve of thick cypress boards. But no one would want to walk up those stairs at this moment because they were covered with insects; wriggling ones, flying ones, thousands of them, millions of them. Heaven felt her stomach heave. She turned away.
    “Termites!” the tour guide yelled.
    H eaven was doodling on her napkin when Mary walked into the Bombay Club. “Did you get my message?” she asked.
    “I’m here, aren’t I?” Heaven said with less than her usual good humor. Her stomach refused to calm down. She hated bugs. “Did you get mine?”
    “Yes, and I can hardly wait to hear. You just said there was another problem at the convent. What are you drawing?” Mary sat down and waved for a waiter. “What are you drinking?”
    “First question: I’m drawing the stolen cross from seeingit on a video. I’m thinking of re-creating it in chocolate. I went to the convent to get a photo of it but that became impossible. Second question: I’m drinking a Bombay martini. Since we’re in the world-famous Bombay Club, what else? And what happened at the convent was really disgusting.”
    “I’ll have a Cosmopolitan,” Mary said to the waiter. “Heaven, why in the world would you use the word
disgusting?
Horrifying, mysterious; but disgusting?”
    Heaven stuck her re-creation of the cross in her purse and leaned in toward Mary.
    “Bugs. Millions of them. Termites actually. And they were eating the ancient cypress staircase that’s the only surviving part of the oldest building in the Mississippi Valley at a rapid clip.”
    “Termites?” Mary said as her drink appeared and she held it up in salute to her friend. “Well, that’s terrible, but I thought someone had vandalized the place again. Although I am surprised the diocese didn’t take better care of that staircase.”
    “They swear they have it checked for bugs twice a year. They live in mortal fear of a termite. They’re sure it was sabotage.”
    ‘You’re kidding!”
    “No, and what’s more, they had just given a tour at one o’clock and the stairway was fine. I guess the people at the diocese archives office don’t use the streetside door. Actually, I learned that the convent was built to face the river, so the entrance on Chartres is actually the back door. But the office workers come in and out a side door near where they park their cars. Someone brought millions of termites in and planted them on the staircase between two and three in the afternoon and didn’t get caught.”
    “Ugh. What did the diocese people do?”
    “Called an exterminator, and the police,” Heaven said with a little shiver. She could still see the masses of silver wings.
    “Well, if there’s one thing we are experts at down here in the swamp, its killing bugs and vermin ‘cause we got plenty of ’em,” Mary said.
    “Who’s killing vermin?” Truely Whitten asked as he bent down and gave his wife a kiss on the cheek.
    Heaven looked up and couldn’t believe her eyes. Standing right beside Truely was the man, the silver-haired, Porsche-driving man that Heaven had fantasized about not two hours before. She felt her face turning pink. He pulled two chairs from an empty table next to them. The man must be with Truely.
    “Heaven, this is my best friend in the whole world, Tompkins Wilson Tibbetts.”
    Heaven couldn’t help herself. She giggled. “Tompkins Tibbetts, huh?”
    He