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Annie didn’t want to ponder family resemblance and the fact that on this island, right now, was a man with her face, an unreliable Johnny-come-lately she never wanted to acknowledge. But acknowledged or not, her father’s reality couldn’t be denied. Just as no matter what she or Max did, nothing could change the reality of Laurel. Or the unreality….
    The band belted out “Chattanooga Choo-Choo.” The Island Hills Country Club had always been an enclave for music of the forties and fifties, responding to the tastes of its members, but the recent revival of swing on college campuses had resulted in a weekly Friday night dance attended by members of all ages, not simply jiving geriatrics. Their table was near the front, so they had a good view of the dancers.
    Laurel beamed at Annie and Max. “My dears”—the husky voice was kind, tolerant—“the minute I saw you, I came straight to you.”
    Max rose. “Hi, Ma.” He grinned in his usual easygoing fashion.
    Just as if, Annie thought resentfully, nothing remarkable had occurred.
    Annie cleared her throat. “Laurel.” She spoke loudly.
    Laurel’s gaze moved to her. “Dear Annie.” As if Annie’s presence absolutely, positively topped off a day packed with glorious moments.
    Annie wasn’t deflected. “I came by your house. I called. I left messages. I need to talk to you.”
    Max was waggling a hand. She didn’t need a primer in body language to understand. Max had not taken seriously Annie’s report of Laurel’s session with Go-Dog. He had, in fact, hooted with laughter, rolled those dark blue eyes and murmured, “Good old Go-Dog. I’ll bet it made his day.” Max dismissed Annie’s efforts to contact Laurel as unnecessary. “But if it makes you feel better…”
    Annie ignored Max.
    Laurel’s eyes widened. “What a wonderful idea. To talk, dear Annie.” She cupped her hands as if cradling a rainbow. “However, this evening there are so many wonderful friends I must greet.” She glanced happily around the ballroom.
    Laurel was undeniably one of the loveliest women in the room. But there was more to Laurel than sheer beauty. She exerted an attraction to the opposite sex that Annie compared to a tidal pull. As Laurel paused at their table, elegant in a cocktail-length ice-blue dress, men headed their way. Men of all ages and all stations. A retired admiral. The mayor. The captain of the high school men’stennis team. A waiter. A visiting golf pro. Howard Cahill, an old friend and sometime beau. Fred Jeffries, intrepid sailor and current beau.
    Laurel knew, of course, and she showered hellos and lifted a graceful hand and the men eddied around her, each eyeing the other and awaiting an opportunity to break through. “So many friends to greet,” she murmured. “You and Max are such a dear couple. Do have a lovely—”
    â€œLaurel, please. Laurel, what were you doing at the cemetery?” As Annie leaned forward, the music stopped and the last word seemed to reverberate.
    Did faces turn toward them? Or was Annie simply imagining the feeling that hundreds of eyes covertly observed their table? Certainly the long list of messages taken by Barb at Confidential Commissions and by Ingrid at Death on Demand and the frenzied blinking of the red light on Annie and Max’s home answering machine were not figments of her imagination. Laurel may have been seen only by Pamela and Gertrude, but the eyes of two had done the work of hundreds. Call after call reported hearing about Laurel’s cemetery visit. The facts were garbled by some:
    â€œMax, I really hate to tell you, but Junie Merritt said Agnes Phillips told her sister that your mother put a model of a demolition derby car by the double-trunked live oak at the cemetery…”
    â€œMax, fun is fun, but pantomimes at the cemetery…”
    â€œMax,