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of the Ancient Mariner. One of his listeners had sent it in: The ice was here, the ice was there, the ice was all around. People are afraid he’ll run out of quotes.”
    “Well, if you have to have a gimmick with your weather, I guess that’s as good as any,” Qwilleran acknowledged. “Who lives next to you?”
    “The Cavendish sisters, retired teachers, very quiet.”
    * * *
    At one o’clock they started out for the Riker condo in Building Two, muffled in down jackets, scarfs, woolly hats, mittens, and boots. They walked hand-in-hand as they had done during her first post-surgery outings. Now it had become a pleasant custom to both of them; to observers it was romantic grist for the gossip mill.
    Polly had a red wool scarf, six feet long, wrapped around her chin and ears and trailing front and back. “A present from Lynette,” she said.
    “What did you give her?”
    “A set of violet-scented soap, bath oil, and cologne. Violet is all she ever wears.”
    “I always wondered what that aroma was on Pleasant Street. I thought it was furniture polish.”
    “Oh, Qwill, you’re wicked! Violet is a lovely scent. To simplify my Christmas shopping I mailed the same thing to my sister in Cincinnati, and she phoned this morning to say how much she liked it.”
    “Do people on your gift list ever call to say they hate what you gave them?”
    “Now you’re being the cynical journalist!”
    Arriving at their destination, they were greeted at the door by a committee of three: the beaming host in a red wool shirt, the plump and pretty hostess in a chef’s apron, and their cat in his usual tuxedo with white shirtfront and spats. Toulouse looked slyly satisfied with his lot, like an alley-smart stray who has found a home with the food writer of a newspaper. The two women hugged, and each told the other she looked wonderful. The men, friends since childhood, had only to make eye contact to express all that needed to be said.
    There was a Scotch pine tree in the living room, trimmed like the one at their wedding the previous Christmas: white pearlescent ornaments, white doves, white streamers. The festively wrapped packages under the tree included those sent over by Polly and Qwilleran. The aromas were those of pine boughs, roasting turkey, and hot mulled cider.
    Mildred removed her apron and joined the others around a low party table loaded with hot and cold hors d’oeuvres.
    Polly said, “I always feel so secure when I come to dinner here. Mildred doesn’t fuss in the kitchen; she doesn’t expect anyone to help; and everything turns out perfectly: the hot foods hot and the cold foods cold.”
    “Hear! Hear!” Qwilleran said.
    As the four busied themselves with the hors d’oeuvres, conversation came in short bites:
    About the theft: “An inside job! An outsider could have stolen it only if an insider talked on the outside.”
    About Lynette: “Suddenly she’s looking ten years younger! Is she in love? . . . She was jilted twenty years ago and hasn’t dated since. . . Maybe it’s Wetherby Goode. She thinks he’s cute.”
    About George Breze: “What’s he doing in Indian Village?. . . His house on Sandpit Road is up for sale. . . His wife left him. Why did she stay as long as she did?”
    About the Carmichaels: “Big difference in their ages. . . He’s an asset to the community, but she’s a misfit. . . Someone should talk to her about her wardrobe.”
    Polly said, “She has such a pouty mouth! Is it natural?”
    “It’s what they call a fish-mouth,” Mildred said. “You can have it done.”
    “My wife is so worldly,” said Arch.
    Toulouse walked into the room with a solemn tread and rubbed against the cook’s ankles as a reminder that the turkey was ready. Mildred served it with a brown-rice-and-walnut stuffing, twice-baked sweet potatoes with orange glaze, sesame-sauced broccoli, and two kinds of cranberry relish.
    “I feel compelled to serve two kinds,” she said, “or the turkey will be dry and