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“Horehound (tonic for colds and coughs).” “Rosemary (liniment).” “Garlic (antiseptic).” “Foxglove (heart failure).”
He snapped a leaf from the last and found a seat on a nearby bench.
    A batch of early trick-or-treaters, wearing costumes and masks, scurried past the iron gate, giggling. A cat, a skeleton, and two witches. Funny about masks. He had been scared to death of them when he was small. When the trick-or-treaters had come to the door, he had dived under the dining room table. But he had soon outgrown that and donned the most hideous monster masks, all green and mottled and oozing with blood, and loved scaring the other children.
    â€œFenimore. What a coincidence!” Ned Hardwick loomed over him. He was a large man, immaculately groomed, his silver hair glinting in the sun. “Substantial” was the word that came to Fenimore whenever he saw him. “Sorry, old man,” the surgeon apologized. “Catching a catnap, were you? Can’t blame you. Don’t get much sleep, I guess. Hear you still make house calls?” Suddenly he noticed Fenimore’s face. “What happened? Run into a door? Ha ha.”
    â€œSlipped on some stairs,” Fenimore said casually, knowing that Hardwick’s concern was only curiosity. He was still puzzling over Ned’s greeting. What coincidence?
    â€œPolly was just bugging me this morning to call you about a little problem we’re having. Not medical, mind you.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice, and Fenimore caught a strong whiff of expensive aftershave. “Has to do with that little sideline of yours.”
    None of Fenimore’s colleagues approved of his “little sideline,” as they described his occasional forays into private sleuthing. But their reservations miraculously disappeared whenever something came up in their own lives that required his services. He waited patiently to hear the nature of Ned’s little problem.
    â€œThis is the thing. My son’s fiancée has disappeared. She’s only been missing a little over twenty-four hours, but Polly’s
upset. You see, the wedding’s in three weeks and there’s all the arrangements. My own theory is she’s just panicked and run off to think things over. Women are as jittery about marriage as men these days, you know. Afraid of losing their independence, jeopardizing their careers … They’ve been living together, of course, for over a year. ‘Significant others’ and all that. But actually tying the knot is a different thing, you know. Er …” Suddenly remembering Fenimore’s bachelor status, he said, “I guess you don’t know. But let me tell you—”
    Apparently, Ted had neglected to tell his father about notifying the police. “When,” Fenimore broke in, “did your son last see his fiancée?”
    Hardwick wrinkled his massive brow. “That’s the funny part. We were all together at our home Saturday afternoon. Polly had arranged a party in her honor. She had invited a few family members and some old friends we wanted her to meet.”
    To pass judgment before allowing her into the sacred family circle, no doubt, thought Fenimore.
    â€œIt was a nice affair. Polly always goes all out, you know, even though it was just a picnic.”
    Fenimore did know. He had sat through a number of the Hardwicks’ parties, usually drinking too much and counting the minutes until he could escape. Maybe Ted’s fiancée had had similar feelings.
    â€œEveryone liked the girl … uh … young woman. She’s a dear child. Dark beauty. Ind … er, Native American background. I always kid her, tell her her ancestors go farther back than mine, although mine came over on the Mayflower. Her anglicized name is Joanne Field, but her Indian name is Win’gay’musk, which means ‘Sweet Grass.’”
    Fenimore’s face, from