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hundred thousand dollars.”
    “Very impressive,” Dittany said, trying not to look impressed.
    “You must have had a lot of fun getting it together.”
    “It has been the labor of a lifetime. A labor of love, I hasten to add.
    But now the flame burns low. It’s time for me to think of sharing my great responsibility with the vast theater-loving public. To that end, my daughter and I have decided upon a plan of which I gather you may be aware.”
    “Oh, yes, the drama contest. We’re going to win it. But we really mustn’t keep you here any longer,” Dittany added, for she could see Osbert was champing at the bit and she herself was getting a bit sick of being smarmed over.
    “A bientdt, then.”
    Jenson Thorbisher-Preep was ready to leave, but Wilhedra wasn’t. As he took her by the arm to lead her away, she looked back at Carolus. “Aren’t you-my God, what’s that on your back?”
    Wrenching free of her father, she swung her brown suede handbag and dealt Bledsoe a mighty thump. Something black, fuzzy, and many-legged tumbled to the concrete floor.
    “Holy dogies, it’s a tarantula!” cried Osbert.
    “A deadly giant spider!” Wilhedra breathed hard through distended nostrils. Like a winded mustang, Dittany thought unkindly.
    “Carolus, you could have died from its bite.”
    “But I didn’t, you see.”
    The lawyer was putting up a good front, but he was distinctly white around the gills, as who wouldn’t have been? The tarantula must have measured fully six inches across, though it was hard to tell because Wilhedra had swung with verve and purpose.
    The elder Thorbisher-Preep stirred the carcase with the tip of his silver-headed cane. “Where do you suppose it could have come from?”
    “Out of that-er-floral tribute Miss Monk is wearing, I should think,” his daughter answered spitefully. “They’re exotic tropical creatures, aren’t they?”
    “Not necessarily,” said Osbert. “The lycosidae are quite widely distributed, and they’re not really all that venomous. Some people keep tarantulas as pets. It would have suited you just fine, Aunt Arethusa.”
    “Poor bug.” The reigning queen of regency romance stooped and picked up the mangled remains by the tip of one furry leg. She laid it gently in a nearby ash receiver, detached one of her many orchids, and placed it on top of the corpse. “I would have made a home for it,” she murmured brokenly. “Well, Osbert, stir your stumps. I’m starving.”
    The ThorbisherFreeps swanned off, dragging the still wobbly Bledsoe with them.
    “Whoopee,” said Andrew McNaster jocosely. “Those Freeps saved me the trouble of poisoning Bledsoe’s soup. You two are coming to the inn, though, I hope?”
    “We can’t, I’m afraid,” said Dittany, who in truth wasn’t afraid at all but pleased to have an excuse. “Osbert’s writing a play.”
    “A play, forsooth?” exclaimed Arethusa. “You mean an oater?
    One of those claptrap and balderdash horse operas where the cayuse lynches the maverick?”
    “Surely you jest, Aunt Arethusa.”
    Because if you don’t, you can darn well go and collect your own suitcases, eh. Osbert didn’t come straight out and say so because strong men of the west don’t go around threatening their aunts with retribution in front of shady contractors who run ill-gotten inns.
    However, the steely glint in his eye made the implication plain.
    Arethusa didn’t miss it.
    “La, the creature’s in a bait,” she cried. “Fetch the luggage like a good nephew, Osbert, and I won’t cut you out of my will.”
    “A fat lot I care whether you do or not,” Osbert replied with immense dignity. “Come on, Ethel, it’s a good dog’s duty to assist the aged and infirm. You’d better be careful Aunt Arethusa doesn’t slip on the ice getting out to the car, McNaster. She probably forgot to put her arch supports in. Her memory’s not what it used to be.”
    “Stinker,” Dittany said fondly as they walked away to the