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aneurysm in his brain.”
    Fern puffed out her cheeks. “That’s what they said , to sweep the whole mess under the rug. But I know otherwise.”
    “What do you know?”
    “I know I was there on that set,” she said, leaning forward anxiously. “I know I saw something. Something I’ve never dared tell another living soul about.”
    “Why tell me?”
    “Because I think I can trust you. And because it has to come out now. Don’t you see?”
    I tugged at my ear. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
    “Other people know what really happened. She knew. Miss Laurel knew. Why do you think she went so nuts?”
    “She was an actress. Kind of goes with the territory.”
    Fern shook her head. “The others, they’ll be coming here for the fiftieth anniversary. Aren’t many of them left. Most of ’em are gone now, the secret buried with them. Don’t you see, Hoagy? It’s now or never. This is the last chance to see the plain truth come out.”
    “The truth is anything but plain,” I said. “It’s a very confusing business, and the closer you get to it, the more confusing it gets.”
    “But you’ll help me, won’t you?”
    I hesitated. “Well … ”
    “Don’t say you aren’t intrigued,” she said, grinning. “I can tell you are by the way you look.”
    “And how do I look?”
    “Profound. Disillusioned. Bored.”
    “I always look this way. That breeding thing again.”
    “Look here,” declared Fern. “I ain’t no crank from down on the farm thinks she seen flying saucers shaped like cigars. I ain’t crazy.”
    “I didn’t say you were, Fern. It’s just that —”
    A car pulled up outside in the courtyard. Fern stiffened, raised her index finger to her lips. The engine shut off. The car door opened, closed. There were footsteps. Then the kitchen door opened and in walked a tall young blonde clutching a pile of books. She was pretty, in a neat, correct, Laura Ashley flowered-print-dress sort of way, complete with lace collar and puffed sleeves. She would never exactly be willowy. She was a bit sturdy through the legs and hips. But there was a healthy pink glow to her cheeks, a youthful brightness to her blue eyes, a clean lustrousness to her hair. And there was what is, for me, the most attractive quality any woman can possess — she knew who she was. She was Mercy Glaze, the girl who would inherit Shenandoah.
    “Say hello to Stewart Hoag, Mercy,” said Fern as she dished up our pie. “Goes by Hoagy.”
    Mercy looked me over briefly and offered me her hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, manner forthright, grip firm. No Southern coquette this.
    “Likewise,” I said.
    Mercy dropped her books and purse on the counter, grabbed a leftover drumstick from the chicken platter, and started to bite into it.
    “Get yourself a plate and napkin and sit down,” commanded Fern. “You’re a lady, not a field hand.”
    “Tastes better this way,” Mercy insisted, attacking it happily.
    “Mavis would kill you if she saw you,” Fern said.
    “So don’t tell her,” Mercy said.
    Fern promptly whipped a Polaroid camera from a drawer and aimed it at her.
    Mercy froze, genuinely alarmed. “You wouldn’t.”
    “I would ,” Fern vowed.
    Mercy rolled her eyes and flounced over to the cupboard, every inch a suffering teenager now. She got a plate and napkin and sat across the table from me. “You’re the writer who’s going to get along with Mother?”
    “That’s the idea. Any advice?”
    “Yes,” she replied, nibbling at the chicken leg. “Place your foot firmly on her neck and keep it there.”
    “That’ll work?” I asked.
    “I honestly couldn’t say,” she replied. “But it sure would be fun to see someone try it.”
    “Polk Four phoned for you a while ago, honey,” Fern told her, setting my pie and ice cream before me. For my benefit she added, “Polk’s her fiancé.”
    “He is not,” Mercy said petulantly. “He just thinks he is.”
    “Polk Four?” I inquired, tasting my