Free Out of Circulation by Miranda James

with Alexandra Pendergrast. Neither of my children nor Stewart would tell me what characters they’d chosen to portray. The secretiveness of it all was simply part of the fun, and everyone seemed to have entered into the spirit of the event.
    In the back of my mind, however, I couldn’t let go of my worries about Vera Cassity and what she might do. Since her attack on Helen Louise a few days ago, she had made no further moves—as far as I was aware—to punish me for not letting her snoop in the archives. Perhaps she was well and truly chastened by orders from Q. C. Pendergrast and her husband to stop meddling. No matter how much money Vera—or rather, her husband, Morty—had, Q. C. Pendergrast would pull out any necessary stops to put Vera in her place.
    Maybe I worried over nothing. Maybe the gala would go off without a hitch tonight, and Vera would be on her best behavior. After all, she aimed to be the cynosure of the cream of Athena society, and she wouldn’t want to embarrass herself in front of them by doing anything nasty or vindictive.
    Right—and the mighty Mississippi might start flowing north any minute now.
    Diesel ran down the stairs ahead of me and into the kitchen, where we found Justin eating a sandwich and chips. He had a book propped open beside his plate, but he looked up when I entered.
    His eyes widened, and he grinned. “Cool costume, Mr. Charlie. Poirot, right? Love the mustache, too.”
    “Thanks, and, yes, I’m Hercule Poirot.” I glanced at the clock. It was a few minutes past five thirty. “Helen Louise is going as Mrs. Oliver, and I’d better be on my way to pick her up. We’re supposed to be at River Hill by six at the latest.”
    “Don’t worry about Diesel,” Justin said as he caressed the cat’s shoulders and along his spine. Diesel chirped happily in response. “He and I will have a fine old time tonight while y’all enjoy yourselves at the ball. Will someone take pictures? I bet the costumes will be awesome.”
    “There’s supposed to be a photographer from the paper, so I’m sure he’ll snap plenty of photos.” I grabbed my keys, and Diesel saw me. He started toward me, but Justin called him back. “Not tonight, boy, you have to stay here with Justin.”
    Distracted by the sudden offer of a bit of ham, Diesel wasn’t looking as I slipped out the back door and into the garage.
    Helen Louise was ready when I reached her house several blocks away. She lived in her late parents’ home, a lovely two-story brick house that dated from the early twentieth century.
    “You look terrific,” she said as I stepped into the entryway.
“Très formidable.”
She kissed me, then stood back so I could get the full effect of her ensemble.
    She had decided to model herself on Zoë Wanamaker’s portrayal of Ariadne Oliver in the television series. Her below-the-knee-length dress sported a multitude of colors in an abstract pattern. Three long necklaces with beads of varying sizes circled her neck and dangled down her chest. Her hat—well, her hat sported enough flowers to fill three or four bouquets. She carried a handbag, and she opened it to show me several apples inside it. “So what do you think?”
    “Magnificent, and beautiful as always.”
    That earned me another, longer kiss, and when we drew apart her cheeks glowed pink. Mine probably did as well.
    “We should get going,” I said, a little out of breath. “Too bad we can’t enter the contest, because I think we could win.” I opened the door.
    “I’m sure we could,” Helen Louise said as she stepped outside. I waited while she locked the door, then escorted her down the walk and to my car.
    “I hope everything goes smoothly tonight,” I said as I fastened my seat belt.
    “It will,” Helen Louise replied, her tone firm. “Miss An’gel and Miss Dickce wouldn’t have it any other way.”
    “It’s not them I’m worried about.”
    “Stop scowling, Charlie. Your mustache will fall off.” Helen Louise