Free Vi Agra Falls by Mary Daheim

carrying her big glass bowl of three-bean salad through the front door, she spotted him on Vivian’s side of the cul-de-sac, talking to one of the two men who appeared to be waiters. At least two dozen people Judith didn’t recognize were gathered around Herself’s lavish buffet and equally opulent bar.
    â€œI’ve never seen so many bags of ice in my life,” Arlene remarked as Judith set the salad bowl on the trestle table. “It’s going to melt all over the place. How much are they going to drink? And who are they?”
    â€œHangers-on,” Judith replied bitterly. “Probably some of the barflies Vivian knew in the old days. I’d have assumed most of them had been permanently pickled by now.”
    â€œThey’re certainly not from around here,” Arlene huffed. “Except,” she added, lowering her voice, “for your husband.”
    â€œDon’t rub it in,” Judith shot back. “He probably knows some of those creeps from the cop bars. That’s how he met Vivian. She was the lounge singer in a seedy dive downtown.”
    Arlene looked sympathetic. “A moment’s madness,” she murmured. “And years of sorrow.” She paused as Joe slapped one of the waiters on the back and broke into an uncharacteristically boisterous laugh. “Or maybe not,” Arlene said under her breath.
    Judith turned her back on Herself’s gathering. “Remind me to kill Joe when he gets over here.”
    Arlene brightened. “Would you like help? I can practice on Carl.”
    Judith shuddered. “I shouldn’t have said that. About killing Joe. Just saying that out loud scares me.”
    â€œYes,” Arlene said, putting a hand on Judith’s arm. “You do seem to attract dead people. That is, people who—”
    She was interrupted by the sudden sound of a snare drum. A half-dozen musicians had set up on the bandstand across the cul-de-sac. Ragtime music blared from speakers, almost deafening Judith. “Oh, no!” she cried, putting her fingers in her ears. “This is awful!”
    â€œWorse than that,” Arlene shouted. “Here come some of your B&B guests.”
    The couple who had been startled by the gunshot and twoyoung women from Boston stood on Hillside Manor’s front steps, staring in surprise at the commotion. The lean and lanky Iowa husband spotted Judith and marched in her direction.
    â€œIs this your evening entertainment?” he demanded, his florid face almost purple. “You didn’t mention that in your brochure.”
    â€œIt has nothing to do with me,” Judith declared. “I’m angry, too.”
    The man from Iowa jerked a thumb in the direction of Herself’s gathering. “Then why is the man I thought was your husband dancing with that blond hussy in the silver dress?”
    Judith stared. Sure enough, Joe and Vivian were doing a foxtrot to the music. Several others had joined in. Gertrude sat in her motorized wheelchair, tapping her foot in time to the beat.
    â€œI apologize,” Judith finally said, shoulders slumping. “Let me treat you and your wife to dinner. I have some gift certificates inside.”
    She hurried back into the house, the man and his wife—as well as the two Bostonians—following. She unlocked the drawer of the small desk in the entry hall and removed a hundred-dollar gift certificate for the Manhattan Grill Steak House. Aware that the two young women were about to pounce, she took out a second gift card, this one for Ugeto’s, an upscale Italian restaurant. The foursome grudgingly thanked her and withdrew to the living room just as the two older couples traveling together from Bakersfield, California, came down the stairs.
    â€œHere,” she said, grabbing the only remaining pair of certificates, which were for Papaya Pete’s expensive Polynesian eatery in one of the city’s big hotels.