Free Vi Agra Falls by Mary Daheim Page A

“Enjoy.”
    Judith retreated into the kitchen, where the music was muted. Her nerves were frazzled. Impulsively, she took a bottle of Glenlivet from the top kitchen shelf and poured a generousinch into a glass. Adding ice, she sipped deeply, savoring the liquor’s golden glow. The whisky was from the Scottish Highlands, brought back by Judith and Joe when they returned in March from their stay at a castle on the North Sea.
    She was swirling the drink in her hands when the last of her guests—newlyweds from Anchorage—poked their heads in the kitchen.
    â€œHey,” said the red-haired bride whose first name Judith recalled as Ashley, “what’s going on outside?”
    Judith kept both hands on the cocktail glass, preferring not to let her guests think she stood around the kitchen getting snockered. “The neighbors are having a Block Watch potluck,” she explained. “But some people who recently moved here are giving their own party as well. I’m sorry about the noise. Look,” she went on, hoping to forestall another complaint, “I keep restaurant gift certificates on hand for certain kinds of emergencies, such as visitors who lose their travelers’ checks or credit cards. I’ve run out, but if you want to enjoy a pleasant, quiet dinner, go ahead and I’ll credit your bill here for the cost of your evening out.”
    Ashley looked at her fair-haired groom. “Dare we?” she said.
    â€œIt’s not a dare,” Judith began. “I’m perfectly willing to—”
    â€œNo, no,” the young man broke in. “We were wondering if we could join that party with the band. They sound like they’re having fun.”
    â€œBe my guest,” Judith responded. “I mean…well, you already are. But I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Buss won’t mind one bit.”
    Ashley clapped. “Let’s go, Jake! A live band! Way cool!”
    The couple hurried off through the dining room. Judith finished her drink and reluctantly went back outside.
    At least a dozen Dooleys had arrived. The matriarch,Corinne, was setting out homemade pies. Judith was about to commend her for baking in such warm weather, but Rochelle Porter intervened, shouting to make herself heard above the band’s rendition of “Caramba, It’s the Samba!”
    â€œI hate that kind of music,” Rochelle declared, wincing. She removed her half-glasses to stare across the cul-de-sac. “Where’s that black sedan? It was parked where the bar’s set up.”
    â€œWhat sedan?” Judith asked in a loud voice.
    Rochelle put her glasses back on. “Ham said it was the same car he saw the other night, and probably the same man who went around the back of the house and then left.” She shrugged. “Maybe he was delivering something for this shindig. I hear there’s going to be a big announcement after the band takes a break.”
    â€œHopefully,” Judith said, “it’ll be soon.”
    Jeanne Ericson poked Judith in the arm. “We have noise ordinances in this city,” she shouted. “Can’t we report this?”
    Seeing Joe doing the samba with Marva Lou Buss, Judith grimaced. “It depends on the time of day, I think, like after ten at night. Let’s wait. I wouldn’t want to see my husband busted by one of his former cop buddies.”
    Jeanne followed Judith’s gaze. “Oh. I keep forgetting—Joe used to be married to Whatever-Her-Name-Is-Now. Sorry.”
    â€œSo am I,” Judith murmured, feeling a headache coming on. “Excuse me, I’m going to get some aspirin.”
    Rochelle and Jeanne both nodded. The samba ended, providing a moment of relative quiet. But as Judith went up Hillside Manor’s front steps, she saw Herself appear on the bandstand.
    â€œDon’t forget,” Vivian said into the microphone that was pinned to the deep vee of her cleavage, “our