Free Beads of Doubt by Barbara Burnett Smith Page A

for a full day. The room was not fit for company when the Juvenile Diabetes Research Association had a fund-raiser that evening, so the velvet rope went up. I’m sure people think there’s an exotic reason that we close off certain rooms, but the smell of cat poop is exotic enough for me.
    On this particular day I had insisted that my mother rest and only show up for the last two or three hours, which meant I was to be out front, at least for a while. And that’s exactly what I did during my first hour: I greeted people, visited with friends and supporters of the organizations involved, and even snitched half a scone—a bite-size scone—which I did not intend to tell Beth about.
    During the second hour people started coming in with my phone jewelry, asking me to sign the instruction cards that were attached. I was pleased to do that, since it was all helping to raise money and awareness to fight ovarian cancer. It was also during that hour that I found someone who could tell me why Tess, my former assistant, wasn’t there.
    “Kitzi.” Judy O’Bannon, the president of OCO, caught me just as I was coming back from the bathroom. “I heard that you were looking for Tess Lewis,” she said.
    “I was and I am. Last I talked to her she was going to be here.”
    Judy looked concerned. “When was that?”
    I had to think about it. “Not too long ago. Maybe about a month. Why? What’s happened?”
    “She’s in the hospital.”
    We stared at each other, and I had the feeling that Judy knew things about ovarian cancer that I would hopefully never know. Her expression frightened me. “Is she—I mean, is her cancer . . . ?”
    Judy patted my arm. “I don’t know anything, Kitzi. Last night someone told me that Tess’s doctor put her in the hospital. It hasn’t been that long, just since Tuesday. I was planning on stopping by this weekend.”
    “I’ll go see her this afternoon,” I said. “Damn it. Someone has to do something about this cancer. Find a cure. Get the word out on how deadly it is, and how tricky the symptoms are.”
    Her smile was sad. “We’re trying, Kitzi. This weekend is a start, remember?”
    I was not only preaching to the choir, but I was also griping at the choir director for not doing enough. “I’m sorry. I just get frustrated. Do you know which hospital Tess is in?”
    She told me, then added, “It could be nothing. Maybe just an intestinal blockage. It’s not uncommon after women have a very aggressive surgery where some of the intestine was removed.”
    I agreed, and thanked her. Our conversation had made me even more aware of the importance of what we were doing, which sent me back to my hostessing duties with a renewed smile. I took pictures with guests, and huge tables of guests. We had roving photographer who put the shots on a bulletin board for purchase, proceeds going to the OCO.
    That was the second hour of my duties, and the third hour was lunch, which is when I left the house to spell Beth, who was selling things. I hoped. It was the first chance I’d had to really think about Andrew’s murder. It seemed as impossible now as it had earlier, but through the foliage around the parking area I could see snatches of yellow crime-scene tape. I wondered what our guests thought about that, and if any had realized what a terrible crime had taken place. With my candlestick.
    And somehow I had to talk to the sergeant about that. I just couldn’t figure out how without making Bruce look bad. I unjumbled some ideas about that, and finally set aside the whole mess. There would be plenty of time later, after lunch and a few more hours in the conservatory and some time at the hospital with Tess.
    The tent was busy, which I took to be a good sign for the Bead Society and the OCO. It was so crowded that even the food booth had been moved outside to make more room. I started down the first row of vendors and forgot all about illness and murder. I was busy ogling all the beads and the items