Ladies Courting Trouble. Dolores Stewart Riccio

home. Fly carefully.”

      “I always do, sweetheart.”

      But as luck would have it, there was a terrorist incident targeting an Israeli airliner in the Athens airport. Flights were canceled through the weekend, and all the bookings got jammed up. It was Wednesday before Joe got to Logan and, as usual, picked up a Rent-a-Wreck to drive to Plymouth.

      “You’re still alone?” Heather asked when she called on Monday. “Come for lunch, then, and we’ll brainstorm these poisonings. Dick’s taken the day off and gone to Manomet to help with the bird banding at the Center for Conservation Sciences. His new associate, Maury, is taking over for the day.”

      “Bird banding? I’m surprised you’re in favor of that.”

      “I’m not especially, but at least it’s capture and release. Dick thinks it’s important to monitor populations as indicators of dis-ease and longevity, as well as to follow migratory routes. Did you know that the Arctic tern has a route of approximately twenty-five thousand miles? That’s the longest. But apparently excitement is running high in Manomet over the hairy woodpecker and indigo bunting they’ve captured and banded, and, most thrilling of all, the seven sharp-shinned hawks. And they get to wear those nifty T-shirts, ‘Manomet Banders Are for the Birds.’”

      “You’re kidding.”

      “No. One of the banders had them made up for a lark. So are you coming? We’ll drink, we’ll talk—it will be like the old days.”

      “Nothing’s like the old days. We’re both married ladies now with new responsibilities. I’m getting on in years and can’t drink at lunch the way we used to. Not to mention, you don’t have a cook anymore—you have a handyman.” It was understood that Heather herself did not cook if it could be avoided. When pressed, she ordered take-out, she opened packages, she reheated, she tossed the occasional salad-in-a-bag, and she allowed her husband Dick to grill. None of us expected more.

      “No one will ever replace Ashbery, it’s true.” Heather’s long-time housekeeper and friend had been blown up by a package bomb during an earlier Plymouth crime wave in which we’d been involved. After Heather’s brief stint with Sicilian housekeepers who ended up in the witness-protection program, the circle had sent out a “call” for a someone new to help with the Devlin menage, and the answer had been a battered old seaman—demonstrating once more that the Universe of Infinite Possibilities has a sense of humor. “But you know very well Captain Jack is as handy in a kitchen as he is outdoors. And one little bottle of champagne will merely energize you. It’s one of nature’s great restoratives for women, right up there with Midol and Raspberry Leaf Tea. Furthermore, you’re only as old as you feel, my dear. I’m not ready to be called a crone yet, and neither are you. Wisewomen, yes—crones, no. Especially since we’re both practically newlyweds. By the way, you can bring Scruffy. Honeycomb will be tickled to see him.”

      So who could refuse? It had been a while.

      “But what about Ishmael?”

      “Not to worry. I’ll ask Captain Jack to stow his parrot for the occasion. See you at noon?”

      Plymouth was a resilient place—has been ever since the first Pilgrim stepped foot on that rock. No one had been poisoned in a week, and the town had resumed its peaceful demeanor. One death did not cause the spiritual descendants of Pilgrims and Indians to run scared. But there was a little buzz in local meeting places, like the dump and the post office. When I stopped to mail some orders on my way to Heather’s, the postal clerk, a cheerful, very pregnant gal, asked me if “you ladies are on the case?” The circle’s reputation for solving crimes was fast becoming part of the local folklore.

      “I’ll drink to that,” Heather declared, when I related the incident to her. With glasses of ’96 Veuve Clicquot in hand, we were lounging in the conservatory of her Federalist mansion, which was strewn with a motley assortment of well-chewed dog toys. Hardly ever were there fewer than a half dozen dogs in residence at the Devlins’, an overflow from the no-kill shelter, Animal Lovers, that Heather supported with her lavish trust income. At the moment, however, most of the Devlin pack was relegated to the fenced yard, while Scruffy enjoyed a tête-à-tête with his favorite blonde, Honeycomb.

      “Play nice, kids,” I said as they scooted around the potted palms with a rope tug-of-war toy. “You did have Honeycomb fixed, didn’t you?” I asked Heather.

      “It’s okay. She’s not in season right now. You know what a champion of neutering and spaying, I am, but Dick insists that Honeycomb, who’s a superior therapy dog and has an impressive pedigree as well, should be bred at least once before she’s spayed. You ought to have Scruffy neutered, though. A mutt like that can’t be allowed to knock up some willing bitch—there are enough unwanted pups in the world already.”

      “Shhhh,” I said. “If he gets the notion that we’re planning a little fixing operation, I will never be able to get him into Dick’s office for routine shots again.”

      “Oh, come on, now, Cass. It isn’t as if he understands what I’m saying. Neutering will make Scruffy much more docile and also prevent a number of ailments that may occur as he gets older.”

      Abruptly, Scruffy raised his head from the stuffed squeaky toy he was subduing to impress Honeycomb and gave me a long, accusatory look. Hey, if that dog lady’s cooking up a plot to cut off my nuts, Toots, I’m hitching a ride on the next freight car out of town.

      “Don’t get nervous. It’ll never happen,” I reassured the dog, who was already heading toward the door.

      “Really, Cass. Let’s not pretend that Scruffy will never age,” Heather reasoned with me. “If he were capable of communicating, he’d thank you for having him neutered.”

      Hasta la vista, baby. Lemme out of here! Scruffy began scratching the door frame. I caught him by the collar and whispered, “No snip-snip, I promise you. Now behave yourself, or you’ll spend the rest of the afternoon in the cold car.”

      By the time I had Scruffy settled down again, Captain Jack had appeared with his superb Three-Cod Chowder informally served in the cooking pot, which he deposited in the middle of the table. Captain Jack, a small gray-haired fellow with merry blue eyes, brought with him a faint whiff of rum. He wore salt-faded jeans, a striped canvas apron over a black T-shirt, and a captain’s hat set at a rakish angle.

      “Hi, Ms. Shipton. Don’t worry about Ish. I got him stowed under his blankey so’s he won’t hurt that dog of yours. Be back in a jiff with the biscuits.”

      That flying freak comes near me again, there’ll be nothing left of him but a mess of green feathers. Scruffy hadn’t encountered the captain’s parrot very often, but the memory of his tormenter remained vivid.

      “Belay that,” I muttered. Captain Jack looked at me sharply but continued to serve lunch. Heather, who was as prodigal with wine as she was klutzy in the kitchen, skillfully opened a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé to go with the chowder.

      Over steaming bowls of seaside heaven, golden crumbly biscuits, and a surprising endive and pear salad, Heather and I talked of poisons and poisoners. “My thoughts keep returning to Lydia Craig,” I said. “The thing is, she’s the only one who died.”

      “So far,” Heather said darkly. “I hear she’s left a fortune to Reverend Peacedale.”

      “Surely she left her bequest to the church, not to the pastor. That’s what Wyn said. She told him about it at Christmas.”

      “No, dearie. I have it straight from the horse’s mouth that the bequest was for the reverend himself to do with as he sees fit. Endow a soup kitchen, yacht around the Mediterranean, or open a bar in Tahiti—it’s entirely up to Peacedale. Although Patty may have some input there.”

      “And I thought lawyers were a discreet lot.”

      “The late, lamented Mrs. Craig employed the law firm of Borer, Buckley, and Bangs. As it happens, our family has been one of their oldest and best customers