“No.” Linda Melajian shook her head. “I don’t see.”
“A child in a farm family in the eighteenth century with a critical and withholding mother could tell herself that her mother’s behavior didn’t mean her mother didn’t love her. It was only that there was so much work to do and so little food and worries always about money. A poor child of today can tell herself the same kinds of things. But a middle-class child… Paul Hazzard shrugged. “There’s no way to escape reality for the middle-class child. The middle-class child knows her mother doesn’t love her.”
“I don’t know,” Marci Devorkian said firmly. “There seems something off about all this to me.”
Candi Devorkian said, “Shhh!”
“I am ninety-seven years old,” Mrs. Vartenian said, “and I have lived long enough to say you are speaking nonsense.”
“Oh,” Candi Devorkian murmured. “Oh, dear.”
It was impossible to tell if Paul Hazzard would have taken on Mrs. Vartenian. The general consensus later was that Paul Hazzard was probably smarter than that. A man didn’t get very far as a psychologist—no matter how appealing his theories—without knowing something about people. Anyone on Cavanaugh Street could have told him that it was inadvisable to take on the old ladies unless you were willing to fight an emotional thermonuclear war. What interested Gregor was that Paul took this opportunity, and only this one, to stop the conversation. He had sailed right through Candida DeWitt’s arrival, not even pausing in his pronouncements to register Candida’s presence. His voice had sailed across the now-otherwise-quiet living room in the wake of Candida’s self-announcement. His arguments had been as reasonably stated and complete as if he’d been giving them on the podium of the main convention ballroom in the Hilton Hotel. Candida DeWitt might as well not have existed until he decided she did.
Candi Devorkian’s distressed “Oh, dear” still seemed to be floating through the air. Paul Hazzard turned away from her and her sisters and faced Candida with a noncommittal smile on his face. He looked as if he were addressing a saleslady. Candida, Gregor thought, had been subjected to this act before. She looked amused.
“Well,” Paul said. “Candida. I didn’t know you and Hannah were friends.”
“We’ve never met before tonight,” Candida said.
Paul Hazzard hesitated, frowning. This was not what he had expected. He didn’t understand what he was supposed to do next.
“Well,” he said again. “I’m at a loss. You have an invitation.”
“Of course.”
“Where did you get it?”
“It came to my mailbox in Bryn Mawr,” Candida told him. “The way you would expect I’d get it.”
Paul turned uncertainly to Hannah, who was standing just a little behind him. Gregor had never seen her face look so mutinous, so angry and upset. The contrast between Hannah and Candida DeWitt made Gregor uneasy. Candida was such a physically lovely woman. Hannah was so… solid.
Paul turned toward Hannah and raised an eyebrow. “Did you—?”
Hannah shook her head. “If Miss DeWitt is a friend of yours—”
“Mrs.,” Candida said.
“If she is a friend of yours,” Hannah went on doggedly, “then I am happy to have her here, Paul, but I did not send the invitation. I couldn’t have. I didn’t know who she was.”
“I’m not a friend of Paul’s,” Candida said. “At least, I’m not anymore. He barely speaks to me.”
“That’s not true,” Paul said quickly.
“I find it all very odd, really,” Candida went on pleasantly. “Under the circumstances, it should be me who isn’t speaking to him. After all, I’m not the one who tried to convince the police that he was the perpetrator in a murder they thought I’d committed.”
“I don’t get it,” Traci Devorkian said loudly.
It was about time somebody intervened. Gregor kept expecting Bennis to leap up and do something. She wasn’t moving. He got up instead. He was so bad at these things. It might really be much better if he went to the bathroom and forgot the whole thing.
At his side, Bob Cheswicki said, “Well, now I know why she’s worth all the dough she gets. Holy cow.”
Gregor wondered where Bob Cheswicki had come from. A moment before, he had been near the group around Paul Hazzard. It was as if he’d melted away from the scene of the action as soon as there was a sign of trouble. Some policeman he was turning out to be. That’s what became of spending all your time behind a desk.