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“Aren’t they all?” he says wryly.
“Only if I’m doing them right.”
He glances back at the parking area, frowning. “There are a lot of cars here. Is it... a séance? A murder mystery dinner theatre? A human sacrifice? Someone showing hideously boring vacation movies from their cruise?”
“Interesting guesses.”
“Candle-making class? Home renovation project? I’m pretty good at those, actually, in case you need anyone to put up a shelf.”
“My shelves are just fine, thank you.”
We climb the steps and he looks at the sign that’s hanging from the front door, and then does a comically wonderful double-take.
The sign announces the monthly meeting of the Society for the Protection of and Preservation of Opossums. There is a photograph of a possum mother with a whole bunch of babies clinging to her back, in case anybody doesn’t know what they look like.
“The what?” Paxton stares at me in bafflement. “What kind of society?”
He reaches for the door handle and then pauses to stare at the stained-glass window on the door. It’s a custom job... with a possum.
The house is owned by a wealthy, eccentric woman named Arabella Pembroke, who is passionate about possums.
“You saw what it said. You can read,” I say mildly.
“Yes, I can. And I cannot believe what I just read. Is this some kind of joke?” Paxton stares at me as we walk through the foyer.
A tall, skinny man with a mop of curly hair looks at Paxton in disgust. “Is what some kind of joke?” he demands indignantly.
“I just said something funny that he couldn’t quite understand,” I jump in to save him. The skinny man turns his back and walks away from us, down a hallway, on a rich multicolored Oriental carpet, past oil paintings of grimly serious people from the nineteenth century. Was everyone mad back then? I guess with the poor dental care, terrible hygiene, and heavy, uncomfortable clothes, they had reason to be. Also, no air conditioning in the middle of the summer.
The man pauses at a doorway and turns to give us a suspicious look. “I thought he was referring to our work here.” He’s wearing a name tag that identifies him as Marcellus Pembroke.
“Not at all,” I tell him, my expression grave and serious. “He takes opossums very seriously. Don’t you, Paxton? In fact, you could say he’s passionate about possums.”
Paxton covers his mouth with his hand to hide a disbelieving laugh.
“We’ll see.” Marcellus gives Paxton a skeptical look. Clearly, Paxton is at risk of being considered unfriendly to possums.
We follow Marcellus into a very large room. Living room? Drawing room? Whatever it is, it is filled with people who are passionate about possums. At least twenty of them. It’s not surprising. Arabella inherited family money, and she spends all of her time publicizing and marketing her cause, and she’s managed to draw in a dedicated group of followers. I read a newspaper article about her. Marcellus is her nephew. She never married, never had children.
Too busy saving the possums.
The room is furnished with an eclectic mishmash of antique furniture from different eras. Chairs are lined up in rows, facing a large whiteboard. Arabella is standing next to the whiteboard, chatting with a chubby man with suspenders holding up his trousers. She’s wearing a blue-and-yellow caftan and a blue turban.
“Sign in, please,” a gray-haired woman tells us. She’s wearing what looks like a hand-knitted sweater and slippers that don’t match. Her name tag identifies her as Tori.
Paxton looks at me. He looks at her. He signs his name. I do the same.
Then we have to write our names on name tag labels and stick them on our chests. Paxton, giving me a sour look, writes Polonius on his. That’s a character from Hamlet.
“Hilarious,” I say dryly, and write Ophelia on mine.
A lot of people are mingling by the refreshments table, which is all possum themed. There are possum-shaped pastries and possum cupcakes and possum cookies. I grab a possum cookie and offer it to Paxton, who shakes his head.
“Unfortunately, my doctor has me on a no-possum diet,” he informs me gravely, earning himself another dirty look, this time from a plump older woman in a red muumuu.
“What?” he asks me innocently, as I bite down on the cookie. “Do they want me to eat possums? I thought they loved possums. They need to make up their minds.”
“Tasty lemon meringue flavor.” I point at the cookie tray, and he firmly shakes his head.
