“I'm in the middle of class,” I said.
“I know. I won't keep you. I just wanted to tell you not to worry. I've taken care of everything.”
I didn't like the sound of that. “What have you done?”
“Invited Perdita to lunch with us. I told you. At McGregor's.”
“Who is 'us', Mother?”
“Just the family,” she said innocently. “You and Viola.”
Well, at least she hadn't brought in the deprogrammer. Yet. “What are you up to, Mother?”
“Perdita said the same thing. Can't a grandmother ask her granddaughters to lunch? Be there at twelve-thirty.”
“Bysshe and I have a court calendar meeting at three.”
“Oh, we'll be done by then. And bring Bysshe with you. He can provide a man's point of view.”
She hung up.
“You'll have to go to lunch with me, Bysshe,” I said. “Sorry.”
“Why? What's going to happen at lunch?”
“I have no idea.”
*****
On the way over to McGregor's, Bysshe told me what he'd found out about the Cyclists. “They're not a cult. There's no religious connection. They seem to have grown out of a pre– Liberation women's group,” he said, looking at his notes, “although there are also links to the pro-choice movement, the University of Wisconsin, and the Museum of Modern Art.”
“What?”
“They call their group leaders 'docents.' Their philosophy seems to be a mix of pre-Liberation radical feminism and the environmental primitivism of the eighties. They're floratarians and they don't wear shoes.”
“Or shunts,” I said. We pulled up in front of McGregor's and got out of the car. “Any mind control convictions?” I asked hopefully.
“No. A bunch of suits against individual members, all of which they won.”
“On grounds of personal sovereignty.”
“Yeah. And a criminal one by a member whose family tried to deprogram her. The deprogrammer was sentenced to twenty years, and the family got twelve.”