Only one table was set and occupied, that nearest the fireplace. A burly man with blond hair going to gray and in clothing that might have made him look like a lumberjack, had it not been so obviously newly purchased, was sitting at one end. The woman at the table was sitting as far from him as she could. She'd even turned away and had her legs stretched out to the fire. She was reading a battered paperback book, holding it very close to her face.

The man stood up as Jane and Shelley approached. "Well, I thought Marge and I were going to have to eat by ourselves. I'm John Claypool — Claypool Motors — and this is my brother Sam's wife, Marge. I usually call her Midge, 'cause she's such a cute little thing.”

Marge turned around, put down her book, and gave a weak smile that seemed to indicate that she'd heard this line several hundred times and never once enjoyed it.

“Marge and I know each other," Shelley said, then introduced herself and Jane. "Are we the only ones here?"

“My husband's on his way," Marge said. "He just had a couple business calls to make first. And two cars passed me on the road as I was walking down here." She had a very soft, sweet voice with the slightest hint of southern accent. She was a very pretty woman in an innocuous way. Blond-going-to gray hair swept back from her face and held with old-fashioned hair clips, perfect, fair skin, very little makeup, and neutral-colored clothing — khaki slacks, white sweater and blouse, pale green scarf. Jane thought the one word that described her best was "clean." Or maybe "tidy." It was a toss-up.