Before anyone could launch a conversational gambit, another man entered the room and Marge went to meet him. "Sam, this is Shelley Nowack and her friend Jane Jeffry.”

Unlike the rest of them, who were dressed for the outdoors, Sam Claypool had on dress slacks, a crisp white shirt, navy blue tie, and a blazer. If Jane hadn't known better, she'd have sworn he was an accountant, not a car dealer. He, too, was tidy — but too much so. His hair was a little too short, the creases in his slacks were perfect, his handshake was cool and impersonal. He needed rumpling, Jane thought. He'd come to dinner with a legal pad and hand-held calculator, which didn't strike Jane as especially sociable, even though she herself, like Marge, always had a paperback book somewhere on her person.

“Where's Eileen?" John asked.

Sam looked around. "I don't know. She was with me a minute ago." He had already sat down at the table and was punching in numbers on his calculator and making notes on the legal pad. Shelley was studying him ominously, as if considering giving a short lecture on social niceties.

Eileen Claypool, John's wife, turned up a moment later. "Sorry, dears, I had to take a potty break. The bathrooms here are amazing!" She was a perfect match for her husband — loud, oversized, and cheerful, like him. She had big blond hair, a huge, toothy smile, and was swathed about with an extraordinary number of accessories. Besides innumerable layers of clothing, she wore three necklaces, rings on every finger, a large purse, and two tote bags. "What a wonderful place this is. I'm Eileen. Who are you?”

Jane and Shelley introduced themselves again. Eileen proved to be a "hand holder," hanging on to them while the cloud of her expensive perfume encircled them. "Oh, you're those friends of Suzie Williams, aren't you?"