I thought about what I’d just seen. I wasn’t thinking about Mamie being dead, about the reality and finality of her death. I was thinking about the scene that had been staged, starring Mamie Wright as the corpse. The casting of the corpse had been deliberate, but the role of the finder of the body had by chance been taken by me. The whole thing was a scene deliberately staged by someone, and suddenly I knew what had been biting at me underneath the horror.

I thought faster than I’d ever thought before. I didn’t feel sick anymore.

Arthur crossed the hall to the door of the large room and pushed it open just enough to insert his head in the gap. I could hear him address the other members of the club.

“Uh, folks, folks?” The voices stilled. “There’s been an accident,” he said with no emphasis. “I’m going to have to ask you all to stay in this room for a little while, until we can get things under control out here.”

The situation, as far as I could see, was completely under control.

“Where’s Roe Teagarden?” John Queensland’s voice demanded.

Good old John. I’d have to tell Mother about that, she’d be touched.

“She’s fine. I’ll be back with you in a minute.”

Gerald Wright’s thin voice. “Where’s my wife, Mr. Smith?”

“I’ll get back with all of you in a few minutes,” repeated the policeman firmly, and shut the door behind him. He stood lost in thought. I wondered if this detective had ever been the first on the scene of a murder investigation. He seemed to be ticking steps off mentally, from the way he was waggling his fingers and staring into space.

I waited. Then my legs started trembling and I thought I might fold again. “Arthur,” I said sharply. “Detective Smith.”

He jumped; he’d forgotten me. He took my arm solicitously.

I whacked at him with my free hand out of sheer aggravation. “I’m not trying to get you to help me, I want to tell you something!”