"Not quite all. But Wesley Woodley's an exception. He works for a company run by a woman. Ms. Betty Stanley. You may have heard of her. She's in a lot of civic organizations."

"Did I hear my name being used in vain?" a very tall young man asked.

"Wesley!" Bitsy yelped. "What is that smell?"

Wesley shrugged. "I couldn't go in the house to tell. Mrs. Stanley's bringing some breathing apparatus so I can find out. Did anyone have the wits to turn off the furnace?"

"I didn't," Bitsy admitted.

"That's the first thing I need to do. Second, you need to rent some powerful fans to clear the odor out."

"Where do you rent fans?" Bitsy asked.

"Ask your contractor," he replied. Jane thought there was a hint of a sneer in his remark, but couldn't be sure. Unless he had had a run-in with

Bitsy before, it was a logical question for an ordinary person to ask. Jane herself would have had to ask.

The ambulance people had moved the women who were ill away from the house and put them on blankets on the ground with damp cloths over their faces, and were taking their blood pressures.

Jane approached Sandra and asked, "How are they? And who are they?"

"Friends of Bitsy's she wanted to show the house to," Sandra said with irritation, fidgeting with the strap of her purse. "I wish she'd picked any other day. The nurse in the van says since they didn't ingest anything and it only smelled like something rotten, not chemical, they'll probably be okay. But someone has to drive them to the hospital to confirm whether it was dangerous fumes."

Jane knew what Sandra really meant. That she and Shelley had nothing better to do. "Weren't other people in the house? And they might have felt like gagging, but no one else is sick, are they?"

"I don't imagine you're free to…?"