“I am just way too groovy for this scene, man.”

If you were a teenager saying “groovy” you could get away with it. If you were a thirty-four-year-old Buick dealer all gussied up in purple silk bell-bottoms, a red silk shirt, and a gold headband, all you were was one more drunk at a costume party where everybody was dressed up as hippies. Or their idea of hippies, anyway.

“That’s you all right, Carleton,” I said. “Just way too groovy.”

Wendy Bennett gave me a sharp elbow, not happy with the tone of my voice as the six-two Carleton Todd swayed over us, spilling his drink all over his hand. These were her people, not mine. Wendy Bennett came from one of the most prominent families in Black River Falls. Occasionally she wanted to see some of the friends she’d known from her country club days. Some of them I liked and surprised myself by wanting to see again. They were ruining my old theory that all wealthy people were bad. It just isn’t that simple, dammit.

“Don’t worry about ol’ Carleton,” Carleton said, his eyes fixing on Wendy’s small, elegant breasts. We both wore tie-dyed T-shirts and jeans, our only concession to costume. “I’m used to his insults. I was just in the TV room watchin’ the Chicago cops beat up the hippies. Your boyfriend here called me a couple of names in there.” He opened his mouth to smile. Drool trickled over his lower lip. “But I called him names right back. If I was a cop I’d club every hippie I saw.”

“Carleton, you’re a jackass,” Wendy said, steering me away before I could say something even nastier.

Don Trumbull’s mansion sat on a hill in what had been forest, a bold invention of native stone, floor-to-ceiling windows, and three different verandas. At night the windows could be seen for half a mile. Now, like people in a play of silhouettes, human shapes filled the glass lengths, many of them wobbly with liquor.