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Sometimes the dinner is a formal first meeting of the bridal pair’s parents; sometimes it’s a casual thank-you evening for all the friends who have pitched in with the wedding preparations. I’d organized everything from pizza feasts to private sushi bars for my clients, and my batting average was close to perfect. But this was the first time I got to plan my dinner and eat it, too

Paul and Elizabeth’s Friday-night rehearsal dinner was taking place a week before the rehearsal itself, to accommodate Paul’s parents. They had an overnight layover in their flight from Minneapolis to Maui, where Howard had a sales conference and Chloe was going to see a real palm tree for the first time.

I’d ordered Hawaiian flowers for our table for twelve: the engaged couple, their parents and attendants, and Valerie Duncan, the Sentinel’s managing editor, who had graciously agreed to fill in for Roger Talbot tonight. It was an amiable group, and the evening took on the air of a bon-voyage party for Paul’s homey, unassuming parents. I was especially taken with Chloe, who took me aside to thank me for filling in as bridesmaid. I just hoped she never found out I’d been paid.

“It’s so important to Enid,” Chloe said to me over cocktails and appetizers, blinking her pale brown eyes behind their thick glasses.

“Is she your aunt, or Howard’s?”

“Mine, though I hate to admit it.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh, Enid can be such a… a bitch,” said Chloe daringly, savoring the word. “She’s very demanding, and she just hates Elizabeth! Don’t tell anyone I said so, though.”

“Trust me.”

Family drama was a pleasant distraction from thoughts of murder, and from the dense November fog pressing in at the windows. Elizabeth’s father—in town for the week to get some business done before the wedding—groused a bit because he couldn’t see “this famous so-called waterfall” from our private terrace. He was a self-made real-estate tycoon of the old school, proud and loud, and he wanted his money’s worth.

But the rest of us enjoyed our beautifully presented dinners, sipping the fine wines appropriate to each course, and making conversation about every imaginable topic except murder. Afterwards, we settled cozily in the glow of the leaping, aromatic fire. When the combo in the foyer began to play, I opened the French doors to let the music drift in, then took my coffee from the sideboard and sat a little apart to try and clear my head.

Elizabeth’s father soon joined me, cradling a snifter of brandy against his beltline. “Well, Miss Kincaid—”

“Call me Carnegie, please.”

“And I’m Burt. Carnegie, this is a nice little party you put on. We’ve got some fine-looking women here tonight, starting with my daughter.”

He nodded across the room at Elizabeth. She wore a chic little black number, outshining her sister’s long-sleeved floral print, as she must have outshone her in general for most of their lives. Patty, trying out her new French twist, began the evening animated and almost pretty, but her father gave her only cursory attention; his compliments and smiles were all for the bride. Now his older daughter had grown silent, almost sullen, frowning into her coffee cup as if the bitterness she felt was concentrated there.

Over by the fireplace, Angela Sims lounged on a hassock, negligently lovely in a dove-gray tunic and long skirt. She was deep in animated conversation with Valerie Duncan. Valerie, a handsome dark-haired woman in her forties, had been a bit reserved at first. But she was growing more voluble as the night went on, and had gratified Paul’s parents no end by praising their son during dinner. Valerie and Angela were both sharp-witted professional women, and they looked to be well on the road to friendship.

Still seated at the dinner table was Corinne, overripe but succulent in a short peach-colored frock, working on her second slice of vanilla bean cheesecake with raspberry coulis. No wonder her bridesmaid gown was tight. She was talking shop with Aaron, who looked quite urbane in a herringbone jacket and charcoal slacks. He laughed heartily at some anecdote of hers about a recent benefit ball, and then moved off to chat with Patty.

With no best man on hand, and Scott, the third groomsman, detained back in Baltimore by a crisis at work, Aaron was doing his duty and being attentive to all the ladies. I was grateful to him, because Zack was no help at all. Woefully underdressed in cords and a misshapen green sweater, Zack spent most of the evening moping around and