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in tomorrow.”
    “Sam Wax,” Walter said. “Wow. It will be nice to see her again.”
    “Too bad we’re getting
married
tomorrow,” Jane said, rattling the ice in her now empty glass.
    “What?” said Walter, looking up. “Oh. Yes. We are.”
    “Married?” Brodie said.
    “Yes,” said Walter. “I’ve arranged for us to be married in the chapel in—”
    “Walter Fletcher?” said a woman’s voice.
    The woman who had been talking with Orsino Castano now stood beside the table. As Jane had thought, she was wearing a kimono. It was made of red silk and embroidered with dragons done in white and yellow thread. The woman’s jet-black hair was pulled back into a thick ponytail secured with a circle of leather pierced by a single ivory pin. The delicate bones of her face were covered by flawless skin, and for a moment Jane thought she might be wearing white powder.
    “That would be me,” Walter said.
    “I’m very pleased to meet you,” the woman said. “I am Suzu.”
    “Suzu,” Walter repeated. “What a lovely name.”
    “Thank you,” said Suzu. “I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your work. I saw the article about you in
Spaces
last year and thought what you did with that house was wonderful.”
    “I didn’t know anybody actually read that magazine,” Walter joked.
    “I do,” Suzu said, her tone so soft that she might have been apologizing.
    “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you get mixed up withus lot?” asked Brodie. “Pardon me for saying so, but you don’t seem like an architect.”
    “You mean you’ve never heard of me,” Suzu said, smiling lightly.
    “That’s precisely what I mean,” Brodie admitted. “So who are you?”
    “I teach aesthetics at Kumamoto University,” said Suzu.
    “Ah,” Brodie said. “A professor.”
    “Yes,” Suzu said. “Well, good night. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other in the days to come.”
    They said their good nights and watched as Suzu left the bar. When she was out of earshot Brodie looked at Walter and Jane. “I still have no idea why she’s here.”
    “Is it so odd that a professor would be invited?” asked Jane.
    “Not if she was a professor of something useful,” said Brodie.
    “Aesthetics is useful,” Walter countered, although he sounded less than convinced himself.
    Brodie shot him a look. “Like I said, must be a friend of Enid’s.”
    “Well, she seems sweet enough,” said Walter.
    “Careful,” said Brodie. “She’s the enemy.”
    “Enemy?” Walter said. “Oh, you mean the whole Chumsley-versus-Enid thing.” He laughed. “I’ll be careful not to share any state secrets with her, then.”
    More drinks were produced, and Jane listened as Brodie and Walter exchanged stories about people she didn’t know doing things she cared little about. Still, she was having a good time. Chumsley and Enid had, she thought, assembled quite an interesting cast of characters. With a bit of luck they would provide entertaining company for the next two weeks.
    Suddenly a hush fell over the room. The piano player, who was halfway through “Happiness Is a Thing Called Joe,” hit a wrong note and stopped. Even the ice ceased its tinkling. Jane lookedaround to see what was happening and saw the guests looking in opposite directions—half toward the front of the bar and half toward the back.
    At the front stood a short, stout woman, her graying hair cut in an unflattering shag. She wore a plaid skirt that did little to flatter her figure, a bulky sweater of green wool that was equally unhelpful, and heavy black shoes that could only be described as sensible.
That must be Enid
, Jane thought.
    Enid—along with half of the guests—was staring at a man who Jane assumed to be Chumsley. He was all that his name implied. As short and stout as his ex-wife, he too had gray hair, although less of it. Curiously, he was dressed in what appeared to be some kind of riding outfit, including brown twill breeches tucked