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carrying a full complement of the Aleford Ancient Order of Hook and Ladder Volunteers. Screeching to a halt behind these came the ambulance. Bringing up the rear, the chief’s venerable police car sputtered to its own inimitable stop.
    Faith hurried back to the tent to put out additional food.
    â€œMore mouths to feed,” she instructed the staff, adding to Niki and Pix, “You know they’re all kicking themselves for missing the action, and you can be sure they’re not going to pass up the chance to hobnob on the set now that they’re here.” She looked into the soup tureens. There was plenty and it was steaming hot. “And, to be fair, they can’t leave without checking things out, which just might have to take all afternoon. We can grab Charley later for coffee and doughnuts. I’d like to know myself how the rags caught fire.”
    â€œIs this the Faith Fairchild version of ‘inquiring minds want to know’ again?” Niki asked. “I’ve heard stories about you. I’m sure it was a cigarette. You know they all go into the woods to smoke. It’s a wonder we haven’t had a forest fire.”
    â€œYou’re probably right,” Faith agreed. “But why is it always a pile of oily rags? Do you keep oily rags around? I don’t. What do you do to get them oily, anyway? If you were being terribly crafty and refinishing furniture or working on your car, why not throw the rags away? It’s not as though you’d wash them and use them for oily things again. No, it all seems so—well, so convenient.”
    â€œYou’ve obviously put a great deal of thought into the problem of oily rags and I’m sure you’d prefer a straightforward fire of suspicious origin in this case, but if you’d ever looked in the hayloft of that barn, you’d have seen there are piles of all sorts of junk, including oily rags created by God knows who for what purpose.”

    Tucking the thoughts of what Niki was doing in the hayloft and why she, Faith, hadn’t checked it out herself into a corner of her mind for later consideration, Faith got ready to serve the returning crew. “It looks like our purpose is coming in the door.”
    They were followed by the Aleford brigade about thirty minutes later. Which is why Police Chief MacIsaac, Fire Chief O‘Halloran, and their cohorts eagerly slurping down Faith’s soup and clamoring for seconds in amiable company with the director, cast, and crew of A were all there to witness Evelyn O’Clair’s possibly last dramatic entrance.
    Clutching her stomach and moaning, she staggered into the tent. “I’ve been poisoned!” she cried. Then she vomited violently and collapsed.

Chapter Three

    But who can see an inch into futurity beyond his nose?

    If one has indeed been poisoned, having a large number of trained rescue workers and an ambulance close at hand may be regarded as something more than a happy coincidence. Evelyn O’Clair had been damned lucky indeed.
    But not poisoned.
    Or rather, not poisoned in the classical, even conventional sense. It wasn’t strychnine or arsenic. Not even digitalis—ad—mittedly difficult to cull from the abundant foxglove still slumbering under the earth surrounding the old house.
    It was Chocolax, a digestive aid, and it was in the black bean soup—a medium that unfortunately intensified the drug’s effects. In addition, a substantial amount of a liquid laxative sold over the counter for use before certain X rays had been added.
    â€œWhy didn’t anyone say anything!” wailed Faith when Charley MacIsaac stopped by early the next day to bring her the ill tidings in person. He had had a bad night himself after yesterday’s lunch and was not in a good mood.
    â€œWe all thought it was some sort of new fool concoction of
yours, that’s why. And it wasn’t bad. Just kind of unusual. Besides, there was so