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“But Janette, you have to understand that Neda is simply nervous. She’s new at this.”

“I told you from the start that this wasn’t going to work,” said the offended soprano.

“The least you could do is give Neda a chance. I’m sure she’ll grow in her role and—”

“Grow in her role!” Janette scoffed. “Oh, please. The only thing that will grow is that insufferable woman’s ego. No, I’m sorry,” she said, holding up her hand when the priest made to speak. “I gave it my best shot, but this isn’t working for me. Adieu, Francis.”

And with these words, she walked off in high dudgeon, stared after by the priest.

“Oh, dear,” Father Reilly murmured, wringing his hands as he returned to the altar.

As Neda got into her car, a brand-new Mini Cooper, she was carrying her songbook with the sheet music under her arm, and also the powerful grudge that she held against that terrible woman Janette Bittiner.“Stupid woman,” she muttered as she dropped down into the driver’s seat, adjusted her glasses, snapped the seatbelt into place and slammed the door shut. She just had to go and ruin things for her by playing the grande dame, didn’t she? Well, good riddance. There were plenty of sopranos in the world apart from Janette Bittiner. And with less corrosive personalities, too.

She started the car and could soon be seen tootling along the road that led from St. John’s Church to her beloved home, which she’d christened Bootles, after her dearly departed German shepherd of the same name. And as she drove along, her eye happened to catch a flyer depicting her likeness having been tacked to a lamppost. Abruptly she stomped on the brakes, almost causing the car behind her to slam into her, and frowned as she took in the flyer in question. It was a very simple flyer, consisting of a picture of Neda’s face, above which the message ‘Neda Hoeppner is a Jezebel’ had been printed.

“Well, really!” Neda snapped as she got out of the car, her door almost knocking a cyclist from his bike, she stalked over to the lamppost, and ripped down the flyer, then crumpled it up and threw it into the gutter, littering laws be damned. But when she glanced up along Main Street, she saw that every single lamppost, as far as the eye could see, had been decorated in the same way, and carried the same message, depicting her as some kind of latter-day slut or harlot. But instead of demeaning herself by going from lamppost to lamppost and removing every last remnant of this outrageous and public insult, she decided to do the dignified thing and ignore the slur. So she got back into her car, and soon was racing along, her face set in an expression of utter determination.

The moment she arrived home, she took out her phone and got in touch with her secretary.“Cher, drop everything and go down to Main Street at once.”

“Main Street?” asked her loyal secretary. “What for?”

“Some absolute idiot has plastered the entire street with extremely derogatory and inflammatory flyers. I want you to collect every single one of them and then go down to the police station and file a complaint for defamation of character and slander.”

“Do you know who’s behind this campaign?” asked Cher promptly.

“Janette Bittiner,” she snapped.

“Janette? Are you sure?”

“One hundred percent. This is just the kind of horrible thing that woman would do.”

She disconnected and tapped her formidable chin with the phone as she wondered to what lengths the Bittiner woman would take this feud that had existed between them ever since Neda had been selected as St. Theresa Choir’s new conductor. Better to nip this thing in the bud before it got completely out of hand. “Jezebel,” she scoffed bitterly as she placed down her phone. “I’ll show her who the real Jezebel is!”

Just then, the doorbell chimed its melodious three-tone sound, indicating someone wanted to have speech with her. She frowned and collected herself. She would never have admitted it to anyone, but this most recent altercation with Janette had rattled her. And it was imperative that she be cool and collected for her upcoming interview. There was nothing she hated more than to lose control. So she sucked in a steadying breath, tilted up her chin, and proceeded in the direction of the door, like a galleon under sail.

“Please come in,” she said as she threw the door wide to greet her visitor.

1

We were all gathered in Marge and Tex’s newly rebuilt home, and judging from the oohs and aahs being uttered, the collective sentiment was favorable, the builders and the contractor and the architect in line for high praise. And I must admit the house did look nice, though a little empty. No furnishings, no lights, no carpets, no nothing, which made me realize that a house isn’t the same thing as a home, and that as long as its owners haven’t added their personal touch, it’s just a blank canvas, eagerly waiting to be filled.

“I think they did a great job,” said Uncle Alec appreciatively.