A little later on Oliver sat on his front porch waiting for his guests to arrive. Mrs. Grimes, in her snug-fitting black silk dress, rocked impatiently in a chair nearby. The guests were late.
“It’s Josephine Sage,” she observed crossly, breaking a long silence. Oliver was startled out of his reflections. “She’s the one that’s making ’em late. Mr. Sage was telling me the other day that actresses are always late to a party. He’s just got onto it, he says. He says it’s what they call an entrance, though what that means I don’t know.”
He looked at his watch. “It’s only half-past seven, Aunt Serepta. They’re only fifteen minutes late. I’ve been losing my temper again,” he said gloomily. “Probably made an enemy of that detective, Malone.”
“What difference does that make? He’s not a voter in this county,” said the old lady composedly.
“Did you know that Pete Hines has gone away?”
“I didn’t even know he’d come back,” said she.
“Come back? What do you mean?”
“He was away all last week. They say he’s making corn whisky somewhere up in the hills back of Crow Center. At any rate, he’s been peddling it around town for a couple of months.”
“I thought it was gasolene he’s been selling.”
“Maybe that’s why Abel Conroy calls it fire-water. Here they come. Goodness! The way that Parr boy drives! He ought to be locked up for—”