“In a second, Mom.” Sara’s tone was urgent. “Everybody sit tight.”
A dazzling flash blinded us. There were ejaculations, the loudest and least gentle from Prescott. I, having bounded up from my chair, stood feeling foolish.
Sara said composedly, “I wanted one of Nero Wolfe sitting at his desk. Excuse it please. Hand me that dingus, Andy.”
“Go chase a snail. You darned little fool.”
“Sara! Sit down!”
“Okay, Mom. That’s all.”
We stopped blinking. I was back in my chair. Wolfe inquired dryly, “Is your daughter a professional photographer, Mrs. Dunn?”
“No. She’s a professional fiend. It’s this damnable saga of the illustrious Hawthorne girls. She wants to carry it on. She thinks she can—”
“That isn’t so! I only wanted a shot—”
“Please!” Wolfe scowled across. Sara grinned at him. He slanted his gaze upward at the veil. “Won’t you sit down, Mrs. Hawthorne?”