“And who’s this?”
To her credit, Editta Halvorson was cool as a cucumber in a twin set when she opened the door to Derrick and Lee. If Derrick hadn’t described the inevitable scene on their drive across town, Lee would never have even suspected that the little dynamo in sensible shoes had been frantically running about the house for the last thirty minutes, swearing in her own father’s quasi-Norwegian as she crammed another place around the pinecone-strewn table and rifled through the upstairs linen closet for an extra set of towels to set at the foot of Derrick’s bed. The consummate hostess, she would have slathered her own hand in sauce and thrown it on the barbecue grill before ever allowing a guest to feel the slightest bit unwelcome or unexpected. Even though Derrick had practically
