“On the night before the last game of the playoffs, I got a call from some guy who wouldn’t identify himself. He said that if I came in to relieve, he’d give me a hundred big ones to throw the game.”

“Do you mean a hundred thousand dollars?” Charlotte looked shocked as Marc nodded. “Whatever did you say?”

“I told him I wasn’t interested, that there was no way I wanted to get involved in something like that.”

“Well, I should hope not!” Charlotte pursed her lips together. “Did you report it to the authorities?”

Marc shook his head. “I figured it was a joke. We had some real bozos on the team and that was right up their alley. At the game the next day, I got called up to relieve in the sixth when the score was tied four-four. I got two strikes on my first man and then he caught a piece of my curveball and lined one straight at me. I had to dive to make the catch and I racked up my elbow so bad they had to take me out of the game.”

Grace was sitting on the edge of her chair. “That’s exciting! I just love baseball except that I’m always working when the games are on television and every time I try to tape one to watch later, Moira ends up telling me how it came out before . . . Okay, Moira. I’ll be quiet. But did your team win, Marc?”

“Nope, we lost. And the next day I got an envelope in the mail with a hundred big ones inside.”

“Good heavens!” Charlotte gasped. “They thought you got injured on purpose?”

“I guess so. I thought about turning it in, but the kind of guys who pay to fix a game don’t like anyone to know about it, especially the police. And there was no way I could identify who’d sent it anyway. So I stuck it in a safe deposit box and went off to the hospital for elbow surgery.”

“But the surgery didn’t work,” Lyle prompted. He’d heard this part of the story before.

Marc nodded. “That’s right. After five different doctors had worked on me, they told me to forget about pitching again. And since my career in baseball was finished, I used the money to start my construction business.”

“No one ever asked you to return it?” Charlotte’s hands were trembling slightly as she refilled Marc’s champagne glass.

“Of course not.” Marc shrugged. “Everything turned out the way they wanted, even though my part in it was strictly unintentional. I’ve always regarded that cash as a kind of workman’s compensation. And I’ve never told anybody about it before.”

“Well, we certainly won’t repeat it!” Alan nodded emphatically. “I don’t blame you for keeping it, though. After all, how could you return it if you didn’t know who’d sent it in the first place?”

“That’s exactly the way I figured it. And that’s enough about me. We’ve got just enough time for a few words from the happy couple before I present my gift.” Marc drained his champagne glass again and motioned for the waiter to pour more. “You first, Lyle.”

Lyle was solemn as he got to his feet. “Since Charlotte and I got married twenty-five years ago, I haven’t regretted a single day.”

“Isn’t that sweet?” Grace started to applaud, but Charlotte reached out to grab her hands. She was well acquainted with her husband’s sense of humor.

“And that single day was June fourth, nineteen eighty-nine.”

“I knew it!” Charlotte was laughing as she got to her feet. “He doesn’t mean it. At least, I don’t think he does. And now, I have a surprise for all of you. My book is going to be published!”

“Your book?” Moira looked puzzled. “We didn’t know you were writing a book, Charlotte.”

Charlotte smiled modestly. “Well, some people might not call it a book, but I do. Remember the genealogy study I did last year?”

“Of course.” Paul rose to his feet to shake Charlotte’s hand. “I, for one, was very impressed. If I remember correctly, you traced your ancestors back to the fifteenth century.”

Charlotte looked proud. “That’s right, Paul. All the way back to Vicar William Henry Wingate’s birth in fourteen thirty-one. But that’s not the book they’re going to publish.”

“Tell us, Charlotte.” Grace clapped her hands together, as excited as a child. “Who’s your publisher? Is it a work of fiction, a murder mystery, or maybe a romance? You certainly could do one of those after being married for twenty-five years. No, I can’t see you writing a romance. It’s not cultivated enough. So I bet it’s a family saga. I just love family sagas, I read one last week about some very valuable family jewels that were . . .”

Moira reached out to put her hand over Grace’s mouth. “Never mind, Gracie. Be quiet and let Charlotte tell us.”

“Thank you, Moira. My book is going to be published by the Clark County Historical Society. And I’m not sure what category it is. Let’s just call it a genealogical study of our land on Deer Creek Road, since I’m tracing the lineage of ownership.”

“That sounds fascinating.” Moira tried to look interested even though the very idea bored her silly. “How long have you been working on it?”

“I just started the research a few months ago and I’ve already discovered some things that are really quite shocking.”

Laureen looked interested. “Like what? My mother traced the history of our family, but she quit when she came upon proof that my maternal great-uncle was a horse thief.”

“Oh, it’s much more shocking than that.” Charlotte began to smile. “For example, I discovered that there was once a bordello right where our building stands.”

Moira let out a whoop of laughter. “That’s wonderful! Our own little red-light district. What else did you find?”

“I’ve barely scratched the surface, but I’ve been studying old assay records and I found several references to a silver mine that’s reputed to be on our land. According to local legend, more than a dozen prospectors were murdered before they could stake a claim.”

Alan began to grin. “Maybe Laureen and I should do a little exploring this summer. We’d own that mine if we found it, wouldn’t we, Clayton?”

“Of course.” Clayton nodded. “Our title includes all mineral rights.”

Marc frowned. “Don’t waste your time, Alan. The odds of finding anything worth excavating are even longer than the odds at roulette. Right, Johnny?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Johnny flashed his famous grin, the one that made middle-aged ladies ask for his autograph after every show. “I think the odds at roulette are pretty good.”

Marc snorted. “Only if you own the house. Roulette’s a sucker’s game and you know it. How about the double zero?”

Jayne put her hand on Marc’s arm. “Hush up, you two. What else did you find, Charlotte?”

“Well, there is one other thing.” Charlotte lowered her voice. “Now, I’m not entirely sure about this, but one of my references alludes to some extremely unsavory individuals who may have held title previously.”

Clayton, who was about to take a sip of champagne, set his glass down with a thump. “What on earth are you talking about, Charlotte? We went through a title search as part of our escrow and the title is clear.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is, Clayton. What I’m interested in are the crimes that may have been committed while these individuals owned our land.”

“What kind of crimes?” Hal leaned forward. “Come on, Charlotte. You can’t leave us up in the air.”

“I guess not.” Charlotte’s lips turned up in a mischievous smile. “All right, Hal. One more tidbit of information and that’s it until I get the proper documentation. My reference alludes to several mysterious and unsolved murders.”

“Holy . . . uh . . . cripes!”

Grace laughed out loud as Moira switched words in midsentence. “Go ahead and swear, Moira. What we just heard deserves more than a ‘cripes.’”

“And I used to think genealogy was boring.” Lyle put his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “How about a toast to Charlotte, the genealogical sleuth?”

As soon as the waiter had refilled their glasses, Marc stood up. “To Charlotte’s book. Come on, everyone. Drink up. And then it’s time for my present. I’m treating Lyle and Charlotte to the best dinner money can buy.”