“HOW DO YOU TELL if a woman is Playing a man False?” I asked Mrs. Murphy the next morning when she brought me my breakfast tray at 9 a.m. (I was thinking about Violetta’s behavior. I had not yet learned of the bloody murder.)

She put the tray on the table. “Good morning to you, too, P.K.,” she said. “Well now, to answer your question: there are a few ways of telling if a gal is genuinely taken with a fellow.”

“How?” I asked through a mouthful of eggs.

She perched on my bed.

“You promised to tell me about the wedding,” she said. “I want to know who was wearing what.”

“I am eating,” I said, taking a forkful of beans. “You go first.”

“Well then, in my experience there are things a woman does without realizing it. For example, I have found that if a woman likes a fellow she will open her eyes wide and smile and hold his gaze and sometimes tilt her head to one side.”

I put down my fork & pulled out my pencil. This was just what I needed. I opened my Detective Notebook and began to make notes.

“Sometimes while a fellow is talking,” said Mrs. Murphy, “a woman will touch her own hair or stroke her cheek, without even realizing she is doing it. And if she lightly pats his arm then she is well disposed towards him. Some women will make their eyelashes flutter and then look up at the fellow through them. But he’d better watch out if she crosses her arms or narrows her eyes or turns away.”

I nodded. This was good. Jace had not yet taught me about tilting the head to one side nor the touching nor the flapping eyelashes neither, for he & I had only got as far as torsos.

“Does that help?” she asked.

I crunched a piece of bacon. “Yes, that is bully. And what does it mean if she kisses him in public?”

I was pretty sure I knew the answer would be “She is Playing her Man False” and was therefore surprised when Mrs. Murphy said, “That means she wants something from him. Or that she is a Soiled Dove. Or both. Now, tell me who was wearing what.”

I said, “Mr. Sam Clemens and his friend Mr. Rice were both wearing boiled shirts with paper collars. Also dark trowsers and frock coats. I think Mr. Clemens had a gray cravat—”

“Not the men, for the love of God!” she cried. “The women! What were the women wearing, at all?”

I said, “Oh. Well, the bride was dressed in puffy white with a passel of orange blossoms and lacy veils—”

“Don’t say ‘white’!” she cried. “Are you not a Detective? Then be precise! Was it Cream? Ecru? Champagne? Oyster? Sure, and there are a dozen shades of white!”

I had never thought about this before, but I guessed she was right. Detectives do have to be precise.

I said, “I reckon it was closest to chalk white.”

“Oh, pshaw!” she said. “What about the other ladies?”

I said, “Mrs. Violetta De Baskerville was wearing a puffy dress of reddish purple with her shoulders showing.”

“Oh, P.K.” Mrs. Murphy put her hands on her hips. “You cannot just call dresses ‘puffy.’ And ‘reddish purple’ is either Solferino or Magenta.”

“Those sound like battles, not dresses,” I said.

“They are battles,” she said. “But they are also the latest colors.”

Mrs. Murphy reached into her apron pocket and pulled out the morning paper. “Look! Here is an account of a big society do in San Francisco last week,” she said. “Tell it to me like that!”

I studied the paragraph her finger was pointing to:

This season foulards of plain colors seem to be preferred: cream color, Solferino, Magenta, strawberry, violet, etc. The camails are ornamented with bands of guipure, and macarons of black gimp, terminating with chenille fringe; others are with bugles and chenille.

I stared at her. “This seems to be about camels and cookies and bugles, but I do not understand French.”

She sighed and reached for the newspaper.

I held on. I had been scanning it for a report of a spy behind the curtain at the Curry wedding the night before, when I saw a more shocking story on the front page.

“Wait!” I cried, as she tugged the paper.

“What?” she said. “What is it?”

“Murder,” I said. “Bloody murder.”

“Oh, pshaw!” she said. “That ain’t news. We are always having them.”

I held fast to the paper. This is what I read:

MURDER IN CARSON!

The good people of Carson are enjoying the sensation of a first class murder, which came off here about one o’clock this morning. A full-grown, cold-blooded murder, with thrilling accompaniments, had not happened right here in Carson for upward of a fortnight previously. Consequently this affair has all the charm of novelty! The victim was a young man by the name of Con Mason. The murderer is—nobody knows who for a certainty, and probably the law never will ascertain.

I looked up at Mrs. Murphy. “The murdered man was at the wedding last night!” I cried. “He was kissing Mrs. Violetta De Baskerville. And I am almost positive she asked him to meet her after!”