UPON LANDING IN San Francisco, Liz called Ken Weinrich to find out if the fumigation had concluded successfully, and he confirmed that the sulfuryl fluoride levels inside the house had measured at below five parts per million, he had seen no spiders, and his team had removed the tent and fans. Liz then called Mary’s cellphone, though it was difficult to hear Mary over the sound of their mother shouting in the background; apparently, they were back at the Tudor, in the kitchen.

“That food was all perfectly good!” Mrs. Bennet was declaring. “Why, I hadn’t even opened Bev Wattenberg’s peach marmalade!”

“Tell her I’m sure the Wattenbergs will give us more marmalade at Christmas,” Liz said, and Mary said, “There’s no point.”

“The house doesn’t smell weird at all?” Liz asked.

“It doesn’t smell like anything,” Mary said.

“I’ll tell you who won’t appreciate my tins of smoked trout,” Mrs. Bennet was shouting, “and that’s a hobo at a shelter.”

“I have to go,” Mary said.

“Hang in there,” Liz said, and Mary said in a churlish tone, “Thanks for the long-distance pep talk.”