One<br >"A good night for murder，" said young Hoddy Forrest in as lugu-<br >brious a voice as he could summon. He dangled brown legs over<br >the balustrade of the terrace and looked out at the still， evening<br >waters of the Sound. Silence on the terrace behind him was disap-<br >pointing; there was only Aunt Chrissy， sitting stiffly upright in a<br >wicker chair nearby， her high-nosed face imperturbable as usual.<br >Even the way her slim feet were planted together on the flagstone<br >terrace suggested ice dignity. She didn t lift one of her carefully<br >arched eyebrows but she had the ears of a cat， so she must have<br >heard him but did not comment upon his ominous observation. He<br >would have liked some sort of reaction to his deeply dramatic<br >tones. He liked to think of himself in turn a poet rnanqu~ or an<br >actor manque. His sister， Meade， was likely to say a little crisply<br >that he was manque， all right， and needn t brag about it. Meade<br >was twenty-three; Hoddy was nineteen， going on twenty， and he<br >had dramatic news for her. But Andy wouldn t wait very long;<br >Hoddy swung his bare legs and dirty tennis shorts back over the<br >balustrade and as he did so the door to the house opened; there was<br >the clink of bottles and glasses and Meade emerged， laden with a<br >tray of cocktail materials. Hoddy was not lacking in chivalry; he<br >went to take the tray from her hands.<br > "Thanks，" said Meade， who was， he reflected briefly， even to<br ><br >