I dropped Todd at his house and thanked him for his patience. At half-past three, Arch and I toted the bags of almost-thawed brownies through the service entrance of the Aspen Meadow Country Club. Or as Marla and I referred to it, the so-called country club. If Aspen Meadow didn’t have inbred high society, and it didn’t, it also had nothing to rival the magnificent colonial clubs of the East. But AMCC’s big motel-like main building had just undergone an expensive remodeling, with new locker rooms, golf and tennis shops, a weight room, and a meeting room, where PosteriTREE, as the garden-club splinter group called itself, was having its bake sale from three to five.
Marla stood with some pals behind one of the three buffet tables girdling the crowded room. She bustled toward me. She was we
