Beth's phone was ringing as she walked in the door, returning from (she thinks) a losing football game on a cool October night. At this point, she couldn't even remember who the Orangemen had played. Slippery Rock? Ball State? It escaped her.

Beth decided to let the machine answer, and the ringing stopped. As she listened to her own, oddly cheerful, voice and then the beep, she foraged around the kitchen and discovered an unopened package of Tim Tams. As she devoured them, out of the machine's little tinny speaker came a voice she had not expected to hear. Not so soon after the lemonade incident, anyway.

"Beth...are you there? Beth, it's Aunt Ellen. Listen, I know you probably didn't expect to hear from me so soon, and I am sorry about that, but I don't have time to diddle around with your silly grudges right now. We need your help. It's Eileeeeen. she's at it again, Beth. Tales of Slaughter. You've got to help us stop her. For the squirrels, Beth."

Beth sank into a chair and pondered the lemonade incident for about the 84th time. Aunt Ellen, the lemonade, the robe, an angry kitchen appliance, and a warm July morning. As Beth remembered it, Aunt Ellen had insisted she knew how to work the blender. But in the few minutes it took Beth to feed the impatiently meowing Miss M'Lou, all hell had broken loose. Noises, the likes of which Beth had not heard since her nephew dumped a dozen marbles in the Cuisinart and pressed Puree, came screaming from the blender. Robe parts, orange fuzz, lemonade, and ice chips had rocketed around the kitchen, adhering to the wall, the ceiling fan, and the dull green countertops. An army of little umbrellas had poked themselves into the acoustic ceiling tile while a few weaker umbrellas slowly parachuted to the linoleum. After the smoke cleared, Beth had discovered that Aunt Ellen's orange chenille robe was missing its left arm and part of the right pocket. Unbelievable. Aunt Ellen was apparently so traumatized she had retreated to the guest bedroom for the rest of the day. Beth was left with the wreckage. It had taken forty-three minutes just to coax Miss M'Lou from underneath the china cabinet (and only then with a large plate of tuna laced with Prozac), and another two hours to pluck the remaining umbrellas from the ceiling. No one knew for sure where the orange fuzz had come from. And just as Beth had fished the last of the chenille arm from the garbage disposal, Ellen had announced her immediate departure, climbing into a taxi while muttering her goodbyes.