“You’re four hours too late, Arthur,” I said calmly.

“We got married at eleven.”

Arthur froze.

His eyes widened a little behind his rimless glasses, and his hand went still on the mahogany chair back.

“What did you just say?” he asked.

“Margaret and I were married in the hospital chapel at eleven this morning,” I said, looking him straight in the eye.

“The marriage certificate was recorded at the county probate office before noon.”

Arthur stared at me as the color drained out of his face.