TUESDAY TRASH AND TROUBLE

BOOK # 3 IN THE FRIDAY NIGHT MYSTERY CLUB

JOANNA CAMPBELL SLAN

Tuesday Trash and Trouble: Book # 3 in the Friday Night Mystery Club. Copyright © by Joanna Campbell Slan 10.15.2022

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

Joanna Campbell Slan / Spot On Publishing

9307 SE Olympus Street

Hobe Sound, FL  33455

http://www.JoannaSlan.com

Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Cover: Vila Design

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Back in 1986, there were no cell phones, and the newspaper where I worked only had a few computers. Hard copies were the only reference materials available. We “dressed for success,” and being a working woman meant putting up with all sorts of bad behavior. There were vastly different moral standards for men and women. Such was the price of our attempt to gain equality.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Want to learn more about feisty Cragan Collins?

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About the author…

CHAPTER ONE

Decatur, IL / 1987

“You are jealous.” Zee folded her arms across her chest and gave me that level stare that fits like a vise. Like always, Zahara “Zee” Johnson was immaculately dressed. Today she wore a classically cut navy blue suit with an ivory blouse that contrasted with her dark skin. Everything about Zee screamed “professional,” even her cultured voice. “Cragan, you are crazy, insanely jealous of Pru’s friend.”

“No, I am not.” My chin jutted out. I straightened my posture and stared at her. But I couldn’t hold the gaze for long. Instead of shrinking under her withering gaze, I leaned down and picked at the carcass of a dead bug stuck to my bumper. The moth had hit my car with enough force that he’d disintegrated and become one with my red Mazda RX-7. Using my thumbnail, I scrubbed at the smear of bug guts.

“You lie like a cheap toupee,” said Zee as she shook her head and unlocked the door on her black Toyota Camry. “Honestly, Cragan. Do you think I can’t tell when you are trying to pull the wool over my eyes?”

I gritted my teeth and counted to ten. “I am not jealous.”

“The hell you aren’t. Ever since Pru announced Sharma’s upcoming visit, you’ve been pouting like a two-year-old. What’s gotten into you, girl? Pru’s excited about seeing her old friend. That’s all. Once that woman gets here, spends time, and rides off into the sunset, Pru will go back to treating you like her favorite little sis. That’s a promise.” Zee had that look on her, the one that suggested I was too stupid to live. Of course, maybe she was disgusted by the bug guts on my hand or how dirty my Mazda was. As always, her Toyota was pristine. What a contrast the vehicles made, sitting on the narrow patch of gravel behind 512 Green Street, the Craftsman-style house where Zee and I lived. She and I had apartments on the ground floor, while Pru Davis had one of the two places on the second floor.

Zee was a neatnik. Everything she owned was clean and put away in its proper place. Even her junk drawer was organized. She was a paragon of good housekeeping. Actually, she was obsessive.

Doing a slow burn, I decided I needed to get going. My job, selling newspaper display advertising, depended on my ability to hustle. Jingling my car keys, I attempted a quick exit. “See ya.”

“All right. Okay. Be that way. I was going to ask you to meet me for lunch at Robbie’s, but you’re obviously not in the mood.” Without waiting for my reaction, Zee opened her car door.

Lunch at Robbie’s? That sounded fabulous! It’s against my religion to turn down food. But I’d already squandered my opportunity.

Darn it! And Robbie’s makes the best burgers in town!

Zee kept talking as she climbed in behind the wheel. “Since you’re not in the mood, I guess I’ll grab a vending machine sandwich and eat at my desk. My boss is being a real idiot. I have no idea what has crawled up his butt and died, but something must have. That man is driving me nuts.”

“Wait!” I yelled as Zee’s car door started to swing shut. “Okay! I’m being childish! Give me a break. I can get in the mood for a fun lunch at Robbie’s. You know I can!”

Zee narrowed her Hershey’s Kiss-colored eyes and frowned. “Have I told you this morning how pitiful you are?”

“Not yet, but I believe you intend to.” If the price of a nice lunch was submitting to a round of Zee’s name-calling, that was a deal I could handle.

“Catherine Cragan Collins, you are pitiful. Just plain pitiful. Now go to work.” Zee sighed. “I’m going to my miserable desk at First National Bank. I’ll see you at eleven. You do remember that you are meeting with your lawyer tomorrow, don’t you? Around two? I know you’d rather forget.”

I groaned. “Thanks for reminding me.”

With that salvo launched, Zee rolled down her car window and said, “Quit standing there and acting like somebody done took your candy. Pull up your big girl panties and go earn a living.”

I snapped a salute. “Aye, aye, mon capitaine.”

The Camry’s engine turned over, purring like a happy cat. Zee tossed me one more zinger. “Girl, you are some kind of fool,” she said before backing out of her parking space.

This was Zee’s way of saying, “I love you dearly.”

With a sniffle, I climbed inside my red Mazda RX-7. Usually, I go straight to The Gazette, the newspaper where I work, but this morning I needed to call on potential clients at the Hickory Point Mall. That was a task that filled me with dread.

The promised lunch at Robbie’s would be a well-earned treat. Between the trauma of walking around the mall and knowing my best friend Pru would be preoccupied with a visitor, I was in a bad mood.

I gave myself a hard mental slap. “Snap out of it,” I mumbled. Pru’s friend, Sharma, was coming but she couldn’t stick around forever. Sharma would have to go back to Chicago, sooner or later. Pru had told us that Sharma hated Decatur and was only visiting because Pru had repeatedly begged her pal to spend time together. Sharma wouldn’t be staying for long. Everything would be okay.

Maybe.

But first I had to visit the mall. At a stoplight, I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and practiced wearing a smile. It was tough. My expression looked more like a grimace of pain. Keeping a pleasant look on my face was going to be a challenge.

Challenges are us, I decided. I could do this.

* * *

Yes, I was being overly sensitive about Sharma’s visit and I knew it. But even an independent observer would have to agree that I’d had a rough time of it recently. Pru’s friendship had been an enormous help as I tried to put my memories behind me. But this trip to the mall was bringing up all kinds of misery.

Less than two months ago, I’d made this same journey only to discover a friend slumped over in her car in the mall parking lot. She later died, but not before I learned that she’d lied to me. Repeatedly. Turns out, we’d never really been friends at all. In the uproar that followed, I was attacked by a murderer and almost killed. So yeah, I was a little jumpy. Could you blame me?

But as Pru had counseled me, “Life goes on.” Pru told me that I was a trooper, a warrior woman, and I would survive. Actually, I had to be strong. As a divorcée, I had only myself to rely on. Pru had given me a mantra to repeat: “I am Catherine Cragan Collins, and I can handle whatever comes my way.”

I was supposed to say that with exuberance. Today the best I could manage was muttering. If she’d been in the car with me, Pru would have reminded me that I was fully prepared for my workday, and thorough planning had always been a key to my success. She would have been right. On the passenger seat rested my trusty canvas briefcase. Inside were a half dozen mock-ups of display advertisements. With luck, the new manager of Byerly Music would like my work and decide to run a couple. There were also ads for Benjamin’s Fine Men’s Apparel and a tiny café called Lock, Stock and Barrel. I had two ads for the Flying Tomato Brothers’ pizza place, and an ad for Waldenbooks. These speculative ads represented a lot of my time as they were samples I’d produced without a commitment from the advertisers.

Most salespeople saw mock-ups as a waste, spending a lot of effort on the off-chance an advertiser would say, “Let’s run these.” But I’d built a good book of business by going that extra mile for my clients. Spec ads worked. They helped advertisers visualize how their merchandise would look in print. A lot of folks simply can’t imagine things that don’t exist.

I’m not one of them. I can imagine all sorts of things that don’t exist. You might say I am reality-challenged. I couldn’t dispute that claim.

Letting myself relax a little, I realized that the drive to Hickory Point Mall was actually pleasant, given the late spring weather. A dusting of new greenery frosted the acres of farmland, standing in stark contrast to the brown of last year’s dried cornstalks. My rolled down window invited a fresh scent, the sweet smell of promise. The land was dotted with signage announcing, “The Future Home of…” and then naming a variety of new businesses. There were also billboards announcing subdivisions that were springing up around the mall. These signs were almost as thick as the stands of daffodils along the roadside. As I drove, my thoughts returned to my conversation with Zee.

Zee hadn’t been fair to me. Yes, I was jealous of the upcoming visit by Pru’s friend, Sharma, even though I’d never met the woman. Pru was my dearest friend, and after the fiasco last month, I couldn’t imagine losing another pal. Not only was she encouraging and upbeat, Pru was also interesting. After all, she was the first person I’d met who worked in a gentleman’s club. As such, she had insight into the male psyche.

“Most of the guys who come into Fast Freddy’s just want to talk,” Pru had explained. “They aren’t coming to the club for the peep show. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s true. Deep down, all of us feel lonely and isolated. Men don’t talk to their guy friends because doing so would make them look weak. But those same fellows will gladly pay for time in a private booth with an exotic dancer and talk a mile a minute about their problems.”

Pru was right. It was easy to feel lonely and isolated. I’d felt that way most of my life, but things had gotten much, much worse over the past two years.

The dissolution of my marriage had left me feeling like a real loser. My ex-husband, Tim Collins, was a TV celebrity, a good-looking guy in an All-American way. But on the inside, Tim was ugly. While we were married, he acted like a corrosive chemical, eating away at my self-esteem. By the time we split, I was like a stray dog that had been dumped at the side of the road. You could say I had the emotional equivalent of a rampant case of mange.

Then there was my mother. No one knows about my relationship with her. No one except Pru.

So the two people who claimed to love me both thought I was a loser. That pretty much explains my lack of self-esteem.

From the moment we met, Pru had been determined to help me feel good about myself. Glamorous and confident, Pru taught me makeup and hairstyling tricks. She critiqued my clothing. She encouraged me to exercise and eat healthy foods. We attended Jazzercise classes every Saturday, and lately, we’d even talked about taking a girls’ trip to a Jazzercise convention.

Pru was my fairy godmother. When I asked why she was so beneficent, she told me that Sharma had done the same for her.

At eighteen, Pru had run away from home in nearby Danville. She’d sofa-surfed for a month until she’d run out of money for food. An ad for amateurs’ night at a local gentlemen’s club, Cloud Nine, caught her eye. The gig came with unlimited food and drink, as well as free admission to the club. Pru had always liked dancing, and she’d been a cheerleader in high school, so she figured, “Why not? I had nothing to lose, and a hot meal is a hot meal.”

Sharma had already been dancing for two years, when Pru walked into the Cloud Nine dressing room. Noticing that Pru was all alone and seemed unsure of herself, Sharma struck up a conversation with the newcomer.

“I would have totally embarrassed myself on the Cloud Nine runway, if Sharma hadn’t given me advice,” explained Pru. “It had never occurred to me to think about how I was going to get out of my street clothes. I didn’t bring a bikini bottom, because it had been a spur-of-the-moment decision. I didn’t know what the judges were looking for.”

“What were they looking for?” I figured they only cared about a girl’s appearance.

Pru said, “Looks are a part of it, but there’s also the air of allure and sexiness that’s really important. When you get up there on stage, you have to act like you’re the hottest woman who ever walked on earth.”

“What if you don’t feel hot?” I’d asked.

Pru shrugged. “Then you fake it until you make it. There are a few dancers who send out this ‘innocent little girl lost’ vibe, and there are some clients who like that sort of woman, but you still have to project an air of sexiness. Otherwise, you’ll only attract perverts.”

I wasn’t exactly sure how you could avoid perverts when you worked in a gentlemen’s club, but admittedly, I’d never given the situation much thought.

“You can’t believe how green I was,” Pru had told me. “I didn’t win the amateur night contest but I did get a job offer from the manager at Cloud Nine. In the beginning, I actually performed in a two-piece bathing suit. Believe me, that was a hassle. Swimsuits are made to stay on, not to come off. I knew nothing about makeup. Ditto, hair. Sharma helped me. She had learned her stuff from the house mother in another club.”

Pru went on to explain that a house mother is paid to help the girls get ready to perform. She’s a cross between a stage mom and a dorm director. The dancers chip in to pay the house mother’s salary.

“Sharma and the house mother at Cloud Nine took me aside and asked me if I was serious about making it as an exotic dancer.”

“How did you answer?” I asked.

Pru shrugged. “I got all huffy. I thought they were making fun of me, insinuating that I wasn’t good enough. But my bad attitude didn’t upset them. They had seen girls like me before. The house mother only laughed and invited me to come into the club early the next night, so she could give me a makeover. Later that evening, she and Sharma went through a bunch of costumes left behind by other dancers. They found a couple that would work for me once Sharma fixed them up. When I arrived an hour before opening, Sharma showed me several moves that always got the patrons to cheer and ask for more.”

Pru turned her hands palms up in a gesture of surrender. “The rest is history. I didn’t have long to learn from Sharma. She was only there in Danville, so she could moonlight as the featured dancer. That’s typically an entertainer from out of town. Two weeks later, she went back to Chicago. A year went by, and I moved from Danville to Decatur. That’s how I became the in-house featured dancer at Fast Freddy’s.”

“A lot has changed since you came here,” I said.

“So true,” she admitted.

Fast Freddy’s had recently been sold, and Pru had a crush on the new owner, Anthony Calamari. Pru’s eyes grew dreamy when she talked about Anthony. When I asked if she’d let him know that she was interested in him, Pru actually blushed. “No way. He’s a single dad with custody of his six-year-old daughter. His mother lives with him, helping him raise the little girl. I can’t imagine Anthony bringing me home to meet his family.”

I’d never known Pru to disparage her profession, but clearly, she was uneasy. Was she afraid of getting shut down? Or was she worried that Anthony wouldn’t want to date her because she was an exotic dancer? Did he think it could be used in court to challenge his custody? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t press it.

After all, what do I know about love and long-term relationships? Not much. That’s for sure. Oh, wait. I know how to fail at both, and I know exactly how a person can wind up with a lot of debt after a divorce. Boo-ya! That sort of hard-won knowledge has to count for something.

All of this ran through my mind like the tape in an audio cassette. As I pulled into the ring road at Hickory Point Mall, it dawned on me that I actually owed Sharma a debt of gratitude. After all, Sharma had helped Pru craft a thriving career. Stardom suited Pru, and overall, my friend was happy with her life.

Pru’s story was proof that good mentor can change your life. I’d had my own example. Robert Smithson, the late business reporter for The Gazette, had been an incredible help to me when I first got my job in ad sales. Even though he was in the editorial department and I was in advertising, Robert had a lot to teach me. He had the scoop on local businesses, and he understood the politics inside the newspaper. Robert coached me, corrected me, and listened when I complained.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that my life was currently full of mentors. For example, all three of my housemates were helping me become a better person. The other second floor occupant Rosie Sanchez was teaching me to cook, primarily making Mexican dishes and baked goods. Last week, she’d taught me to make Spanish rice, and I’d wowed our friends with my first batch.

Zahara “Zee” Johnson was a case study in the art of being professional. As a Black woman, Zee had fought the discrimination inherent in our local culture in the best way possible—by being above reproach in all aspects of her life. Now she was helping me up my game. Last month, she’d hauled me into a nail salon. While she had her fingertips painted a yummy crimson, I’d had mine done in a pastel pink. I’d gotten loads of compliments. Now nice-looking nails were as much of a part of my look as wearing pantyhose.

Even though Robert was gone, I still had a mentor at the newspaper. Winnie Roper shared a desk with me, and she had a deep understanding of how the different departments worked together. Winnie knows a ton about everyone in town, and I do mean everyone. That woman is totally plugged in.

I’m naturally an introvert, and Winnie has shown me the advantages of acting like an extrovert, rather than allowing myself to fade into the woodwork. Winnie and I have been attending Chamber of Commerce meetings together. It’s a good way to prospect for new business. Previously, I would have skipped the “meet and mingle” portions of the monthly events, but now I am seeing the value in them. Winnie bought me a copy of Barbara Walters’ terrific book How to Talk to Practically Anybody about Practically Anything. After I read it, Winnie dragged me to my first Toastmaster’s meeting. It was hard, because I’ve had panic attacks when asked to speak in public. Nevertheless, I survived my first meeting, and slowly, I have become more comfortable with talking in front of groups.

Yes, my female friends had been instrumental in helping me become my best self. I needed to accept and appreciate that Sharma Nelson had done the same for Pru Davis.

Okay, that was settled intellectually. However, I couldn’t relax about the visit. Not when a niggling feeling told me that Sharma’s stay was going to throw a monkey wrench into my life.

Of course, that’s not what happened.

Instead of throwing a monkey wrench, Sharma smacked me with an entire toolbox.

CHAPTER TWO

I managed not to hyperventilate as I walked toward the oversized entrance at Hickory Point Mall, although I did tremble a bit. I shook my head to clear the bad memories. But once I started talking to customers, I forgot about the trauma I’d endured. Instead, I concentrated on the business at hand. My spec ads were well received. The guys at the Flying Tomato Brothers even signed a long-term contract. All in all, it was a productive day, even if I was dog-tired after going from one store to another. From the mall I went back to the newspaper, and from there to 512 Green Street. After changing into comfy clothes, I settled into doing household chores.

While lugging a basket of laundry from the dryer in the basement, I ran into Pru. She sang as she skipped along the first-floor hallway of our shared house. “Sharma is coming to visit. Sharma is coming to visit. She’ll be here tomorrow. La-la-la-la-la.” Pru’s copper-penny red curls bounced along. In her left hand was an opened letter, the catalyst for her unbounded joy.

“See?” Pru pointed to the correspondence. “This is when her bus gets in.”

“Uh-huh,” I said, trying not to fret over the visit. I kept my back to Pru, while I jiggled my key in the lock. Pru didn’t notice, but she did continue to chatter. Did I know that Sharma had recently been crowned Miss Nude Illinois?

Yes, I did. Boy, did I ever. This was the tenth time I’d heard that particular tidbit of breaking news, and nine times was more than enough. I bit my bottom lip rather than make a smart remark.

Before I could get inside my apartment, Pru tapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, Craigie. Why the sour face? Have a bad day?” she cooed.

Even though my name is Catherine Cragan Collins, and everyone calls me Cragan, Pru has dubbed me “Craigie.” She’s the only person to ever call me that. Actually, I was pleased to be given a nickname. It signified I occupied a special place in Pru’s pantheon of friends. However, today the moniker grated on my nerves.

I intended to keep my face neutral, but I must have glared at Pru because she stepped away from me. Her smile flickered and died.

“Wow. You really are in a foul mood. What on earth happened? Tell you what. I’ve got a bottle of Malbec open upstairs.”

She paused and squinted at my clothes. “Are you bleeding? I see a big red splotch on your ankle.”

“My cat bit me,” I explained.

“Oh,” said Pru. “That again.”

I’d adopted Sher Kahn after his original owner, Robert Smithson, had been murdered. Sher Kahn didn’t like me. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t get on his good side.

Pru looked at me expectantly.

I said, “I think a good bottle of wine would be wasted on me. Seriously, Pru. If you’ve got a bottle of cheap booze stashed away, I’ll take you up on your offer. But I’m not in the mood to enjoy anything expensive.”

“Okay. Sure. Like I said, I’ll grab the alcohol. I’ll even help you fold clothes.”

Her light steps retreated up the stairs as I stumbled into my apartment. Sher Kahn was in the midst of grooming his belly as I carried in the laundry basket. The Siamese cat paused long enough to make sure the intruder was moi and then went back to licking his fur. That’s the problem with cats. As long as their food bowl is full, they really don’t give you a second thought.

Sher Kahn is teaching me to approach all relationships with low expectations. He hammers home this lesson every day. By “low,” I mean rock-bottom, sub-basement. The most I expect of Sher Kahn is that he use his litter box as his toilet, rather than my bed. As long as he complies with that request, I can deal with his lack of affection.

After giving Sher Kahn a courteous nod, I set the basket on the sofa.

Pru flung open my apartment door and shouted, “Ta-dah!” as I folded a faded sweatshirt. She waltzed into my kitchen and reached into the cabinet for two glasses. “You asked for cheap? I brought you cheap. I had a bottle of cheap rum tucked away in my cabinet. Lucky us, there was also a cold Coke in the back of my refrigerator.” She rustled around in my freezer, grabbed a handful of ice, and made us mixed drinks.

Half a glass later, the laundry was folded. I was on my way to bliss or, more likely, blissful ignorance. Pru and I sat side by side on my sofa. We hadn’t talked while we were busy getting a buzz on. The alcohol was kicking in, and I was halfway to numb. Pru turned to me.

“All right, Craigie. Spill it. What’s put you in such a rotten mood?” Pru’s perfectly arched eyebrows raised over her hazel eyes. As usual, she was wearing a touch of makeup. Or at least, it looked like a touch but was probably a fair amount, artfully applied. The pink sweater she wore bared both of her shoulders. On me, it would have looked sloppy. On her, it looked “come hither.” Pru is a walking, talking sex bomb. By contrast, my sex life is a bust.

When I didn’t answer, Pru persisted. “Come on. What’s eating you?”

I sighed and decided to share at least one of my problems. “I got a call from my attorney. I have to go and see him tomorrow. He’s in receipt of a letter from Robert Smithson’s distant cousins. I’m being sued for alienation of affection.”

“Aha! Whom did you alienate?” Her mouth twisted into a wry smile.

“Supposedly, I alienated them! They contend that I caused Robert Smithson to reject them and to leave me all of his worldly wealth. That’s a load of crap. They’re the ones who did the alienating. When they found out Robert was a homosexual, they didn’t want anything to do with him. How could I have alienated his affection for them, when there wasn’t any affection to alienate?”

“Is that all?” Pru sipped her drink. She’d barely touched her drink. I was way ahead of her. At this rate, I’d need a second rum and Coke in a matter of minutes. “All that’s bugging you?”

“Is that all? Oh, no. You know how trouble arrives. It never travels alone. Zee and I were supposed to have lunch at Robbie’s, but she had to cancel.”

“That stinks,” said Pru.

“Yes, and there’s more. Turns out that our new publisher, George Reynolds, might not be able to begin work at The Gazette as quickly as we’d hoped. He and his wife have a child with special needs, a little girl with Down Syndrome. His wife is reluctant to move here until they find the right school, one that will allow the child to mainstream with other kids. Mr. Reynolds doesn’t want to leave his wife and little girl behind. Consequently, all his plans to make personnel changes are on hold. The upshot is that I have to put up with Yakky, the horrible head of the advertising department, longer than I’d hoped.”

“I can’t blame those parents,” said Pru, returning to the issue facing the Reynolds. “A move would be incredibly disruptive for a special needs child. The change of residences, the strange surroundings, the loss of friends and support. All that would need to be replaced. Add to it the fact that their daughter might not be able to continue her education, and I’d be hesitant to move, too.”

“I don’t understand their problem. Not entirely. I’m sure there are schools here that have Special Ed classes.” I put down my glass and allowed Sher Kahn to step into my lap. He regarded me as a rather large and bulky piece of furniture. I was there for his convenience. It wasn’t like he purred for me or rubbed his face against mine.

I live to serve. That’s my new motto.

“Mainstreaming is different,” Pru explained. “Research shows that kids who mainstream make more advances, especially in language development. However, not every school is willing to mainstream a child with a disability. Some are highly resistant.”

As usual, I learned something new by talking with Pru. Most people see how stunning she is and write her off as a bimbo. They figure she’s all beauty and no brains. That’s a shame. They cheat themselves of the chance to meet a woman with a first-rate mind.

Pru patted my knee. “The Reynolds’ problems aside, sounds like you are stuck with Yakky. Poor kid.”

“Bingo.”

The head of The Gazette’s advertising department, Yakov “Yakky” Pavolich, was a posterchild for the Peter Principle, otherwise known as promotion beyond one’s abilities. Yakky lorded himself over the classified and display advertising departments. I worked in display, creating the ads our readers saw scattered throughout the paper. Since Decatur was one of the top ten cities in the nation in unemployment, and our newspaper boasted one of the top ten highest costs for ads, selling space to tout goods and services was hard work. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t mind putting in a bit of effort. In fact, I love what I do. But an incompetent boss makes my job even tougher than it already is.

Recently, Glendale Enterprises, the company that owns our paper, discovered that Yakky, our editor, and our publisher, had colluded to promote the erroneous claim that a Japanese car company would definitely not build a factory in Decatur. They promulgated this lie in order to buy up real estate and service franchises at low prices. They anticipated making beaucoup bucks when the official announcement came that a Japanese concern actually was locating here. In other words, they squandered the one product a newspaper sells: accurate information. Those three men did this to line their own pockets at the expense of the newspaper’s reputation.

When Glendale Enterprises learned about the perfidy, the muckety-mucks went ballistic. They immediately removed our editor, since he was directly responsible for the newspaper’s content. They gave the publisher early retirement, moving him out to a pasture far, far away. They made these changes, hoping to avoid an outright admission that the publisher had been a part of the deception.

The only person left from the original triumvirate was Yakky, Yakov Pavolich. Recently a tipster had told the Glendale hierarchy exactly how Yakky was misusing his position. Over the years of his tenure, Yakky had built his own personal empire by offering advertisers cheap or free space in return for “gifts.” He had joined almost every country club and organization in the county, so he could gladhand important locals. None of this had been done in service to The Gazette.

As a consequence, Glendale Enterprises announced Yakky would be retiring. They just neglected to say when. They’d gone so far as to move Ryder Hamilton to town as Yakky’s second-in-command. This had been done with an eye to replacing the Yakster. But Glendale’s executives had vastly underestimated the power that Yakky had amassed over many decades.

Seeing the headline on the wall, Yakky took steps to protect his position. He entrenched himself even further in our local community. He networked for all he was worth. He doled out favors like a Krewe member on a Mardi Gras float. One advertiser might request that Yakky authorize a special advertising placement. Another might want to borrow the newspaper’s press seats at a college ballgame. A few asked Yakky to perform the ultimate skullduggery: He used his position to keep their misdeeds out of the paper. This motley group pledged allegiance to Yakky. By the time Glendale was wise to his tricks, getting rid of Yakky would be like ripping ivy off the crumbling façade of a brick building. You might succeed in ridding yourself of the parasite, but you would also cause vast structural damage, because the roots are so deep.

While Glendale worked on the problem, the rest of us—Yakky’s minions—struggled. It became harder and harder to do our jobs in the face of Yakky’s temper tantrums, oddball edicts, and bizarre decisions. Not surprisingly, I was persona non grata because I’d helped uncover the lies about the car plant. Yakky blamed me for getting caught. As a result, Yakky was nastier to me than he was to the rest of the ad department.

Pru’s voice brought me back to the here and now. “What’s Yakky doing, while the new publisher scouts around for a school?”

“His usual schtick. Yakky is wining, and dining, and spreading rumors on the company’s dime. Glendale Enterprises tried to terminate his Decatur Country Club membership but Yakky got himself elected to the DCC board of directors. That made it almost impossible for Glendale to stop paying Yakky’s dues.”

“That man is such a weasel.”

“You’ve got that right. Somehow, Yakky has put a scare into Glendale Enterprises. They don’t think they can get rid of him. At least, not yet. They’re convinced they need him to keep on schmoozing, particularly since George Reynolds hasn’t officially relocated.”

I sighed and added, “But that’s not the worst of our problems. You see, because Yakky knows that Glendale wants to get rid of him, the Yakster is doing everything he can to undermine our department, even though we’re his direct subordinates. He figures that if we are fighting among ourselves, we’re no threat to him. That means we have to work overtime to get our jobs done. Every day, Yakky comes in with a new complaint or a bizarre tangent that he foists upon us. The upshot is that we waste a lot of energy, like a dog chasing her tail.”

Pru grabbed my glass and walked into my kitchen. I sat there on my sofa, weighed down by my cat and my worries. I hadn’t told Pru the other reason I was in a bad mood. How could I complain that I was jealous of her friend, Sharma? As the day had worn on, I’d also started worrying about how Sharma’s visit might impinge upon the Friday Night Mystery Club. The club was incredibly important to me. Pru always made time for our little group. Would Sharma’s visit upset our routine?

The five of us—Pru, Zee, Rosie, Winnie, and I—had bonded over our shared passion for reading mysteries. Pru dubbed us the Friday Night Mystery Club for obvious reasons. Slowly, we realized that the real attraction of these books was the triumph of good over evil. Even when we felt powerless in real life, the crime novels never let us down. From that came a gradual commitment to see justice prevail. True, we couldn’t arrest anyone or send anyone to jail, but by leveraging our talents, we could make someone’s life miserable. And that provided a real sense of satisfaction.

Would Sharma understand how deep our alliance was? Would Sharma join us? Act like one of the group? At the very least, not pry us apart? Or would she think we were silly and drag Pru away?

I couldn’t be sure, and that scared me.

CHAPTER THREE

After eating my Cheerios the next morning, I flipped the page on my kitchen calendar. The date was marked with a big red X. Sharma was arriving today. This was also the day I had to meet with my attorney. Seriously, life sucked.

I was climbing into my car when Rosie came out with her son, Julio, in tow. She waved an arm over her head in the universal gesture that meant stop. I rolled down my window.

“Julio has a gift for you,” Rosie said, pushing her dark-haired son forward. Honestly, that 10-year-old boy is my main squeeze; he’s absolutely adorable and smart as a whip.

While his mother was wearing her work uniform of dark slacks and an embroidered white peasant blouse, Julio looked like a miniature man in jeans and a collared tee shirt. The oversized backpack at his feet was nearly as big as he was. From a pocket of his jeans, he pulled a small item swaddled in tissue paper. After thanking him, I peeled away the wrapping and stared at a fake diamond ring.

“I won it in the gumball machine, and I want you to have it,” said Julio. “You can wear it to work so people will think you are engaged. Mama says diamond rings can keep creepy men away. Is that true?”

I slipped the ring onto my finger. “I have no idea, sweetheart. None. But I do have more than my share of creepy men in my life. I’ll give this a try. We’ll consider it an experiment, okay?”

“Okay,” he said solemnly, and he let me give him a hug through the car window.

As I drove away, heading for the paper, the plastic ring gave me something to smile about.

“You will never guess what I heard,” Winnie Roper whispered in my ear. It was a little after nine, and the newspaper was abuzz with industry. Winnie was the only member of the Friday Night Mystery Club, who didn’t live at 512 Green Street. She occupied the desk next to mine. We sat in the last two workspaces in the display ad department. Our backs were to the outside wall, an ugly stack of concrete blocks. Our desk tops were fenced on three sides by a low corkboard wall. The barrier was intended to give us a modicum of privacy. Otherwise, Winnie and I were completely exposed, thanks to the bullpen layout of the newspaper.

On the other side of the building was the editorial staff. Immediately to our left was a long shelf that supported bound copies of past newspapers. These were available for reference. On the other side of the binders, management offices lined the wall: display advertising manager, advertising manager, general manager, and publisher. In keeping with the open theme, their office walls were glass. For privacy, they could lower vinyl blinds. In front of those offices sat the classified ad phone bank. The classified staff were practically tethered to their desks. All that made their job was bearable was the fact they could see out of the vast glass windows on the front of the building. The remainder of the newspaper’s first floor featured a receptionist, a switchboard operator, the restrooms, the meeting room, and the lunchroom with its row of vending machines.

Winnie cupped her hand against my head, so no one else could hear her big scoop, and said, “Ryder is taking Elizabeth Varney to the Chamber of Commerce Gala this Sunday. Can you imagine?”

No, I couldn’t, and my mouth dropped open. That jerk! And what an odd couple! The newly divorced Elizabeth Varney was the former Miss Kansas Corn-Fed Beef. We all suspected that her copious bosom had won the title for her. Elizabeth used her breasts as a weapon, mopping up tables, bumping into pencil cups, and inviting admiring glances from men. She was the kind of woman who gives our gender a bad name.

And now she was going to be Ryder’s date for the swankiest party of the year. Ryder Hamilton, my secret boyfriend. My stomach turned a flip. Tears prickled behind my eyes. I swallowed hard. Once. Twice.

When I didn’t respond to her news, Winnie sank back into her seat.

As a guy with a bright future, Ryder had told me he wanted to keep our relationship quiet. According to him, Glendale Enterprises looked askance at relationships between management and subordinates. Given how unsettled the paper was, Ryder thought it best that we fly under the corporate radar. Actually, we did a lot less flying and a lot more lying…around in my bed. Ryder had assured me that he and I were a couple. We certainly had a hot and heavy relationship.

I’m not the type who blabs about her love life, so I had no problem keeping my mouth shut about us. As for the politics of our relationship, I had believed Ryder when he told me that Glendale wouldn’t approve. It made sense to me…until now. Winnie’s whispered secret hit me like an avalanche, burying all traces of my fledgling love life.

What a fool I’d been! I’d swallowed Ryder’s hogwash. I had kept my distance from him at work. I’d avoided talking to him here at the newspaper plant, even going so far as to steer clear of his office when I could have made excuses to drop in. Instead of normal dates, like going to movies or out to eat, I’d been content with heading out of town for long drives and letting Ryder sneak into my place after dark.

Pru had taken to calling Ryder the Invisible Man.

Zee wasn’t so kind. “You are ten kinds of stupid. That boy is using you.”

Rosie said nothing.

Winnie had come to the conclusion that Ryder and I were no longer interested in each other, and I hadn’t bothered to correct her.

Now I’d been hit with a bombshell—the news that Ryder was taking Elizabeth Varney to a black-tie event. It took every iota of willpower to keep my face stuck in neutral. I thought I was doing a good job of hiding my feelings. In fact, I believed I’d gotten away with it. But when Winnie took a good look at me, she frowned. She knew something was up but she wasn’t sure exactly what. She opened her mouth to ask.

Our desk phone rang. The noise rescued me. Winnie reached to answer the call. I jumped from my chair and race walked to the ladies’ bathroom. The place was empty. I slipped into the last stall and flushed the toilet repeatedly, sobbing all the while. Five minutes later, I stood over a sink and splashed my face with cold water.

In my haste to leave Winnie behind, I’d neglected to grab my purse. Without makeup to cover the damage, I couldn’t hide the fact I’d been crying. Nor could I wait for hours until the redness subsided. To get to my desk, my briefcase, and my purse, I’d have to walk past the receptionist, the classified ad department, the switchboard operator, half of the editorial department, and the entire display ad section. My tear-streaked countenance would act like a bullhorn, announcing I’d been crying.

Would folks guess I was upset about Ryder taking Elizabeth to a formal function? Maybe. If Winnie knew they were attending as a couple, the rest of the staff would know eventually. Our newspaper had always been a cesspool of lies, rumors, and inuendoes. Changes at the top made people feel insecure. In response, they became more eager for gossip, and tidbits like this were passed along fast.

I didn’t want to face the others, but I couldn’t hide out in the ladies’ john forever. I had sales calls to make. Keeping my head down and avoiding eye contact, I hurried back to my desk. In my absence, Winnie had left. I grabbed my things and hurried to the side exit, the shortest way out of the building.

There I walked smack into Ryder.

* * *

“Whoa, what happened to you?” He held me at arm’s length and studied me.

“Take your hands off me.” I wrenched free from Ryder’s grasp.

“Cragan? Are you okay?” His eyes narrowed as he studied me with concern.

“You betcha. I’m peachy keen. Now, please move. I have an appointment.” This was a lie.

Lately, I’ve been rethinking my whole belief system and decided lying is no longer verboten. I’m not talking about bearing false witness, which means testifying that someone did something when that’s not true. I’m talking about white lies. They are a useful tool, particularly when dealing with other liars. In fact, lying might be one of life’s most underestimated skills. It’s right up there with groveling. I think they should teach groveling in high school because you will find it handy every day of your adult life, but do they listen to me?

Nope. Although they should.

“You don’t look peachy keen. You look like you’ve been crying.” Ryder’s soft gray eyes examined me with his usual intensity, giving me a once-over that made me feel absolutely naked. He rubbed his palms up and down my shoulders in a comforting way.

I was having none of it. I pulled away so I wouldn’t breathe in the spicy cologne he wore. Deciding that the best defense was a strong offense, I said, “My emotions are none of your business. Commenting on my looks is inappropriate. Now, move it, pal.”

He staggered backward in an almost comic manner. His mouth formed a perfect circle of surprise. “You are mad at me!”

“What astonishing powers of perception you have! Utterly amazing. Speaking of utterly amazing, congrats on asking Elizabeth Varney to accompany you to the Chamber of Commerce Gala. I hope you and Miss Beef have a moo-moo-marvelous evening. Now, get the hell out of my way.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “I, um, was going to tell you about that.”

“Were you really? Honestly? Truly? And what, pray tell, were you planning to say? Hey, Cragan, nice of you to be my little piece on the side but when it comes to public outings, you’re not up to my exacting standards? Or maybe, Hey, Cragan, you won’t mind if I show up at a swanky event with the department skank on my arm, will you? Get it? Swank rhymes with skank. And that rhymes with I will thank you to get the hell out of my way and my life.”

He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it in an adorable way. “Gee, Cragan. When you get pissed off, you are totally impossible to talk to. You know that?”

I glared at him. “Don’t try to talk your way out of this. It’s not worth the effort. Right now, I can’t stand the sight of you.”

With that, I ran to the outside door, around the building, and over to my car. Once there, I slammed my fist against the steering wheel. I couldn’t believe I’d called Elizabeth a skank. I had a personal rule: Never accuse another woman of being promiscuous. It’s too darn easy for society to label a woman as sexually loose. It’s the first slur that comes to mind, and I’d vowed not to take part in that damnation. Yet I had. What on earth was wrong with me?

Ryder had let me down. And how did I respond? I badmouthed Elizabeth to make myself feel better! Way to go, Cragan!

I breathed in slowly. I had work to do, and people to see.

Last week, I had combed the account archives to find old advertisers who’d been behind on their bills. Some had gotten caught up. Others only owed a small amount. Because they’d been out of commission, the accounts were unassigned. The upshot? If I could get them to advertise again, they would be added to my book of business. I drove toward Brentwood Village, a strip center. I’d planned a series of special promotions for the Brentwood Village merchants. Maybe my idea would entice the unassigned retailers to buy space.

My left tire looked low when I got out of the car. Not flat, just low. Probably from crossing so many railroad tracks. Decatur is famous for having one crossing that serves seven different train lines.

“That stinks,” I mumbled. The nearest service station was miles away. I shook my head and hoped the leak was slow enough that I could drive on the tire.

I called on the florist shop, Lindell’s. Their white delivery van was parked out front, and a clerk was loading the vehicle with flowers. The manager at Lindell’s was a guy named Perry. FTD offered cooperative advertising, which meant that FTD would reimburse Lindell’s for a portion of the ads they ran, as long as those ads included certain mandated elements. I’d worked up a trio of mock ads that followed the FTD directives. Once I explained how cooperative advertising worked and about the special promotion I’d put together, Perry approved ads for the next few months.

“One down, two to go,” I told myself.

Bridget’s Bridal Shoppe was already my account. Bridget Baylor could be really obnoxious. She was incredibly moody, either up or down and nothing in between. Today she was up, so our meeting went swimmingly as she handed me a professional photo to use in a new ad. Bridget wasn’t sure she’d want to be a part of the promotion but I knew she wouldn’t want to be left out.

Write Now had once been a consistent advertiser but they’d gotten behind on their bills. The records showed they were nearly paid up. My goal was to encourage them to clear their debts and start running ads again. The stationery shop was located in a less than ideal location, not facing the parking spaces. You had to know Write Now was there, or you wouldn’t find it.

Peering into the display window, I was not impressed. The shop did not look like a successful business. The trim was tired and scuffed. The interior could use a fresh coat of paint. All of this surprised me because Brentwood Village had high standards. There was a clause in their leasing agreements that gave the shopping center management the right to mandate upgrades to the exteriors and interiors of their tenants. Somehow, Write Now had escaped their critical eyes. Or maybe the folks at Brentwood knew the shop was having financial troubles and decided not to push things.

A cow bell jingled to announce my visit as I walked inside. A mousy-looking woman parted a beaded curtain and stepped out of a back room into the sales area. Over the doorway was a sign: Welcome Freinds.

I wondered if that was a joke. Did the owner know the word “friends” had been misspelled? I decided not to say anything. According to The Gazette’s records, the proprietor’s name was L. Gillespie. The clerk dragged herself to the counter. Her hair was a dull, dark blond with darker roots. Baggy skin drooped under her washed-out eyes. The corners of her mouth turned down, confirmation that life had not gone the way she’d hoped. However, she’d managed to put on a bright tangerine shade of lipstick and had painted her nails the same color in a brave attempt to look cheerful.

“May I help you?” she asked.

On closer inspection, she really wasn’t that old, maybe mid-fifties? I greeted her with a smile, but she stood off-balance as if searching her store for a place to hide. I softened my body language and lowered my voice, like I was coaxing a stray cat from behind a trash can.

I offered my hand for what turned out to be a limp shake. “I’m Cragan Collins, and I work for The Gazette. Are you Mrs. Gillespie?”

“Yes.” She didn’t offer her Christian name.

I handed her a list of our upcoming sales events. “We’d love to have you participate in one or more of these promotions. The more retailers we include in the display ad, the more likely it is that shoppers will seek out your store. As a matter of fact, we have a special bridal supplement planned for the end of this month. It would be perfect for you!”

“It’s too late,” she said, pushing the promotions back toward me. “If they haven’t ordered their invitations, I can’t get them done in time.”

“Do all your invitations have to be sent away to be personalized?”

She stared at me. “No.”

“Okay, then we could promote the ones that don’t need to be sent out. Do you sell thank you cards?”

“Yes.”

“Graduation and Mother’s Day cards?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Gillespie showed absolutely no enthusiasm. This was strange. Most retailers got excited when talking about their businesses. How on earth did this woman keep her doors open? I couldn’t guess. Perhaps her lethargy explained the tattered look of the place.

“Well,” I said slowly, “once you get caught up on your outstanding balance, you could run an ad featuring invitations that don’t need a long turnaround. You could also promote thank you cards, since this is the season for graduations. I bet there are families that might need party invitations, right?”

A flicker of light glowed in her eyes as she slowly understood what I was saying. It’s not my job to tell an advertiser how to run a business, but time after time, I wind up reminding a merchant of what can be done to promote sales. It’s like the businessperson loses sight of her merchandise, her options, or both. With Mrs. Gillespie, it was like awakening Sleeping Beauty because her blank face suddenly came alive with possibilities.

I said nothing. That’s one of the best kept secrets to selling. Keep quiet and let the other person think. Not everyone is capable of fast responses.

“Let me call my husband,” Mrs. Gillespie said.

I stifled the urge to blurt out, “What?”

According to the notes on this account, Mrs. Gillespie had opened the shop with money from a divorce settlement, eight years ago. Since then, she had remarried. Her current spouse was not a business partner, at least not according to our records. Why did she need to check with him? I asked, “Does he work in the store?”

“No.” An embarrassed silence followed.

Okay, maybe Mrs. Gillespie was one of those wives who relied on their husbands as a ready excuse for postponing a decision. That was her prerogative.

“Would you like for me to put together a few mock-up ads? That way you and your husband can see how your ads might look?”

“Is there a charge?” she asked.

That’s what the experts call a selling sign. When someone asks about a price, they’re indicating they want to make a purchase.

“Absolutely no cost to you. The spec ads are a free service I provide my clients. You’re under no obligation to use them.” Actually, any of our salespeople could whip up a mock-up ad, but most of my colleagues weren’t willing to put in the extra work. Especially with no guarantee of recompense.

I was.

“I guess that would be all right.” Mrs. Gillespie smoothed her hair. “As long as there’s no obligation.”

“Why don’t you show me some of the products you’d like to feature.” With that, I walked around the store collecting information. Write Now offered a nice variety of products. There was a huge supply of adorable notepads for taking messages, jotting reminders, and the like.

Prominently displayed on one wall was a framed football jersey, Number 24, from the local school, PS 61. Next to the gold-and-crimson shirt was a framed photo, obviously a professional shot of a football team. The cutline listed the boys’ names. Mrs. Gillespie noticed me staring.

“That shirt was my son’s. He died in an auto accident. A bunch of kids were in the car. They’d been drinking. There’d been a party, and girls were involved. The crash that took my son’s life also ended his best friend’s career. He’d been scouted by a Big Ten College.”

I offered my condolences and went back to perusing the store. A rounder, a rotating display, held elaborate birthday, anniversary, and birth announcement cards. An old-fashioned woman’s writing desk had been opened up to show off the high quality letterheads, envelopes, journals, and personal cards. A small silver frame displayed a photo of two young women, arm in arm. One was Mrs. Gillespie. Given the fashions the ladies wore, the photo had been taken twenty years or so ago.

Except for the shabbiness, the store was a wonderful place to shop, and I made a mental list of the offerings that would appeal to my friends and my grandmother.

After agreeing to come back with spec ads, I thanked Mrs. Gillespie for her time. On my way out, I meandered past other displays. In a plain oak frame was a photo of a younger Mrs. Gillespie with a group of men at what seemed to be a turkey shoot. Another framed photo caught my attention, so I picked it up. This picture was matted and centered inside a 5 x 7 inch black onyx holder. It showed a photo of Mrs. Gillespie and a toddler.

Mrs. Gillespie noticed that I’d stopped to look at the picture. She said, “That’s my daughter. She’s my only child, now.”

“How lovely for you. She seems like a sweet girl.” I was unsure of what to say, as the child was not attractive. I must have hit the right note because Mrs. Gillespie smiled.

“Thanks,” she said as she took the frame out of my hands.

CHAPTER FOUR

My tire was now totally, irrevocably flat. The problem had already been discovered by a Brentwood Village security cop. In fact, he had parked his golf cart directly behind the RX-7.

“Tell you what,” he said, moving a dirty toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other. “Normally, we’d have you towed to an impound lot. We can’t have you taking up a space overnight. No, ma’am. If we let one person do it, everybody and his brother would want to use Brentwood Village for overnight parking. But seeing as how you’re an ad salesperson and working here, I can do you one better.”

Inwardly, I groaned. What exactly was his definition of “do you one better?” I shuddered to think.

“I can have them tow this-here car to whatever service station or repair shop you like. That’ll save you having to pay for a separate tow and getting your car out of hock.” He stood next to his golf cart in a power posture with legs apart and hands on his hips. The air of authority was diminished by the stain on the front of his khaki uniform, and his cuffs were soiled. In my experience, security guards are often guys who can’t hack it as “real” police. They seem to have an excessive love of authority. You don’t want to get sideways with them.

I gave the guard my most winning smile. “That is such a kind offer! Could you have my car towed to Bob’s Motor Palace?”

“You betcha. I actually know Bob, personally. He’s a good egg.” The security guard fairly glowed with importance.

“Terrific. I’ll phone him so he knows the car is coming. Thank you so much.” I turned up the wattage on my smile.

The security guard blushed. “I’ll wait until you to get your things out and hand over your key. Then I’ll radio the tow truck.”

* * *

I love my bright red Mazda RX-7. It’s probably the stupidest purchase I’ve ever made but since I spend so much of my day in the car, having a vehicle I love is a big deal. Sure, the RX-7 is all wrong for our icy, slick winters. But on a dry road, my car can go from 0 to 60 in 9.7 seconds flat. The sensation of passing everyone on the highway makes me feel strangely invincible. When it comes to cheap thrills, I vote for a fast car and a straight road.

My stomach grumbled as I watched the tow truck haul my car away. A pang of sadness lodged in my chest. No doubt about it, I was stranded. I would need to arrange transportation to get back to the paper or home. I walked slowly to the Brentwood Village office. I hoped they’d let me use their phone.

Ordinarily, I would phone Ryder because he’s my boss, and he’s loaned me his car before. But given his treachery, no way was I going to call him. That left me with Zee. But Zee was all the way downtown, and I knew she was overloaded at work. She’d have to leave the bank to come and get me. Lately, her boss, Dalton Franke, had been a pill. Then there was Rosie. But she couldn’t leave her restaurant, a cute little place called Mother May I? She did the bulk of her business from now until four. As for Winnie, I knew that secretly she’d been spending her lunch hour in a gym, lifting weights. She’s totally involved in women’s softball, and the weightlifting is an asset to her performance.

That left Pru.

I hated to call her and interrupt her visit with Sharma.

But that’s exactly what I did. First, I called Bob and told him my car was on the way, and then I dialed Pru’s apartment.

* * *

Everyone milling around Brentwood Village turned to stare as Pru and Sharma rolled up in my friend’s white Toyota Celica convertible. Pru had gotten the convertible less than a month ago, after the garbage man tore the bumper off of her Camry. The new car positively gleamed, and Pru and Sharma looked like two movie stars, sitting in the front two seats. Pru had tuned her radio to a fun rock and roll station. The music blasted from the convertible, creating an insouciant vibe. The two performers wore their long hair piled high on their heads. Huge sunglasses rested on their perfect noses, and their mouths were highlighted with bright red lipstick. Next to them, I felt drab and ugly. My white blouse had been crisp this morning, but now it drooped listlessly. My curls were bedraggled. My face was blotchy from crying. In short, I was a hot mess.

Pru hopped out so I could take the driver’s side back seat. As I buckled my seatbelt, Pru got in and adjusted her rearview mirror to stare at me. With one hand on the wheel, she used the other to turn down the radio before asking, “How’re you doing, Craigie?”

“I’ve been better.”

Pru introduced Sharma. This was a mere formality but a nice touch. As expected, Sharma Nelson was beautiful with regular features and widely-spaced eyes that seemed huge. Her only flaw was a small scar high on her forehead. Most of the time, that imperfection was covered by her bangs but the convertible had rearranged her hair. “I hate flat tires,” said Sharma. “They are the worst. I hope you didn’t even try to change it yourself. That’s too hard for a woman and far too messy.”

“I didn’t.”

“Did you call for a tow?” asked Sharma.

“I got lucky,” I said. “The security guard had my car towed to my mechanic. The guard could have sent it to an impound lot.”

“Nice to know there are a few kind people living here,” mumbled Sharma.

“Craigie? Did you have lunch?” Pru asked.

“No.”

“That’s perfect! You can have lunch with us!” cooed Sharma. “Oh, and picking you up saves us an extra trip into the newspaper.”

A trip to the newspaper? I wondered why they planned to visit The Gazette. My mood turned suspicious. Sharma grabbed Pru’s handbag. She paused while rummaging around in it and looked at Pru with surprise. “You still carry that little derringer?”

“You bet I do. Never know when it’ll come in handy,” said Pru with a laugh.

Sharma dug out a large manila envelope. Handing it to me, she said, “The new owner over at Fast Freddy’s wants to run this ad, promoting my visit. A staff member worked up the layout, and it should be good to go unless you see any problems. Pru says I should trust you to make the ad look pretty.”

I opened the package. The ad looked fine to me. The background was a photo with a slightly blurred woman’s face. The motion suggested that she was dancing. You couldn’t make out who the woman was but you could tell she was wearing exotic makeup. The rest of the ad was simple with the name of the business, location, and hours. “What days should this run?” I asked.

“Friday and Saturday,” Pru said. “Anthony Calamari called ahead and reserved the space. Everything is in order. He told them he wanted you to have the account.”

“That was nice of him.” Most advertisers didn’t realize we worked on commission. Anthony’s gesture would help me make my monthly sales quota.

“If you hadn’t called for a ride, I would have dropped the ad off at the paper,” explained Pru. “I know Winnie could have scheduled it for you.”

“Yes, Winnie could have. Thank you, Pru. and thank you, Sharma, for thinking of me. That’s very kind of Mr. Calamari and of both of you.” I couldn’t remember the last time someone outright handed me an ad. Most of my ads were placed after I’d made numerous sales calls or brought in mock-up ads or found cooperative advertising money. Month after month, I managed to meet my goals by dint of hard work.

Two days’ worth of ads was not a lot of revenue for the paper but it was a start. If the ads garnered results, perhaps I could convince Fast Freddy’s to continue to promote visiting talent.

“We were going to stop at Bob Evans. Or we can go somewhere else. Do you have a preference, Craigie?” Pru was airy and upbeat.

“No preference at all. Sharma, why don’t you decide?” I said.

She chose Bob Evans because she liked the vegetable soup. “And I need to lose a few pounds. Having soup for lunch is a great way to cut back on calories. Oh, I like this song. Turn it up, Pru.”

Sharma sang along and snapped her fingers. I couldn’t imagine why she would need to lose weight. On the other hand, I could stand to drop a few pounds.

My stomach growled, and I felt cranky with hunger. Why should I worry about my weight? It was not like anyone would see me naked. In fact, since Ryder was being a colossal jerk, I might sign up to join a nunnery, if I could find one. Maybe I should add “locate nunnery and sign up” to my “to do” list.

* * *

Neither Sharma nor Pru seemed to notice how quiet I was at lunch. They were taking a trip down memory lane. Or in their case, mammary lane.

“Gina got breast implants,” said Pru, after the waitress had taken our orders.

“You have to be kidding,” said Sharma. “She swore up and down that she would never deface her body like that.”

I wondered, Can you deface your body? Isn’t that an oxymoron?

After a long swig of my ice tea, I decided that Sharma and Pru were capable of all sorts of activities that I could barely imagine. Maybe Pru could deface her body as she was incredibly limber. She’d studied acrobatics with circus performers, who had brought their acts to nearby St. Louis.

As for Sharma? I had no idea what moved her, but I bet she had all sorts of skills.

That was the point: every exotic dancer seemed to have a special talent. “Otherwise, most of us would fade into the woodwork,” Pru had explained. She’d shared a sample of the various ways the women tried to set themselves apart. For two girls, it was their long hair, which was really a bunch of extensions glued onto their scalps. That lasted until they got into a hairpulling fight, leaving one of them bald. For another girl, it was studs through various parts of her body, and a wardrobe of leather straps decorated with metal spikes. One girl had a short-lived career because she styled herself as a ballerina in a tear-away tutu, but her dancing days ended when she hit a puddle of beer on the catwalk and took a bone-breaking tumble.

“Most of the girls like to brag about their breasts,” Pru said. “The saying is, You don’t have to have big boobs to strip; you only need them if you want to get paid.”

“Really?” My last year in college, female students had been burning their bras as a way to protest their lack of freedom. Being surgically enhanced and paying for the privilege did not represent freedom to me. “Don’t the fake boobs move differently?” I innocently asked. I was thinking about what I’d seen at Jazzercise. Some women had no jiggle at all.

“Of course, they do.” Pru had chuckled. “Most men don’t care. They’re like homing pigeons, zooming in on one particular target, boobs. It’s actually sort of pitiful. Poor lambs. Some guys will do anything to see your tatas.”

As I slurped my soup at Bob Evans, Pru and Sharma reminisced about a newbie performer, who’d neglected to check her nether regions before strutting on the stage. “She was wearing a stray piece of toilet paper. That scrap of white glowed like a meteorite under the black light,” Pru said. Sharma joined her in laughing.

They moved on to the story of a dancer who had tried false eyelashes and subsequently glued one of her eyes shut.

I munched my way through four tiny bags of oyster crackers while listening to their anecdotes. Eventually, the two friends talked about celebrating Sharma’s 27th birthday, which was this coming Saturday. I learned there were two reasons that Sharma had returned to Decatur, and her birthday was one. The other was to cash in on winning the Miss Nude Illinois title. The crown entitled Sharma to a certain amount of local attention.

“But what if I am the featured dancer and nobody comes?” asked Sharma. “It’s been a long time since I lived here.”

“The ad should help,” I pointed out.

“I’ll just die if no one sits at the VIP table and cheers for me,” moaned Sharma.

Pru snapped her fingers. “I know what we can do! How about if we invite everyone from the Friday Night Mystery Club to be our guests at Fast Freddy’s? We can celebrate Sharma’s birthday together. That’ll guarantee you a good crowd near the stage, Sharma.”

Inwardly, I groaned. Visiting Fast Freddy’s did not strike me as a fun way to spend my Friday evening. And I hated missing a meeting of our book club. This had been my week to choose the book, and I’d already decided on

The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax. I was eager to discuss how this underestimated woman made such a brilliant sleuth.

“Your group meets on Friday, doesn’t it?” asked Sharma. “I don’t want you to come to the club on Friday. It’s always packed on Fridays, isn’t it? Could you come on Saturday?”

“Sure! Why not?” said Pru. “We’ll make it a real birthday party. Who else is coming? Your mother?”

Sharma flashed a weak smile. “It’s taken us a long, long time but finally, we’re okay. I’ve grown up, and she’s grown wiser. Speaking of that, would you mind if we pick up my little sister from school? SaraLynn would love to see you, Pru, and a ride in a convertible is always a treat.”

We paid our bills and left Bob Evans. While getting into the car, Sharma and Pru consulted each other about scheduling. Pru tilted the rearview mirror and asked, “Craigie, would it be okay for you to leave work a little early? We can pick you up at four and then swing over by St. Xavier’s and grab SaraLynn on her way home from school.”

“Sure. Unless I get hung up at my lawyer’s office, that will work fine.”

Her lips formed a perfect, “Oh.” She smiled at me. “I’d totally forgotten you have your powwow today. Are you okay? Worried?”

Before I could answer, Sharma said, “Lawyers, ugh. I hate them. Cheap tippers, too.”

“It is what it is,” I said, trying to sound sanguine. With a shrug, I added, “I guess I’ll see what he suggests.” At a hefty price per hour, I hoped my attorney could talk and think fast. When my friend Robert Smithson died, he’d named me his primary beneficiary, as a nod to our kindred spirits and as a way of thanking me for sticking by him when his family wouldn’t. Robert had hoped to leave me with his vast wealth so I’d never have to worry about money again. But no good deed goes unpunished. Instead of helping, Robert’s generosity had caused me to be targeted by every one of his blasted relatives. People came out of the woodwork like swarms of cockroaches when you hit the lights. They all wanted their sticky little hands greased and despite how cruel they’d been to Robert, they complained that he had been unfair to them by signing his wealth over to me!

I was not willing to play along. No way was I going to reward them for having made his life miserable. Once they’d learned that Robert was gay, they’d effectively expelled him from the Smithson family, until now, when the alluring fragrance of moola beckoned. So far, I’d refused to give in to their demands but as the legal bills mounted, I wasn’t sure how long I could hold out.

Pru parked her car in the executive area near the side door of The Gazette. She stepped out of the driver’s seat so I wouldn’t have to pole vault over the trunk. Even in street clothes, Pru attracted attention. A workman loading bundles of newspapers glanced up, did a double-take, and gave a low wolf whistle. Immediately, four press crew members stopped their work to have a look.

Pru waved to the gathering crowd and struck a pose. I leaned over the car to drag my canvas briefcase and purse out of the back. By the time I straightened, Sharma had climbed out. Unable to resist an audience and encouraged by Pru, Sharma posed seductively, pursing her lips and looking over the top of her sunglasses.

“It’s Candy Cane and Sharma!” A man shouted. Word spread like a prairie fire. In addition to the press crew and circulation workers, two supervisors wandered over so they could see what—or who—was attracting attention. With my canvas bag under my arm, I started toward the front entrance, but I didn’t get very far. Pru threw her arm around me, held me in place, and shouted, “Anyone have a camera? Pose, girls!”

I was pinned between the two exotic dancers.

“Come on, Craigie,” said Pru. “Don’t just stand there. Pose! Make their day.”

I planned on demurring, but a movement caught my eye. On the periphery of the press crew, Ryder suddenly appeared. He must have been checking the press run on his way out of the paper. In his Ray-Ban sunglasses and tailored suit, Ryder looked like a million bucks. Parting the crowd, he stepped to the forefront and then he stared. His eyes locked mine. Shock contorted his features, but that quickly changed into a frown. The frown became a scowl of disapproval.

A hard knot of anger flared inside me. I wasn’t good enough to accompany him to the Chamber of Commerce Gala, but I wasn’t exactly a dog, was I? I could hold my own, even as I stood there between two pinup girls. No way was I going to cower like a shrinking violet! Screw you, Ryder!

The crowd grew louder. “Rock it, girls!” yelled a masculine voice. Pru and Sharma struck seductive poses. I put one hand on my hip and cocked it. Tossing my head back, I gave the group my best sexy look and joined the dancers in blowing kisses to our admirers. By now, the gathering had swelled to nearly thirty men. They cheered and waved playfully.

Ryder glared at me. With purposeful strides, he came over to Pru. “Miss Davis? You are blocking my car.”

“Oh, gee. Wouldn’t want to do that, Mister Hamilton.” She emphasized the title “mister” in a mocking sort of way. Giving the assembly a last wave, she and Sharma climbed into the convertible.

Rather than immediately pull away, Pru revved her engine and sat there, blocking Ryder’s path. With a merry gesture to me, she called out, “See you at four, Craigie!”

* * *

My attorney, Mr. Platzky, had told me it was urgent for me to come to his office. Yet he left me cooling my heels for fifteen minutes in his reception area. As I sat in the chair opposite his desk, he read out loud the legal action being taken against me. When he finished, I stared at him. This was his idea of urgent? He’d simply read to me the same correspondence I’d received in the mail.

“Is that it?” I asked. “Do you have more to add? What happens next?”

Steepling his fingers, he said, “You have two courses of action. You can fight their claim or do nothing. If you do nothing, the judge might still rule in your favor after he hears the case. If you fight it, you might or might not win.”

No kidding, I thought. Even without a law license, I’d figured that much out. I’d expected the attorney would tell me my legal standing. Did I have a chance in hell? Or was I doomed to failure?

I heaved a deep sigh. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. “How much will it cost me to fight?”

He named a figure that made me want to puke. Seeing me turn green, he hastened to add, “Of course, since I also handle Robert’s estate, and I know the funds are there, I could waive the bills until all of the court proceedings come to a conclusion.”

Bills, plural, I noted.

“But if the judge rules against me, I would owe you money,” I said, trying to sound reasonable, when I felt anything but.

“That is correct. However, there is virtually no way that a judge would give the claimants all of the money they are pursuing. The leftover should leave you with enough to take care of my bill.”

With a jolt of understanding, I finished his unspoken thought: But not enough to give you anything. This meeting hadn’t been about me, it wasn’t for us to strategize, and it wasn’t to give me my options. It was to lock me into a course of action that would line Mr. Platzky’s pockets.

I could see it all in lights. The attorney would inflate his bill until he gobbled up most of the money that Robert had left me. As a matter of fact, it briefly occurred to me that Mr. Platzky might even be in cahoots with the claimants. After all, he and they both stood to make money from this frivolous suit. I was the only person who stood to lose. While the court case raged, I would be an emotional and physical wreck. That led to another question.

“Would I have to testify?”

“Probably.”

“Where would I go to give testimony?” I asked.

“The suit was filed in Minnesota where the bulk of Robert’s cousins live.”

Being involved in this travesty meant I would have to travel, find lodgings, and take time away from my job. Robert’s cousins were planning to effectively hassle me into submission. That made me angry. Was I willing to capitulate, simply because they were more effective at annoying me than I was at bugging them? That seemed like the worst possible reason for making a settlement.

“I am more than happy to take care of this for you,” said Mr. Platzky. “It certainly augurs to be a miserable situation, and I bet you would be happy for it to go away.” His smile was smarmy, and it gave me the urge to run for the restroom, where I could wash my hands in scalding water.

In fact, the yuck factor helped me make a snap decision. I did not want this creep representing me now or ever. Telling him my decision while in his office would preclude other meetings. I would gladly ride off into the sunset. But…and this was a wide-load butt…if I answered now, I might be making a mistake. That was a lesson I’d learned from Robert: take your time. The more that’s on the line, the longer you should mull things over.

Firm in my resolve, I grabbed the handles of my briefcase while hoisting my purse over my shoulder. As I got to my feet, I realized my attorney was not standing. From the bowels of his expensive leather chair, he was glaring at me.

“Come now, Miss Collins. The sooner you give me the go ahead, the faster I can resolve this conundrum for you.” He added a sniff of disapproval.

I stared down at his bald dome. “Actually, I am Mrs. Collins. Furthermore, you charge by the hour and fractions of the same, don’t you?”

“That’s standard practice.” He smirked at me.

“Is it standard practice to take time out of my workday, read me a letter I’ve already received, solicit my business, and then charge me for your time? You could have told me my options in less than five minutes.”

He huffed irritably and adjusted his tie. “I shall ignore what you said, because you clearly do not understand how business is conducted.”

“Good point. I intend to write to the Illinois Bar Association and tell them how you conducted this business. Maybe they can explain to me how it should have been conducted. See, I’m willing to bet that they’ll agree that you’re set on milking me dry, rather than offering bona fide professional services. I’ll also point out that you didn’t even bother to make sure you had my correct name. At least you could have given me the courtesy of getting that much right.”

I walked out of his office.

I’d made it to his secretary’s desk when he grabbed me by the elbow. “Come now, Miss—er, Ms—er, Missus—Collins. No need to walk away in a childish huff. I’m sure we can work this out.”

“Take your hands off of me,” I said, “or I’ll sue you for assault and battery. A childish huff? Sir, you are insulting as well as inept and greedy. I shall take my business elsewhere.”

Feeling a bit like Jane Eyre in all her glory, I walked out.

My sense of pride vanished as soon as I stepped out into the hallway. The sad truth was I had no clue whether I’d fairly chastised Mr. Platzky or made a total fool of myself. Robert Smithson’s bequest had become more of a hassle than a boon.

CHAPTER FIVE

After meeting with Mr. Platzky, I needed fresh air. I parked at the paper and walked three blocks to downtown Decatur. My next stop was an architect with an office on the third floor of a stately brick building. After picking up the ad, I stepped into the elevator and bumped into George Reynolds, our new publisher. Reynolds had introduced himself during brief staff meetings at The Gazette. Afterward, we had lined up to shake his hand. Realizing that he probably didn’t recall my name, I reintroduced myself. “Mr. Reynolds? I am Cragan Collins. I work in the display advertising department of The Gazette. I was at the meeting when you introduced yourself.”

“Nice to put a face with a name,” he said. “You work for Yakov, right?”

“He is the head of the advertising department,” I confirmed, “but Ryder Hamilton is my direct supervisor.”

The elevator dinged and squealed to a stop. The doors rattled open. We’d been deposited in the foyer, looking directly across the street at First National Bank. Bright sunlight from the late spring day flooded the vestibule. A whiff of recently mowed grass came our way.

“Are you walking back to the paper?” asked Reynolds.

“Yes. I needed a breath of fresh air. But first I have to pick up an ad from another advertiser. He’s in the bank building.” I nodded toward my destination. “On the other side of the Transfer House.”

“That’s such an odd building,” Reynolds said, looking at the octagon with the dome roof that sits in the middle of downtown Decatur.

“This wasn’t its original location. It was built in 1896 by the same man who did the Old Chicago Water Tower and Pumping Station. As you might guess, the Transfer House was a transportation hub. President Taft once gave a speech from it.”

“Huh.” Reynolds surveyed the strange building. “When was it moved to this location? That must have been some feat.”

“Yes, it was. The structure weighs 160 tons. It was hauled here in 1962.”

We’d arrived at the First National Bank building. Again, Reynolds held the door open for me.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll go with you to make your call. I started in ad sales. Did you know that?” His smile was pleasant, and his cologne smelled great. I particularly appreciated that he hadn’t taken a bath in the stuff. There was simply a hint of lime, musk, and sandalwood in the air. What a welcome change he was from Bushy Hoerr, our old publisher!

“No, I didn’t know you had been an ad salesperson,” I said. “You’re welcome to come along. My customer is Mr. Matthews. He owns Global Travel.”

We stepped inside the small business to find Matthews shaking his head as he stood over a cluttered desk. However, his face lit up when he saw us.

“Mr. Matthews? May I introduce George Reynolds, our new publisher?”

“How do,” said Matthews to Reynolds. To me, Matthews said, “And how is my favorite ad rep today?”

“Absolutely grand, sir. How are you? How is business? What would you like to run this week?”

He laughed. “Gall-durn, girl. You get right down to it, don’t you? Say, I have something for you.” Reaching into the top drawer of his desk, he withdrew a colorful postcard. “Cragan, you remember Harvey and Ruby Dehring? They were in here and trying to decide where to go for vacation, while you and I worked on the ad supplement I shared with Benjamin’s Fine Men’s Apparel. This is the couple who wanted to travel their way through the alphabet.”

I laughed at the memory. “That’s right. They started at A. I think they were flirting with the idea of going to Alaska. Is that right?”

He passed the postcard to me. It said, “Greetings from Arizona!” and a large, horny lizard sat on a rock. On the back, someone had written in perfect penmanship: Dear Cragan—Having a wonderful time. There are 60 kinds of lizards in Arizona. Not bringing one home! Harvey and Ruby.

I giggled. “That’s so sweet of them to think of me.”

“Shucks,” said Matthews. “You made a great impression on them. Mr. Reynolds, this young lady is a credit to your paper.”

Heat traveled up my neck. “Mr. Matthews? If you keep complimenting me, I’m going to turn so red I’ll look like a stop sign. Now show me what you want me to run for you.”

Minutes later, Reynolds and I were out on the streets of downtown Decatur.

“That was pleasant,” said Reynolds.

“He’s a sweet guy.”

Reynolds cocked an eyebrow at me. “He certainly thinks highly of you.”

“I love what I do, and he’s one of my favorite accounts.”

Reynolds slowed his pace. “Look. It’s you and me out here, no one else to listen. Tell me in confidence, what is it like to work in the display advertising department of The Gazette?”

Wow. That was a loaded question, a query fraught with both opportunity and potential disaster. When I hesitated, Reynolds added, “I know you want to be loyal to your bosses, but I really, really need to have a finger on the pulse. I promise I won’t share what you say with anybody, and I won’t hold it against you, ever. You’d be doing me a big favor by talking, Cragan. Tell me what your daily problems are. Things I could solve as your publisher.”

I was torn, but if anyone could make our situation better that person would be George Reynolds. I blew out a long breath and stepped off of a metaphorical cliff. “Every day I run into people who are angry about how the paper pretended an auto plant wasn’t coming when it was. Two of my accounts won’t even let me in the door. On top of that, Yakky is…” I stopped. I couldn’t even find a word for the Yakster. Finally, I decided to say, “Yakky’s management style is to pit us against each other. When we’re in a panic, he feels secure and competent. When a real problem crops up, Yakky makes accusations and calls people names. He doesn’t bother to get all the facts before he explodes. Consequently, the ad staff has learned to hide problems. As a result, Yakky finds out about problems, once it’s too late to fix or salvage them.”

“People are still mad about the big lie?” Reynolds asked as he rubbed his chin.

“You bet they are. Since Yakky, Bick, and Bushy were all involved, it’s like there isn’t any part of the paper that escaped with its reputation intact. Most days, I feel like a salmon swimming upstream. The aftermath of those lies makes my work a lot more difficult. There’s the high cost of ads, the poor economy overall, and the perfidy of the paper. The three horsemen of our apocalypse.”

Of course, he knew Yakky was the advertising manager. I assumed Reynolds also knew that Bick was our former editor, and Bushman Hoerr was our former publisher. I didn’t have to rehash names and titles for his edification.

“Like I said,” I continued, “I love my job, and I will bust my butt every day, all day, to help my advertisers find new customers and do more business. They know how much I care. But some days, I feel like Sisyphus, rolling my rock uphill, only to have it come barreling in reverse to crush me.”

Another block had gone by as we walked. Now we stood under a blooming tulip tree. The orange, yellow, and green blossoms were breathtaking. I picked up a blossom from the ground. Back at my desk, I’d put it in a glass of water and enjoy it.

“I checked the numbers of each salesperson,” said Reynolds. “You are far and away the most successful at reopening old business, keeping your current accounts spending money, and prospecting new business. In fact, you outpace everyone else in the department. To what do you owe your success, Mrs. Collins?” A quirk of his lips became a huge smile.

My immediate impulse was to say, “Raw fear,” but that was not helpful or accurate. I thought a minute and said, “A sincere desire to do my best for my advertisers. I don’t care what the problem is. My job is to help them in any way that I can. I’ve even been known to take photos and write press releases.”

“Then could I ask you for help with a personal problem?” His brow arched in a question.

“Sure. If I can do it, I will. What’s up?”

“My daughter, Madelyn, is a child with special needs. She has Down Syndrome. Maddie is ten, and we are looking for a school where she can mainstream and fit in. Do you have any ideas?”

Immediately, I thought about several of the religious private schools in our area. Their classes were small, and the staff could take more time with students. “Does the denomination of the school matter to you?”

“Not one bit.”

“Let me see what I can find out,” I said. “I’ll ask around and bring back what I find.”

“My wife and I would be much obliged,” said Reynolds.

* * *

Reynolds and I parted ways at the front door of The Gazette. I was taking my seat at my desk, when Winnie said, “Emergency meeting at three. Yakky just called it.”

I groaned. I still had ten minutes of work to do. It was quarter till three, and Yakky’s meetings tended to go on and on, because he loved hearing the sound of his own voice. Pru and Sharma were swinging by to pick me up at four. Since Pru was doing me a favor, I couldn’t make her wait. My only recourse was to leave promptly at the hour.

“Winnie? I need help. I’m going to have to race into the meeting at the last minute and duck out early. I had a flat tire, and Pru is picking me up.”

“No problem,” Winnie said. “I’ll save you a seat.”

I called Bob’s Auto Palace to check on my car. My mechanic had bad news.

“You need a new tire. I’ve ordered it, and it should be here tomorrow. I can call you at the paper when I’m done and pick you up. Will that work?” Bob asked.

“Yes, it will. Thanks so much.” I put down the phone and silently blessed Bob. He was more than a mechanic; he was a pal of the first order. Now with one eye on the clock, I feverishly completed scheduling forms. At the stroke of three, I hurried to the meeting room, leaving my briefcase and purse at my desk.

Winnie had saved me a seat. To sit down, I had to climb over my friend. After, I leaned close and whispered, “Thank you.” She nodded, a motion that caused her Prince Valiant haircut to swing back and forth. Winnie’s hair length never changes from week to week. It’s the weirdest thing. I’ve spent hours thinking about this. I’ve concluded that Winnie’s mother trims her daughter’s hair every seven days, using an overturned bowl as a template.

Yakky tapped his Mont Blanc fountain pen against the table to get our attention. At his right sat a stranger, a man built like a brick wall. His head was square, his neck nonexistent, and his torso was one big block. I wondered who he was and why he was joining us. Something about this guy sent a shiver up my spine. Maybe it was his icy coloring, white hair and pale blue eyes, like he’d been bleached in the desert. When he noticed me noticing him, his leer made me want to run and hide. But I couldn’t. I was hemmed in.

“Glad all of you could make it,” said Yakky. “Always good to spend time with you.” He spoke as if we had a choice in the matter. I dropped my gaze to the floor and worried big neon letters would flash in my eyes and spell, “LIAR.”

Yakky sighed, a woosh that bellowed from his toes to his mouth. “As you know, I’m incredibly busy. My time is in demand from the minute I wake up until my head hits the pillow. Only last week, I had to turn down a meeting with the governor. I was sorry to beg off, but I had other responsibilities, such as the Chamber of Commerce Gala on Sunday. It’s black-tie. The Chamber plans to honor me for all I’ve done to promote Decatur. Of course, I’m not done yet. I’ll keep making this little town a better place to live even if my job title changes.”

He rocked back in his chair. This was his habit, balancing the seat on its two rear legs. Yakky toppled over once, a memory I will cherish until I go to my grave. Sometimes I wondered if he balanced the chair like that to keep all of us in suspense. Certainly, his rhetoric put us to sleep.

As Yakky launched yet another assault on the truth about his career, Winnie elbowed me. The long hand on the clock said I had two minutes to skedaddle.

Yakky droned on and on. “Many of you will remain here as my legacy. Every day that you call on accounts and schedule your ads, you pay tribute to my perception. When it comes to picking talent,” and here he tapped the side of his head, “I hit the bullseye every time. That’s why I’m pleased to introduce a new salesperson, Jeb Sennett. Most of you will recognize his name. Jeb was a star quarterback for Decatur High School, five years ago. What a throwing arm! We are lucky to have a go-getter like Jeb, and I expect all of you to make him feel welcome.”

Of course Jeb was a football player. He looked like one. His collar strained with the bulk of his neck. He was shaped like a blond gorilla. The blank expression on his face suggested that Jeb had played ball once too often without wearing a helmet.

Fred Jenkins waved his hand like a boy in grammar school. “Yakov? Where will Jeb’s list come from?”

Yakky gave us his sneaky smile. My stomach clenched. I’d seen this before. He was up to no good. “We-e-l-l,” said Yakky, drawing the word out. “It has come to my attention that many of you aren’t servicing your account lists properly. There are a lot of nuggets of gold that I plan to reassign to Jeb. Without naming names, I have one salesperson in mind specifically.”

I could guess whose list would be pruned first. Mine. Yakky loved to take my accounts away. It was his way of being petty. Every fiber in my body ached to call him out, but I knew that wouldn’t work. Instead, I would have to turn to Ryder for help.

Winnie shielded her mouth with her hand and whispered, “Wait till Ryder hears about this.”

The last time Yakky took my best accounts away from me, it had taken six months of grueling work to rebuild my list. Was that about to happen again? Blessedly, the clock struck four. I had to leave or I’d miss my ride.

I struggled to get past Winnie. She’s a heck of an athlete. Strong as all get out but she’s not flexible. Putting one hand on each side of her chair, I stepped over her. Although I was attempting to be as inobtrusive as possible, Yakky saw me. He raised his voice and said, “Cragan? Where do you think you are going? We’re having a meeting. You are expected to sit through these. You might learn something.”

“Um, I have to go,” I said.

“Cragan?” Yakky repeated. He’d raised his pitch, accenting my name with a note of irritation. “Sit down.”

I needed a bulletproof reason for leaving, and I needed it fast. Otherwise, I’d miss my ride. How could I make Yakky back off?

Suddenly, I knew exactly what would shut him up. With an embarrassed look on my face, I said, “Sorry, Yakky. It’s that time of the month.”

A collective gasp rose from the group. Yakky made gagging sounds. Yup, I’d hit him where it hurt. Yakky was a misogynistic little toad, and the idea of female problems clearly disgusted him.

Like a stoplight, he changed colors: white, pink, and red. With a burst of fury, he said, “I can’t believe you would air your dirty laundry…”

His face turned crimson. He’d made matters worse. A lot worse.

I shrugged. “Actually, I don’t want to air my dirty laundry. That’s what I’m trying to avoid.”

Yakky huffed and puffed. “You have a lot of nerve. Next time, simply excuse yourself and be done with it.”

“Isn’t that what I had tried to do?” I asked in all innocence.

I opened the meeting room door as a voice behind me said, “Ewwwww, gross.”

Jeb Sennett’s mouth puckered into a prissy moue of disgust. Now I had the whole picture. Jeb was exactly what he seemed to be: a former athlete with the brains of a jockstrap.

I walked out of the paper in a hurry. Pru and Sharma were sitting in the top-down convertible with silk scarves wrapped around their hair. They looked for all the world like they’d stepped from the Two for the Road poster. Even with their hair covered, the two women garnered interested looks as men stumbled by. I could read the air of amusement in my friends’ postures.

“Hiya, Craigie,” said Pru, as she winked at a man in a suit.

The gesture brought to mind a conversation we’d had. I’d asked Pru if she ever felt she was being exploited by the men who watched her strip. She threw back her head and laughed. “Craigie, you’ve got it all wrong. I’m exploiting them. They are willing to shell out big bucks to see me in my birthday suit. How stupid is that?”

Her answer had taken me aback.

She’d also told me that looking good and staying in shape was practically a full-time job. As if to prove her assertion, she and Sharma had changed into strappy sundresses and high heels. Of course, both had on lots of makeup. I’d been up since six, and my clothes were wrinkled. With my canvas briefcase and purse tucked under my arm, I felt like a pack horse.

Pru hopped out and leaned her seat forward. I tossed in my briefcase and purse, before jamming myself into the car. There wasn’t much room, because Pru’s long legs plus the high heels caused the seat to be pushed way back. My knees nearly bumped my chin.

An unreasonable irritation burned inside me. The old sentiment that “two’s company and three’s a crowd” intensified my misery. Pru and Sharma had been deep in conversation when I first spotted them. Now they continued their discussion, arguing over a problem peculiar to their worlds. The gist was simple. In some clubs, exotic dancers would lay claim to certain songs, and if other performers tried to dance to those tunes, there would be friction. Fights, even. In other clubs, the practice was outlawed. And in still others, dancers got around the problem by tipping the DJ, effectively bribing him or her to play certain tunes.

Pru argued that it made sense for a dancer to brand herself by coordinating her costume and her music selections. Sharma agreed, but she also thought that there had to be a limit as to how many songs were off limits. Their discussion was lively but not heated.

At the corner with the public library (formerly a Sears Roebuck store), we stopped for a red light. A car pulled next to us in the right turn lane.

“Cragan!”

I heard my name, but I couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

“Cragan! We need to talk!”

Shading my eyes with my hand, I glanced around. To the right was Ryder Hamilton in his Mercedes Benz. He rolled down his window and motioned frantically. “Tell Pru to pull over!” he shouted.

“Up to you.” The rearview mirror reflected Pru’s questioning eyes.

I didn’t hesitate. “Drive on.”

CHAPTER SIX

Pru announced that we were headed for a residential area of Decatur, not far from St. Xavier’s School. But she decided we should take the scenic route. Right off of Pine Street, we entered Millikin Place, a private lane of historic houses. I knew instantly why we were here. The car stopped in front of Pru’s favorite house, the E. P. Irving home, a sterling example of the Prairie School of Architecture, and one of four Frank Lloyd Wright homes in our town.

“The designers in Wright’s group designed furniture, rugs, and even table linens for this house. Can you imagine?” Pru asked. “It’s an outstanding example of the Prairie School of Architecture, and I love it.”

Sharma made a tiny huff. She stared at Pru. “How can you love it, knowing what a huge jerk Frank Lloyd Wright was?”

“He was?” I echoed.

“Uh-huh,” Sharma continued.

Pru shrugged. “He walked out on his wife and six kids. He had a controversial program, where some say he misused the talents of apprentices for profit, and he inflated his biography. Although he considered himself a giant in the field of architecture, he was only 5’ 7”. A raving narcissist, he never met a mirror he didn’t like. His masterpiece, Fallingwater, was drawn in only three hours. Critics can’t decide whether that means he was slapdash or a genius but, by all accounts, there is universal agreement he was a real asshole.”

I was stunned. I hadn’t heard about the architect’s past. Trust Pru to be informed. She owned more books than the rest of us housemates put together. In fact, she’d hired a carpenter to run a bookshelf ten inches below the ceiling of her bedroom. One of her life goals was to visit all of the Frank Lloyd Wright houses in the Northern Hemisphere.

“He might have been a jerk,” conceded Pru. “A lot of men are. But look at all he did! Wright gave us the carport and the open floor plan. He built buildings in harmony with the flatness of the prairie, horizontal dwellings that will stand the test of time.”

Sharma lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “Suffice it to say that he’s like most of us, a combination of good and bad.”

We pulled away from the dead-end and drove deeper into a group of modest homes. On the corner of a block sat a concrete building with a huge wooden cross in the lawn and signage marking it as St. Xavier’s. Promptly at four fifteen, uniformed boys and girls streamed from the front door. Most were burdened with backpacks in a variety of colors. The young men wore navy slacks, white polo shirts, and navy blazers or cardigans. The only accessory was a navy-and-gold striped tie. In a gesture of solidarity, the young ladies were in navy pleated skirts, white blouses, and navy cardigans. Their spindly legs were covered with navy knee socks.

“How does your sister feel about wearing a uniform to school?” I asked Sharma.

“She hates it but my mother loves it. No fighting about what to wear. No pleading for expensive designer clothes. No quarreling among her peers as to who’s got the most expensive togs,” said Sharma. “Although SaraLynn tells me there are other ways that the kids jockey for position. They watch each other carefully to see what brands of shoes they are wearing, and they are incredibly attuned to any jewelry.”

“Jewelry is allowed?” I asked. That didn’t make sense. If you were limiting a kid’s wardrobe for the sake of uniformity, why allow them to go wild with bling?

“The girls are allowed to wear watches, simple pierced earrings, and a necklace with a crucifix,” explained Sharma. “You can guess how that gets interpreted. One girl had a bracelet made by having a series of watch faces linked together. Totally glamorous and within the broad dress code guidelines, but different enough to cause all sorts of tension.”

“Still, the uniform must cut down on bullying,” I mused.

Sharma heaved a sigh. “Afraid not. SaraLynn is small for her age. She gets teased all the time. Mama talked to the head nun about it. Sister said SaraLynn has to learn to cope.”

“What do you think?” I asked.

“I’m not sure they’re right. In fact, every time I talk to SaraLynn, she seems more depressed about the teasing and jibes.”

No sooner were the words out of Sharma’s mouth than she pointed at a group of kids. A quartet of boys kept pace with a cluster of girls, chatting in a good-natured way.

The students sauntered near the convertible, giving us shy looks and giggles. Both the car and the glamorous women in the front attracted attention. Several of the girls were lovely with shining hair, smooth skin, and fresh faces. A few paces behind wandered a skinny child with curly reddish-brown hair. The child was staggering under the weight of a pink backpack. Her attention was turned to another girl, a little taller but also childlike, as they carried on an animated conversation. The two girls parted when the taller girl ran off to catch up with an older boy.

That left the smaller girl walking all alone.

Sharma stood up in her seat, waved and whistled. The little student’s face was solemn until she spotted Sharma. Then she broke into a glowing smile. Darting around the other children, the girl let out a shriek of joy and ran to the convertible.

“Sharon! I missed you so much!” the girl choked out between sobs as her blue eyes teared up.

Spotting my confusion, Pru said, “Sharma’s real name is Sharon.”

Sharma patted the child’s back, stroked her hair, and kissed her repeatedly. “It’s okay, honey. I’m here now.”

We blocked the natural flow of after-school foot traffic. Pru’s convertible parted the students like a boulder divides a rushing creek. The students walking past us stared, as did a few adults, but I didn’t see any nuns.

An old car drove past slowly. SaraLynn turned to it and waved. In the passenger seat was the little girl SaraLynn had been talking with earlier. The other student returned SaraLynn’s greeting and must have elbowed the driver, because he turned to stare at the convertible, before carefully threading his way through the traffic.

“That’s my friend Alyssa and her brother, Tom,” said SaraLynn to Sharma. Continuing, SaraLynn said, “Guess what? Sister Mary Frances put my painting on display for the whole world to see. Want to look? Come on, Sharon, please!”

That wheedling tone was achingly familiar. Only a few days ago, I’d heard Julio begging his mother for a new Game Boy program. The two harangues were nearly identical.

“Pru? Can we do that?” asked Sharma, turning to our friend and then to me. “Cragan, is that all right with you? I don’t want to mess up your schedule.”

Being included felt good, and I happily responded, “I’d love to see what SaraLynn made. SaraLynn? I’m Cragan, and I live in the same house as Pru does.” I extended my hand for a shake. The girl took it solemnly.

“Why not?” said Pru. “You-all get out, and I’ll find a parking space.”

In a tick, we were striding up the sidewalk, going against the traffic, and entering the wide-open doors of the school. Since Pru and Sharma/Sharon made such a striking pair, I walked in their shadow, which left me to chaperone SaraLynn.

“Tell me about your artwork,” I asked the girl.

“I painted a family portrait. There’s my mother, Sharon, and me.” Frowning, she added, “Most of the kids were sloppy. I was careful.”

“Being careful makes a big difference, doesn’t it?” I grabbed the door and held it for SaraLynn. We hurried down a wide hallway.

“Sure does.” SaraLynn pointed to an acrylic and pencil portrait. She was represented by a small figure with blue eyes and reddish-brown hair in a sweet pink dress. Her red-haired mother wore a blue-and-white polka dot dress that matched her blue eyes. Sharma wore a dress in a vivid purple.

“Everyone was jealous when Sister Mary Frances chose my picture,” SaraLynn said.

“Were they really?” I asked.

“Yes. We have a lot of mean girls in our school.” After sighing, she added, “Most of the nuns are nice, and it is close to our house. Of course, Alyssa is my friend, so that’s good.”

St. Xavier’s could have been every other school, redolent as it was with the dusty smell of chalk, the odor of sweaty bodies, and the tang of a mimeograph machine that must have been running nearby.

While SaraLynn talked to the others about her drawing, I took the opportunity to look around. We were close to the administrative office, allowing me to people-watch through the glass window. Lay nuns, women not wearing the traditional long habits, moved back and forth, presumably from the mimeograph machine to a desk. Outside of the office was a bulletin board. Across the top was a banner with cardstock letters, spelling out, “Our history.” I skimmed over the black-and-white photos of priests and nuns at a groundbreaking ceremony. A typed paper in a plastic sleeve was thumbtacked in place, so visitors could read the chronology of St. Xavier’s Catholic School. The school had started as an all-boy institution, but gradually, the place acceded to pressure to bring girls into the mix. According to a display on soft blue posterboard and labeled Today, the genders were segregated, coming together only for chapel and other special events. I sensed that my friends were ready to get back in the car. As I turned to join them, I noticed a plastic pocket full of fliers. The pouch was labeled Take One! Plucking out a brochure, I walked along with Sharma/Sharon, SaraLynn, and Pru.

Pru was beaming, wearing a mischievous smile. “How about a visit to Dairy Queen?”

SaraLynn’s eyes brightened. She could scarcely conceal her joy, although she gave her sister a glance that asked permission. SaraLynn said, “That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Why not?” Sharma/Sharon wrapped an arm around her sibling’s neck, as we paraded out of the building.

“Sharon? Could we see if Marian wants to come, too?” SaraLynn spoke to her sister in that tone kids use when they’re asking a big favor or they’re scared they’ve stepped over the line.

The atmosphere changed. It was as if the temperature dropped ten degrees.

Why was this girl Marian such a problem?

Sharma had been holding onto SaraLynn with one-armed hug. At the mention of Marian, Sharma stiffened. She pulled—ever so slightly—away from the child. I could only surmise that “Marian” had become the reminder of a disturbing incident.

“Um,” said Sharma/Sharon. As a time-waster and filler, “um” is not much use. Sharma/Sharon tried again but didn’t get much further. “Well,” she said.

Yet another attempt to stall. I wondered why.

Pru unlocked the doors of her car, which was pretty silly, because with the top down, nothing inside was safe. As she held the driver’s seat forward for me to climb behind, I wondered. Would they talk about what bothered them?

As the others got in and buckled their seatbelts, I stuffed the school brochure into my canvas bag.

No decision had been made about picking up the mysterious Marian. The silence felt uncomfortable. Pru hesitated and looked questioningly at Sharma/Sharon, before pulling onto the main street. The convertible idled in place, like it was a sensate beast attempting to make its own decision.

Finally, Sharma/Sharon said, “Sure. Why not. Got to let bygones be bygones, right? All that is in the past.”

* * *

First it was decided that we would drop SaraLynn’s backpack off at home. That took scant minutes. Then we went to her friend Marian’s house, which happened to be on the same block as SarahLynn’s, but facing the opposite way. The backyards of the bungalows bumped against each other, separated by a gravel alley. Both were in walking distance of St. Xavier’s.

“There,” said SaraLynn as she pointed to a house with peeling white siding. One of the black shutters hung crookedly from rusty hinges. The house seemed to sag like a cardboard box that has been left out in the rain.

“I don’t think she’s home,” said SaraLynn. “Not yet at least. We should have seen her on our way here.”

“We can go back over the route she would have taken from school,” Pru said. She did a U-turn but turned left instead of right at the main feeder street.

“Marian doesn’t go to St. Xavier’s?” I asked. “Growing up, my best pals were my schoolmates.”

“The girls go to separate schools.” Sharma/Sharon spoke tersely, leaving me to wonder what I’d said wrong. “Marian goes to the public school.”

Time to pretend to be invisible. This is a talent I’m perfecting, as it often comes in handy. I pulled the St. Xavier’s brochure out of my canvas bag. Inside was a paragraph about the school’s mission. On other pages were photos of the campus and of civilian teachers who were not part of the religious order that ran the school. Tucked inside the full-color trifold was a black-and-white photocopy of the school newspaper.

Carefully, I tucked the information back into my canvas briefcase. This was exactly what George Reynolds needed. Our new publisher would appreciate my effort.

Three blocks from Marian’s house, SaraLynn spotted a gawky girl with brownish hair pulled into a severe ponytail. The child was walking alone, trudging under her backpack and staring at the sidewalk. Her white knee socks had puddled around the top of her black lace-up shoes. Marian’s dress was a denim shift. It looked to me like someone had hemmed an adult’s dress for her, because the cut was old and dowdy.

“Marian! Hey! Marian!” SaraLynn cupped her hands over her mouth and hollered.

The other girl looked up from the sidewalk. When she caught sight of SaraLynn, her face brightened like a sunbeam peeping through rain clouds. Marian ran toward the convertible. Halfway, the child tossed her backpack on the ground and threw herself at SaraLynn with her arms held wide.

The girls exchanged awkward hugs.

“Marian? Would you like a ride home? We’re going to Dairy Queen, and we’d love to take you with us, but first we need to ask your mother.” Pru’s voice was friendly and firm.

“Hmm, Mom won’t be home for an hour. No one’s there. She’s working at the store. But I could go with you, and she wouldn’t have to know. Please?” Marian’s eyes were moist, and her mouth trembled.

“I’ll pay for her ice cream,” said SaraLynn.

“The ice cream is on me,” said Pru. “I don’t know…” Her voice trailed off. She looked at Sharma for guidance, but her friend’s face stayed neutral. Finally, Pru said, “What the hell. Grab your backpack, Marian, and hop in.”

I scooted to the far side of the back seat so that Marian could join us. However, I need not have bothered, because the girl was pencil-thin. Her backpack probably weighed more than she did. The two young friends started talking, frequently speaking over each other in their excitement, making it hard to catch their conversation.

The snatches were: “I miss you so much! I keep asking if I can visit. Burt says no. Sharma is visiting! Isn’t Pru’s convertible cool? Maybe you can spend the night? Is your mother still mad at us? How about your stepdad? Is he still a weirdo?”

A weirdo? My mouth fell open.

I glanced at Pru in the rearview mirror. She shook her head slightly in a signal to stay silent. Even as I registered that response, I looked sideways and noticed how Sharma’s happy expression had changed. The one word—“weirdo”—had been like a bucket of cold water poured on Sharma/Sharon. Her face briefly crumpled before she gathered herself and plastered on a phony smile.

Fortunately, the girls did not notice this. Instead, they chattered with enthusiasm. Once or twice, they whispered behind open palms, their heads touching, as they conferred in secret.

Pru turned off the car radio. An approving look from Sharma suggested that the goal was to monitor the conversation, but the young girls adjusted their volume simultaneously and talked in whispers. Whatever confidences were traded, they had to have been serious. There was a whiff of desperation in the air. At one point, SaraLynn threw her arms around Marian and held her like they both risked drowning.

Pru and Sharma shot each other coded glances. An undercurrent swirled in the car, reminding me of a riptide, strong and deadly. An unspoken narrative was unfolding, but I couldn’t pierce the veil of secrecy.

When we got to Dairy Queen, Pru turned off the car and said, “Okay! What does everyone want? Ice cream cones? Sundaes? Dilly Bars? Cragan, you like those raspberry Mr. Misty Floats, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. What does everyone else want?” I struggled out of the back.

Pru stepped away from the driver’s seat and helped me exit. She asked, “Anyone want to split an order of French fries with me? Oh, and SaraLynn? Since you are sitting next to Cragan, you have a special assignment. You have to make sure that Cragan uses a straw with her Mr. Misty Float. When she doesn’t, her mouth turns blue, and she looks like a Muppet.”

Marian laughed.

SaraLynn pressed her hands together in a prayerful pose. “Can I have French fries? Please?”

I told the girls, “You can have whatever you want, because I’m chipping in, but you should have at least one serving of ice cream. It’s a dietary requirement. Remember? Dairy is important for building strong bones.”

We all laughed.

“If we dip our French fries in ketchup, we’ll be eating two vegetables at once,” said SaraLynn in a scholarly tone of voice. “Potatoes and tomatoes, although tomatoes are actually a fruit.”

“I’ll have a fudge sundae,” said Sharma with a laugh. “What are you having, Pru?”

“French fries and a banana split,” she said.

I was shocked. I’ve never seen Pru eat that much food. I stuck with my raspberry Mr. Misty Float, and the little girls agreed to split an order of fries and each have a Dilly Bar. With the food orders uppermost in our minds, Pru and I walked to the window. In her high-heels, my friend was nearly a head taller than I. We took our places at the back of a line.

Good, I thought. This’ll give us the chance to speak privately.

“Spill it,” I said. “What in the world is going on?”

Pru made a clucking sound with her tongue. “I should have realized you’d figure out there was a problem. You’re too good at reading people to overlook the tension in the air.” Pru did a slow turn to see whether we could talk. Deciding the coast was clear, she said, “Marian’s stepdad is a big reason that Sharma left town the second time. It’s a long story, but the short version is that he’s a pervert. He touched Marian inappropriately. Unfortunately, Marian’s mother refuses to dump that creep. She’s one of those women who thinks she can’t make it without a man. He still lives with them.”

“How does that impact Sharma?” I kept one eye on the convertible.

“Sharma’s the one who reported him to the authorities. Let me back up. Marian and SaraLynn had a sleepover. On Monday morning, when Sharma drove SaraLynn to school, SaraLynn asked if it was okay to let your stepfather touch your privates. Can you imagine? Sharma nearly wrecked the car! Seems that Marian had confided to SaraLynn that Burt was touching her and making her do things. Things that Marian didn’t like and that hurt.”

“Yuck.” This was the kind of creepy shit you read about but hoped you never encountered. Ever. Yet here it was, happening in real life to real people. I composed myself and asked, “What did Sharma do next?”

“She dropped SaraLynn off at school, parked the car, went inside, and talked to the school nurse, a Mrs. Wilson. Sharma knew Mrs. Wilson, because she had been the school nurse when Sharma attended that same school. Since Mrs. Wilson knew Sharma, she immediately realized this was not a prank or a joke.”

The line moved forward in a grudging way. Now there was only one person ahead of us. Pru’s story felt like an electric shock fizzing in my brain. “What happened after Sharma told the school nurse?”

Pru stepped up to the window. She and I placed our orders. I handed over a ten-dollar bill, but Pru waved it away. I would find a way to repay her later. We stepped aside and waited for our food.

Pru said, “The school nurse told the principal. Here’s the kicker: Marian’s stepfather was a math teacher and a coach at that same school.”

I gasped.

“That’s right.” Pru nodded sadly. “As you might imagine, the principal was not happy. He was disgusted with Burt, Marian’s stepfather. Plus, the principal was worried about liability issues, and how the other parents would react if they found out. Can you believe it? And Burt protested. He thought what he’d done was okay, because he was Marian’s stepfather! Like he got a hall pass or something.”

Pru continued in a near-whisper. “The school board held an emergency meeting. They decided to hush everything up. Burt was told that if he resigned and left quietly, the problem would go no further.”

“What?” I said this so loudly the girl bagging our food paused. In fact, the young server stared and asked, “Everything okay? I’ve got your order almost ready.”

“Ketchup,” said Pru, recovering nicely. “We need ketchup. Please.”

Pru continued, “You heard what I said, Craigie. The school swept everything under the rug. They were scared spitless that a parent would sue them if it ever came out that one of their teachers had diddled his own stepdaughter.”

Diddled, I thought. What a cute name for something ugly. How on earth did we come up with so many different ways to hide the truth? I could not imagine a school being both so stupid and so lax. Pru took a deep breath. “There’s more.”

I swallowed hard.

“Marian’s mother threatened to commit suicide if Marian didn’t retract her statement.”

“Oh, my.” This felt like a sucker punch. “You are saying Marian’s mother stuck up for her husband? And manipulated her daughter into staying silent? And putting up with abuse?”

“That’s exactly what she did,” said Pru. “Marian’s mother succeeded in shutting Marian up. Lorna was afraid she’d lose everything—all the money she’d gotten from her first husband and a business she’d purchased—if her current husband’s secret was exposed.”

The clerk handed Pru our treats. “Thanks,” said Pru, as she passed a sack to me. The luscious fragrance of fries drifted up. My friend took the second bag, the one filled with the frozen treats. I picked up my Mr. Misty Float. I could smell the raspberries and vanilla.

“Come on,” Pru said, jerking her chin toward her car. “We need to enjoy this. The little girls deserve it, don’t you think?”

“You can’t possibly be telling me that Marian still lives under the same roof with that…that monster?”

Pru turned and stared at me. “That’s exactly what I’m telling you. And get this: Her mother insists that Marian call her stepfather ‘Daddy.’”

“You have to be kidding me.”

“It gets worse.” Pru continued, “Marian’s mother and stepdad blame SaraLynn and Sharma for getting Burt, the stepfather, in trouble!”

Oh, how creative humans can be! And how inventive! The myriad of ways that we can inflict cruelty on each other never ceases to amaze me. To make a child call her molester “Daddy” was now at the top of my list.

When Pru and I got to the car, SaraLynn sweetly reminded me to use a straw. I thanked her. It took me forever to finish my Mr. Misty Float. The others waited on me. After I took my last slurp, Pru pulled her car to a trash bin. Once we had dumped our empty containers and bags, we headed out of the parking lot. The first order of business was taking Marian home so that she didn’t get into trouble.

Yet again, the little girls huddled in the back seat. They were now more relaxed with my nearby presence and didn’t whisper as much.

The ride back to Marian’s house seemed to take forever because Pru had to watch for schoolkids darting around. We turned onto Marian’s side of the block and made slow progress down a street lined with cars. Neighbors were beginning to come home from work. What had been a two-lane pavement, now had room for vehicles going only one way. Pru repeatedly pulled in behind parked cars and waited for other drivers to pass.

We didn’t spot the tired truck sitting in Marian’s driveway. At least not until we were nearly upon it. Marian’s whimper alerted us as her animalistic moan turned into words. “Oh, no! Burt is home early.”

Sharma’s expression had changed from happy to worried while SaraLynn looked terrified. Finally, Pru spoke up. “I’ll walk Marian to the door. No sense waving a red flag in front of a wild bull. Burt doesn’t have a beef with me.”

I wondered if she realized she’d made a pun. Now didn’t seem the time to mention it.

“Maybe if I duck down and hide?” Sharma sounded scared.

That surprised me. Shouldn’t this Burt character be scared of her? Sharma had exposed his perversion to the light of day. Surely, she was more of a threat to him than he was to us. Besides, what was he going to do? Run out and scream at us?

As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what he did.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Marian’s stepfather, Burt, was a big man. Over six feet tall and at least 250 pounds. He had a bulldog face with bug eyes, a receding chin, and a Santa Claus nose. Rather than simply walk out of his house, he charged toward us. His awkward gait would have been comical if he hadn’t been so huge.

“Get your butt in the house right now, Marian. You are grounded, do you hear? You know damn good and well that you’re supposed to come straight home and start supper. Where the hell have you been? What are you doing with a car full of whores?”

Whores?

Marian’s stepfather was nuts. Totally cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. Who makes such a public spectacle? And over what? His stepdaughter accepting a ride home? Stopping by a Dairy Queen? None of that should be a federal crime.

Even as I mounted a mental rebuttal, Sharma reacted to Burt’s harangue. She sank far down in her seat. Only the top of her head showed above the dash. I couldn’t believe it! She was a grown woman. Then I realized that SaraLynn had done the same. Suddenly, I was the lone person sitting upright in the car. I glanced around frantically to find Pru.

She was walking into the path of the madman. Over and over again, she patted the air in a “calm down” sort of gesture. Not that it mattered. This jerk wanted his pound of flesh.

“Marian?” He stuck his head around Pru and shouted. “Get your ass into the house.”

The little girl raced around her stepdad and hurried inside.

A curtain twitched in the house next door. Good. Maybe this crazy guy would realize he was making a scene, and his neighbors had noticed.

Pru paddled the air with supplicating hands. She was ignoring the slur he’d launched as she said, “This is my fault. I apologize for upsetting you. It’s not Marian’s fault. I offered her a ride—”

But Burt cut Pru off. “I don’t know who you are, but you need to shut up and get lost. Don’t you tell me what’s Marian’s fault and what isn’t. She lives under my roof, and she does what I tell her to. I’m the boss here.”

“What a creep,” came a whisper from SaraLynn. Her eyes stared at me with horror. She’d crammed herself into the footwell.

“Okay, all right, I’ll go.” Pru backed away. “I simply wanted to apologize and—”

“Get the hell off my property.” The man balled his hands into fists. As Pru kept retreating, Burt advanced on her. She couldn’t turn around. She had to keep her eyes locked on him but her high-heeled shoes made her unsteady. If she fell, she could break her leg or her ankle.

The neighbor’s curtains twitched once more. Someone was watching, but no one came to rescue us. This was getting worse by the minute. I didn’t trust this guy. Instead of cooling down, he was growing more and more agitated.

Burt pointed a hairy finger at Pru. “Look at how you are dressed! I know your type. You’re the kind of slut who parades around, tempts men, and then cries rape.”

Lunging forward, he grabbed Pru by the elbow. “Women like you are not very bright. Let me make myself clear. I’m not going to put up with any crap. Not from you.”

To my horror, he gave Pru a hard shake.

“Hey!” I yelled.

“I’m not taking crap from you or from any of your friends.” He rattled Pru like a terrier shakes a rat.

My friend needed help. I couldn’t sit still any longer. In my canvas briefcase, I carried a press badge. The ID tag wasn’t strictly official. One of the graphic artists at The Gazette had helped me create it. On occasion, it proved useful. This might be one of those occasions. I grabbed it and a Steno pad.

Once again, the enraged man shook Pru, and this time, she staggered back. I vaulted over the side of the Celica. Running up the sidewalk, I flashed my badge and shouted, “Sir? I’m Cragan Collins from The Gazette, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

The big creep blinked in surprise. “What?” he shouted.

I had his attention.

I waved the Steno pad. The man looked away from Pru.

Good. I’d distracted him.

But that wasn’t enough. The bully still had her by the arm. With an ugly shove, he let her go. She wobbled backward. Those fashionable shoes did her no favors, threatening her balance. A broken leg or ankle could spell the end of her career. Her arms windmilled as she attempted to regain her footing.

The bully stepped forward. His hands were knotted into fists, I worried that he might slug Pru.

“Sir? I need the correct spelling of your name,” I shouted while pretending I had a pen in my hand. I mimed taking notes on the Steno pad. A glance at the enraged father confirmed that I’d puzzled him. He wasn’t sure what I was doing. Neither was I, but confusing him was better than standing by and doing nothing.

Bafflement creased his forehead, giving him a cartoonish expression. I spoke in my most authoritative manner, “As I understand it, you’ve been reported for inappropriate behavior before. Now you appear to be on the verge of assaulting Miss Davis. Can you explain yourself?”

In the distance, a siren wailed. The man went stiff, like an animal stung by a shock collar. His eyes widened almost comically.

The ooo-ga, ooo-ga blare came closer and closer.

I cocked my head to listen. “Well, what do you know? The police are coming! I’ll get a statement from them, too!”

That shook Burt up. He went ballistic. “I’ll tell the cops you’re trespassing. You tried to rob me. You grabbed my daughter! You threatened me!”

He had switched his attention to me. Pru managed to move quickly in the direction of the car. When she was behind me, I figured she was safe. But Burt was even more enraged. He took a step closer.

“You really think they’ll believe you?” I asked him. I was feeling pretty cocky. “Your neighbors have been watching this whole fiasco. That baloney about how we grabbed your daughter? That’s rich. And kidnapping? Hardly. We can show the cops the receipt from Dairy Queen. They’ll get a good laugh at your expense.”

“You little—” He grabbed at me, but I danced away.

A siren whooped. An unmarked cruiser rounded the corner on two wheels, the rubber tires squealing in protest and blue lights spinning. My heart hammered in my chest. If the police believed this man and not me, I might spend the evening in jail. All of the starch went out of my panties.

The door flew open on the unmarked car. Running toward me came my old boyfriend, Detective Kevin Stuart.

* * *

Marian’s stepdad was unwilling to calm down. After cursing me roundly, he even threatened Kevin. The bully shouted, “I know the Chief of Police!”

Kevin smiled that lazy grin of his. “Hey, you know Chief Bowman? Small world. So do I! We’re halfway to being friends! Let’s go have a beer?”

That caused the bully to scowl and curse. Kevin wagged a finger at him and said, “Sir? Please do not use that sort of language in the presence of ladies. Keep a civil tongue in your head.”

“Ladies? This bunch of whores?” roared the stepfather.

“I’m warning you.” Kevin’s eyes narrowed. His face reddened with anger. He opened his jacket to reveal his firearm as he stared at the crazed stepfather. “You need to dial it down, buddy. Your neighbors called to complain that you are disturbing the peace. They witnessed an assault on Miss Davis. She could press charges. I could take you in. You don’t really want a ticket, do you, sir? I mean, if you do, I’m happy to write one. The fines would total around $500.”

Burt turned milky pale. “No. It’s not necessary.”

The front door swung open to reveal a nervous Marian. Her eyes traveled from her stepfather to the convertible and back. She chewed her bottom lip. That sweet kid was worried about us. The bully noticed and yelled, “Marian? Get your butt in the house. Your chores better be done, young lady.”

But Marian didn’t move. She wore one of those, “I’m watching a train wreck, and I cannot look away” sort of expressions. She was a smart kid, and in seconds, she perfectly assessed the situation. She realized that Pru might get in trouble for giving her a ride, so she said in a clear voice, “Pru? Thank you for driving me home. My backpack gets really heavy. And thanks for the Dairy Queen, too.”

Her stepfather flushed a cherry red.

Kevin had the man on the back foot and pressed his advantage. “As I said earlier, the dispatcher took a call from one of your neighbors. He said you were in the process of assaulting Miss Davis. Pru? Is that right?”

Pru rubbed her arm. “I haven’t decided whether to press charges or not. I’m going to have nasty bruises.”

“Well, Miss Davis,” said Kevin in his “aw shucks” sort of voice. “Pressing charges is entirely up to you. I can take witness statements, now or later. Just let me know what you decide.”

Marian’s stepfather looked like a pressure cooker getting ready to blow. His body rattled left and right. His knuckles were white. Perspiration dotted his forehead.

“What’ll it be?” asked Kevin, addressing no one in particular and leaving the question open to interpretation.

With a snarl, the jerk stomped into his house, taking Marian with him and banging the door shut.

“Come on, Cragan,” said Kevin, slinging an arm over my shoulders. “Grab your things. Let’s get you home. We need to get caught up. I haven’t talked to you in forever.”

“Pru? I’m going with Kevin,” I said as I snatched up my canvas briefcase and my purse. “Bye, Sharma and SaraLynn.”

The three females watched as Kevin opened his car door for me. Pru smirked. There was the distinct glint of admiration in Sharma’s eyes.

Pru waggled her fingers at me. “Toodles, Craigie. See you at the house.”

Kevin turned over the big engine. Once we were driving away, I told my friend, “That man is out of his mind. Boy, was I ever glad to see you.”

“I bet you were.” He chuckled. “It’s like I always say, ‘Cragan, you are so damn much trouble. Good thing I like trouble.’”

His rumbling laugh lightened my heart. I leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek.

“Should I find us a motel?” he asked.

“Don’t get carried away.” I bopped him in the bicep.

He feigned hurt. Reaching over to capture my fingers, he said, “How about you tell me the backstory? I have a hunch there was more to that little altercation than a simple war of words.”

“Sure, but first you need to tell me how you happened to come to our rescue. You’re a homicide detective, not a beat cop. Why did the dispatcher send you?”

“She didn’t.” His lips quirked into a grin. “You guys drove past me on your way to the Dairy Queen. I recognized Pru’s car but by the time I turned around, you all were too busy eating ice cream to notice. The dispatcher radioed in the disturbance. When she described the convertible, I decided I’d take the call.”

“Makes sense,” I said, telling him everything I knew about the problems with Sharma, SaraLynn, and Marian. “Can you believe that Marian’s mother didn’t divorce that monster on the spot?”

Kevin shook his head. “I believe it. I see it every day. We get a lot of domestic calls where the women refuse to charge the guy who is beating them or molesting their kids. It turns my stomach. You’re a woman. Explain it to me. Why don’t women stand up for themselves?”

I wasn’t sure I had an explanation. But I did have an inkling. “Ever heard that old story about how you cook a frog? You put him in a pot of cold water and gradually turn up the heat. Supposedly, he won’t hop out, and he’ll boil. I think it must be like that. The shift in the relationship is gradual, and the woman comes to accept the abuse. It was that way with Tim when we were married. At first, he overspent by a little bit each payday. Then he maxed out one credit card. Then two. It kept getting worse. As for how he treated me, in the beginning, he told me that I was being overly sensitive to his teasing. But his teasing got meaner and meaner. His so-called joking started in private, but by the time I’d had enough, he was downright vile to me in public.”

I paused to rein in my emotions. “Tim convinced me that I couldn’t survive without him. For months after we split up, he kept badgering me.”

Kevin took my hand. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“It’s all in the past,” I said.

We’d arrived at 512 Green Street.

“By the way, where is your car?” Kevin asked.

I told him about my flat tire. “Bob the Mechanic ordered the tire. He said it should come in tomorrow. He’ll call me at work and pick me up. I’ll drop him back off at his garage.”

“But how will you get to the paper in the morning?” Kevin twined his fingers with mine. The gesture was comforting and protective.

“I don’t know. I’ll ask Zee for a ride, I guess.” Then I remembered how much extra work she was doing for her boss, Dalton Franke. “Or call a cab.”

“I can take you. Be ready at seven, and we’ll grab breakfast. How’s that?”

“You don’t have to feed me,” I protested.

“Who said I’m paying?” he asked.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Kevin always had that effect on me. We’d been really close once, but when I’d learned he had a live-in girlfriend, I’d assumed he’d lied to me about being single. I’d slammed the door on our relationship, literally and figuratively, refusing to speak to him. Six months ago, Winnie told me that the city had hired a new, hotshot detective. Lo and behold, that new cop was Kevin. Since then, circumstances kept conspiring to throw us together. Now, as I sat next to him in the police cruiser, smelling the familiar mix of sandalwood and soap, I smiled. Kevin’s friendship meant a lot to me. He was always there for me. He had a terrific sense of humor. He always made me laugh. Best of all, he didn’t care that I could be a total pain in the butt.

We sat there without talking, enjoying each other’s company. I stared at my hand, where I’d once worn a wedding ring. An indentation marked where the gold band had been. My marriage and my divorce were still sore spots. Would I ever be able to trust a man again?

I was afraid of love. Admittedly, I’d had strong feelings for Ryder Hamilton. But he’d really hurt my pride, telling me that we needed to cool our relationship so he wouldn’t look bad to the company that owns The Gazette. In a way, that had been the beginning of the end. Slowly, I’d withdrawn emotionally, and only now could I admit it. Even to myself.

Finding out that Ryder had asked Elizabeth Varney to the Chamber of Commerce Gala was the final straw. Every time I thought about their upcoming date, I wanted to hide in embarrassment. Ryder’s decision to squire her to the black-tie event was not only disappointing, but deeply humiliating and hurtful. Was it worthwhile to trust a man if the price was a broken heart? I’d have to give that serious consideration.

I turned to Kevin to say goodbye. He planted a peck on my cheek and smiled at me. “One day, babe, I’m going to get you into my bed, and when I do, you’ll never want to climb out. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I laughed. He’d been saying this since we met. “Okay, I’ve been warned.” With that, I got out of his car.

* * *

My refrigerator was empty. I had a box of spaghetti in the cupboard and a jar of pasta sauce, but I was too tired to cook. Without my car, I couldn’t go to the grocery store. For dinner, I decided to make pimento cheese spread and eat it on celery sticks. My grandmother had taught me to make the condiment, using grated Velveeta, mayonnaise, pimentos, grated onions, and a dash of hot sauce. When I was done, I put the mix in the refrigerator. Granny claimed it should sit overnight so the flavors could mingle. I’d settle for eating it in an hour. Sher Kahn watched me with ill-disguised contempt.

“Look,” I said to my cat, “cut me some slack. I’ve had a long day.”

In response, he curled up on the sofa with his back toward me.

I called Golden Gate Retirement Home, but Granny was at dinner and didn’t answer her phone. I badly needed a distraction until my meal was ready.

I don’t own a television set. Tim got ours in the divorce, and that was fine, because I didn’t want to accidentally see his smiling face when I tuned in. However, I do own a well-used library card. This seemed like a perfect night for digging into a new book. I opened another Mrs. Pollifax mystery.

Pru’s giggles in the hallway yanked me out of the story. Without stopping to think, I went to my door to greet her. But I stopped, when I heard a second round of laughter from Sharma. I froze with my hand on the knob.

Pru tapped on my door. I opened it, and she said, “Craigie? I’m opening a bottle of chardonnay. Care to join us?”

“I’m making pigs in a blanket,” said Sharma. “We also have olives, cheese, and crackers.”

“Sure,” I said. “I can bring pimento cheese spread and celery sticks.”

“Sounds like a plan. See you in five,” said Pru.

Ten minutes later, we were seated on Pru’s midnight-blue velvet sofa. This would be a good chance to get over my jealousy and get to know Sharma better. But I quickly felt like a third wheel as the two old friends concentrated on rehashing old adventures. The best strategy was for me to be quiet and listen. I took it all in without comment until Sharma turned to me. “Pru says that the cop who rescued us is a homicide detective. How on earth did he get the call to come and help?”

I explained what Kevin had told me.

“That guy is major league cute,” said Sharma. “He can rescue me anytime.”

“Speaking of a knight in shining armor,” started Pru, “how are things going with your mother, Sharma? Is Terri Jo still dating that plumber? He seemed like a nice guy.”

Sharma heaved a deep sigh. “Nope. You know Mom. She’s incredibly needy. He got tired of her being so demanding. She wants to get married in the worst way so she can quit working.”

“That’s too bad.” Pru’s voice was level, but I picked up a hint of sarcasm.

“Yes, it really is. Mom would be much more attractive if she took charge of her life. She’s panicked about being alone.”

“Is everything patched up between the two of you?” Pru arched an eyebrow.

“Sort of. We talk on the phone regularly. As SaraLynn gets older, Mom likes to complain about her growing independent. Obviously, I think being independent is good. As for my job? Mom tells me I’m getting old and warns me that the money will dry up.” Sharma gave a little huff of a laugh. “That’s my prime objective, making money. I want to earn enough to send SaraLynn to college. That kid is a brainiac, and she wants to be a vet.”

“Any idea what you want to do next?” asked Pru.

I wasn’t surprised by this turn of the conversation. By my calculations, Sharma and Pru were both in their late-twenties. Thirty is old for a stripper. Sure, Pru told me about one woman in her 60s, who danced at Fast Freddy’s, but she catered to men with unusual tastes.

Sharma licked her fingers. “You’ll crack up when you hear this, but I’m thinking of going into business with another dancer. We thought about opening our own dance studio up in Chicago. Get this: Hector wants to buy a donut shop. We’ve found a location, and we’re in the process of securing a franchise. It’s tough sledding, because most of what I make is in cash. The bankers I’ve met don’t believe how much I’m making. One came right out and said that his board of directors would never approve a loan to an exotic dancer. They think we’re all druggies and prostitutes.”

I couldn’t keep quiet. “But aren’t there a lot of dancers who do drugs? I don’t mean to offend you, and I know you personally don’t, but what about your colleagues?”

Pru said, “There’s a percentage that does, just like in the general population. Saying that all exotic dancers use drugs is pure nonsense. Think about it, Craigie. We dance on tiny little stages and occasionally parade along a narrow runway. If you’re high, you’re going to fall and break a bone. For most of us, this is a job like any other. Except that we have to keep in good physical shape or we’re done.”

“Working as an exotic dancer, I set my own hours and I perform where I want,” chimed in Sharma. “For the most part, I’m my own boss.”

“Sharma likes to move from one club to another up in Chicago,” said Pru. “That’s one advantage of a big city.”

“Pru is a big fish in a little pond,” said Sharma. “People come from all over to see her dance. That’s an advantage of a smaller city. She’s more famous than you realize.”

I nibbled on a cracker and considered that last comment. I wasn’t surprised to hear that Pru was popular. My surrogate big sister was gorgeous, sexy, and she could dance wonderfully well. I’d seen her moves in Jazzercise. My mind bounced back to Sharma’s business dealings, and I felt a surge of sympathy about getting financial help. “I had my own problems with bankers after my divorce. They didn’t want a single woman as a customer and tried to pull my car loan. You’re trying to buy a franchise? That’s really cool.”

“When you come to the Windy City, you can have your fill of free donuts,” Sharma said. “Assuming that we get the franchise. Just thinking about the application process makes me nervous. Pru? Is there a place outside where I can have a ciggie? Do I need to go downstairs and out the front?”

“Nope. Actually, you can crawl through the window and sit on the roof.” Pru pointed with her stick of celery. Our apartments were mirror images, and her side window was directly over mine.

“Sit on the roof?” Sharma was incredulous.

“It’s not as precarious as it seems. There’s a flat section outside the window,” said Pru.

I nodded. “Makes a pleasant little balcony, actually. The maple tree creates a wonderful canopy. Pru and I sit there and drink wine on occasion.”

Sharma followed Pru to the window. When Pru raised the sash, Sharma climbed outside. Gossamer trails of smoke drifted by as Pru and I watched.

Pru sighed. “I wish she wouldn’t smoke. You know how much I hate it.”

“I heard that,” Sharma called back to us. “You aren’t alone. My mom hates it, too. There’s nothing like a reformed smoker. She always tells me to go and puff in the backyard.”

Pru whispered, “At least they are getting along.”

“Is that why she left originally? Conflict with her mother?”

“No and yes. Twelve years ago, she dropped out of school. Got a job as a waitress. She and her mother were fighting a lot, but it was also a case of the grass is always greener on the other side of the state. See, Sharma had met this guy, the one she mentioned, Hector. She and Hec have had an on-off relationship for years. When they broke up five years ago, Sharma came back to live with her mom. Temporarily. That’s when Sharma reported Burt for touching Marian.”

“You’re telling me that Sharma’s mother sided with that bully we met?” I was no stranger to problems with a mother. Mine had basically disowned me when I told her I was divorcing Tim.

“Terri Jo—that’s Sharma mother—is an idiot.” Pru sighed. “Always has been. When Sharma told the school nurse about Marian being abused, all hell broke loose. Not only were Marian’s mother and stepdad furious, Terri Jo was angry, too. With Sharma!”

“Sharma?” I echoed. I still couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“Yes, furious with Sharma. Terri Jo chewed out her daughter for sticking her nose in other people’s business.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” I said.

“Ha! It doesn’t, does it?” Pru shook her head ruefully. “Have you noticed that in the books we read, characters have to act logically? Otherwise, we would throw the book against the wall. But in real life, people are rarely logical. In fact, they are hardly ever logical. We’re creatures of emotion. Often as not, those feelings get twisted, and confused, and tangled, until they make little sense.”

She was right. This was one of the reasons I valued Pru. She was not only a complicated person, but a wise one, too.

“So Sharma left for a second time when SaraLynn was, what?” I tried to fit the pieces together.

“In first grade.”

Pru and I sat in silence for a bit. Sharma climbed back in through the window.

“Did I miss anything?” Sharma yawned and stretched her arms over her head. She wasn’t used to staying awake during the day.

“I was telling Cragan about the drama that broke loose when you talked to the school nurse,” said Pru.

Sharma’s arms dropped. With a huff of derision, she said, “It was like somebody dropped a nuclear bomb. I’d had a fight with Hector and I ran home to my mother. Thought I’d give Decatur one more try. But that didn’t last. After I reported Marian’s abuse, Mom wanted to wring my neck. That convinced me to go back to the Windy City.”

“Why did your mother turn against you?” I asked. Pru had suggested this was illogical, but maybe there was a valid reason. Maybe in the years since the big reveal, Sharma had learned more about her mother’s reaction.

“A zillion reasons.” Sharma came over to Pru’s sofa and collapsed. Obviously, she found the topic exhausting.

“Look, it’s none of my business—” I started.

“Hey, I want to talk about it.” Sharma’s voice was stronger than I would have guessed. “Some of the reasoning is private, but there’s a part I never told you, Pru. I never told you, because I didn’t know…”

We waited. Sharma seemed to marshal her thoughts. At last, she said, “Turns out that Mom and Marian’s mother are second cousins, once removed. It was weird when it came out. I vaguely remembered them getting together years ago, but like most kids, I was too self-centered to pay real attention to their relationship. When you are young, the world revolves around you, doesn’t it?”

“And that’s why your mother was angry that you reported Lorna’s husband?” I asked. “Because Terri Jo and Lorna are distantly related?”

Sharma gave me a nod. “That was one reason. Also, Mom and Lorna are—were—good friends. As you probably realized, Mom and SaraLynn live across the alley from Lorna, Burt, and Marian. Decatur is nothing but a small, incestuous village.”

She continued, “The whole group of them turned on me. Mom insists that I should have given Lorna a chance to handle the situation with Burt instead of reporting it. As a courtesy, she says. Mom is still mad at me.”

Using a fingertip, Sharma traced a letter on Pru’s glass coffee table. “Boy, that was a miserable experience. It was like living in a war zone. Seemed like everyone was angry at me. All I could do was duck and cover. Finally, I had enough. I decided to move back to Chicago. Mom said she’d loan me money if I promised not to contact SaraLynn or Marian after the dust settled. According to my mother, I go through my life, ruining the lives of other people. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I do. I don’t mean to.”

I could not help but feel her pain. Sharma’s face reflected how much this episode still hurt her. Pru walked over and pulled her friend into an embrace. I suddenly had a sick feeling that when Terri Jo—Sharma’s mother— heard that we invited Marian into the car with us, World War III would break out.

Sharma’s voice was muffled as she spoke into Pru’s shoulder. “Pru? I have a big favor to ask. Can I sleep here tonight? In fact, can I bunk up with you until I leave for Chicago?”

“Of course,” said Pru.

“I should have asked sooner…” Sharma began.

Pru waved her hands to stop Sharma’s apology.

“I’ll help you make up the sofa.” I got to my feet.

While Sharma used the bathroom, Pru grabbed a set of clean sheets. She and I made up the makeshift bed. I was tucking in the corners of a blanket when a question popped into my head. “Didn’t I hear Marian and SaraLynn call Sharma ‘Sharon?’ Or did I misunderstand?”

The sound of water splashing came from the bathroom.

“I thought you knew? I guess not. Sharon is Sharma’s real name. When Sharma started as a dancer, there was already a performer at the club whose name was Sharon, so she had to pick another name. Sharon’s mind went blank. She saw another dancer removing her makeup with a square of toilet paper. That made Sharon think of Charmin, and the rest is history.”

“Wow, imagine being named after a roll of toilet paper.”

“I know,” agreed Pru. “Sharma sounds exotic and foreign. Who would guess it was a play on good old TP?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Next morning as promised, Kevin rang my apartment buzzer promptly at seven. “Milady, your carriage awaits,” he said after I opened the door. “I’m here to spirit you to the wonderful world of Denny’s. Don’t you look fetching this morning?”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. Kevin was in rare form, and his good humor made me smile. I knew I looked my best because I’d taken extra care with my makeup. My outfit was a black gabardine suit, a jacket and skirt. I’d found it at a resale shop for five bucks. When I modeled my find for Pru, she had suggested I cinch my waist with a patent leather belt, and that pulled the pieces together in a cool way.

Kevin offered his arm and led me to his car.

“Thank you, kind sir,” I said as he held open the door of the cruiser for me. He had taken a parking space in front of the house. As I climbed inside, I looked over my shoulder to see a figure sitting on the flat roof under Pru’s window. Sharma was smoking her morning cigarette.

“I bought you a little something. This is the perfect time to share it.” Kevin grinned. Leaning past me, he opened the glove compartment and pulled out a small box. “Open it.”

Inside was a cannister of pepper spray.

“My favorite perfume! So thoughtful and romantic of you!” I dropped it into my purse.

“Ha, ha, ha. It might well become your favorite scent, if it keeps you from getting killed.”

“Huh, and here I was relying on Officer Friendly to come to my aid,” I said.

“I’ll never let you down,” said Kevin, “but sometimes I might not be available. You may need to take care of yourself. A newspaper ID and a load of bull hockey might not work on every creep. You got lucky with that bully yesterday.”

Like Sharma had said, Decatur is nothing but a big small town. That was proved, after Kevin and I were led to a table for four in Denny’s. We had given a waitress our orders when Ryder Hamilton walked through the front door of the restaurant. I glimpsed him, as I looked up from the paper place mat I was coloring. My boss stood awkwardly at the hostess station. The greeter looked around, trying to find a seat for Ryder. That proved a challenge, because Denny’s was buzzing with customers. Ryder caught my eye.

“Shoot.” I quickly went back to shading a pancake with a purple Crayola. “Don’t look up,” I cautioned Kevin. He’d been reading the paper.

“What’s wrong?” Kevin’s brow creased. In his navy jacket, light blue button-down shirt, and gray slacks, he was dressed like a businessman, but there was an aura about him that screamed, “Cop!” Even our server had noticed. We were getting the best customer service I’d ever had at Denny’s, even though the place was bursting at the seams.

With a groan, I explained, “Ryder Hamilton is waiting to be seated.”

“Can’t he join us?” Kevin had misunderstood me. Being the congenial guy he is, Kevin was willing to add one more to our party.

“No way,” I said. “Ryder’s on my shit list.”

“Lucky boy.” Kevin laughed and leaned across the table to plant a kiss on my cheek.

I could feel Ryder’s eyes burning a hole in the back of my head.

“What did he do to tick you off?” Kevin asked.

I told Kevin about Ryder taking Elizabeth Varney to the Chamber of Commerce event. “First, he lectures me on how important it is for him to not have favorites, and then he singles out the sleeziest woman in our department for a very public date. Elizabeth is the epitome of a tramp, and he wants to seem neutral? Unbiased? Huh.”

“What would you have expected him to do? He couldn’t go alone to a big deal like that. Would you have preferred that he ask someone who’s not part of the paper?” Kevin tilted his head in honest curiosity.

I felt simultaneously angry and pleased. Angry because Kevin was right. Ryder had been in a tough spot. Pleased because Kevin is one of the fairest people I’ve ever met. Trust him to see the situation from both sides. It would have been easy for the cop to curry favor with me by denouncing Ryder’s choice, but Kevin was too even-handed for that.

“Are you a Libra?” I asked.

“September 25 is my birthday, why?”

“Because you are incredibly willing to see the other side. Your sense of fair play is really irritating.”

That’s all I managed, before Ryder cleared his throat. He was standing at my elbow.

“Mind if I join you? All the other tables are full,” he said, settling into the chair next to mine.

“Be my guest.” Kevin smiled at my boss. “How are you, Ryder? How are things at the paper?”

“We’re in a rolling halt,” said Ryder, unfurling his napkin and putting it in his lap. “Our new publisher hasn’t officially moved to town. He and his wife have a child with special needs. They’re searching for a school that will be the right fit.”

Kevin nodded sagely and waved to our waitress, indicating that Ryder had joined us. The woman took Ryder’s order and said, “I’ll be right back with coffee, hon.”

“How’s law enforcement these days?” asked Ryder, returning the pleasantry.

“Cragan is keeping me busy.” Kevin’s eyes twinkled with mischief.

Damn him.

“Really?” Ryder’s face crumpled into a worried expression. “What on earth? Are you okay, Cragan?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, feeling unaccountably irked. “Just one domestic disturbance. No biggie.”

Ryder’s eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t tell me about that.”

“Why would I? You’re not law enforcement. Kevin is. He’s got my back,” I said in a snarky tone. Yes, I was being childish, but Ryder deserved it.

Ryder’s voice was grave. “Your safety is my concern. I can reassign accounts if there’s a problem.”

“Why bother? Yakky’s already warned us that he’s taking accounts away and giving them to Jeb Sennett, the football hero and all-around beefcake toady.”

“What is a beefcake toady?” asked Kevin. “Sounds like something you eat.” The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement.

“In this case, a beefcake toady is a former football player, who is busy kissing up to Yakky. This Jeb guy is a real meathead, literally and figuratively. I wouldn’t doubt that he takes steroids. Be that as it may, Jeb is Yakky’s new superstar. Yakky wants to be sure that Jeb makes his bonus from Day One. The only way to do that is to rob the rest of us—mainly me—of profitable advertisers.”

Ryder stared at me. His expression was as cold as an ice cube. I could literally feel his temperature change. Was he mad that I’d shared the newspaper’s problems? Or was something else at play here? A muscle spasmed in his lower jaw. Ryder looked to be in a state of extreme piss-ification.

Our waitress brought coffee for Ryder and plates of food for Kevin and me. I picked up a piece of bacon off Kevin’s plate with my fingers and chewed on it. Lord above, but I love bacon. I even dream about it.

In a low tone, Ryder said, “Cragan, I can assure you that this is the first I’ve heard of anyone named Jeb Sennett. Yakky and I had discussed hiring someone, but we’d agreed the person would be on probation for several months. I was under the impression that Yakky and I would interview the person together. Obviously, I had no idea that Yakky was planning to switch accounts around,” Ryder spoke in the measured way he used when he was really, really upset.

“Hey, I get it,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “You’ve been busy making plans for your big night out with Elizabeth Varney. When a guy dips his toe into the Decatur social swirl, other priorities take a back seat.”

I could feel him stiffen. His shoulders rose an inch and his head snapped up. “That’s a topic for another time. Thanks for giving me the heads up about Jeb Sennett. Now, what’s this about a domestic disturbance? Detective Stuart, I presume you are on top of all of this?”

I took another piece of Kevin’s bacon.

Kevin’s chuckle started as a rumble and burst into a loud guffaw. “If you are asking me if I’m on top of the problems that Cragan has encountered—or created—you’re asking the wrong question. I’ve known her for six years now, give or take, and I’m peddling my little tricycle as fast as I can to keep up with her. In case you haven’t noticed, Cragan is a magnet for trouble.”

Ryder’s face changed from angry to stricken. If I had to name the exact emotion, I’d tag it as “left out.” Kevin and I had a history that Ryder wasn’t privy to. Kevin had slyly reminded my boss that we had a past.

“What about this domestic disturbance?” Ryder persisted. “Cragan, is your ex-husband bothering you?”

The waitress set Ryder’s plate down. I reached over and helped myself to the last of Kevin’s bacon.

Kevin hooted with laughter. “Hell’s bells. Ryder, you are one step behind. The domestic disturbance was yesterday’s 911 call. I arrived in time to stop a bully from beating the shit out of Pru and Cragan, while an entire neighborhood watched.”

“You and Pru both?” Ryder’s voice cracked as he stared at me.

“Tsk, tsk,” said Kevin. “You really do need to catch up, buddy. I suggest we assign Cragan her own personal police scanner frequency. She seems to need it.”

I’d finished all of my food. Syrup swam on my plate, and I was still hungry. Ryder was eating scrambled egg whites and whole wheat toast. Very healthy. Very dull. When the waitress walked over to refill our coffee, I asked, “Could I have another order of bacon, please?”

“Sure thing, hon.”

Then I had a better idea. “Could you make that a double, please?”

* * *

By eight fifteen, I was at my desk. Without a car, it would be nearly impossible to pick up ads. If I’d been on good terms with Ryder, I would have asked to borrow his Mercedes. But this didn’t seem like the time to hit him up for a favor. He’d been pretty discombobulated over breakfast. Between the news that Yakky had hired someone without his knowledge, and the near miss I’d had with a dangerous stepdad, Ryder was feeling out of sorts.

I told myself I didn’t care.

Looking through my account list, I made notes regarding ads that could be rerun and ads that had to be physically picked up. By reserving space for the incoming ads, I could postpone turning them for at least a day. But that would only work if they were not complicated. This was not an optimal way to proceed, but it would do in a pinch. When Winnie came in and I explained about my car, she offered to pick up a few of the ads for me. Then she hurried back out, onto the streets, to do both of our jobs.

Around ten, I remembered the brochure I’d picked up from St. Xavier’s School. Since I needed to stretch my legs, I put the school materials in an envelope, addressed it to George Reynolds, and walked it over to his office. To my surprise, Reynolds was there, seated behind his desk and studying sheets of numbers. He must have heard me approach because he glanced up.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I have this for you. It’s information for a local private school.”

“That’s very kind of you, Cragan. Thanks for thinking of us.” His smile was genuine. “How is life in the ad department?”

“Still peachy keen, sir.”

With a laugh, he dismissed me.

At eleven, I got up to use the bathroom. When I walked back to my desk, I saw that Winnie was hard at work. “Long time no see,” she said.

“Ditto.”

She pointed her pencil in my direction. “Your ads are there in your inbox. I had to hustle to pick everything up. What’s Sharma like? She got in yesterday, right?”

But before I could tell her about Pru’s friend, the domestic disturbance, and my breakfast with champions, a muffled shout interrupted the newspaper’s normal hum. Given our open seating, it can be hard to figure out where noises originate. They bounce off the walls and echo. Winnie and I cocked our heads and listened. I looked around. “Did you hear that? Sounded like somebody was yelling.”

When the next roar came, we got to our feet and followed the sound. Since Winnie and I are both short, we stood on tiptoe to look over the shelves that held recent newspaper issues in huge black binders. Those copies served as useful references. Today, they formed a wall of stacked papers, separating us from the bellowing on the other side of the barricade.

“Can you see what’s happening?” asked Winnie. She stretched her neck in an attempt to look over the binders.

“Nope.” I balanced on my toes.

“Too bad we aren’t taller. I can’t see anything over these binders.”

“Me neither,” I admitted.

“Here. I’ll give you a boost.” She linked her fingers to form a bucket for my foot. Winnie is the strongest woman I’ve ever met. She works out regularly, so she can keep her softball skills at their peak.

Using her shoulder for balance, I put one foot into the stirrup she’d made.

“One, two, three!” With a woosh, she propelled me up, up, and up. In fact, she tossed me with such force that I had to grab at the binders to keep from flipping over. I landed on top of the stacks of papers, teeter-tottering on my stomach.

“What do you see?” Winnie hissed.

Muffled conversation was coming from the offices to my left. Turning my head toward the noise, I said, “I think it’s Ryder and Yakky! They must have closed an office door.”

“Scoot closer,” demanded Winnie. “Can you hear what they are saying?”

“Not yet.” Using my elbows, I pulled myself the length of the shelf unit. My shoes were suspended four feet off the floor, and I was balanced at an angle. This was not a comfortable position. My torso was poked by metal rings that held the papers together.

“Yakky’s blinds are shut,” I said to Winnie, talking over my shoulder. The executive offices were glass on three sides, and those walls were covered with Venetian blinds. The slats could be lowered, raised, opened, or shut for various levels of privacy. Right now, Yakky’s office was entirely closed off, door shut and blinds drawn.

Another shout came from that direction.

“What are they saying?” Winnie was nearly frantic with curiosity.

“Can’t tell. Need to be closer,” I began, but before I could finish, Winnie decided to take matters into her own hands. Literally.

Without warning, she gave my legs a mighty shove. The motion rocketed me across the binders. I couldn’t stop myself, even as I heard newspapers ripping underneath my torso. Those loose sheets of paper gathered speed, like a sled on fresh snow.

I flew headfirst over the shelves.

* * *

“Cragan! Are you all right?” Winnie was shaking me as I regained consciousness.

Ryder stared in open-mouthed wonder. “Is she breathing?”

“Yes. I think so.” Winnie lightly slapped my face.

“What the hell happened?” Ryder growled. “Did someone call 911?”

I could hear him but I couldn’t really see him. He was blurred.

Winnie peeled back one of my eyelids. “I don’t think her pupils are dilated, but she might have hit her head.”

“How?” His face scrunched in confusion. “On what? Where was she? How’d she get here?”

“She was balanced on top of the binders,” said Winnie, “and then she wasn’t. Cragan took a dive, headfirst, over the shelves.”

“Aw, shit.” Ryder never curses, but he’d been using bad language since breakfast. It was enough to make me wonder if I was hallucinating. Gently, he said, “Can you sit up, Cragan?”

“Uh-huh,” I mumbled. “Maybe.” I tasted warm copper. After touching my hand to my mouth, my fingers came back covered in blood.

Once again, I moved too slowly for Winnie. She grabbed my upper arm and hauled me to my feet. The newspaper swirled and swam. My knees buckled.

Ryder scooped me up. As he held me in his arms, he yelled, “Winnie? Grab my car keys. They’re in my desk drawer. I’m taking Cragan to the hospital. I’m not waiting for an ambulance.”

A smear of blood marred his starched white shirt. I felt incredibly stupid, my head throbbed, and my mouth hurt like the aftermath of an emergency trip to the dentist. Ryder kept on walking, jostling me in his arms. The jingle of keys behind us told me that Winnie had done as he’d asked.

“I’ll get the doors for you,” she said, her voice fading away.

I buried my face against Ryder’s chest. People would stare, and there was nothing I could do, but I didn’t have to look back at them. How could I have taken a nose-dive like that? How had I landed? Why had I worn a suit with a skirt, today of all days? As we moved from inside the newspaper to the great outdoors, the temperature changed. In the distance, I could hear traffic noises. Winnie must have raced ahead to open the passenger door of the Mercedes, because Ryder gently deposited me on the leather seat and buckled me in. After he slammed the door, I leaned my forehead against the side window.

“Hang on. We’ll be at the hospital in no time,” he said. His voice was gruff. He began talking to himself. Or to me. I wasn’t sure which. “How in the hell did you manage to do that? What were you doing on top of the binders? And how did you fall to the floor? Did you hit your head on the way down? Gee whiz, Cragan. Every time I turn around, you’re in some sort of trouble.”

He was right about that.

The taste of blood was making me nauseated. The Mercedes stopped at a light. Ryder looked over and noticed how badly my mouth was bleeding. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into my hand.

That was the icing on my cupcake. Between the pain, the embarrassment, and the kindness, I was a basket case. A hiccupping sob erupted from me.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said, reaching over and finding my hand to squeeze it. “You’ll be okay. We’re almost there.”

“I suck,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “I’m in no mood to disagree.”

* * *

The ER doctor decided I didn’t need stitches. Instead, he gave me ice packs. He determined I didn’t have a concussion, but I had bruised my ribs and bumped my head pretty hard. A bottle of painkillers later, and I was good to go. They loaded me into a wheelchair. A white-haired Candy Striper with dentures that clacked like castanets pushed me into the waiting room. Ryder was on his feet and ready to pull up his car, when a voice came over the loud speaker. “Ryder Hamilton? Ryder Hamilton? Please come to the check-in desk.”

The Candy Striper’s eyes tracked Ryder as he walked to the nearby desk. “That shirt of his needs to be soaked in warm water and borax, or he’ll never get the blood out of it. Poor man,” she said.

Poor man, indeed. I’d probably ruined his shirt, and there had to be blood on his car window. I could apologize, but I was still ticked that he’d invited Elizabeth Varney to the Chamber of Commerce Gala. I weighed his treachery against his gallant behavior. Should I forgive him? Nah. Not yet.

The receptionist handed Ryder the receiver. He listened intently, and then he whirled around to stare at me. Ryder mumbled, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, right away.” He handed the phone to the receptionist, jogged past me, and hurried out the hospital’s front entrance.

“Do you think he’s forgotten me?” I asked the Candy Striper. I had a bit of a lisp thanks to my inflated lower lip.

“No. I’d bet my social security check that man will never forget you. At least not until the stains come out of his shirt.”

Minutes later, I was buckled into the passenger seat of the Mercedes. As we pulled away from the ER, I asked Ryder, “What was that phone call about?”

“I’m taking you to the police department.” Ryder spoke brusquely.

“Why?”

The mournful bellow of a train whistle coincided with the ding-ding-ding of an upcoming zebra crossing. Ryder’s jaw moved back and forth, as though he was chewing on a tough piece of meat. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard that his fingers turned white. He stomped on the gas, realized he wouldn’t make it across, and quickly hit the brakes. The zebra-striped barriers came down as we watched one of Decatur’s many railroad tracks swing into action. The train’s engine blew past us. Its airhorn rent the air with a noise that literally shook the Mercedes.

The sound died, as the freight cars blinked past.

“Detective Stuart needs to see you ASAP,” Ryder reported, drumming his fingertips on his steering wheel. “I’m making an executive decision that we go to a drive-thru first. You haven’t had lunch, have you? I think you could manage a milkshake.”

“Why does Kevin need to see me?” I felt like we were playing a bad game of echo. I was stuck on one word, “Why?”

“Because a little girl has been kidnapped. Her name is SaraLynn, and you were one of the last people to see her.”

CHAPTER NINE

If I hadn’t felt sick before, I was definitely light-headed now. I kept repeating, “SaraLynn? What on earth?”

“I’m just the messenger,” said Ryder. “And the ambulance driver. I still don’t know how you happened to fall on your head outside my office. For kicks and grins, how about you solve one mystery before you move onto others?”

“I can explain exactly what happened back at the paper. Winnie and I heard shouting on the other side of the binders. Since neither of us is tall enough to see over the top, and we didn’t want to walk around and expose the fact we were eavesdropping, she gave me a leg up. It was fine at first, as I was resting on my belly, but I wanted to hear better so…”

“You scooted too far and lost your balance.” He did not sound amused.

“I had help. Winnie gave me a shove.”

“Have you noticed a trend? When we first met, you snuck into the men’s restroom to eavesdrop and landed in a toilet bowl. Then I heard about Detective Stuart, after you’d bashed his face with a door, giving him black eyes and a broken nose. Last month, you fell into a truck full of dried corn and nearly drowned. That brings us to the present, I think. I can’t help but wonder what you’re planning for an encore. As of this moment, I’m wondering if I’ll be around to see your grand finale, since you might be involved in a kidnapping.”

“I am most definitely not involved in a kidnapping.” I sounded more sure than I felt. I continued, “Yes, I’m an incurable eavesdropper. Do you know where that term came from? The reign of Queen Victoria. She had spies all over the place, listening in, and literally hanging off of roof eaves, to hear the plots against her.”

“I needed a history lesson. That’s the cherry on my whipped cream,” he snarled and pulled into the drive-up lane at a Steak’n Shake. I was glad to see that Ryder has good taste in fast food joints. Steak’n Shake milkshakes are divine. The chain is a local favorite because they opened their first restaurant in nearby Normal, IL. I decided on a chocolate shake while Ryder opted for vanilla. As he drove away from the restaurant with a straw in his mouth, he was quiet. But I could tell Ryder was angry.

Finally, I said, “Okay so you’re in a bad mood. Well, tough. I’m plenty ticked at you for inviting Elizabeth Varney to the Chamber of Commerce black-tie event. First you tell me we need to cool it, and then you ask her to a big social shindig. Talk about mixed messages! No wonder I eavesdrop. I can’t get the straight scoop about anything that involves you.”

“The straight scoop? You could have asked. You could have been upfront, rather than acting passive-aggressive. I’ve tried to tell you the reason I’m taking Elizabeth, but you won’t let me have a decent conversation with you. I’m taking Elizabeth because Yakky told her she was going with me. I never invited her! I was backed into a corner, and I didn’t have a choice in the matter. Yakky suspects I favor you, and being the miserable worm he is, he took advantage of the situation to stir up mischief. You’ve played right into his hands by getting huffy!”

“You could have said no.” I wasn’t about to put aside my pique so quickly.

“Yes, I could have. That would have confirmed to Yakky that I’m not capable of being even-handed and that I’m partial to you. In case you haven’t noticed, Yakky is a scorched earth type of guy. He’s on his way out; that’s for certain. But he isn’t about to go down without inflicting maximum damage. Particularly if he can target you or me.”

“You worry too much about what other people think.” I would have pouted, but my mouth hurt too much.

“Spoken like the naïve person you are! You underestimate corporate gossip. It can torpedo a career. Not only my career but yours, too. I’d rather see Yakky go down in flames than sacrifice either of us.”

I was not about to give in that easily. “But you were screaming at him! And he was screaming at you! Explain how that’s a smart political move.”

“It’s not! It was a dumb move on my part. He got to me, and once he realized how ticked I was, he kept on pushing. I had no idea he’d hired Jeb Sennett, and now I’m stuck with that walking slab of beef.” Ryder stomped on his brakes. We were only two blocks from the police department, and I could feel his frustration mounting. Every muscle in his body seemed coiled for action. He was fairly panting with anger. “I lost my temper with Yakky. I had no idea he was going behind my back and hiring some goon to sell display ads. Do you have any idea how hard it is to fire somebody? Anybody? Take that times one hundred, when the person claims to have Native American blood.”

“Jeb Sennett is Native American?” My brow wrinkled. “But he’s blonder than I am. Blue-eyed, too.”

“Uh-huh. You noticed he doesn’t look Native American. I did, too. But how on earth can we prove or disprove that? We can’t. That means that HR considers him a minority. To fire anyone is hard enough, but to fire a minority is nearly impossible, so I’m stuck with him.” Ryder scrubbed at his jaw. “Yakky knew all this. In fact, I think he planned it as a way to throw a monkey wrench into the department. He’s ruined my budget for the upcoming year because he’s guaranteed Jeb a salary, plus a bonus, that’s way out of line. On top of that, Yakky wants to strip you, personally, of all your active accounts and give them to Jeb.”

“He what?” I screeched. I could not believe what I was hearing. This was worse than I’d thought.

“Yakky wants to take away all of your active accounts—”

“I heard you the first time.” I knew Yakky meant to take some of my business, but all of it? That was a sneaky way to get rid of someone without firing her.

We’d arrived at the police station. I badly needed a pain pill, and I was angry enough to see red. My blood pressure was probably off the charts. “It’s a damn good thing that Kevin is a homicide detective. The paper is going to need one, when I get my hands on Yakky,” I said.

“Take a number and stand in line,” said Ryder.

* * *

After he dumped our empty milkshake cups, Ryder insisted on walking me inside the police department. “I better stick around. You’ll need a ride back to the paper to get your car,” he said, as he held open the door to the station.

I smirked. This wasn’t about me. It was Ryder’s way of showing Kevin who was boss. As in, who was my boss.

Ryder told the receptionist that I was there to see Detective Stuart. There wasn’t a place to sit—the police discouraged loitering—so we stood near the glass reception window and waited.

“My car isn’t at the paper. It’s at Bob’s Motor Palace getting a tire replaced,” I explained.

“Then you’ll need a ride home.” Ryder sounded a tad cheerier than he’d been.

“Look, you have other fish to fry. I’m sure Kevin can find me a ride. Go beat up Yakky. Slug him once or twice for me, would you?”

Ryder finally smiled. “I think you are perfectly capable of inflicting your own damage on Yakky. I’ve seen what you did to Kevin, remember?”

I laughed. That had been an accident, but Ryder made a good point. “I think you and I and Winnie need to sit down and plot how to eviscerate the Yakster. I’m getting sick and tired of having him mess with me and my livelihood. If they give him a swanky title like Ad Manager Emeritus, will we ever get rid of him?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself,” said Ryder. He was looking past me, and now he gave a nod of recognition to Kevin, who had appeared behind the receptionist to buzz us into the police station. Kevin did a double take when he saw my fat lip and the blood on Ryder’s shirt.

“Dare I ask?” Kevin raised an eyebrow.

“Nope,” I said.

Ryder escorted me into the hallway, but there he stopped. “Detective, can you see that our mutual problem here has a ride back to the paper or home? Cragan’s currently without a car. Also, she’s taking painkillers. I’m not sure how lucid she’s going to be with them in her system.”

Kevin closed his eyes and sighed. “Why am I not surprised? Ryder? Before you go, I do have one question: Was anyone else hurt in the fracas? Or was this a solo venture on Cragan’s part? You do realize that you have dried blood on your shirt?”

“Yes, I noticed I was a mess,” said Ryder. “That’s part of Cragan’s charm, isn’t it? She tends to share the wealth. In this case, she managed to bleed all over me. I wish I could stick around and see the sort of damage she inflicts on you, but hey! Got to run.”

* * *

“Tell me about SaraLynn,” I said, as soon as I was seated across from Kevin at his desk. “What’s up?”

He huffed a sigh. “We got a call from her mother around ten. That’s… what? Three hours ago? SaraLynn never showed up for school this morning. Her guidance counselor called the office, the office called Mrs. Nelson, and Mrs. Nelson hopped in the car to drive the route SaraLynn typically walks. When she didn’t see her daughter, Mrs. Nelson hopped out of the car and banged on doors along the way. No one admitted to seeing SaraLynn, but Mrs. Nelson found the hair ribbon SaraLynn had been wearing at breakfast. It was tangled in a forsythia bush. A nearby homeowner remembered seeing a group of teenage boys helping a girl into a white van. The witness specifically said the guys looked like teens. She figured they were all schoolmates, giving each other a ride. That’s why she didn’t worry about it at the time.”

“License plate? Make and model? Anything that would distinguish the van?” I asked.

“Not a thing. I know you talked with SaraLynn yesterday. Can you shed any light on this? Or tell me about her?” Kevin looked at me, expectantly. “Do you suppose this was engineered by Marian Gillespie’s stepfather? I guess he’s still smarting over being outed as a perv.”

“Gillespie?” I echoed. I figured I hadn’t heard Kevin right. “Marian’s last name is Gillespie?”

“You didn’t know that?” Kevin looked at me, curiously.

I rubbed my temples. “No. I never heard his last name. This is totally weird. One of my new accounts is a shop in Brentwood Village called Write Now. The owner is listed as initial ‘L’ Gillespie. I was introduced to Marian, but never caught her last name. Oh, my lord! That means I have now met both Mr. and Mrs. Gillespie as well as their daughter. I didn’t realize I’d bumped into the whole family.”

Kevin studied a piece of paper. “Yep. Says here that SaraLynn Nelson’s best friend is one Marian Gillespie, daughter of Lorna Gillespie and stepchild of Burt Gillespie. There’s bad blood between the Gillespie family and the Nelson family. According to my notes, Marian Gillespie confided in SaraLynn Nelson about her stepfather being inappropriate. SaraLynn Nelson told her big sister, Sharon Nelson, aka Sharma. Sharma tattled on Burt Gillespie. Once word got out that he was suspected of touching his stepdaughter, he lost his job at Decatur Public School District 61. Since then, he’s been working here and there, unable to get back into teaching.”

All of that matched with what I’d been told, and it explained why Write Now had gotten behind on paying their advertising bills and why the store looked shabby. I shook my head, trying to clear it. This was too much, coming at me too fast, and I was paddling hard to keep up.

Then Kevin did me one better. “I guess Mr. Gillespie’s attempt to revive his career has paid off, because they’re planning to hire him at St. Xavier’s. He’ll start in the fall.”

“What?” I nearly toppled off my chair. “How? That doesn’t make sense?”

“Not to you and not to me, but when I talked to the head nun, she explained that Mr. Gillespie will only be teaching boys.” Kevin picked up a pencil and bounced it by the eraser against his desktop, turning the writing implement into a miniature pogo stick. “The good sister has more faith in prayer than I do. No way would I let that creep have contact with any students, boy or girl. But Sister Stephen Jerome assures me that Mr. Gillespie has atoned for his sins.”

I swallowed bile. It was hot, foul, and it stunk my throat. “That can’t be right. There has to be another explanation. Why didn’t he go to jail? He molested a minor!”

“Yes. His victim was a female minor, and she happened to be his stepdaughter.” Kevin flipped open a manilla folder on his desk. “We have the original complaint against Burt Gillespie. Although his wife refused to press charges, the documentation is here. The police department had to write it up because the school nurse at… Here it is: Decatur Public School District 61 reported the complaint.”

I blinked, trying to make sense of all of this. “You’re telling me this creep started at PS 61, where his stepdaughter and SaraLynn Nelson were classmates. After Marian told SaraLynn that her stepfather had touched her inappropriately, PS 61 asked him to resign quietly, promising they’d keep his reason for leaving private. Now, he’s been hired by St. Xavier’s Roman Catholic School?”

“That’s right. But you skipped over the best part. Sister Stephen Jerome has confidence in the man. He has atoned, hallelujah! And he’ll only be teaching boys.” Kevin gave a snort of disbelief. “You gotta wonder, don’t you? These women are supposed to be educators. You’d think someone teaching kids would be extra protective, and not let a fox into the chicken coop. Even if the girls are not under Gillespie’s direct influence, they are still nearby and vulnerable. But this is off-topic. We need to know where SaraLynn is. We think she was abducted by two young men driving a white van. We’re pretty sure we have her hair ribbon. But that’s it so far. ”

“Are you wondering if it was a gang that grabbed her?”

“Don’t even think about it. I won’t let myself. The simplest explanation is typically the best. Given the bad blood between the Nelsons and the Gillespies, it’s reasonable to believe that SaraLynn was grabbed by someone from the Gillespie family or their minions. She didn’t put up a fight, so we have to assume her kidnappers were nonthreatening. If that’s what happened, there’s a good chance she’ll be returned safely. This might have been a stupid stunt, designed to warn the Nelsons—both Sharma and her mother, Terri Jo—that they better not bring up the past. At the very least, it’s a reminder they should keep their mouths shut until Burt Gillespie is settled into his new job as a teacher. Once he’s past any probationary period, it’ll be hard for the school to let him go. If we get lucky, SaraLynn’ll turn up somewhere. Or the kidnappers will call her mother. Since she got into the van willingly, I’m going to pray she knew her abductor and she’s safe.”

I didn’t know that Kevin prayed, but if there ever was a time to cry out to the good Lord above, this was it.

“What are you doing in the meantime?” I asked, as he stood up and put on his jacket.

“Dropping you back off at the newspaper. You’ve told me all you know. St. Xavier’s lets out in an hour. I plan to talk to as many students and teachers as I can, before they go home. Maybe one of them saw something, or maybe SaraLynn mentioned someone following her.” He threw up his hands. “At this point, I’m willing to listen to anything and anyone who might have an idea.”

Kevin shoved the manilla file folder into his desk and locked it.

It wasn’t until we were inside his police cruiser that he asked, “What did you do to your lip? Is that a bruise on your forehead?”

Keeping my eyes on my feet, I explained how stupid I’d been. “I crashed Ryder’s fight with Yakky. It wasn’t my intention.”

“The Gazette sounds like a three-ring circus. You certainly have your share of clowns.”

An unexpected jolt of loyalty to The Gazette surprised me. “It’s not that bad. We’re still the best media in town. Things are definitely up in the air. We have a new publisher, but he’s not exactly hit the ground running.” I explained about George Reynolds’ special needs daughter.

“I can’t imagine a tougher situation,” said Kevin, “except having your child kidnapped. I’d rather handle a murder investigation.”

Prophetic words, indeed.

* * *

The display ad department was empty when Kevin dropped me off at a little after two. The only exception was Cindy Snodgrass, our secretary. Cindy is five months pregnant, and her belly looks like a watermelon under her blouses. Her round face looks even more circular because she’s slowly put on weight. That said, she’s one of those lucky women who positively glow when they are in their second trimester. Or maybe Cindy is glowing because once she goes into labor, her maternity leave starts and she can blow this popcorn stand. I worry that she’ll never come back. Not that I could blame her. On one hand, she deals with Yakky, acting like a big baby and screaming non-stop. On the other, she would have a real baby, who might scream occasionally, but who would have a good reason for acting childish.

“Are you okay, Cragan?” Cindy asked, looking up from the pile of pink “While You Were Out” notes. “What did the hospital say?”

“I’m fine. I conked my head and busted my lip. The wind was knocked out of me. Otherwise, my pride was all that got shattered.”

“Good, because all of these are for you,” said Cindy, picking up a stack of pink slips an inch deep. “I had to get a second pad after using up the first one.”

“Holy mackerel.” I took the pile and swiftly glanced through them. “What on earth?”

“Most are from your friend, Pru. She’s worried about someone named SaraLynn? There was a kidnapping? Cragan, you sure lead an interesting life. There was also a call from a man, and he yelled about alienation of affection? I had this vision of ET kissing a lamp pole. He’s an alien, right?”

Cindy is, by nature, an uncomplicated soul. She’s lived a sheltered life, and any excitement provokes wide-eyed wonder at the world’s vast possibilities. There are days when her personal go-kart drives right off the track.

“In this case, alienation of affection means I convinced someone to no longer love someone else.” Clunky, but accurate. That was my best attempt at the time. I would have walked away, but the expression of confusion on her sweet face was too much to bear.

“I’ll be blunt. I’m being sued by Robert Smithson’s relatives. They’re claiming that the reason he left money to me was because I alienated him from them, meaning I convinced him they were unlovable, and he shouldn’t leave them money.”

“Did you?”

“Nope. They did that to themselves. When they found out he was gay, they washed their hands of him. That’s why he didn’t include them in his will.”

Cindy pursed her lips. “How does that fit in with the girl who got kidnapped?”

“It doesn’t. Those are two separate issues.” I explained about SaraLynn’s disappearance. “I have no idea what’s happened to her. She’s a very sweet kid. Yesterday, when we dropped her friend, Marian, off at her house, Marian’s stepfather came out and acted like a caveman with rabies. Luckily for me and for Pru, his neighbors got fed up with the commotion and called the cops. Kevin was a block or two away and answered the dispatcher’s broadcast.”

Cindy traced an ink splotch on her desk with one finger. She spoke in a whisper. “Isn’t it weird the way men pay attention to other men? And not to us? It’s like we’re invisible, unless we’re dressed like, well, you know. Like Elizabeth.”

“You’ve got that right,” I agreed. “But to be fair, that crazy stepfather was pretty belligerent to Kevin, too. Can you believe that creep used to be a teacher at PS 61?”

Cindy’s hands flew up to cover her mouth. “You’re talking about Coach Gillespie!”

“How’d you know?”

“My cousin, Nancy, attended PS 61. She’s in secretarial school now, but she told her dad how creepy Coach Gillespie was. You wouldn’t believe the remarks that man made about Nancy’s body. Shocking. My uncle marched down to the school and threatened to pound Burt Gillespie into a mud patty, if he didn’t stay away from Nancy.”

“Did the school know about this?” I asked.

“They sure did, but Coach Gillespie made a lot of people happy when he put together a winning football team. Because of that, he’s built up all sorts of goodwill.”

After casting nervous glances around, Cindy continued, “I’ve been told Coach Gillespie was a real star when he lived up in Michigan. He got dismissed there for the same reason. He was inappropriate with students.”

“You’re saying this creep has been bouncing from one school to another? He had to leave Michigan, too?”

“That’s what I’ve heard,” said Cindy.

As my blood pressure rose, my headache came back. I winced.

Cindy noticed. “You okay?”

“I’ve got a headache. It’s time to take another painkiller.”

“I’ll go get you a cola from the machines if you want.” Cindy was on her feet.

“Let me give you money.” I rummaged in my purse.

“I’ve got it this time. You treat next.”

* * *

I called the police station and left a message for Kevin that Gillespie had been in trouble in Michigan. I took my pain pill and a fortifying slug of Diet Coke, and then I phoned Pru.

“Any word on SaraLynn?” I asked.

“None. Sharma is here, going nuts.” Pru’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Sharma’s mother is blaming her for SaraLynn’s disappearance. Terri Jo has always been a blamer. That’s one reason that Sharma can’t live at home. Now it looks like even visiting was a bad idea.”

“But how can Terri Jo blame Sharma? Sharma spent the night at your place, didn’t she? How could she have rented a vehicle and kidnapped her own sister? With the help of teenage boys? More to the point, why would she do that? It doesn’t make sense.”

“No kidding,” said Pru. “Look, Terri Jo has never been rationale about SaraLynn. They say parents shouldn’t have favorites, but most parents do, and Terri Jo definitely babies SaraLynn. She’s overly protective of the girl, which is why this is a triple whammy.”

“You’re calling from your apartment,” I said, stating the self-evident. “I am surprised you are there. I figured you and Sharma would be out, combing the streets and looking for SaraLynn.”

“We were. We came back to Green Street for a potty break.” Pru hesitated. When she began again, the words came out in a rush. “I have to tell you, Cragan, that Kevin Stuart is being terrific about all of this. He could have said that SaraLynn wasn’t gone 24 hours or some other nonsense, but he didn’t. I know that the chief of police wanted to blow this off, because of Sharma’s occupation, but Kevin stood up to him. He told Chief Bowman that, if the paper got wind of this, the department would look awful. That shook up the chief, and Bowman authorized the additional manpower to take this seriously.”

“Kevin is a good guy. He loves kids. The fact that Burt Gillespie made an ass of himself yesterday only encouraged Kevin to delve into SaraLynn’s disappearance. I still think this has to do with Burt, don’t you?”

She spoke even more quietly. “Of course, I do! Who else could it be? He out and out threatened Sharma and SaraLynn in front of us. The man didn’t even try to hide his animosity. Terri Jo says that Burt used to drive by their house really slowly and stare. Giving them the evil eye. Eventually, Terri Jo and SaraLynn quit sitting out front and moved their stuff to the back.”

Pru referenced an odd Midwestern tradition. People open up aluminum lawn chairs and sit outside in nice weather, watching the world go by. Some do it to escape the heat inside their homes because they don’t have air conditioning. Others like to be social. After one family goes outside, the neighbors will join them. When the temperature becomes unbearable, people set their lawn chairs under the spray of a rotary lawn sprinkler. That really cools you down. It becomes a bonding experience, turning each neighborhood into a tribe.

My mother always said that sitting outside in a lawn chair was low-class.

I don’t agree. It’s a way of socializing that doesn’t put any stress on the host or hostess. To my way of thinking, spending time with your neighbors is like taking out an insurance policy. You make payments slowly and build up a bank account of goodwill. You reach out to others by sharing plant cuttings, taking over a casserole, and returning a lost dog. When a problem arises, you make a withdrawal, and you can do that because your neighbor knows you’d do the same for him or her.

“None of Terri Jo’s neighbors saw SaraLynn climb into that van? Or have they heard a different story?” I mused.

“None of her next-door neighbors. We know SaraLynn made it two blocks from home, and then there’s the report about the vehicle. No one has suggested that she struggled rather than simply climbing in. I’m pretty surprised about that. SaraLynn is not a stupid kid. Why would she willingly get into a strange vehicle with kids she didn’t know and drive off?”

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the scene. An idea percolated and rose to the top. I blurted out, “Where is Marian?”

“What?” Pru asked.

“Where is Marian? There’s one good reason SaraLynn would hop into a vehicle full of strangers without struggling. What if the kidnappers used Marian as bait?”

“Oh, my lord.” Pru moaned.

We hung up, and I phoned the police department again. The dispatcher did not sound happy to hear my voice, but she promised that she’d tell Kevin to get in touch with me, ASAP. I was working on an ad for TSC, Tractor Supply Company, one of my bigger accounts, when Kevin called back. I told him what I was thinking. “Marian must have been used as bait,” I said.

He was silent for a few heartbeats. I could see him in my mind’s eye, thinking this over. “I’ll call you back,” Kevin told me.

An hour went by. Then two more. I called Bob’s Motor Palace and got a busy signal. The ad deadline was approaching. I phoned Ross Gentry, the manager at TSC, and explained about my car. “I can’t drive this ad out to you,” I said.

“No problem.” His voice held the hint of a drawl. If the Marlborough man came to life, he’d look and act exactly like Ross. Tall, lean, and laconic. I guessed him to be about ten years my senior. He seemed like the type of man who chewed on a cinnamon-flavored toothpick, except there was an old-world courtesy about Ross. He had impeccable manners, and I’m a sucker for a man with good manners. I also liked his tan and his cowboy boots. At our first meeting, he’d been gruff, but since then, I’d learned he had a gentle side, at least when it came to me.

Ross continued, “Here’s an idea. I was thinking of running by your place and staking up your tomatoes when I get off work. It’s best to prop them up before they need the support. Why don’t I come by the paper, check out my ad, and give you a ride home?”

Since Bob hadn’t called to say my car was ready and I kept getting a busy signal when I phoned him, this sounded like a mighty fine idea. I thanked Ross, hung up the phone, and tried to get back to my ads. But my mind flitted here, there, and everywhere. Twice, I had to tear up the insertion order and start over. An image flashed into my head—SaraLynn giggling as she sat next to me in Pru’s car. Was the girl being mistreated? Was this a prank gone wrong? Was she still alive? The last thought made my stomach knot up. I rummaged around in my purse to find the zippered bag that Winnie calls my “medicine cabinet.” The two TUMS were a bit worse for the wear, but I popped them into my mouth and chewed.

The gritty pills were gone when Kevin called our desk phone. “Son of a biscuit, Cragan, that was smart thinking on your part. The first cop who talked to Marian didn’t get much out of her. But I took a stab, and she recognized me from yesterday. Marian admitted that her dad had given her instructions to ride to school this morning with two high school boys he’s coaching in a flag football league. Can you imagine? These were two young men she’d never met before. Anyway, she climbed into the van with them. They were driving extra slowly, and she couldn’t figure out why. Then they spotted SaraLynn on her way to school. The football players pulled over and offered SaraLynn a ride, all the while encouraging Marian to invite SaraLynn inside. SaraLynn got into the van! The girls talked, but only for a couple of blocks before these creeps let Marian off at school, telling her that they’d be dropping SaraLynn off next. Of course, Marian didn’t know they were going to kidnap her friend. She thought everything was copacetic. You can imagine how awful she felt, when she learned SaraLynn was missing. Poor kid was beside herself with guilt. When the other cop talked to her, he didn’t ask the right questions, and he scared her.”

I could well imagine that. Marian must have been terrified. The fact that her stepfather had set this up was chilling. “What happens now?”

“We’re giving Mr. Gillespie a free ride to the police station,” said Kevin. “I have to get off the line.”

CHAPTER TEN

Cindy walked slowly to my desk. Her expression told me there was a problem. A big one. In her hands was a torn piece of notebook paper that she turned around and around. Squaring my shoulders, I said, “Hi. What’s up?”

“You’re not going to like this, and I hate it that Yakky has made me the bearer of bad news. But here it is.”

My heart sank. Anything having to do with Yakky forecast a problem. Cindy was not to blame, and I gave her a wan smile. “It’s okay. I know you’re the messenger, not the creator of the hassle. What pound of flesh is he demanding today?”

Walking around to Winnie’s side of the desks, Cindy sat on the vacant chair and leaned close. “You know how Yakky’s hired that football player? Jeb? Yakky wants to make sure the new guy has a good list.”

I held up my index finger. “Translation: Yakky is stripping my account list.”

Her lower lip trembled. “Uh-huh. But not the whole list. He only wants big advertisers so that Jeb doesn’t have to, and I quote, ‘Waste his time running all over town.’”

Closing my eyes, I steadied myself. “Hit me with it, Cindy. The bad news. I can’t stand the suspense.”

“Yakky wants you to give up TSC, right now.”

I saw red. Literally, my field of vision turned crimson. TSC had not advertised for years, when I discovered they were languishing. To reactivate their advertising, I did hours of research. Along the way, I learned that TSC had scads of unused co-op money. There’s always a limit as to how much money the vendors will pay, along with other restrictions, but a smart ad salesperson can put together ads that cost the account very little money by using co-op funds. I’d found enough vendors with co-op funds that TSC was able to advertise for an entire six months and not even make a dent in their ad budget. Once I was armed with that information, I made a visit to the store, and its manager, Ross Gentry.

The first time I walked into Ross’s office at TSC, he tried to throw me out. He’d been burned before by ad reps, who didn’t know what they were doing. I stood my ground. When he saw how determined I was, he agreed to give me a chance. I returned with mock ads, display ads that were not camera-ready, and showed him how he could use the co-op money that had been allotted for his store. My professionalism impressed him. Ross is the kind of guy who stands back and assesses people, before getting to know them. The hard work I’d put into finding ad money and creating sample ads convinced him that he should start advertising again. TSC has since become one of the paper’s largest accounts.

Cindy handed me the paper she’d been fiddling with. I read Yakky’s scrawl: TSC is now Jeb’s account. Call the manager of the store. Tell him we’ve made a change to better serve him.

As I stared at the note, my tears blurred the words. Having Yakky take away business that I’d prospected was hard enough, but having him suggest I wasn’t capable of doing my job hurt even more.

With a shaking hand, I brushed the moisture off my face. “Have you called Ross?”

“Not yet.”

“He will be here in about fifteen minutes to proof his ad and give me a ride home. I’ll tell him when he comes.”

“He might want to speak with Yakky,” said Cindy, putting a gentle hand on my forearm. “Just so you know, Yakky is taking other people’s big accounts too. He’s decided that Jeb should have the cream of the crop of advertisers. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

I gave her fingers a squeeze. “Thanks for letting me know. I’d rather have you tell me while no one’s here. That way I don’t have to hide how I feel. You’re a sweetheart, Cindy.”

* * *

“They messed up the tire order,” said Bob the Mechanic when I finally got through to him by phone. “I had to return the one that came and reorder the right model. My assistant knocked the receiver off the phone. That’s why my line was busy. Sorry.”

He’s such a nice man that I could only murmur. “Oh, well.”

We got off the line, and I went back to thinking about SaraLynn. My fingers itched to phone Kevin, but that would have been counterproductive, as he was probably up to his eyeballs in alligators. Instead, I bent over my work and tried to stay focused. It was hard going. What difference did it make if I prospected, found, and maintained new advertisers only to have Yakky yank them at will? In my head, my grandmother chanted, “Life isn’t fair, Cragan.” Dear old Granny. I would see her on Sunday, but her wisdom came to me on a nearly daily basis. She was never far from my mind.

At ten after four, Jeb Sennett strode in, wearing a smirk. An attitude of self-importance clung to the man. Next came Fred Jenkins and Elizabeth Varney. With a quick glance over her shoulder, Elizabeth said, “Hey, Cragan. What are you doing here? You’re usually out beating the pavement until five.”

A stream of nasty comments pranced through my mind like the tickertape at a stockbrokerage. In the end, I decided to be polite. “My car had a flat tire. It’s being fixed, but until then, I’m desk-bound.”

Tapping a finger against her chin, she studied me. Elizabeth, Miss Kansas Corn-Fed Beef, was newly divorced. Her husband had complained about all of the cats she was collecting. One day, he shouted an ultimatum, “Either the cats go or I do!” She chose the four-footed felines over the feckless fop. I admired her for that, but that seemed to be her only good point.

For what seemed like an exceptionally long time, Elizabeth stared at me. Slowly, she got to her feet and wiggled her way to my desk. Elizabeth was incapable of plain-old walking. Instead, she shimmied her hips, giving maximum motion to her buttocks. Pulling over Winnie’s chair, Elizabeth knelt on it. Her eyelashes fluttered, and her lips turned down with sadness. “It’s a shame that Ryder will be taking me to the Chamber of Commerce black-tie affair. I know you have a thing for him. It must hurt to be passed over. Yakky thought I’d do a better job of representing the display ad department, especially after he heard that your ex is going to be the emcee.”

Rarely has anyone offered me such an apology so studded with nasty barbs. Since I was already in a depressed mood thinking about SaraLynn, Elizabeth was taking her life into her hands. A struggle started within me. I was torn between the desire to pull her hair and the urge to laugh in her face. Was it possible Elizabeth was trying to be nice and didn’t have the skills to pull it off?

A low voice behind me said, “Cragan? Do you want me to come back later?”

Still kneeling, Elizabeth stared upward to take in the full six feet and four inches that comprised Ross Gentry. Her expression changed from faux concern for me to feral sexuality. Elizabeth’s tongue was hanging out of her mouth. I knew Ross well enough to interpret his thoughts as his eyes danced over her and quickly dismissed her. But Elizabeth was harder to get rid of than dog shit on your shoes. She batted her lashes at him. “I’m Elizabeth Varney.”

Then she chuckled and brought her hand to her mouth in a childlike gesture. “It’ll only be Varney for a while. I’m newly divorced and considering taking back my maiden name.”

Ross had turned his attention away from her. He said nothing. He could have been another face on Mt. Rushmore.

Somehow Elizabeth concluded she had captivated him. With one hand on her hip, she got to her feet and adopted a Mae West sort of pose. Giving Ross the once-over, she asked, “Are you an advertiser? I think I’ve seen you around.”

I gave in and fully introduced them, explaining that Ross was the manager of TSC. “He’s here to review an ad.”

“Ahhhhh.” Elizabeth dragged out the syllable, turning it into a purr. “You’re here for business, not pleasure. I guess I better be on my way. Enough girl talk, huh, Cragan?”

Batting her lashes at Ross, Elizabeth did not move, but she did continue jabbering. “Cragan and I were talking about the upcoming Chamber of Commerce black-tie event. I’m going; she’s not. Sad, isn’t it?”

“Do you want to go?” Ross lifted an eyebrow and stared down at me. There was mischief in his gaze. He’d heard me speak about Elizabeth and her feminine wiles. He’d seen her once, when he had dropped off an ad and I wasn’t here. That visit had been a longstanding source of amusement for us as Elizabeth had nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste to wait on Ross. Instead, he’d handed the ad to Winnie and left. Right now, his face was totally impassive as he stared down at me, but I saw the twinkle in his eyes.

“It is black-tie,” Elizabeth repeated. “I have a gorgeous gown. Very, very form-fitting. You’d have to dress up, too.” That jab was aimed at Ross, but I winced. She had a lot of nerve. He had on jeans and a tee shirt, presumably so we could stake my tomatoes. But Elizabeth didn’t know that.

“I understand the concept of black-tie,” said Ross slowly. “I guess I’d have to shine my cowboy boots.”

“Just make sure you knock all the manure off of them,” said Elizabeth, with a wink. Giving Ross a sly look, she pivoted and walked away. Her hips would have sunk a thousand battleships with the sort of waves she was making.

“Speaking of manure,” said Ross, taking the chair by my desk. “That woman is purely full of herself.”

I agreed and plunged ahead with the news that Yakky was taking TSC away from me.

“Is he in?” asked Ross. I’d seen him angry, and Ross was not the sort of guy you wanted to mess with. On the other hand, if Yakky wanted to play with the big boys, this was a golden opportunity. I stood up and pointed. “I don’t know if he’s here or not. His office is over there. The second one. He has that huge color photo of him with his Jaguar on the wall.”

Ross snorted. “A Jaguar? Huh. That’s going to go over really well with the new Japanese carmaker, isn’t it? That man is dumber than a bucket of rocks.”

Ross strode away as Winnie showed up to reclaim her chair.

“What did I miss?” she asked. She was loaded down with a tote bag full of Shaklee products. Her newest hobby was selling the vitamins, cleaning supplies, and spices.

I opened my mouth to get her up to speed when for the second time in two days, I heard shouting from Yakky’s office. Winnie’s eyes grew as big as Tupperware bowls. The noise quickly ceased, and Ross closed the distance between the glassed-in office and my desk in quick strides. “What a load of horseshit.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Not much.” He smiled at me and offered his hand to help me to my feet. “Yakky told me he was switching my account, and I told him that if he did, I would quit advertising. Then he stuttered around about how that would be bad for business, and I said, ‘Bad for your business. I can always buy space in the Decatur Shopper.’”

Winnie giggled. I grabbed my things. Winnie asked, “What happened next?”

Ross shrugged. “Yakky said I shouldn’t threaten him, and I said, ‘This ain’t a threat. It’s a promise. You do whatever you want, little man, and I’ll do what I want as well.’”

Oh, my. I swallowed hard. “How did you leave it?”

Ross winked. “Don’t matter how I left it, little girl. I’ve got him by the short hairs, and he knows it.”

* * *

Ross helped me climb into his red Ford F150 pickup truck. “How did you split your lip?” he asked. I explained about my headfirst dive over the binders. He laughed. On that high note, I thought I’d better clarify what I’d heard. “Ross, did you really invite me to the Chamber of Commerce black-tie event? You don’t have to, you know.”

“Little girl, there ain’t much on this green earth that I have to do. Taking you to a fancy shindig is definitely not a hardship for me, especially if you want to go. Seeing how that snippy woman talked down to both of us, I have a hankering for you to show her up. What do you say?”

“The tickets are expensive.” Money was always one of my big concerns.

“TSC will pay for them. I’ve got an expense account I never use.”

“The evening might be boring.”

He grinned at me. “Then it’ll be up to us to find a way to have a good time.”

I liked his attitude. “Okey-dokey. I’m game if you are.”

* * *

When we got to my house, Pru came running out. She threw her arms around me. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and her skin was blotchy. “Kevin found her. He found SaraLynn.”

“Thank heavens,” I said. Turning, I explained to Ross about SaraLynn’s abduction. He shook his head, and his pale blue eyes turned cold and hard.

“How old was she?” he asked.

“Ten, almost eleven,” said Pru.

He swore. “I have no patience for perverts. None. When we catch them, we ought to castrate them like you do a bull calf. Take a pair of snippers to them.”

Well! That was enlightening. I asked Pru, “Was SaraLynn hurt? Is she okay? Who had her?”

Pru drew in a long, deep breath. “Kevin couldn’t talk much. He told me he was busy processing her, which sounds awful, but I’m sure it means getting every scrap of information he can. He depended on me telling you, because he was short on time. I called Sharma. She was too rattled to talk. Sharma was at Terri Jo’s house, but she’s coming over later. As best I can tell, SaraLynn is fine. Unharmed. Spooked, but untouched. Kevin hinted that she’s not talking. I hope she will.”

Screwing up my mouth, I thought that over. “I can’t blame her for clamming up, can you? She’s probably worried about repercussions on Marian.”

“You are exactly right. Kevin wasn’t happy that Marian withheld information at first. Of course, he’s not going to make a federal case about it, as she’s young and scared,” said Pru.

“And Marian’s evil stepfather is not exactly a model citizen,” I said. “She had good reason to be scared of him.”

“That’s right. God only knows what Burt Gillespie might do, if Marian pointed the finger at him.” Pru shivered, even with her arms wrapped around her body. “That man gives me the creeps.”

“How are Sharma and Terri Jo taking all of this?” I wondered. Turning to Ross, I explained that Sharma’s mother’s name was Terri Jo Nelson.

“Of course, they are thrilled that SaraLynn is safe and back home, but they’re wary about what happens next.” Pru’s eyes narrowed with anger. “The fact that SaraLynn was tricked by her friend is a sore spot. SaraLynn thinks Marian didn’t know the men were kidnappers. Even so, Marian acted as bait, and now she’s feeling terribly guilty. I’m not sure who’s the most upset: Marian, SaraLynn, Sharma, or Terri Jo. Toss me in that pile too. Sharma blames herself for coming back to Decatur. I blame myself for insisting that Sharma visit. Terri Jo is angry with everyone, but she’s particularly angry with Sharma for stirring up things with Burt Gillespie. Marian has withdrawn like a crab pulling back into its shell. SaraLynn is traumatized. She keeps shaking and going into this trance-like state, where she stares off into space and stays quiet.”

This wasn’t the time to point out I hadn’t originally been told that Burt and Lorna’s last name was Gillespie. Not that it made a big difference, but it would have been nice to know. Especially since I’d promised to visit Write Now with spec ads. I could have really embarrassed myself in front of Lorna Gillespie.

But that was selfish thinking.

“Is there anything I can do?” I touched Pru’s elbow.

“You’re already our hero. If you hadn’t realized that Marian might be involved, Kevin would have taken the other officer’s report at face value. It was that second interview Kevin had with Marian that offered up a solution.”

Ross had been standing next to me, silently. “You two go on and get caught up,” said Ross, giving my shoulder a squeeze. “Cragan? You might want to change before we play in the dirt. I’ll grab the tomato cages and take care of the garden.”

“That reminds me,” I said, turning back to Pru. “Ross is taking me to the Chamber of Commerce black-tie event this Sunday night.” I explained how Elizabeth had taunted me. “She was incredibly rude, and he called her on it.”

“Do you have a suitable dress?” Pru always thinks about appearances. She’s not one bit shallow, but she’d be the first to tell you that the right clothes will get you further in life than the wrong ones. After all, she makes her living based on her looks, so if anyone would know about what to wear—or what to take off!—it would be her.

“I have an old prom dress and a bridesmaid dress in my closet. Surely one of those will work.” I said this casually as I watched Ross pull the wire tomato cages out of the back of his truck.

Pru’s face dissolved into a mask of horror. “Not on your life, Cragan! Are you kidding me? This is your big chance to throw all of this back in Elizabeth’s face. By the way, why isn’t Ryder taking you to this big party?”

In all the hubbub concerning SaraLynn, Pru and I hadn’t had the chance to talk. There was a lot I hadn’t told her, such as Yakky trying to take TSC away from me, Jeb Sennett passing himself off as Native American, and Ryder’s excuse that he was forced to be Elizabeth’s escort. Zee had been correct when she noticed I was jealous of Sharma. But she didn’t understand how much I relied on Pru’s support. More than anyone, she was my sounding board. My big sister. A friend who cared about me and would eagerly share her hard-won wisdom. Sharma’s visit had made it difficult for Pru and me to spend quality time together—and riding around in the back seat of Pru’s convertible did not count as such. Now Pru looked puzzled—a little hurt even—because she’d been left out of the communication loop. I didn’t want to go into everything at length while Ross was working ten yards away.

“Long story. Ryder claims he was forced into taking Elizabeth to the black-tie event. According to him, if he said no, we both would have looked bad to Glendale Enterprises. The way he explains it, he would have been accused of playing favorites, and I would have seemed like a brown-noser.”

“I’m disappointed in Ryder. That borders on spineless,” said Pru. “I have no use for people who are disloyal.”

“Me neither.”

“Look, I’m going to call a friend who’s a seamstress. Since the Chamber of Commerce event is only three days away, you need to get cracking on a dress. We’ll get you fixed up.” She gave me a light hug and turned toward the house.

“Pru? I’m buying a new tire for my RX-7. There isn’t any money in my budget for an evening gown.”

Pru smiled. “That’s old news. Lucky for you, you have a friend with sartorial resources.”

“Sartorial?” I echoed.

“Look it up.”

Later, I did look it up, but right then, Pru had more to say. “On second thought, come inside with me. I’m going to take your measurements. Tell Ross you’ll be right back.”

* * *

After whipping out her tape measure and using it, Pru told me to run along while she made a phone call, presumably to track down an evening gown. Instead of heading back to the garden, I ducked into my apartment and changed into jeans and a tee shirt. While I was gone, Ross had sunk all of the tomato cages around our fledgling plants. He smiled when I walked over to inspect his work.

“I need to come back with a roll of chicken wire and enclose this whole shebang,” he said, settling his fists on his narrow hips and staring down at what we’d optimistically dubbed “our garden.”

“Why?” I couldn’t see a need to keep the tiny sprouts surrounded by wire fencing. That seemed excessive.

“Critters are nibbling at the plants.”

“What sort of critters?”

“From the teeth marks and the types of greens they favor, I’d guess rabbits.”

“Really? There are wild rabbits around here?”

Dragging his shovel around the perimeter of the garden patch, he said, “Yes, ma’am, but they’re nothing compared to deer. I’m a little surprised the deer haven’t shouted, ‘Buffet!’ to each other and cleaned all of this out. Worse, I’m kicking myself for not thinking about that sooner. I consider this the city, and I tell myself critters don’t live in the city. That’s pure nonsense. Animals, like people, will survive in the damnedest circumstances.”

“We’ll pay you back for the chicken wire and the tomato cages,” I said, after observing how many of the green enclosures he’d settled around the plants.

“Like hell you will.” His smile was slow and lazy. “I take that back. There’s one way you could pay me back. Have dinner with me? Or do you have plans?”

“No plans and no food in the larder. Give me five minutes to feed my cat and lock up the apartment.”

True to my word, I came back in a hurry. “I’m hungry. Where to?”

Ross helped me into his truck. “There’s a Golden Corral on the other side of town. I like their fried chicken. It’s nothing fancy, but is that okay with you?”

I dipped my chin and stared at him. “Do I look like a picky eater? Hello?”

His laugh was warm and generous. There was a lot to like about Ross. I’d never dated a cowboy, and as best as I could tell, he was exactly that. Once we were on our way to the restaurant, I asked, “How did you come to work at TSC?”

“Is that a polite way of asking if I have a college education?”

A blush colored my face, and I lied, saying, “No. If I’d wondered about that, I would have come right out and asked.”

“I have two degrees. One in agriculture and one in civil engineering. Both are from Purdue University. After college, I found sitting at a desk in an office too boring for words. I took a job as a clerk at the local Tractor Supply Company store, and that was that. In case you are wondering, my parents hate what I do. They had expected me to join the family business, and I decided I wanted to make it on my own. How about you?”

“I have a degree in journalism from Ball State University,” I said. “But I almost majored in biology. I love animals and plants. All sorts of living creatures.”

“How’d you come to work at the newspaper?” He raised his eyebrow as a question mark.

“I got married, right out of college, to a student I’d met, Tim Collins. Tim got the job here as sports anchor for WKRX. After we moved, it turned out that the owners hadn’t been truthful about how much money Tim would make. On top of that, Tim spends money like it’s burning his fingers. We were already having problems getting along, but then we couldn’t pay our bills, and creditors began calling. Reporters don’t make much money. Especially starting out. But as an ad salesperson, I can control how much my bonuses are by how hard I work. When I heard there was an opening at The Gazette, I applied and got the job. Unfortunately, Tim decided I was being disloyal to him by working for another media outlet, even though he doesn’t sell advertising, and we were barely keeping our heads above water. Our relationship went from bad to worse, and now we’re divorced.”

“I’ve met your ex-husband.” Ross put the statement out there and went silent. A quiet descended on the interior of his truck. In my head, I dithered. What was Ross trying to say? That he understood why I’d gotten divorced? Or that he admired Tim? A lot of men in the WKRX viewing area thought Tim hung the moon. Actually, they thought he hung the scoreboard. Guys, who were sports fans, fairly worshipped the ground under Tim’s feet. Shortly after our divorce, I’d had to deal with advertisers who refused to work with me because they thought I’d mistreated Tim by divorcing him. In particular, two brothers who owned a shoe store called me a “ball buster.”

But I wasn’t.

I was, however, a survivor. Just like the deer and the squirrels and the rabbits. No matter where I landed, I would find a way to make do.

Tim didn’t care at all about our credit, our bills, or the phone calls that hounded us. During that period, my stomach had churned with anxiety, I’d quit sleeping, and I was breaking out with huge zits because the mounting debt bothered me. There are a lot of couples who have differences of opinion, and there are situations in marriages that cannot be resolved. But if your spouse doesn’t care whether you are miserable, you’re in an impossible situation. Tim made fun of my worries. He laughed them off. Eventually, I started suffering from panic attacks. After being rushed to the hospital for the second time in two weeks, I decided enough was enough.

Ross spoke quietly. “Yes, I met Tim. I was not impressed. As you’ve probably guessed by now, I don’t do bullshit, and he was as big of a cow patty as anyone I’ve ever met.”

I nodded. “You have captured the essence of him rather neatly, sir.”

With that, we both laughed.

The rest of the evening was lighthearted. We teased each other about our preferred foods. Ross was strictly a meat-and-potatoes type of guy. I ate salad, vegetables, and a little white meat of chicken. We agreed that caramel is superior to chocolate and had seconds of dessert.

“The Chamber of Commerce event starts at seven,” Ross said, as we sat in his truck outside of 512 Green Street. “Why don’t I pick you up right at seven? We can be fashionably late.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said. “Thanks for dinner.”

Then came that awkward gap when we wondered whether to kiss or not. I’d had a cup of decaf coffee and wasn’t too sure about my breath so I skedaddled out of the F150. He watched as I raced up the stairs and into the house.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

On Friday, Zee gave me a ride to the newspaper. I’d slipped a note under her door on Thursday evening, and she’d responded by saying it was no problem, as long as I could be ready by seven. That was a tad early for me, especially two days in a row, but much better than being late and much cheaper than calling a cab.

Admittedly, waking up at six was worse than I’d anticipated because I’d been on the phone with Kevin until midnight, rehashing SaraLynn’s abduction.

“How’s life?” I asked as I settled into the passenger side seat of Zee’s Camry.

She growled. “What happened to your face?”

“A minor mishap.” Actually, I’d done a good job of using makeup to obscure the bruise to my forehead. My lip was a little swollen but not much. “How are things at work?”

“We’re being audited by a federal bank examiner. Fortunately, it’s routine. Unfortunately, Dalton is totally out of his mind with worry. This is the first audit we’ve had since changing some of our procedures, and he’s scared they’ll find a mistake.” Zee’s voice was matter-of-fact. She knows more about First National than her boss does, and he realizes that. If Zee wasn’t a Black woman, she’d have been promoted to vice president a long time ago.

“Sounds to me like the perfect time to ask for a raise,” I said as I stared out of the window. Spring flowers were fading, and newly planted annuals were taking their places. Red geraniums, yellow marigolds, pink petunias, and others I couldn’t name brightened up the residential neighborhood. Our house was the only one on Green Street that had been divided into an apartment building. The landlord had managed to slip his changes through before the neighbors knew what was happening. Since then, zoning has been changed, and there will never be another dwelling on Green Street with multiple residences. Also setting us apart is Zee, as the rest of our neighborhood is White. Until Kevin joined the Decatur Police Department, she was stopped regularly for DWB, Driving While Black. He’s single-handedly spread the word that she lives on Green Street, and now most of the officers leave her alone. It’s a small triumph, but it is a step in the right direction.

Zee’s mouth crooked into a smile. “Great minds think alike. I asked Dalton for a raise this past Monday. He’s supposed to tell me today. The auditor comes next Friday. I think my timing is good, because Dalton cannot get ready without me.”

“Way to go!” I said, truly glad for her.

“Get me caught up on Pru and that friend of hers, Sharma. I heard them coming in late last night.”

I explained the whole ugly mess as best I could. Zee listened without interruption. Finally, she said, “You’re telling me that this pervert molested his stepdaughter, and her mother didn’t grab a baseball bat and pound him senseless? What is she, an idiot? I can’t imagine a mother turning a blind eye on that sort of nonsense.”

“Instead of smashing his head, Lorna Gillespie threatened Marian, her own kid! Told the girl to never say anything about it again. Burt Gillespie has to be behind the kidnapping of SaraLynn Nelson, Sharma’s little sister. Marian Gillespie has clammed up. Who else could make Marian stay silent except for her mother and stepfather?”

“There must be a special hell for parents who abuse their children,” said Zee. “I could find a smidgeon of forgiveness if they were crackheads or drug addicts, who didn’t know which end was up. When you’re high or stoned, you aren’t thinking straight.”

“On the surface, the Gillespies look like model citizens. They both have jobs. She owns that stationery store, Write Now. She told me she couldn’t make a decision about advertising until she spoke with her husband, and he was still at work. I don’t know what he does for a living right now. He lost his teaching and coaching job at the public school after Sharma squealed on him.”

“He was a teacher?” Zee almost stood on her brakes. “And a coach? You’re kidding me.”

“No, ma’am, I am not.” I explained how Burt Gillespie had been asked to leave the public school without ramifications. “Get this, Zee. He’s lined up a new position at St. Xavier’s.”

“Land sakes! Why hasn’t Kevin arrested him as SaraLynn’s kidnapper?” Zee’s voice grew more Southern and more husky. She was having a hard time understanding this. I couldn’t blame her. It didn’t make much sense.

“I spoke with Kevin on the phone late last night. Kevin says Burt Gillespie has an alibi for when SaraLynn was abducted. Burt claims he definitely did not do it. True, he might have orchestrated it. But without witnesses, there’s no one left to question—and neither SaraLynn nor Marian will talk. They refuse to give descriptions of the boys. In fact, they won’t say anything at all! Kevin suspects the girls were warned to stay silent.”

“SaraLynn was returned unharmed?” asked Zee. “She was, um, intact?”

“She had not been interfered with,” I said, using that quaint term. “She hadn’t been jostled, bruised, or otherwise mistreated. The creeps didn’t do any of that. It must have been horrifying for her to watch her friend, Marian, climb out of the van. That had to be the moment SaraLynn realized she’d been abducted!”

Zee smoothed her hair. She takes great pains to iron it straight. I once asked if she used spray starch. In return, she gave me a look that curled my hair. Zee said, “I’m thinking the person behind this is either clever or a total sociopath. Who comes up with a plan to use one little girl as bait to abduct another?”

“Someone who has very little concern for the mental health of two little girls,” I said. “For the rest of their lives, Marian and SaraLynn will question their judgment about people. Especially those who claim to be their friends. That’s a high price to pay.”

“What was this creep’s motive? Why did he want to put a scare into the girls right now?”

Kevin and I had discussed this. “We think Sharma’s homecoming put a scare into Burt Gillespie. Naturally, Burt wants to protect the job he has lined up at St. Xavier’s. Kevin suspects that Burt doesn’t want his past misdeeds to come to light, particularly not now. Makes sense, I guess. Maybe there’s an employment contract that hasn’t been signed? Or maybe Burt figures that after he’s been working for a while, it’ll be almost impossible to get rid of him.”

“That is some twisted logic,” muttered Zee. “But what a creep! I still say someone should take a baseball bat to Burt Gillespie. He has to be the puppet master. Otherwise, none of this makes sense. Who else would come up with such an elaborate method to silence a child? Without harming a hair on her head, SaraLynn was terrorized. Kevin can’t get her to talk?”

I nodded.

Zee went on, “I figured as much. Those goons insured her silence. Burt Gillespie’s got the ultimate ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card.”

“You are so right,” I agreed. “What could SaraLynn say if this goes to court? Yes, I got into a van with my friend, and I did it willingly. Yes, the two men didn’t drop me off at school. Yes, they kept their hands off of me. And yes, I was returned unharmed. It sounds like an unplanned joy ride. No harm, no foul.”

“Huh,” said Zee. “Except that she’s underaged and the guy behind all of this is a pedophile.”

“Burt Gillespie covered his bases rather neatly,” I continued. “If someone presses the matter of his prior misdeeds with Marian, the defense would say that his stepdaughter lied, and she’s since withdrawn her accusation. As for SaraLynn Nelson, the defense would be that Burt Gillespie had nothing to do with her hopping in that van.”

Zee said nothing else as she pulled into the executive parking area at The Gazette. I unlocked the passenger side door. “Thanks for the ride. See you, tonight? It’s Pru’s turn to bring the food, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. I was worried that she would forget, so after I pushed my note under your door, saying I’d give you a ride early, I pushed one under hers, too. I warned her to bring a main dish, or we’d raid her refrigerator. And she said that would be good as she needs to clean it. I told her that if it was really disgusting, I’d do it myself. You know how I hate messes. Especially if they are gross.”

“Gee, that gives a whole new meaning to the term ‘Brownie.’ You’re like those little elves who would sneak around the cobbler’s store and make shoes for him.” I grabbed my canvas briefcase and my purse.

“Ha, ha, ha,” said Zee. “I am a proud Black woman, not some sort of sniveling elf and don’t you forget it. Otherwise, I’ll take a baseball bat and practice hitting homers with your head.”

* * *

Every Friday at eight a.m., the display ad department had a command performance, showing up for our once-a-week sales meeting in the conference room. Originally, Yakky labeled these as his way of staying up-to-date regarding our accounts and their activity. Like most pronouncements by Yakky, that had been a bald-faced lie. We rarely reported our sales activities. Instead, the meetings had become a chance for Yakky to preen, brag, and generally plump up his already overweening ego. Nothing of value happened; several hours of useful work time were wasted.

That changed when Ryder Hamilton was named the manager of the display advertising department. In theory, the hierarchy went like this: publisher, general manager, ad department manager (over classified and display ads), display ad manager, and lowly salespeople. If followed correctly, Ryder was directly under Yakky and directly over all of us who sold display advertising. In truth, Ryder was standing in the wings, waiting for Yakky’s retirement. At that time, Ryder would become the advertising manager for The Gazette.

Yakky was not very smart. However, he was sly. Even before Ryder arrived, Yakky knew that Glendale wanted to get rid of him. Their plan solidified when some bright spark in accounting added up all of Yakky’s perks and realized he was costing The Gazette a fortune.

But Yakky was not about to go graciously into retirement. Instead, he’d initiated a program of resistance. Publicly, he doubled-down on his club memberships, becoming incredibly active and visible. Running for office in the groups where he belonged. Making himself indispensable. Volunteering to serve on any and all committees. This heightened Yakky’s profile.

Covertly, he’d amassed a treasure chest of favors, some tangible and some ethereal. For example, he traded free ad space for weekend stays at Chicago hotels. These he gave to civic leaders, and in turn, they owed him favors. Whenever any advertising contract was signed, Yakky attached a personal request for “treats.” These included, but were not limited to, front row tickets to various events, wine tastings, rides on private planes, car detailing, dry cleaning, professional photography sessions, spa days, expensive meals, and even cosmetic surgery. In point of fact, Yakky was so good at passing around these perks that he’d been nicknamed “Santa Claus” by various civic leaders. These gifts were a cunning way for the Yakster to bolster his popularity and make it almost impossible for Glendale Enterprises to fire the man. And Glendale Enterprises wanted desperately to fire Yakky.

Given the distrust that the public felt after learning the paper had misled everyone about the car plant, you’d think that Yakky’s reputation would have taken a major hit. It did, briefly. Since then, Yakky had busily promoted the lie that he, too, had been tricked by unscrupulous reporters and by our former editor.

Right, and the Brooklyn Bridge is being relocated to Decatur, IL.

Glendale Enterprises had become aware that Yakky was stockpiling favors like a squirrel hides nuts. They also knew that he was living way beyond his means, thanks to the perks he was collecting. But Glendale had a third reason to want to fire Yakky.

Once Ryder arrived, he quickly observed how Yakky mistreated all of us. Ryder made copious notes and copies of relevant documents. The scale of Yakky’s bad behavior was massive. As usual, Winnie had the inside scoop. She told me, “After Ryder submitted his report to Glendale, they brought in a human resource litigation specialist. He went over Yakky’s actions, asked a few questions, and told the bigwigs at Glendale that The Gazette is ripe for being sued for a number of unfair employment practices. Yakky has put the company at risk.”

The Yakster was on thin ice, but like any endangered species, he was clawing his way through life. These Friday morning meetings were one of the last vestiges of Yakky being Yakky. Instead of helping us improve our skills and better serve our customers, Yakky used this time to lord it over us that he was still in control of the department.

This particular Friday, Yakky had a surprise for us. He arrived early. Typically, he glories in having us wait for him. At seven thirty, Yakky was already seated at the head of the conference table. He sipped from a large ceramic mug of coffee with the words “Big Boss” on the side. The opposite side should have said, “Little Man” but you can’t have everything. In front of Yakky was a tall stack of papers. Instantly, I was on my guard. Yakky was not above falsifying documents. Indeed, he’d tried to portray me as a failing salesperson by creatively altering a sales report.

The plethora of paper promised a punitive purpose to Yakky’s presence. I’d arrived early, too, in part to take advantage of the large work surface that was the meeting room table, as I had some tearsheets to process. Tearsheets, as the name suggests, are pages torn from a daily paper. Advertisers like having extra copies of the single newspaper page where their ad appeared. Now, I found it difficult to concentrate. I finished up in the meeting room and hurried back to my desk.

“What the hell is Yakky up to?” I asked Winnie, when she came in at seven forty-five and took her place next to mine. I’d noticed she’d come through the front door and walked past the meeting room. “Did you see those papers he’s holding?”

“Yes, and since he moves his lips when he reads, I doubt he even knows what all is in there,” she said. Winnie is often described as stocky, but that implies fat and she’s mainly muscle. She’s the only person I’ve ever met who actually loved military boot camp. Being in the armed services had suited her, and she’d stayed in shape ever after. Giving me a once-over, she asked, “How’s the head?”

I waved her concerns away. “I’m fine. I’m a fast healer. Have you seen Ryder?”

“No. His car isn’t out there,” said Winnie.

Cindy arrived, carrying a box of bagels and a shopping bag with assorted cream cheeses and other supplies. Serving us breakfast had been Ryder’s idea, and it had proved popular. He’d gone so far as to purchase a coffee maker that he set up in his office because there was no extra space in the meeting room. Cindy’s appearance was the signal that she’d started a pot brewing.

After glancing around nervously, Cindy came back to chat with Winnie and me. “Ryder is going to be late. Yakky set up an eight o’clock meeting for Ryder with the Hickory Point Mall manager, but he didn’t tell Ryder about it until after five yesterday. Since the manager leaves the mall promptly at that hour, Ryder couldn’t reschedule.”

“Wow,” marveled Winnie. “That was sneaky, even for Yakky.”

Cindy wagged her head in a baleful manner. “Boy, oh, boy, was Ryder ever mad when he discovered what Yakky had done.”

“You know what that means, don’t you?” Winnie’s question was directed at me.

“Yakky is going to do something that Ryder won’t approve of,” I said.

Winnie nodded and said, “Right, and the most likely target for an incoming missile is you.”

* * *

“Let’s get this party started,” said Yakky as he walked over and closed meeting room door. On his way back to the head of the table, he did a tiny jig. Boy, was he in high spirits this morning! With his hands balled into fists and his body bent in half, Yakky reminded me of Rumpelstiltskin before he stamped his foot and vanished in a puff of black smoke. But that’s not really fair on my part. Rumpelstiltskin is better looking than the Yakster.

“Cindy?” Yakky called out, as our secretary passed around paper plates and napkins. “No need for that. You can put the food away. This meeting will be short and sweet. We don’t need you.”

Cindy blinked, picked up the food supplies, and abruptly left the room. My anger flared. Yakky had no reason to be hurtful. Ryder had suggested that Cindy stay during the sales meetings so that she knew what was going on in the department. That had been a smart idea, as there had been many times when Cindy’s knowledge had saved all of us time and hassle. However, she couldn’t do anything to help if she was kept out of the information loop.

Rubbing his tiny hands together, Yakky grinned. “I have to tell you that when it comes to hiring crackerjack talent, I am the best! Jeb? Stand up and take a bow, won’t you?”

The ex-footballer slowly got to his feet. His neck was as thick as the trunk on a Giant Sequoia. His fists were as big as my head. After an acknowledging nod of his head, Jeb stuffed himself back into his chair.

“Jeb has been tearing up the streets, calling on one account after another, and he’s found a lot of advertisers who simply are not happy with the service they’ve been getting from this department. Therefore, I am shifting a lot of accounts around.” From the top of the stack, Yakky took a paperclipped pile of papers. “These are your old and your new accounts, Fred,” said Yakky. He continued like that, handing out packages to every salesperson in our department. As people flipped through the pages, there were gasps of shock. From the expressions on their faces, my fellow employees were horrified. My turn was last. Reading through the package took no time at all. Yakky had taken all of my weekly advertisers and given them to Jeb. That meant 70% of my revenue was reassigned. Including TSC.

I set the papers back down on the conference table. Yakky could reassign accounts all day long, but the advertisers would have the final say. Ross would never agree to being called on by anyone else. At least a dozen of my accounts would be equally loyal. Furthermore, when Ryder found out about this, he would blow a gasket. Over the past month, he and Yakky had been circling each other like two dogs spoiling for a fight. Now, it looked like Yakky had thrown the first punch.

Yakky being Yakky, it wasn’t enough to dismiss Cindy, brag about his new hire, and rearrange our account lists. Even though he’d promised a meeting that was “short and sweet,” for the next hour and a half, we were treated to Yakky’s Greatest Hits, a monologue of the glorious exploits and derring-do of the fabulous, fantastic, and fearless Yakatori.

Slamming my head against the concrete wall would have been more fun.

The meeting felt interminable, and it might have outlasted eternity as we know it, but George Reynolds popped his head into the room. “Hiya,” he said. “Yakov? Are you planning to use this room much longer? I have to meet with the press crew, and I was hoping we could get in here.”

As Yakky debated about handing power to the publisher, Reynolds glanced around the room. He spotted me and said, “Cragan? My wife wanted me to particularly thank you for the information you found. Much appreciated.”

That burned Yakky’s biscuits.

“Okay,” the Yakster said, snarling at us. “You heard Mr. Reynolds. We need to move along. Now, get out there and sell something!”

* * *

When I got back to my desk, Cindy came by and handed me my car keys. “Bob Petrovich was here while you were in the meeting. He’s dropped off the RX-7. The bill is in an envelope on your desk, and he apologized for taking so long. He wants you to run another two weeks’ worth of ads for Bob’s Motor Palace.”

“Good deal,” I said. “Cindy? I am sorry about how Yakky treated you.”

Her blue eyes filled with tears, making them seem even larger than usual. “Not your fault. Besides, I have my own ways of getting back at Yakky.”

“Do tell,” I said.

Cindy cupped her hand over her mouth. “Who do you think tipped Ryder off about all the favors Yakky was trading with our advertisers for perks that benefitted him personally?”

“Atta girl.” And I gave her a high-five.

* * *

Since I’d been without my car for so long, there were a lot of in-person calls to make. Typically, I group my accounts together geographically, but the wait for the new tire had thrown everything off. Today I would be hopping all around town like a pinball. I considered whether to tell my accounts they’d been reassigned. In the end, I decided to wait until Ryder confirmed the changes. After filling my canvas briefcase with sample ads, tearsheets, and rate cards, I walked to Cindy’s desk. She was on the phone, and I waited patiently until she concluded her call.

“Because my car was in the shop,” I said, “I’m running behind on seeing advertisers. This is bound to be a long day. How about if I call in a little before five? You can tell me if there’s anything I need to attend to? I’m not planning on coming back into the office, but I can if I need to.”

After a sidelong look around, Cindy said, “If an ad comes in while you’re out, I can schedule it for you.”

She wasn’t supposed to do that, but the offer was most appreciated. I put a hand on her arm and said, “Don’t get in trouble. Not for me.”

“I won’t.”

* * *

As per my plan, I drove from business to business to business. As I made my rounds, my thoughts returned to SaraLynn’s kidnapping. It would be a hot topic this evening at our weekly meeting of the Friday Night Mystery Club.

The club had started as a casual get-together. My housemates and I love mysteries. Any kind, any type. It took us a while to discover this mutual passion, but when we did, our close relationship tightened like a cashmere sweater that’s been washed in hot water. We decided to meet weekly. Since none of us has a steady relationship with a man, we chose Fridays, a typical date night. We take turns providing food and wine, but the meetings generally take place in my apartment because I have the best seating arrangement.

Several months ago, Winnie crashed our meetings. Originally, she showed up to warn us I was being targeted by the police. The cops had thought I might have killed my friend, Robert Smithson. Of course, that was nonsense, but the fact that Winnie had come to my aid, and her encyclopedic knowledge of mysteries, gained her entrance to the club. She has since carved out a niche for herself as our champion dessert maker.

Two months ago, a crisis forced us to reevaluate our mission. In a short space, we went from mysteries on paper to quandaries in real life. I wouldn’t go so far as to call us a vigilante group. We are decidedly nonviolent. But we are fiercely committed to seeing that justice is served, particularly if the person who has been harmed is unable to fend for herself. I say “herself” because we’ve noticed that women often get short shrift by those in power.

As predicted, my day was a whirlwind of activity. Cindy did indeed take care of several ads for me. I was glad when five o’clock rolled around. This evening, 512 Green Street felt like an oasis of calm. Once inside my first-floor apartment, I leaned against the wall and drew a deep breath. My place isn’t much, but it is serene. Tonight, I was particularly grateful for that sense of peace. Unfortunately, it didn’t last long.

“Ouch!”

For the second time in a week, Sher Kahn bit my ankle hard enough to draw blood. His reflexes were lightning fast, and if I hadn’t felt the sharp pang of pain, I would have thought I was delusional. The spot of blood on my skin proved I was a victim of a feline hit-and-run.

“What the heck?” I reached down and tapped the tip of his nose. “Bad kitty. Bad, bad, bad kitty.”

His ears flattened, and he glared at me.

“Listen, buddy, you need to behave, or I’ll lock you in the bedroom.”

A rap on the door interrupted my lecture. I opened it to find Zee with a glum look on her face. “Pru has invited Sharma to be our special guest.”

I bit my tongue rather than swear loudly.

Zee continued, “I assume that’s okay with you?”

“As long as we get to discuss the book I’ve chosen.” A little voice inside warned me to act like an adult, to be mature, and to cut poor Sharma a copious length of slack. An equally strident voice said, “Not a chance!”

Zee pouted. “I would rather it was just the five of us,” she said at last.

I tried to be a good person. Really, I did. “Sharma has had a rough couple of days. Maybe Pru doesn’t want to leave her alone. I’m sure SaraLynn’s abduction was upsetting.”

Zee blew out a long sigh. “I guess you’re right. I saw Pru in passing. She said that Terri Jo Nelson has been a real witch to Sharma. Seems that Terri Jo blames Sharma for SaraLynn’s kidnapping. Terri Jo told Sharma that her high-risk lifestyle invites chaos into their lives.”

“Ouch,” I said, not betraying that I’d already heard a version of this.

“Speaking of ouch, did you know your ankle is bleeding?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Pru and Sharma had decided to bring homemade lasagna to the Friday Night Mystery Club. Admittedly, that went a long way toward appeasing my irritation. This was my week to make a salad. With the addition of Italian dressing, my contribution would go well with the lasagna. Rosie made asparagus, drizzled with olive oil, and crisped in the broiler. Zee shoved an open loaf of Italian bread into the oven after slathering it with a mixture of mayonnaise, grated cheeses, and minced garlic. Winnie refused to tell us what she’d brought as dessert. “It’ll be a surprise,” she said.

While the garlic bread browned, we settled down in my living room to discuss The Unexpected Mrs. Pollifax, my choice of books. But I’d no sooner put the hardback out on the trunk I use for a coffee table, when Pru reached into a cloth bag and produced six flutes. Sharma pulled a bottle of champagne out of her large purse. The bubbly stuff was cold enough that moisture beaded on the olive-green glass.

“Do you have a tea towel?” Sharma asked me. Winnie volunteered to find one in my kitchen. She came back with both a tea towel and a charcuterie platter, that she’d made in addition to dessert. Pru fished around in her bag and withdrew two bags of crackers.

As the platter and the crackers were set out, Sharma tossed the towel over the top of the champagne and eased off the cork. A satisfying pop accompanied the faintly floral, crisp fragrance.

Sharma poured each of us a glass and raised hers. “Thank you, Cragan. If you hadn’t had the foresight to suggest that the cops reinterview Marian Gillespie, SaraLynn might still be missing.”

“Here, here!” my friends chanted.

A blush swept up my neck and across my cheeks. After I took a sip, I said, “Sharma, I didn’t really do that much.”

“Huh!” Her response was brisk and dismissive. “The first idiot who interviewed Marian scared her to death. If you hadn’t suggested that Detective Stuart give it a second try, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“How is your little sister?” Rosie leaned forward, her dark eyes damp with concern. I’d been disappointed to realize that Julio wasn’t with her this evening. I wanted to show him that I was still wearing the diamond ring he’d given me. Seeing my disappointment, Rosie had explained he was at a sleepover with a handful of friends. I adore that little guy.

“SaraLynn is terrified,” said Sharma. “She was shaking so hard that Mom asked the EMTs to give her a sedative. Thank goodness, they didn’t complain. The poor kid was scared out of her wits. No one touched her. I know that has to be your first thought; it was mine. She wasn’t even jostled. She blames herself for getting into the van with Marian, but my mother told her that she did nothing wrong. And she didn’t. It wasn’t like she hadn’t gone places with the Gillespies before…well, before I reported the creep. Once she was inside the van, SarahLynn’s choices were extremely limited. Fighting wasn’t an option. For heaven’s sake, the boys were two older teenagers and athletes to boot.”

“Did they tell SaraLynn why they were grabbing her?” asked Winnie. She’d been careful not to use the word “kidnapped.” I approved of her word choice. No need to make the situation worse.

“Not in so many words. One of the guys hopped out to use a phone booth. SaraLynn pressed her ear to the wall of the van and overheard that he was getting instructions. Of course, she couldn’t tell who was on the other end of the call, but we’re fairly sure it was Burt Gillespie. Detective Stuart tried to track the two boys down. No luck on locating the van either. The boys were probably athletes who owed Burt a favor. He coached a lot of teams. The chances of finding those guys are almost nonexistent.”

“What does Marian have to say about all of this?” asked Zee. “She’s not much of a friend. Not after she helped them trick SaraLynn.”

Sharma’s eyes grew damp. Her voice was husky with emotion. “The first time the police interviewed Marian, she became hysterical. It was only because of Cragan’s suggestion that she eventually talked. Since Marian had met Kevin before, and because he’s such a gentle soul, he got through to her. She explained a little of what happened, but not much. We think her stepfather threatened her. We think he sent her off that morning in a van with his athletes. I doubt she knew what they intended to do! I’m betting that once the deed was done, her stepfather warned her that she better not talk. Not to anyone and not about anything.” Sharma poured us a second round of champagne.

“How about Marian’s mother, Lorna?” I asked. “She had to be a part of this, didn’t she?” I was torn. One part of me wanted to discuss SaraLynn’s situation, and the other wanted to delve into Mrs. Pollifax’s adventures.

“Lorna Gillespie claims to have known nothing about what happened. Nothing at all. Her shop in Brentwood Village, Write Now, is closed. There’s a sign on the door claiming that the Gillespies are taking a family vacation.” Sharma’s face mirrored her disgust.

At least I didn’t have to worry about getting spec ads ready. On the other hand, maybe Yakky had reassigned Lorna Gillespie’s account, too.

“Family vacation? How convenient,” snarled Zee.

“Isn’t it?” Sharma picked up a wafer-thin piece of salami. The cheesy-garlic fragrance of the bread in the oven was making my mouth water. It wasn’t bacon, but it was close.

“What does your mother say about all of this, Sharma?” I blurted out. Pru shot me a look. I mumbled, “Sorry. That’s prying.”

Sharma smiled at me. “Are you kidding? You of all people have every right to ask questions. Mom has resumed her ongoing disapproval of me. According to her, I’m the culprit because my career attracts people who are dangerous.”

“That’s rich since Terri Jo used to be an exotic dancer, too,” said Pru, with a snort. “Terri Jo is Sharma and SaraLynn’s mother, of course.”

There was an awkward pause. Terri Jo must be off her head to blame her older daughter for the abduction of her younger child.

“You see,” Sharma continued in a quiet tone, “my mother and I have always butted heads. She got pregnant with me and had to get married. She wasn’t sure about my dad’s ability to support them, but he agreed to the match. They were too young, really. Mom missed out on her chance to run around and have fun. I’ve always been a thorn in my mother’s side, whereas she dotes on SaraLynn. But that’s okay, because I adore SaraLynn, too.”

“Terri Jo has no right to blame you!” Pru spoke to her friend with a sort of pent-up aggression. “You didn’t ask to be born.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t make Mom’s life easy. I’ve been a vast disappointment to her, and she’ll tell you that I ruined her figure. Mom blames my teenage rebellious behavior for Dad running off with another woman. I guess Mom has to have a whipping boy or girl, and I’m it.” Sharma’s pained grin was more eloquent than any words. Here was a woman cut to the bone by her mother’s rejection. All of a sudden, I understood why Sharma would relish being an exotic dancer. What a perfect way to get back at her mother and make a living at the same time!

The silence thickened until Sharma added, “But seeing SaraLynn happy makes everything worthwhile. And Mom is good to…SaraLynn.”

“That reminds me,” said Pru, changing the subject. “Tomorrow is Sharma’s birthday. We’re celebrating at the club. I’m inviting all of you to come, and Anthony Calamari, the new owner, says is he waiving the cover charge for you guys. Anthony wants you to know that if you come, all of your drinks are on Fast Freddy’s. So is your food. It won’t cost you a thing! Please say you’ll join us!” Pru clapped her hands like a schoolgirl. Her face shone with glee.

The atmosphere instantly became uncomfortable. It wasn’t that we disapproved of Pru’s occupation. We didn’t. On the other hand, visiting a gentlemen’s club was not on my bucket list. I glanced over at Rosie. She looked absolutely horrified. Our Hispanic friend could not have been more miserable, if you’d told her we were planning to reenact the Alamo.

Zee worked her jaw. She does that when she’s thinking through a problem. For the most part, Zee is unshakable. Growing up on the rough side of town, she’s watched shootings, and robberies, and drug deals. A little nudity shouldn’t matter much to her, except lately, she’s been going to church twice a week. Once on Sunday and again on Wednesday night. I could be way off base, but I’d bet her pastor would not approve of consorting with exotic dancers. As for actually entering a club and hanging around, she’d probably heard lots of sermons against immoral entertainment.

Winnie was gung ho. Her eyes brightened like a Christmas tree with its lights plugged in. She was happily rubbing her little palms together. “Sounds terrific,” she said. “Count me in!”

Sharma looked temporarily relieved that at least one of us would come. “Great,” she said. Her voice was weak, almost resigned to the disappointment she felt.

Pru sent me a coded message, a look that begged me to accept the invitation. My mouth opened, but the words caught in my throat. The offer was meant as a treat; that I knew. But to me, it felt icky. Pru has teased me about being almost puritanical regarding sex. I’m not, but I am very private about it. I wasn’t entirely sure how I would cope with sitting in an audience full of men who were watching nude dancers. Embarrassed? Exposed? Titillated? Humiliated?

Pru cleared her throat. Tears glittered along her lashes, or so I imagined. In that moment, I knew that my hesitation hurt her terribly. Rejecting an invitation to visit Fast Freddy’s was like a slap in her face. I couldn’t hurt her like that.

“An invitation to a birthday party? Sure thing! What a nice opportunity! It’s a surprise, to be sure, but why not?” I fairly bubbled over with enthusiasm, much of which was real.

“If you come early,” said Pru, “the club will be full of drag queens.”

That was a term I’d never heard before. “What’s a drag queen?”

“A man who dresses like a woman,” explained Sharma. “You would be amazed by how authentic they look. A lot of them model themselves after famous singers or movie stars. There’s one at Fast Freddy’s named Marilyn Mango, and he looks so much like the real Marilyn Monroe that you’d be hard pressed to identify the fake.”

“The men do or do not take off their clothes?” Rosie spoke stiffly.

“Oh, honey,” said Sharma. “If they took off their clothes, they would ruin the illusion. No, the drag queens are fully dressed, and they lip-sync to songs. You won’t believe how entertaining they can be. As a matter of fact, if the idea of seeing me strip makes you uncomfortable, you don’t need to worry. I wear a G-string and pasties when I’m dancing in most clubs.”

There was a whooshing sound from Rosie, like the air escaping from an over-inflated balloon. “Your invitation sounds very kind. Thank you. I’d love to go.”

That only left Zee. She’d been monitoring our conversation. Her dark eyes darted from speaker to speaker. The timer dinged on her garlic bread. I figured she would take advantage of the distraction and stay quiet. Zee can really dig her heels in when she feels she’s being pushed. Pru watched her with a neutral expression. She wasn’t about to chastise Zee. That wasn’t like Pru. But I did wonder if Zee’s reluctance to go with us would leave a sour taste in Pru’s mouth. If so, that would be a shame, as the four of us got along so well. I hated the thought that something as silly as a birthday party might spoil our relationship.

Getting up to rescue her garlic bread, Zee put a hand on my side table to steady herself. We’d been sitting long enough that everyone’s legs were stiff.

“Of course, I’ll go,” said Zee, without preamble. She surprised all of us. “You don’t think I would let Cragan go without me, do you?”

* * *

We never got around to discussing Mrs. Pollifax. The lasagna, garlic bread, salad, and asparagus made a fabulous meal. When Winnie did a little “ta-dah” and displayed a glass baking pan of tiramisu, I wasn’t sure how I’d stuff another bite down my throat. But I did. One taste of the delectable custard, coffee, and chocolate delight had me moaning with joy. Going back for seconds, I decided that Mrs. Pollifax would wait. I scolded myself for being so self-centered that I’d worried over such a trivial matter.

The party broke up a little early because it was a work night for Pru and Sharma. Sharma stood up and stretched. Her expression was wistful. I decided to make more of an effort to be nice to Sharma. “Will SaraLynn be going to the party with us?” I stopped and amended my question. “Gee, I don’t even know if Illinois laws allow minors in places that serve liquor.

“Mom wouldn’t let her,” said Sharma, brushing an imaginary bit of lint off her jeans. With a grimace, Sharma stopped. The change in her demeanor made it clear that this was a topic she hated addressing. After a shuddering breath, she turned bright eyes on me. “But SaraLynn’s coming over to Pru’s place tomorrow. We’re going to paint each other’s nails. Won’t that be fun?”

Without waiting for my response, Pru rushed in. “I convinced Terri Jo to let SaraLynn spend time with us. I pointed out that SaraLynn might not miss Marian so much if she could hang out more with Sharma. And missing Marian was why SaraLynn was eager to climb in that van.”

Trust Pru to come up with a way to help her friend. By playing to Terri Jo’s fears that SaraLynn might take off again, Pru had convinced the woman to allow her daughters one-on-one time.

“Julio will be home by then. He would love to show SaraLynn his new Game Boy game,” said Rosie.

With a start, I remembered that I still had the tearsheets for the Fast Freddy ads. Taking them from my canvas briefcase, I handed them over. As Pru and Sharma each took one, they beamed with pride at the great-looking ad. I’d requested the sports section, thinking men would see it, and that’s exactly where it appeared. Ad placement can be tricky. A salesperson can request a specific spot in the paper, but there’s no guarantee the ad will show up as planned. There are other factors, such as breaking news and columns, that can bump your ad from the desired spot.

“Anthony Calamari called me first thing this morning,” said Pru. “He ran out and bought a half-dozen copies of the paper. He cut out the ad and glued it to colored paper to use as signs. Very first grade of him, but cute, huh? He’s really pleased.”

Each time Pru mentioned Anthony, she seemed to buzz with electricity. Something was going on between them, but I didn’t know what. Pru neatly side-stepped my attempts to pry. Now she smiled what I called her Mona Lisa smile. Her eyes clouded with the sort of faraway gaze usually reserved for daydreaming. Typically, Pru is easy to read. What you see is what you get, and there’s no duplicity. At least not with me. But her reaction to Fast Freddy’s new owner signaled a change in Pru’s typically frank behavior. Inwardly, I shrugged and decided she would tell me about him when she was ready.

“I wonder if he will see an uptick in patrons?” I asked. Sometimes an ad generated no additional business in the immediate aftermath. On occasion, customers needed to run ads for months before people noticed or sales improved.

“As a matter of fact, Anthony has had reservations flooding in all morning. He says he’s taken more calls from locals than ever before. Whatever the customer count, we’ll have fun. There will be a birthday cake and everything.”

Pru’s good mood was infectious. I was totally blissed out by the tiramisu and champagne. This had been one of our best meals, ever. Winnie had thoughtfully asked Sharma for her recipe for lasagna, which meant we could have that dish again. Although I wished we could have paid more attention to Mrs. Pollifax and her exploits, the evening had been a success.

“Jazzercise, tomorrow?” asked Pru, her eyebrows scooting up in a questioning manner.

“But what about SaraLynn? I thought she was having her nails painted?” I asked. Feeling bloated from the alcohol and sugar, I’d been secretly hoping we could take a pass on the aerobics class, but that was not how Pru operated. No matter what, she stuck to our exercise routine.

“We’ll pick her up after class,” said Pru. “I managed to talk Terri Jo into letting her spend time with us here. Sheesh, that was a phone call I never hope to repeat.”

“Got it” was my response. I liked SaraLynn, and I would like to see for myself that she was okay.

“SaraLynn has been begging Mom to let her come to Fast Freddy’s with us,” said Sharma, wistfully. “She’s excited about my birthday. But as you might guess, Mom said no. SaraLynn pitched a fit, which is another reason Mom is letting her visit with us after Jazzercise. It’s a concession. Pru kept after Mom until she gave in.”

Pru wrapped the leftover pan of lasagna with cling film. “Craigie? After we get back from class, a friend of mine from the club will be stopping by with your evening gown.”

From the club? Did that mean Pru had enlisted help from another exotic dancer to find me a formal gown? I considered protesting, but the words stuck in my throat. Meanwhile, my brain performed complicated mental gymnastics. What if the gown was totally unsuitable? What if Pru and her friend intended me to look like I worked at Fast Freddy’s? How could I refuse to wear a dress that Pru had procured for me?

I wanted to share my fears, but I couldn’t. Pru’s eyes were shining with happiness.

“Thank you,” I told Pru. “It’s very kind of you to arrange a dress for me.”

“No problem, little sis,” she said as she gave me a hug. The term of endearment—"little sis”—made me glow with pride.

After all of my Friday Night Mystery Club guests left, I picked up Sher Kahn and stroked him. “See how nice life can be when you are a good kitty?” I asked. He didn’t answer. I kept on talking. “Tomorrow is going to be a busy day.”

Sher agreed and rubbed his face against mine. This was a rare treat. Usually he squirms and tries to get away. Sher’s affection encouraged me to spill my guts. “I’m a little worried about the gown. It’s likely to be too risqué. But no matter what they come up with, I will remain polite and gracious. After Jazzercise, I’ll drag out my old prom dress, just in case. Pru won’t need to know if I change at the last minute. See? It’s all good.”

“Meow,” Sher Kahn weighed in, telling me this was a terrific idea.

Once I had the cat’s approval, I felt a whole lot better.

* * *

On Saturday morning, I squeezed into my best Spandex leotard and matching tights. The colors were neon pink, purple, and green. A green headband went around my curls,to keep them out of my face. I’d purchased the outfit on sale, and it looked good. At least I wouldn’t shame myself by dressing like an exercise newbie in Jazzercise class.

Pru and Sharma met me outside my apartment. Sharma was dressed all in black, which sort of surprised me, as I figured she’d have one of those cute two-piece sets, Spandex shorts and a crop top. Pru was in a lime-green-and-black leotard with black shorts. They gave me a quick hello, and we hurried to Pru’s car. The two old friends went back to their conversation, discussing SaraLynn’s education.

“She’s doing okay at St. Xavier’s,” said Sharma. “The smaller class sizes are helpful, even though she still gets teased. She’s one of the youngest in her class. She’s slow developing, but who knows what will happen this summer? The big problem is that the school has limited offerings. The curriculum is from the Stone Age. Girls don’t get as many class choices as boys.”

I climbed into the back seat. Pru looked at me in the rearview mirror and said, “We’re talking about SaraLynn’s education. As you can imagine, Sharma is worried about her schooling.”

“How is your sister?” I asked Sharma.

“Actually, SaraLynn’s a lot better than I would have expected. I checked in with Mom this morning. She said SaraLynn slept well, ate her dinner, and watched television. No nightmares. I figured she’d be scared. Evidently not. But the incident with the van seems to have convinced SaraLynn she needs to get away from Decatur. She’s back to bugging Mom about living with me. I can’t blame SaraLynn; I hate Decatur.”

I understood SaraLynn’s position entirely.

Pru changed the subject. “Cragan, after class you need to shower right away and come upstairs. Billy will be bringing you a dress for the gala.”

“Billy?” I repeated.

“Billy is my friend, the seamstress,” said Pru.

“Why does Billy think the dress will fit?”

“Because I took your measurements, remember? Nobody fits gowns like Billy does,” she concluded.

“You can say that again,” chimed in Sharma. “I brought three dresses for Billy to make over. They’re expensive designer numbers, and I refuse to let anyone touch them but Billy.”

While I found this interesting, I did not feel particularly reassured. What might be appropriate for Pru and Sharma was unlikely to work for me. My thoughts turned to the bridesmaid’s dress in my closet, a peach-colored midi in a shiny floral cotton. There were ruffles around the neckline and the hem. Maybe I could rip those off. Without the extra fabric, the dress might look like something other than a sad remnant from someone’s wedding.

“I wonder what Ross will be wearing,” said Pru. “Is he renting a tux?”

“He knows it is black-tie,” I said, more to myself than to her. “I’m trusting him to dress appropriately.”

“He strikes me as the sort of man who knows what’s expected of him.” Pru’s voice was lighthearted. “But if he shows up in his white cowboy hat, you need to remind him to take it off.”

“I will.”

* * *

Thank goodness I’d been attending Jazzercise classes regularly. Otherwise, my performance would have been mega-embarrassing. The instructor generally adds a few new songs in with ones we’ve already mastered. This particular session, all of the unfamiliar tunes were fast-paced. And gee golly, they were challenging.

Not surprisingly, the other Jazzercisers noticed Sharma. In Jazzercise, people immediately stake out their “spots” on the floor. A newcomer has to jostle to fit in. But Sharma was with us, so Pru and I accommodated her by making room. Once the music started, Sharma was in her element.

“Quality of movement” is a term used to describe whether a dancer lumbers around or glides. Sharma had great quality of movement. The other exercisers noticed her and smiled their approval. When the class was over and we piled inside Pru’s car, Sharma turned to me and said, “Cragan, you dance very nicely. Did you take lessons?”

“Yes, I took ballet,” I said, feeling pleased that she’d noticed.

“It shows,” said Sharma, and I liked her a little better for the compliment. I’d put extra effort into each routine, mentally comparing myself to the two exotic dancers. As a result, I was exhausted by the time I crawled into the back seat of the convertible. After Pru cranked the top down, I closed my eyes and let the breeze wash over me.

My eyes flew open when Pru pulled up at Terri Jo’s house. I’d planned to stay in the convertible, but Sharma urged me to come in. “If you’re with us, my mother is less likely to make an ugly scene.”

Terri Jo greeted us at the door. I think she’d been expecting us, as she had on a lot of makeup. The family resemblance was obvious, although Terri Jo’s features were coarse compared to Sharma’s. Like her oldest daughter, Terri Jo had red hair. But the gray roots were exposed, creating a wide stripe down the middle of her head. Terri Jo’s skin was the color of a walnut, a testimony to hours spent sunbathing. She was wearing a pair of faded red shorts and a midriff-baring top with puffed sleeves. It was not a good look for a grown woman of a certain age.

We stepped from a sunny day into a dimly lit space that seemed tired to the point of exhaustion. All the vinyl blinds had been pulled down, adding to a sense of gloom. An old gray sofa sagged against a wall. A console TV sat diagonally in a corner. A pink chenille bedspread covered a large lump, which I assumed was an overstuffed chair. I went over and claimed it. It’s a talent, I guess, being able to discern what’s under a lump. The chair was surprisingly comfy.

When I sat down, dust motes rose from beneath me. The acrid scent of tobacco made my nose itch. I fought the urge to sneeze. A glance at the middle of the room told me why. Nearby on a scarred coffee table was a ceramic ashtray heaped high with cigarette butts.

Sharma gave her mother an awkward hug before pulling back abruptly. Sharma’s nose wrinkled. “Mom? You’re back to smoking? After nagging me for years?”

Terri Jo gave her daughter a look that would sear a steak. “My house, my rules, missy. Your friend lets you smoke at her place?” Terri Jo picked up her cigarette and pointed it at Pru.

“Pru’s apartment is on the second floor. There’s a balcony. I go out there,” said Sharma.

“Fancy-schmancy,” said Terri Jo before turning around to scream at the back of the house, “Hurry up, SaraLynn!”

SaraLynn came skipping toward us. Her face was bright with anticipation. She hopped from one foot to the other, unable to contain her excitement.

“Do you have all your homework?” asked Sharma.

“I can do it Monday,” said SaraLynn.

“That wasn’t our agreement,” said Terri Jo. “You promised you’d study for your spelling test. Go get your backpack and your study materials.”

“This might take her a while,” said Terri Jo. “Would you all like some iced tea?” She led the three of us into a tiny kitchen. A struggling mint plant grew in a Ball jar next to the window. While Terri Jo mashed a leaf of spearmint against a plastic pitcher, Sharma got down four mismatched plastic drinking glasses. The tea was nicely brewed, and the mint added a bright note. Terri Jo had sweetened the brew, which was a nice surprise, as that’s a decidedly Southern touch. Sugar is my favorite food group, next to chocolate.

SaraLynn joined us and chattered excitedly with Sharma. After displaying a pink backpack and proving she had the dreaded spelling test, we left the kitchen and headed toward the front door. Terri Jo grabbed SaraLynn by both shoulders and gave her a hard shake. “You stick close to your sister, you hear? Don’t go off without her. Not ever. You need to be home by five for dinner, if you still plan to go to Alyssa’s house for your sleepover. I don’t want to keep track of you. You’re not a baby anymore, got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” SaraLynn’s voice was low.

Letting go of her younger child, Terri Jo grabbed Sharma by the arm.

“Sharon, promise me that you’ll keep your eyes on her at all times.” Terri Jo’s voice crackled with emotion. “Tore my heart out of my chest when she went missing. Promise you won’t take her anywhere without telling me. She’s mine! Promise!”

“She is not a possession,” hissed Sharma. “But I promise to keep an eye on her. Pru and Cragan will help.”

“Cragan?” The older woman lifted an eyebrow. “What the hell kinda name is that?”

That didn’t warrant an answer. Instead, I followed Pru outside and walked toward the convertible.

“Trust a friend of Sharon’s to own a fancy car like that,” grumbled Terri Jo.

“Mom? That’s enough,” said Sharma, pulling her mother back into the house. Standing in the doorway, the two held an animated conversation. I strained to hear what was said. Terri Jo’s jaw was rigid. She and Sharma appeared to be arguing over something. I was close enough to overhear Terri Jo, as she said, “I won’t encourage SaraLynn, but you have to promise not to say anything.”

“I’ve kept my promise all these years,” said Sharma, stiffly.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

After my shower, I took the stairs two at a time, hurrying to Pru’s apartment for my meeting with the seamstress. Pru had left her door open a crack. Zee and I never do that, in part because we’re on the first floor, and an intruder could simply walk in. Also because Zee and I like our privacy. Pru and Rosie occupy the second floor, and they’re much more casual.

An unfamiliar voice came from Pru’s apartment. The tone was deep, but the lilt was distinctly feminine. I rapped on the doorframe and was immediately invited in. On Pru’s velvet sofa sat a person with white-blond hair cut in a cute pixie. His eyes were lavishly made up, and he wore fuchsia lipstick. At Pru’s dining table, Sharma sat facing SaraLynn and painting the younger girl’s nails a deep crimson. It was the same color that Sharma and Pru favored.

“Cragan? This is Billy. Billy? This is the friend I was telling you about,” said Pru, introducing me to the seamstress. Or designer? Or costume maker? I wasn’t entirely sure.

Billy got to his feet in one fluid motion. We were about the same height, but he obviously had Polynesian blood with his almond-shaped eyes and golden skin. His brows looked as though they’d been plucked as they framed his eyes perfectly. His smile was genuine. He offered me a soft, well-manicured hand. “Cragan, doll, I am very glad to meet you. Robert and I were old friends. Oh, how I miss him!”

Tears welled in my eyes. “So do I,” I managed to say.

“Billy, Robert’s family is suing Cragan for alienation of affection,” explained Pru. “Can you imagine?”

Billy puckered his perfectly shaped lips. “Of course, I can. They were absolutely horrid to him. Oh, the nights he cried on my shoulder. That’s not to say I was his type, because I’m not, but we were the best of pals. Honestly, his family ought to get sent straight to hell and not pass go for the way they treated him. And now to hassle you? I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. You’d have thought poor Robert made his wishes perfectly clear.”

I brushed away tears. The ache of my grief pierced me, like a sword thrust into my heart. If Robert had been alive, he could have helped me get through this confusing time with all the legal wrangling. He would have told his family to go to hell, and he would have told me to hang in there.

Now I had no choice but to stay the course, if only to honor his memory.

“What are you doing about their lawsuit?” asked Billy. He studied me, not in an unkind way, but thoughtfully, as if wondering if I would go the distance.

“I am fighting it,” I said. “But I have to admit that as time goes on, I’m thinking more and more of offering a settlement. There are four of them and one of me. This is wearing me down. My attorney is charging me a bundle. I’m scared they might prevail, and I’ll be stuck with a huge legal bill.”

“Oh, honey,” said Billy, tapping a finger to his lips. “That’s the last thing Robert would have wished on you. I say screw them. Take what you can and end the drama.”

Pru nodded. “There’s a point where it’s counterproductive, Cragan. I’ve seen how depressed those visits with the attorney make you.”

She was right about that.

Billy tilted his head and studied me. “If I can help you in any way, give me a shout. I might even have an attorney who could help you. A man who knew Robert.”

For the first time, I felt hopeful about the lawsuit. “Wow. That would be amazing.”

“Let me know. We can’t let those bastards walk off with all of Robert’s money. Not after the way they treated him,” said Billy. His eyes darkened with anger. He changed the subject. “Now, let’s see what I’ve got to work with.”

Sharma and SaraLynn were still engrossed in their nail painting. Billy slowly walked around me, looking me up and down. His brown eyes took in every aspect of my shape. His progress was slow and stately. I tried to remain calm, although increasingly I was scared he would pronounce me a hopeless case. Pru and Sharma had hourglass silhouettes, but I am more boyish. Would Billy have any ideas for making me look good?

“I have just the thing,” he said. Billy went over to a fabric dress bag, hanging on the back of Pru’s bedroom door. With one deft move, Billy unzipped the bag and rummaged around. When he finished, he was holding a full-length black gown on a padded, pink satin hanger.

“My tribute to Christian Dior,” Billy explained. “Otherwise inelegantly known as a ‘knockoff.’ Go into Pru’s bedroom and try it on.”

After my shower, I’d thrown a blue sweatsuit over my undies. Thanks to that choice, I stripped down easily. To my shock, the dress was a strapless black silk number. The bodice was formed by a satin sash about seven inches wide. The satin piece wrapped around my breasts. At the side seams were vast lengths of chiffon, flowing gossamer scarves. The back of the gown was cut low. I’m flexible but I still couldn’t fasten the closures. I had the choice of letting my bra straps show or going without. I decided to take off my bra. The dress was far too long. Holding the front with one hand and bunching the skirt in the other, I gingerly walked into the living room.

“Let me zip and hook you in,” said Billy.

“I don’t have a strapless bra,” I complained.

“You don’t need one,” said Sharma, as she painted a clear top coat on her sister’s nails. “The designers don’t want you wearing the wrong undergarments, so couture dresses have built-in corsets, sort of like a longline bra. That’s why there are all those hooks and eyes behind the zipper.”

SaraLynn looked up from the glossy top coat on her red nail polish. She noticed the dress, studying it with preteen insouciance. “Wow,” she said. “That’s cool.”

Billy fussed with the hem. “The dress needs to be shortened at least an inch, but taller shoes will help. Cragan, do you have black high heels?”

“Not anything that would pass for formal.”

“You wear a seven?” Pru went past me to her bedroom. She returned with a pair of black high heels. The shoes had solid toes, open backs, and straps that buckled around my ankles. As Pru’s outstretched arm steadied me, I stepped into the heels.

“Take a look,” said Pru, motioning toward a full-length mirror that faced her sofa. I lifted the dress to avoid treading on the black silk and took mincing steps. My reflection took my breath away. The black silk rippled freely from the bodice, hinting at my slender curves. Billy had tied the chiffon streamers into a loose bow, that rested a little below my waist. A slit—almost a kick pleat—in the front of the dress started slightly above my knees and allowed me the freedom to walk or dance. As a formal garment, the gown was totally unexpected. Most that I’d seen relied on plunging necklines. This dress only revealed bare shoulders and my legs from the knees down, and yet it was extremely sexy.

“The perfection comes from the way the fabric skims your body, rather than exposing it,” said Billy. “I would bet good money that most of the women at this party will be showing off their bazookas. That’s fairly standard for the Midwest. Everyone thinks black-tie is code for bust out the boobs.”

“Will I look appropriate?” I asked and immediately blushed. Here I was asking about whether I’d look okay when I’d planned on wearing a bridesmaid’s dress! This was definitely a step up. I blushed at how rude I’d been.

“Not at all,” said Pru.

Her words shocked me. I turned to her in surprise, feeling hurt.

She continued, “If by looking appropriate, you’re asking if you’ll fit in? The answer is no. You will not. You will look like a totally class act in a room full of exhibitionists. This dress is perfect for your shape, making you look like a gamine, and that’s exactly what you are.”

Gamine. Yet another word for me to look up.

* * *

Billy pinned the hem and promised to return the dress later at Fast Freddy’s. After thanking him and Pru, I said goodbye to the crew in the upstairs apartment. I went back downstairs because I had laundry to do, a cat litter box to clean, dishes to wash, and surfaces that needed dusting.

Once my chores were finished, I sat on the sofa with a book. Eventually I must have drifted off, surfacing when I heard voices in the hall. By pressing my ear against the door, I heard SaraLynn talking to Sharma. There was a sweet spot in the stairway, halfway between the first and second floor. When you stood there, the acoustics of the house broadcast your voice. The Nelson sisters didn’t know that, but I did.

“I want to move to Chicago and live with you,” said SaraLynn. “Mom is after me all the time. She says she doesn’t want me to make the same mistakes that you did. St. Xavier’s is like this itty-bitty terrarium, and I’m a plant that’s growing out of the top. Next year I want to take computer sciences, but that’s only offered to boys. French is only taught for two semesters. I can’t take advanced math classes because they reserve spaces in math and science for the boys, which totally isn’t fair.”

“Living with me won’t be easy,” said Sharma. “I’m back with Hector. What would you think—”

The voices became muffled and indistinct. Then SaraLynn said, “I’m not a baby anymore. I can take care of myself. I understand why you left before, and I’m not angry. Not anymore. I realize how hard it was for you.”

“Come on,” said Sharma. “We can talk in the car. Pru loaned me her keys. I promised Mom I’d get you home before five.”

The back door squeaked, protesting until it was slammed shut. Pru’s convertible’s ignition turned over, and the car crunched its way out of the drive. I went back to my sofa and retrieved my book.

* * *

“I’m not sure what to wear,” I admitted to Zee and Rosie as we discussed our upcoming visit to Fast Freddy’s.

“Me neither,” admitted Rosie. She had volunteered to drive so the rest of us could drink. She continued, “I figured that nice jeans and a blouse would be okay.”

“Who knows what sort of dress code a gentlemen’s club has?” said Zee in a sarcastic tone. “I think jeans will be fine.”

I thought so too.

A little later when we gathered, Zee wore neatly pressed and creased jeans. My jeans were not crisp and a little faded, but still my nicest pair. As for tops, Zee wore a creamy blouse with a Victorian high collar. Rosie’s peasant blouse was white and sprinkled with colorful embroidered flowers. I had chosen a white, button-down collar blouse that I often wore to work. The fact that we’d all chosen variations on a theme made me feel confident we’d fit in. At least, we matched each other!

Rosie was a thoughtful driver, taking care not to sling us around. I rode shotgun. At a stoplight, she turned liquid brown eyes on me and asked, “Did you hear SaraLynn leave?”

I nodded. “I heard Pru’s car pull away. I know Sharma was driving SaraLynn back to their mother’s house. Why?”

Rosie said, “SaraLynn and Sharma were fighting before they went downstairs. SaraLynn wanted to see Sharma perform.”

Zee was staring out the window. “Not going to happen. No way.”

I made a tsk-tsk sound. “That’s too bad. I’m sure SaraLynn would enjoy seeing her sister’s act.”

“I don’t see how she could,” said Rosie. “It wouldn’t be legal. The owner could lose his liquor license.”

We were approaching the blazing neon sign that said Fast Freddy’s. It could be seen from miles away, which was exactly the point. Fast Freddy’s was near a highway exit, and Anthony Calamari had wanted travelers to notice the place from the road. Although the lettering was jaunty and playful, there were no crude symbols, no overt signs that the club offered adult entertainment. Instead, Anthony relied on word-of-mouth and repeat patronage to fill the place. The parking lot was unusually well-lit, and fencing ran around the perimeter.

A mountain of a man named Connie had been told to watch for Rosie’s car. When he spotted us, he waved Rosie into an executive parking space near the front door. The huge fellow raced toward us. When he moved, there was a tiny hitch in his step. He hailed us. “Hello, ladies. I’m Connie. Short for Constantine Zsera. I work for Anthony Calamari.”

Even though Zee is a tall woman, she looked puny compared to Connie. He stared down at her a bit longer than was absolutely necessary. There was a glimmer of interest in his face, but he was too professional to keep staring at her. Clearing his throat, he said, “Pru and Sharma asked me to see that you’re taken care of. You’re our special guests. This way, please.”

A crowd the length of the building had gathered outside the club. Connie led us past the throng of excited patrons. I was acutely aware of other people staring at us and noting our special treatment, as we moved past them and into a short corridor. On either side of the tiny hallway were displays announcing the evening’s entertainment. On the left was a huge color collage with photos of celebrities. Although I knew that Barbra Streisand, Judy Garland, and Mae West could not possibly be appearing on stage tonight, I stared at the performers who purported to be these luminaries. On the right was a life-size color poster of Sharma, wearing almost nothing and holding a huge silver trophy. The caption was, “Meet Miss Nude Illinois!”

Closer to the entrance was a full-color photo of Pru in a skimpy red-and-white striped nurse’s outfit. The headline read, “Candy Cane Invites You to Lick Her!” Of course, that was metaphorical, as Pru had told me that she handed out red-and-white striped candies while she danced. The phrase did make for a fun teaser.

Connie introduced us to Roman, the head bouncer. Roman gave us each a VIP plastic bracelet that snapped around the wrist. “Anything you want, ladies, anything at all, just let us know.”

Connie ushered us to a large table sporting a “VIP-Reserved” sign. It was positioned near a stage shaped like a capital T that had fallen on its side. The long stem of the letter ended at an opening covered with crimson velvet curtains.

Silver balloons floated above our table. These were tied to a lovely centerpiece of flowers in the midst of a white, damask-covered table. Connie and Roman pulled out chairs, helping us get comfortable. The overhead lights were dim, and the air smelled musky: one part stale perfume, one part men’s cologne, and an overriding pungent tang of human bodies. Once we were seated, Connie took our drink orders.

“Where’s Winnie?” asked Rosie, looking around. Our friend had not shown up even though the floor space was rapidly filling.

“She’s coming after softball practice. She called and warned me she might run late,” I explained.

A few minutes after our drinks arrived, the lights flashed overhead, and a voice over the sound system boomed, “Five minutes to showtime!” I sipped a wine spritzer, Rosie had a Coke, and Zee drank Jack Daniels on the rocks. I was surprised, because I’d never seen Zee drink hard liquor but she sipped that whiskey like a champ.

A waitress wearing a white tee shirt and a short black skirt brought us dishes of warm pretzels, warm nuts, and potato chips. “If you want any real food, wave and I’ll bring you a menu,” she said in a breathy voice. “Anthony wanted me to remind you that this evening is his treat. Enjoy!”

The overhead lights flickered a two-minute warning. A chair scraped back, and Winnie joined us. She, too, was wearing jeans but she’d chosen a white St. Louis Cardinals jersey rather than a blouse. We didn’t have time to do more than greet her when the announcer boomed, “Ladies and gentlemen, please help me welcome Miss Barbra Streisand!”

Music swelled. Slowly, the curtains parted. A person, who looked amazingly like the fabulous singer, struck a pose and waited for the applause to die down. The performer wore a teal blue evening gown and a turban with a peacock feather merrily waving overhead. The music morphed into a lively rendition of “Don’t Rain on My Parade.” Barbra’s lips and hips moved in time with the song. Inch by inch, the performer sashayed down the stage until she was standing directly in front of us. The spotlight stayed with the singer. Now my friends and I were bathed in a wedge of bright light. Planting her feet, Barbra went into the chorus—and pointed directly at Winnie as if singing for our friend alone. For the next verse, Barbra moved to serenade Zee. The next chorus was sung to Rosie, and finally Barbra sang to me. It was a compliment, but it caused me mixed emotions. Being played to was certainly an ego boost, but the attention we’d garnered was disconcerting. For me at least. It felt awkward.

Barbra Streisand finally settled into performing just for Winnie. Our friend was having the time of her life. When Barbra’s set ended, Winnie put two fingers in her mouth and gave an ear-splitting whistle. Barbra blew kisses at Winnie and then to the audience. She picked up the cash thrown onto the stage, bowed, and disappeared behind the curtains.

Next came “Mae West” telling bawdy jokes, some clearly intended for a racy crowd. We laughed and blushed, freed by the dim lights to escape scrutiny.

Finally, Billy strutted onto the stage. Dressed like Judy Garland, he was nearly unrecognizable as the person I’d met earlier. The change was a triumph of artistry. Billy had transformed his features with makeup and modified his physical shape with his costume. Most amazingly, he’d altered his essence by changing the way he held and moved his body. Billy’s success depended on keen powers of observation as well as mimicry. Fortunately, he had both skills in spades.

“Somewhere Over the Rainbow” has long been one of my favorite songs, and as the opening bars played, I readied myself for what I knew would be my emotional response. But nothing could have prepared me for Billy approaching our table, sitting on the edge of the stage, and singing directly to me.

He and I shared the limelight. I wasn’t sure where to look, how to act, or what expression I should wear. Everyone was staring at me because Billy was obviously singing for me alone. Feeling bashful, I considered turning away, but that would seem like a rejection—and I would never have hurt him like that. I had no choice but to stare into his eyes. When he reached for my hand, I followed his lead and stood beside him. We continued to hold hands. It didn’t matter that he was a gay man dressed as a woman, and I was a straight woman. We were two people who knew how it felt to be dreamers—and we were united by the loss of our mutual friend, Robert Smithson. I resolved to relish the performance as a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Billy’s song ended to thunderous applause, and I planted a kiss on his cheek.

* * *

There was a short break before Sharma’s spotlight appearance. My friends and I chattered like a troop of chipmunks, enthused by the booze and the entertainment.

“Good evening, ladies,” said a deep voice from behind us. “I trust you are enjoying yourselves.”

We had been joined by a tall man with a commanding presence. His skin was scarred from what must have been a bad case of teenage acne. He had coal-black hair and a hawklike face that framed eyes so dark they could have been jet-black. The suit he was wearing had to have been bespoke because it draped perfectly around his broad shoulders and narrow hips. A silk tie picked up the subtle colors in the suit’s weave and matched his pocket handkerchief.

“I’m Anthony Calamari,” he said, extending his hand first to Zee and going around the table. He told Rosie he’d heard all about Julio. When he got to Winnie, Anthony hailed her as a softball legend. She turned such a bright pink that her skin looked sunburned.

“Cragan?” He raised an eyebrow. “At last, we meet. Could I borrow you for a minute?”

My heart thumped loudly. I wasn’t entirely comfortable in this setting, even flanked by my friends, much less being culled from the herd. My pals were my security blanket. Still, I couldn’t be rude. Anthony was a gentleman, an advertiser, and Pru’s boss. I had to go with him.

He helped me out of my chair. Once I was upright, he tucked my hand into the crook of his arm. As we crossed the showroom, he asked, “Is everything all right? Is there anything else you need or want? What can I get for you?”

Of course, the answer was, “Nothing, thank you. Everything has been wonderful.”

A hidden door led us to a short corridor and a surprisingly luxurious office in a masculine shade of blue-green. In fact, the place reminded me of my lawyer’s office, thanks to the mahogany furniture and cordovan leather chairs.

“Take a seat,” Anthony said. The statement would have been a command, but his tone softened the request. I chose an armchair.

“I wanted to thank you for the good work you did on our ad. Personally, I doubted that a newspaper ad would draw additional traffic, but it certainly has. Of course, I credit Sharma, too, as she’s a local talent, celebrating a new title. Would you work up more ads and a budget for me?”

“Yes,” I said, hoping the relief wasn’t obvious. How could I have been such a weenie? I’d treated Fast Freddy’s, and everything associated with it like some sleezy scam. This was a business like any other. Period. I added, “I’ll work up several ad series and a couple of budgets. You can choose whatever suits you best.”

“Good.” His smile was easy. The open gesture changed his whole mien, and with a flash of insight, I realized Anthony was a good-looking man. Not because of his physical features but because he had self-confidence and an air of charm.

I pressed my palms against the arms of my chair to get to my feet—thinking our business was over—but he stopped me.

“One more thing,” he said. And then he dropped a bombshell.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Anthony Calamari confessed that he had a crush on Pru. He blurted this out, like a lovesick schoolboy. “I’m crazy about her,” he said. “I haven’t told her. I don’t want to ruin our friendship or our working relationship. I know I’m not good enough for her, but I’d move heaven and earth if she’d…she’d…give me a chance.”

My immediate reaction was, “Why are you telling me this?”

But I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything at all because I was stunned. However, I must have silently transmitted my question because Anthony leaned on his elbows and added, “She thinks the world of you. You’re her closest friend. Sharma is from her past. You’re Pru’s present and future. I was hoping you could tell me what to do?”

What to do?

He sounded pitiful! Anthony hurried on, “Does she ever mention me? Do I have a chance? Is there anybody else?”

My face must have reflected my shock because he quickly threw in, “I know, I know. I’m a grown man, and I’m acting like an adolescent, and I shouldn’t have sprung this on you, but…” He rubbed his mouth with his hand. “I’m afraid I’ll blow it with Pru. I don’t know how to proceed.”

Rather than laugh out loud, I bit my lower lip, hard. Anthony dressed like he belonged in the pages of GQ. This man owned a business that brought in customers from all over, and yet, he was scared to death about courting Pru. I struggled to keep my surprise under wraps.

Love makes fools of us all.

Seconds ticked by. I wasn’t sure what to say. I must have considered and rejected a dozen comments.

“Well…” He folded his hands on the desk. “If you think of anything…”

“Have you ever asked her out?” I asked.

“No. Because I’m the owner of Freddy’s, I don’t want her to feel obligated.”

I screwed up my mouth and nodded. “I get it. You would rather that she doesn’t know how you feel? Rather keep her in the dark than tell her? Anthony, forgive me for sounding preachy but didn’t that go out with fifth grade?”

A hollow laugh told me he wasn’t offended.

“Come on, buddy,” I said, warming to my subject. “She’s beautiful, desirable, and accomplished. You’re magnetic, masculine, and successful. And the problem is?”

“Look at me! I’m not gorgeous. Not even close. I still have acne scars from my teenage years. She is absolute perfection. A goddess. What would she want with a guy like me?”

I gave a tiny shake of my head. “Do you think we can only love other people who are perfect? Faults enhance our appeal. They round us out. Sure, there are deal-breakers, things we won’t stand for but imperfections? They are endearing. Physically, Pru is perfect but she has a dark side and an ongoing struggle against depression. She’s also bad with money. I know this because she’s told me about her credit card debt. Zee? You can’t get more intelligent than Zee. She is strictly a ‘no bullshit’ zone. But Zee tips into self-righteous on occasion. Her standards are based on fear. She figures that letting those standards slip causes bad juju. Rosie? Total hard worker. Brilliant businesswoman. But she’s worried that she’ll lose touch with her Latin culture, and there are times when she makes life really hard for herself and her son. For all intents and purposes, she lives here and she’s an American. Shoot, she even passed her citizenship test. But she insists that her little boy follow soccer and tries to squash his interest in American football. See? Their flaws are quirky. Charming. Fascinating.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Now that you put it that way…”

“You’re dwelling on tiny physical imperfections because you’re afraid of getting shut down,” I said. “Get off the stick, buddy. Life’s too short. Take a chance.”

To my relief, he chuckled as he got to his feet. With a slight smile, he said, “You are quite the spitfire, Cragan. No wonder Pru loves you.”

“Loves me?” I couldn’t have heard him right.

“Yes, indeed. She talks about you all the time, she brags on you, and she thinks you are absolutely terrific.” His smile turned into a huge grin. This kumbaya moment was interrupted by a sharp rap on Anthony’s office door. Both of us turned toward the noise. Connie stuck his head in.

“Boss? We have a problem.”

Anthony shot out of his chair. “Do we need the police? Anyone hurt? Did you call 911?”

“Not that kind of problem,” said Connie.

* * *

Anthony brushed past me to join Connie, who was clearly his righthand man. I turned to follow, although we didn’t have to go far. Pru and Sharma were huddled with their backs to us. They were in conference over a third person on a tall wooden stool.

“Ladies?” Anthony’s voice was serious but authoritative.

Pru stepped to one side to reveal SaraLynn, perched on the stool. Her pink backpack rested on the floor. The child had obviously been crying. Sharma threw up her hands. “Anthony, I apologize. I never meant for this to happen. Honest!”

“No one’s hurt, right?” Anthony asked.

“No,” said Pru. “We’re all okay, Anthony. It’s just that SaraLynn showed up at the front door. Roman brought her back here. This is totally unexpected.”

“Hey, sweetheart,” said Anthony, bending so he and SaraLynn were eye to eye. “You’re Sharma’s little sister, right? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

She nodded.

“Then a smart kid like you has to know someone your age shouldn’t be here.” Anthony kept his voice smooth and nonthreatening. “Are you okay, sweetheart? Are you here because you need help? Is anything wrong?”

Billy joined us. He’d wiped off most of his makeup. Without wig and costume, he handed Sharma a Coke. “For your little sis.”

Sharma handed the glass bottle to her sister. “Take a drink, SaraLynn. The caffeine will help you think clearly.”

SaraLynn did as instructed. When she taken a couple of sips, she was more in control of herself. “I wanted to celebrate Sharma’s birthday with her, and I wanted to see her dance. I’ve never seen her perform. Mom is coming tonight, but she told me I couldn’t. She was really nasty about me even asking! So, I lied and told her that I was spending the night at Alyssa Tapper’s house, and I got Alyssa to cover for me. I paid her brother five bucks to give me a ride here. I thought I could slip in, stand behind the curtains, and watch my sister dance. I didn’t mean to do anything wrong. Honest!”

“I totally get where you are coming from.” Anthony straightened and put a gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder. “If Sharma was my sister, I’d want to celebrate with her, too. But if someone catches you, I’ll get fined. They could even force me to close my doors. I know you never meant that—”

“No! I didn’t. Honest, I didn’t. I would never do anything to hurt your business.” Fresh tears rolled down her face. “I only wanted to spend time with Sharma. That’s all. See, I want to go and live with her in Chicago, but Mom says Sharma doesn’t want me. She says Sharma lives a dangerous lifestyle. That doesn’t make sense. Mom used to work here, back in the day. She talks about it a lot. So how dangerous can it be? I wanted to see. I’m old enough to think for myself!”

“Mom told you I don’t want you?” Sharma’s voice was colder than a frozen Margarita.

SaraLynn hung her head. Raising her eyes to Sharma, the girl continued, “Yes. Mom says you hang out with druggies and thugs. She hates your boyfriend, Hector, because he’s Mexican. Mom says she only wants to protect me. Like that’s working really well, huh?”

I didn’t dare glance at Rosie. Terri Jo’s blanket indictment of Mexicans was insulting to all of us, and Rosie was our friend. Rosie Sanchez was a hard-working, law-abiding, devoted mother and entrepreneur, who’d moved here in an attempt to make a better life for herself and her son.

“Oh, my Lord,” murmured Pru. “I hope you know better than that SaraLynn. Hispanics are like everyone else. Some are bad, but most are good, decent people.”

“I know that; Mom doesn’t.”

Sharma’s jaw worked back and forth, as if she chewed on a piece of gristle. SaraLynn’s face was like a rotating disco ball, flashing from one expression to the other. By turns, the girl looked mortified, angry, sad, and worried. Anthony’s eyes were narrowed thoughtfully.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sharma dropped her face into both hands and whined. “This is all my fault. I should have left good enough alone. I should never have come back to Decatur.”

Billy had moved to the outer edge of our group. “Excuse me,” he said. He was wearing what looked like a shower cap and a maroon satin dressing robe. His lilting voice piped up, “It’s none of my business, but if the girl is already here, the damage is already done. Why not let her watch her sister dance from the wings of the stage? Hmm? No one needs to know. Connie? I bet you escorted our little miss through the private hallways?”

“You know I did,” Connie replied.

Private hallways. I focused on this bit of jargon, trying to understand what Billy was saying. Pru had told us there was a hidden system of corridors that ran around the showroom floor and behind the walls of the public space. Connie had confirmed that no one could have watched him rush SaraLynn away from the crowd.

The tempo of the music changed, and the announcer came over the sound system. “Ten minutes till showtime!”

Sharma sighed. “I have to fix my makeup and get into my costume. Anthony? This is up to you. You do what you think is best. If there’s a cab ride involved, I’ll pay for it. I’m sorry for the inconvenience. SaraLynn? You and I will talk about this later.”

Pru said, “Billy? You’re finished for the evening, right? Could you stay back here, out of sight with SaraLynn, until I come and get you both?”

“Of course I can,” he said. “I can take SaraLynn to a place where she can’t be seen. I’ll show her where to stand. Just say the word, Anthony.”

We all turned to the man. Anthony’s expression was bland. A poker face, if I ever saw one. “I can’t risk sending a girl away in a cab by herself. All of the limos are booked for the next hour. I’d rather risk my license than put Sharma’s sister in jeopardy. Billy? I’m depending on you. Keep her under wraps, okay?”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” SaraLynn clasped her hands to her chest and did a little jig. She grabbed her backpack and slipped it over her arms.

“SaraLynn? The minute I’m done dancing, Pru and I will come and say goodbye. One of us will take you home,” said Sharma. “We can call a taxi.”

“I c-c-can’t! If I go home, Mom will know I lied!” SaraLynn’s face paled, and her voice trembled.

“You can come back to 512 Green Street with me, Zee, and Rosie,” I said. “You can sleep on my sofa until your sister is done here. How’s that?” The minute the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to kick myself.

Zee, Rosie, and Winnie stared at me in surprise. I shrugged.

Their expressions seemed to ask: Why did you volunteer to get in the middle of this? The answer was simple: I was offering to babysit because it made sense. Of course, SaraLynn couldn’t go home. Her lie would be revealed. No way could SaraLynn go home with Winnie. Winnie’s mother would have a cow. Nor could SaraLynn sleep in Pru’s apartment, because Sharma was already in residence on Pru’s sofa. Zee wouldn’t want company. She’s not flexible that way. Rosie’s sofa is actually Julio’s bed. My sofa was the only available space.

But that wasn’t the real reason.

I am doing this because Pru is my friend, I told myself. I’m doing a favor for Pru.

That was the truth. The friend of my friend is my friend. Sharma needed help with her little sister. Pru cared about Sharma. I had nothing to lose by giving up my sofa for a few hours.

Sharma stood up. The music had changed yet again, a signal that she was due to perform. “You would do that, Cragan? You’d take care of SaraLynn?”

“No problem,” I said. “As long as Rosie can give us a ride home.”

“Of course,” Rosie said.

I continued, “Billy? Please keep SaraLynn out of sight until Sharma finishes her performance. Then bring her to me.”

“Got it,” said Billy. Turning to SaraLynn, he said, “Come with me, cupcake.”

* * *

The rest of the night was a blur. Connie took us back to our table where we could watch in comfort. The velvet curtains parted to reveal a fully dressed Sharma. As the music continued, she peeled off one layer after another. At one point, Pru joined her in a dance that was a bit kinky for my tastes, despite the fact the two women were dressed in more clothes than we wore to Jazzercise. They were terrific dancers as I’d noticed in our exercise class. They were also seasoned performers, who knew how to play to the crowd. Four songs into Sharma’s set, the audience got to their feet. Clapping, whistling, and stamping on the floor, they let Sharma know how entertaining she was. They liked her a lot!

After the last song, the announcer explained that we were all celebrating Sharma’s birthday, and the music changed to “Happy Birthday.” Everyone sang to Sharma. Bouquets of flowers were tossed onto the stage. Sharma scooped them up, until her arms were full. Looking like a flower cart with legs, Sharma ran over to our table and dumped the blossoms into our arms. Sharma blew kisses to the crowd and exited the stage. Minutes later, Pru joined us. She wore a blue velveteen track suit with silver trim along the seams.

“We’ll take the private halls to the break room. Anthony has set up seating, so we can have champagne and birthday cake. Follow me,” Pru said.

We lined up behind Pru. Her route took us through a hidden door and down a dim corridor. We moved in silence, the way you do in a church. At last, we spilled out into a narrow space where extra boxes of supplies were stacked for easy access. Off to one side, in an alcove formed by walls of cardboard crates, Sharma stood talking with her sister.

Still wearing her pink backpack, SaraLynn pleaded with Sharma. “Mom says you don’t want me. I’d be in your way. She says that’s why you gave me up in the first place.”

Pru, my housemates, and I came to a screeching halt. We ran into each other’s backs like a bunch of cartoon characters. Obviously, we’d stumbled onto a private conversation.

“Hello?” Pru sang out, trying to warn Sharma. But the damage had already been done.

Ting-ting-ting! Alarm bells went off in my head. No wonder SaraLynn and Sharma looked so much alike. They weren’t sisters. They were mother and daughter.

Of course, Sharma had given birth to SaraLynn when she was incredibly young. Terri Jo had raised SaraLynn like another daughter, simultaneously loving the child and resenting the unexpected burden.

Sharma looked away from SaraLynn and noticed the pileup. A sense of embarrassment descended on my friends and me. The Miss Nude Illinois titleholder realized we’d heard everything. Sharma’s face crumpled like a squashed paper bag, and she directed her explanation to us. “I was so young, so confused, and all I wanted—want—is what’s best for SaraLynn!”

SaraLynn seized the opportunity. “Being with you would be better! Maybe not when I was little, but it sure is now. Mom has gotten really weird. She resents me. She’s only holding on because she wants something to whine about! I’m old enough to stay alone at night while you work. I wouldn’t be a burden.”

SaraLynn was pleading her case rather effectively, but I couldn’t imagine that Terri Jo giving up SaraLynn. Not without a fight. SaraLynn provided Terri Jo an excuse to be angry, to act like a victim, and to blame Sharma/Sharon for her problems. Without her granddaughter to raise, Terri Jo would be free to live her life. Freedom can be scary. When you are a prisoner, you can blame your lack of options on other people.

Pru cleared her throat. Sharma cast SaraLynn a warning look. “We can talk, later. Billy should be changed into street clothes by now.”

Zee, Rosie, Winnie, and I followed Pru, Sharma, and SaraLynn into a wider room scattered with tables and chairs, and clearly used for small meetings. On a card table sat a large sheet cake, chocolate with chocolate buttercream icing. Anthony was waiting for us and behind him was an open ice chest.

The foil-covered tops of champagne bottles floated in a sea of ice cubes. With practiced ease, Anthony popped open a bottle. From a side door, Billy joined us. He was wearing nice pants and a silky shirt. As Anthony poured flutes for all of us and a tiny taste for Rosie and SaraLynn, he glanced around. “Is that all of us?” He raised his glass and froze at the sound of hurried footsteps.

Connie raced in with a look of terror on his face. “Mrs. Nelson is coming. We need to hide SaraLynn! I’ll go and see if I can stall her.”

Billy grabbed SaraLynn’s hand. “This way.” She snatched up her backpack. They disappeared through the same side door that Billy had used earlier.

As if on cue, Roman strolled into the room with a woman on his arm. The head bouncer had barely missed SaraLynn and Billy as they left.

I did a double-take at the person hanging off of Roman. Terri Jo had gotten dolled up but her efforts were not entirely successful. She looked ghastly. Not only had Terri Jo colored her hair and applied false eyelashes, she’d also struggled into a pushup bra and a girdle. In a skin-tight red dress, all of her lumps and bumps showed. The final effect was sad.

Rather than approach us and say hello, Terri Jo posed on Roman’s arm. She rested a fist on one hip that was cocked in an attempt to be provocative. The other hand was tucked in the crook of Roman’s elbow. Roman’s eyes shifted from spot to spot in discomfort as he stood like a soldier at attention. If there had been a conversation bubble over his head, it would have read, “Help me!”

Lifting her chin and pursing her lips, Terri Jo shot her older daughter a shrewd stare. In a too loud voice, Terri Jo said, “Now you can see where Sharon gets her good looks.”

A person might say something like that as a joke, but Terri Jo’s inflection was dead serious. She did see herself as the source of her daughter’s good looks, and her crude method of self-aggrandizement made us all uncomfortable.

Sharma’s smile sputtered like a failing fluorescent light. “Hi, Mom. What a surprise. Come join us. Do you know everybody?”

Sharma went around the table making introductions. Terri Jo acknowledged each of us with a curt nod. When Sharma got to Anthony, Terri Jo stared at the club owner with such a hunger for approval that we all felt uncomfortable. I shuddered as I imagined being a teenage girl, coming to grips with your own sexuality and watching your mother act like a cat in heat. No wonder Sharma had gotten pregnant at such an early age!

“So,” Terri Jo said, moving closer to Anthony. “You’re the new owner? I used to dance here. Back in the old days. Before having a child ruined my figure. I was a real star. Yes, Sharon ended my career.”

If only the ground would swallow all of us! Being witness to this miserable woman was incredibly painful. And to blame her daughter for the loss of her figure? In front of all of us? It was embarrassing.

Anthony bowed at the waist in a courtly gesture. “Ruined figure? Your mirror must be broken, Mrs. Nelson. I would have taken you for Sharma’s sister. The next time we need a dancer, I’ll know whom to call. Won’t you join us, Mrs. Nelson? You’re in time for our little birthday party.”

He grabbed another bottle and opened it deftly. Anthony poured a glass for Terri Jo. Connie led the older woman to a chair where she sat down rather inelegantly.

“I always love a little bubby,” said Mrs. Nelson. “And call me Terri Jo.” Her eyes fixated on the open bottle of champagne, dripping with condensation. Her face tensed with the craving for a drink.

I glanced at Sharma. Gone was the happy face of the birthday girl. In its place was an expression of pain. Sharma’s eyes grew teary, and she looked away from her mom. All my jealousy regarding Sharma dissolved into pity.

Anthony tapped a silver ink pen against a champagne flute. The ringing sound was bright and cheerful.

“Thank you, Sharma, for coming back to Decatur to celebrate your birthday and your Miss Nude Illinois title with us,” said Anthony. “Special thanks to Pru, for making this happen. Terri Jo, thank you for sharing your daughter with us. I would be dreadfully amiss if I neglected to thank the Friday Night Mystery Club for joining us. Here’s to you, ladies.”

Glasses were raised, and we toasted. Rosie only took a small sip. Hurrying into the room, Connie joined us. He cupped a hand over his mouth and whispered something in Anthony’s ear. When Connie finished, Anthony nodded and said, “Thanks.”

Terri Jo stared at the bouncer. “Aren’t you Constantine? The boy who hurt his leg?” Turning to her daughter, she continued, “Sharon, you remember that, don’t you?”

“That’s enough, Mom.” Sharma’s face went hard as a Formica tabletop. She glared at Terri Jo. The look was enough to temporarily shut her mother up.

Connie’s face drained of all color. His eyes were narrow as papercuts. With great effort, he said, “That was a lifetime ago.”

But Terri Jo had poked a stick into a hornet’s nest. Now she jabbed at her target, repeatedly. “Huh. Must be hard to move on when you’ve got a bum leg.”

The big man’s expression turned sour as he fought to control himself. Terri Jo’s remark had pierced Connie’s soul. He dropped his gaze to his feet and shifted his weight.

Anthony moved to take charge. He explained to Terri Jo, “We called a taxi for you. It’s here and ready to take you home.”

“But I don’t want—” she whined, sounding like a petulant child.

I was thoroughly sick of her, and I suspected everyone else was too.

“We regret you have to leave so soon,” said Anthony smoothly, “but the taxi driver is waiting. I managed to get you one at the last minute, and I’m sending you home with a bottle of champagne.”

On cue, Connie produced another bottle from the cooler.

“But I haven’t had any cake!” Terri Jo complained. Sharma cut a generous slice for her mother, wrapped it in a paper napkin, and handed it over.

“I can carry things for you,” said Connie, pulling Terri Jo to her feet. He was rough, but she was focused on the bottle of bubbly. Connie continued, “We need to hustle.”

They left and all of us relaxed. Our high spirits had plummeted to earth. Sharma hadn’t had the chance to blow out candles, but she didn’t seem to care. There was a chunk missing from the cake, her mother’s piece, symbolizing ruin in the face of hope. Methodically, Sharma plucked the candles from the icing and tossed them into a nearby trash can. Moving like a robot, she cut new slices and set them on paper plates. I could imagine her wish: “Make my mother disappear.”

And thank the good Lord, that had been granted!

We passed around the slices. The buttercream icing dissolved in my mouth, mixing with the tart aftertaste of the champagne. The sugar rush revived our sagging spirits. Billy brought SaraLynn to join us. I could only assume that after loading Terri Jo into the cab, Connie had found Billy and SaraLynn and invited them to have a slice of cake. Anthony dug deep into the icy water in the cooler and found two cans of ginger ale. He gave one to SaraLynn and the other to Rosie, our designated driver. Rosie handed the rest of her champagne to Winnie who guzzled it down.

“Okay!” Pru clapped. She was overly animated, but her excessive zeal could be forgiven. Even though we’d taken a hit, we’d dodged a bullet. Pru was hoping to salvage the merriment when she said, “You have to open your presents, Sharma!”

The mystery club members and I had chipped in to buy Sharma a scarf printed with a pattern of the Eiffel tower and poodles from Rosie’s shop. Sharma said she loved it, and she vowed to wear it in Chicago, the Windy City. Pru had bought her friend a bottle of expensive perfume. Anthony gave Sharma a gift certificate to a Chicago spa. SaraLynn shyly handed her sis a small, wrapped package. Inside was a framed photo of the two sisters. SaraLynn was blinking a lot, running out of steam. This was way past her bedtime. Actually, all of us were worn out.

I took charge. “Hey, everybody. I’m tired. Is it time to go?”

They mumbled their agreement.

Sharma tapped me on the shoulder and enfolded me in a hug. “You’re a good friend to Pru, and I appreciate what you are doing for me as well.” Sharma’s eyes glistened with tears. “How can I repay the favor?”

“You can’t.” I smiled. “Pass it on, okay? Do a good deed for another person.”

“I will,” she said. “I promise.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

When SaraLynn and I got to my place, the first thing I did was to go to my bedroom and hang up the gown Billy had altered for me. I’d been carrying it in a garment bag over my arm, while SaraLynn wore her backpack and brought along an armful of flowers. Sharma had insisted we all take posies home, rather than have them go to waste. After I hung up the dress, SaraLynn and I put the flowers in water.

“Can I look at the dress again?”

“Sure,” I said and motioned her to my bedroom. I pulled down the zipper. SaraLynn admired the black frock. We agreed the gown was gorgeous. Pru’s shoes were in a cloth sack tied to the hook of the coat hanger. A case of nerves hit me, but I gave myself a mental slap because SaraLynn needed my attention. She was wobbling on her feet. I needed to get her to bed.

While I put sheets on my sofa, SaraLynn played with Sher Kahn. She admired his beautiful blue eyes and regal manner. I warned her that he was capable of nipping when he felt feisty.

“I wish I could have a cat. Or a dog. I’d rather have a dog, but a cat is more realistic,” she said as I struggled to get the pillow into its case.

What was it with me and pillows? They were the bane of my existence. “Because of allergies?” I asked.

“No. Mom doesn’t want a pet. She says I’m enough work without adding an animal to her chores. She says I’m a lot of effort.”

This sounded like a cruel remark to make to a child. Of course, SaraLynn was work. We all are. It’s a simple truth in life that all the people in our orbit make demands on us. Some take a little, and some need a lot. But Terri Jo shouldn’t have made the girl feel like a burden.

“I’m sorry that she said that.” It was lame, but I meant what I said. Feeling ticked off, I pounded the pillow into the pillow slip. Making beds should count as serious aerobic exercise.

“Yeah, Terri Jo tells me all the time that I was an accident. Of course, now I know I wasn’t her accident, but still, I think she says that to scare me so I won’t get pregnant.”

SaraLynn’s candor surprised me. She must have realized we’d overheard her conversation with Sharma.

The girl rambled on. “My life stinks. Sharma ran off. Terri Jo is really strict.”

Calling Terri Jo by her given name surprised me, but it wasn’t all that unusual. Especially under the circumstances. Taking on the part of a reasonable adult, I started with the easiest problem to address. “SaraLynn, most kids think the adults in their lives are too strict. Have you noticed that?”

SaraLynn got up and walked over to my bookshelf. Her slender fingers marched along the landscape of book spines. “I know how strict my friends’ parents are. When I compare them to Terri Jo, she’s a lot more controlling. She wants to know exactly where I am and what I am doing all the time. If I am one minute late, she grounds me. My other friends meet up in groups. Terri Jo says absolutely not, no way. I can’t go to the mall and hang out with other kids.”

“You are a little young for that,” I said.

“Yeah, well, Terri Jo doesn’t want me to take computer science classes in school, because she says they’ll overwhelm me. According to her, I don’t need a college education. It would be wasted on me. I’ve been invited on vacations with friends,” SaraLynn continued, “but Terri Jo says no every time. Did you ever read that fairytale about that princess locked in a tower? That’s me. I’m locked away. Terri Jo won’t even let me go to after-school clubs and activities.”

SaraLynn added, “After what happened with the van, she’s bound to be even crazier. I was stupid to climb in, but I trusted Marian. She didn’t mean to trick me. I know she didn’t.”

“If my daughter or grandchild had been snatched off the street, I would be extra-concerned, too,” I said. A part of me felt SaraLynn was being unreasonable. On the other hand, here I was, helping the girl perpetuate a lie, since Terri Jo thought SaraLynn was at her friend Alyssa’s house. Suddenly, that did not sit well with me. I’d put myself in the middle of a bad situation…again.

The girl’s eyes clouded with emotion. “It’s true Terri Jo’s been more freaked out lately, but she’s always been this way. That’s one reason I jumped at the chance to ride in that van. I wanted time with my friend, Marian. I know her dad is a creep, but she’s still my best friend. She needs me, and because I have the scoop on her dad, I’m one of the few people she can talk to.”

I mulled this over. Maybe Terri Jo felt like she’d failed when she raised Sharma/Sharon and SaraLynn was her do-over? Hard to say.

“I’m not going to put up with this forever,” mumbled SaraLynn.

It sounded like a half-hearted threat.

While I went into my bedroom and changed, SaraLynn slipped out of her jeans into an oversized tee shirt and crawled under the covers. After I took off all of my makeup, I checked to see that SaraLynn had everything she needed. I was too late. The kid was already conked out. Her backpack was unzipped. SaraLynn had been tired when she grabbed her tee shirt. Some of the contents of her bag had spilled out onto the floor. I squatted and picked up her spelling test, a paperback book, and a hair clip. As I stuffed things into the bag, a piece of paper fluttered out from between the pages of the book. On close examination, it was a handwritten note that read: Talk about other people, and someone you love will get hurt! A freind.

Was this common schoolyard bullying? Or was it a note that appeared in conjunction with SaraLynn’s kidnapping? Either way, I doubted that Kevin knew about it. With the note in hand, I hurried into my bedroom. Grabbing a pen and paper from my dresser, I copied down the message, letter by letter. I would show it to Kevin. I walked back into the living room, intending to return the note to SaraLynn’s pink backpack. Before doing so, I gave it one last look. The thick edges were deckled. It didn’t look like something a kid would have access to.

I shoved the note back where I found it and shoved the book into SaraLynn’s bag. The urge to wake her and ask questions about the message was nearly overwhelming, but I couldn’t bring myself to disturb her sleep. She snored lightly, her mouth open and her limbs sprawled loosely. The girl had already had a long night. It would be a shame to wake her right now. In fact, it would be a shame for Sharma to wake her little sister later. Grabbing an empty utility bill envelope, I scrawled a message and taped it to my door: As of 1 a.m., SaraLynn is sound asleep. I’m happy to let her stay here the rest of the night. I won’t be leaving, until 11 a.m. this (Sunday) morning. -- Cragan

I had a hunch that Sharma and Pru would come home from Fast Freddy’s and fall exhausted into their beds.

And they did.

* * *

Sundays are set aside for visiting my Granny. That’s why I’d explained in my note that I’d be leaving at eleven. Not surprisingly, I was up before SaraLynn. Tiptoeing around the kitchen, I made coffee and threw some Bisquick in a bowl with eggs and milk. After a vigorous mixing with a fork, the hotcake batter waited on my counter. When SaraLynn woke up, I could have pancakes ready in minutes. Typically, I use Sunday mornings to get organized for the coming week. Since I didn’t want to disturb SaraLynn, I had to improvise. I opened the ironing board in my bedroom and pressed a few blouses. That involved stepping on and over my bed to get from closet to ironing board, an awkward dance to be sure, but I managed. Next, I checked on Sher Kahn’s cat litter. His box was in a corner of my bedroom. I tiptoed into my bathroom to get a garbage bag. I scooped out the soiled litter and put it in the garbage. Yet again, my efforts were complicated by the limited space around my bed.

I wasn’t sure how to wear my hair for the Chamber of Commerce event. On a notepad, I wrote myself a reminder that I needed to pick up a pair of sheer black pantyhose for this evening. When Billy had given me the dress last night, Pru had offered to loan me a small evening bag, and I couldn’t wait to see the purse. Knowing Pru, it would be the perfect accessory.

Around ten a.m., SaraLynn rustled around on the sofa.

“Cragan?” she called out.

My head was stuck inside my closet, while I tried to find my gray skirt, so I could press it.

“Coming!” Of course, the skirt was the last piece on the rod and dragging it out was a chore.

SaraLynn had put on her regular clothes and neatly folded the bed linens in a stack.

“How’d you sleep?” I asked.

“Really well. The cat crawled up next to me and purred all night. He’s a sweetheart.”

That was a side of Sher Kahn that he’d successfully hidden from me. Looking at him sidewise, I vowed to cut back on his kibble and handfeed him treats. The dratted cat was not nearly as loving to me as he’d been to SaraLynn!

“Let me make you pancakes,” I offered.

SaraLynn sat down and devoured her breakfast, asking for a second helping.

As it grew closer to eleven, I felt nervous. I didn’t want to be late for my weekly brunch with my grandmother, a resident of Golden Gate, a retirement home. My grandmother is a pip, a fascinating woman. A stroke caused her to have aphasia, leaving the erudite scholar with a vocabulary of only one word: Shit. What’s even more amazing is the fact that before the stroke, my grandmother wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful. Yet now she had no choice. She could write, although her script was hard to decipher. She could read just fine, and each week I exchanged the books she’d devoured for a set of fresh, enticing tomes. But she could not carry on a conversation, although she managed to imbue that single word—“shit”—with a vast rainbow of meanings.

As I collected the new library books for Granny, my anxiety grew. Should I take SaraLynn with me to Golden Gate? Go upstairs and pound on Pru’s door? Leave SaraLynn here in my apartment all alone? Zee was probably home, as was Rosie. As a last resource, either option would do but neither was ideal.

What would happen, when Terri Jo realized her daughter had lied to her? Despite Sharma/Sharon’s promise, she and SaraLynn had discussed letting the girl move to Chicago. Terri Jo would probably blow a gasket. Call me a coward, but I didn’t want to deal with the older woman’s fury. I fretted over what to do until the clock struck ten fifty-five, and a faint knock on my door signaled an arrival.

Sharma and Pru had taken off their stage makeup, only to reapply light touches of lip gloss, liner, and mascara. Even with scaled down enhancements, they looked like a couple of goddesses. Sharma thanked me profusely for letting her little sister spend the night on my sofa. Pru was also grateful. She whispered, “I’ll catch up with you when you get back from Golden Gate. Billy had an idea about how you should wear your hair. I’ve got the evening bag.”

SaraLynn threw her arms around me. “Thanks tons, Cragan. You were a great hostess.”

I hugged her. “You are welcome any time. Sher Kahn likes you better than me.”

* * *

My brunch with Granny was predictable. The brunch at Golden Gate was good, not great, but okay. Back at Granny’s apartment, she was thrilled with the new books I brought. We sat and got caught up. My big evening at Fast Freddy’s was of infinite interest to her. But she was even more fascinated by my upcoming date for the Chamber of Commerce Gala. Over the course of my visit, she wrote two pages of questions for me in her handy notebook. In particular, she wanted a photo of me when I was all dressed up. I assured her the event would doubtless be covered by a photographer from the paper. “I can ask for a picture from a colleague,” I said.

Making friends in every department was one of the many lessons I’d learned from my pal, Robert Smithson. Most of the ad salespeople had nothing to do with other newspaper employees. Because our jobs had us spending most of our workdays outside of the paper’s physical plant, it was easy to avoid reporters, pressmen, typesetters, and photographers. But Robert told me, “Take time to get to know your coworkers. You never know when you’ll need a favor. Especially from a photographer.”

Since all of the newspaper’s photographers were male, they were especially susceptible to gifts of baked goodies. Brownies were like catnip to the photo crew. I had whipped up a lot of “catnip,” since joining the ad department, and my meager baking skills paid off. Of course, the paper would cover this evening’s event in the society pages. Getting a nice picture would simply be a matter of asking.

I promised Granny a full accounting of my evening when I saw her next, and I gave her a kiss goodbye. Each time I left her, a pain started behind my eyes. I always worried that I’d never see her again. She was old, fragile, and sometimes she seemed to be fading away.

* * *

Back in my apartment, I took a long bath and put on a cotton kimono. At six, I went upstairs to Pru’s apartment. There, she and Billy, my two fairy godmothers, prepared to work their magic on me. Pru wore a lowcut silky blouse in a vibrant shade of turquoise and a pair of tight jeans. Billy had on a white shirt with poet sleeves, and he’d tucked his top into a pair of tight black pants. There was a theatrical vibe to both of them, and it worried me.

“I don’t want a lot of makeup,” I said. “That’s not me.”

“You don’t need a lot of makeup,” said Billy, opening what looked like a powder blue traveling case. Digging around, he found a handful of products. I sat on a kitchen chair, trying to keep myself perfectly still so he wouldn’t poke me in the eye. As he worked, he and Pru discussed the problems Sharma was having.

“I remember when she started dating Hec,” said Billy.

“So do I,” said Pru. “Terri Jo was livid. She hated the fact her daughter was involved with a Mexican.”

“It was more than that,” said Billy. “Hec was behind her move to Chicago. At first, Sharma felt like an outcast among Hec's Hispanic family and friends. Over time, they saw she was a good influence. That’s when his family realized how much they loved each other.”

“Hec encouraged her to enter the Miss Nude Illinois contest,” said Pru. “She would have never had the guts to do that, but he pushed her.”

Billy added a little color to my eyebrows. “Sharma would make a terrific mother.”

Pru cleared her throat. Although I couldn’t shift my posture to look at her, I could tell she gave Billy a warning glance.

“How should we do Cragan’s hair?” asked Billy.

In the end, they decided to slather my hair with a copious amount of styling gel and comb it straight back from my face. Their suggestion sounded incredibly severe, and I said as much.

“Why don’t you wait and see how your hair looks with your dress?” Billy cooed to me. He had lightly misted me with a delicious perfume from Pru’s collection. “That will tell you whether the hairstyle works or not.”

I’d left the dress and shoes hanging in my closet. Pru volunteered to pop down and grab them. She even had a pair of black panty hose still in the package that she’d donate to my evening. Thank goodness, because I’d forgotten to buy any!

While Pru was gone, I started to panic. Ross was due to arrive in fifteen minutes. I still had on the kimono. The tension boiled inside of me. To control it, I paced the length of Pru’s apartment.

Billy watched me in silence. After my fifth or sixth pass, he put a finger on his chin and cocked his head. “This won’t do at all.”

“Huh?” Was he talking about my makeup, my hair, or my nerves?

“You’ve got the wrong attitude entirely, girl.”

I slumped on a chair. “That’s because I’m petrified.”

“That’s because your head is up your cute little butt,” Billy said. “Listen, Cragan. You saw me perform. You’ve seen me in my street clothes. What made the difference? It wasn’t the makeup, lambkins. It was my attitude. You need to get it in your little pointed head that you’re the most dazzling woman who ever set foot on this green earth. You need to own your pretty self. Otherwise, you’ll walk into that gala and look like a child who raided her mother’s closet. Now get to your feet and show me how you can walk like a goddess.”

He’d made a good point. I got up and resumed my pacing. Billy corrected the tilt of my head. “Roll your shoulders back. Walk with confidence. That’s it! See? You can do this.”

Pru waggled the dress bag at me. “I saw Ross pull up outside, so I let him into the foyer. I wouldn’t count on him waiting forever. He looks good enough to eat!”

Billy took the bag from her and unzipped it. I sat down and pulled on my pantyhose. Dressing in front of Billy was like being at the doctor’s office. Billy didn’t bat an eye, because he’d seen it all. He showed me how to wet my palms and use them to pull the hose up. While I worked on the nylons, Pru grabbed a sheet out of her closet and threw it on the floor. Billy carefully puddled the gown on the sheet. Pru held my hand as I stepped into the center of the dress. Billy pulled the gown up and fastened the various hooks and eyes in the back.

While he worked, Pru schooled me on how to get into a car gracefully. “Back in, sit down, rotate your legs.”

I turned and stared at myself in Pru’s full-length mirror. “The slit is higher!” I squeaked. Billy had moved it up. Now the front of the dress opened at a spot nearly midthigh.

“Not by much,” said Billy. “Honest, I didn’t change it a lot.” One hand flopped under his chin as he studied me. I’d seen that stance before in a fashion magazine. I had to smile. Billy was a treasure. Slowly, he walked around me. “I’d say this is perfection,” he drawled. “Pru? Do you agree?”

“Almost.” She handed me a pair of pearl drop earrings. “Put these on,” she demanded. I did as I was told. She disappeared and returned with a black envelope purse. “It’s barely big enough to hold my gun. See?”

To my horror, she picked up her everyday purse and withdrew a small gun. Proving her point, Pru tucked the weapon into the envelope purse. With a perfectly innocent face, she asked, “Cragan? Would you like to carry my firearm, too?”

“Heavens no! You don’t have that with you all the time, do you?”

“Of course I do. Especially going in and out of the club,” said Pru. “Now, do you have your lipstick? Tissues? A mirror?”

Yes, I’d brought them in the pocket of my kimono. After I put the named items in the bag, she tossed a black chiffon stole over my shoulders. I tucked Julio’s faux diamond ring into my bag for good luck.

“Billy? You need to prepare yourself.” Pru looked stern.

“Why?” he asked her.

“I’m giving you fair warning. I don’t want you to swoon over the gentleman downstairs waiting for Cragan. Her date is wearing a tux by Fussier, black ostrich skin boots by Chassure, and a Rolex.”

I had no idea what that meant. Trying to be flippant, I added, “And he’s driving a truck.”

“Not hardly.” Pru snickered. “You have no idea, Craigie. Wait until you see what you are riding in. Billy and I are going downstairs. I’ll get a grip on Billy so he doesn’t attack Ross in a fit of lust. Cragan, you need to wait a beat or two, so you can make a grand entrance down the staircase, got it? I’m going to tell the others you’re ready.”

“Got it,” I said. Being the center of attention felt weird, but I didn’t want to disappoint Pru or Billy. “Will you two be here when I get back later?”

Billy said, “Probably not.”

Pru gave me a big smile. “You bet. I want to hear all the details. Billy’s giving me a ride to the Nelsons’ house. Sharma took my car to drop off her sister, remember? Then she and I will swing by Fast Freddy’s to get our paychecks. After that, we’ll come back here to drink wine, eat popcorn, and watch TV. Billy? You know you are welcome to stick around.”

“Thanks, but I have laundry to do,” he said. “Now I want to see that gorgeous man that Cragan is going to bewitch.”

After they scampered out, I checked my reflection in the mirror. With my hair slicked back, my cheekbones looked impossibly high. Billy had drawn wings on my upper eyelids with black liner. The mascara plumped up my pale lashes. The gown was gathered and flowed from the band around my bust, hinting at my figure and giving me the silhouette of a Grecian goddess. Thanks to the elongated slit, each step exposed a couples of inches of thigh, which I had to admit offered a tantalizing glimpse of leg.

I thought about Billy’s philosophy. He was right about acting like I was important. Slinking into the event tonight would be a waste of time and of my friends’ efforts. Rolling back my shoulders and lifting my chin, I walked out of Pru’s apartment. At the top of the stairs, I gathered my skirt in one hand and grabbed the railing with the other. Then I sailed down the stairway. In the foyer was a small crowd: Rosie, Pru, Billy, and Zee. Behind them stood Ross.

Pru had been right to warn us that Ross looked devastatingly handsome. His tux had been made for him, and it showed. His broad shoulders, narrow hips, and long legs were displayed to great effect. His white shirt was dotted with black onyx studs. A gold-and-black brocade waistcoat added texture and drama. Since he typically wore a cowboy hat, the sight of his dark blond hair with its golden streaks was yet another surprise, as was the pale blue of his eyes. With a start, I realized their true color was usually hidden by the brim of his cowboy hat.

He had been leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. Upon seeing me, he stepped away and held out his hand. His gaze was strong and sure as I took it.

Rosie giggled. “Cragan, you look like a movie star!”

Zee squinted. “Is that really you?”

I laughed.

“Do you have everything you need?” Ross asked. There was an intimacy to his tone. Ross was telling me that he would take care of me.

“I think so,” I said as I looked up at him.

“Bye-bye, kids. Enjoy yourselves,” called out Billy.

Ross held open the front door but before I stepped through it, I turned to the smiling faces and said, “Thank you all for being such good friends to me.”

Ross and I walked out into a warm spring night. Parked at the curb was a jet-black Corvette. The car reminded me of a panther waiting to spring.

“You have a Corvette?” I was astonished because a couple of months ago, an acquaintance of his had purchased one. At the time, Ross hadn’t mentioned that he, too, owned one of the iconic American sportscars.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s Bloomington Gold certified as well,” said Ross, referencing a coveted certification that proved a car was exactly like it had been on the day it rolled off the factory floor. He opened the passenger door for me. Remembering Pru’s advice, I backed up to the seat, sat down, and rotated, swinging my legs inside. I silently thanked both Pru and Billy. They’d been godsends.

Slamming my door, Ross came around and got in the driver’s seat. His cologne was spicy, green, and had a touch of musk. Absolutely delicious. In fact, I gave him a sidewise glance as he keyed the ignition, and the engine roared to life. His chiseled face was blank, devoid of emotion. It worried me. Was he resentful of the fact I’d pushed him into this? Was he one of those men who hated dressing up? Was he doing this as a favor? Because he felt sorry for me?

He caught me staring at him. A slow smile curved his lips. He took his right hand off the gear shift and cupped the back of my head. With one sure move, he pulled me toward him and kissed me lightly on the lips. His mouth tickled and left me aching for more. Then he let me go.

“Lord above,” he mumbled. “You sure know how to tempt a man.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“Cragan!” Elizabeth waved to me. She crossed the ballroom, dragging Ryder in her wake. When she was closer, Elizabeth looked me up and down. Her mouth was twisted in a cross between a sneer and a smile. In true Elizabeth-style, she was spilling out of her dress. She wore a crimson version of Cinderella’s ballgown with a plunging neckline that barely restrained her copious breasts. Her golden hair had been teased to the limits of its endurance, forming a frantic halo. Her false eyelashes stuck out like twin fuzzy caterpillars. They were too big and too thick for her face. Billy had talked about the perils of false lashes as he’d done my makeup. Now I could see exactly what he’d meant.

Her perfume was cloying, and I turned my head for fear I would sneeze.

“Cragan?” Elizabeth raised her voice in a question. “Didn’t you get the memo? This isn’t a funeral. And here you are dressed all in black, you poor thing.”

Ryder walked up behind Elizabeth. He had a stunned look on his face.

“My condolences, Hamilton,” Ross said, “You managed to snag a date who is both coarse and rude.”

Elizabeth didn’t get the jab. She was too busy staring at me.

“Cragan? You look terrific,” Ryder said in a halting voice.

“She certainly does,” said Ross. “There isn’t a woman in the place who can hold a candle to her. Come on, darlin’.”

With that, Ross turned us in the opposite direction. As we walked away from Ryder and Elizabeth, Ross whispered, “There’s a brothel out there somewhere that’s missing a whore.”

I burst into laughter. Ross asked, “Good grief. Do you have to put up with that sort of horseshit every day?”

“No. There are days when it’s worse. Yakky sets the tone for our department, and he’s a major destructive force,” I said, interlocking my fingers with his. Ross was four inches taller than Ryder, but I hadn’t noticed that until this evening. That made Ross a foot and a half taller than Yakky, a point quickly proven when the ad manager sailed up with his wife in tow. Yakky’s tux no longer fit him, if indeed it ever had. His gut slopped over his cummerbund. His pants had ridden up, displaying black socks with a run in them.

“Cragan?” Yakky’s complexion reddened as he marched over to me and shook his finger in my face. “You better be there at your desk tomorrow, bright and early. How did you weasel an invitation to this?”

Ross stepped between us, bumping his chest into Yakky’s pointed finger. “Mr. Pavolich? I am Ross Gentry, the manager at TSC. Mrs. Collins is here as my guest.”

Yakky’s wife stood ten steps behind him. She was nearly lost in a peachy-pink confection that involved beads, sequins, and ruffles. Mrs. Pavolich resembled a little girl’s birthday cake. The gown was far too sweet for a woman of a certain age. Just looking at her dress made my teeth ache.

Porter Whaley, the head photographer from the paper, came over and asked us to pose. We did as instructed, and Porter snapped away merrily. At one point, he reminded Yakky to stand closer to Mrs. Pavolich. Yakky treated his wife like a pesky housefly.

After the photographer left, Yakky pulled himself up to his full height and tried to make nice with Ross. “Oh! Well! TSC, huh? That’s a different story. It’s always nice to see one of our esteemed advertisers.”

Another male voice haled us. “Cragan? Glad you’re here,” said George Reynolds. “I’d like for you to meet my wife, Jill.”

Jill Reynolds wore a sleek halter dress in navy taffeta. Her auburn hair was cut in a trim bob. She extended her hand as she thanked me for the brochure on St. Xavier’s.

Yakky pushed in front of me, interrupting as I introduced Ross to the Reynolds. The Yakster puffed up as he said, “I was just telling Cragan how important it is to have a good relationship with our advertisers.”

“Actually, that’s not what you were saying.” Ross’s eyes had gone cold. “You insinuated that Mrs. Collins had no right to be here. Since she is here as my date, I believe you owe Mrs. Collins an apology. As for good relationships with advertisers, we are both aware that you’ve threatened to take my account away from Mrs. Collins. I sent you a certified letter, saying that better not happen. Since you haven’t responded, I’ll reiterate my position, here and now. If you take my account away from Mrs. Collins, I’ll cease to advertise with the paper. I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

George Reynolds frowned. “Yakky? Sounds like you need to hop on this. You owe this man a letter?”

“Letter?” Yakky’s eyes resembled twin hard-boiled eggs. “Mr. Gentry, you have to understand that I am extremely busy. I haven’t responded to that particular letter because I haven’t had the time. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

But Ross caught Yakky by the arm. Ross towered over the small man. “Aren’t you forgetting something? An apology to Cragan?”

Yakky wouldn’t look me in the eyes. He mumbled, “There was a misunderstanding. That’s all. You know how I like to tease, Cragan.”

Everyone turned to me, anticipating my reaction. Ross’s reassuring presence gave me strength. I was sick to death of Yakky’s nonsense. This might be my one chance to call him out. I said, “Actually, Mr. Pavolich, I don’t appreciate what you call teasing. It’s hurtful. Just for the record, I’m always at my desk early. You should know that.”

Yakky took two steps backwards. His face had gone white as his shirt. “Like I said, you misunderstood me, Cragan. You girls in my department are always overreacting.” Appealing to George Reynolds, Yakky said, “I joke around with my people. Sometimes they don’t get my humor.”

“I don’t think you’re funny,” I said. “Neither does anyone else.”

A stunned silence descended, but I didn’t care. I was tired of feeling uncomfortable. I was sick of being chastised, harassed, and embarrassed by Yakky.

“I’d call that clear communication,” said George Reynolds with a wry smile.

Jill Reynolds moved to my side. “Cragan? Why don’t you and Mr. Gentry come sit at our table? We would love to have you. I know we have room. The seats are reserved.”

“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” said Ross. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get Cragan a drink.”

George Reynolds said, “Wait a minute. Gentry? Are you related to the family that owned all the farmland north of here? The spread that’s now Hickory Point Mall? And those subdivisions?”

Ross inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. A flush of red colored his neck. “That was my family’s acreage, yes.”

“It’s your mother, Lavinia, who is on the board of directors of Millikin University, right?” asked George Reynolds.

“She is, indeed,” said Ross.

A waiter came by, and Ross handed me a glass of champagne. Then he handed one to Jill Reynolds. His manners were impeccable.

“Small world,” said Jill. “Now that we have our drinks, let’s go sit down. These heels are killing me.”

George Reynolds led us to a table near the stage.

Halfway there, a deep voice called my name. “Cragan?”

I turned to see my ex-husband, Tim Collins, pulling a woman by the hand. Vaguely, I recalled Tim was slated to be the emcee this evening. My stomach twisted into knots. Ross must have recognized my shifting mood because he slipped his arm around my waist.

Running away from Tim wouldn’t work. As he came closer and people moved out of his path, I saw that his date was Cathy Merritt, a wealthy heiress, and Tim’s on-again, off-again fiancée. Tim was good-looking in an All-American Boy sort of way, but poor Cathy could have been mistaken for a horse with her long narrow face. Ever the fashionista, she wore a lovely dress of blue satin.

“Hiya, cowboy,” said Tim, looking at Ross with a smirk on his face. Before Ross could respond, Tim pointed at my date’s boots. “Didn’t know this was a hoedown.”

Cathy’s mouth formed a large, “Oh,” as she followed Tim’s gaze. She quickly broke in, “Are those Chasseur boots?”

“Yes.” Ross cocked his head at her and Tim.

“Ostrich skin? Custom made?” She nearly squeaked.

“Yes.” Ross held me more tightly, moving his arm from my waist and resting it around my shoulders. The message was clear: I was under Ross’s protection.

“Shit kickers,” snickered Tim.

“Custom-made shit kickers that run six grand a pair,” said Cathy with an expression of awe on her face.

“I was always taught that money is like sex,” drawled Ross. “Those who have it, don’t need to talk about it. If you’ll excuse us.”

The laughter died on Tim’s lips. There was only one thing that Tim Collins respected: status. Tim was a bottom-feeder, always looking for a way to climb the food chain. Cathy was his most recent attempt at moving from pond scum to single cell organism. Although a part of me worried that Tim would embarrass me when he held the mic in his hand, now that he’d encountered Ross, I relaxed. Ross was a head taller than Tim. Ross had more money than Tim, and Ross oozed masculinity. A glance over my shoulder confirmed that Tim looked defeated.

Once seated at the table with the Reynolds, the men discussed the local crop outlooks. Jill and I talked about their ten-year-old daughter. I learned that despite her Down Syndrome diagnosis, Madelyn Reynolds was high-functioning, but she’d had a lot of health concerns. Jill quickly explained these were common among those diagnosed with the syndrome. Still, they often caused her daughter to miss school.

“We visited St. Xavier’s, and it seems like it might be a good fit. Now, we’re trying to find the right house. We’re willing to rent or buy,” Jill explained. “Maddie wants a dog in the worst way. We’ve promised her we’ll get one when we move. I think that promise is the only thing making this bearable for Maddie as she’s keenly aware she’ll be leaving her old friends behind.”

“That must be really hard for her,” I said. “And for you. My friends mean everything to me.”

Ryder and Elizabeth joined us at the table. Elizabeth managed to drag her bosom across Ross’s arm as she took her seat. My date scooted his chair away from her and closer to me. Ryder glared at me. I smiled at him serenely. Yes, I’d fallen hard for him, but I could and would get over it. Being disloyal was a deal-breaker. My marriage with Tim had taught me not to ignore early warning signs in a relationship. While Ryder had turned my head, he was a wuss. Strike One: He worried about his standing with Glendale Enterprises, if they learned he was dating a subordinate. Strike Two: He warned me he would need to keep his distance except in private. Strike Three: He rolled over and piddled when Yakky told him to take Elizabeth to this event. Did I need to stick around for more abuse?

Nope. I’d seen this particular ballgame, and Ryder was out with the bases loaded. I’d been married to a man who hadn’t put me first in his life. There was no reason to make the same mistake twice. I’d rather move on to bigger and better mistakes.

Yakky’s wife came over and stood next to the empty chair beside mine. She looked pitiful. Rather than help his wife be seated, Yakky hoisted his pants and looked around, trying to find somebody to glad-hand. Ross noticed Mrs. Pavolich standing there and looking lost. My date got to his feet and helped Yakky’s wife get comfortable in her chair. “Thank you,” she said, fluttering her lashes at him. “I’m Patsy Pavolich.”

Ross introduced me, an act of common courtesy that Yakky had neglected.

All conversation ceased when Tim took the stage. My ex-husband is particularly talented as a presenter, and admittedly, he moved the program along smoothly. Yakky was given an award for his years of service. George Reynolds was introduced as the new publisher of The Gazette. A few businesses were recognized here and there. Tim once told me that a good emcee has to strike a balance between letting other people talk and allowing a program to drag. Since we wouldn’t be served our meals until the presentations ended, I was glad of Tim’s professionalism. At the same time, I found myself thinking back to the exchange about Ross’s boots. Six thousand dollars? Custom-made?

Then there was the black Corvette.

His well-fitting tux.

His Rolex.

His mother on the board of Millikin University.

His family owning the land that later became Hickory Point Mall and the surrounding subdivisions.

Who the hell was this man?

None of this would change how I thought or felt about Ross. I was not, and never would be, a gold digger. But it did surprise me. My initial impression of Ross had been that he was a good old boy and a hick. In short order, I’d learned this was an image he wished to project, but the truth was entirely different. He was both cultured and highly educated. And possibly, very, very rich.

Ross had been generous toward me from the moment we met, sending me home with bags of cat food and litter. He’d also been a tough sell as a newspaper advertiser, and I’d had to convince him that I could earn his ad dollars. Since then, he’d been scrupulously fair in his business dealings. He’d gone out of his way to be generous to me and my friends. When I’d mentioned that my housemates and I were thinking about growing a garden, he’d volunteered to help us set it up—and he’d shown up frequently since then to do whatever was required. Planting, raking, hauling, mowing, mulching, weeding, and moving dirt. Ross never complained.

He rarely talked about himself. He was quieter than any man I’d ever dated. I took his hand. His pale blue eyes fixed on mine. I spoke quietly so that the others at the table wouldn’t hear. “There is so much I don’t know about you.”

With an index finger, he lifted my chin and stared deeply into my eyes. The rest of the room faded away. He and I were the only two people on the planet.

“You know everything you need to know, darlin’.” He leaned in and brushed his lips across my ear.

He was right. His words and touch sent shockwaves through my body. His actions were incredibly intimate, even as people crowded around us. Taking his hand from my chin, Ross twined his fingers with mine. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ryder’s jaw tightening. Not that I cared.

We finished our meal. Tim got up and gave away door prizes. The floor was cleared for dancing. The music was too loud for talking. The first few dances were fast, and Elizabeth dragged Ryder into the fray. She made suggestive moves, while he hobbled around in a stiff parody of a man having a good time.

When the band began a slow dance, Ross took me by the hand. I’ve never been good at slow dancing. The intensity of it embarrasses me. At first, I kept a good six inches of air between Ross and me.

Slowly, I closed the gap between us. Ross held me in his strong arms, cradling me, and barely swaying to the music. The next song was slow, too, and this time I allowed my body to lean against his, feeling his taut musculature as he guided me effortlessly.

“You’ve put up with a lot of crap, haven’t you?” he whispered in my ear.

“Yeah,” I said, although the word was little more than a sigh. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes. I’m still paying for them.”

“And you are scared?”

I blinked back tears. “I guess. Maybe reticent is more like it.”

“Little girl, you have nothing to fear from me.” Then he stopped dancing and held me. We simply stood there. Wrapping his arms around me more tightly, he said, “I will never, ever do anything you don’t want me to do. Understand?”

And he kissed the tears off my lashes.

* * *

We danced a couple of fast dances. Ross ordered a bottle of champagne. We offered to share it with the table, but we wound up sipping most of it ourselves. During the next slow dance, I yawned. I couldn’t help myself. It was after eleven, and I’d had a long day.

Ross laughed. “Maybe I should get you home. You don’t want to show up late tomorrow. Not when your boss is gunning for you.”

I apologized to Ross for yawning. Going back to the table, we said our goodbyes. Ross draped the chiffon stole over my shoulders. After grabbing the envelope purse, I started toward the door with one hand tucked inside Ross’s elbow. When we got to the vestibule, valets were racing around and bringing up cars. A crowd had gathered, joining us in our decision to leave. A light rain misted the air. Ross and I stood under an awning, while a runner went to bring up the Corvette.

As the valet took a ten-dollar bill from Ross, the young man said, “Be really careful. The stairs are slick. It would be easy to take a tumble, especially for you, miss. Those high heels make it dangerous.”

By way of an answer, Ross gave the valet a curt nod. Before I could say anything, Ross scooped me up and carried me down the steps. While another valet held open the car door, Ross gently set me on the car seat.

I felt like Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. Judging by the open mouths of other guests, they were equally impressed.

The champagne had made me lightheaded, so I snuggled up against Ross as best I could with the gear stick in the way. He put one hand on my knee, reaching across the steering wheel when he needed to shift. I felt utterly at peace as I breathed in his cologne. As a matter of fact, I may even have dozed off.

But I awoke with a start when bright red and blue lights strobed across the windshield. “What on earth?” I muttered. “Is this Green Street?”

“Yes, it is.” His voice was low and calm. “There appears to be a problem.”

Turning right, he drove around the neighboring block and approached 512 from the opposite side of the street. His quick thinking allowed him to park a couple of car lengths from an ambulance and two police cars.

“Stay here,” he said, shoving the Corvette into park.

The rain had stopped, leaving a fog that turned the world into a bizarre dreamscape of misshapen forms. A clutch of bodies milled around. Most seemed to be men. The streetlamp’s yellow glow reflected the metal on their uniforms and caps.

This couldn’t be good.

I threw the car door open. Running to the nearest officer, I asked, “What’s wrong?”

“Miss, get back,” he told me firmly as he pointed the way I’d come.

I ignored his directive. “Is somebody hurt?” The diffused light made it impossible to discern faces, until a tall figure stepped out of the fray. It was Zee. I would recognize her anywhere. Darting around the officer and evading his attempt to grab me, I ran to her side.

“You okay? Anyone hurt?” I asked in a breathless volley.

“I’m fine.” She frowned at me. “But Sharma…”

Sharma and Pru had planned for a night of TV watching. Had Sharma choked on a piece of popcorn? Had she fainted? Hit her head? The possibilities seemed endless, but in the end, the calamity was one I hadn’t expected.

Zee shook her head angrily and muttered, “Somebody shot Sharma.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

“Good evening, Zee,” said Ross as he came up behind me and took my hand. “Cragan? Your friend the detective needs to talk to you. I’ll take you there.”

Ross wrapped an arm around me. As we walked together, I asked, “What did Kevin tell you? Is Sharma going to die?”

“They aren’t sure how bad it is. Not yet.” Ross sounded matter-of-fact. “Let’s hear what the detective has to say.”

“Hey, gorgeous.” Kevin leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. He had on jeans and a brown leather jacket. Underneath was a Chicago Cubs tee shirt. Obviously, he’d been off duty when the call came in.

Ross didn’t bristle at Kevin’s quick kiss, and I was glad of that. He knew the detective and I were old friends, and this wasn’t the time to get all macho.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Somebody shot Sharma while she was having a smoke on that second-floor ledge,” Kevin said. “Pru was inside when it happened. Zee and Rosie independently told me there was a bang, and then they heard Pru running down the stairs and out the front door.”

Kevin was interrupted by a scream. It came from Pru.

“Noooo! Nooo!” she wailed.

She was standing at the front stairs. Two medics carried a stretcher. As the sheet flapped in the breeze, I saw a pale face. Sharma was lying prone. Pru tried to keep pace with the techs, but one of them chastised her sharply and sent her away.

Leaving Kevin and Ross behind, I ran to Pru’s side. All she was wearing was an oversized sweatshirt and panties. Her legs were bare. She had to be freezing in the damp air. I hugged her close, and she buried her head in my shoulder. When she lifted her face, Pru’s eyes were red and swollen. Snot ran from her nose. “I-I-I did this,” she stuttered. “M-m-m-my fault. She didn’t want to come back to Decatur! I kept after her. And now this! It’s my fault!”

“How could this be your fault?” I asked. “Pru, you aren’t making sense.”

“Pru? Get hold of yourself,” said Zee, joining us. Her expression was difficult to read in the uneven light of the streetlamp. “Don’t say another word. You hear me? There are cops everywhere!”

A firm hand claimed my waist. The possessive touch forced me to gaze into the narrowed eyes of Ross Gentry. His expression was somber, and the pressure of his fingers gave me a sense of reassurance. I was glad for his presence, and once again, I leaned into him. Ross was naturally stoic, and right now, I needed to stay calm.

“Pru?” Kevin joined us. His eyebrows shot up when he saw how Pru was dressed. Kevin removed his leather jacket and tucked it around her. “Come on, Pru. Let’s get you out of this night air. We need you to come down to the station and make a statement.”

It was a bit chilly. I hadn’t realized that before.

Pru asked Kevin. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

“She’s hurt.” Kevin kept his voice even. “The EMTs are working on her. It looks messy. I think the tumble was as bad as the gunshot. Why was she out there on the roof?”

“She always smokes on that landing,” I explained.

Pru’s second-floor apartment sat directly on top of mine. The architect had cleverly recessed the side window of her apartment, creating a narrow ledge. The nook made enough space for two people to sit and stare at the night sky. I’d been up there with Pru on many occasions.

Kevin reached for Pru’s elbow. “Come on, kiddo. Let me get you down to the station so we can do this formally. You don’t need to go through this twice.”

“But Sharma!” Pru’s voice grew shrill. I followed her line of sight and saw the EMTs lifting the gurney into the back of the ambulance. The sheet-covered figure had sprouted plastic tubes. The medics had wasted no time in treating Sharma.

“Sharma!” Pru lunged for her friend, but Kevin caught her before she could get more than a couple of feet away.

He held Pru by the elbows as he tried to reason with her. “Pru? Listen to me! There’s somebody roaming around with a gun. I need you to help me. We have to figure out who did this. Rosie’s still in the house. What about when Julio comes home? And Zee? And Cragan? See? We have to nail this bastard. Pru, tell me. Did you hear anything? A car? Or truck?”

“No.” She shook her head.

“Zee? What about you?” Kevin turned to our housemate.

“I was listening to my stereo. Okay, I might have heard a pop, but I thought it was part of the song. I was, well, I’d been drinking Jack Daniels.”

“Got it,” said Kevin.

An EMT slammed the door of the ambulance. The white van slowly rolled away.

Kevin let go of Pru and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Okay, I have officers doing a fingertip search of the ground for evidence. That’ll take a while. Even with lights, it’ll be hard, given the foliage. Let’s get you both down to the station.” He had a five o’clock shadow. Dark circles were under his eyes. It was now close to midnight.

“But I want to go with Sharma!” Pru wailed. “I’ll grab my keys.”

“You can’t,” said Kevin. “We need to talk first at the station.”

“N-n-no,” Pru stammered.

“It’s all right, Pru. I’m going with you,” said Zee. My eyes widened in shock. Zee hates the cops. Absolutely can’t stand them. She’s okay with Kevin because she knows him, but even so, volunteering to enter the police station was going to tax her sensibilities. I searched her face and realized that Zee was making sure that Pru didn’t get herself into trouble. Zee could be snarky, but she was also a loyal friend.

“Thank you, Zee. Much appreciated,” said Kevin. “Officer Dunleavy? Please escort these ladies to my car. Get them comfortable in the back. Turn on the heater, if they want. I’ll be there in a jiffy.”

Kevin turned his attention to Ross and me. The detective’s eyes flared wide as he finally noticed that Ross Gentry and I were dressed in formal attire. It probably seemed particularly odd, although who can say what’s normal at a crime scene? Not me. That’s for sure.

“May I ask how you two happened to pop up in the midst of all this?” Kevin sounded tired.

“We came from the Chamber of Commerce Gala,” said Ross. He took off his jacket and draped it over me. I was glad for the warmth; the chiffon wrap was too thin. The moisture in the air made me colder by the minute. Ross offered his hand for a handshake with Kevin. “I’m Ross Gentry. I believe we met at the Corn Growers Association lunch.”

“That’s right. I remember you.” Kevin stepped to one side, allowing the cone of yellow light from the streetlamp to fall on Ross’s face.

“Can I go inside?” Even with Ross’s jacket, my teeth started to chatter. “I’m a little cold.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, but no. You need to stay clear of your apartment,” Kevin said.

I gritted my teeth at Kevin’s use of the endearment. I knew him well enough that he’d done it on purpose. It was his way of telling Ross that he and I were more than casual friends. I was tired, and cold, and not in the mood for boyish posturing. “Why not?” I asked. “Come on, Kevin. Why can’t I go into my own home?”

Kevin stepped closer to Ross and me and pitched his voice low. “After Sharma was shot, she tumbled off the roof. She must have struggled to her feet right outside your living room window. There’s a blood spatter on the glass, Cragan. The window over your bookshelf. We’ll need to process the scene. Might even need to remove the glass and its casing.”

As if on cue, a chain saw sputtered into action.

A sudden thought hit me. “My cat! I have to get Sher Kahn!”

If they removed my window, he could wander outside. Sher Kahn was not an outdoors animal. He might get run over or mauled by dogs.

“He’s fine,” said Kevin, patting my arm. “Rosie from upstairs volunteered to cat sit. One of the uniforms hauled the litter box, food, and water, up to her place. Actually, Rosie said it will be a good distraction for her son, Julio.”

“I still need to get inside my apartment. I need clothes for work tomorrow. I can’t show up in this,” I said. In every crisis, there are mundane realities that seep through. Life goes on, despite the pain, fear, and loss.

A reasonable boss would be understanding if I showed up late, once he heard about the shooting. Yakky was not that man. Dealing with his baloney would make my Monday more miserable that it promised to be.

“I’ll send Officer Dunleavy to go inside with you, Cragan. Don’t touch anything, okay? Only grab what you absolutely must have for tonight and early tomorrow.” Kevin turned and flagged Dunleavy down.

“Does that mean I can’t sleep at my place?”

Kevin shook his head. “No way. The only reason Rosie and Zee can go back to their apartments is that they’re on the opposite side of the building.”

“I have a guest bedroom,” said Ross. His expression was unreadable.

“Look. I need to take Pru and Zee to the station,” said Kevin. “Cragan? Call if you need me. Now you better get moving before Dunleavy has another assignment.”

Lifting the long skirt of my gown, I steeled myself. This was not how I predicted my evening would end. Officer Dunleavy parted the crime scene techs and cops, who were swarming the premises. I wished I could be anywhere on earth but here. This felt wrong on a variety of levels. Pru was my rock, and now she was sinking. My apartment was my sanctuary. My cat was my security blanket, even if he didn’t always act like a loving pet. Last Wednesday, all I’d wanted was for Sharma to go away. Right now, I’d give anything for her to be okay.

Dunleavy wore latex gloves as he opened my apartment door. Rosie had let the young cop in earlier to get my cat. All of us kept copies of each other’s keys. In the back of my closet was an overnight bag with a few essentials. There were times when I went somewhere after Jazzercise, and this bag had my hygiene needs. Inside were deodorant, toothbrush, toothpaste, a small hairbrush, makeup remover wipes, gloss, and an old tube of mascara. Enough to get me ready for my workday.

I grabbed a pair of dark slacks, panties, a bra, and a cream-colored knit top, as well as a pair of flats. Those went into an overnight bag, too. So did a camisole, cotton panties, fluffy socks, and a pair of sweatpants. I snatched up my canvas briefcase and regular purse.

Dunleavy watched me from the living room. As I walked out of my bedroom, I stopped and looked to my left. Sure enough, there was a dark smear on the side window. Sharma’s blood. I felt a little sick to my stomach, but I didn’t have time for the discomfort to really register because there was a shout from outside.

“Found something!” yelled a male voice.

Dunleavy and I hurried out of my apartment. He locked the door behind me. Once we were outdoors, I watched as one cop opened a paper evidence bag. Another approached with something in his hands. Dunleavy took a flashlight from his utility belt and shone the beam on a small gun.

“This was in the bushes next to that maple tree,” said the proud cop as he held the weapon up to the light.

I recognized the derringer. It belonged to Pru.

* * *

My teeth chattered like a metronome. I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. Pru’s gun? Was I sure about that? Could I be confused? No way would I tell the cops what I suspected. I might be wrong.

Then again…

Dunleavy told the other cop to bag the gun for evidence. Ross took the overnight satchel and canvas briefcase out of my hands, leaving me with my purse. He leaned close and asked, “Anything else you need? Car keys for tomorrow? I can bring you here to get the RX-7.”

“The keys are in my purse,” I said through clenched teeth.

Gripping my shoulder, Ross aimed me toward the Corvette. This time, I didn’t bother with being ladylike. I sort of stumbled backwards into the passenger seat. Tears swam in my eyes. Brushing them away, I turned my hands into fists and stuffed them under my thighs.

Otherwise, they would have been shaking violently.

Ross got in, started the powerful engine, and did a three-point turn. Once we were past the residential area and out on a main road, he reached over and clasped my forearm. “Are you okay?”

I couldn’t talk because my teeth were chattering. That damn smear of blood on my window. It had spooked me. And then there was the gun. It sure looked like the one that Pru carried in her handbag. Of course, there had to be a million guns like it. Had to be. I decided not to talk about it. Not with Ross. Not with anyone.

“Uh-huh” was the best I could do.

We drove through the night. Ross turned onto a country road which had been paved. It was unusual for this part of the state, and I appreciated the fact we weren’t bumping along a gravel path. The moon was full, a fact I hadn’t noticed when we were at Green Street because of the light pollution. Ahead was a stand of trees. Through the branches glowed a golden light.

“I hope you like dogs,” said Ross, shifting the Corvette into a lower gear.

“I love all animals. I would own a dog, if I could.”

“Good.” He turned the wheel and aimed us at a slight rise that ran between the trees. The road bent slightly to the right. The golden glow grew brighter, and then we crested a ridge. I stared at a log structure. I couldn’t call it a log cabin, because it was too large for that. This was a full-sized house. A wide porch wrapped around the front and disappeared, presumably along the far side. In the moonlight, the roof was a dark green. Behind it was a large barn, built in the classic Old McDonald-style with a hip roof and white trim. The barn was surrounded by a fenced-in pasture.

Ross circled the house. Not only did the porch wrap around the structure, there was a three-door garage on the far side of the building. After the door rolled up, Ross pulled into the first bay. He opened his car door and gave a shrill whistle, before coming around and helping me climb out.

Two beautiful Rottweilers came racing out of nowhere. They skidded to a stop at Ross’s feet and sat down. There they stayed like quivering statues while Ross took my hand and carried my things. “Cragan? Meet Julius and Caesar,” said Ross, gesturing to the large animals.

“May I pet them?” I asked.

“You can do whatever you want with them. They might look imposing, but they are as docile as a pair of stuffed toys.”

I’m a sucker for all animals, and these two boys were magnificent creatures. They sat at attention while I rubbed their ears and under their chins.

Ross opened the door from his garage into the house. I expected him to say he wasn’t expecting company, and I figured there might be a bit of a mess because guys are not typically good housekeepers.

Once again, Ross surprised me. The short hall from the garage led to an immaculate kitchen, a huge space with stainless steel appliances, butcher block countertops, and an interesting light fixture that reminded me of railroad ties and Ball jars. “I have a lady who comes in twice a week. Conchita. She’s terrific,” he explained, as if anticipating my silent question. He tossed his car keys into a ceramic bowl on the counter. “Make yourself at home.”

He tugged at his black tie. I had assumed it was a clip-on because that’s what Tim wore. It wasn’t. Ross had knotted the tie himself. The dogs followed us inside. When Ross commanded them, “Park,” they ambled over to a rag rug and made themselves comfortable.

“Let me show you around,” Ross said. The kitchen opened onto a spacious living room, decorated with dark leather furniture and a rug that might have been made by Native Americans. The central feature was a huge fireplace made of large rocks. There were two interesting armchairs made of cow horns and cowhide. The chandelier was a tangle of antlers. Rough-hewn bookshelves lined the walls. The place smelled enticingly of sage.

Past the kitchen was another hall, wider than the first. It led to a huge bathroom with a copper tub and an attached guest room in tans, browns, and greens. On the walls were illustrations that looked like Audubon prints. Next came what had to be the master bedroom with its tall leather headboard, a brown suede bedspread, and colorful rugs. Off this bedroom was the master bathroom with a huge walk-in shower and a double sink.

The place was stunning.

“I’ll be back.” Ross disappeared and brought us two tumblers. I could see they each held an inch of amber liquid. Passing one to me, he said, “You can sleep wherever you want. Just because you’re here doesn’t mean I have any claim on you. I want to be clear about that. The sheets are clean in the master bedroom and the guest room, too.”

I sipped my drink. I’ve had cheap whiskey. This was different. There were hints of oak, honey, and flowers in this. It burned on the way down.

“After you drink that, I suggest you take a couple of Advil and drink a big glass of water. It’s not a good idea to mix whiskey and champagne. That said, you’ve had a rough night. I figured you could use a stiff drink.” He was a little awkward sounding. Obviously unused to having a woman invade his territory. I couldn’t blame him. The whole evening had been weird.

I nodded. “I hated her, you know?”

“Hated who?”

“Sharma.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

I couldn’t look at him. My shame was too strong. “Oh, but I did. It felt like Sharma took Pru away from me. Before Sharma came on the scene, I was like Pru’s little sister. After, I was a third wheel.”

“Little girl, I can’t believe you’re capable of hating anyone. Especially because you are feeling jealous.” He moved closer and stared down at me. “I can imagine that you were distinctly unhappy about the situation, but that’s not the same as real hatred. You know the difference.”

I nodded. Suddenly, I felt exhausted. “What a long, bizarre evening. I want to climb into something more comfortable. Something I can’t ruin. The undergarment built into this dress keeps poking me in the ribs. Where’d you put my bag?”

“In the guest bedroom. I’ll get you the Advil and a glass of water.”

I walked past him into the guest bedroom and found a box of tissues. I set the rest of my whiskey on a tissue because I was afraid I’d mar the beautiful wood of the dresser. After wiggling out of my pantyhose, I tried to get out of my gown. Because I’m flexible, I could pull the zipper down two inches, but try as I might, from then on, I was stymied. The thought of damaging the gown scared me. Billy had been kind to loan it to me. Returning it with a rip or tear was not an option. How could I get it off? I couldn’t sleep in the gown as it wouldn’t be comfortable. Besides, what if I drooled on it? I planned on having the dress dry cleaned before returning it, and I didn’t want to take any chances on damaging the silk.

With my elbow in the air and my hand between my shoulder blades, I felt for the zipper. As I did, I remembered there were hook-and-eye closures locking me inside the structure. Of course, they were snug. That was why the dress hadn’t fallen down.

“I give up,” I mumbled as I opened the door to the guest bedroom. I spoke to an empty hall. “Ross? Could you help me? Please?”

He’d taken off his cummerbund and his embroidered vest, as well as unbuttoned the top of his shirt. His skin was tan and taut. In two long strides, he stepped into the bedroom. “Okay, little girl. What’s the problem?”

“It’s my dress. I can’t get it undone.” I stood facing the bed, staring at the far wall.

He moved around behind me so he could get a good look at the problem. With a low chuckle, he said, “What have you gotten yourself into?”

“That’s a very good question. Pru and Billy did me up. I have no idea how to get out of this gown, and I don’t want to tear the dress but I’m stuck.”

“Dare I ask who the hell is Billy?” Ross’s fingers brushed the top of the gown where it fastened under my shoulder blades.

“A drag queen and a friend of Pru’s. A performer at Fast Freddy’s. I think he wants to be a dress designer someday.”

“Oh,” Ross said. His cool fingers moved the fabric to one side, exploring the situation. “Sorry I asked. Ah, I see. There’s an outer part with a zipper, and then, what did you call it? A corset?”

“Uh-huh. I’m not sure what the proper term is. I guess all designer gowns have bras built into them. That way you don’t need underwear.” The heat rose in my face as I recognized my embarrassing admission. There on the guest bed, lying in a gossamer black heap, were my pantyhose.

“Okay,” Ross drew out the word. He’d seen the hose, and now Ross knew that I was naked under the dress.

“Let’s see what I can do.” Ross’s breath tickled my neck. Each exhalation lightly brushed the surface of my skin. His fingers were gentle as he tried to figure out the hook-and-eye closures. The scent of him was intoxicating. I closed my eyes and inhaled his cologne, and another layer of fragrance, something intrinsically masculine. That summed up Ross, 100% male.

“This zipper needs to come all the way down,” he murmured. After a little pressure against my spine, there was the sound of plastic teeth separating.

“Now comes the hard part.” Ross fumbled around but eventually he managed to unhook the first two sets of closures securing the material around my bust. As the fabric loosened, my hands instinctively flew to the front of my dress. My grip held the material up, like a shield protecting my bare breasts. A cool breeze told me my back was exposed.

Ross drew in a ragged breath. Here we were, a few feet from a bed, and alone.

“Two down,” he said, “and four more to go.” But instead of unhooking more, he simply stood there. His fingertips rested lightly on my shoulders. Time ground to a halt. Neither of us moved. Then his hands glided over my skin, drawing a line from the outside of my upper arms, across my trapezius, and running up my neck until he stopped at a spot right below my earlobes. He slowly took his fingers away. Every nerve ending came alive.

Ross’s breath swirled over my skin.

“I will not do anything you don’t want, little girl. Not now. Not ever,” he whispered in my ear.

Time stood still. I was making a decision, whether I realized it or not.

The birth control pill was supposed to free us, to let us women enjoy sex. Instead, it had obligated us. No longer did we have a reason to say no. If we did, we were teases. Or frigid. Or lesbians.

Every man we dated thought an expenditure of money or time or attention should be repaid with easy sex.

As a consequence, my body had been lunged at, grabbed, rammed, and used. My previous lovers knew nothing of female anatomy. How often had I found myself staring at the ceiling and waiting for the fumbling to end? I had had sex because that’s what was expected of me, not because I yearned for it.

Had I ever felt this sense of expectation? This slow buildup of warmth? This hunger?

I almost laughed out loud, as I realized that this man had only touched my shoulders and my neck. Yet, I was totally turned on. My knees were weak. My mouth was dry. My body quivered with anticipation.

Ross went back to work, fumbling with the next set of closures. The cool air told me that even more of my back was exposed.

With another deft motion of his hands, the top of my buttocks felt bare, and I cast another glance at the discarded pantyhose.

I swallowed. My heart beat wildly. Ross ran his knuckles along my spine, brushing the exposed skin from the nape of my neck down. I tipped my head back and groaned, savoring the tingle and clasping the front of the dress as if it were all that stood between me and…

Oblivion? Letting go? Giving in?

Now his other hand traced the same path to the left of my spine. He rested both hands on my waist. Slowly, he slipped his fingers inside the gap, that space between the fabric and my skin. But he did not touch me. His palms simply hovered, giving off warmth, promising, teasing, waiting.

“Tell me what you want, little girl.” His voice was husky and thick with desire. “Do you want me to touch you?”

From a place deep inside came my whisper, “Yes.”

His hands closed in on my waist, pressing against my skin. I warned him, “I’m not perfect like Pru. I’m not—”

“You are,” he said. His lips brushed the top of my ear. “Good Lord, sweetheart. Don’t you know how perfect you are?” He spread his fingers, caressing the flesh of my waist.

My mind was filled with disclaimers.

“Perfect?” I snorted as I gripped the front of the gown harder.

Ross fairly radiated with anger. In one swift movement, he pulled me close and flattened me against him. His shirt was so crisp I thought it might cut my bare skin. Through the thin wool of his pants, I felt him. He was insistent, pressing against me. First, he nibbled my earlobe, and then his tongue traced a line to my throat and beyond. When he reached the jut of my shoulder, he unexpectedly nipped me. The pain was thrilling.

In a growl, he said, “What happened to you? What jerk in your past did this to you? Who gave you the stupid idea that you aren’t perfect?”

His arms snaked inside my dress, holding me tightly to him, as he rocked me gently. I could feel every inch of him, hard and strong and ready. He rubbed his face against my throat, his stubble prickling and burning my skin with pleasure. Then he whispered, “Little girl, little girl, let me show you how wrong they were.”

I let go of my dress.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ross was staring at me when I woke up. He was sitting in a chair he’d pulled next to the bed. He had on jeans but no shirt. God, but he was sexy. One leg was thrown over the arm of the chair, and the other rested on the floor. There wasn’t a bit of fat on the man. Muscles rippled down his arms, up his tight abs, and then bulged into perfect pecs. He was beautiful. A warmth spread inside me, only to be rebuked by a twinge of soreness. My response to him, to his sheer physicality, overwhelmed me. In fact, it scared me. I’d never felt anything like it.

My instinct was to turn away. To hide. I rolled over and faced the opposite wall, trying to tamp down my emotions. Last night had opened a Pandora’s Box, as I’d discovered a part of me that I hadn’t known existed. Could I go back to the woman I’d been yesterday morning? Someone who could take or leave sex? Someone who endured rather than enjoyed?

Doubtful.

This could be a very big problem. What if, knowing me the way he did, Ross rejected me? A lump in my throat made it hard to swallow.

I was terrified.

What would happen next?

As if reading my mind, Ross climbed onto the bed, digging one knee into the mattress. I felt the surface slope under his weight. He scooped me up and lifted me out. I shrieked with laughter and surprise. As I fought to cover myself with the sheets and blanket, he cuddled me like I was a child in need of comforting. The bedclothes trailed along the floor as he settled me onto his lap.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he said, tucking sheets around me to keep me warm. He stroked my hair and kissed the top of my head. “I bet you are a cream and sugar in your coffee type of girl. Am I right?”

“Yes.” I leaned against his chest, ignoring the tickling of his fine hairs and listening to the soft lub-lub of his heart.

“How about you throw on your clothes, and I’ll take you out to breakfast. I know a place that makes terrific blueberry pancakes. How does that sound?”

“Mmmm.” It sounded both good and bad. I didn’t want the day to begin, because that would mean the night was over. What if this was a dream? A one-off?

Ross nuzzled my neck. “As much as I’d like to keep you here, it’s important that you don’t give your boss a reason to complain. We should get you to work on time, don’t you think?”

“Uh-huh.” Right this moment, I didn’t care about Yakky. All I cared about was this wonderful feeling, this sense of perfection. Of being in the right place with the right man at the right time.

Cupping my chin, Ross forced me to look at him. “Don’t you worry, sweetheart. This isn’t over; it’s just begun. Now, come on. Up and at ‘em. You’ve got a big day ahead.”

In the bathroom, I examined myself for hickeys. I found one, but my bra would cover it. From my overnight bag, I got my clothes and set them out, along with my hygiene articles and makeup. Then I gathered up the pantyhose, chiffon stole, high heels, and evening bag and stuffed them into my sack. That got me thinking about Pru.

Pru.

Pru’s gun. That’s what they’d found in the bushes.

Or was it?

And Sharma. Was she alive? Dead? Hanging on?

My head swirled with questions. How could Pru’s gun have gotten outside in the bushes? Did Pru carry it from the apartment and then toss it? That didn’t make sense. First of all, Pru couldn’t have—wouldn’t have—shot Sharma! She had no motive to hurt her friend. And, if Pru had fired at Sharma, wouldn’t Pru shoot the gun from inside her apartment? What sort of fool would toss a loaded weapon out of her window? Why not hide the gun somewhere in 512 Green Street?

None of what happened made sense.

Out of loyalty to Pru, I wouldn’t identify the gun. Scratch that. The truth was, I couldn’t identify the gun. What the heck did I know about guns? Nada. Nothing. Less than zilch. Sure, the weapon the cop found looked like the one that Pru had carried in her purse, but maybe it wasn’t. How would I know?

I would keep my mouth shut. If the gun was Pru’s, Kevin would figure it out. I didn’t need to poke my nose into a police investigation. More importantly, I didn’t need to point an accusatory finger at my friend. No way.

I took a quick shower. A quick coat of mascara helped to open up my eyes, as I’d gotten very little sleep. A slick of gloss on my lips helped me look more human. Walking into the guest bedroom, I found that Ross had left a plastic dry cleaner’s bag on the bed for my evening gown.

From outside came the sound of dogs barking. After gathering all of my things, I followed the noise and found Ross standing beside the barn. He’d added a plaid shirt to his jeans, and of course, he wore his brown cowboy boots. I watched him toss a yellow tennis ball for the Rottweilers to catch. They were having a great time playing, but my arrival distracted the animals. Both dogs came over to sniff me. I set my bag on the ground, hoisted the dress over one arm, and dispensed copious ear rubs until Ross called the dogs into the house.

This time, the Corvette stayed in the garage, and we took his truck. I didn’t ask where we were going. I wasn’t surprised, when we pulled into the Dixie Dee Truck Stop. I’d been there before with Ross. Last night, I’d lost all sense of direction as Ross had driven from 512 Green Street to here. But in the soft spring sunlight, I realized that the route from TSC, to Ross’s house, and then to the Dixie Dee traced the sides of a huge triangle. Each leg of the journey was roughly equidistant. No wonder Ross frequented the truck stop. It was convenient as well as a spot for good food.

He directed me to a table for two. After helping me with my chair, he reached over and took my hand. “How about if you let me order?” he asked.

“Sure.”

The place was busy. A constant stream of patrons, mostly men, walked past us. One or two waved hello without stopping, but they did grin at Ross. I did a lot of blushing.

A busboy filled our glasses with water. He stared at Ross. “Selma will be with you shortly to take your order. Do you want me to find Dolly? I know she usually waits on you.”

“She’s here?” Ross raised an eyebrow.

“Uh-huh. She traded shifts with someone,” said the busboy, looking pleased with himself. “I know she likes to take care of you.”

“Thanks, but we’ll be happy with Selma,” said Ross. When the young man walked away, Ross swore under his breath. “If I’d known Dolly was working, I’d have taken you someplace else. That woman is like a tick under my collar.”

I’d been here before with Ross, and Dolly had wasted no time letting me know that she considered him her personal property. I couldn’t help myself. I asked, “You two have a history?”

“Hell, no. She once had trouble starting her car, and I gave her a lift. That seemed to seal the deal in her mind. She’s a single mom, divorced with two kids.”

“You aren’t interested in kids?” This was my chance to learn more about Ross.

“Not with Dolly, I’m not. I respect the fact she’s trying to support herself. From what I’ve heard, her ex is a bum. She’s just not…” He shook his head and gave my fingers a squeeze. “My mother has always teased me about being picky. And I am. That’s the long and short of it.”

An older woman appeared at his elbow. “Hiya, Ross. Hello, Miss, what’re you having?”

Her name badge said: Selma. All of the Dixie Dee servers were women, and they all wore blue-and-white striped uniforms, topped with pristine white aprons that tied at the waist. Most were knee-length but a couple were really short. Selma wore hers knee-length. Her salt-and-pepper hair was pulled into a severe bun, a style I appreciated in a server because I gag when I find hair in my food.

“Morning, Selma. I’m ordering for both of us,” said Ross. “We’ll have blueberry pancakes, bacon, and side dishes of fruit. To drink, coffee.”

“Got it,” said Selma, with a wink. “I’ll be back.”

“How about you?” asked Ross, turning his blue eyes on me. “Do you want kids?”

“I didn’t with Tim. I realized early on that he was terrible with money, and I couldn’t imagine a lifetime of worrying over every single bill. When I have a child, I want to enjoy him or her. With Tim, I would have been alone with my responsibilities, trying to provide for us. I guess Dolly and I are alike that way.”

“Was that only it? The money?” Ross raised an eyebrow.

“The money was a symptom of a bigger disconnect. Tim was totally self-consumed. He never considered how his actions impacted me. Whether it was spending money or moving to Decatur, he thought that he was entitled. I came along for the ride. In his mind, at least.”

“Why did you marry him?”

“A lot of reasons. Back in college, he was considered quite the catch. My mother absolutely adored—adores—him. I was stupid enough to think that his interest in me meant I was cool, too. It didn’t occur to me that I was aiding and abetting a narcissist. My family situation was horrible, and I wanted a way out. Tim and I were both journalism majors. I liked helping him come up with ideas for his broadcast segments, and I thought we were a team.” Tears threatened. I sniffled, sipped my water, and tried to smile. “Thought being the operative word. We were never a team. Tim is a solo sport.”

“What was the breaking point? The point when you two decided to split?” Ross asked. His fingers intertwined with mine, and his eyes held mine, too.

I opened my mouth to respond, but I never got to answer. One minute I was staring into Ross’s eyes, and the next, something wet and warm ran down my back. Without thinking, I jerked my hand free and jumped to my feet. My chair fell over with a loud crash. Purple liquid ran down my arms and dripped onto the floor. A mushy, dark-blue stain traveled the length of my cream-colored sleeves and rolled off my fingers. The table was speckled with tiny blue balls and small splotches of deep, bluish-purple liquid.

“Sweet Lord!” A woman shrieked behind me. The voice sounded like Selma. I turned and caught the look of horror on her face.

Ross jumped to his feet and moved away from the mess, while asking, “Cragan? You okay?”

I stood there, frozen in shock. I couldn’t figure out what had happened! The warm splotch on the back of my neck was cooling. The liquid was still spreading. Like a fuzzy caterpillar, it inched its way down my spine, my arms, and dribbled off my hands.

Selma raced over. Her face was contorted with concern. “Oh, no,” she wailed as she dabbed my back with a towel. Her movements were forceful, causing me to stagger slightly until I braced myself.

“W-w-what happened?” I stared at the purple splashes. Tentatively, I reached for one of the balls on the table. It squished. There were blueberries all over. In fact, I was leaking blueberries. That was a new one!

Selma was nearly in tears. “A bowl of blueberries landed on your back.”

“Really?” I frowned and tried to figure out how that might happen. Someone must have tripped.

A man in a shirt and jacket hurried over. With one hand, he set my chair back on its feet. Below his breast pocket was a name tag: Paul. He handed me a towel and mopped up the mess on the table. Quickly, he moved to the macerated berries dripping off of my vacated chair. “Are you okay, Miss?” he asked as he swept the squishy berries into a towel. The shape of the fruit was lopsided. In a moment of clarity, I realized I hadn’t been pelted with fresh blueberries but with berries that had been frozen, defrosted, and possibly pureed as a sauce for pancakes.

This whole situation was too outlandish for words!

“Come here, honey,” said Ross, pulling me closer so I wasn’t standing in the mess. As I moved toward him, I could feel the wet area on my back soaking into my waistband. Someone tossed a terrycloth towel to Ross, and he blotted my moist shoulders and back. “This is ruined,” Ross said, as he studied my blouse. “Paul? Do you have any of those Dixie Dee tee shirts? If you do, Cragan could change out of this wet top.”

“You bet,” said Paul. As he headed toward the back of the restaurant, I heard him say, “Selma? Where’s Dolly? Tell her she’s fired.”

My mind was fertile with possibilities. Dolly was responsible? And she’d done what? Dumped blueberries down my back? Wow.

There was no way my top could be saved. It wasn’t expensive, and I’d kept it in the overnight bag because it wasn’t a favorite. As for my arms and fingers, the purple stain would be hard to scrub off. Since my pants were black, no one could see the bluish-purple liquid that seeped into my waistband.

Ross kept pressing the towel against my back and shoulders. He said, “I think I’ve got you as dry as possible.”

Selma set two plates of pancakes with bacon on our newly cleaned table. The dishes of fruit followed. A slice of orange decorated the meal. Someone had poured two coffees. The smell was divine.

I smiled at him. “No harm, no foul. If we eat fast, I can still get to work on time, right?”

There was the slightest narrowing of his eyes as he gave me a speculative look. “You sure?”

“Positive. The pancakes and bacon smell fantastic.”

My wet chair had been replaced with a clean and dry one. I took my seat. Selma came over and lightly touched my hand. “I am so, so sorry,” she said in little more than a whisper. “Paul’s bringing you a clean tee shirt.”

“No big deal,” I said through my first mouthful of pancakes. They were light and crispy. Heavenly!

Selma patted the table. “Hon, you want anything else, you holler. Paul says this is on the house.”

I nodded and swallowed a big gulp of coffee. All the activity last night was making me ravenous, and my pancakes tasted incredible.

“Sure I can’t get you anything?” Selma was hovering over me.

“More bacon?” I asked.

“You betcha.”

Ross’s eyes twinkled as he watched me eat. “I guess you were hungry,” he said, before he took another bite of his own pancakes. He was nibbling on a strip of bacon when his expression changed. I turned to see Dolly approaching the table. With the heel of her hand, she wiped away tears. Her thickly applied mascara had run down her face like twin tire tracks. She’d chewed off her pink lipstick. When she got within four feet of me, she sniffed loudly and said, “Sorry. It was an accident.”

No, it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. If Dolly had spilled the berries, why wasn’t she decorated in purple, too?

I said, “Not a problem. Please don’t worry about it.”

She scurried away as Paul the Manager hurried over with a folded tee shirt in hand. “Did Dolly apologize? We’ll reimburse you the cost of your clothes or the dry cleaning, of course. Breakfast is on us. Whatever you want. I hope this fits.”

I took the tee shirt from him. It was a men’s size small, which should work fine. The jersey fabric was bright red with white lettering that proclaimed, “Dixie Dee’s.” In smaller letters: “Shift happens!”

“Thank you,” I said to Paul. “I appreciate having this to wear. But I don’t want you to buy me a new blouse. This one was old and ready for the trash. You can do something for me, though.”

“Anything.” Paul’s hands were clasped in a parody of the prayer position. “As you probably know, Ross is a valued customer. How can we make this right?”

“You can make this right,” I said, “by not firing Dolly.”

Paul’s brow wrinkled. “Excuse me?”

“Please don’t fire Dolly.” I set my fork down and stared at the man. “This was not a big deal, no one died, and she’s been fussed at already. There’s no need to fire her. I’m sure she’s good at her job. I worked as a waitress for one night. One night! That’s all I lasted. If you truly want to make this right, I’m asking that you don’t fire her.”

Under his lashes, Paul sneaked a look at Ross. Then back to me, then back to Ross. I kept my mouth shut. Ross sighed audibly and shifted his cowboy boots under the table. Finally, Ross said, “Paul? You heard the lady.”

“Promise?” I stared at Ross. “Both of you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Paul.

“Hell, yes,” said Ross.

I went to the ladies’ restroom and changed into the Dixie Dee tee shirt. As a matter of fact, my new top was all sorts of cute. Wadding up my blue-streaked blouse, I tossed it into the trash. The woman in the mirror had a couple spots of purple on her and her arms were definitely a strange color, but frankly, I found it sort of hilarious. That song about a purple people eater popped into my head.

Maybe I qualified.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Ross had been quiet as we pulled away from Dixie Dee. I glanced over to see him looking pensive. I wondered exactly what he was thinking. My mind flickered between Dolly and Sharma. Two women, nearly the same age, and two professions that took a lot of grief. Was Sharma still alive? Who had shot her? As soon as I got to the newspaper, I would phone the hospital and Pru.

Even as the minutes ticked by, Ross stared straight ahead. His brow was furrowed in concentration. Since the sun was coming up behind us, that squint on had nothing to do with blocking the glare. What was he thinking? And why was he so quiet?

Finally, I asked, “Dolly sure is possessive. Did you know how she felt about you?”

I’d broken his state of absorption.

“What?” he asked, as if snapping out of it. “Dolly, what?”

I repeated my question.

He pursed his lips and blew out a sigh. “She’s been my personal stalker for a year and a half now. I figured that after ignoring her for this long, she would get the message.”

I snickered. “Apparently not. Either that or she received a totally different message from the one you’d intended.”

“And what would that be?” He smirked at me.

“I can only guess that she thought she should hunker down and fight for your attention.” We were loosely holding hands. I withdrew mine and made a boxer’s fist. “A right and a left and a bowl of blueberries to the back of the neck!”

His laugh was light. “That’s how you think the commentary should go?”

I dropped my hands to take his. “Hey, don’t knock it. So, Howard Cosell has nothing to worry about! Big deal. You got the picture, right?”

“I did, indeed.” He threw the truck into park as we stopped at one of Decatur’s ubiquitous railroads. Turning to me, he raised an eyebrow. “Here’s what I don’t understand: Why didn’t you let them fire Dolly? She certainly deserved it. She’d been skating on thin ice since the first time she saw us together. You’re bound to be embarrassed all day long by the color of your skin.”

I stared down at my hands. Yes, I would be purple all day and maybe even tomorrow, too. I wasn’t sure how I’d get the color out. Pour bleach on myself? But was that really a firing offense?

I stared at him. “You know exactly why I didn’t want her fired.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. I’m interested in hearing what you have to say.”

“Okay. She’s a single mom. She has kids. She was overcome by jealousy, and what she did was really, really dumb. It was not without compensations. I got a new tee shirt out of the deal. You didn’t have to pay for breakfast. Everyone who saw the incident now thinks she’s an idiot. I’m not hurt.”

“That’s how you see it? That’s why Paul shouldn’t fire her?” he asked.

“Except for how she treats me, she is a good waitress. If she met me under other circumstances, we might even be friends. Maybe.” I looked away, watching the line of train cars. Where did they all come from? Almost absent-mindedly, I said, “I know how it feels to be jealous. We’re all just doing our best. Mostly, it’s enough. Sometimes, it isn’t.”

He shook his head. “Doubtful you two would be friends.”

Ding-ding-ding. Three cars ahead, the crossing gate lifted its zebra-striped arms. Ross shifted his truck into drive. Tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes suggested he was thinking hard. The question was, About what?

“You aren’t mad at me, are you?” I blurted out. “Angry because I stopped Paul, or whatever his name is, from firing her? I know she’s been a pest.”

“I am not mad at you” was all he said.

* * *

When we got to 512 Green Street, Ross opened the truck door for me and lifted me to the pavement. Yellow “Do Not Cross” tape marked off a hunk of the side yard. I fished my car keys out of my purse as it hung from my shoulder and unlocked my passenger side door. Ross set inside my briefcase, overnight bag, and the dry-cleaning bag with the gown in it. He stared down at me. “You need anything, you call me, okay?”

“Yup.” A wave of shyness swept over me.

He pulled me close and wrapped his arms around me. For a minute, we stood like that. With a quick kiss to the top of my head, he took a step back and gave me a once over. “I’ve never kissed a purple girl before. Yet another new experience, thanks to you.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” I said. “I hope that this will come off with a good scrubbing, when I get back into my apartment. I don’t need any more new experiences.”

At that, he swept me into his arms again and kissed me full on the mouth. In a low voice, he said, “I hope you’ve found your recent new experiences…satisfying, miss.”

“I have indeed.”

* * *

“Did you hear about Sharma?” Winnie said when I got to The Gazette. She must have heard my approach but she didn’t look up from the paperwork on her desk.

“Actually, I was there last night shortly after it happened. Ross and I arrived at 512 Green Street to find it swarming with cops and medics,” I said.

Winnie finished what she was writing and looked at me closely. Her eyes nearly rolled out of their sockets.

“Your arms! Your hands! They’re purple.”

“Yep.”

“Did you dump a Mr. Misty Float all over yourself?”

“Nope. I was the dumped on, not the dumper.”

Winnie couldn’t take her eyes off of me. She gawked. Uncharacteristically, she was at a loss for words. That got me thinking. Despite Yakky’s threatening behavior, maybe I shouldn’t have come to work. Maybe the whole day would be a giant waste of time and effort. Instead, I could have…what? Called in sick? And then what? Maybe I could go to Golden Gate, the retirement home where my grandmother lived? Use my secret set of keys and let myself into Zee’s apartment or Rosie’s? Ask Ross to take me back to his house?

That last idea had possibilities. The sad truth was, I had nowhere else to go but here.

While Winnie continued to puzzle over my odd coloration, I asked, “Given your vast resources, have you had any update on Sharma’s condition? The last I heard, they weren’t sure if she’d make it.”

“After I heard about the shooting on the police scanner, I called Argy-Bargy Simpson, my friend who works in the hospital. Argy-Bargy is one heck of a third base player. She’s the best I’ve ever seen.”

“And Sharma?” I prompted. This was not the time to hear the merits of a softball player.

“They think she’ll be okay. She has a broken collarbone, a sprained ankle, and a concussion. But that’s not the big news. Buckle your seatbelt: The bullet grazed her left cheek, and there’s a distinct possibility she’ll have a huge scar on her face. I’m thinking her career as a dancer might be over.”

“Oh, no. Poor Sharma!” I felt a little sick. This was terrible news.

“Were you there when they loaded her into the ambulance?” Winnie asked. “How’d she look?”

“All I saw was a form covered by a sheet,” I explained. “Sharma will live, right?”

“You know the answer. They think she’ll live. There are no guarantees. Tell me about the Chamber of Commerce Gala? Was it fun?”

“I had a really good time,” I said.

Winnie pressed me. “Spill the beans, Cragan. How was the party? Did you bump into Ryder and Elizabeth?”

“I sure did. I even ran into my ex-husband. Suffice it to say, Ross does not suffer fools. When Elizabeth tried to make fun of me, he cut her to the quick. And Ross made Tim look like the idiot he is. We sat with George Reynolds and his wife, Jill. Jill Reynolds is a very nice lady. Total class act. I also met the charming Mrs. Yakky. She was like a floating cupcake in beaded apricot chiffon. Not that Yakky noticed. Speaking of Yakky, he was a loudmouth jerk to me, and he embarrassed himself in front of the Reynolds.”

“Let me guess. Elizabeth wore a low-cut dress that threatened to let loose her bountiful assets,” said Winnie with a crooked grin.

“Bingo! Ross took one look at her and quipped that a brothel somewhere must have been missing a whore.” I snorted a laugh.

“Good thing that you were dressed to the nines.”

“So true.” I paused. “How did you know?”

“I assume you haven’t seen today’s paper?”

I frowned. “What the heck do you mean?”

Winnie plucked a copy of today’s paper off of the chair next to her desk. She folded back the sections and held it up for me to see. There, on the front page of the society section, was a quarter-page color photo from the Chamber of Commerce Gala. The woman in the portrait wore a long black dress as she stared into the eyes of a man in a tux. Too bad the picture was cropped at the man’s knees and his cowboy boots didn’t show. The angle had been incredibly flattering to me. Porter had turned me into a real glamour puss. Or at least, a woman masquerading as such. He must have taken the photo when I wasn’t paying attention.

“Gee willikers. Ross Gentry is staring at you like you’re dessert,” mumbled Winnie.

She didn’t know how right she was, and I blushed as I considered the truth of her remark. The tagline identified both me and Ross by name. I’d have to thank Porter for taking it. I’d intended to ask him for a copy of the staged picture with Yakky, but Granny would like this one a lot better. I’d also ask for a print for Billy. He would be thrilled to see his dress spotlighted so beautifully.

“Must have been some night,” said Winnie. “Okay. Enough of the fairytales. Who do you think shot Sharma?”

It all came tumbling out. I told Winnie about seeing the cop as he found a gun, a small one that looked a lot like the firearm that Pru carried in her purse. “But I know so little about guns, and it was dark—”

“And Pru’s our friend,” finished Winnie. “Besides she doesn’t have a motive.”

“Right.” I nodded with satisfaction.

Winnie wrinkled her nose as if she smelled a bad odor. “There’s just one problem.”

“Oh?”

“Pru does have a motive for shooting Sharma. In fact, she had—has—two motives for wanting to see Sharma dead.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “What on earth are you talking about?”

CHAPTER TWENTY

I was eager to hear about Pru’s motives, but Winnie clammed up when Fred Jenkins ambled in with Cindy Snodgrass close behind. Winnie shot me a sidewise glance and whispered, “Not here. Meet you in the ladies’ restroom. Give me five minutes.”

“Great photo, Cragan,” said Cindy as I passed her desk.

I thanked her and hurried to the restroom. Anger welled inside of me. Pru had a motive to hurt Sharma? That stunned me. I thought I knew Pru. Once upon a time I was on the inside of Pru’s life. When did that change? How’d I miss this crucial information? Should I have identified the gun last night? Had I let a shooter roam free? Was I all wrong about Pru? I’d been off-base with other people in my life, people I considered friends. Like mall employee who had lied to me.

Was my judgment so poor that I had been bamboozled by the woman I considered my surrogate older sister? My best friend? Was Pru really a suspect in an attempted murder?

I paced the bathroom floor. As Granny would say, I was fit to be tied. Winnie’s concept of five minutes was a lot longer than mine. Rather than waste time, I scrubbed my arms and hands, trying to rub away the blueberry stain. I soon learned that attacking my skin with gusto was a stupid idea. The soap in The Gazette’s restroom would peel the bark off a tree. Instead of a purple stain, I could see a big wheal where I’d scoured my skin. Mixed with the fading blue stain, my forearms were now a deep shade of purple. In fact, I looked like that purple crayon that Harold owned, the one he used to create a whole world inside children’s books. With a growl of frustration, I stamped my foot.

Winnie threw open the door.

“Tell me,” I practically barked at Winnie. “What do you know about Pru and Sharma that I don’t?”

“Slow down,” she said, moving closer to take stock of my abraded skin. “Gee whiz. You’ve done a number on yourself. Too bad you aren’t using Shaklee’s cleanser, Basic H. It wouldn’t make you break out in hives.”

As if on cue, my skin began to itch. I scratched it furiously.

“Cragan, do you need a Benadryl?” Winnie frowned at my raised patch of skin.

“Do you have one?”

“Right here.” Digging around in her jacket, she produced a small pink pill. Without a second glance, I popped it into my mouth. Cramming my head under the spigot, I gulped water and swallowed the antihistamine. Only then did I wonder why Winnie was carrying the medicine around. But I didn’t get the chance to ask.

“Now that you’re properly medicated, can we talk? What’s making you such a nutcase?” Winnie leaned against a porcelain sink and studied me.

“How could I not know there’s bad blood between Pru and Sharma? I’ve spent more time with the two of them than you have! What sort of friend am I? I feel like I’m the last to know anything, everything, and…and…”

Winnie put a hand on my shoulder. “Whoa, Nelly. Let’s slow this horse down to a trot, shall we? I know what I know because I have a friend who works behind the bar at Fast Freddy’s. Her name is Ginger Filbert.”

“Let me guess. She’s on your softball team.”

“You’ve got it. Ginger keeps an ear to the ground. She wasn’t working last Saturday when we went to celebrate Sharma’s birthday, but I did catch up with her on Sunday at church. Ginger tells me that Sharma and Pru had a dust-up over a guy many years ago. I think it was when Sharma and Hec were having trouble. The guy dumped Pru for Sharma. It didn’t last, but at the time, Pru was heartbroken. So, there’s that. But there’s more.”

I held my breath. This was classic Winnie. She always buried the lede. When she told a story, she saved the most important bits for last. Her habit left me wanting to strangle her. But if I did, I wouldn’t hear all the juicy gossip she had collected. Instead, I’d learned to be patient.

Winnie continued, “Sharma’s appearance this weekend doubled Fast Freddy’s business. Yes, they ran that ad, and it probably helped. Yes, Sharma’s a hometown girl, she went to Decatur High, and now she’s the reigning Miss Nude Illinois. So there’s that. But some people are saying the upturn in business represents more than a one-off. Maybe the public is tired of Pru. She’s been the headliner for five years. It’s possible she’s run her course. Could be it’s time for Pru to step aside. If she does, then Sharma could come back. Pru could retire, and Sharma could stage a triumphant return to Decatur, see?”

Poor Pru. In Latin class, I’d memorized a saying: “Vivere gladio est perire gladio.” In other words, to live by the sword is to die by the sword. If you made your livelihood by flaunting a trim body and pretty face, another girl would always be a threat to you.

Winnie lifted a shoulder and let it fall in a gesture of resignation. “Of course, that doesn’t matter now. Sharma will have a scar on her face. Recovering from a broken collarbone takes time.”

“But everything that happened last night makes Pru look suspicious,” I finished for Winnie. “Tell me this. How could Pru have shot her friend from inside the apartment?”

“We only have Pru’s word for it that she was inside the apartment. Right now, we can’t corroborate Sharma’s testimony, because Sharma is high on painkillers. Pru could have run downstairs, hidden herself, and taken a shot.”

“Did the shot come from the ground or the tree?” I asked.

“Beats me. It might take them a while to figure that out.”

“About this retirement gossip. Sharma and Pru are nearly the same age,” I said.

“That’s right,” said Winnie. “But shiny and new is always cooler than old and dull. Is that a Dixie Dee Truck Stop tee shirt you’re wearing?”

“Is it, indeed. You get one of these free, after you take a bath in blueberries. Got any hand lotion?”

“You know I do. Back at my desk.”

I followed Winnie to the ad department. As we walked, I came to a decision. It was time to get serious about this. I was tired of us mucking around, dealing with Sharma-drama, only after incidents occurred. We needed to be proactive. Winnie and I took our seats. She opened her bottom drawer and found the hand lotion.

I rubbed it on my fingers and said, “Winnie, you know as well as I do that Pru would never hurt Sharma. That’s not who Pru is.”

Winnie chuckled. “I also know that if Pru had seriously wanted to get rid of Sharma, she wouldn’t have failed. Pru is nothing if not wickedly smart. That’s why I’m not really worried about Pru. She couldn’t have done it.”

Our desk phone rang. Winnie picked it up. After an upbeat greeting, her face went from puzzled to serious.

“Lawyer?” she said.

I held my breath. What on earth was happening?

“Yes, Ziggy Eichen is as good as they get.” Winnie nodded. “Charges?”

It was only one word, but it represented a huge problem. My mouth went dry, and the blood pounded in my head.

“Attempted murder, assault with a deadly weapon, possibly murder,” repeated Winnie. “Uh-huh. That’s only if Sharma gets worse. Got it. Thanks, heaps.”

She put down the receiver. Neither of us spoke. I’d heard enough to know that Pru was being charged with the attempted murder of her friend, Sharma. Despite my staying quiet, someone had traced the errant gun to our friend.

My head buzzed with a million questions. Winnie and I stared at the now silent phone. We were considering what to do next.

“Is Pru in jail?” I asked. My voice lacked any sort of spunk, reflecting how defeated I felt.

“Eichen is applying for bail.”

“Is he good?”

“The best. Especially with murder cases, and that’s what they think this might become. I guess Sharma has taken a turn for the worse. Most importantly, Eichen will get Pru out on bail. Pru’s no shrinking violet, but she doesn’t need to be in the general population with druggies and goodness knows who all else.”

Al Jamrose, one of the other salespeople in our department, wandered in and took his seat. His body language made it was clear he was eavesdropping. Instead of opening a desk drawer or flipping through a fresh newspaper, he sat very still, hoping to catch our conversation. Winnie and I exchanged looks. Things were getting ugly.

“There’s only one way to get to the bottom of this,” whispered Winnie.

I concurred. “We need to call a special meeting of the Friday Night Mystery Club.”

* * *

Winnie promised to find out when the police would be finished with my apartment. Her mother, Gretchen, played pinocle with someone who worked with the crime scene investigators.

That was the beauty of Winnie. Either she or her mother had tendrils invading every stratum of the Decatur community. They reminded me of ivy—an invasive plant supported by a vast network of roots dug in deeply—climbing a brick wall. Given my weird coloring, Winnie offered to swing by and pick up my ads for me. But she couldn’t take off until she finished her own paperwork. We agreed that as soon as the coast was clear, I would call Zee and Rosie to set up a meeting. In the meantime, Winnie and I hunkered down at our desks.

Elizabeth Varney wandered in. A glance at the institutional clock told me that she was nearly an hour late. Not that I’d say anything. I had too much on my mind regarding Pru’s problems, but it still rankled. Yakky had admonished me not to be late. He still wasn’t here, and now Elizabeth was tardy. Proof positive I was being picked on. As Elizabeth slung her purse over the back of her chair, she took the time to study me. Her intense scrutiny confirmed that she was mesmerized by my purpleness.

Although it took her a moment to process what she was seeing, Elizabeth suddenly whooped with laughter. “Hey, everyone! Look at Cragan! I’ve heard of people being green with envy, but purple? That’s a new one on me.”

Fred Jenkins had also arrived late. Upon hearing Elizabeth’s assessment of my stained skin, Fred crept closer to me, pantomiming the act of stalking a wild lion. That encouraged everyone to have a good laugh.

“There was a little accident at breakfast this morning. I can’t get into my apartment to scrub this off,” I said by way of explanation.

Yakky walked up behind me, probably because he was sneaking in late.

“Cragan? What is the meaning of this? Why did you insist that Porter photograph you?” Yakky tossed a copy of today’s paper onto my desk. “It is highly inappropriate for you to promote yourself this way.”

That’s when he noticed my swollen purple forearms and my tee shirt. His nasty little eyes hardened. “We have a strict dress code, Cragan, and you are breaking it. Furthermore, you are…you are…colored.”

“Sounds like a racial discrimination suit in the making to me.” Winnie raised her eyebrows at Yakky. “About that dress code? Where exactly is a copy of this mysterious policy. I’ve never seen it. Have you, Cragan?”

“Nope.”

Winnie got to her feet and addressed the rest of the department. “Anyone seen a departmental dress code? Anybody heard of such a thing? Hmm?”

By now, the whole ad staff had arrived. In answer to Winnie’s questions, they shook their heads. In her role as secretary, Cindy stepped to the foreground of the crowd. “Yakov, I’ve never seen a dress code. Could you tell me where to look for it? I’d be happy to share it with everyone.”

In response, Yakky huffed and literally stamped his foot.

Ryder must have heard the ruckus. He joined us, read the front of my tee shirt, and raised an eyebrow. “Dixie Dee? Are they one of our advertisers? What on earth?”

“What on earth?” was fast becoming my middle name.

Lifting my chin defiantly, I answered, “Not yet. They are not an advertiser, but I’m working on them. As for the tee shirt, this was the best I could do in a pinch. Ross took me to breakfast at the truck stop. A waitress spilled blueberry sauce on me, accidentally on purpose. But I don’t want her to get fired. I removed my blouse, and the manager offered me this tee. I couldn’t go home and scrub off the dye because my apartment is a crime scene. That’s because Pru did not shoot Sharma, even though they found her gun. When I scrubbed my skin in our ladies’ restroom, I had an allergic reaction to the soap. It raised wheals. Not car wheels, but allergic wheals. And I had no idea Porter Whaley was taking my photo last night. None of this is my fault.”

After the words were out of my mouth, the absurdity of the narrative hit me. Belatedly, I remembered why I never take Benadryl. It makes me stupid.

Ryder’s face creased with concern. He reached up and adjusted his tie, so it wasn’t as tight. “I don’t even know where to start. Someone was shot? Your apartment is a crime scene? Did this happen before or after you ate breakfast at a truck stop? With Ross? Why were you with him? Never mind. But you took off your blouse? In the truck stop?”

I crossed my arms over my chest and jutted out my jaw. Everyone was staring, so I concluded, “That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.”

“In a parallel universe far away, this makes sense,” muttered Winnie. “Honestly, it does. Somewhere out there, but not here. Hey, I’m going to go pick up ads. See you all later.”

* * *

After everyone trickled out, I called Zee and Rosie. We decided that if we couldn’t get into my place, we would meet at Zee’s. For lunch I ate cheese crackers and peanut butter at my desk. By three, I couldn’t take the suspense any longer. I picked up the desk phone and dialed Kevin’s direct number. He answered quickly.

“Kevin, you can’t possibly think that Pru tried to shoot Sharma. I’ve been hanging around those two for nearly a week. They’re like sisters.”

“Hey, sweetheart. I’ve got to follow the evidence. You know that.”

“But you aren’t stupid. It doesn’t make sense that Pru would shoot Sharma. And if she did, why shoot her at 512 Green Street? Why not when they were coming out of Fast Freddy’s? Out in the club’s parking lot? Wouldn’t that have made more sense? Or when Sharma was alone with Pru in her car?”

Kevin said nothing for a long time. Finally, he said, “Hang on.”

I heard footsteps, and then a door slammed. He came back on the line. “Cragan, I can’t discuss this with you. You know that. This is one of those times when you have to trust me. I’m doing the best I can. By the way, we’ve released your apartment. Sorry about all the fingerprint powder and the missing window.”

“But what about Pru? She’s going to be in jail overnight. That’s not safe!”

“I put her in a solitary cell. I told the chief she was a suicide risk, and I told her that I did it for her own safety. She understood. See? I’m looking out for your friend. Hey, I’ve got to go.”

“Wait! The Friday Night Mystery Club is having an emergency meeting this evening at my place at eight. Please come,” I said.

In what could have passed as a whisper, he said, “I’ll try.”

Winnie got back to her desk at four. This was an early return for her, but she’d picked up my ads, and I needed to write scheduling tickets for them. “Have you learned anything new?” I asked.

“Not a peep,” she said.

Zee and Rosie had agreed to meet us at my place. I finished my paperwork as quickly as possible. While writing up the last insertion order, I turned to find someone standing at my shoulder. Ryder was staring at me. I really, really did not feel like talking with him. Ignoring him, I reached down and grabbed my canvas briefcase. His hand shot out and grabbed my wrist.

“I screwed up,” he said. It was said quietly, but his admission caused me to search his eyes. Was he serious?

His face was slack. His mouth drooped, and I swear his eyes looked red. He kept talking. “I know an apology isn’t enough. If you’ll give me the chance, I have more to say.”

“Not today.” I cut him off. “I have other things on my mind. You’re at the bottom of the list, pal.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

My apartment was decorated with a thin film of black fingerprint powder. During the time my window had been a gaping hole, the powder had blown all over. The techs had taken their sweet time finishing their work and finally covering the missing glass with a hodgepodge of clear plastic and tape. It was an ugly sight.

Fortunately, Sher Kahn had spent the night at Rosie’s place. Otherwise, there would have been black pawprints added to the mess. When we had talked on the phone, Rosie confirmed she would bring back my pet this evening at eight. In my empty living room, facing the cleanup effort, and without the comfort of a cat who hated me, I felt defeated. I walked into my bathroom to see how bad I looked.

A purple stain formed a partial collar on each side of my neck. Other portions of my skin were dotted with spots in the same hue. I wanted a shower, but that would have to wait until after I wiped up fingerprint powder. As a stopgap measure, I splashed my face with cold water.

In the back of my refrigerator, I had one cold bottle of Coke. I guzzled it, thinking that the caffeine and sugar would give me a boost. It worked. For the next hour and a half, I wiped one surface after another. After that, I attacked the floors with a wet mop. That was floors plural because the techs had walked from the living room into my bedroom, bath, and kitchen. Big black footprints traced their meanderings.

For dinner, I opened a box of macaroni and cheese. Not Kraft, but a cheap no-name brand. It didn’t taste very good, but it filled my stomach.

Only then did I turn on the shower and hop in. Although I was tempted to try pouring bleach over me, I settled for washing myself three times with Dove soap lathered up on a washcloth. I wasn’t sure if the back of my head was purple or not so I washed my hair twice with Prell. Because Prell strips hair of all its natural oils, I dried off, went to my refrigerator, withdrew a jar of mayonnaise, and massaged the white goop into my hair. This was a trick I’d read in a women’s magazine. Would it work? I had no idea.

Back in my bedroom, I pulled on old drawstring pants and a faded black tee shirt. I left a towel wrapped around my hair to keep the mayo from dripping all over. Only then could I empty the overnight bag and put it back into my closet. As I did, I wondered if the evening I’d spent with Ross had been a dream. It certainly seemed like a lifetime ago.

A knock at my door jolted me out of my reverie. I hurried to answer it, figuring Rosie had brought Sher Kahn back early. Instead, I stared into the tired face of Kevin Stuart.

* * *

“You should check before you open your door,” he scolded, slipping past me. He threw himself on my sofa and let fall to the floor a brown paper sandwich bag. With a grunt, he dropped his head into his hands. His voice was muffled as he groaned. “Gosh. I am so damn tired. I could crash right here.”

I sat next to him. His shirt was wrinkled, and he needed a shave. I asked, “What can you tell me about Pru? When will she get out? Is she okay?”

His nose wrinkled, and he removed his hands to stare at me. “Do I smell a salad? And you’ve turned purple? What in God’s name is going on?”

“Long story. Tell me about Pru.”

Kevin slumped back against the sofa. In slurred tones, he said, “Pru’s okay. She’s in a cell by herself for her safety. Wake me, when life returns to normal, will you?”

Before I could answer, he had started snoring. His mouth hung open, and he was totally conked out. Dead to the world. In fact, he sort of tumbled sideways, so I grabbed a pillow and shoved it under his head. I didn’t have the heart to wake Kevin up.

Instead, I rinsed the mayo out of my hair and dried it. The oils in the sauce did a surprisingly good job of taming my curls. Slipping into my bedroom, I pulled on a bra under my tee shirt. That made me a bit more presentable. In my living room, Kevin had gone from lightly snoring to sounding like a freight train. I debated over what to do with him. I needed to meet with my friends at eight, but I hated to wake him. He needed to be clearheaded to solve this crime.

I made an executive decision. At five till eight, I rapped on Zee’s door. She looked surprised when she opened up. “Isn’t the meeting at your place?” Zee asked.

“Kevin Stuart is sound asleep on my sofa. He’s totally exhausted. Let’s move into your apartment. We can leave my door open, and if he wakes up, we can quiz him about Pru.”

Zee stood there like a statue of Queen Nefertiti. She does not like surprises. Nor does she like to share her space. But she is a loyal friend. While coming to grips with the situation, she wore the same haughty expression that befitted royalty. Zee was not amused. I waited patiently for her response.

At last, she said, “I guess. You better not get any of that purple on my sofa. What did you do? Take a bath in a raspberry Mr. Misty Float?”

I explained about Dolly and the blueberry surprise I’d had for breakfast. Zee’s gaze was unwavering, as she listened. Of course, I only gave her the bare details. In fact, I’d truncated the tale by saying that Ross had taken me to the Dixie Dee after the Chamber of Commerce Gala.

“Uh-huh.” Zee pursed her lips. “For breakfast? You didn’t come back here last night. That’s for certain. I know, because I saw the yellow crime scene tape.”

I blushed.

She shook her head. “Please tell me you used birth control?”

I gasped. “Zee!”

“Otherwise, we’re going to have ourselves a little cowboy running around.”

“Zee, I—”

The inquisition was interrupted by a knock on the outside door. Winnie had arrived, and for once, her timing was perfect. She carried a large Tupperware container by the handle.

“Fudge brownies,” Winnie said, setting them on Zee’s dining room table and looking around. “Nice place you’ve got here. I like what you’ve done with it.”

Whereas my apartment was a jumble of secondhand pieces, repurposed items, and handmade accessories, Zee had lovingly furnished hers in a très sleek style, starting with a loveseat covered in cream-colored leather. A glass and gold metal coffee table sat on a multicolored rug in shades of orange, pink, and goldenrod. On the walls were abstract art collages she’d purchased from a friend. The art had suggested the color palette of orange, pink, and golden tones.

Her dining room table was smaller than mine. The base was a ridged wooden cylinder in a light oak. It was topped with a glass circle. The chairs around it were gold barstools with pink cushions. Her curtains were cream with pink tie backs. Cornelius, her cat, rested in his pink cat bed and watched us through one sleepy eye. Zee didn’t invite people in often. In fact, I’d only been inside her place twice. I tried not to gawk as I studied my surroundings close up, but it was like walking into the pages of a magazine.

Zee hurried to put on coffee and tea, while I watched Winnie stack brownies on a paper plate she’d brought. Rosie stuck her head in the door. “We are here?”

I explained about Kevin being asleep on my sofa. From the hallway, Rosie looked in on him. “Si, he is sound asleep. I will bring down your cat later, eh? Julio is patting him right now. The cat is purring for him.”

That damn cat. Sher Kahn was loving toward everyone but me.

We gathered around Zee’s glass-topped table. She served us coffee and tea, before jumping up and heading out her door. “I’ll be back,” she called over her shoulder.

By that time, none of us cared. We had serious brownie eating to do. When Zee rejoined us, she was carrying a flip chart and a folded metal stand. After flinging the aluminum stand open with a snap of the wrist, she balanced the oversized pad of paper on a narrow ledge. She clipped the top of the pad to a crossbar. From her leather briefcase, which she kept on a table by her front door, she pulled a set of colored markers. Drawing three overlapping circles on the chart, Zee explained, “I’ve been studying Venn diagrams in my marketing class. The one I’ve been taking on Thursday nights.”

This was news to me, and I felt the sting of shame. I never asked Zee where she went on Thursdays after work. I thought I was respecting her privacy, but maybe I was too self-centered to pay attention to other people. If so, I needed to change my ways and fast.

Beside each circle, she wrote one word: Means, Motive, and Opportunity.

“Tell us something we don’t know,” said Winnie. She isn’t usually so rude, but she seemed to be in a bizarre mood.

Rosie got up and walked over to the chart. Pointing to the middle, she said, “This is the place—” and she used the yellow marker to shade in an oddly-shaped intersection “—where all three come together. To have taken a shot at Sharma, the person would need to appear in this overlap, right?”

Zee agreed. “That leads me to a question. Who would have known that Sharma sat on that landing to smoke her cigarettes?”

Winnie piped up, “And who would have had access to Pru’s gun?”

I added, “Of course, we need to establish a motive, but I think there’s another factor to consider. Maybe you can overlap four circles? See, we don’t know where the shooter was standing. That’s kinda, sorta a function of the means, right?”

“The shooter was up in the tree,” volunteered a masculine voice.

We turned to see Kevin, standing in the doorway. Using his fists, he rubbed his eyes like a child does.

Zee frowned at him. “Are you supposed to be sharing this information?”

“Ordinarily, no. But you ladies are better detectives than any of the yahoos we have on the force, so I might as well take advantage of your collective brilliance.” He came closer to the chart and flipped it to a clean page. In crude strokes, he drew a tree, a window, and a dashed line connecting the two. “Our expert in ballistics thinks that the shooter was up in the tree when he or she sighted Sharma. I sent someone to inspect the tree more carefully. There are definitely muddy clumps of grass smashed into bark on some of the branches. It also looks like a small limb was broken off and tossed to the ground to make a better sight line.”

Rosie stared at the picture. Turning to us, she asked, “Have any of you ever climbed that tree?”

Zee lifted her chin. “I have.”

“You what?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Zee climbed a tree? Had the world gone mad?

“Cornelius got chased up that tree, the week I moved in. A dog scared him so badly that he ran up and couldn’t get down. I thought about calling the fire department, but I doubted they’d take me seriously. Finally, I changed into jeans and tennis shoes and climbed the damn thing. It’s not that hard, but you’d have to be tall or get a ladder to reach the first limb.”

Going back to the doorway, Kevin nodded and stroked his chin. “That’s what my guy said, too. The first limb you’d grab is pretty high. Without a ladder or a boost, you’d have to have a long reach.”

Rosie flipped to yet another page. She wrote “Suspect” at the top of the page. Underneath, she added tall plus access to gun, and then she stopped and wondered out loud. “Kevin? How good of a shot would you have to be?”

Leaning on the doorframe, Kevin stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. “You couldn’t be a casual shooter. At least, that’s not likely. Remember, this is a person who has climbed a tree at night and aimed at someone a hundred feet or so away.”

“That far?” I asked.

“Yup.” Kevin moved to the chart and tapped the paper with his index finger. “The only branch that’s suitable to use as a perch would put the shooter approximately 100 feet away from Sharma. That particular bough bends out and away from the house. That’s where the distance comes into play.”

Rosie wrote “good shot/practiced” on the paper. Looking at Kevin, she asked, “What else can you tell us about how hard it is to shoot that gun? Does it take any particular skill?”

“As a matter of fact, that little gun is a stinker.” Once more, Kevin commandeered the chart. He flipped to a new page and began writing. As it turned out, he was left-handed! I never knew. He made a list for us: horrible trigger, the barrels don’t shoot in alignment with the aim, hard to sight, and a heck of a recoil.

“In short,” he summarized, “Pru’s gun is useful as a deterrent. Nobody in his or her right mind, who knows anything about guns would have used a C.O.P., Compact Off-Duty Police gun, for an assassination. Hell’s bells, given the recoil on that thing, the person behind that trigger could have fallen out of the tree.”

“Are you kidding?” I asked. “It’s an awfully little gun.”

“True. But in order to aim at someone on the roof, the shooter had to lean to the right while sitting on that particular limb. That would put him or her off balance. Anyone who didn’t have a lot of upper body strength would probably have toppled over backward, given the recoil. But we didn’t see any signs of a person landing on the ground.”

Kevin continued, “As for striking Sharma? The shooter was either lucky or really, really good. Remember, it was dark, the creep was not on solid ground, and the gun’s sighting was iffy.”

“There’s a third option.” Winnie had a brown smear on the side of her mouth. She’d enjoyed the brownies as much or more than the rest of us. “Maybe the shooter didn’t plan on hitting Sharma. Maybe the goal was to scare her.”

We were quiet as we thought that over. Finally, I asked, “That would change what we consider as the motive, right? Instead of killing Sharma, maybe the gunman or gunwoman hoped to scare her? But why?”

Kevin grabbed his head and twisted it, cracking his neck. Seeing how grossed out we were, he quickly said, “Sorry. I slept on it funny. Let’s go over the motives, okay?”

Winnie told everyone about what her friend, the bartender at Fast Freddy’s, had learned. She led off with the fact that Sharma and Pru had quarreled over a boyfriend years ago. That hardly seemed relevant, since we knew Sharma was currently in a relationship with Hector. Pru seemed happily unattached. More interesting was the rumor that Sharma might replace Pru as Fast Freddy’s featured dancer. I didn’t think that was likely. While I hated to share confidences, this was no time to be cagey. I shook my head at that idea. “Guys? Anthony Calamari has a crush on Pru. He told me so himself. Given that’s his feeling toward her, why would he replace her with Sharma?”

“Because he’s a businessman?” wondered Zee. “Because he took out a huge loan to buy Fast Freddy’s, and he needs to make money to cover his payments?”

None of us said anything. We were accustomed to Zee having the inside skinny on all sorts of financial matters. As a matter of fact, it had been Zee who’d come up with the pledge that we all took, promising to keep our discussions confidential. That promise allowed her to share insights from the world of banking.

“Maybe he wants Pru to retire,” said Winnie. “If he’s interested in her, maybe he doesn’t want a relationship with an exotic dancer. You know the drill. He rescues her, and they live happily ever after.”

Winnie had a point. I didn’t like it, but it made a twisted sort of sense.

“What other motives do we have?” Kevin asked.

Rosie set down the marker she’d been holding. I moved to the loveseat. She came over and sat next to me. Playing with a patch on her jeans, Rosie said, “I’m not spilling any big secrets here, but Terri Jo is not SaraLynn’s mother; Sharma is. We could all figure that out. I think Terri Jo was worried that Sharma would take SaraLynn back to Chicago to live with her.”

That hushed the group. Rosie had been the first to point out the proverbial elephant in the room. None of us wanted to expose Sharma’s difficult decisions, past and present, but there they were. The family secret had to figure into our discussion, or we couldn’t appraise the situation honestly. Kevin wrinkled his brow and stared at Rosie. “How sure are you?”

“We’re sure.” I sighed. “Like Rosie said, we overheard enough to put the pieces together. I suspect that Sharma and Terri Jo have played tug-of-war with SaraLynn almost from the start.”

“Could Terri Jo have been the shooter?” asked Kevin.

“I can’t imagine her climbing that tree,” said Zee. “But if she had a rope, she could have managed. She did have a lot of motivation.”

“And the goal would have been to kill her older daughter?” I wanted us to seriously consider what we were saying. Putting it out there would give us a chance to be honest with ourselves about the relationship between Terri Jo and Sharma.

“Or to scare Sharma,” said Zee. “Remember, there’s that. Could have been an accident that she actually hit Sharma.”

Winnie pressed a fingertip into the brownie crumbs on her plate. “Maybe Terri Jo decided to drive home the fact that SaraLynn wouldn’t be safe, if she went to live with Sharma. She’s been harping on that.”

“A mother would do that?” Kevin’s eyebrows nearly disappeared in his hair. “Honestly? Shoot at one kid to prove to another that this is a dangerous world?”

“Terri Jo was purely hateful toward Sharma.” Rosie’s eyes were filled with sadness. Addressing the group, Rosie added, “I cannot imagine such a mother, can you?”

Yes, I could, but that wasn’t the point.

Winnie jumped in with a question. “Zee? Do you know if Sharma sent Terri Jo money to pay for SaraLynn’s care? If Terri Jo depended on that money, that would be another reason not to give SaraLynn up. Of course, you can’t hand over a child to someone who is dead or incapacitated.”

Zee went to her briefcase and found a small yellow legal pad and a pen. “I can certainly find out if Terri Jo receives regular payments from Sharma,” she said as she jotted herself a note.

I wanted to make sure I understood. “Winnie? Are you suggesting that Sharma has been sending Terri Jo money all along to pay for SaraLynn’s care?”

Winnie smiled at me approvingly. “Yes, sirree. It’s not cheap to raise a child. I tapped my sources and found out that Terri Jo only started working at the driver’s license bureau a couple of years ago. Before that—and after her career as an exotic dancer—she cleaned houses and tended bar. Yet, she was able to pay for a house. I’ve heard it’s not a mansion, but it’s nice enough that you have to wonder, how does she keep up with the payments and taxes? You also have to factor in the fact that SaraLynn attends a private school. It’s Catholic, but they still charge tuition.”

Kevin had been listening carefully. Now he said, “I wonder if Terri Jo has taken out a life insurance policy on Sharma. If she has, that would explain why Sharma had to die. Imagine the payoff! I’ll check on that when I get back to work. In fact, I’ll look to see if Hector or the club in Chicago or anyone associated with Fast Freddy’s had a financial reason to want Sharma dead.”

“Hector and Sharma talked about getting a franchise. They wanted to open a donut shop. Maybe he decided to kill her for the money?” I felt bad about floating the idea, but that was the point of this meeting, wasn’t it?

“Again,” said Kevin, “I’ll check things out.”

The room grew quiet as we stared at the flipchart. What were we missing?

“This couldn’t have been random, could it?” Even as the words were out of my mouth, they sounded weak but I had to ask.

“Ha!” Zee laughed. “Who would get off the main streets, drive into our residential area, pick our house, climb a tree, and shoot somebody on our roof? With Pru’s gun?”

My face heated up. I don’t like being laughed at. “Okay, then. Not random. We’re back to those two questions: How did the shooter get Pru’s gun? And who knew Sharma went out on that landing to smoke?”

That stumped the crowd. Rosie asked, “More specifically, when did Pru lose her gun? That should help us narrow down who took it.”

“That’s a good question,” agreed Kevin.

“When I was dressing for the gala on Sunday night, Pru loaned me her envelope purse. She showed me her gun and joked about whether it would fit inside the little handbag or not. That means she had the gun on Sunday around seven p.m.”

Kevin nodded. “And what happened after you left 512 Green Street, Cragan? Any idea?”

“Sharma had borrowed Pru’s convertible to drop off SaraLynn. Billy, one of Pru’s friends, was going to drive Pru to the Nelsons’ house to retrieve Pru’s car. Then Pru and Sharma were going to run to Fast Freddy’s to pick up their paychecks. After that, they planned to pop popcorn, drink wine, and watch TV,” I said.

“Cragan? Can you call Pru’s friends at the club and ask if anyone there saw her with her gun?” Kevin asked.

Right. His tone had been cavalier and that annoyed me. Like I didn’t have anything else to do but play at being a detective. I snapped at him, “How about you let her out of jail and ask her yourself?”

“I would if I could,” said Kevin, looking dog-tired. Again, he fisted his hands and scrubbed at his red-rimmed eyes. “I don’t see how Pru could have done this. The logistics don’t make sense. That said, she works as an exotic dancer. Chief Bowman thinks of Pru as one step removed from being a prostitute. He doesn’t want to let her out of jail. Pru’s attorney, Ziggy Eichen, has counselled her to clam up. Smart move on his part as her lawyer, but it makes carrying out an investigation a lot harder. I understand that Eichen doesn’t want Pru to say anything that might incriminate her. At the same time, that means I have to dig for every piece of evidence. Look. You ladies know me. I don’t like putting innocent people away.”

There was a short silence while we took all of this in. Kevin’s face slackened, leaving me to wonder if it was only physical fatigue or an internal struggle that was sapping his energy. After a long exhale, he seemed to come to a decision. “There’s another reason Chief Bowman is keeping Pru in custody. The chief suspects Anthony Calamari has connections. Italian connections, if you get my drift.”

“Does he?” asked Zee.

Kevin shrugged. “I have no idea. None. In fact, I’m not sure that Chief Bowman has any reason to be suspicious other than the fact that Anthony’s last name is Italian. But that’s enough for the chief, and he’s my boss. So, I’m stuck.”

Kevin handed his marker to Zee. “That’s one reason I was willing to come here tonight, join all of you, and open up about the investigation. I knew you wouldn’t lie to me. I am getting nowhere with Pru, or Eichen, and I am taking heat from Chief Bowman. In short, I need your help. I’d appreciate anything you can do. I’m sure Pru would be grateful, too.”

As a group, we stared at Kevin. It was like we’d rehearsed our reaction, although we hadn’t. All of us members of the Friday Night Mystery Club were stunned by his revelation. He was turning to us to help him solve a crime?

“Are you nuts?” asked Zee. “You really, truly think we can help? We’re a bunch of amateurs who like to read mysteries.”

“So I heard.” Kevin had the good grace to chuckle. “I also happen to know you are a group of smart, observant, connected people, who aren’t bogged down by police politics. And you are motivated. Hell, that’s half my battle with our department. No one in the DPD is motivated. Half the cops at the department think it’s funny we’ve got the great Candy Cane in custody. Like it’s a joke. It’s not. So, yeah, Zee. I’m nuts. I’m whacko. Call me whatever you want. I hate the fact that Pru’s in jail and being gawked at like an animal in the zoo. Incarceration isn’t a spectator sport. That’s disrespectful and cruel.”

The thought of Pru being humiliated made a knot form in my stomach. I worried I’d be sick. Of course, I had eaten four brownies in less than five minutes. That could have caused the problem.

“You heard the man.” Winnie smacked a fist into an open palm. “Pru needs our help. Let’s get cracking.”

“Wait a minute. Let’s not rush this and mess things up. We need to take a step back. Let’s make a list of everyone we’ve seen interacting with Pru in the past few days.” Rosie put her blue marker to the paper and wrote: Who had access to Pru’s bag? (Who swiped her gun? And who knew she was carrying a gun in her purse?)

The list included Sharma, SaraLynn, Zee, Rosie, Winnie, Terri Jo, Anthony Calamari, and Billy, as well as all of the dancers and workers at the club. And me, of course. I had a pressing follow-up question. “How does SaraLynn’s kidnapping play into this? Or does it?”

A slow stain crept over Kevin’s face. “I was told to drop that case. After all, SaraLynn is back safely. The chief says it’s unimportant. A time-waster.”

Zee screwed up her mouth. “God forbid that Chief Bowman would work to protect a child. That is, of course, unless the child’s parents had a membership in one of the local country clubs.”

Winnie stood up. “I’ve got to get home, ladies and gent. Do we all have assignments?”

“Not exactly,” I pointed out. “Zee will look at financial records. Rosie?”

She nodded. “I’ll see if I can get in touch with Hector. We have mutual friends. He might know if there’s still bad blood between Sharma and Pru over that boyfriend from years back. I’ll ask him what he knows.”

Winnie jumped in with her plan of action as she loaded the last of the brownies onto the paper plate. “First, I’ll talk with Ziggy Eichen and see if there’s any information he wants tracked down. Second, I’ll make a trip to the morgue.”

“The morgue?” Rosie’s question was nearly a shriek.

“Not dead people morgue. Morgue is a newspaper term,” I explained. “It’s where we keep past articles and obituaries. Historical pieces. Winnie? What will you look for?”

She wiped out the inside of her Tupperware container with a paper napkin. “I’m going to make a list of everyone associated with Pru and Sharma. I’m going to start with all the people we met at Fast Freddy’s. Missy Grovenor, the switchboard operator and keeper of the morgue, owes me a favor, so I’ll approach her about pulling information. It might be a waste of time, but the more we know about the players, the better. Maybe there are other dancers at the club who’d like for Sharma or Pru to fold up their tents and disappear into the night.”

Winnie added, “Ziggy Eichen is the best criminal lawyer in town, but let’s be honest. Pru needs every bit of help she can get.”

Walking over to the flipchart, Winnie found a clean page. “To summarize,” she said. “We’re looking for someone who is physically strong, tall, good with guns, not afraid of the dark, and knowledgeable about Sharma’s sitting out on the roof to smoke a cigarette. Also, our culprit is someone who knew that Pru carried a gun, and where she hid it. Whoever this person is, he or she was spurred to action because Sharma came to town. There’s a reason this happened to Sharma while she was here in Decatur and not in Chicago, but why?”

Using a purple marker, Kevin wrote across a page, “Timing?” Capping the pen, he said, “Usually there’s a precipitating factor. A particular reason that the attempt on a life had to happen now. How long has Sharma been here?”

“Since Tuesday,” I said.

“Then why not wait until Wednesday to take a shot at her? Why not do it on Thursday? Or Friday? Or last week?” Kevin wondered. “What was the big deal about Sunday night? Or was it happenstance? Or was this the shooter’s best opportunity?”

None of us had an answer.

Zee said, “Okay. Time to call it a night. I have to get up early tomorrow. Get out, all of you. Go on, scram.”

Kevin chuckled. “Right. Message received. Hang on a minute. I have gifts.”

As we waited, he ducked out and returned with the brown paper bag he’d been carrying earlier. Reaching inside, he withdrew a small metal cylinder with a gizmo like a safety pin attached. There was one for each of us. “This is pepper spray,” he explained. “While I seriously doubt that the shooter will target any of you, better safe than sorry. Notice you can clip this to your keychain or purse strap or your belt. Point being: No weapon does you any good if it’s not within reach. One word of warning: If you point this the wrong way, you’ll get a face full of this capsaicin mixture. Think of the spiciest food you’ve ever eaten and multiply it times a hundred. As a matter of fact, it’s smart for you to practice spraying it outside. But not into the wind.”

This was the second can of spray he’d given me, but the cute clasp would make it more accessible than digging into my purse. We all thanked Kevin, and the party broke up. He walked me back inside my apartment and shut the door behind us. I wondered why. I’d figured he would hop in his car and leave. Instead, he pulled me into an embrace. Not a clinch or a bear hug, just a hug.

“I’m worried about you,” he said. “You’re Pru’s best friend. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

“Me? Do something stupid?”

He dipped his head and kissed the side of my face. I considered arguing with him but he put a finger to my lips. “Cragan? I know you. You lead with your heart. I promise you we will get this sorted out. We barely have enough evidence to hold Pru as it is. Don’t put yourself in jeopardy.”

He stared at me. “I couldn’t take it if anything happened to you.”

Letting me go, he turned away and rubbed his face. “Good Lord, but I’m tired. I knew this job would be tough. I never expected to have to fight the chief daily because he’s such a jerk. There are days when I feel like I’m walking through deep snow in sandals, you know?”

When he turned back to me, his sadness had been buried under a wobbly smile. Swooping down, he planted a light smooch on my forehead. “Take care, kiddo. Lock up behind me.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

On Tuesday morning, I avoided looking at myself in the mirror. Had it really been a week since Sharma arrived? Carnage had ensued. There was still a small scab on my forehead from my head-first plunge over the shelves with the bound newspaper copies. Dabbing the spot with concealer made it go away. The purple stain around my neck could be hidden with a silk scarf, but my forearms and hands were still slightly tinged with color. Last night, I’d had bad dreams, nightmares about Pru sitting behind bars. As a result, eggplant-colored half-moons had appeared under my eyes. More concealer covered the dark rings but it tended to cake in weird patterns.

I really was turning into a purple people eater. Sheesh.

“That’ll have to do,” I said to my reflection. My only company in the apartment was Sher Kahn. He didn’t care how I looked as long as I kept his food bowl full.

On my way out the door to work, I stopped and gave the cat a piece of my mind. “You rarely purr for me. You bite and nip at me. Then you cozy up to other people? I’m putting you on notice, buddy. You need to shape up or ship out.”

Sher Kahn raised his beautiful blue eyes to me and yawned. I think he was saying, “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”

Zee was wiping pollen off her windshield when I stepped outside. I said, “Good morning,” and she gave me a curt nod. As I unlocked my car door, she crossed her arms over her chest in a typical Zee-pose that served as a weather forecast. Today, she was stormy with a chance of thundershowers.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. Mentally, I clicked through my own list, which began with Pru being suspected of attempted murder. Of course, her list could vary so I waited for an answer.

Narrowing her eyes, she said, “Isn’t it obvious? I’m thinking about Kevin. That cop is positively crazy about you. I’m not sure if he really intends to help Pru, or if he is using the situation as a way to get in your pants. There seems to be a lot of that going around lately.”

My cheeks were burning as I tossed my briefcase in the back and my purse into the passenger seat. For someone who jealously guarded her private life, Zee had a nervy tendency to stick her nose into other people’s business. Like she was doing now. Usually, I take her moods with a grain of salt. This morning, I had had enough so I faced her and said, “Kevin and I are old friends. He and I have history. Of course, Kevin wants to help Pru. He’s one of the good guys, and you know it. Sometimes, Zee, you refuse to believe there are nice people in this world. You look for the bad stuff everywhere. That’s a sad way to live.”

Without waiting for her response, I climbed into the driver’s seat and backed away from the house.

* * *

Even though I’d stood up to her, Zee’s words kept going around and around in my head. Like an earworm—a song you can’t get rid of—one word echoed incessantly: Obvious.

Why? What was it about the word “obvious” that caused it to echo like a stuck record, skipping and repeating, skipping and repeating, until I thought I’d go bonkers?

Since my gas tank was nearly empty, I pulled into a Sinclair station. While the attendant filled the car, I bought a cup of their coffee from a vending machine and doused it liberally with fake cream and real sugar. The fact I would probably spill the drink on myself as I got in the car was…obvious. There was that word again! Argh!

Standing outside, I drank the liquid down to a safe level. I paid the gas pump jockey and rested the cup on the passenger seat. By jamming my briefcase against the paper container, I made it to the paper without mishap.

I finished the coffee while sitting in The Gazette’s parking lot. Despite the disaster I had courted, I did enjoy the hot drink.

That’s when it hit me. The Friday Night Mystery Club had overlooked something… something obvious. When we asked ourselves all of those questions about Sharma, we’d forgotten the mantra that Pru had repeated ad nauseam: “Sharma hates Decatur. She couldn’t wait to leave, and she never wanted to come back.”

And yet, Sharma’s daughter lived here. Sharma still had her mother here, and despite their jealousy issues, they had some sort of a relationship. Sharma had a following in Decatur, people who had kept tabs on her career. People who knew her stage name and showed up to watch her perform. She had to have some good memories from her life here.

So why did she hate Decatur so much?

The question lingered in my head like a blinking neon sign.

The answer might explain who had shot Sharma—and why.

* * *

This morning, of all mornings, Winnie was running late. Between the coffee and the word “obvious,” I was psyched. I sat at my desk and jiggled my leg, bouncing it up and down. When Winnie finally arrived, coming into the bullpen through the back hallway rather than the front door, I grabbed her by the arm and marched her into the ladies’ restroom.

“What gives?” she asked. “You act like you’ve got ants in your pants.”

This was the second time a friend had mentioned my underwear. Was there an astrological reason my undies were on their minds? Like Pluto was in retrograde over Knickers?

“I finally figured out what we need to know. Remember how Pru kept telling us that Sharma hated Decatur? That’s the key to this puzzle. We have to find out why she hates Decatur so much. If we do, that’ll tell us who shot at her. See? It has to be someone that Sharma ticked off when she was younger. Think about it, Winnie.”

My friend squinted at the overhead fluorescent light panels. “Stirring up her past would explain the question of timing. Until Sharma came back, her life in Decatur remained buried, right? Her arrival woke up the sleeping giant, so to speak. And then the injured party took a while to figure out how to get rid of Sharma.”

“Uh-huh.” I fairly danced around the tile floor. “Once we know why Sharma left, why she hated this town, we can zero in on the who.”

“Wait a minute.” Winnie raised an index finger. “Didn’t she leave because she had SaraLynn? The way I see it, Terri Jo must have made a promise to raise the baby. Doesn’t it make sense that Sharma knew she and her mother would bump heads? Maybe Terri Jo gave Sharma an ultimatum. Something like, I’ll raise your daughter, but you can’t interfere? The best way for Sharma to keep her distance would have been to leave town.”

“But we know Sharma came back at least once. That’s when she found out that Burt Gillespie was inappropriate with his daughter, Marian.”

Winnie slowly nodded. “Good point.”

“It wasn’t just her relationship with her mother, Terri Jo, that made Sharma leave Decatur. Terri Jo might be nasty but she hasn’t tried to drive the girls apart. You saw how Sharma interacted with SaraLynn. They have a bond. Despite the fact that Sharma left town, she did keep in contact with SaraLynn and Terri Jo. She didn’t hate them. She just hated—hates—Decatur. Remember? That’s how Pru kept saying it. ‘Sharma hates Decatur.’ The wording was specific.”

Winnie rubbed her chin. “How can we find out the reason for Sharma’s hatred of the city? We can’t ask her. I phoned Argy-Bargy at the hospital before I came into work. Sharma is on heavy painkillers. I guess she went a little crazy, when she saw her face. They sedated her. She’s barely lucid.”

“Terri Jo?” I asked, “Wouldn’t Terri Jo know why Sharma hates Decatur?”

Winnie raised her eyebrows. “You really think that Terri Jo will talk to us? She would have to be both sober and willing to help. That’s a long shot.”

“Pru has to know why Sharma hates this place,” I said. “After all, she keeps talking about Sharma’s feelings. Can you get a message to Pru?”

I had faith in Winnie’s universe of contacts. However, my optimism faded as she stared at me with a scowl on her face. “I’m connected but I’m not that connected. I bet they have her in isolation.”

Yes, that was what Kevin had said.

“There has to be another approach.” I paced the length of the restroom, pivoted, and made another circuit.

“SaraLynn is, what? Ten?” Winnie turned to the wall mirror and studied a stray lock of her hair. “Got any nail clippers? I need to trim this.”

“Not on me,” I said. “We know that Sharma didn’t leave town until after her daughter was born. That means she lived here eleven years ago. Can you get Missy Grovenor to quickly pull any old articles that include the name Sharon Nelson? I can pop over to the public library and check out the Decatur High School yearbooks.”

The door swung open, and Elizabeth Varney stepped in. “Gee, is this your idea of a secret rendezvous? How clever of the two of you. Very romantic.”

“Let’s get out of here,” growled Winnie.

* * *

The public library was on my way to the Hickory Point Mall. The Decatur High School yearbooks were easy enough to find, but that’s where the trail ended. Sharma disappeared from all photos in the middle of her sophomore year. She was not part of the end of year portrait.

What a bust! I’d expected to find more. But then, if Sharma/Sharon had been pregnant and showing, the school would have asked her to leave, of course. You can’t have a pregnant student wandering the halls of your high school. Everybody knows that pregnancy is a highly contagious disease, right?

Leaning back in the plastic bucket chair, I closed my eyes and tried to think. It felt like I’d hit a brick wall. What else could I learn about Sharma? How could I delve into her background?

Pretending that my mind was a newsreel, I ran it backward and forward. The scenes flickered by. A touch on my arm sent me flying into the stratosphere.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I was wondering if I could help?” The librarian’s name badge read “Jerilyn.” Her smile reflected her curiosity. She had waist-length dark hair and intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.

“Doubtful. Maybe. See, I have an acquaintance who says she hates Decatur. I’m trying to figure out why. She lived here until eleven years ago. I know she attended Decatur High School but—” I swept my arm over the open yearbooks. “She only makes rare appearances in these.”

Jerilyn adjusted her glasses and chewed on her bottom lip. From a pocket of her gray skirt, she withdrew a tube of Chapstick, uncapped it, and rubbed it on her mouth. “Have you tried the school newspaper?”

“I didn’t know there was one.” I got up from the uncomfortable bucket chair and followed Jerilyn to an oversized fixture with binders, much like the shelves of recent newspaper issues we had at The Gazette. Her fingers walked the spines until she found two thick books marked 1974 and 1973. Handing them to me, the librarian said, “These are Decatur High School’s student newspapers from the years you’re interested in. If you are done with the yearbooks, I’ll put them back for you.”

I sank into yet another bucket chair and looked through the mimeographed copies. Reading the articles was difficult. Mimeographing works by forcing ink through the stencils, and that’s an inexact duplication method. The lettering was blurry. Eventually, my eyes adjusted. I started with January of 1973 and quickly realized I’d taken the wrong approach. Instead, it made more sense to start in September of 1974, since that appeared to be the last semester that Sharma attended high school.

The paper from the issues was brittle under my fingers. I turned the pages gently. Most of the stories were banal puff pieces. The student authors wrote drivel about school plays, spelling contests, math club, home economics projects, and of course, they extensively covered the sports teams. According to the school reporters, several local football players were being scouted by colleges. Reading anything about athletics was a major pain in the butt for me. I am not into sports. My focus drifted several times, especially when the jargon was hard to follow. A front page headline in an October newsletter copy caught my eye, because it was so gruesome. A car full of students had been involved in a horrific crash. The driver had been killed instantly, one boy was thrown from the vehicle, and the two other passengers had suffered multiple cuts and a few broken bones.

The next issue told me that it was a Robbie Stevens, who had perished. His parents were Lorna and Stan Stevens. I had a hunch this was the same Lorna who’d since married Burt Gillespe. If I was right in my assumption, the framed jersey on the wall of Write Now belonged to Robbie, Lorna’s dead son.

Jotting down the date of the accident, I went to find Jerilyn. She was standing at a cart and shelving returned books, but she was more than willing to help me find The Gazette for the date in question. I could have waited to see the information that Missy Grovenor dug up in the newspaper’s morgue, but it seemed smarter for me to move ahead while I had help at hand.

Jerilyn found a large black binder, the same oversized sort of contraption as we used at the paper. I helped her carry it to a battered table where the book could be opened easily. Finding the right date wasn’t hard. Minutes later, I was back to reading about that fatal accident in October. According to The Gazette, the wreck had happened after a homecoming party, a raucous bash where booze had been lavishly and illegally consumed by minors. Initially, the paper didn’t print the names of the passengers involved, since they were all under 18. A day after the wreck, the name of the dead boy, Robbie Stevens, was released. One other salient point made it into the follow-up article. The other boy, the one who had been thrown from the car, suffered multiple compound fractures of his leg. His career as an athlete was over. The unharmed passengers in the back seat were both girls and were younger than the boys.

The institutional clock on the library wall made a low tick-tick-tick, as the second hand measured off time. If I didn’t get going to the mall, I might miss my clients when they left for lunch. After thanking Jerilyn, I climbed into the RX-7 and drove north. At the mall, I trotted into a hallway with a pay phone and called the paper. I was lucky enough to catch Winnie at our desk.

“I’ve hit paydirt,” I told her. “There are only a few more facts I need to lock down. Can Argy-Bargy look up a hospital record for me? Actually, make that two records.”

* * *

The rest of the morning fairly flew by, probably because my mind was preoccupied. I hadn’t heard from Ross, and that bummed me out, so keeping my mind on the problem of Sharma proved a helpful diversion. Usually, I make small talk with my customers. Today, I cut the chatter to a minimum and raced from place to place while keeping one eye on my watch. Fast Freddy’s wouldn’t open until noon. Pru had told me that the lunch crowd at the gentlemen’s club was a lot different from the night group. Men in suits set their briefcases to one side of their tables as they ordered drinks from waitresses wearing bikini tops instead of tee shirts. All in all, it was like a regular restaurant, but the servers bared more flesh.

I drove from the mall to Freddy’s. Roman was at the front door, and he let me in without a cover charge. He led me to a secluded table and promised to fetch Anthony for me.

The club owner hurried out of a hidden door to greet me. His face bore the unmistakable signs of stress. As he took a seat, Anthony said, “I can’t believe this. Sharma is in the hospital, and Pru is in jail? It’s incredible. Ridiculous. How can I help you, Cragan? Have you heard anything from Pru?” He signaled to a waitress who took our drink orders. Anthony and I both opted for Cokes.

“As you might have heard, they found Pru’s gun at the scene. I guess the police chief is acting like a twit. My friend, Detective Kevin Stuart, made sure that Pru was put in a single cell for her protection. The Friday Night Mystery Club and I are working to gather evidence to clear Pru.”

“Does she have a lawyer?” Anthony raised a querying eyebrow. “I haven’t been able to get a message to her.”

“Yes, Ziggy Eichen is representing her. He’s supposed to be the best criminal defense attorney in town. But if I’m right, we can clear her, and she won’t need legal counsel. I’ve been digging around, and I have a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Fire away.”

“The cops are working on a theory that you were planning to replace Pru with Sharma. They’re saying Pru had a motive to get rid of Sharma. How would you respond?”

A waitress slid two Cokes and two glasses of ice in front of us. I pulled out a notepad and pen as I waited for Anthony’s response.

Instead of answering me, he asked, “What would you like for lunch?”

I hadn’t expected this. Anthony’s smile was grave. “This is my treat. Gus, our chef, makes great hamburgers. Want one?”

“That would be nice,” I said, cautiously. I love a good burger, but I didn’t want to be indebted to Anthony.

“Make it two,” he said to the waitress. “Medium-well? Have Gus put the cheese on the side. Add French fries, please.”

As the young woman walked away, Anthony spoke quietly, “Look, Cragan. Pru trusts you implicitly. I wish I could say I feel the same about all of my employees. Let’s be careful. I don’t want our conversation overheard. My office?”

I totally agreed. He got up, took me by the elbow, and led me out of the main club. As we walked past the bar, Anthony left a message for our waitress as to where she could find us. In a low voice, Anthony said, “We’ll have privacy back here.”

Anthony steered me through the private corridors. They were narrow but not claustrophobic. We came out in the same place where we’d enjoyed Sharma’s birthday cake. The door that Billy had used when spiriting SaraLynn away was standing open. Several men used dollies to move cardboard cartons out of a white van. One of the workers was Connie. He noticed me and waved.

After we got settled in Anthony’s office, we continued our conversation. I asked the club owner, “Are you planning to replace Pru with Sharma?”

“Absolutely not. If I find out who started that rumor—and yes, I’ve heard that someone is behind that particular falsehood—I’ll fire him or her. I have no use for people who spread gossip.”

Our waitress appeared with two fresh bottles of Coke and two new glasses of ice. Anthony thanked her and poured for both of us. After the woman left, he asked, “What else?”

“Was it perfectly clear to all of the dancers that Sharma would be going back to Chicago? In other words, was there any reason one of the dancers might think she would lose her position to Sharma?”

“Yes, I was perfectly clear, and no. No one should have worried about losing her position to Sharma.” He punctuated this with a swift nod of his head. “Next?”

I studied the dark bubbles in the cola. “Like I told you, the cops found Pru’s gun outside, under the sugar maple tree and in a bunch of bushes. Pru was in her apartment, when she heard the gunshot. Rosie and Zee heard Pru scream, run downstairs, and outside. It doesn’t make sense that Pru would have shot at Sharma from inside 512 Green Street and then tossed her gun after she went outside. And she wouldn’t have thrown a loaded gun out of a window, either. She’s too safety conscious for that.”

I took a sip and backtracked. “The shooter must have had access to Pru’s gun. I saw the gun in Pru’s possession, Sunday evening around seven. I don’t know everywhere that Pru went after that, but the most likely place for someone to lift the gun from Pru’s purse would have been here.”

“Really?” Anthony’s face tensed in anger. “Somebody here? Are you sure?”

“No, but it makes sense. Think about it. You wouldn’t wave a gun around while doing errands, but you might show your friends at work, right? Especially if you worked at night.”

I was interrupted by the waitress with our burgers, fries, and a stack of paper napkins. Anthony motioned for me to move my chair closer to his desk and rest my plate on the edge. The waitress presented us with handwipes. After she left, I looked around for a place to toss my soiled wipe.

“Here you go.” From behind his desk, Anthony handed me a small metal trashcan. I set it beside me so I’d have a place to toss my trash. The burger had been cooked to perfection.

After a mouthful of my sandwich, I continued. “It makes sense that someone from here took Pru’s weapon. Of course, she’d carry it to pick up her paycheck. Which staff members were around on Sunday evening? That seems like an odd day of the week to issue a check.”

“Not in my world. A lot of our entertainers only work on Friday and Saturday nights.”

That made sense.

I took another bite of my burger.

Anthony pushed a red button on his phone. I heard ringing in a nearby room. “Connie? I’m here with Cragan Collins. We are wondering if someone might have taken Pru’s gun when she was here on Sunday picking up her check. That’s right. Maybe someone took it out of Pru’s purse? Yeah. Has anyone said anything? Seen anything? Could you make me a list of people who were here on Sunday? I mean staff, yes. And ask around, okay? See what you can find out? I think Cragan is onto something. Thanks.”

Anthony’s face clouded with worry as he returned the receiver to its cradle. “Come to think of it, a lot of the talent carry a small weapon. Like you said, they mainly work at night. Often, they have a lot of cash on their persons, thanks to the tips. But that begs the question, why would another performer take Pru’s gun? Wouldn’t that person have his or her own weapon?”

“Unless the goal was to set Pru up?” I supplied the logical answer.

Anthony used a French fry to paint ketchup on his plate. “Is there any other way that gun could have gone missing? Could Sharma’s sister or mother have taken it? Pru was driving them around.”

“That’s remotely possible,” I agreed. “But not likely.”

“I hate the idea that I can’t trust my people. You can’t run a business like this if you are surrounded by people you can’t trust.” Anthony shook his head, sadly. His misery was contagious. I knew exactly how it felt to work with people you couldn’t trust. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

There might be another reason to suspect a person from the club. “The shooter was aware that Sharma sat outside on the roof to smoke her cigarettes. That implies someone who spent time with Sharma and Pru. Somebody who overheard them talking about Sharma’s habit.”

“Good point.” Anthony raised an eyebrow. He fingered his silk tie. It had a light blue pattern and matched the pinstripe in his suit. “You’re sure Pru went straight home from here?”

“Pru was really clear about her plans,” I said. “Sharma had borrowed Pru’s car. Billy was going to drop off Pru at Sharma’s mother’s house. The girls would take Pru’s car and come here to get their checks. They would go to 512 Green Street to drink wine, eat popcorn, and watch TV. If Pru stopped anywhere else while she was out picking up Sharma and her check, that visit was brief. It was around eleven when my date and I left the Chamber of Commerce Gala. We were on our way back to 512 Green Street when we saw red and blue bubble lights, the first sign there had been trouble.”

I poured the rest of my Coke into my glass. Anthony stared off into space, drumming his fingers on the desktop. Suddenly, his expression changed. He was staring past me when his eyes flew wide, and his mouth fell open in surprise. I whirled in my chair to see what had grabbed his attention. Standing behind me, in the open doorway of Anthony’s office, was Connie.

He had a gun pointed at my head.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

With his right foot, Connie kicked the door shut behind him. He swallowed hard. Was he here to protect us? Or…what? My mouth went dry. I couldn’t speak. Anthony glared at his second-in-command.

“What the hell?” Anthony asked.

“Boss? Put your hands up, or I’ll shoot this nosy bitch right here, right now.” Connie’s tone brooked no interference. I sat as still as a garden gnome. In fact, I didn’t dare put down my glass of Coke.

With infinite slowness, Anthony raised his hands. He shook his head. “Connie, this is a bad idea. You really, really do not want to do this.”

“You are right about that. I never wanted things to get this far. I only wanted justice. An eye for an eye, see? Sharma took my career from me, back when she was just plain old Sharon. Football was my whole life, and once my leg was smashed, I became a nobody. I had no future. Not only did she screw me over, she’s the reason my best pal Robbie is dead. See, Sharon was the one who got us drunk that night. She stole the booze from her mother, that lush. A bottle of vodka, one of whiskey, and one of gin. We mixed the alcohol with a container of Hawaiian Punch and went joyriding. Robbie had a fast Camaro, a really sweet little ride. Canary yellow with black racing stripes. Fast? It could get to 120 in nothing flat. Robbie liked showing it off. We’d been drinking when we piled into that muscle car. There was this country road that Robbie bragged about. He’d driven it before. Not a place where cops patrolled. That road was paved. Curvy with a few straight sections. Robbie could really build up speed, cranking through the gears.”

Connie paused to heave a sigh. “Only Robbie wasn’t thinking straight. He got the wrong road. He thought we were on this straight stretch, but we weren’t. There was a bend, and Robbie couldn’t control the car. He took his foot off the gas, and we lost the advantage of centrifugal force. One minute, we were flying along. The next, the tires were coming off the pavement. We shot off that road. I remember how the headlights bumped up and down. I saw tall grasses and bushes go by. Robbie managed to miss a cow, just barely. The car jerked this way and that, throwing us around on the inside. Then this big tree filled the windshield. We’d clipped a huge oak. Robbie jerked the wheel hard to his right. He took all of the impact. I flew out of the car. Went over the dashboard, burst through the window, and skidded along the hood. Smashed my leg all to hell. But Sharon hardly had a scratch. My date, Mindy? She broke her arm and had a mild concussion. Poor Robbie got the worst of it. That tree broke his neck. And me? I lost my football scholarship and a way out of this hellhole.”

Summing up, Connie said, “It ain’t fair.” His eyes were bright with unshed tears. He was grown man, but his expression was that of a little kid after a gumball machine ate his money.

Anthony must have kept his hands in the air because there was no rustle of movement. He was worried about Connie shooting me. Seated behind his desk, the club owner was unable to fix our situation. Anthony couldn’t reach for anything. If he dropped behind the desk, Connie would shoot me and then lean over the surface and aim down at Anthony.

Connie held all the cards. He knew it, too. Now that he’d told his story, he was more relaxed. So much so, that he leaned against the door.

“What was your plan?” I asked. My voice was shaking, but I managed to get out the question. I had to keep him talking. “You have the cops baffled.”

“Ha,” Connie said in a huff of a laugh. “I figured I would kill two birds with one stone. I would shoot Sharon and frame Pru. Pru, who never gives me a second look but is all goo-goo eyes over you, Anthony. Hell, I’ve been in love with Pru from the moment she walked through the door. Not that she even notices me. I’m like the stupid woodwork.”

His face was hangdog with self-pity, as Connie continued, “Just the thought of the two of those bimbos having fun together pushed me over the brink. Ain’t it ironic? There was Pru, who couldn’t give me a chance, and Sharon, who took away my big chance. How much does a guy have to bear, huh? I itched to fix things. Make things right. I overheard the women talking about how Sharon would sit outside Pru’s apartment to have her smokes. Pru’s home address was there in the personnel files. I did a little reconnaissance.” At this, his expression turned sly. Connie was practically preening.

“Taking my best shot at night made sense. When Sharon lit up, the tip of her cigarette would make a great target. Those two girls made it easy. They waltzed in here Sunday night like they owned the place. I told Pru and Sharon that I’d grab their checks while they had a drink and split a burger. Women are predictable, you know? They always put their purses on the floor by their feet. I gave Pru and Sharon long enough to get settled and dig into the food. When I brought them their checks, I knocked over Pru’s purse. Gave it a good kick and sent stuff flying. Of course, I apologized and bent down to pick up all her shit. That made it easy enough to swipe Pru’s gun. The derringer was small. I slipped it into my jacket pocket, and no one guessed I had it. Then along came this nosy bitch, and she figured out what I’d done.” This last slur was meant for me.

Connie’s recitation bought us time. Maybe someone in the club would notice that Anthony and I were missing. Maybe our waitress would return to bring more Cokes. At the very least, Connie was relaxing, and he now focused on airing his grievances.

I had to keep Connie talking. The office smelled like meat and fear. My stomach did a slow twist, and I worried I would puke. Better to distract myself.

“But Connie, you had to climb a tree! In the dark!” I said as if we were talking about scaling Mt. Everest without a sherpa. “Wasn’t that hard?”

“Easy as pie. That bottom branch isn’t real high. I work out at the gym, you know? Pulled myself up into that sugar maple and waited. The only problem was that the trajectory was wrong. After she climbed out of Pru’s apartment, Sharon sat on the far left of that little ledge. That made things tough. I had to lean to the right when I took aim. Pru’s gun is practically worthless. The trigger on her piece is hard to pull. You can’t sight it the way you should. Instead of hitting Sharon in the head, I only grazed her. But that was enough to make her take a tumble.” His laugh bordered on hysterical. The smell of sweat roiled off his body. He was nervous, but he couldn’t be near as nervous as Anthony and I were.

“Sharon went ass over tea kettle. But all the dancing she does? It kept her in great shape. After she hit the ground, Sharon staggered to her feet. Of course, she was dizzy as all get-out, but I didn’t need to finish her off. She lost her balance and crashed into the first-floor window. By the time I got to the ground, Sharon was lying there with her face in the dirt. I wiped my prints off Pru’s gun and tossed it into the bushes.”

As Connie talked, I did quick calculations. Kevin often lectured me about using whatever was at hand as a weapon. In addition, he was a huge believer in the power of surprise.

All that talking had made Connie more and more confident. His aim had drifted a foot away from Anthony and me. Following his shifting stance, I had rotated counterclockwise in my chair. I gripped the back of my chair with my left hand. Now I was practically facing Connie. In my right hand was a nearly full tumbler of ice and Coke.

I figured I had one chance, one opportunity to change the dynamic. Connie was armed, and he’d already tried to kill Sharma. He was ready, willing, and able to kill Anthony and me. I had to do something, and I had to do it by myself. Anthony didn’t dare lower his hands. If he moved, Connie would shoot me. Or he could take out Anthony. Or both of us. But I doubted that Anthony would move, out of fear for my safety.

I thought about grabbing my pepper spray. It was clipped to the handle of my canvas briefcase. But to get the spray, I needed to bend over. And to do that, I needed time. We were only talking seconds, but in this situation, seconds could mean life or death. I had to incapacitate Connie, even if only briefly.

“Like I said,” Connie continued. His smile was cold, “I didn’t really want—”

I tossed my soft drink into the big man’s face. He sputtered. Instinctively, Connie pawed at his eyes with both hands, but he didn’t drop the gun. However, the Coke blinded him. The cola blurred his vision and knocked him off balance. While he stumbled around, I grabbed the trashcan that had been touching my shins. Using all my strength, I slammed the metal container into Connie’s hand, the one with the gun. The rim connected with his fingers, delivering a stinging blow.

“Ouch!” he screamed. The gun still dangled from his hand, so I smacked the can against his fingers a second time. That did it. His weapon hit the floor with a thunk. Time slowed to a crawl. Vaguely, I registered the sound of a desk drawer opening. I hoped—prayed—that Anthony was grabbing a weapon, but I couldn’t chance being wrong. What if Anthony was unarmed? What if the drawer was empty? What if Connie had more than one gun? Maybe even a knife?

Kevin’s voice echoed in my head. “Incapacitate your attacker and run,” he had told me.

But Connie blocked the doorway! Bent over and moaning, he nursed his hand. Where had his gun gone? Had it hit the floor?

Did Anthony have a weapon in his desk? I couldn’t tell, because I was facing Connie, not Anthony. I couldn’t turn my back on Connie, and I couldn’t count on us being rescued.

But I could grab my pepper spray.

I dropped from the chair onto the floor and cowered, expecting a shot to ring out at any second. I fumbled around until my fingers found the canister of pepper spray. I put my index finger on the nozzle.

“It’s over, Connie.” Anthony sounded strong and authoritative, but was he bluffing? I couldn’t tell. From where I huddled on the floor, I couldn’t see what Anthony was doing. I hoped he’d grabbed a gun. I hoped he’d signaled for help. But I couldn’t count on either possibility. I could only count on myself. I adjusted my grip on the canister and aimed the spray.

Some of it hit Connie in the face.

The majority of it floated back toward me.

I coughed and choked and hacked. Tears streamed down my face. My eyes clamped shut, involuntarily. The pain of the spray was stunning. It stung like getting shampoo in your eyes times ten. A brushfire moved down into my throat, burning and causing me to gag. My nose leaked thick ropes of mucous. My body went limp. I collapsed on my side, banging my head against Anthony’s desk and fighting to breathe. Vaguely, I heard Connie coughing. But I couldn’t see him, because I couldn’t see anything!

Kevin’s warning played on an endless loop. I needed to run and hide. My legs bicycled in the air. I was like a beetle that’s been flipped onto its back. Try as I might, I couldn’t right myself. I needed to run, but I couldn’t even get to my feet! I was hacking so hard I thought I’d break a rib. My whole body was one big muscle spasm.

Where had Connie’s revolver gone? Had he found it again? Forcing myself to squint, I could only make out the man’s blurry form. Did he have another weapon? Was he suffering from the aftereffects of the capsaicin like I was? Was he recalibrating and planning to shoot me? Or shoot Anthony? Or gun down both of us?

Using my hands, I swept the area around me. My fingers connected with something cold, something metal and wood. Connie’s revolver. I gripped it. Hard. But a gun is pointless, if you can’t see your target!

“Connie? Hand your knife over to me,” said Anthony.

Oh, crap. Connie had a knife? Kevin had warned me that knives were even more deadly than guns. Especially in close quarters. I tried once more to get a look at Connie. This time I was rewarded by a glint of silver.

I could take a shot, pointing the gun straight up at the ceiling. That would show Connie that I meant business. Maybe he would drop his knife. Maybe the sound would startle him. At the very least, it would signal to Anthony that I was armed. Still hacking and choking, I tried to hold Connie’s gun in both of my hands. The tip of the barrel kept drooping because the firearm was heavy with a long barrel. Compared to Pru’s derringer, Connie’s gun was a beast. I needed to take aim before I pulled the trigger. But to take aim, I needed to be stationary, planted, unwavering. With a groan, I rolled from my knees onto my butt.

I sat down hard in a puddle of splattered cola.

“Put your hands up!” yelled a voice. A slamming sound followed. Through a veil of tears, I saw Connie being shoved to one side. Then came footsteps and more yelling. Someone was running. I knew I shouldn’t rub my eyes, but I had to. The urge was so strong!

I was reaching toward my face when a hand grabbed mine and pulled me to my feet. I didn’t fight the grip. Instead, I used my sleeve to wipe my face. I couldn’t see a thing! My nose and my eyes ran like broken faucets. The gunk pouring down my throat soured my stomach, sickening me.

“Is she all right?” Anthony’s voice floated toward me from somewhere far away.

“She will be.” That was Kevin. I could tell.

He pulled me into his arms. “You know what Shakespeare said about Cragan? Though she be but little she is fierce.”

Anthony laughed. “You’re telling me.”

Strong hands lifted my body onto a gurney. Anonymous fingers tucked a towel around my face. A deep voice warned, “I’m going to squirt saline solution in your eyes. Try to blink and keep on blinking, okay?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. A squirt of lukewarm liquid washed out my eyes, but they stung so badly I couldn’t open them properly.

A blue blob hovered over me. That same deep voice said, “Okay, hon, hang in there. Try not to rub your skin. You’ll grind the pepper spray into your pores. Now we’re going to flush out your nose.”

Before I could protest, someone stuck a rubber tube into my left nostril. Rough hands raised my head—presumably so I wouldn’t drown—and a flood of warm, salty water invaded my nasal passages. Some of it went down my throat. I retched. A plastic bowl was shoved under my mouth, and I puked repeatedly.

“Poor kid.” Anthony was talking. Probably to Kevin. Overhead, the fluorescent panels blinked and snapped. Someone threw a thin blanket over me. I shivered and gasped. I had trouble getting a good, deep breath. My lungs made a wheezing sound like a broken church organ. I gulped air like a goldfish coming to the surface, but I couldn’t fill my lungs. The edges of my vision turned black.

“Shit! She’s going into anaphylactic shock. Having an allergic reaction. Where’s the epinephrine? Give it to her, stat!”

“Got it,” said a man.

“Taking her in for observation,” said a voice. “Get those clothes off of her. They’re full of pepper spray. It’s being absorbed through her skin. Ye gods, her arms are purple!”

I felt a pinch in my bicep. I thought, “I have not a shred of dignity left. None.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I woke up choking. The collar of my hospital gown was twisted around my neck. In fact, the whole gown was cattywampus. I must have had a restless night. Squinting and looking around, I accessed my situation. Metal side rails held me a prisoner in my bed. A nearly threadbare cotton blanket covered me. A cotton sheet was under me. Tubes were taped to my left arm. The right side seemed unfettered, so I used that hand to tug at the bias binding twisted around my throat.

“Whoa.” A soft hand grabbed mine. “Don’t do that. Let me help.”

I turned and looked into Pru’s eyes. Without makeup, she looked strangely washed out and pale.

“You’re out of jail!” Tears welled up in my eyes. “Oh, Pru. I was so worried.”

She adjusted the collar of my gown before taking both of my hands in hers. “Thanks to you, the charges were dropped. But that’s not important. You’ve really been through the wringer. Between confronting a crazed shooter and having an allergic reaction to pepper spray, you were exhausted. In fact, you’ve been asleep for 24 hours. Probably has something to do with the antihistamine they gave you. It knocked you out. How do you feel?”

I burst into tears. Pru’s expression changed from tender to panicked, as she called the nurse. A stout woman in a white uniform hurried to check on me. I was blubbering too hard to explain what I was feeling. Pru was free and safe. She wasn’t in jail. She wouldn’t be charged with a crime—

“How is Sharma?” I asked while the nurse took my pulse.

Pru smiled. “She’s better. When she fell, she suffered a mild concussion. As for her face, there’s a good plastic surgeon on call here. He thinks the abrasion will heal nicely even though it’ll take six months to a year for the scar to fade.”

The nurse stuck a thermometer under my tongue and put a finger to her own lips in the universal symbol for silence.

Pru kept talking. “Anthony sent flowers. He says you saved his life. Connie is in jail without bond. Those flowers over there are from the newspaper, I think. The card is missing.”

Maybe Cindy had sent them on behalf of the ad department.

“Kevin has been in to check on you three times. He was pretty ticked off with Connie. In fact, Anthony says that Kevin was spoiling for the chance to rough Connie up, but the other officers stopped him.” Pru chewed on her bottom lip. Typically, Pru is calm and in control. This time, not so much.

I wondered why, and so I asked, “What’s wrong?”

The nurse was checking my blood pressure, when Pru said, “I don’t know if I would have gotten out of jail without your help. My lawyer, Ziggy Eichen, was doing everything he could, but Connie had stitched me up pretty good. I never knew he was seething with anger. I didn’t mean to reject him; he just isn’t my type. And all that time, he was plotting his revenge. Makes me sick.”

Great beauty can be a great curse. Pru was beyond gorgeous. So was Sharma. Their looks would probably last for at least a decade or more. Men would lust after them, but most guys wouldn’t take the time to learn how smart or capable they were. Some guys might even take offense at their independent ways. And then there would be fellows like Connie who would feel rebuffed for no real reason at all.

The nurse waited until she had my blood pressure reading, and then she asked me, “Are you ready for lunch? The doctor plans to release you this afternoon.”

“I am always ready to eat,” I said. Turning to Pru, I asked, “Did somebody call the newspaper and explain why I’m not at work? You said they sent flowers, but I’m worried about my job.”

The nurse left to turn in my lunch order. Pru pulled her chair closer to my bed. “Winnie was monitoring the police scanner. After she got the gist of what happened to you at Fast Freddy’s, she called a friend here. Her pal promised to phone Winnie with news as soon as you arrived.”

Friend. Why was that word sending off alarm bells in my head?

Pru noticed the change in my expression. “What is it? You okay?”

I nodded. An elusive thought nibbled at my consciousness. I tried to nail it down, but it escaped. I said, “As long as someone in the ad department knows where I am, it’s fine. Winnie will make sure my advertisers don’t miss a deadline while I’m gone.” I paused because I didn’t want to give away all of my secrets. Not yet. I considered several lines of inquiry before finally blurting, “Does Ross know where I am?”

“Zee called the store, but she missed him. She plans to run by TSC at lunch. I expect she’ll have caught up with Ross by the time you’re back home.”

“What’s happening with Sharma? Is she okay? And SaraLynn? Are they both going back to Chicago?” I gripped the thin blanket. I wanted to hear how this story ended.

“Sharma is better. She and Terri Jo came to an agreement. SaraLynn will finish out the year here. When summer vacation rolls around, she’ll move up to Chicago with Sharma and Hector. They’ll look at schools and re-evaluate everything when fall rolls around.”

I would have nodded, but any motion made my head hurt. “That sounds very sensible.”

Pru agreed. “Terri Jo has no legal right to SaraLynn. She was pushing Sharma around, and after nearly dying, Sharma put her foot down. About time, don’t you think?”

I certainly did.

Pru stopped talking. I knew her well enough to know what she was thinking, and she was doing the sort of thinking that went hand in hand with a problem she didn’t want to share.

“And Anthony is okay? I should have asked about him right off,” I said.

“He is.” Pru leaned in to plant a kiss on my forehead. “Craigie? Promise you won’t be mad at me. Promise.”

A chill wormed through me. It began in my feet and wiggled all the way up my spine. Very slowly, I said, “Okay. I promise. What is it?”

Pru stared down at our interlocked hands. “I, um, sort of panicked when I heard you’d been taken to the hospital. I knew you’d been in an altercation. Kevin told me about Connie holding a gun to your head.”

She was avoiding something. This was drivel. I clamped my jaw shut and waited. This wasn’t like Pru. Not at all. She was hiding something from me. But what and why?

“When they brought you in, you were in shock. Anaphylactic shock. That scared me. I didn’t know whether you’d be okay.”

I seethed. She was really, really dragging this out. If I interrupted her, it might take her even longer to get to the point. I licked my lips and waited.

“The hospital wanted to know about your next of kin.” Now, Pru was talking fast. She’d shifted into “get it over with mode.” She continued, “And I was in a panic, so I did what I promised I’d never do. I, um, I called your mother.”

My eyes filled with hot tears that spilled over. Pru had betrayed me. I’d given her my mother’s contact info in case of an emergency. A life-or-death situation. I’d trusted Pru. She had let me down.

She couldn’t look me in the eyes.

Chattering away, Pru said, “Rosie has your cat. I’m heading back to the apartment because they’re installing a new window at your place. Oh, and we didn’t call your grandmother. We figured there was no reason to upset her. Especially once we learned you would be fine.”

I thanked her, but the words were like ashes in my mouth.

“Craigie? You aren’t mad at me, are you?”

I flicked the tears off my face. Yes, I was mad. I was angry as all get out. I wanted to pretend I wasn’t, but I didn’t have the energy to put on a stellar performance. Instead, I told her, “Hey, I’m really tired.”

“Yes, I bet you are. Okay, see you later. Call me, and I’ll come and pick you up to take you home.” Once again, she kissed my forehead. I didn’t smile. I couldn’t.

After she left, I indulged in a good, long cry.

Actually, I sobbed myself to sleep. When I woke up, lunch was served. I’m not keen on yellow Jell-O, but the rest of the meal was okay. Around three, a doctor came in, checked my chart, pronounced me fit to leave, and walked out. Pru had left me a bag with a jogging suit, undies, socks, and shoes.

I took a taxi home. The passenger seat held the flowers from the paper and from Anthony.

“Somebody died?” the driver asked.

“Nope. Fortunately, two somebodies lived to fight another day.”

“That’s nice,” he said.

“Right.”

When we arrived at 512 Green Street, I had the driver pull around back. My RX-7 waited for me. Someone had driven it back from Fast Freddy’s and parked it in my usual spot. I had no doubt that the keys were in my apartment, waiting for me. When I opened the door to my place, I stood on the threshold with my eyes closed. I inhaled the leftover scent of Prell as it mingled with the floral arrangements in my arms. Pru had been correct; the new window had been installed. Five minutes after I closed the door, Rosie showed up with Julio in tow. She had made an enchilada casserole for me. Julio ran back upstairs and retrieved Sher Kahn. On the next trip, he brought down the cat’s things. Rosie insisted that I sit at my table and let her serve me, since she and Julio had already eaten at her shop. She was babying me, and I appreciated it. After she’d filled my plate and my glass, Rosie bid me goodnight. Julio gave me a kiss on the cheek. I’d cleaned my plate when Zee rapped on the door. I let her in.

“I called TSC. Even went by. I didn’t catch up to Ross,” Zee said. She looked mildly miffed, as though Ross had absconded with her wallet. I offered her some of the enchilada casserole. She accepted, and we sat together at my table.

A few bites into her food, Zee set down her fork and said, “I still don’t understand one thing. Why did Connie kidnap SaraLynn?”

I took a sip of my water and said, “I’m not sure he did.”

“Say what?”

I sighed. I was tired. “Could we talk about this tomorrow?” I asked. “I’m beat. But I do have a chore for you. I need a new attorney. I’m not going to be bullied by anyone and that includes Mr. Platzky and Robert Smithson’s estranged family. What a bunch of bloodsuckers!”

“Not only will I find you a new lawyer, I’ll help you draft a letter to the Illinois Bar Association with a complaint about Platzky.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

With that, Zee left. In the kitchen, I tore a page from my “to do” list. With a thick black marker, I wrote: Do Not Disturb. I taped it to my door and curled up in bed with a good book that I didn’t read.

* * *

After a night of bad dreams, I woke up bright and early, did my chores, and got to the paper at seven thirty. Winnie had left me a detailed note, explaining which ads she’d picked up and which ones she’d scheduled. I went over her message, point by point, and created a list of businesses I should call on. These I divided into phone calls and visits, as I had some customers who, in a pinch, were flexible. And some weren’t.

Not many businesses were open before eight, but TSC was one of them. I dialed the store. A perky female voice answered. When I asked for Ross, she told me, “He’s not here.”

I figured he was at Dixie Dee, eating breakfast, so I thanked her and hung up.

I plotted my route, taking care not to backtrack and to move efficiently from one business to the next. As I loaded supplies into my canvas briefcase, Elizabeth Varney came walking in with Jeb Sennett. One look confirmed there was hanky-panky happening. Their body language was entirely too intimate. Well, more power to them, I decided.

Although I was technically fine, I did feel a little like a zombie as I drove from advertiser to advertiser. Along the way, I thought about Pru’s confession. It hadn’t surprised me that my mother hadn’t called to check on me after she’d heard I’d been hospitalized. Isabella, as my mother preferred for me to call her, had made her position perfectly clear two years ago. “Tim doesn’t beat you. He’s a good-looking man, and men will stray. I’d rather see you dead than divorced, Cragan.”

And she’d almost gotten her wish! Lucky girl, that Isabella.

Once again, I felt teary. This time, I gave myself a mental slap. I was done with crying. Especially over my mother. I had no more tears to waste on her.

For lunch, I stopped at the Sinclair station and used their pay phone. After the attendant filled my gas tank, I ate cheese crackers and peanut butter, washing my vending machine meal down with a Diet Rite Cola. Then I drove to Brentwood Village. As I had suspected, Write Now was open. The displays in the window had been recently refreshed. The owner must be feeling unusually chipper.

The door minder jingled, as I stepped inside. Lorna Gillespie was busy, using a feather duster to clean the top display shelves. She had definitely noticed my arrival, but she chose not to greet me. I wasn’t surprised. She and I hadn’t hit it off. I had one piece of business to clear up with Lorna, and then I was finished.

“Lorna? I know what you did.” I pointed to the sign with the misspelled word freind.

She finally turned around. Her eyes followed the direction of my index finger. That one word had been the clue that niggled at me. I’d seen that particular misspelling before—it had been written on the threatening note that had tumbled out of SaraLynn’s backpack.

I said, “Most people think mothers are saints. I know better.”

Lorna froze. With the feather duster raised high in one hand, she reminded me of Mary Poppins with her umbrella. But Lorna was no Mary Poppins. She was more like Snow White’s evil stepmother. And like her cruel role model, Lorna didn’t even flinch. She only looked at me coldly and said, “You better walk back out of that front door and never come back. You aren’t welcome here.”

“No problem. I’ll go outside and wait for the police.”

“The hell you will. You’re going to march right over to my counter, pick up the store phone, and call off their visit.”

I stood my ground. “Too late. You lose. In fact, you’re nothing but a loser. You coerced your daughter into helping you, didn’t you? Poor Marian. She’s a pawn and you’re the one who plays her. You borrowed the van from the florist next door. You took off the magnetic sign. You called two football players, ones your husband had coached. You used your own daughter as bait. You told Marian to get SaraLynn in the van, by hook or by crook. You even had Marian slip a note into SaraLynn’s backpack, a threatening message telling SaraLynn to keep quiet. You wanted your husband to go back into teaching in the worst way. You hoped Burt’s new position would bypass public scrutiny. Once he was hired, the nuns would never fire him. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted him to leave you alone? You were happy for him to molest little girls as long as he didn’t touch you. I wonder what they call a person who’s an accessory to a pedophile?”

“You’re insane. I’m calling The Gazette,” Lorna Gillespie said. “I’m going to talk to your supervisor and make sure you’re fired.”

“Yeah, yeah. You do that. Be forewarned: You’ll have to take a number and stand in line. Just so you know, the cops are already on their way. I called them from the pay phone at the Sinclair station. Guess what else I figured out? You are the one who encouraged Connie Szerba to shoot Sharma. Yes, you figured a crisis like that would throw SaraLynn into a panic—and she’d be too distracted to notice that Burt was coming to St. Xavier’s as a teacher. Unfortunately, Connie realized I was onto him. That’s one reason he decided to kill Anthony Calamari and me. What do you suppose the penalty is for encouraging someone to commit murder?”

“You can’t prove a thing,” said Lorna.

“Fortunately, she doesn’t have to.” Kevin tossed aside the beaded curtains in the store’s back room and walked over to Lorna. While she stared at him blankly, he snapped a pair of handcuffs on her wrists. “See, I’ve already retrieved the note that you left in SaraLynn’s backpack. Too bad you never learned to spell ‘friends.’ Connie Szerba is singing like a canary. And I overheard your threats, Mrs. Gillespie. I’d like for you to come with me to the police station, right now.”

* * *

While I had been in the hospital, the ever-resourceful Winnie had talked to a contact at social services. Once they found out that Mrs. Gillespie had staged a kidnapping and was under arrest, on top of the fact that Burt Gillespie had been reported once already for molesting his stepdaughter, they located a foster family willing to take Marian.

When we’d talked on the phone, Kevin had explained there was nothing legally he could do about Burt Gillespie, but he did have a suggestion. While I was making sales calls, Winnie had gone to The Gazette’s education reporter, Mack Pherson. She told him everything and alerted him to Lorna Gillespie’s arrest. Mack was especially interested in how St. Xavier’s could justify hiring someone who’d been reported once by a school nurse for touching a child inappropriately.

I couldn’t be sure that Marian would always be safe, but at least for the time being, she was not under the same roof as her parents. I guess you have to take your wins when you can get them.

After the dust cleared, I wanted someone to share my triumph. Someone special. I drove to TSC. The fact is I hadn’t seen Ross since the night of the gala. Surely, he wasn’t the type of guy who only cared about one thing? He’d gotten me into his bed. He’d seemed fine when we’d gone to breakfast. Most guys who “hit and run” act cold the morning after. Ross was warm, loving, and we’d even talked about children.

Surely, he’d gotten busy at work and not had the chance to swing by or phone me? That had to be it. Ross was nothing, if not loyal.

The store didn’t close until seven, so I figured I had a good chance of catching him. I parked, hopped out, and walked through to his office.

That stopped me in my tracks.

Gone was the sign on his desk with his name. The top of the desk had been cleared. There were no personal knickknacks on the window sill. In fact, the office looked like someone had vacated it. Moved out. The inboxes were empty. Even his coffee mug was gone.

That was odd. Really weird. I turned around and went to look for someone who could tell me where Ross was.

At the front register, I waited until the clerk rang up a customer. “Hi,” I said in a cheerful voice. “I’m Cragan Collins from the newspaper. I was looking for Ross Gentry. Have you seen him?”

“Nope, and I don’t expect to see him, neither.” The middle-aged clerk wore a red TSC vest. Her glasses dangled from a chain around her neck. Her silver hair had been permed into tight curls, and her lipstick had worn off.

“Okay, so he’s out? On vacation?” I fought a sense of panic. No need to act like a silly goose, I told myself. There’s a reasonable explanation.

“He’s gone, and he ain’t coming back. He quit.” The clerk gave me a hard stare, as if suggesting this was all my fault.

My mouth sagged open. It was like the clerk had slapped me in the face. I stuttered, “Excuse me? Um, are you kidding?”

“No, ma’am, I am not. If you need help, I can call the assistant manager to the front. Maybe he can get you fixed up.” She reached over and put one hand on the black Bakelite phone, but I stopped her.

“No need,” I said. I should have told her “thank you,” but I couldn’t bring myself to say those words. They would have rung hollow.

I literally ran to my car. I was pretty sure I could remember the way to Ross’s house. As I drove, I worked through a variety of scenarios in my head. Ross had got angry, he’d had enough, and he quit. They changed district managers, and Ross didn’t want to move, so he quit. Ross decided to…what? Go back to school? Take a sabbatical? I couldn’t fill in the blanks.

I made two wrong turns that sent my car sliding on country roads. Each time, I fought a rising wave of panic. Had this all been a dream? Did Ross really exist? How could he just leave? Why hadn’t he phoned me? Or had he tried, but I’d been in the hospital? He knew where I lived and where I worked. Surely, he could have left a message.

On the third try, I found the right road. I remembered how slowly it angled up until it reached the trees that surrounded Ross’s house. The door he had used was in the back, so I drove around the house. There I spotted a white Cadillac parked by the garages. A man was standing at the back door and messing with the doorknob. As I turned off my engine, he looked over and acknowledged my presence with a nod.

“Howdy,” he said. His voice was deep and welcoming. His combover gleamed in the sun. He had on a brown wash-and-wear suit, a polyester blend that looked dated.

“Hi. I’m a friend of Ross’s. Is he here?” I did my best to sound breezy and casual.

“No, he’s not here.” The man fiddled with what looked like a padlock.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I shot the fellow my best smile. There was a good chance this guy would tell me to buzz off. After all, it wasn’t safe to give out personal information, and that’s what I was requesting.

“Can’t rightly say. He told me to rent this place out for at least a couple of months.”

“He what?” I couldn’t have heard that right.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Harvey Nilson. Nilson Real Estate. I can make you a good deal on this place, if you’re looking for a house to rent.”

All the air went out of my lungs. My hand flew up to cover my mouth. Ross put his home up for rent? That must have been a snap decision. He hadn’t mentioned it to me.

“You okay, miss?” Harvey studied me. He had small eyes, that now seemed to bore holes in my skull.

“Uh…” I stopped. I needed to tread carefully. I said, “I’m Ross’s advertising rep. I stopped by TSC. You wouldn’t happen to know where he went, would you?”

It was a stupid question. Of course, Harvey Nilson knew where Ross was. Otherwise, how could they do business? How could Harvey send Ross the rent checks?

“No, I don’t. I sure can’t help you. I was told to mail his money to a post office box. He said he’d call me in a month or so, but mainly, he left everything up to me.”

“I see,” I said, and I ducked my head so Harvey Nilson couldn’t look me in the eyes. I didn’t want the man to feel sorry for me. “Thanks for your time.”

I got in my RX-7 and drove home. My hands shook, and my stomach was knotted. I tried not to believe that Ross had left without a word, but…

He had.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I approached 512 Green Street from the back, driving up the alley. No one else was home. Resting my forehead on the steering wheel, I let hot tears run down my face. “Damn it!” I slammed my fist against the wheel. When would I learn? I must be the stupidest woman on earth when it came to men.

A knock on the window startled me. I jumped in my seat.

Ross was standing outside my door with his hand on the handle. He pulled as I pushed and I nearly fell onto the ground. Fortunately, he grabbed me by the arm at the last minute.

“Leave me alone!” I beat at his chest. “Go away.”

“Whoa, whoa, come on, slow down,” he said as he pinned my arms. “What’s gotten into you?”

“You’re leaving? Taking off? Without a word?” I kicked at him and got him square in the shin.

“Ouch.” He turned me so my back was to him. His hold was strong and he slid his hands around my arms in a caress, but I tried to head-butt him. I was furious. I even tried to stomp on his arch, but those cowboy boots were too tough for me. I cried and coughed and sputtered and finally sagged like an empty sack.

“Little girl, little girl. What on earth has gotten into you?” he repeated as he kissed my neck. “Why don’t you tell me what’s gotten you all het up?”

“You’re leaving and you didn’t tell me. You didn’t say. You must have planned this.” I shrugged him off as if he were an old overcoat. The steps I took were staggering, but Ross had grabbed the back of my pants. It could have looked comical, but I was too upset to see the humor. I swatted at his hand. In the process, I dropped my keys.

“Lord love you, you are in one hell of a state,” he said, snapping up the keys. In one quick move, he swung me over his shoulder and carried me up the back steps. The outside door yielded to him, and next he got my apartment door to open. That he slammed shut with a backward kick.

We tumbled down on my sofa. His cowboy hat fell to the floor and rolled away. Sher Kahn hissed at it. I was tired from fighting Ross and he wouldn’t let me go. Instead, I buried my face in his shirt and howled. After a bit, he got up, went to my bathroom, and brought back a damp washcloth. Like a parent does a child, he wiped my messy face.

“You ready to tell me what’s got you all upset?” He pulled me to him, cradling me in his arms.

“You’re leaving.”

“Yes, I am.”

I whined. “A-a-and you didn’t tell me? You put your place up for rent? You quit your job? What are you a hit-and-run type of guy? What a creep!”

Ross took both of my hands in his. “I’m an honorable man who has something he needs to clear up before he can court you properly. I’ve been sitting on it too long, and it’s time to make it go away.”

“What a load of bullshit.” I heaved a big sigh. “You’ll have to do better than that, buddy.”

He laughed. “I intend to. I figured you’d want more, and I plan to give it to you. You deserve it. Only you have to wait.”

“You didn’t come see me in the hospital.”

“They wouldn’t let me. I sent roses. Those yellow ones over there.” He tipped his chin toward the bunch that hadn’t had a card.

I was not going to give up or give in easily. “Ryder told me to wait. I’ve heard this song and dance before.”

Ross lifted my chin. “Do I look like Ryder? Am I anything like Ryder?”

I went a little weak. A heat began inside of me, a deep down longing. “No,” I finally managed.

“Here’s the deal: You give me six weeks, and I’ll give you sixty years.”

I stared at him. His blue eyes were steady, honest, and pure. There wasn’t a hint of guile. I wasn’t sure what to say. I could only breathe and even that was hard.

He kissed me gently. “Do we have a deal?”

And I said, “Yes.”

~The End~

WANT TO LEARN MORE ABOUT FEISTY CRAGAN COLLINS?

You may love the first book in the series: The Friday Night Mystery Club. Set in Decatur, Illinois/1986 - A nasty divorce leaves Cragan Collins with a mountain of bills and her grandmother to support. She takes a job as an ad salesperson for The Gazette. The market is tough, but Cragan finds a mentor in business reporter, Robert Smithson. One icy January day, Robert is found dead in a city park. His murder is dismissed as gay-on-gay crime. Cragan asks The Friday Night Mystery Club to find justice for Robert. Will Cragan's quest for the truth land her on the obituary page? You can find it here - 

https://amzn.to/3tByhL9

If you enjoyed this book, you’d probably enjoy other works by Joanna Campbell Slan. Why not treat yourself to a free sample? You can download any (or all) of the first chapters of the first books in three of Joanna’s series.

If you like contemporary fiction, with a mystery at its heart, a female amateur sleuth, a DIY and recycling theme, and a Florida setting…you’ll love the Cara Mia Delgatto Mystery Series. That first book is Tear Down and Die. (https://dl.bookfunnel.com/vldqy85epu)

If you like contemporary fiction, with a mystery at its heart, a female amateur sleuth, an emphasis on paper and needle crafts, and a Midwest (St. Louis, Missouri) setting…you’ll love the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series. That first book is Paper, Scissors, Death, a finalist for the Agatha Award. 

(https://dl.bookfunnel.com/j4homy3qmx)

If you like historical fiction, with a mystery at its heart, a female amateur sleuth, based on a much loved classic, and a setting in London…you’ll love The Jane Eyre Chronicles. That first book is Death of a Schoolgirl, winner of the Daphne du Maurier Award for Literary Excellence.

(https://bookhip.com/MGCBVXX)

And don’t miss Joanna’s newest series! The first book in a new cozy mystery series featuring a mature female amateur sleuth!

What Nan Crockett wants is a little serenity. What she gets is a dead body… Rising Water: Book #1 in the Tai Chi Mystery Series - https://amzn.to/31OznId

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR…

JOANNA CAMPBELL SLAN

Joanna is a New York Times and a USA Today bestselling author who has written more than 70 books, both fiction and non-fiction. Currently, she writes four ongoing mystery series: the Kiki Lowenstein cozy mysteries (Agatha Award finalist/first novel contemporary); the Jane Eyre Chronicles (Daphne du Maurier Award for Literary Excellence winner/historical); the Cara Mia Delgatto mysteries (contemporary); and the Friday Night Mystery Club mysteries (set in 1980s). She’s also the editor and co-author of the Sherlock Holmes Fantasy books.

Her publication career began as one of the earliest Chicken Soup for the Soul contributors, and her stories appear in five of those New York Times bestselling books. Joanna’s first non-fiction book, Using Stories and Humor: Grab Your Audience (Simon & Schuster/Pearson), was endorsed by Toastmasters International and lauded by Benjamin Netanyahu’s speechwriter. Her books on scrapbooking have won fans all over the world, and she has taught scrapbooking techniques in Europe and on cruise ships, as well as in the United States.

When she isn’t writing, Joanna is an avid crafter. Contact Joanna at JCSlan@JoannaSlan.com.

Follow her on social media by going here https://www.linktr.ee/JCSlan