Mona

Chapter 1

A sharp, metallic thwap jarred me from a sound sleep. I was upright, feet on the floor before I was even awake, but this was nothing new. All the bleary-eyed languidness was drilled out of me ages ago. Twelve years fighting fires will turn a person into a very light sleeper, and for good reason. Reaction times are crucial but they play hell on your nerves.

I automatically reached for my boots. Of course, they weren't there.

I cracked open an eyelid. No uniform rows of cots. No buzzing and forever dim fluorescent lights. No rampant snoring coming from under humps of twisted blankets to the left and right of me.

Silence.

I was at home. I must've imagined the sound. The clock on the bedside table said 4:30. Daylight was still hours away. Grumpily swiping tangled hair out of my eyes, I began to burrow back under the cushy mounds of my down comforter.

And then the sound repeated.

"What the?"

I threw blankets aside, sat up and listened. Another solid thunk and an incredulous thought slid into my consciousness.

Someone is breaking into Sister!

The idea propelled me off the bed and to the window at top speed. I pressed my face up against the cool glass, eyes following the sweep of well-trimmed lawn, to the garden stile overgrown with hedge roses and beyond to the unexpected sight of Sister, every window blazing light.

With one astonished eye on the scene outside, I grabbed jeans and sweatshirt from where I had dropped them on the floor, yanked them on, slid my feet into Nikes and raced downstairs. Grabbing the baseball bat I kept behind the kitchen door, I crept outside, making sure the screen door closed quietly behind me.

Poor Sister looked even more derelict in the dark, even with light spilling from its dirty windows. Though it was a twin of my own house, the resemblance had grown indistinct over the years. I had remodeled and refined while time and weather wore away at Sister, until the two houses, built side by side on the shore of a large and placid lake, looked like before-and-after pictures of each other. Warm lavender and wet grass added their clean scents to the humid air as I crept along. Crickets in the weeds and the soft hooting of an owl crouching in the trees told me the obvious. It was still the middle of the night and caution might be the best approach.

Tiptoeing through the shadows of eucalyptus, oak and scattered palms, the baseball bat held aloft like Babe Ruth about to knock one out of the park, I reached the garden stile, hoisted one leg over and then stopped, astonishment multiplying. There, in Sister's overgrown kitchen garden, I saw a vision, a tiny figure dressed all in white, twirling round and round.

For a moment, thoughts of ghosts flitted through my normally rational but weary brain before I shook my head and banished them. What was she doing there?

The little girl stopped spinning, staggered dizzily, giggled, and then collapsed, soiling the back of her dress on the slick grass. A light breeze whirred through the palm leaves, rattling them like beans in an empty gourd. The girl tilted her head at the sound, her face wiped blank with curiosity. Sprawled on the ground, face turned toward me, I saw angelic long blonde curls, chubby cheeks and big round eyes.

Another metallic thud, and little girl and I started in unison.

"Hope!" a feminine voice called sharply. The little girl jumped to her feet and ran through the trees. I, feeling very foolish but still curious, followed. She rounded the corner of the house and sprinted across the tall grass of the front lawn, halting at the edge of the crumbling sidewalk, which lead to the porch.

"Mommy, can I have a tree house?" she asked, doing an impatient dance, mincing back and forth, hands twisting the ribbon sash on her dress. A U-Haul was parked in the gravel drive, the back thrown open. Someone rattled around inside. Must be mommy. With a surprising lurch, a floral tapestry sofa skidded down the ramp followed by the back of a sweating, straining blonde woman who shoved at the other end.

"Well, honey," the woman panted in between shoves, "Let's see what we need to do to the real house before we start making tree houses, okay?"

Realizing I still held the baseball bat like I was preparing to club somebody, I dropped it down behind my back and then flattened myself against the side of the old house before I peered cautiously around the corner.

Neighbors.

Pulling my head back, I leaned against Sister's peeling clapboard and sighed, mind reeling. For five years, I'd had the lake and the land all around it to myself. Not counting the year I'd shared both with Laurel, of course, but I wasn't going to let myself think about that now.

And now my haven had been invaded. Goodbye privacy.

Judging from the thunderous stomping sounds and ensuing squeals of pleasure that seemed to rattle the windows, I gathered the little girl had gone inside.

Peeking around the corner, I saw the woman struggling to heave the sofa up the front steps, one inch at a time. For a moment, I felt compelled to drop the baseball bat in the bushes and volunteer my services. But then the woman set the sofa down, turning toward me as she looked up at the sky. She pushed a sweaty tendril out of her eyes. I dropped the bat, too stunned to move or speak.

She was pretty. I couldn't deny that. A slim body and long, wavy strawberry blonde hair guaranteed she'd get a second look by most people wherever she went, but that wasn't what floored me. Wistful green eyes, greener than the mint leaves that grew wild all around, seemed to swallow me whole. For an instant, I experienced the oddest paralyzing feeling, as if some deep and hidden part of me was rising from the murky depths within, commanded by an answering mystery in this woman's eyes. An unsettling ache took up residence in my ribcage. The palms of my hands tingled. I watched, rapt, as the woman slumped on the edge of the sofa, tears streaking her cheeks. Her lips trembled and she pressed them together hard, biting down her grief. And then abruptly, she leapt to her feet, swiping a hand across her eyes, simultaneously setting her features in a more determined expression. Bending down, she gave one last try to lift the sofa again, fumbled and dropped it.

"Goddammit!" she shrieked, kicking at a wooden sofa leg and missing. Stumbling, she caught herself, bumping a shin on the edge of the ramp. I flinched in sympathy.

"Mommy, are you okay?" came the little girl's voice from inside.

"Yeah, baby. I'm fine," the woman replied, choking back a sob. She looked down at the sofa. "Screw it," she mumbled, throwing her hands in the air, waving away all responsibility for the uncooperative piece of furniture. "I need coffee."

Still staring, I experienced a dirty, almost criminal sense of guilt for standing in the dark and spying on the woman, and most especially for not even helping with the sofa. Slowly, I retraced my steps in the darkness until I reached my own back door. Pushing through the screen door, I let it slam behind me, then dropped the baseball bat on the kitchen table and didn't bother to pick it up when it rolled off, clattering to the wood floor.

"You're an old fool," I muttered, wearily climbing the stairs.

Slipping back under my cozy down comforter, I closed my eyes, willing myself back to sleep. It was not to be. My mind wouldn't cooperate. Flipping over onto my stomach, I buried my face in a pillow then groaned as another crash reverberated through the stillness.

Chapter Two

"I'm going to kill Sally," I mumbled to no one in particular while munching toast over the kitchen sink the next morning.

The crashing and banging had continued throughout the night. My bloodshot eyes attested to the perfect clarity of each and every sound. I stared out the kitchen window at the commotion next door.

Workmen, in the form of Mike Tetzlaff and his buddy Dean Cameron, were responsible for the racket now. The woman and her child were nowhere to be seen. Mike and Dean had arrived at about 7 am, loudly unloading numerous 2 x 4's from Mike's pickup. They had both stripped off their shirts and were strutting back and forth from truck to the woodpile. For the benefit of the pretty neighbor, I surmised.

"Just great," I muttered. "Not only do I get loud neighbors, now I have to deal with those two yahoos."

Mike and Dean were to blame for some of my worst middle-school memories. They had tortured me mercilessly during those crucial developing years, taking special notice of my burgeoning bosom with all the cruelty and doggedness in which twelve-year-old boys specialize.

Mentally, the two hadn't progressed much since. After high school, they had formed a business partnership, as carpenters/handymen. (This from a pair of wood-shop dropouts.) In an effort to advertise this new home-grown business, Mike had painted Tetzlaff and Cameron Portable Repair Unit in uneven spray paint on both sides of his decrepit, rusty truck. The homemade sign had worn off over the years, but miraculously, the truck still remained mobile. One side now read Came Por nit. The other side read laff able Repair. I doubt they'd even noticed the irony.

Mike and Dean began pulling out the buzz saws, and other noisy equipment, for what looked like an extended project.

I took my coffee onto the front porch, hoping the gentle lulling motion of the porch swing would distract me from thoughts of slow, painful retribution. The lake was a silvery skin, calm and smooth, as round and wide as a smiling face. Ripples, like laugh lines fanned out at its edges. The swing chain creaked in a monotonous murmur, just loud enough to drown out the whine of a saw. I let out a long breath, bare feet skimming over the painted boards of my front porch. Back and forth. Back and forth. The tension eased. I closed my eyes.

"Mommy! MOMMMMY!"

The noise of construction paled in comparison to this shriek. I started up from the swing and it swatted me in the shins. I clenched my teeth and bit my lip in pain, eyes skimming the landscape for the source of that awful high-pitched summons.

I spied the little girl, once again playing in the shadow of the trees. She was hopping up and down, face screwed up, hands alternately flailing in the air and brushing at her chubby legs.

"MOMMY! GET THEM OFF OF ME!!" The shriek became a wail as a white streak burst from the house and rocketed across the lawn. The woman bent down, scooping the girl into her arms, her long blonde hair swinging forward and hiding their faces. She was wearing jean shorts and a white t-shirt streaked with grime but even from a distance she looked amazing. I couldn't make myself not stare.

Dropping to her knees, she drew the red-faced child on her lap and gave soothing nods as the girl pointed to her leg and cried rivers of tears. The whir of power tools ceased as the girl suddenly renewed her caterwauling, the increased volume now fed by the sympathetic attentions of her mother.

Fire ants, no doubt. They've got a wicked sting and there are giant mounds of them in front of Sister.

It occurred to me then that I really ought to make my presence known, at least to warn them about the fire ants, and the snakes by the lake's edge, but then the mother stood, taking the child's tiny hand and lead her inside.

I'd introduce myself later. Plenty of time for that.

The symphony of metallic clamor didn't end until well after sunset. The day was fruitful, if quiet. I made changes to the training manual, pulled weeds in the rose bed, thought about doing laundry, didn't, all the while gritting my teeth at the constant jarring noise coming from next door. That evening I went to bed early, the product of too little sleep the night before and too many beers after too much time weeding in the sun.

The next morning at five a.m. it started all over again.

"Dammit!" After a quick, angry shower, I pulled on jeans and a t-shirt, swiped keys from the hook by the door and stormed out of the house.

"Morning, Josey-phine!" Mike called, grinning mockingly.

I glared back at him, giving him my best "You must die" stare as I slipped into my baby, a 1974 silver Mustang, and slammed the door.

"Painful, preferably messy death," I muttered, jamming the keys into the ignition. The Mustang sped off down the dirt drive to the main road, leaving thick dust clouds in its wake.

"Ha!" I said with some satisfaction, watching in the rearview mirror as Dean and Mike choked and sputtered on the dust.

***

Springport, Florida boasted 18 stoplights, 16 lakes, and a tiny rundown water-theme park that cashed in on a steady influx of snowbirds bound for the larger parks nearby. Like most small towns, a 'revitalization' of Main Street had been attempted, leaving the less than lovely side streets untouched and just this side of pathetic. Small businesses that had struggled for years to stay afloat foundered and were slowly being replaced with the sad, commercial staples of the larger cities. A sign on one small white corner building announced the impending arrival of a Starbucks, or what I liked to call The First Sign of The Apocalypse.

The faded pastel buildings of the renovated part of town fit the image of a tropical tourist trap. Palm trees and newly-stuccoed pastel buildings lined picturesque Main Street. A small town square, complete with dancing fountain and gift shop sat in the center of town, across from the tiny fire station and the brick building that was town hall and Kiwanis club wrapped into one.

By the time I reached town and pulled into a parking spot on Main Street I was good and worked up. People gave me a wide berth as I stalked down the cobbled sidewalks. This was nothing unusual. I was well known in the small town, but not well liked. Being the anti-social malcontent that I am, I knew it, but tried not to let myself care, and even, at times let it work to my advantage. You can't live in a small town your whole life with a temper like mine and not piss off a few hundred people.

I paused in front of the whitewashed brick building whose cheery yellow awnings read "Sally Redman Realty." I composed myself as much as possible before opening the front door.

The round-faced young woman sitting at the front desk cringed and turned three shades of unflattering pink when she saw me. Her yellow cotton-candy-like bouffant shuddered as she sank down into her seat.

Sally and I go way back, none of the memories good, starting in second grade where she and her popular friends had taunted me mercilessly. That had only lasted until I was fourteen, the summer I grew taller and bigger than most of them. They shut up pretty quick after that.

"Now Jo, I asked you a hundred times. Remember that," she began.

"You sold it?"

"I know you're upset, darlin," Sally said nervously, the edges of her mouth twitching into a forced smile. "What could I do? The lady fell in love with the place. She offered me cash. And I didn't know if you were ever gonna make up your mind."

I took a deep breath, attempting calm.

"I told you last time I wanted the place, right after you showed it to those horrible people from New York." I hooked thumbs through the belt loops in my jeans and stared Sally down. "I have neighbors now, Sally. This is not good."

I waited a beat and then another. I gave it two minutes before she crumpled. Intimidation was almost too easy. I had it down to a science. Of course, I'd been perfecting my art for awhile now, since kindergarten as a matter of fact. First the stare; then a slight eyebrow raise. It was all in the stare and the attitude. No one could withstand either for long.

I'm not a complete hypocrite. I know it doesn't hurt that I'm not bad to look at. Some have even said beautiful. (Though, Mike Tetzlaff will say anything after he has a few Heinekens in him.) It helped that at thirty-four I could still pass for twenty-five.

"Sweetie," my mother was wont to say, "If you spent any time at all on yourself, you'd be gorgeous. And a little lipstick wouldn't kill you."

But so what if a fortunate cocktail of genes had resulted in an athletic build, auburn hair, and tilted, cat-like blue eyes? Mostly it just causes trouble and attracts more attention than I'd care to have from the opposite sex. Besides, I am proud to say I have never traded on my looks to get what I want. I remember those gawky high school years too vividly to be truly cocky. When I want something, pure stubborn bullheadedness is usually what gets it for me. And I wanted Sister more than ever.

Sally squirmed in her chair but I didn't relent, narrowing my eyes to a more sinister squint.

"Okay, okay, she offered me cash and I took it. I'm sorry. I know you wanted it, hon. But, I mean, she really had a shopping bag full of cash."

Sally leaned forward, eyes sparkling, hands rubbing together in anticipation like a psychotic cricket. Obviously, she had been dying to tell someone this solid gold nugget of gossip.

"Last week, this lady strolled in here wearing her designer suit and tells me she has to buy a house…pronto. I took her around to all my best properties but they weren't good enough for Miss High and Mighty. Oh no. Not secluded enough for her. She was a real pill about that. Let me tell you. And picky! She hated the Armstrong place and they just had new shag carpeting put in."

"So you took her to see Sister?" I asked through gritted teeth, murder in my heart.

"No, it didn't happen like that. I didn't even think of showing Sister to her. I know what a feeling you have for that place. God knows why. Two run down houses out there in the middle of nowhere…"

"Then tell me how it did happen. I mean, it obviously happened. Her and her kid are living there now."

Sally leaned back in her chair, a Cheshire cat smile on her fat face. Gossip was mother's milk to Sally.

"The short version," I warned. The realtor pouted. Not a pretty sight on a middle-aged woman with more chins than she had a right to. Sally had plumped up quite a bit since her homecoming queen days.

"I took her out to the Miller property. Of course, Miss Perfect hated it. Everyone does. I've told the Millers a thousand times that tire garden in the front yard detracts from the value. But do they listen?"

"Before my head explodes, Sally."

"Fine. Okay. We had to drive by your place on the way back. She saw that rusty old For Sale sign out on the road and asked to see it. What could I do? I figured she'd hate it anyway…decrepit old shack, but she loved it. Said she'd take it and paid cash on the spot. Cash." Sally's voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "I don't know anyone that walks around with fifty eight thousand dollars in a Dillards bag. Something's not quite right there. Do you know what I mean?

Drugs."

"'Scuse me?'

"I bet she's into drugs. I'd watch out if I were you."

I reflected back on the woman. She didn't seem the type. "So, you sold Sister to a drug dealer? Great, Sally. What's next, circus people?"

I turned away from the smirk on Sally's face, more upset than I wanted to let on, actually on the verge on tears. That would have been another nugget for Sally to gloat over, Jo Trilby bawling like a baby. I gulped a huge breath then turned back to face her.

"Have they closed yet?"

Sally nodded. "Yesterday."

Damn. I'd been counting on slipping through that little loophole.

"Make her an offer for me. Tell her I'll give her eighty-five. That's twenty three thousand dollars profit in a day." It was way more than my savings would cover. It would probably be enough for the down payment. A loan from the credit union would cover the rest. I calculated the monthly mortgage payments on two houses, stifling a groan.

Sally shook her head. "I doubt she'd take it, hon. She was almost as batty about the place as you…went on and on about the view of the lake and the trees. I could make the offer, but I'd just be wasting my time."

"Make the offer," I growled and stormed out the door.

I knew Sally didn't understand my attachment to the two old houses everyone in town referred to as 'the Sisters'. But Sally didn't know their history, their true history. I did.

Dear Lois,

Bill and Catrina have persuaded me to stay another day. I know. I know. You think they are taking advantage. But they've asked me to look after the children and I just couldn't say no. I know you don't like them, but Betty's just a little precocious for her age, and little Billy didn't mean to bite you at Christmas. He's just excitable around strangers.

I hope you understand. It is just one day. I'll see you this weekend. We'll have a picnic in the pine grove. Won't that be fun?

Missing you terribly!

Mona

Chapter 3

Growing up in a small town means nobody's really a stranger. How many times had I heard my mother said that?

My interpretation was a little more realistic: Growing up in a small town means that everyone is knee deep in your business, whether you like it or not.

I definitely didn't like it. I never have.

Ultra-conservative small towns are not the most open-minded of communities, a problem for someone like myself, someone who doesn't have the patience to hide what others have charmingly termed my 'sinful predilections.'

I consider it a minor inconvenience, sometimes a major annoyance, but I deal with the acid tongues of the preacher's wives and the occasional redneck bent on showing me the error of my ways. As a rule, most folks in our tiny town are models of southern kindness. I'm lucky. I haven't been viciously harassed, nothing beyond what I could handle anyway. I'm sure it wasn't always this way. I know I have it easy compared to others.

I stopped dead on the sidewalk, snared by a sudden sense of guilt, my memory playing traitor to my peace of mind. Right here, on this very spot, I remember old Miss Keene walking past, trailed by young children, me among them, all hurling cruel taunts at her proud, straight back.

But what would make me think of her now?

As a child, I had seen Miss Keene around town hundreds of times, but never had any inclination to get to know her. She was old, almost as old as my grandmother. I knew that she wore sweaters and funny hats, even in the summer, and that she smelled disturbingly of Pine Sol and lavender. I knew she shopped alone at the Winn Dixie, buying boxes and boxes of orange creamsicles and can after can of tuna. I knew that in church she sat alone on the back pew and sometimes cried for no apparent reason. She was an eccentric and easily dismissed.

I didn't really know anything about her, it turns out.

How could I have know then that she would play such an important part in my life later, that her legacy would become my lifeline?

The history is fairly straightforward. The Sisters had belonged to Lois Keene and Mona Haverty. Lois lived in the house on the left, Mona the house on the right. They had been neighbors for twenty years, until Mona drowned one sultry July afternoon in 1963. Lois remained alone in her white clapboard cottage for another fifteen years before she too succumbed, a heart attack. All of this was common knowledge. Neither of the women had married. The town remembered them as spinster sisters that kept too many cats. Few knew that the two women weren't sisters, weren't even related really. And they were more than just neighbors, more even than just good friends. I had the letters to prove it.

Since Miss Haverty had passed away before I was born, I have no recollection of her. I'm told by the old gossips who spend their Saturday mornings at mom's salon that Miss Haverty was a great beauty, the fragile, poetic kind, and that she steadfastly resisted her many suitors, sacrificing her chances at marriage to care for her ailing mother.

But I do remember very clearly Miss Keene staunchly ignoring me and my tomboy friends as she hobbled down Main Street for her weekly set and wash at Charlene's House of Beauty, my mother's beauty shop. I'd follow her inside, peering around the hood of the hairdryers at her as she sat with perfect ramrod straight posture, legs crossed at the ankle, while my mother whirled around her, scissors in hand. Unlike the other chatty patrons, Miss Keene never talked, never said anything except "The usual please, Charlene." She never cowered, never displayed any hint of reticence or timidity. Her proud gaze, when she directed it at me, was always alert and intelligent, her shrewd hooded eyes a crystalline blue. But old Miss Keene, compared to other adults, was a natural target for our jokes and pranks. Crazy old bird, my friends sang at her. But I couldn't bring myself to call her names. In those unguarded moments, she always looked so sad, so wistful.

It had never occurred to me to inquire about her history. Why should I? I was young. I had my own troubles. After high school and the briefest stint in college that my mother would let me get away with, I came back to Springport with absolutely no direction and even less inspiration, career-wise. I did what most young people in small towns do. A few odd jobs; stocking shelves at the Winn Dixie, shelving books at the library, teller at the bank. Days off were spent hanging out at my best friend Jay's house, helping him plot and plan his way into graduate school. His dad was a police office and a volunteer fireman and I suppose we unconsciously emulated him. Jay and I would just hang around the fire station, admiring the uniforms and the gleaming fire trucks, soaking in the strange combination of easygoing camaraderie and fierce dedication that emanated from the men, even at play. While Jay eventually gravitated to the police department, following in his father's footsteps, I couldn't decide what I wanted to do with my life.

Jay went on to graduate school upstate. We'd meet at the fire station on the weekends for Saturday night poker. When one Saturday, after too much Budweiser and too many hands of five card stud, the men dared me to try enrolling in firefighter training, I immediately agreed, surprising them and myself.

I won't lie and say it was easy. None of it was ever easy. The training was grueling and more demanding than anything I'd ever attempted before. But something in me wouldn't let me quit, no matter the stress, no matter what obstacles the instructors devised for me. I graduated from the program with honor, the respect of my instructors, which, though it was much less official than Jay's diploma, was just as precious.

After training, I settled into life at the station as if I'd been at it a hundred years. The rigorous demands of the job were soothing to me. I needed the challenges it presented, the danger and the expectations. It kept me sane. More than that, it gave me the opportunity to show them all a women could do just as well as a man, if not better.

The men, reserved at first, opened up after awhile. After days and nights laboring next to them, asking for no special treatment, the men got over their reserve and began to accept me. The sense of community I found there was an unlooked for bonus. The job became like a narcotic to me. It was the perfect niche. My nervous energy received a healthy outlet and a dose of much needed discipline. Much to everyone's surprise, least of all mine, I became quite good at my newfound profession, good enough to really excel. I soared through the probation period, and over the years, was quietly and quickly promoted through the ranks. I went back to school to get my degree, secretly setting my sights on the upper echelons, a place no woman had thus far reached.

It was only the year I'd lobbied hard for, and then received, the big promotion to chief, the biggest of the brass rings, that I became interested in shopping for a new home. Apartments had suited me just fine until then. But I figured the first woman fire chief in the county could afford a nice place, apart from the ever-present eyes of the town matrons. Privacy was key. Like old Ms. Keene, I told no one my secrets. I didn't date. I didn't need to. I got what I needed from a woman in one night. Long term wasn't in my vocabulary.

Both houses and the accompanying lakeside properties had been on the market since old Ms. Keene's death. It seemed that no realtor could give the property away.

Then one day, eight years ago, on a whim, I turned down the dirt road to take a look at the property. It was love at first sight. It didn't matter that the roof was caving in, the front porch was sagging, or that the weeds were high enough to touch the windows. It felt like home as soon as I pulled around the bend in the road and caught sight of the two of them. Three stories of white clapboard sat daintily waiting, like two prim ladies in their antique white linens. I loved the porches with their elegant gingerbread trim. I could picture myself sitting there, sipping lemonade and watching the sunlight glint off the ripples on the lake.

Oh yeah, I was sold. Originally, I'd planned to buy the house on the right, fix it up, then buy the house on the left and do the same. That didn't happen. What can I say? I'm a terrible procrastinator about some things. And then meeting Laurel had thrown a major wrench in the works and me for a loop.

I'd just moved in after a year spent trying to make the place livable and was still waist deep in projects.

We met at the Deep End, the only gay bar in the entire county, and had hit it off right away. The sexual chemistry had been unbelievable. I was in heaven. Like most whirlwind courtships, ours ended with her moving in a week after I met her.

And then the downside of the U-haul Syndrome set in. Almost immediately the relationship began to sour. Arguments blossomed into silent mistrust. Cutting words lacerated any chances we might have had. Looking back, I still blame myself. I'm not the easiest person to get to know, let alone live with. I know this. Set in my ways, I made very little allowances for Lauren or her feelings. She had just wrapped up a messy divorce and her emotions were still very raw. It was all so new to her. She needed someone tender, someone to listen. She needed trust. Trust is not something I do easily.

I should have seen the rebound in progress, but good sex will blind you to most things. A therapist would say that I unconsciously tested Laurel. Could she see the worst side of me and still love me? The answer to that question seemed to have been a resounding no. Apparently, she didn't like what she saw. The disintegration took two turbulent years.

The fact that Laurel hated the property, both houses, didn't help things. After awhile, it became a major sticking point with me. I never minded spending endless weekends sanding floors, replastering walls, and fixing the roof. It was fun, like playing house, but for real. To Laurel, it had been slow torture. Laurel wasn't a do it yourself kind of girl.

But she was the only person I had ever shown the letters. It had been a mistake, the first of many.

I found them one Saturday, a year after she moved in, during an overzealous session with the floor sander, one of the boards in the kitchen floor had cracked. As I bent over to inspect it, I noticed something glinting underneath. Curious, I ripped up the board. A small tin box lay nestled in the crack. Inside it, a treasure trove, letters from Mona Haverty to Lois Keene, her neighbor, dearest friend and, so the letters revealed, her lover.

The floor forgotten, I sat in the middle of the ruined kitchen and devoured every letter. They chronicled a loving, sometimes tempestuous relationship that spanned 20 years. Every word spoke straight to my worst fears and deepest dreams. The letters were more precious than gold. Here was hope. It was possible to love and be loved for a lifetime.

Laurel had been away that day visiting family. Her family hated me and it always made me nervous when she visited them. When she had returned, she'd been unusually subdued. In a welter of excitement, I'd shown her the letters, thinking this would cheer her up. Laurel had given two or three of them a cursory glance then had tossed them onto the kitchen counter. She'd been more concerned about the hole in the floor.

I often wonder if all of those tiny, discordant moments, linked together like a daisy chain, would ever lead back to the first moment, the exact second when I realized that Laurel and I would never have that lifetime together.

No matter how much I thought about it, and that's more than is actually necessary, it wouldn't change the fact that she was gone and I was alone, again.

Not anymore, I thought as I stalked back to my car. Now I have neighbors.

CHAPTER FOUR

"Well I don't think I'm being unreasonable." A conceited smirk confirmed the opposite. Ellis Angeley, the county fire chief, was up to his usual tricks.

Cheap box fans whirred, oscillating the stale air in the tiny conference room. Sweat beaded on my forehead, but not from the numbing heat. The claustrophobic 12 x 16 trailer that acted as the City Commission's headquarters seemed to shrink in upon itself, ceiling lowering and the cheap linoleum floor reaching up to kiss it. But it was probably me. I was in yet another rage and it felt like my whole body was swelling with it. Should it burst free, I was sure the flimsy walls would just explode.

Ellis was pure redneck. There was no other term for him. What else do you call a man who has a constant bulge in his lower lip from chewing tobacco and is never without a smelly plastic cup to spit in? We have never had much respect for each other. I suppose a gay female fire chief was an oddity he in his limited world-view couldn't accept; the way I could never accept or respect a man who always wore his pants below crack level.

The other city council members, oblivious and bored, only pretended to listen.

For a full hour, Dr. Harry Devers had been incessantly twirling a golf tee in his gnarled fingers and staring out the window. The wrinkled pouches under his heavy-lidded gray eyes always made him look half-asleep, which, in this instance, he probably was.

A retired doctor and the former town mayor, he was considered a fixture, a necessity, but his largely ceremonial duties seemed to be wearing on him. His skin looked as gray as his eyes. In any case, I wouldn't look to him for support. The good doctor didn't care about any issues except tourism promotions, and that only because he owned half of Sun-n-Surf, the theme park at the edge of town. And he'd worn plaid golf shorts to the meeting. It was obvious where his mind was. I couldn't count on his influence with the others, even if he did have a crush on my mom.

Lana Mountebank, the current mayor wasn't even bothering to listen, too busy programming her new flip phone, but she had, at least, read the report. She hated it when Ellis and I bickered. I put her on the fence and resolved to speak with her later. Petite and carefully coiffed, Barbara Maxwell, the city commissioner, was the only one who appeared to be taking in anything anyone was saying and she hadn't looked my way once. This didn't bode well.

The issue on the table was huge and I'd spent weeks preparing my proposal. The state had cut my department's funds nearly in half. This meant two things. One, cost of living raises were going to be as scarce as hen's teeth this year. Two, maintaining existing equipment would be a pain in the ass. Repair costs alone were over half our monthly expenses. Engines stalled. Our hoses were old and repaired so often they looked like patchwork quilts.

I took a breath and stood. Standing always gave me a subtle advantage and I needed every little bit I could get. The doctor's gaze flicked over me and then slid to his wristwatch.

"Well I do, Ellis. You don't seem to understand the situation. The equipment needs to be maintained. If you look at page four of the proposal I handed out, you would see that..."

Ellis let out a condescending snort, lifting the red folder containing my department's budget as if it had suddenly sprouted fungus. "This pile of pluses and minuses don't tell me diddly-squat, hon." He stood, too, legs planted far apart, gut and chest swelling out in righteous indignation. "All it's saying to me is that our boys ain't gonna get their raises this year. They've been counting on that money. You want to tell them Christmas ain't coming for their kids?"

"Of course not. I don't want to deny them anything. I just..."

Ellis cut me off, raising my report in his left hand and then turning to each member of the committee like a prosecutor presenting damning evidence.

"That's not what I'm getting from this." He shrugged with practiced contempt. "Am I the only one who thinks this is a load of cattle pucks?"

I could see it in their expressions, Ellis had them. Damn him! Didn't he care that safety was compromised on a daily basis? Why couldn't he just admit more modern methods might save us money in the long run? I thought I knew why.

Elections were coming. Ellis wanted to run for mayor again. Time to placate the populous. And that meant raises.

I opened my mouth, biting back the sarcasm. But before I could give my carefully thought out rebuttal, he blustered on. "Y'all can talk about the life expectancy of blah, blah, blah fiber hoses or we can give these men the money they worked and sweated and risked their lives for. So... now, are we gonna vote on this thing or what?"

***

I drove home deliberately slow. My temper tends to leave little tread on the tires. I go through a set almost every year. But when I pulled into the drive, I was immediately tempted to peel back out of it. Mike and Dean were hammering to the soulful sounds of "Achy Breaky Heart."

I unlocked the back door, slamming it hard behind me in appreciation of their taste in music. I went inside, slamming windows shut one after the other but it did little to drown out the din.

I gave up, going straight through the house, out the front door, and down the front porch steps. A walk around the lake would settle my nerves.

Both houses were nestled on the upper rim of a gently sloping hill studded with scattered willow and cypress trees. The lake was wide and round and calm, far enough to see across, but too far to swim. Twin docks jutted out into the water, both dilapidated, each with their twin rowboats, moored and forgotten, equally neglected.

A thick tangle of bottlebrush firs, a vast orange grove to the west and tall oaks dripping Spanish moss to the east made a natural barrier on the other side. I had made the circuit around the lake many times, walking it when I needed solitude. Reaching the belt of wildflowers that dusted the outer banks I stopped. The sounds of doleful country music wafted out over the water. A cool wind ruffled my hair, ripe with the scent of jasmine and wild mint. I sniffed again, tilting my head, listening. Something was not right. Birds cawed. Somewhere above, a jet plowed a chalky white mark across the blue sky. Water slapped against the rickety boards of the dock. A boat scraped lightly at its moorings.

One boat, not two.

I brought my hand up to shield my eyes, scanning the lake.

There it was, the other tiny gray boat bobbing on the other side.

My heart stopped. Someone was in the boat, the little girl of the night before. Good god, she was alone out there!

Darling Lois,

You continually amaze me with your thoughtfulness. The boats were a wonderful surprise. So that's what you were doing sequestered away in the shed all these months! They are beautiful!

I think we should christen them the Mo and the Lo. What do you think?

I want to spend loads of time in them with you, hearing the water slap against the pretty white planks, feeling the wind whisk across the water while we lay about and get very brown.

They were a wonderful birthday present. I love you so much! I hope to spend every single birthday from now until the hereafter with you.

Thank you from the bottom of my bottomless heart,

Mona

Chapter 5

The professional in me took over. I stopped thinking, shedding shoes and sweater as I ran for the water, only pausing a moment to glance at the old rowboat still tied to the dock. It was so decrepit; I doubted it would hold me. The bottom was half sunk into the green water.

Wading in, my brain registered the chill of the lake as my hands sliced through it. I arrowed through the water, calculating with alien calm the precious seconds it would take to reach the boat, trying not to think about alligators or snakes or snapping turtles. Every few moments, I would draw breath and search ahead for her. She was standing in the boat, carelessly laughing as it rocked beneath her.

One stroke. Ten strokes.

She was still so far. I looked again. A bird swooped overhead, too low, diving for its dinner. The girl leaned back to watch. The boat teetered as she pushed all her weight to one side.

I drove myself harder. My arm muscles burned but my fingers and toes were numb. The water was so cold. I checked again. The little girl was attempting to row though the paddles were far too big for her tiny hands. She made little splashes in the water.

Fifty strokes.

I could see her face clearly now. She was straining to reach one of the paddles that had dropped in the water. A burst of adrenaline propelled me forward. She saw me. Her little face registered surprise, then alarm as she lost her balance and tipped over the edge.

I caught her by the shoulders as she fell forward, coming up out of the water with a last burst of strength, enough to push her back in and push me under the surface.

Water rushed into my ears and up my nose, blotting out all sound. I struggled back up, gagging and sputtering as I clutched at the boat for support. I hung there a moment, too weary to pull myself out of the water. The little girl just stared down at me in horror, as if I were some monster of the deep come to drag her down to the bottom of the lake.

"Permission to come aboard, captain?" I asked between raspy breaths, forcing a smile onto my blue lips. I gave her a little salute with my free hand, just for good measure. The little girl giggled. I took that to mean yes and hoisted myself up, tumbling into the boat beside her. The breeze hit my wet clothes and my teeth began to chatter.

"H..hi, I'm Jo. What's your n..name?"

"Hope," she said shyly, backing away to the farthest corner of the little boat and dangerously rocking it in the process.

I struggled to an upright position, bracing myself with my hands on both sides.

"Well, Captain Hope, can I j..join your crew?" I smiled again.

She nodded. I looked at the shore in the distance, realizing I was an oar short and too bone tired to make it back there alone.

"Well, how about we signal ashore? What is your mommy's name?"

"M'randa," she answered, then popped her thumb in her mouth. Hope couldn't have been more than four. She wore blue overalls with a yellow turtleneck sweater underneath. It was warm enough, but I doubted she could stand the chill if she got wet.

"Miranda!" I bellowed. "Miranda!"

The steady twang of the radio was the only answer I received. I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled again. No answer. I could see the figures of Dean and Mike moving around beside Sister. I waved my hands in the air and screamed their names. Nothing happened. The music was too loud. They'd never hear me. I swore under my breath.

I had no choice.

"Have you ever been on a motor boat, Hope?" I asked.

She shook her blonde curls.

"Well a motor boat makes noises like this. Grrrrrrrr. Can you do that?"

She giggled and shook her head again. The breeze blew harder, the sun seemed to dim and the sky to the west looked more vividly blue than before, an early February storm, fast mover, typical for Florida. I didn't want to be out on the lake when it hit.

"Sure you can," I said. "You just say grrrrr. Try it."

She emitted a little sound, more like a squeak, then covered her mouth.

"Good." I said. "Now I'm going to get in the water and be the engine. But you have to sit back here in front of me and make the engine noises, ok?"

"Ok."

Gingerly, I slid back into the water. The cold nipped at my bare arms. I only had a t-shirt to protect me from the cold. It was poor insulation. Hope settled into the back of the boat, in front of me. I gripped both sides and began to paddle.

"Grrrrrr, Hope. Say it with me."

Hope made engine noises as I pushed us both across the lake. It was very slow going. About halfway across, my whole body began to shudder. I couldn't make my fingers stay closed. My hands kept slipping.

And then I got angry. My body may have been numb, but a little firestorm was raging in my head. Someone was to blame for this. No matter how long it took, I was going to get this boat to shore and give that someone hell.

Just as I thought I was going to have to give up and get back in the boat for awhile, my feet touched silt and muck. A few minutes later, the boat struck the dock. Hope sprang out of the boat before I could tie it up. I dragged myself on shore. My body just wanted to lay down in the weeds and shiver, but my temper had other ideas.

Chapter 6

I don't know if it was the coming storm or just the blood rushing in my ears, but I couldn't hear the music anymore. Mike saw the look on my face and dropped his hammer. I stomped past him without saying a word. I don't think I could have said anything. I jabbed the power button on the radio.

"What? Are you, deaf?" I roared. Mike stumbled back. He and Dean were well acquainted with my temper.

I shook my head and backed down. I wasn't really mad at them. I brushed past, marching around the corner of the house to the front porch. She was there, holding Hope in her arms, rocking her back and forth, crying.

"Captain Hope, can I ask you a favor, sweetie?" I said, barely masking my fury with a strained smile. "Will you run inside and get me a towel, please?"

She looked up at her mother. Miranda nodded. Hope disengaged herself from her mother's arms and trotted into the house. I waited until her footsteps quieted and then the floodgates opened.

"Are you out of your fucking mind, lady? Your daughter is out in the middle of a fucking lake in a fucking boat and where the hell were you? You call yourself a mother? What kind of supervision is that? Jesus, your kid could have drowned! I don't know what you've been doing over here but it can't be more important than taking care of your child." I leaned over and pointed an accusing finger at her. She just sat there, her face blank, her eyes smeared with mascara and tears.

"I know people at Protective Services," I went on, in full vilification mode. "If I see anymore of this crap, I'll have that kid out of here in a heartbeat, I promise you. I'm not risking my life again just so you can be free to redecorate." I took a breath, but the anger was still way out of control. I sneered, lip curling back in disgust. "I can't believe you were just sitting here on your porch while I was freezing my ass off, saving your child. Don't you have anything to say for yourself?"

She stared at me for what seemed like an eternity, her jade green eyes glittering.

"Can you help me out of this hole?" she asked in a small voice. She leaned backward, arching her back slightly though she was still seated. Her gaze flickered down, then back up at me.

I looked down and drew in a sharp breath.

Her left leg had sunk through the rotten boards of the porch, the jagged ends embedded in her shin. She twisted a little and the flesh tore. She hissed and sat back roughly.

"Oh no!" I whispered, my regret and humiliation instantaneous. "Sit still. Sit still. I'll help you." She regarded me, her pretty face pinched with pain, then nodded.

"Wait just a second. Let me pull that board free."

I reached down and took hold of the rotten board, wrenching it sideways just enough so that she could slip her leg through. She rolled to the right, pulling her leg up, panting, then turned back.

"Thank you," she said, ignoring my extended hand, and got to her feet unaided. Standing, she looked back at me. I flinched at the naked scorn in her eyes.

"You know, you should have that looked at. I..."

"I think you should go now," she interrupted, and then turned and limped into the house.

Dumbfounded, I stood for a second, listening to the drip, drip, drip of my sodden hair and clothes. Behind me, Dean snickered softly. I sighed, staring at the screen door in indecision. Apologies would be useless at this point, I decided. So I picked up what was left of my dignity and started across the yard for home. Mike and Dean were leaning on a pile of 2x4's, smirking as I walked past.

"You kiss your mother with that mouth, Josey-phine?"

I spun around, eyes narrowed to slits. Mike was still leering, probably because of the wet t-shirt. I drew myself up to my full height, which for a girl is pretty impressive, and walked past him to the woodpile. I drew my arm up sharply and in one quick snap, broke three boards with my hand.

Four years of Tae Kwan Do and I finally got to use it outside class. It was worth it just for the look on Mike's face.

Silently, without looking back, I walked home.

Once inside, I stormed through the house to the living room, jabbed the on button to the CD player and selected random play, a little Nina Simone to soothe the savage beast.

A startling clap of thunder preceded a downpour. I smiled to myself, the drumming of the rain on the roof pacifying me a little.

The heel of my hand stung and my whole body was numb. I stripped off my jeans, realizing for the first time that I was barefoot. My shoes and sweater were still back down by the lake. I went to the laundry room, grabbed a towel, some jeans and a fresh t-shirt out of the dryer. I changed right there and toweled off my hair.

Slowly, I was gaining my equilibrium. There is a place I go to when I'm angry, not a nice place. Getting back always takes me a little time. I breathed deep for a few minutes, leaning against the washer with my eyes closed. All I could see was her stricken face as she rocked her child.

"Miranda," I said aloud, for no reason other than to hear the sound of it. Then, I shook myself. She hated me now. That much was certain.

Sighing heavily, I folded the rest of the laundry in the dryer and started another load.

"Way to overreact, you ranting bitch," I muttered, pushing my wet hair off my forehead. The full extent of my shame was flooding into my awareness. Overreacting was becoming a lifestyle choice for me.

Now that I was dry and a little warmer, my stomach began to make some demands. Wondering back out to the kitchen, I poked my head in the fridge with an early dinner in mind. Unfortunately, the last time I had actually seen the inside of a grocery store was about two months ago. I settled for a beer, popping the cap and tossing it in the garbage. I took a long pull and the taste seemed to swell as it glided cool and invigorating down my throat. The house was quiet now. No more pattering on the roof. The downpour had been as short was it was sudden.

Then I heard the radio outside come alive again. This time it was Reba McIntyre. I heard another vehicle creak to a halt, wheels grinding on the gravel drive. A door slammed and voices hailed Mike and Dean. More workmen. The sound of a buzz saw whizzed, smothering Nina's smoky voice. A resounding crash followed and my resolve snapped. I knew that if I spent another ten minutes listening to that, my name, followed by the words "multiple homicide" would show up in tomorrow's headlines.

I flew upstairs, taking them two at a time, grabbed a knapsack from the closet and began shoving in socks, underwear, a spare t-shirt and my toothbrush.

Though it might mean I would have to suffer through a manicure, or in the very least, a cucumber facial, tonight, I was sleeping over at Mom's.

Dear Lois:

I know you said I shouldn't, but I'm going to do it anyway. I've gone into town to pick up the desk. I will probably stop by the lawyer's office, too. I'll be back before lunch, so clear a spot in the den for that lovely mahogany roll top beauty.

Loving you,

Mona

P.S. I can't stop smiling just picturing the look on your face!

Chapter 7

"Hold still," Mom said through a mouthful of hair clips as she snipped at my bangs. Because I hadn't visited in over a month, she'd selected multiple forms of torture as payback, a color consultation followed by a haircut. She inserted another clip then whirled the chair around so I could see the full ridiculousness that was me in the mirror.

"Great, mom, thanks," I said, surveying the artful swirls and curls I would wash out as soon as I had the chance. "I had no idea hair could do that."

She gave my arm a playful swat, serenely avoiding my sarcasm. Mom had seen too many Doris Day movies as a teenager. She'd never recovered.

Unhooking the cape from around my neck, she shook it out. I tried to avoid looking at the yards of hair that fell to the floor.

"Yes, it looks better doesn't it? And the consultation went so well. I knew you were a summer. The colors you wear now are all wrong. So much black. You should wear more oranges and pinks."

"Pink?" I gave a snort of disgust. Mom hadn't suggested pink since that disastrous incident when I was three. I'd taken off my new frilly pink dress in the middle of church. Better naked than wear pink. "And, if you suggest shopping, I'm out of here," I warned, not quite kidding.

Mom laughed. At 67, she was still pretty, especially when she laughed. Her platinum bob swished as she shook her head and put her manicured hands on still trim hips. "No shopping. But since you're here, I thought you could help me Feng Shui the downstairs at the house."

"Wha?"

"You know, help me move stuff around. It's supposed to create harmony," she said in all seriousness, spritzing my bouffant with some citrus smelling hair cement. "I just need you to help me move the sofa to my success area."

I stared a beat, but her expression was utterly serene.

"Mom, you've totally lost it." Eyebrows raised a fraction. "But okay, I'll help. As long as you don't make me watch the Home and Garden channel again. No more decorating hints, please."

Mom grabbed a broom and began to sweep up the large tufts of auburn hair littering the floor beneath me. "I'm just trying to help, dear. I mean, you've lived in that house how long now? And not one picture on the wall." She gave one of her patented mom sighs. This one was shorthand for I know I raised you better than that. "Besides," she said. "It's better than that stuff you watch. All that Court TV will rot your morals." She tisked quietly. "So much violence."

"Well," I looked askance at her petite 5'2 frame and shrugged. "It's a heavy sofa. But, hey, if you think you can manage it on your own…"

Three hours later, after closing up the beauty shop, mom's sofa was perfectly positioned to bring about a positive chi and I was happily engrossed in a mindless Perry Mason rerun.

"Here you go, sweetie." Mom passed me a plate piled high with fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and carrots. I placed it on the TV tray in front of me as mom sat down and unfurled her napkin. I tore into the food greedily. I don't cook much. The best I can do is an omelette and that is only to impress on the "morning after" type dates. I don't make too many omelettes, especially not lately.

Perry Mason had just torn apart the innocent nephew on the witness stand, knowing very well the nephew's girlfriend would jump up and declare her guilt to save her beloved. A dramatic flashback ensued wherein it is revealed the girlfriend killed the evil uncle in self-defense. Perry vowed to represent her as the bailiffs led her away. Witty banter between Della and Perry followed, and then the credits. I was just polishing off my mashed potatoes, wondering why I like these cheesy programs, when the intro for America's Most Wanted flashed on the screen. Mom reached for the remote. I grabbed it first and gave her my most pitiful pleading look.

"I have so little joy in my life." Unconvinced, she tugged at the remote. I pouted. "C'mon Ma."

Relenting, she picked up our empty plates and headed toward the kitchen.

"Fine," she said over her shoulder, smiling her most devious smile. "But tomorrow, we shop."

I nodded. It was easy enough to weasel out of shopping. I was a firefighter. A fire beats shopping in the priorities department any day. I'd just tell her I was on call. It wasn't really a fib. I didn't like to leave the boys too long without supervision and there were probably about a million things on my desk that needed my attention. And I knew if I spent enough time with mom she'd bring up Laurel. I just didn't feel like going through that conversation again.

"What are you thinking, sweetie?" Mom asked as she pushed a bowl of vanilla ice cream under my nose.

"Mmm, thanks. Oh nothing really. Just work."

Mom arched a supercilious brow at me. Damn, so that's where I got that look.

Settling back, I clutched an embroidered sofa cushion and glowered in anticipation of the usual lecture. I knew it verbatim.

That Laurel had too much baggage. She wasn't good enough for you. She was still in love with her good for nothing ex-husband. I told you that from day one. I don't know what you saw in her. She's all sass and trash and her family was trash too. They always hated you. You know that. It's time to move on with your life.

But, Mom's expression cleared. She sat down quietly next to me.

"She's not worth all the fuss, baby," she comforted, patting my hand.

I was still gaping at her when the television caught my attention... something about a murder. What is it about crime shows that totally ensnares my attention?

"…Police are puzzled by the complete disappearance of suspect Helena Burnham and her young daughter, Hope. She is wanted in the brutal murder of her husband, Dallas millionaire, philanthropist Phillip Burnham. On the night of May 27th, police were called to the Burnham home at the request of family and employees who say Burnham hadn't been heard from in several days. There, they found a gruesome scene…"

A poorly acted replay followed where the actors masquerading as police discovered the crime scene. Blah, blah, blah... the usual high-pitched shocking music and voice over with shadowy knife plunging down in silhouette. Then suddenly, I froze. A picture flashed across the screen, a close up of the suspected murderess Helena Burnham.

I'd seen that face. Last night as a matter of fact.

I was living next door to it.

I dropped down on my knees and crawled until my nose was inches from the television.

"Josephine Trilby what on earth are you doing?"

I didn't answer, just inched closer.

The photograph shown was fuzzy, a happy moment at a child's birthday party. The woman in the photograph was smiling, wearing a silly, streamer-festooned paper hat, holding a toddler on her hip. Her eyes were crinkled in laughter, her mouth smiling. It was just too similar. It had to be her. The only difference between the woman on the screen and the woman next door was the hair color. Hers was an unforgettable shade of honey blond. The picture on TV showed a woman with dark brown hair, though the style was the same. The picture faded, replaced with more re-enactment footage. This time it showed a woman rifling through a safe, taking out stacks and stacks of dollar bills.

"….Helena Burnham was very familiar with her husbands assets," the announcer continued. "Too familiar. After she disappeared, the family discovered that Helena had been embezzling for years. Check receipts showed forged signatures…."

I didn't need to hear anymore. Another picture of Helena Burnham flashed on screen, a police sketch artist's rendering. The woman in this picture had blonde hair.

Said she'd take it and paid cash on the spot. Cash. Had a whole bag full of money.

I sat back on my heels.

"Mom," I said, "can you get me the phone."

Chapter 8

Jay tapped at my office door, peeked his head around, and sauntered in.

"Hey, Ope."

"How is Charline?" he asked, glancing at my hair.

I ran a hand through my still-puffy bangs. "Mom's fine. Did you bring it?"

Jay, christened Opie by me when we were in fourth grade, sighed windily and sank into the only other chair in my office, a green vinyl swivel that had been broken since the late seventies. He slid a manila folder across my desk.

"You know, I can't do this for you every time you watch that show. One of these days, you're going to have to learn how to surf the net."

I tore open the envelope and pulled out a sheaf of news printouts.

"Thanks," I said dismissively. Of course, he didn't take the hint. He leaned toward the desk. I tried the stare but he just grinned. It never did work on him. That's probably why we were best friends.

Once, way back in high school, we had tried being more. It was a complete disaster. It had never gone beyond the first kiss. The kiss, strangely enough, had sealed our friendship. With all that romantic tension out of the way, we settled right into the business of being each other's worst critic and biggest champion.

He settled back in the creaky chair, ran a hand through his ginger-colored crew cut and then crossed his arms across his barrel-like chest. The silvery scar snaking its way from shoulder to elbow shone white against his tanned arms. There was another smaller scar on his chest. Both were a reminder of the bullet that had ended his burgeoning career and his marriage.

We didn't talk about either much. Jay had only returned to town a year ago. He was still a little sensitive about the marriage, but that was minor compared to the ego bashing he had taken when the FBI had politely asked him to pursue other options.

Once, Jay had been destined for big things. He'd gotten a full scholarship to Florida State University and had gone on to study at Quantico. But fate, failure and an unfortunate addiction to prescription painkillers had brought him back to Springport too soon. A few months of isolation and a lot of soul-searching had helped him get clean, but his FBI career was beyond saving. Luckily, the tiny town's police department was only too happy to invite a Quantico grad into their ranks.

He'd drowned his sorrows in work--probably a bit more healthy than any other drug of choice--and he started to get places. After about six months, everyone quit calling him 'Opie' (except me) and started calling him 'Sir'." Within a year, he could boast of two promotions. In a town with only six policemen on its payroll, two of which, the drug enforcement officers, only worked from eight to three, Jay was a force to be reckoned with.

"So who is it now? Another German tourist you're convinced is a terrorist?" He exhaled in an understatedly dramatic fashion, a Jay specialty. "I'm warning you. I'm not smoothing over another one for you, Jo." He gave my bedraggled appearance an appraisal filled with disdain. Mr. Neatnik couldn't abide my sloppy tendencies. I don't think Jay ever sported a wrinkle in his life, not even when he was in diapers. "What's with you and this 'morning after' look? Did you finally get some?"

I shooed him away. "Do you mind? I've got work to do."

"Working on your day off again? Yup. Thought so. Bad sign of sexual repression, my friend."

"Since when are you so concerned with my sex life?"

"If you had a sex life, I wouldn't be concerned. When you go without you get weird. The conspiracy theories start flying. It's like your brain latches onto anything to distract from the lack of nookie."

"Take that Quantico shit somewhere else, Okay?"

"Fine." He shrugged, smirking, as he backed toward the door. "Lecture over. "

I raised my eyebrows in mock astonishment. "Well that's probably the shortest one ever." He pursed his lips in a trademark frown, exactly the same frown he used on kids who didn't cross the street at the light. "How 'bout I come over this weekend and you can give me the rest of it. Is Deborah going to be there?"

This time, Jay's grin was pure happiness. "Yes."

"Uh huh. I had a feeling." I couldn't help grinning back. I hadn't seen him this content in ages. "I told you I liked her, didn't I?"

"Yes. I told her she got the Josey stamp of approval. She was quite relieved."

"She doesn't like me."

"No, she does. She was just jealous at first, that's all. I explained everything. She's okay with us now." Jay cleared his throat. That was about as deep as our emotional talks got. Anxious to be alone with the file, I decided to play my trump card.

"So, when are you going to propose, big guy? Don't tell me she's not the one. I can tell by the way you look at her. Remember sophomore year? You used to look at Caroline Mincey exactly the same way."

Jay blushed. Bullseye.

"I don't know about that," he said, suddenly hoarse.

"Wake up and smell the matrimony."

His blush deepened. He glanced down at his watch and then started to fidget with dial. "Right." The bashful smile said more than he ever would. He cleared his throat and then turned to go. "I'm late," he said, looking over his shoulder. "We'll see you Friday?"

"Friday," I called after his hurriedly retreating back. "Tell Deborah I'm looking forward to it."

Chuckling to myself, I brought my attention back to the pile of papers in front of me.

Those on top were newspaper accounts. I spread them out across the desk, scanning through each horrific account. My stomach lurched at a few of the details. It was getting so much media attention because it was such a lurid and bloody case. The victim had been bludgeoned then hacked to pieces, literal pieces. Probably with an ax, the police thought, though the murder weapon still had not been found. Another blurry newspaper photo of Helena Burnham accompanied one account. I skipped by it, thrusting it under the pile.

Shuffling through FBI computer printouts of telephone leads, I encountered another picture. This was an 8x10 of Helena Burnham and her late husband. I sat back in my chair and held it out in front of me. The clarity of the woman's features made my heart sink. It could be her. The eyes were the same. The smile--well I hadn't seen my neighbor smile yet.

The corner of the picture had a date. This photo was taken seven years ago. Helena Burnham would have changed a lot in that amount of time. This picture didn't resemble my neighbor at all. In the picture, Helena Burnham was a beautiful, young dark-haired girl, clinging like a vine to a, if the look of adoration in her eyes was any indicator, much beloved husband. I pushed that picture to the bottom of the pile, too. There were others. Some were an exact likeness.

The other pages were more computer printouts, lab results, lists of phone calls by the investigative officers. Jay's contact at the FBI had been thorough. I skimmed these, absorbing a few facts.

There were two other suspects, two men James Reesler & Garland Bice, but police were not actively pursuing them in the investigation. I wrote their names down on my desk blotter to look into later. Not that it would do much good. Results from the crime lab indicated 90% positive that Helena Burnham was the culprit. Notations from the investigating officers indicated that Helena had no alibi for the night of the murders.

I pushed the pile away from me, suddenly sick to my stomach. These hadn't confirmed or denied my suspicions. I was more confused than ever.

Someone knocked. I was happy for the interruption. The men had been a little edgy lately, waiting for word on their raises. I was starting to worry that they saw me as the enemy.

"Yeah," I called.

A head popped in. It was Roxanne. She was staring down at her toes, avoiding eye contact. Being new, she was still a little afraid of me. Ah, how I relished torturing the Probies. "It's your turn to cook," she said timidly, and then with a little more spunk, added, "Where should we order the pizza from?"

"So they've warned you about my culinary skills, have they? One little case of food poisoning and they never let you forget it."

I scooted out from behind my desk, stood and stretched. "Tell them to order from Lothario's. They've got the best."

Roxanne nodded and then disappeared back down the hall. Another knock.

"Pepperoni, no mushrooms," I said.

"Huh?" Jeannie, the dispatcher, stood in front of my desk, looking puzzled.

"Oh nothing. Whatcha got?"

She held out a message hastily written on a scrap of paper.

"Box Alarm. Just got a call from Rockhaven. They need back-up on an apartment fire."

"Crank it up," I said. Jeannie hustled back to the switchboard. Moments later, as I was kicking off my shoes and reaching for my turnouts, I heard the siren.

Dearest darling Lo,

I wanted you to find this in your lesson plan, just so you'll think of me and the day won't seem too long. Summer is almost here!

Days out on the lake. Fishing. Lying in the sun. Picnics, chicken on the grill. Games of horseshoes in the yard. Maybe we can plant some lavender in front of the porch? I love the smell of warm lavender.

Patience, my love... One more week!

Love you,

Mo

Chapter 9

"Well if it isn't my favorite Jake-ette." Ellis' smile never seemed to reach his eyes. I suppose it must have trouble climbing over his chubby jowls. 'Jake' was an ancient although complimentary term to most firefighters, but the way he said it always sounded sarcastic and condescending. It never failed to grate my nerves and he knew it.

"Rescue company has all the civilians out ," he said, mopping sweat off his forehead with a tattered bandana. "The Auxiliary is working containment from the ground levels. C and D are still open. Hot spot's the top floor. We need to bring a line up in back. Let's hope we'll be able to knock it down with your company here."

"We're on D," I volunteered. This was business. We were both professional enough to ignore the hostility that was ever present.

Ellis nodded.

I sent two to fit the plug while Roger and I brought the line around.

One look at the back told me this building would be a tough save. The roof, five floors up, was already spouting flames. Smoke curled in huge, black billows out from under the eaves. I was scanning the side of the structure, searching for the place to set the ladder, when I saw it near the top floor, a perfect pillar of roiling flame.

"Goddamn gas grills!" I shouted above the din, pushing my hat back to get a better look. I pointed it out to Roger.

"Shit."

Fourth floor, second balcony, a propane tank hose was loose, shooting gas straight into the ceiling, feeding the flames. We were the first company around the backside of the building. I made a split second decision.

"Tell them to get a feeder around here for me and a deck gun."

A picked up several hundred feet of hose and slung it over my shoulder. Roger didn't move, staring upward in horror.

"Go!" I screamed.

Instead of scuttling off, fearing for his life, he pointed up at the building. I followed his line of vision.

"Perfect. That totally makes my day."

Second floor, first balcony, two shaggy Pekingese puppies were yelping and trying to wriggle in between the iron bars of the balcony gate. I shoved the hose at Roger.

"Go," I repeated. "Tell them to send around the deck gun and a ladder for me. I'll get the mutts. And don't you dare try this, kid. This is strictly off limits to probies, got it?"

Roger nodded solemnly. "Right, no stupid heroics, got it." He took off, rounding the side of the building.

The first floor terraces were cluttered with bicycles and potted plants, but nothing tall enough to give me a boost to the balconies above. I improvised. Giving myself a running head start, I leapt up, grabbed at the iron bars, got a handhold and pulled myself up. Good thing I'm tall.

The puppies saw me and began to emit piteous yowls. I shushed them as I measured the distance between balcony one and balcony two. It was going to be a stretch but I thought I could manage it. Above, an ominous creaking told me that the roof was getting ready to cave on the top floor. Below, my boys were setting up to direct a stream at the blaze.

I made the leap, banging my hip painfully in the process. The dogs began to growl.

"Where's the gratitude?" I asked them, climbing over the rail. They cocked their heads and wagged their tales; a good sign

"That's better. Good babies. You want to take a little trip now, huh?"

I approached them slowly, making no sudden moves. More tale wagging.

Bending low, I scooped one up and got ready to do the same with the other, when he changed his mind about me. He reared, baring his teeth and snarling, the hair on his back bristling.

"Easy boy. Easy."

Snap went puppy jaws, clamping down hard on my ankle. I threw him off, dropping the other puppy in the process. Now three of us were yowling.

A creaking groan and another explosion from above told me the matter was becoming more urgent. I stopped hopping around like a demented Easter Bunny and took a deep breath.

"You okay?" one of my boys called over the roar of the hungry fire above.

I didn't answer, being too busy fending off vicious puppies. Two sets of pointy teeth snapped at me as I made another grab for them and missed. Puppy one was hanging off of the tip of my glove. I grabbed it by the scruff, clamped it under my arm and lunged for the other. It danced sideways, butting up against the iron rails.

"Fine," I told them. "You want to be difficult. I'm queen of difficult."

I managed to grab puppy two. Holding both out at arms length, I was able to climb up on the rail.

"Son of a…"

I had forgotten. No ladder. I opened my mouth to call for someone when a sharp crack splintered the air, the sound of the roof caving. The balcony above lurched. That decided it.

I shoved off with my feet, plummeting backwards, twisting mid-air as much as I could. I hit the grass, my hip and shoulder connecting sharply with the soft earth, the puppies landing on top of me. They shot out of my arms and were off. I laid there, pain radiating up and down my left side. Breathing hurt. Blinking hurt.

A deafening boom thundered above, another propane tank exploded. Dust and smoke mingled as the building's supports teetered then crumpled.

Doesn't anybody use charcoal grills anymore?

Roger bent over me, his soot blackened face pinched with concern.

"You okay, Boss?"

"Fabulous," I replied, and then promptly passed out.

Dear Lo,

The nurse wouldn't let me in to see you, but I did persuade her to give you this note. Even though they won't allow me to stay with you, I will be here if you need me. I'll charge a whole platoon of doctors and nurses to get to you if I have to.

They tell me they operated just in time. If we had waited until the weekend, the appendix would have exploded. You always did have excellent timing, dearheart. It'll only be a few more days and they'll let me take you home. I'll see you during visitors hours tomorrow, so rest up until then.

Sleep my love, knowing that the one who loves you best is near and thinking of you.

Mo

Chapter 10

Several hours later, I was released from the ER. They gave me a bottle of pills, twice as many warnings about resting and then discharged me.

The sun was setting behind the cypress trees as I pulled up to the house. I sat in the car, head resting on the steering wheel for a few moments. There's always a period after, when the adrenaline starts to thin, that leaves me feeling extremely hollow and alone. I would kill and maim rather than admit it, but sometimes, I just cry for no reason after a particularly stressful call. It's hormones, I suppose. I didn't know. I just wanted to be alone and yet I dreaded going into the empty house.

I hobbled to the back door in the dark, taking each tentative step with gritted teeth. I nudged the screen door open then held it there with the cane the hospital had provided. I tried to balance myself, but couldn't free a hand to unlock the back door. I put the key chain in my mouth while I repositioned the cane and the door. Unfortunately, the key chain was a fuzzy fire hat, a stupid promotional item we give to kids when we visit schools. I'd be spitting red fuzz for days.

Finally, with hip and elbow against the screen, forearm and cane holding the brunt of my weight, I freed a hand. I heard a grinding noise as I turned the key in the lock. It was stuck. I let out a long stream of highly colorful expletives that would have had my mother running for a bar of soap. I had meant to fix the sticky lock. It was one of a hundred little projects I had been putting off. Ah, the joys of living in an older home. I pounded on the door with my free arm. Not that it helped but it was a good outlet for my frustration. I'd just about jimmied the door open when a small voice behind me said, "Hello."

I spun around, dropping my keys and wincing as my hip twisted in the wrong direction.

My new neighbor, Miranda, stood at the foot of the steps. For a crazy fleeting second, I thought she kind of resembled those frightened Pekingese on the balcony. Her eyes were wide and wary. Then I remembered what she probably had just overheard and laughed.

"I'm really not a psycho bitch from hell. I promise," I said by way of an explanation, trying make my smile a little more reassuring. "I'm sorry about that. I just got back from the hospital."

Her face instantly radiated concern. "My god, you didn't really hurt yourself the other day did you? Oh, I feel so terrible!"

I didn't quite register what she meant. Then it dawned on me. "No. Not at all. No this happened at work today." I took a deep breath. "I'm glad you brought that up, though. I'm really sorry about what I said. I shouldn't have read you the riot act like that. I have this temper…you've probably heard about it from people in town."

"I don't go into town," she said shyly, dipping her head down so that her long, blonde hair swung forward over her face. My heart did a cartwheel. Up close, she was even more beautiful than I had expected. She wore a short skirt dotted with tiny flowers and a moss colored sweater that accented her eyes. She even smelled really good. I caught the faint scent of roses when she moved.

Whoa girl. I forced myself to study my shoes. When I looked up again she was watching me with a strange expectant look on her heart-shaped face.

"I came over to thank you for what you did, for saving my little girl," she said. I marveled at her voice. I had heard it only briefly before. Now I realized how deep and rich it sounded, like bees drunk on honey. I gave myself a mental shake. This was the same woman who may or may not have bludgeoned her husband with an ax, I told myself. Standing there looking into those green, green eyes, I didn't know if I really believed it or cared if I did.

"I screamed but no one heard me," she went on, her voice catching. "I couldn't move. It was so awful. All I could do was watch her drift farther and farther out. I'm so grateful, really. I'm sorry. I know I seemed cold…"

I stopped her. "Rightfully so. I'm sure I wouldn't have been half as polite to a screaming, dripping wet bitch that had called me every name in the book and then some. Don't apologize, please."

She laughed. "Ok, I won't. But I did come over to invite you to dinner if you're free, as a thank you…Only if you're feeling all right, though." She tucked her hair behind her ears and cocked her head to one side. "Hope would like it. She's done nothing but sing your praises for days."

I glanced down at my soot-covered uniform, gray standard issue t-shirt now a deep, streaky black. God, what a sight I must have been. Miranda didn't seem to find it in the least remarkable.

"How can I say no to Captain Hope?" I said, Or her mother when she looks at me like that. "I'd be happy to. Just give me a few minutes to clean up."

She grinned at me, her face brightening. "Good. I'll tell Hope."

I backed towards the door watching her walk towards Sister. It was a distracting sight.

"Should I bring anything?" I called after her.

"Just yourself," she called back.

How fast can a temporarily crippled butch woman shower and change? Given the motivation, it was very quick; although, it was touch and go for a minute in the shower with the cane. I stopped to gulp down some pain pills. My hip was throbbing. I should probably just lie down like the doctor told me. But a little pain wasn't going to stand in the way of my need to be nosey.

Standing there in a towel looking through my closet, I was suddenly confronted with the realization that I didn't own a decent shirt. Since when had I become a stereotype? My entire wardrobe consisted of jeans, faded t-shirts, and flannel shirts that were too worn even for an informal dinner.

Damn, Damn, Damn.

I made a mental note to take my mother up on the offer of shopping next time.

I finally dressed in a newish blue t-shirt and my favorite pair of Levis, deciding on the comfortable approach. Checking my reflection in the mirror rather longer than necessary, I gave myself passing marks. It's not like I was ever going to impress her with my fashion sense. I'd just have to dazzle her some other way.

Dazzle her? Reality check.

This woman could be a fugitive. And she was obviously straight. I wasn't trying to woo her, I told myself. I was going over there to check things out.

I managed to get back downstairs and out the back door without adding any injuries to my already extensive list of aches and pains. I glanced over at Sister. Golden light spilled out of the windows outlining the shapes of the two moving around inside. The full moon, hanging low in a clear sky, silvered the drooping limbs of the willow trees behind it. I had never seen Sister look so cozy. I was weary, sore, and my nerves were frazzled but underneath it all I felt a sudden exhilaration. The empty feeling of a half an hour ago was a distant memory. It wasn't hard to figure out why.

Mo's Top Secret Crunchy Chicken

(even you can't mess this up, Lo)

4 chicken breasts

stick of butter

A box of Ritz crackers, crumbled

garlic, pressed

Heat oven to 400. Grease small baking dish.

Melt butter. Add pressed garlic. Dip chicken breasts in mixture and then in cracker crumbs.

Put chicken in prepared dish. Bake for 1 hour.

Chapter 11

About halfway across the lawn, my nostrils met with the tantalizing smells of homemade bread, cinnamon and baked apples.

The woman can cook. I'm in serious trouble.

The garden stile was a bit of a problem. Somehow, I managed to hoist myself over it. Then I heard something that caused an alarm bell to go off in my head, the last jazzy notes of Nina Simone's Ain't Got No and Miranda singing along with them.

Ain't got no mother, ain't got no culture

Ain't got no friends, ain't got no schooling

Ain't got no love, ain't got no name

Ain't got no ticket, ain't got no token

Ain't got no God

I stopped dead right there under the canopy of the oak trees, gripping my cane as if it might run away all on its own. What were the odds that we'd have the same taste in music?

Miranda had a beautiful voice, much like her speaking voice, rich and low and buttery.

I raised my eyes heavenward in silent pleading.

God and her jokes.

It looked like my emotional willpower was going to undergo a grueling test tonight.

I limped through the kitchen garden, up the decaying back steps, and rapped on the screen door.

It opened, creaking on rusty hinges. Hope beamed up at me, her thumb in her mouth.

"Ahoy Captain," I said, smiling a little too widely. My stomach felt like it was trying to fold in on itself. Why was I so skittish? I'm the charming one. I don't get nervous.

Hope stood back and I edged inside.

Mike and Dean and their construction buddies had been busy little bees. The kitchen was still in the process of being remodeled, but the changes taking effect were impressive. The old rotted wood floors had been ripped up and replaced with sandstone tiles. Cabinets that had been painted a putrid shade of green were now stripped down to bare oak made shiny with coats of linseed oil. Even the windows looked freshly dressed with yellow and red checked curtains. It was a very homey scene, made even more so by the sight of Miranda hovering over a saucepan. She reached over and switched off the CD player as I entered.

"I hope you like chicken with lemon dill sauce," she said, inhaling the steam bubbling up from the pot. "It's my specialty."

I hoped I liked it too. I just smiled some more and nodded, suddenly unsure where to stand or what to do with my hands. I fiddled with the tip of my cane, lost my grip and dropped it.

"The place is starting to look great," I said, covering my embarrassment as I picked up the cane off the floor.

"Thanks. I have so many plans for it. There just doesn't seem to be enough hours in the day." She wiped her hands on a red checked dishcloth and turned down the heat on the burner. She turned to look at me, smiling slyly. "Sally Redman called me today."

The offer, I had forgotten about it. I looked away. Damn Sally. Her timing couldn't have been worse. I hadn't felt this off balance and awkward since I asked Denise Ackerman to the senior prom. I was still dealing with the emotional scars from that experience.

"It's very generous of you, really," she said. "But I'm going to have to say no. I just love this place. It's so peaceful." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "It even smells good. I can't get enough of the air out here. It smells like summer when I was a little girl."

She waved to the corner of the kitchen. "Have a seat. Make yourself at home."

"Just wait till the orange blossoms start to bloom," I replied, circling the perimeter of the kitchen till I reached the kitchen table. I pulled out a chair and sat down, balancing my cane on my knee, folding my hands in my lap.

"Would you like some wine?" Miranda asked. "I have a really dry Sauvignon Blanc if you like that sort of thing."

I said that was fine and she busied herself finding me a glass and opening the bottle. Hope appeared at my knee, staring with her big-as-a-saucer blue eyes.

Miranda brought me a glass, limping just slightly herself. I downed half of it before I knew what I was doing.

"How's the leg?" I asked.

"Better, thanks. It only hurts when I move," she flashed me a quick grin. "I had them haul the boats away today," she said, sipping at her own glass. Setting it down, she toyed nervously with the crystal stem, brushing a finger around the rim of the glass. Her hands were entrancing too, long and delicate. I tried not to stare at them. "I hope I wasn't imposing. I just couldn't run the risk…"

"No, I understand. That's fine. I probably should have done that years ago."

Miranda pulled out a chair and sat down next to me, pulling Hope onto her lap, chin nuzzling Hope's curls.

"So what happened to yours?" she asked, eyeing my cane.

"Oh my leg? A dog bit me and then I fell off a balcony."

She laughed. It was a delicious sound. "And how did this happen?"

I told her about the fire, about my job and threw in a few, hopefully, funny anecdotes for good measure. Shoptalk always gets me going. I chattered on and on until I caught myself.

"I'm sorry."

She smiled. "Don't apologize for liking your job."

I couldn't think of a single thing to say as a response and I couldn't look away. Her green eyes pinioned mine and I swear on a stack of bibles, I saw something like an invitation there. Stunned and still staring, I reached blindly for my wine and took a huge gulp. A second later, the look was gone, replaced with soft amusement.

"Dinner should be ready in about ten minutes," she offered after a moment.

I swallowed hard. "Good. It smells great."

An uncomfortable silence followed, both of us looking anywhere but at each other. It would be so much simpler, I reflected with a slight flutter in my stomach, if you could just proclaim your undying devotion by grabbing someone and kissing them, the way they do in all those great old movies.

Probably a little soon for that.

Hope wriggled off of her mother's lap and pulled at my hands. I looked down at her upturned faced. The saucer eyes were now imploring, thumb still firmly implanted in her mouth.

"I think she wants to show you her room," Miranda interpreted. A vigorous headshake from Hope confirmed this. I got to my feet.

"Lead on Cap'n." I allowed her to tug me out of the kitchen and up the front stairs.

"I'll call you when it's ready," Miranda called after us. "Try not to lose yourself in the toy jungle."

Along the way to Hope's room, I noted the changes that had taken place throughout the rest of the house. It was the mirror image of mine, so I knew what to expect as far as layout. White sheets draped the furniture in most of the rooms I passed. Stacked boxes lined the back hallway. The smell of fresh paint mingled with the tangy scent of linseed oil. Mike and Dean must have worked around the clock.

We passed the front room as we mounted the stairs, me ascending slowly, one at a time as Hope sprinted ahead. In that room, at least, everything was unpacked and arranged neatly. The walls were painted a deep burgundy that gave the room a mellow glow. Twin chocolate brown sofas flanked the newly scrubbed and gleaming brick fireplace. A vivid watercolor hung over the mantel and a few pencil drawings graced the other walls. Books of all shapes and sizes lined the built-in shelves to either side of the fireplace. A worn gold velvet wing chair filled the nook nearest the picture window. The room was arranged expertly. I liked it but it seemed somehow off to me. It was too perfect, like a showroom model. It lacked warmth and a personal touch. There were absolutely no knickknacks, no family portraits in silver frames, no quirky figurines. The overabundance of childhood pictures usually seen in a houses with young children was nowhere in evidence. The room was pleasant, but curiously bare.

Hope had disappeared down the upstairs hall. I reached the top step, aching all over, and called her name.

Her golden head peeped out of a doorway and she beckoned with a chubby hand.

Toy jungle was an apt phrase, it turned out. The kid had a fortune in Fisher Price. There was a shrine to Barbie in one corner and a monstrous Lego construction in the other. The floor in between was littered with every toy conceivable. Fearing for my life with each wobbly step, I picked my way through the debris and sank down on Hope's pink canopy bed.

I am not a wiz with kids. I know how to deal with them in professional situations. I'm even quite good in front of a classroom full of first graders. But one on one makes me very uncomfortable.

"I like your room," I said feebly. Hope picked up a doll from the floor, a bushy haired baby with eyes that opened and closed. She poked it in the stomach and it started to cry.

"Rock it." she commanded, removing her thumb only long enough to say the words before she popped it back in.

So I did, feeling extremely foolish. And then I had a dreadful idea. It felt dirty and sneaky, but curiosity will bring out the worst in people.

"So, Hope, did your daddy rock the baby to sleep for you?" I asked. She ignored me. "I bet he did, didn't he? What is your daddy's name, honey?"

But Hope was too involved with stuffing Barbie into a sleazy purple outfit to pay attention.

"Um, Hope. Is your daddy coming to live here with you? What does your daddy do? I bet you miss him, don't you."

Hope seemed deaf to my interrogation. She grabbed a Ken doll and stuffed it into a mini pink Corvette. Very fitting for Ken's car of choice, I thought.

"Hope, where did you live before you moved here? Do you know the name of the place?"

No response. She drove the pink Corvette over my sore foot. I bit my lip.

Patience.

I bent down and gently took the car and Barbie from Hope. The thumb dropped out of her mouth as she stared in amazement.

"Do you see this?" I said, holding up Barbie. "Let's pretend this is Mommy, okay. Mom's name is not just Mommy. It's Miranda too, isn't it?" I held up Ken. "And let's pretend this is Daddy. Daddy's name isn't just Daddy. What is Daddy's other name?"

Hope just stared, her lips quivering, pulling downward into an undecided pout.

She pushed her lip out and said, "Zee Zee," then put her thumb back in her mouth.

I know some four-year-olds are more advanced than others, but this was plainly baby talk. I didn't know what to make of it.

"Zee Zee? What's that, honey?"

And then I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Miranda stood in the doorway, arms crossed, lips pressed together in what looked like irritation. I smiled quickly, thrusting the doll and car back at Hope.

"Dinner's ready," Miranda said.

Chapter 12

We sat down at the kitchen table. Candles and wild flowers arranged in a glass vase made a nice centerpiece. Each place setting had a pretty floral patterned china plate and matching cloth napkins. I picked up the napkin gingerly, unthreading it from its matching floral napkin ring.

Wow. So this is what it's like at Martha Stewart's house.

I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten at a table or used a cloth napkin. It not that I'm a heathen or anything. It wasn't a totally new experience. But most of my meals are eaten right out of take-out boxes in front of the television or at the fire station where proper etiquette means no belching until after the meal.

The meal was artfully placed on each plate, like landscaping, but with food. I was afraid to touch it. I tapped the asparagus construction with my fork. It toppled over onto the chicken, splashing dill sauce onto the tablecloth. I pushed my plate forward to cover the stain. When I looked up, both Miranda and Hope were watching me.

"You know," Miranda said, smoothly ignoring my social ineptness. "I don't think we've ever introduced ourselves. Isn't that funny?"

"That's Jo, mommy. I told you her name," Hope said, pointing a fork loaded with chicken at me. "'Member, you asked me if she had a…"

"A problem with…ah…getting rid of the boats," Miranda deftly interrupted. "Right honey. I remember. No, I meant we never introduced ourselves to her."

Hope threw a puzzled frown at her mother. "But, you said…"

Miranda, ignoring her daughter's protest, tucked Hope's napkin in around her neck, effectively shutting her up, and then turned a 100-watt smile on me. It was a good thing I was sitting down.

"I'm Miranda Maddox, and you know Hope…better late than never, eh?"

"Pleased to meet you. Jo Trilby. Thanks for having me over." I replied, and then took a bite of the chicken. It was really good. I really was in trouble. "So, where are you two from?" I asked, belatedly remembering this visit was for reconnaissance purposes. "I imagine our little corner of the world can take some getting used to if you've lived in a big city your whole life."

Subtle as a sledgehammer, Jo.

"Have you lived here all your life?" countered Miranda "I don't think I've ever met anyone who was actually from Florida."

"Yep. Born and bred. It's a small town, but it gets into your blood. I don't think I could live anywhere else."

"It's charming. It's so quiet." She grimaced. Only truly pretty women can make such faces and still look adorable. "Well, when there aren't people hammering day and night. The plumber will be out of here tomorrow and the roofers will only be a week. I'm really sorry about that. They've told me it will only be another couple weeks until the rest is finished."

"Don't count on it. Mike is pretty good but he's not exactly what you'd call dedicated."

"Well, I think I paying him enough to keep him dedicated."

That gave me a moment's pause, remembering America's Most Wanted, the actress shoveling cash out of a safe in the wall and Sally Redman's words. I bet she could afford to keep a lot of people dedicated. I covered the silence quickly, rattling on even more about Springport, the town's eccentric inhabitants and even the weather. Ten minutes later, my plate was clean and, I realized, my original question was still unanswered. I had talked my head off and Miranda had listened patiently, but had revealed nothing about herself.

"So, where do you work?" I asked, trying to steer the conversation back. "Somewhere in town?"

Her eyelashes, thick and long, fanned her cheeks as she looked down at her plate.

"I'm still not sure what I want to be when I grow up," she said, her tone playful yet guarded. "I've decided not to go back to work until Hope is old enough for school. I have a few years of leisure time left, I think, if you call 'leisure' running around after a four-year-old all day."

Hope thumped her milk glass on the table. "All done, Mommy."

"Plate."

Hope handed her plate to Miranda, who collected all the plates and took them to the sink. When she came back to the table, she had a pie in one hand and three plates in the other.

"I hope you have a sweet tooth."

She set the pie down on the table. It was as big as a manhole cover. It made me think of a nursery rhyme. Four and twenty black birds baked in a pie.

My stomach rumbled audibly, not in a good way, and my head began to spin. Funny, I felt fine a minute ago. I attributed it to the stress of the day.

"It's apple," she said, seeing my queasy stare.

"It's enormous," I said, then added hastily, "But it looks great. I'll have half."

Chuckling, she cut a huge slice, put it on a plate and passed it to me. I leaned close to catch the rising scent of baked apples and cinnamon when a curious thing happened. My head floated off my shoulders, the room tilted, and I slid out of my chair.

Then I remembered...

The pain pills must be kicking in. How many had I taken? Two? Four? On top of how many glasses of wine? Two or three?

Heavy, irresistible darkness pressed down on me and suddenly, sleep was an absolute priority.

Roses are Red

And sometimes yellow

this bottle of wine

will help you get mellow

I'm upstairs...

Mo

Chapter 14

Each eyelash weighed at least a hundred pounds. Legs and arms felt almost as heavy. My mouth tasted foul and parched, like a dried up swamp. I thought yearningly of water, delicious and cool, cascading down some rocky slope. Unfortunately, the association brought another matter to mind. I breathed in deep, fighting the call of nature. I wanted to indulge in a few more minutes of this delicious numbness.

Nature won.

Gradually, a disjointed awareness prickled my senses. Something wasn't right. Even before I pried open my eyelids, I knew I wasn't at home in my comfy bed. For one, it didn't smell right. It smelled like flowers and cinnamon. No, I wasn't at home. Potpourri is something you just won't find in my house.

But second, and more alarming, I felt warm breath on my cheek. The warmth of an inert body seeped into mine. Someone was sleeping right next to me.

Warped synapses fired into first gear and I sat straight up. Let's just say, waking up next to someone is an unusual event for me. I was almost afraid to look. I opened my eyes.

I was in bed, just not my bed, definitely not mine. Pink ruffles grazed my forehead, Hope's canopy. The tiny figure curled up next to me confirmed it.

With each labored breath, my last conscious moments filtered through my memory and a grimace of regret felt like it might be permanently etched on my face.

I'd disgraced myself again. Seems I couldn't get through a day without acting like a fool. My life was turning into a twisted "I Love Lucy" episode.

Groaning, I hauled my leaden butt off the bed and was immediately reminded that I'd hurled myself off a balcony a few scant hours before. Ankle, hip and shoulder throbbed. The pain was worse than last night, with the added bonus of nausea and a thundering headache.

I staggered, eyes half open and arms clutched over my churning stomach, across the toy minefield, twice nicking my bare feet on jutting layers of a Lego construction before making it safely to the hall. I clutched the wall for support, gulping in huge breaths so that the pristine floors wouldn't have to become acquainted with the contents of my stomach. A window at the end of the hallway admitted the first pale rays of morning.

I'd spent the night in Miranda's house.

I held my breath as I explored the hallway, finding the door to the darkened bathroom at the other end. I switched on the light. The bathroom was pink, which didn't do much for my nausea, and full of knickknacks and towels that were so dainty and elaborately arranged, I would not have dared wipe my hands on them.

I did my business as quietly as possible, fearing every tiny noise would wake the house. Afterward, I tiptoed (if that is what you can call swaying crazily from foot to foot while hugging the walls) to the stairway, luckily missing any creaky boards, and then began to descend.

I'd gained the bottom of the stairs, gripping the newel post as I gasped for breath, when I overheard Miranda's voice speaking low and hurriedly. I didn't hear another voice answering. Teetering between the desire for a swift and embarrassment-free escape and the need to eavesdrop, I bit my lower lip and deliberated. "No, I'm not going to do that." Miranda's voice floated down the hall. The turmoil in the flat tones decided it for me. At first Miranda's words were muffled and indistinct. But as I drew closer, the conversation became clearer.

"...money you want, then fine, you can have more than we discussed, just leave Hope out of it... It's not as if you ever tried to... No. I won't let you do that to Hope. No. You can't come here...I don't care...You know perfectly well what happened...And don't you dare try to tell me that you don't feel guilty, too..." Miranda's voice went very husky. "Don't---just don't okay? Neither of us is ready for that." She was silent for a long moment. "Fine. Yes, I know, Jim. For the moment, that will have to do. Fine."

I heard the click of the phone as she set it down. The house went quiet. Afraid to breathe, to move, I went as still as a statue and waited. Then the silence was broken by the sound of soft weeping. For the second time, I had unwillingly witnessed her pain. Doubts multiplied by the second. So much could be read into her words. Was she being blackmailed? Then again, it could have been about something else entirely. Either way, now was not the time to offer comfort. Instead, just as before, I crept away, stealing out of the house via the front door like a lunatic escaping from a very pleasant asylum.

I was rounding the corner of the house, head down, hobbling full tilt to get across the lawn to my house before Miranda could spot me leaving, when I slammed into someone.

"Where's the fire, Josey-phine?"

Mike.

I didn't even have to look up. The cloying scents of cheap cologne and cigarette smoke were a dead giveaway. And I knew before I saw his face that his usual leer would be twice as smarmy. I was right. It was funny how nature could give a man such a handsome face but such an ugly personality.

"Not looking so good this morning," he drawled, eyes raking up and down, taking in the disheveled hair, the bare feet, the half buttoned jeans. "You girls have a sleep over?"

"You could say that." I said flatly, hands balling into fists.

His expression darkened, and something resembling jealousy made his mouth pucker. "Oh reeeeally... See now, I wouldn't have pegged Miranda as the type."

My lips twisted in a humorless smile. "And what type is that, Mike?"

His mouth thinned out, going white at the edges. "Stay away from her, Jo. She don't need you poisoning her mind. This is serious, now. She ain't like you."

I shook my head in disgust and tried brushing past him but he grabbed me by the shoulder.

"Mike," I said, fighting to maintain calm, though the blood was pounding in my ears. " If you want to keep that hand, you'll get it off of me right now."

His bloodshot eyes flicked from his hand, to my face, then behind me. What he saw there changed his attitude entirely. He squeezed my shoulder painfully then let go.

"G'morning, Miss Miranda," he said, his mouth instantly widening into an obsequious grin.

I spun around, again wrenching my knee. She was standing on the top step, the screen door propped open with her elbow, my shoes in her hands. Her face was drawn and pale, eyes red. She looked almost as bad as I did, if that was possible, and yet still maddeningly seductive with her tousled hair and no makeup. She wore flannel boxer shorts that exposed firm, tanned legs and a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt.

"Good to see you conscious," she said, raising a questioning eyebrow at me. "We weren't sure you were going to make it there for awhile."

I was sure if I could've died of embarrassment, this would have been the killing blow. And to add to my mortification, I felt myself blushing as Mike watched, bemused.

"Sorry about that," I mumbled.

This was not the answer she was looking for. She pursed her lips. "After you passed out, I called 911. Apparently you have a few friends down there. They talked me through the worst of it. After the paramedics arrived and reassured me you'd be all right after you'd rested, it wasn't so bad. Hope was happy to bunk down with you. I'm sure she'll be sorry she didn't get to say goodbye."

Great, so the whole department knew!

That also explained how I got into Hope's bed. Miranda was so slight, I doubt she could have hauled me up all those stairs. I couldn't suppress a heavy sigh. It just kept getting better and better.

She held out my shoes. "I thought you might need these." With a nod, she tossed them down to me.

I picked them up, raising my eyes to meet hers. "Thank you. For everything, I mean. You've been extremely kind."

Her red eyes were inscrutable. Mike harrumphed. Well, at least she'd cleared up Mike's little misunderstanding. Hopefully that would shut him up. Why didn't that make me happy? She continued watching me, saying nothing.

"Well, anyway, you've been great. If there's ever anything you need, you know where I am. I'll just be getting back now." I knew I sounded like an idiot, but what else was new? I needed to get away, to go home, to hide someplace dark and quiet for about six years. I turned to go, throwing a last look over my shoulder. Mike was grinning. Miranda's face was blank.

"Bye now, Josey-phine," Mike said, turning back to Miranda. "You want to show me what you want in that upstairs bathroom?"

Miranda crossed her arms, still watching me, and then directed a wan smile at Mike. "Sure. Come on in."

She held back the screen door for him. He took rather a long time to pass by, unnecessarily brushing up against her as he passed. I bit my lip and turned my head away, hugging my shoes to my chest as I shuffled home.

Chapter 14

How bare my house seemed now. I stood at the back door and scanned the kitchen, contrasting it in my mind with its twin across the lawn. It had none of the warmth and personality of Miranda's. Everything was white and cold and empty. Except for the floors, it looked almost exactly as it did the day I moved in five years ago.

I trailed a finger along the plain white tile countertop, dropping my shoes on the floor as I went. I passed through the kitchen into the front part of the house. Empty. No character. I'd been here eight years and didn't even have curtains at the windows. Pathetic.

Wandering through the living room, I massaged my forehead, fighting back the splitting headache that was hovering just behind my eyes. I flopped onto the sofa, and stared at the blank and dusty television screen, searching for some motivation or a reason not to think.

CD's littered the bare bookshelves that flanked the cold fireplace. A battered steamer trunk stood in for a coffee table. The lumpy beige corduroy sofa. (the same sofa I'd had in college, I noted grimly.) hunkered down in front of the big screen TV. The only artwork gracing my stark white walls was a thumbtacked magazine picture of Lucy Lawless hanging over my computer. And, my coup de grace of shame: I was probably the only woman over thirty who still owned bean bag chairs.

I sighed.

So there goes that spread in Home and Gardens.

The irony was too apparent to ignore. I'd spent months sanding, sawing, priming and painting for nothing. This house would never be the home that I wanted it to be. Furniture and knicknacks weren't going to fill this void. This was far more serious than my inability to decorate.

Feeling gritty and tired, I decided a shower might help. I reluctantly hauled my butt off the sofa. Climbing the stairs, I felt my spirits drop. I stopped on the fifth step and took a deep breath, letting a startling realization sink in

The entire time Lauren had lived here, she'd never once asked to hang a picture on the walls or make any changes whatsoever. It had never seemed odd, but now there was a new significance to it.

She'd known from the start that her stay would be temporary.

And was that my problem, too?

I loved my house. I loved my job. I loved my life. But despite all that love, I felt as if I were waiting for something indefinable to show up and make it all "real" somehow. When had I put my existence on pause? What was I waiting for?

I took another step up. My knee screamed in protest. I decided to skip the shower. I trudged up the last of the stairs, made my way to my spartan bedroom, collapsed into bed and drew the down comforter over me. This was the someplace warm and quiet where I would hide for awhile.

Some time later, after playing my many mishaps over and over in my mind, I drifted off to sleep.

My troubles were still there when I awoke, as clear and unappealing as they had been before I fell asleep. As I cleared the sleep from my eyes, another added itself to my list. Miranda had called 911. The entire county probably knew about my disaster with the painkillers. That would definitely need some attention. Heaven knows what the guys at the station were thinking of me now. I couldn't let my ineptness carry over into my professional life. That was something my pride wouldn't allow.

I spent most of the day propped up in bed just thinking about my problems. Though I tried to focus, curiosity about Miranda detoured my thoughts.

She was beautiful and charming, but was she a murderer? It was just a vague resemblance. But then what was that telephone conversation all about? And what about all that money?

What would Miss Marple do in my situation?

Well, that was easy. Miss Marple would be sitting in her little English cottage on a chintz sofa, embroidering a cushion for the vicar and the mystery would already have been solved days ago. She certainly wouldn't have passed out while eating dessert at the prime suspect's house.

The trouble was I lacked the Agatha Christie-like analytical skills necessary to come to any sort of definite conclusion. Hunches are big with me. And an intensive investigation with tons of legwork, peeking into forbidden files and staking out the suspect didn't sound the least bit appealing. But if I was going to really do this, I needed to do it right. I knew I had to stop interpreting things on such an emotional level and get some organization.

The rest of the day I mooned around the house, listlessly watching old movies and eating bowl after bowl of peach ice cream. The next morning, waking with thoughts still fluttering around my brain and a touch of indigestion, I got out of bed, showered and dressed, then meandered downstairs. I paced for awhile, thinking this would help.

Columbo paced.

It didn't help.

I stopped pacing and sat dejectedly at my underutilized computer desk, staring at the Angelina Jolie screensaver on the monitor. I could probably get on the net and hunt down some facts. That would be a very modern solution to the problem; find the answer via the information highway. But, that wasn't my style either. I'm such an internet amateur. I could barely use the mouse properly let alone google someone and follow the electronic clues. Instead, I shuffled through the drawers searching for a clean sheet of paper and a pen.

At the top of the sheet I wrote: Pros and Cons / Guilty or Not Guilty. Under guilty I wrote: looks just like Helena Burnham, has lots of cash floating around, is secretive. But the most important fact, the clincher that hadn't dawned on me until just then; owns a Dallas Cowboy's T-shirt.

Phillip Burnham had lived and died in Texas.

Under not guilty all I could put was: I hope so. The scales were definitely tipping towards guilty.

I decided I needed professional help, not to mention a shoulder to weep on. It was time to confess to the authorities.

Twenty minutes later, Jay opened his back door wearing boxer shorts dotted with tiny pigs, a t-shirt that said 'I'm with stupid', and a sour expression.

"Good morning Sunshine," I trilled, sweeping past him into his kitchen. I sat the box of Krispy Kremes I'd brought on the counter and began searching for the coffee filters. Jay had the tiniest kitchen known to man. It was no bigger than a pocket handkerchief. The entire house was about the size of your standard broom closet. But the kitchen was familiar territory to me and there was just enough room to make coffee, which is all I use kitchens for anyway. The coffee made, I turned around. He was still glaring at me. "What happened?" I asked, pointing at the boxers. "You lose a bet?"

"This better be good, Jo," he growled, rubbing his bleary eyes with the backs of his hands. "It's 9:30 on a Saturday. You know my views on weekend a.m."

I rolled my eyes and reached for a chocolate cream-filled. "Friend in need, here. I couldn't wait until the crack of noon for you to decide to grace the world with your presence. C'mon. Little help here."

He yawned expansively while scratching areas I'd prefer not to describe. "I really can't right now," he said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the bedroom. "I'm not alone. Deborah's here."

My hands flew up to cover my mouth. "Oh no, I didn't interrupt morning sex did I? Because, that's a mental picture I just can't deal with."

He cuffed me on the back of my head as he reached for a cruller. "She's got the flu. We were up all night sneezing and coughing."

I breathed a mock sigh of relief. "Oh phlegm. I can deal with that. Is she okay?"

"Nothing a gallon of Nyquil and some TLC won't cure.What do you want, Jo?"

I slid the case folder out from under the box of donuts and pushed it toward him.

"I know who did it," I said, though saying the words caused a strange tightening in my chest.

"Who, the mayor?" Jay snorted as he flipped through the file. I allowed him to indulge in his skepticism for a moment. So maybe I had jumped to a few farfetched conclusions in the past. That didn't make me a lunatic, did it? I'd been protecting my country when I'd confronted those tourists. It was a patriotic thing. That couple from Hamburg had seemed rather shifty, to my mind. Why had they taken so many pictures of the Police and Fire Departments? Always with the cameras and the suspicious looks. I still think there was something going on with those two. But I wasn't crying wolf now. I made my face the picture of seriousness.

"I think it's my neighbor, Jay."

Jay doubled over. I didn't realize he was laughing until I saw him start to spasm. He looked up with tears in his eyes.

"Oh jeez," he said, wiping his eyes with the ends of his shirt. "That's better than the German tourists. I gotta tell the guys that one."

I glared at him. "Do you even know who I'm talking about? I'm serious about this one, Jay."

He just cackled even louder and then picked up a powdered sugar donut and stuffed half in his mouth.

"The evidence is pointing right at her, Jay. She's a dead ringer for Helena Burnham. She's got lots of cash. I heard her on the phone this morning. She said some things that made me wonder. Plus, she has a Dallas Cowboys t-shirt."

Jay spurted coffee. "Oh well, she must be the murderer, then."

I flashed him a quelling glance.

He sobered up, pretending to listen as he wiped powdered sugar off his chin.

"The thing is, I don't really want to jump the gun, here. Honestly, I don't want to be right. I need a serious point-of-view on this one."

"Ja-ay!" Deborah's hoarse voice wailed from the bedroom. "Orange juice!" This was followed by a flurry of coughs and sneezes.

"Ooh!" Jay hustled to the fridge, grabbed the orange juice and hurriedly poured it into a glass. It was amusing and slightly heartwarming to watch him playing nurse. "Coming, baby," he called in a sing-song tone, then rounded on me, eyes narrowing. "Listen, I'm pretty tied up today. I'll try looking at your little case tonight, okay? I can't promise you anything. Really, it sounds like nothing. I wouldn't worry."

I'll admit I got a little huffy at the brush off. "Little case? That's it? Don't you even want to look at the woman? Get her license plate number? Research her at all? I'm telling you, she could be the one they're looking for. You know I would only come to you if I were desperate. Look into this for me? Meet me later? We can have a beer and you can tell me what you think. C'mon, after playing nurse all day, you'll be itching for a break. Please!"

A fresh round of hacking from the other room interrupted me. Jay's ruddy face radiated exasperation. He paused at the threshold to the hallway. "Fine, get me her license number. I'll check her out and I'll try to meet you tonight. But, like I said, I can't promise you anything."

I hopped up and down with glee. Hope was on the horizon. Jay would get to the bottom of this for me. I rushed over, gave him a quick peck on the cheek and made for the door before he could say anything contrary.

"Thanks Ope!" I called over my shoulder.

Next stop was the station. Time to face the firing squad. And I knew just who would be aiming for me.

Dear Lois,

We can't go on like this. I can't bear it. You have to talk to me or my poor heart will shrivel up in my chest! Please darling, forgive me. I know I was horrible. I know your feelings are beaten and bruised by all that has happened.

You know my brothers consider me a substitute for mother. I guess I just automatically placed their needs before my own, and, it seems, before yours. It was careless of me and I am more sorry than I can ever say. I shouldn't have let them come between us.

I know the boys are adults now, with their own lives, families and responsibilities. That they expect me to continue to be a caretaker for them, the way I was for mother, now that you point it out, is thoughtless behavior. They should be made to understand that you are an implicit part of my life and that your needs, our needs, come first. I will try to show them how much you mean to me. Once they get to know you, they're bound to love you just as much as I do.

Please say you 'll forgive me!

Mona

Chapter 15

I arrived as the company was finishing breakfast detail. I made my way through the kitchen, noting the grim looks and open smirks on some of the men's faces. No one offered the usual hellos. No one spoke to me at all. Looks like the news of my alleged night of debauchery spread fast.

Sooo... I'm the Scarlet woman now, am I? I'll have to remember to sew an A on my uniform.

When I got to my office I found a not-so-surprise guest sitting on my desk (not in a chair like normal people, I noted grumpily.) and spitting tobacco into that damnable cup. Ellis Angeley didn't even let me get in a good morning before he started his tirade.

"Just what the hell is this about a drunken party out at your place and you overdosing on a bunch of pills? (spit) I don't think I like the sound of that. (spit) Just what kind of sideshow are you running over here?"

I felt my face turn red. It wasn't embarrassment. It was rage.

"Ellis," I said, inhaling deeply to slow my galloping heart rate. I moved past him and sat down at my desk, hoping that by doing so, I'd make him feel stupid for sitting with his feet dangling over the floor. He didn't move. "Your sources are a little whacked. It was hardly a drunken party." I lifted my hands and shrugged. "I may have mistakenly mixed a little wine with the pain killers the hospital gave me but that's hardly cause for all this fuss. I got a little woozy and my neighbor got hysterical and called EMS. End of story." I leaned back in my chair, putting my hands behind my head as I propped my feet up on the desk beside him.

From the look on his face, any explanation of mine would be automatically disregarded. Okay, fine, if that's how you want to play it. I smiled innocently up at him. "Now, if you really want to talk about sideshows, I hear you do a mean Barry Manilow impersonation after a few beers. The guys at the lodge tell me they especially like your rendition of 'Mandy'"

A nasty wad of tobacco plopped into the cup as his mouth fell open. If I weren't so disgusted, I probably would've laughed.

"Hey! That's not... Now listen here," Ellis sputtered, his wiry gray eyebrows climbing up his forehead. "I don't like to be sassed, young lady." Hitching up his sagging jeans over his protruding paunch, he continued, face growing redder by the second. "You are supposed to set an example for these boys. Carrying on the way you do... it's a piss poor role model that they're getting. I won't have it! Not anymore. Starting today, you're on leave." He tossed a thin sheet of pink paper at me. "Per the county commissioners."

"What?" I jumped up, nearly bumping my head on his chin. "You can't just walk in and arbitrarily relieve me of duty." I gaped at him, mouth opening and closing, momentarily forgetting how to form words, until the anger constricting my throat finally bubbled and then burst free. "This is bullshit! You and I both know what this is all about." My hands, aching to strangle, I buried in my jeans pockets instead. I started to pace. "You've hated me from day one, Ellis. You've just been waiting for a reason to get at me. So why don't we just be honest about it. Why don't you just say it? Tell me what it is you've been dying to say."

I glared at him, spoiling for the fight. Ever since we'd met, all the tension between us had been leading up to this moment. I felt my nails dig into my palms and that deceptive calm that always precedes a huge angry explosion, only now I was welcoming the rage.

C'mon you bigoted pig, say it! Tell me you're suspending me because I'm gay. Oh please! I'll have lawyers standing in line to take the case! Say it! <