Selling Laura Poole

by Steve Friday

 

Copyright © 2015 Steve Friday. All rights reserved.  Published by Jet Lag Books     ISBN 978-0-9961819-0-7

License Notes:  This ebook excerpt is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

SIX YEARS AGO

An hour before Papa died, he promised they would go to the park today.

As things turned out they wouldn’t have gone anyway, because of the weather. Rain painted a rippling sheet of water onto the window, but Brad could still see the park eight floors below the apartment and the base of the Eiffel Tower was visible in the distance, though its top was lost in the low-hanging clouds. He let the sheer curtain slip from his hand and the outside world disappeared behind a gauzy white haze.

He crossed the room and plopped onto the sofa with a bounce that would have drawn a warning from Mama if she wasn’t still in her bedroom. Brad picked up the model Mirage fighter jet that had been a gift from Papa. The birthday party—Brad’s twelfth—was not even two weeks ago. How could everything change so fast?

Brad lowered the jet’s landing gear, then swooped through the air and lined it up with the coffee table. The thick glass surface became, for a moment, the flight deck of an aircraft carrier; the greens and blues in Mama’s Persian carpet were the Indian Ocean. His approach was good, rate of descent perfect.

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Brad yelled.

He finished the landing, then ran to the door. Still a few centimeters too short to look through the peephole, he called through the door. “Qui est la?”

“It’s Aunt Victoria, Bradley.”

Brad’s shoulders slumped. “You’re not my Aunt.”

“Open the door, young man.”

He released the deadbolt and pulled on the door. Victoria was not alone. The man next to her was big, but what Brad noticed first was the eye patch. Black, like his business suit and tie, it covered his left eye—or where a left eye used to be. His hair was short, like a soldier, and he carried a thin attache case in black leather. He looked like a bad guy from one of the old movies Papa liked to watch after bedtime.

Victoria pushed the door wide and walked past Brad. She wore black, too. The man followed.

“Mama,” Brad yelled. “Victoria’s here.”

Mama entered from the hall to the bedroom wing. She stopped when she saw the strange man and tightened the belt on her robe. “I didn’t expect you until later, Victoria.”

“There are things we must discuss before the service.” Victoria’s eyes swept the apartment. “Did Avery have a study?” She cast a glance at Brad. “Someplace we can talk?”

Brad recognized the code. Victoria meant a grown-ups talk. He also caught the past tense reference to his father.

Mama led the way to a door off the living room and Eye Patch followed. Victoria trailed. “Didn’t Benjamin come with you?” Mama asked as she opened Papa’s study.

“No,” Victoria said.

“But—” Mama sounded like she was wounded. “Avery was his father, too.”

“Frida, we’re going to talk.” Victoria pushed the door shut and its lock engaged with a click.

The study door opened forty minutes later and Victoria emerged, followed by Eye Patch and the attache case. Eye Patch closed the door behind them. Mama must still be inside.

“Remind me to stay away from your bad side,” he said to Victoria.

Victoria smirked. “The whore and her mongrel pup are getting more than they deserve.” She cast a glance at Brad and looked for a moment as though she had something more to say. After a pause, she hurried to the apartment door.

The man approached Brad. “What kind of plane is that?”

“A Mirage,” Brad answered.

“That’s a French plane. An American boy ought to be flying an F-22.”

Brad stared at him. Who was this guy? And why was Mama still in the study?

“Let’s go,” Victoria called, opening the door.

“Good luck, kid,” Eye Patch said. Then he and Victoria were gone.

 

The First Day

Monday, May 10

 

Propane hissed from the stove’s burners. Waffle batter sizzled and coffee dripped as the sounds and smells of breakfast filled the kitchen of the small ranch house. Brad Colton poked the waffle with a fork and decided it was not yet ready.

On the other side of the windows the blush of first light softened the black Mojave sky. The lone bulb that dangled from the ceiling wouldn’t get meaningful help from the sun for another hour, and by then the worst of the day’s work would be finished.

Today marked a turning point. He liked that metaphor. An interface between Old and New. The point at which the End of one thing became the Beginning of another.

There would certainly be an End event: At ten o’clock this morning he would sit for the Advanced Physics exam—the final final exam of his senior year. By eleven-thirty his career as a student would be over. He allowed himself a small fist pump before grabbing an oven mitt to turn the waffle out of the iron and onto a plate.

And there would be a Beginning: The campaign to repay Victoria for the pain she’d inflicted on Mama would start this evening, at Ms. Poole’s house.

But the most significant change, the event with the clearest boundary between Beginning and End, would happen this morning before the sun was up. Within the hour he would become an orphan.

Brad spooned a dollop of whipped cream from a bowl, spread it evenly across the waffle, pleased by the steadiness of his hand. With the tip of the spoon he drew a smiling face in the cream, then added color with a sprinkle of sliced strawberries. Mama couldn’t handle a regular waffle, so he cut it into bite-sized pieces. The plate joined a glass of water and cup of coffee on a tray. He checked the stove to be certain the gas was off then carried her breakfast upstairs.

His mind raced. p=mv2. The exam would begin in five hours, so he reviewed in his head while climbing the stairs. Momentum equals mass times velocity squared.

“Breakfast, Mama.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Morning? Already?”

“Yes, Mama. And I fixed your favorite. Belgian waffles.” He helped her sit up in bed, propped a pillow behind her back and set the tray across her legs. “Coffee, too. Freshly ground.”

She patted the bed with obvious effort. “Sit next to me?”

Her voice was brittle, a bit like broken glass, and so low Brad had to strain to understand the words. “Yes. But wait just a minute.” He went to his room, found the small book with the blue binding and hurried back. He pulled a chair alongside the bed then held the book for her to see.

Mama’s face wrinkled in surprise, then softened into a smile. “Are you going to read to me?”

“Like old times.” Brad opened the book to the inside cover, pointed to the stamp of the second-hand bookstore in Paris where they had purchased it seven years earlier. Mama took him to the park every Monday then, the year before Papa died. The walk back to the apartment always included a visit to the bookstore for another in his favorite teenaged mystery series, then a stop at the patisserie for croissants—real croissants, warm and buttery, that melted on the tongue. Mama would drink coffee and Brad would order hot cocoa. Every night he would read aloud, but in those days he was the one tucked under a blanket while she sat at bedside. Mama insisted on the ritual. It was her way to be certain her son maintained proficiency in English while growing up in Europe.

“Okay, Mama. Let’s see what the boys are up to today.” He turned to the opening page.

Her hand squeezed his arm. “Bradley.”

“What, Mama?”

“Remember your promise?”

Brad blinked.

She coughed and coffee sloshed from cup to saucer, then onto the tray; from there, it dribbled onto the bed sheet. He ignored the mess.

She asked again. “Remember?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“It’s almost time. The pills don’t…”

“I have new medicine. Stronger.” Brad pulled a brown plastic bottle from a shirt pocket, removed six pills and set them on the tray, away from the puddle of coffee. “But you have to eat while I read.” He smiled, hoping to draw a smile in return.

“Six?”

Brad nodded and began the story. She swallowed the pills without complaint then started on the waffle. At the middle of the fourth page, Mama stopped eating and reached out to take his hand. Her grip was tight, like she would never let go. By the eighth page, the grip relaxed. Brad set the book down and removed a foil packet from a back pocket. He tore it open and unfolded a gauze pad. It was small, but adequate to cover Mama’s nose and mouth. After a count of sixty, he wadded the pad into a ball and tossed it to the far corner of the room.

Brad removed the tray to keep waffle and coffee from adding to the mess on the bed, then sat next to Mama. She was unconscious, but breathing. With his left hand he pinched her nostrils together. The texture of her flesh between his thumb and forefinger was unanticipated and a bit creepy—pliant, like Play-Doh. He used his right hand to cover her mouth and began another count to sixty. At thirteen, another surprise: her feet kicked under the blanket. He had expected the pills and chloroform to render her completely unaware—oblivious—but by the count of seventeen she was still again and stayed that way.

He carried the breakfast tray back to the kitchen, rinsed and cleaned the dishes, then stepped outside. The morning air was crisp and clean; the early sun warmed his face. A buzzard soared overhead in search of breakfast. Brad filled his lungs, then closed his eyes and allowed the sun’s rays to wash his face.

When he returned to Mama’s room he bathed, then dressed her. Last night he’d retrieved her wedding gown from the chest in the attic. A year ago it would have been a difficult fit, but this morning it bunched in loose folds around her body. Lipstick restored a touch of color to her face and a brush put her hair into some semblance of order. When she was ready, he wrapped her in a blanket and hefted her across his shoulder.

Her grave would be a simple trench shaded by a cluster of mesquite trees, but she could not go there yet.

Brad carried her to the small Toyota pickup, grateful that he’d had the foresight to park near the front porch last night, and loaded Mama into the passenger seat. He fastened the seat belt to keep her from sliding to the floor. The dirt track to the south corral was rutted and steep in places. This part of the ranch, far from Grandpa’s precious orchard and Mama’s little stand of mesquite trees, was barren desert. When they arrived at the corral, he released the bungee cords that secured a plastic gasoline can in the truck’s bed and carried it ten yards to a metal watering trough that hadn’t seen livestock in over three decades. The trough was about six feet long, two wide and today it was full of chopped pieces of old fence posts. Brad poured the gasoline onto the bone-dry wood, then carefully brought Mama from the truck and laid her atop the pyre. He moved the truck to a safe distance and pulled Grandpa’s Bible from the glove box where he’d stowed it yesterday afternoon.

The morning breeze tried to loosen the shroud near her face. He carefully tucked it back in place then lit a match. The gasoline-soaked wood ignited with a roar. Heat leathered his face and wood crackled while he read the Twenty-third Psalm. He stayed until the fire burned itself out and slender wisps of smoke were all that remained. This afternoon, after the trough had cooled, he would load it into the truck and bury Mama in the shade of her favorite mesquite trees. The two-step process was necessary. A fire this size would have destroyed the only spot in this wretched desert that had given her pleasure.

Brad climbed into the Toyota and headed for the house. It was time for school.

The day’s agenda was clear in his mind, organized in the style of the to-do app in his phone.

Task 1: Mama. Done.

Task 2: Advanced Physics, review for exam. In progress.

Task 3: Victoria—first moves/4:30 set up @ Ms. Poole’s house. Not started.

Task 4: Carrie + movie/7:30. Not started.

Brad parked next to the old stable then walked back to the house, navigating around a creosote bush as a quail darted from its cover, trailed by a line of chicks. He returned his attention to the pending physics exam. Nothing less than an A would be acceptable. Mama had been so proud of the improvement in his grades this year.

g=9.8m/sec2. The acceleration of gravity at the earth’s surface is 9.8 meters per second squared.

* * * *

Ms. Poole was always home by 5:20 and she always ate supper by 6:30. She always sat at the coffee table in front of the TV to eat, watch Wheel of Fortune and a movie, then she went to bed with pajamas on and lights off by 9:20. He knew. He’d been watching for months, making notes, and Ms. Poole was as predictable as the pendulum clock in her living room.

Right now the clock’s hands pointed to 6:13. He was in her house, but she was not.

So where was she tonight?

Brad flexed his hands, working away tension, feeling the soft leather of the golf gloves stretch with his fingers. There was, he remembered, an opened bottle of sauvignon blanc in her refrigerator. A little of that would relieve some tension, too.

It was decision time.

Stay or go? If he knew where she was and why she was late, he would know what to do. His presence wasn’t really necessary. Ms. Poole’s surprise was in place and The Plan would proceed with or without him, but after all the work and all the planning he wanted to be here when she arrived home and made the discovery that would trigger all the events that would soon follow. He wanted to watch from the patio, through the small gap in the living room blinds to see the look on her face. But he had a date with Carrie and her old man came unglued if she got home even a minute past 10:30.

Brad made a decision. 6:25, no later. Twelve more minutes. He pulled his phone from a back pocket and typed a message to Carrie. Movie starts 7:30. C u @ 7:00.

He dropped into the overstuffed chair in front of the television and closed his eyes. The steady tick-tick reminded him of sitting in his father’s study as a child. Papa’s clock also had a pendulum and made a similar sound, though it was much finer in appearance. Mama would enter the study when Papa was out, advance the time by ten minutes, then hold a finger to her lips. “Shh,” she would whisper with a wink, making him an accomplice. He thought Papa never knew, but on the night following his twelfth birthday, Brad walked into the study and caught Papa turning the time backward by ten minutes. Papa winked and held a finger to his lips. Brad understood immediately. This was a game! A lovers’ game. He had never thought of his parents as lovers before that moment. Two weeks later, Papa was gone.

Brad opened his eyes. Stay on task.

Thinking of the wine reminded him he was thirsty. That was not a distraction. Water was a necessity before the walk back to the truck. He wandered to the kitchen, found a tumbler in a cabinet, then changed his mind in favor of a lone Waterford goblet. He filled it twice from the tap. When his thirst was gone he poured two fingers of the sauvignon blanc, then checked the bottle. The drop in level was enough to be noticed so he poured some back, then sipped cautiously. Her wine was plain, but acceptable.

The sudden sound of the power garage door opener startled him, but only for a moment. A minimum of seventy-five seconds would elapse between the time the garage door was triggered and the moment she would walk through the interior door to the utility room, then into the kitchen. He’d timed it on four previous visits. Brad immediately began counting backward from seventy.

He drained the wine in one gulp, removed a towel from a drawer and wiped the goblet dry. Fifty-six seconds. The goblet went back into the cabinet, the wine into the fridge. Forty-seven seconds. He folded the towel and returned it the drawer. Satisfied, he turned for the back door—then stopped. A small stack of mail on the back corner of the kitchen counter caught his eye. Why hadn’t he noticed it earlier?

The top envelope was slit neatly along the top. He thumbed through the contents. It was a payroll advice, showing that Grant County School District had made a direct deposit to the Wells Fargo account of Laura Tyler Poole. He whistled softly at the amount, then stuffed the slip back into the envelope and set it in place on the pile of letters.

The distraction caused him to lose count of the time. How much was left? He hurried to the back door, but paused for a final look into the living room at the vase of roses he had placed on the coffee table. Brad smiled, then slipped through the door. The deadbolt on the door from the garage clicked open just before he turned his copy of her house key in the deadbolt on the back door.

There was a place on the patio, outside the picture window to the living room, where a small gap at the center of the blinds just above the sill allowed a view into the house. He moved to that spot.

Showtime.

For several minutes there was nothing to see and only occasional sounds as she fussed in the kitchen. At last she moved into the living room and he suppressed a laugh. Ms. Poole carried a glass of wine—in the Waterford goblet. She didn’t notice the flowers at first, while she turned on the TV and looked for the remote, but she noticed them before settling into the overstuffed chair.

She approached the roses on soft feet, as though they were an animal that might bite. Her eyes reflected the light, shining wetly as she extended a hand to check for a card. Her lower lip trembled. He eased away from the house and allowed himself to breathe again.

Okay, Victoria. It’s coming your way. The Payback Express has left the station.

* * * *

Carrie met Brad at the front door.

“Mom’s baking cookies. You should get some while I change. B’right back.” She disappeared upstairs. Carrie had probably changed clothes three times in the last half hour, but there was nothing to gain by mentioning that. He followed his nose to the kitchen.

“Hello, Mrs. Bateman.”

“Hi, Brad.”

“Hello, Mr. Bateman.” Carrie’s dad waved back, but said nothing.

“Help yourself to cookies, Brad. They’re for my club’s bake sale, so the limit is four.”

Mr. Bateman made a sound and struggled to swallow a mouthful of cookie. When he could speak, he said, “You told me the limit was two.”

She patted her husband’s belly. “Your limit is two.”

Mr. Bateman grunted, then turned to Brad. “Movie tonight?” Carrie entered, looking the same as when she’d rushed upstairs. “Yes, Daddy.”

“Who’s in it?”

“DiCapprio—and that’s the last question you’re allowed to ask.” She grabbed Brad’s arm. “Let’s go.”

Brad didn’t move. “Wait a minute. I get three more cookies.” He winked at Mrs. Bateman. “I don’t want to offend your mom.”

Carrie snatched a handful of warm cookies from a rack and tugged his arm again. “You can eat on the way.”

Brad looked over his shoulder as Carrie led him from the kitchen. “They’re great, Mrs. Bateman. Thanks. So long, Mr. Bateman.”

At the front door, Carrie stopped halfway through. “I don’t like this top. Wait here.” She gave the door a shove and ran up the stairs. The door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the window. Brad stuffed a cookie into his mouth, then heard voices from the kitchen.

“You stay right there, George Bateman. Those kids can go on a date without you chaperoning from the front window. And shame on you for embarrassing your daughter.”

Brad smiled. They must have heard the door close and assumed he and Carrie were already gone.

Mr. Bateman said, “What did I do?”

“Quizzing them about the movie—like you suspect it’s a cover for some other plans. You’d better get used to the fact that they graduate on Friday—and your little girl isn’t little anymore.”

“I know.”

“Trust her, George. Either we’ve taught her to make good decisions or we haven’t. Besides, she’s been dating Brad all year and he’s a good kid. He always gets her home on time, doesn’t he?”

Brad frowned. Getting Carrie back by 10:30 had never been easy.

“That just means we haven’t figured out his moves yet. At their age we’d tell your parents we were going to the movies, then drive up on Angel Ridge to watch for UFOs.”

“I seem to remember that Angel Ridge was my idea, though it didn’t take you long to—”

Brad grinned. Way to go, Mrs. Bateman!

“Don’t remind me.”

“Why not?”

“Because this kid is too smooth.”

“Too smooth?”

“Like that silly accent you women think is so—dreamy.”

“His parents moved to Paris when he was a kid. You know that.”

“Yeah. And he can really turn it on when he wants to charm her. Or you.”

“He grew up there. Your cousin Danny’s folks moved to Boston when he was a kid. Now he talks funny. Should we keep Carrie away from him, too?”

“I worry about my little girl. You know that.”

“Brad’s a nice—and normal—young man, George. Just like you were. And Carrie is going to survive him. Just like I’ve survived you.”

Carrie bounded down the stairs and Brad held a finger to his lips.

“Ready?” she whispered without questioning his request. She slipped her arm into his.

Brad made sure the door closed without a sound, then led her to the truck.

 

 

The Second Day

Tuesday, May 11

 

Scott Eastwood settled into a chair at the wrought iron table and waited for the interrogation to begin. The chair, table and patio belonged to his friend, Bill Gleason. So did the interrogator.

The patio door slid open, followed by the click of sandals on flagstones. Judy Gleason set a pitcher of margaritas and a tray with two glasses onto the table. Her technique was straightforward: reward in exchange for confession. She filled the glasses, then pulled a chair from the table and sat across from him.

“So…” she began. The remnants of an Alabama childhood, twenty years removed, flavored even that two letter word. “Are you seeing anyone special?”

“No.”

“I knew you’d say that.”

“Say what?”

“You’re not seeing anyone.”

He selected a glass from the tray, lifted it high enough to study the salt crystals on its rim.

Judy persisted. “Don’t tell me you’re too busy.”

Scott refocused his eyes beyond the salt. Bill’s yard, with a lush lawn and mature trees, was a private oasis in the desert. “Are those flowers new? Beneath the plum tree. They weren’t there last week, were they?”

“Dwarf marigolds. Why aren’t you seeing anyone?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Liar.”

He lifted his glass again, tested the salt with the tip of his tongue. “All right. There is someone.”

“I knew it.” Judy set her elbows on the table and propped her chin in her hands, her own drink forgotten. “Who?”

A shriek from the yard drew his attention. Raising a hand against the evening sun, he turned to watch his children play. Ten-year-old Ryan threw sticks for Bill’s dog to fetch while Emily, five, vacillated between desire to join the game and apprehension of a golden retriever almost twice her weight. Finally, with the logic of a child, she lobbed a stick at the dog, then retreated with squeals of delight.

Scott sipped his margarita, extending the moment. “There’s a condition.”

“What?”

“You can’t tell Bill.”

She nodded.

His voice fell to one notch above a whisper. “I’m waiting for you to come to your senses.” He studied his friend’s wife’s face. “When you dump the big dufus, I’ll take you to Tahiti. We’ll buy a boat, throw our clothes into the ocean and dance naked under the stars.”

Her eyes narrowed and she frowned for about two seconds before her face cracked into a wide smile. “Damn you! I’m serious and you’re kidding around.”

“Who says I’m kidding?”

“What if I said yes?”

Scott tried to suppress a laugh, but lost the battle and was forced to return his glass to the table.

She waited for him to stop. “Been a while since I heard you do that.”

“I suppose.” He glanced away, then covered by checking the children.

She caught the movement. “You’re doing a great job.”

“Thanks.”

“Any regrets? About moving back?”

“None.” He tilted his head at the sound of a car door.

Judy heard it, too. “Sounds like His Highness is home.” She stood. “I’ll get the steaks. The kids must be starving.” Her sandals clicked as she hurried into the house.

In the yard, the children had settled in the shade of a tree. Emily held a one-sided conversation with the dog while Ryan chased grasshoppers. Karen should be out there. He could see her sitting under the tree, laughing with the children.

A hand the size of a brick squeezed his shoulder and the image vanished.

“Sorry I’m late.” Bill Gleason’s voice boomed even when he didn’t intend it to, rich with deep, no-nonsense tones. “Looks like Judy’s taken care of you, though.” He settled his hefty frame into the chair across from Scott, then lifted his wife’s unfinished margarita and took a long pull, oblivious to the condensation that dribbled from its base. A dark spot blossomed at the center of his plain maroon tie.

“Trouble getting the year put to bed?” Scott asked.

Bill exhaled, a small explosion of air. “Got a history teacher AWOL in the middle of senior finals. Three days. No show, no call.”

“Launch him. You have time to find a replacement before classes start in the fall.”

“Spoken like the soulless accountant you are. If only the District weenies had your simple view of the world.” Bill grunted. “I’ve been trying to dump this clown for years—but as much as I don’t like him, I’m getting worried. Three days without a call. No answer at his house. If I don’t hear from him tomorrow, I’m calling Orly.”

Orly Jenkins. The name summoned memories. He and Bill had been frequent visitors to Deputy Jenkins’s office twenty-five years ago. The last time had been just before graduation, something about a rat and a teacher’s Volkswagen. It was no surprise that Orly had gone on to become the Chief of Police in Silver Creek, but who could have guessed Bill would end up running the high school?

Judy returned and Bill’s mood brightened. She set an additional place on the table, glanced at Scott and smiled before disappearing into the house without a word. He looked to Gleason for an explanation and got a loose-lipped grin instead. That stirred memories, too. Trouble was afoot.

“What’s going on?”

Bill spread his hands on the table and tried to look serious. “I asked one of my teachers to join us for dinner—the department head for my missing guy. We have some scheduling issues to work out before tomorrow.” The grin grew wider. “Laura’s divorced—and you know Judy’s not happy ‘til she’s stirrin’ the pot.”

“C’mon, Bill.”

“Laura’s all business. Won’t even notice you’re here.”

“I don’t…”

“And you won’t. Not tonight.” Gleason stood and pulled at his tie. “I’ll be back after I get this off my neck.” He disappeared into the house, but his laughter penetrated the glass door.

Scott drained what was left of his drink, then walked across the lawn to join his daughter.

“Hi, Daddy.” She smiled as he sat on the grass. “Boomer’s tired, but you can pet him if you’re nice.”

He scratched behind a furry ear while Emily brushed tiny fingers along the dog’s flank.

“Daddy?”

“What, Kitten?”

“Can we get a dog?”

“Like Boomer?”

She nodded then paused, her forehead wrinkled with unseen thoughts. “Maybe a little smaller.” The wrinkles faded. “Can we?”

He stopped scratching the dog to tousle her hair. “We’ll see.”

She slid onto his lap and wrapped her arms around his neck. He’d always marveled at the ease with which daughters learned to manipulate fathers. The sound of voices drew his attention to the patio where a woman stood with Bill and Judy. He planted a kiss on his daughter’s forehead, then sent her to tell Ryan it was time to wash up. Emily raced across the lawn, shouting to her brother and everyone else within a hundred yards.

The kids are fine, Honey. He blinked to clear his eyes, then headed back to the house.

* * * *

Scott wasn’t sure whether Bill’s steaks or Judy’s margaritas were responsible, but he was full and content. Whatever the reason, not even Bill’s teacher had been able to put a damper on the evening.

The Frost Queen was in the living room with Bill, discussing whatever they had to discuss, the kids were in the family room watching cartoons and Judy had chased him from the kitchen when he’d tried to help clean up. Now, alone on the patio, he watched the evening stars wink on as the desert sky transitioned from twilight to night. He closed his eyes and savored the breeze that rustled the trees and gave sound to the darkness.

The spell was broken by the swoosh of the patio door.

“Time to wake up, Mr. Eastwood.”

That Midwestern accent did not belong to Judy. Scott cracked an eye. Laura Poole stood before him, her body striped in horizontal bars of light from the blinds on the kitchen window. She held out a mug.

The aroma of fresh coffee came and left on the breeze. He accepted the offering. “Thank you.”

“Judy’s idea. She thought we should get acquainted.”

She settled into a chair and crossed her legs. A tanned hand smoothed her skirt. Poised. No, the movements were too controlled. There was a mechanical quality to Laura Poole.

Her clothes were simple: a beige pleated skirt with a peach-colored silk blouse. A plain gold necklace was her only jewelry. He studied her face again and decided she was somewhere beyond thirty.

“And you don’t want to disappoint our hostess?” he asked.

“I’ve disappointed her for several years. I’m playing along because she seems to be shifting her attention to someone else.”

“Tag, I’m it?”

“Something like that.”

She pretended to smile, but her eyes gave her away. The breeze subsided and the night ebbed from quiet to still. She shifted her legs, recrossed them, then smoothed her skirt. When she leaned back in her chai, her face disappeared into shadow. They sipped coffee in silence until the sliding door opened again and Emily crossed the flagstones on bare feet to crawl onto Scott’s lap.

“Daddy. Can we go home?”

“Sure, Kitten. What’s Ryan doing?”

“Sleeping.”

“Where?”

“On the floor. He didn’t even stay awake for the one with the roadrunner.”

“Can you keep Ms. Poole company while I get him?”

She nodded.

“Good girl. I’ll be right back.”

Emily slid off his lap and climbed onto a chair next to Laura. As Scott entered the house, Emily asked: “Did you know we’re getting a puppy?”

He never reached Ryan. Judy intercepted him in the kitchen. Bill, she explained, had received a call from the police—the school’s alarm had tripped and he was needed to reset the system.

“It’s the third time this month,” she complained. “He should have said goodnight, but he was so mad he just grabbed a flashlight and took off.”

“That’s okay. We had a great time, but the kids are ready for bed.”

“Well—there’s another problem.” Her voice dropped a notch. “Laura had car trouble, so she got a ride here from one of the teachers.” She hesitated. “Bill was supposed to drive her home—but there’s no telling how long he’ll be. Can you take her? I’ll watch the kids till you get back.”

Scott searched her eyes for any sign of duplicity, but found none. He nodded.

Judy patted his arm. “I’ll get blankets for the kids.” She disappeared before he could change his mind.

Scott returned to the patio. Emily had slipped onto the chair with Laura and fallen asleep. The woman looked up with her first genuine smile of the night. “You have a very sweet daughter, Mr. Eastwood.”

“Thank you.” He paused, long enough that the news he brought would not tread on the compliment. “There’s been a change of plans.”

Her smile faded while he recounted his conversation with Judy. When he explained that he, rather than Bill, would drive her home, the woman stood abruptly, causing Emily to wake with a start. “Judy never quits, does she?”

“Right. You should wait for Bill. I’ll take my kids home.”

“No.” She grabbed his arm before he could turn. “I’m sorry. I would be grateful for a ride home.”

Then she walked into the house without looking back.

* * * *

The silence in the car was tangible and that was fine by Scott. Laura’s brief directions had been the only conversation since her jabs on Bill’s patio. When at last she said, “That’s it—next left, just ahead,” he was grateful.

He pulled into the gravel drive and slipped the car into park. When Laura didn’t move he turned to face her. “We’re here.”

She bit her lip. “I was rude, earlier. I’m sorry.” She swallowed. “I need your help.”

“What kind of help?”

She turned toward him, her face illuminated by flood lamps mounted above the garage door. “Last night, I came home late and found a vase of roses in my living room. There was no note and I don’t know how they got there. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like you to walk me to the door and wait while I check the house.”

Scott frowned. “Who else has a key?”

“A neighbor. Just one. And I had the locks changed when I moved in.”

“Have you talked to this neighbor?

“She’s been out. Maybe she left the flowers, but…”

“Did you call the police?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Please understand. “She stopped. When she spoke again, she formed her words with care. “I live alone, several miles from town. If I have a problem I want the police to come quickly, not sit around cracking jokes about crank calls from some woman who imagines problems.”

“Were you imagining those flowers last night?”

“No! But think about it, Mr. Eastwood. What happens after I ask the police to investigate a break-in when nothing is missing and all I can show them are roses that magically appeared in my living room?”

“All right.” He opened his car door and stepped out. “Let’s go.”

She yanked her door without a word. She appeared ready to slam it, but held back at the last moment and eased it shut without disturbing the silence of the evening.

Laura marched to the porch without looking back and he fell in step several feet behind, following as far as the porch. She stopped at the door and fumbled with her keys. At last she found the one she wanted and shoved it into the doorknob.

“I’ll wait here.” Scott stood at the edge of the porch. “If that’s okay.”

“Fine.” Her hand shook as she fought with a second key, trying to aim it into the deadbolt. On the third try it worked and the bolt retracted into the door with a loud thunk.

She reached inside and appeared to flip a light switch, but nothing happened. Her hand moved, toggling the switch again. Still no light. A burned out bulb?

Scott stood just off the porch with his hands on his hips and his head tilted a bit to the side. This scene felt familiar. Every now and then Emily would make him wait in her room at bedtime while she checked under the bed and in the closet for monsters. But Emily was his daughter—and five years old. This woman was a stranger who’d been broadcasting Don’t Look/Don’t Touch signals at full power all night. Being alone with her wasn’t smart. It was time to go.

Perhaps his body language was a little too obvious because at that moment Laura turned and looked at him, apparently with something to say, but instead she froze with her eyes locked on his and her expression changed from frustration to anger. She whirled, stepped into the house and slammed the door with enough force to rattle the windows. That created a dilemma. Eager as he was to leave, she’d asked for help and walking away now didn’t feel right. But the door was closed and he wasn’t about to open it and follow her into the house.

* * * *

Click. The sound echoed through the quiet house and Brad cocked his head.

That was a lock turning.

He looked at the window. The blinds were closed, but from where he sat on the bedroom floor he should have been able to see a thin line of daylight along the edge where they met the wall.

There was no light.

How long had the sun been down?

The silk garment dropped from his hand and rejoined its sisters in the dresser drawer. He rolled to his knees and reached for his gloves, using the first one he found to push in the dresser drawer, not taking the time to pull it on.

Why was she using the front door? She always came in through the garage. He’d watched for weeks, observing until he knew her habits better than she did. That knowledge—and her devotion to routine—was supposed to be his margin of safety.

He stepped through the bedroom door and into the hall with his ears tuned to every sound. There it was again: a key in a lock. Two locks secured the door and this was the second. He was trapped. The door would open any moment now.

Brad reached back through the doorway and swiped at the light switch on the bedroom wall, killing the overhead light. The house went dark. He breathed a sigh of relief that he hadn’t lost total control, that he’d kept all the lights off except the one in the bedroom, knowing that at the rear of the house it couldn’t be seen from the road.

Now what? Getting out wasn’t the problem—it was the risk of being identified in the process. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Not now. Too much was at stake.

How could he have been so careless?

The front door opened. He stepped back into the bedroom and peered around the doorframe with one eye. He had expected her to enter through the garage, had set up tonight’s surprise with that in mind, but the final result might still be the same. He strained to catch the sound that should come any second. There it was: the switch for the foyer light. Up. Down. Up again. Right now she would be concluding the bulb in the entryway ceiling fixture was burned out.

Last week he’d identified the circuit breakers that serviced the utility room, kitchen and living room and marked them with small pieces of masking tape. This afternoon, after confirming that Ms. Poole was not home, he’d gone to the electrical panel on the side of the house, flipped those breakers to their off positions and removed the tape. The Plan called for her to enter from the garage, hit the switch for the utility room light, wonder why it did not work, then conclude the bulb was burned out. Next, she would proceed to the kitchen, only to discover those lights were out as well. At that point she would realize she had a problem, but would be confident that she could navigate her own home, even in the dark. That confidence would lead her into the living room where, alone and in darkness, she would discover tonight’s big surprise.

But the outside porch light was not on a disabled circuit and some light spilled through the open door. It wasn’t much, but if she was paying attention, it would be enough to reveal that the living room furniture was not where she had left it and the surprise would be ruined. Then the door slammed shut and the house returned to near-darkness.

Footsteps clicked on tile as she walked through the foyer to the living room, then came a thump, followed by the hiss of indrawn breath. She must have found the coffee table the hard way. That meant The Plan was intact. It was also his cue. The next few seconds would provide the best opportunity to get away.

He recalled having seen a stack of bed linens sitting on her dresser and he turned, reaching into darkness until he found it. Removing the top sheet, he found a corner and let it partially unfold. Then, with senses at full alert, he stepped into the hallway and eased toward the foyer and the living room beyond. The outlines of the walls were barely visible; the only light came through the small window in the front door and revealed next to nothing, even to his now dark-adapted eyes.

Something moved against the background of the living room carpet and he paused to decipher the shadowy shapes. She appeared to be on her hands and knees, her left side toward him as she faced the living room. He heard more than saw her hands fanning across the floor, searching for something. Her purse? She carried a canister of pepper spray and that was probably what she hoped to find now. He hefted the sheet to be sure it was unfolded.

The immediate plan was simple. Rush forward, throw the sheet over her head, knock her to the floor and be out the door before she knew what had happened. From there he could make his way back to the highway and his truck. The bigger danger was outside the house. Night in the desert belonged to sidewinders.

Brad pushed the image of rattlesnake encounters aside, lifted the sheet and started forward. One step. Another. Five more to go.

On the third step he almost lost his balance as his head snapped up at the sound of footsteps on the porch. A second later, the doorknob turned.

Brad pulled the sheet behind his back and retreated deeper into the hallway at the same moment the door opened and light from the porch spilled into the foyer. He couldn’t see the door from this point deep in the hall, but could hear footsteps. Then the footsteps became a man who stopped in the foyer, even with the hall. Like a half moon, his back was lit by the porch light; his front was hidden.

Who was this guy?

Brad didn’t twitch, didn’t dare breathe. His end of the hallway was still dark and when he rolled his eyes downward he was relieved to find that he could barely see his own right hand. If he didn’t move, if he was lucky, he might not be seen.

Perspiration seeped from his forehead into his eyes, causing them to burn until tears rolled down both cheeks, but still he did not move. There was a switch, just three feet from the shadow’s shoulder that would turn on the ceiling light in the hall, right above Brad’s head. That light had not been disabled and hell would break loose in a hurry if the stranger noticed the switch.

Brad considered rushing them both. With surprise on his side he might be able to knock the man to the floor and bolt out the door. In the confusion he might have enough of a head start to get away. They might not get a good look at him, might not be able to identify him later on.

No. There was too much at stake to justify the risk. The man wasn’t huge, but he was big enough. Retreat was the smart choice once again.

Brad eased backward, toward the bedroom door. A floorboard creaked and he froze. The shadow moved. Its head turned. The face was still half lit, half invisible, but the eye that was lit  aimed right at him. Brad felt the man’s eyes probe the darkness. Dead center. They had him.

Time stopped for what might have been three seconds but seemed a lifetime. Finally, the man’s head turned forward and then the body moved too, into the living room. Brad took advantage of the opportunity to slip back into the bedroom, just inside the doorway. He turned an ear toward the hall and listened.

The man’s voice: “Let’s go.”

Ms. Poole: “Wait.” A grunt—of pain? Then, “Okay.”

Footsteps followed; two people running. The door opened and apparently stayed open because a few seconds later the sounds of a car starting, followed by tires throwing gravel, were loud and undiminished.

Brad wasted no time getting out of the house, slowing only to return the foyer light switch to its off position before slipping out the back. He locked the door, then made two stops. The first was at the circuit breaker box to reset the switches he’d thrown earlier. The second was at the trash can where, by the light of his phone, he removed three wilted roses. Finally, he retraced his steps of last night and waited in the dry wash behind her house until the moon climbed over the mountains.

* * * *

Crickets chirped but the night was otherwise still as Laura stood on the porch and watched the two policemen leave. The young one, Officer Wirth, had tried to be helpful. The older one, the detective wearing cut-offs, sandals and Hawaiian shirt, was a jerk. Trump was his name. He’d said he’d be back in the morning. Wonderful.

Scott and Bill (When did Bill get here?) were standing in the drive. They appeared to have been in the middle of a lively conversation, now on hold as they waited for the policemen. She understood what was about to happen: These four men were going to stand in her front yard and discuss her, analyze her problem, then decide in their own little minds what would happen next.

When she found the roses last night, fear had been her immediate response. Someone had been in her house! But tempering that fear was another emotion. Anger. Someone had been in her house, dammit! That mix of emotion, about two-thirds fear and one-third anger, made her feel vulnerable, defensive. But over the past hour those ratios had flipped, and though she knew there was reason to be afraid, her sense of anger had taken the lead.

She started forward, then stopped. The detective had grilled her for the last half hour, there was nothing more for her to say tonight, but she might learn something by listening. A step to the left moved her out of the light, but kept her on the porch. If their voices carried, she would stay here and eavesdrop; if not, she would crash their party. Men in a group were always loud and this collection of alpha-males would probably make enough noise to be heard from inside the house.

“Mr. Eastwood, thanks for waiting, but you can go home now.” Detective Trump’s voice was loud and clear and they were all close enough that she could see their faces, read their expressions. As though on cue, the detective lifted a hand to his mouth to stifle a yawn.

Scott squared his shoulders and stood a little taller. Male posturing, right out of the book. “Is that how we’re doing this, Ray? Mister Eastwood?”

Trump’s lips showed a smile, but his eyes narrowed. “Heard you were back in town—Scotty.” The smile faded. “Just showing a little respect for one of our own who’s come home rich and famous.”

What was that about? Obviously, there was history between these two. That made sense. Trump looked to be the same age as Bill and Scott, and it had been apparent from conversation during dinner tonight that her boss and the widower friend went back a long way. Sometimes she forgot that Silver Creek used to be a small town.

Bill stepped forward. “Lighten up, Ray.” He nodded in the direction of the house and Laura froze for a moment. “What’s going on?”

Trump waited a little longer than necessary before breaking eye contact with Scott, then turned to Bill with a shrug. “You tell me, Bill. Lady says she works for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Laura bristled. Yeah. What was that supposed to mean?

Trump shook his head. “Don’t know ‘bout your wife, but if Trish found someone who’d move furniture and leave flowers, I’d be the last one she’d tell.” Trump turned his back to the wind and lit a cigarette. Smoke swirled, glowing in the moonlight. Officer Wirth kicked a loose stone with the toe of his shoe.

“What are you getting at?” She recognized Bill’s now-I’m-annoyed tone.

Trump inhaled and the tip of his cigarette glowed. “The lady claims someone broke into her house two nights in a row. That gets my attention. But I have to be a little schizo in my job. Part of me listens to the words people tell me and part of me pays attention only to tangible things in the real world, stuff I can see or touch myself. And right now the stuff I can see or touch is zero, zilch, nada. No sign of forced entry. No flowers. And the lights—which reportedly were not working earlier tonight—are A-Okay.”

“What’re you saying? She made all this up?”

“I’ll be back in the morning—in daylight—to work the house over. Maybe we’ll know more then.”

Scott stepped forward. “Maybe we should get Ms. Poole out here—let her be part of this conversation.”

Laura shook her head in disbelief. Where did that come from? Two points to the widower for good manners and attempted chivalry.

It was Trump’s turn to square his shoulders and do the posturing thing. “You can get anyone you want, but she already told me everything she knows—or said she did. Now, I’ve told you everything I know.” He flipped a half-smoked cigarette to the ground. “No. I know one more thing. It’s late and I’m going home.” The detective turned and walked to his car.

“Hold on, Ray.” Bill put a hand on Scott’s shoulder as a signal to stay put, then trotted down the drive after Trump. “That’s all you’re going to do tonight? What about fingerprints and…”

Trump opened his car and slid behind the wheel. “If I’m not busy tomorrow, I’ll stop by and tell you how to run your school.” The door slammed. Gravel flew as Trump pulled away.

“Sorry, guys,” Officer Wirth said as Trump’s taillights receded.

Scott threw Bill a sharp look. “He’s still an ass.”

“No.” Bill shook his head. “Ray’s a good cop. He just doesn’t like you.”

Laura suppressed the urge to laugh. I don’t like Scott either, but he’s right about the detective.

Officer Wirth was talking again, confirming the factual aspects of Trump’s comments, then adding that Laura had been unable to suggest a perpetrator and claimed no enemies.

Bill wasn’t satisfied. “What happens next?”

“We’ve asked for additional patrols on the highway and her road and, because she’s just barely inside the city limits, we passed a similar request to the sheriff. That’ll put extra city and county resources in the area. By the way, Trump suggested that she spend the night somewhere else—he doesn’t want potential evidence disturbed before he gets back in the morning—and Ms. Poole agreed. Maybe one of you will drop her at a motel or something on your way home.”

Laura’s eyes narrowed. This is the part where they decide who gets stuck with me. Should be interesting.

Bill glanced at Scott, then nodded. “Yeah. I’ll handle that.” So, Bill lost. She noted that Scott wasn’t arguing.

“Okay, guys.” Wirth said. “I’m outta here, too. See ya ‘round.”

Scott stopped him. “Let’s move beyond the facts for a minute, Terry. What do you think happened?”

The police officer hesitated a moment. “It plays three ways. One, the lady has an active imagination.” He held up a hand to silence Bill. “Two, someone has a key. Three, some joker is  playing not so funny tricks on the lady.”

“Why would someone break in to leave flowers and move furniture?” Scott asked.

“That,” Terry replied, “is what steers Trump to option number one. Come up with a reasonable answer and you’ll light a fire under him. In the meantime, I need to get back to work.” He said good night and was backing the patrol car out of the drive when he stopped and motioned for Scott and Bill to join him at the window.

“One last thought.” Wirth dropped his voice as though he might be overheard. “When Ms. Poole and I did our walk-through, she claimed everything in the house had been rearranged. The kitchen, linen closet—even her lingerie. Nothing taken, just moved.” He glanced at Bill, then fixed his attention on Scott. “If she’s telling the truth, a reasonable answer might be difficult to find.”

Laura threw her hands in the air. No kidding, Dick Tracy. She turned and went inside to pack an overnight case.