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  Then Wes was standing next to the swing. “I’ve called the police. Used my cell. Didn’t touch her phone.”

  I nodded numbly.

  “Damnit,” he said.

  I looked up at him.

  “What did she want to tell me?”

  I shook my head. Swallowed.

  “Did whatever it was get her killed?”

  A siren sounded in the distance.

  “Are you all right, Brandy?” he asked, risking a hand on my shoulder. “You look awfully pale.”

  When I didn’t answer, couldn’t answer, he shivered and said, “I’m pretty shook up myself. What a horrible thing.”

  The siren grew louder.

  Wes squeezed my shoulder gently, then let it go. “I’ll handle this.”

  He walked across the porch, down the steps, and out to the driveway, to meet the police car that had just pulled in, coming to an abrupt stop behind his Jaguar.

  Numbness gave way to anxiety, as I saw Tony behind the wheel.

  Alone, the tall uniformed officer exited the squad car and faced Wes, who gestured to the house as he spoke.

  When Tony saw me in the swing, his face turned to stone. He walked briskly in my direction, yet instead of coming over to me, he went into the house—but not before giving me a disapproving, disappointed look.

  For the next hour, Wes joined me in a ghastly ritual that had become much too normal in my life of late, as we watched the all too familiar parade of paramedics, coroner, and forensic team.

  Finally Tony exited the house and came over, planting himself in front of us.

  Looking down at me blankly, he asked, “Ms. Borne, would you please explain what you’re doing here?”

  I opened my mouth, but Wes preempted me.

  “I asked her to come with me, Officer Cassato. Mrs. Fowler called me at the office and said she had information regarding Vanessa’s murder, and I asked Brandy to come with me as a witness.”

  Tony’s voice remained cold. “Is that so, Brandy?”

  “Yes. The door was unlocked and we went in and found her.”

  His bullet-hard eyes returned to Wes. “What time did Mrs. Fowler call you?”

  “A little before four. But I had some work to finish, so I called Brandy and she walked over to my office. She and I didn’t arrive here until about fifteen minutes ago.”

  Tony’s gaze at Wes was unforgiving. “And why, when Mrs. Fowler called you about your wife’s murder, did you not call us about it?”

  “I know I should have. But my relations over the past few days with the Serenity PD have been less than . . . stellar. And meaning no respect to the dead woman, but Mrs. Fowler struck me as a kind of crank.”

  “Really.”

  “Really. She tried to blackmail me just before the trial. Said if I didn’t pay her, she’d say she saw me come home the afternoon of my wife’s murder. Which of course is exactly what she did say.”

  “And you didn’t come to us with that, either?”

  “How would you have responded to that claim, under the circumstances, Cassato?”

  I couldn’t take any more of this, and said, “I’d like to go home, please.”

  Besides feeling like I was underwater, all I could think of was that Mother was out there being Mother while a murderer was out committing vicious murders.

  Tony shook his head. “I have more questions for both of you . . .”

  Wes said sharply, “Can’t you see she’s in shock, man? Let me drive her home, and I’ll come back here and we’ll deal with this. Or would you rather I call my attorney?”

  Tony shifted his stance, sighed. “All right,” he said gruffly. “Go.”

  As Wes escorted me to his Jag, I could feel Tony’s eyes on my back.

  After maneuvering around the other vehicles, Wes got his car into the street.

  “Thanks for getting me out of there,” I said.

  “No problem. I needed a breather myself, even for a short time.”

  I knew Wes was thinking about the afternoon Vanessa had been killed, as was I.

  Eyes on the road, he said, “I know you’re dating that guy, but if you don’t mind my saying, he seemed pretty insensitive toward you.”

  I had to agree, but said lamely, “Tony was just doing his job.”

  “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t have treated you that way.”

  “I need you to stop by my shop. I need to pick up my dog and lock up better.”

  And see if Mother is back.

  “Sure,” he said.

  We did that, but Mother was still nowhere to be seen. Now Sushi rode on my lap, sniffing at the Jag’s unfamiliar, new-car scent.

  We fell silent until Wes pulled up in front of our house, where, to my great relief, the Caddy was parked in the drive.

  His expression was warm but troubled. “Let me walk you up.”

  “No. Thanks, but I’ll be fine. Mother’s home, I see, and she was off . . . gallivanting. So that’s a relief.”

  “You will be careful? This killer isn’t kidding around.”

  “I will. You, too.”

  I got out of the Jag, and Wes pulled away.

  Walking up the drive, with Sushi trotting along beside me, I couldn’t help but think that nothing Mother had done today could top what happened to me.

  I was approaching the rear of the Caddy when I noticed a dark shape on the cement, between the rider’s side and the hedge. As I drew closer, and Sushi began to bark, that shape became a body.

  A body in the clothes Mother had been wearing this morning, lying now in a pool of blood.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Never buy a pet at a swap meet. In addition to the possibility of the animal carrying a disease, the sellers usually don’t have paperwork on the animal’s origin. A friend learned that the hard way when the puppy she thought was a Welsh Corgi grew into an Irish Wolfhound.

  Chapter Eight

  Attacking Lead

  (Lead that instigates an active defense.)

  Vivian here—(everybody sing!) back in the saddle again!

  And before you ask, no, I don’t know why Brandy insists on breaking up my chapters by inserting one of her own in between, which completely discombobulates my forward momentum. (Isn’t that a wonderful word, discombobulate? ) Furthermore, it further chips away at my precious word count (editorially enforced) by the need to remind you, dear reader, where we were when last we were together.

  As a matter of fact, I can’t remember where that was myself!

  Oh, yes. I had just had a most interesting and informative lunch with the Romeos, where I was able to confirm persistent rumors that the Eight of Clubs was, in fact, not a bridge club but a . . . shall we say . . . swing set. (Clever, no?)

  (Note from Brandy to Mother: Clever no.)

  (Note from Mother to Brandy: Clever yes!)

  (Note from Editor: Ladies . . . )

  Even though the afternoon stretched out before me in seeming infinity, I had plenty of places to go, things to do, and people to see. Which meant I needed to get cracking and seek transportation.

  And with my extensive lists of stops, I could hardly impose on Shawntea for so many trolley route deviations. That meant my only other option was the Cadillac. While I consider my lack of a driver’s license a mere technicality, normally I would have called upon Brandy for chauffeuring services. But since she had removed herself from the investigation, I felt justified in taking this liberty.

  And the Caddy.

  Unbeknownst to Brandy, I was carrying our extra set of car keys in my purse—she had hidden them from me (top kitchen cupboard—such a lack of imagination!) after catching me coming back from a midnight convenience-store run. What can I say, sometimes a girl has a chocolate-mint ice-cream Jones!

  Anyhoo, quicker than Tinker to Evers to Chance (an ancient baseball reference for you really devoted Cubbies fans), I hoofed it over to our shop where the Caddy was parked out front at the curb.

  But there I took pause.


  What if the excitable girl noticed the vehicle was gone, assumed it stolen, and called the constabulary? The spoilsport authorities did not view my lack of a license as a technicality, and I would be in (as Nero Wolfe would say) a pickle!

  I decided to write my ex-sleuthing partner a quick note on the sidewalk. Unfortunately, the only thing I had in my purse was my favorite Elizabeth Arden lipstick, in her signature shade Red Door, and consequently in leaving my message, wore the stick down to the nub (thankfully I buy it in bulk).

  Did you know that Miss Arden built her entire cosmetic empire on that single tube of red lipstick? (Brandy insists the plucky entrepreneur began with cold cream, but I’m almost certain she’s got it wrong. Wikipedia no help on this one!)

  Word count!

  (By the way, those who insist I use exclamation points with too much frequency clearly need to put a little more zing into their lives, and snazzy punctuation into their writing.)

  Thank goodness the Caddy’s muffler was sound (or I should say soundless), otherwise Brandy might well have heard the car pull away from the curb, and come running out to stop me, like an armed guard after a bank robber.

  Making haste, I maneuvered over to Cedar Street, a main artery leading out of the downtown and connecting to the Bypass. I was on my way to an exclusive housing addition where the other three couples of the Eight of Clubs resided—Brent and Megan Morgan, Travis and Emily Thompson, and Sean and Tiffany Hartman. My strategy was to talk to the wives while their husbands were at work.

  Soon I was veering off the Bypass onto a secondary road and, before too long, a stone monument announced my destination as if in welcome: Mark Twain Estates.

  Interesting sidebar. Mark Twain—Samuel Clemens, that is—briefly lived in Serenity when he was nineteen and worked at the Serenity Sentinel as a typesetter. There’s a very amusing story I’d like to tell you about the great orator being fired after only a few months for insubordination, but I can’t due to my restricted word count. I really do apologize, and my only advice is for you to write my editor at the publisher and request that my word count be expanded. Thank you.

  A winding blacktop took me along gently rolling hills reminiscent of a Grant Wood painting, and when the blacktop leveled out, those green hills remained a soothing backdrop for million-dollar homes sitting on spacious lawns dotted with oak and maple trees.

  Every quarter mile or so, an offshoot street would appear, street signs marked with Twain-cutesy names—Tom Sawyer Road, Aunt Polly Lane, Becky Thatcher Drive. I wheeled the Caddy onto Samuel Clemens Court, where Travis and Emily Thompson resided in the grandest of all these homes—no surprise, since Travis had been the addition’s developer.

  After spotting the multi-gabled three-story tan-brick edifice—a monstrosity I wouldn’t live in if you paid me (depending on the offer)—I pulled up the wide cement drive to a four-car garage, shut the engine off, and stepped out, feeling about as welcome as Injun Joe. (Fault Mr. Twain/Clemens for the political incorrectness of that one!)

  A curved stone walkway conveyed me by well-tended flowerbeds bursting with color, then to a recessed front door buttressed on one side by the garage and on the other an extended living room.

  Here I will risk word count accountability to complain about the fad of recessed front doors, so prevalent in new homes nowadays. Besides having no porch on which to while away the hours, one can’t just stick his (or her) head out to see what the weather is like. He/she has to walk all the way out! (Which I wouldn’t care to do in my pajamas.) And what if it’s a salesman, or an unwanted religious proselytizer? Why put a mini-roof over their heads? (Meaning no offense to religious proselytizers.)

  (To those who think I am using too many parentheses, I refer you to my earlier comment on exclamation points.)

  I ascended the three narrow stoop steps, then rang the doorbell, its chime mimicking Big Ben. Suddenly I wondered if the light suggestion of an English accent that I sometimes used might not be appropriate, when calling on so much money.

  Still mulling that, I was about to ring again, when Emily Thompson opened the door.

  She looked perhaps unintentionally patriotic in a crisp white cotton blouse with red belt and navy slacks, her bare feet sporting red-painted toenails. A dainty creature, barely over five foot, the thirtyish wife of the creator of Mark Twain Estates had curly shoulder-length strawberry-blond hair, translucent skin, and delicate facial features enhanced by minimal makeup. (Young ladies often wear too much makeup these days. Girls, try a little powder and Red Door lipstick!)

  The few times I’d had an opportunity to observe Emily Thompson (at country club do’s), she had seemed quiet and even reserved alongside the gregarious Travis. But some of my Red-Hatted League gal pals (nosy Norma, in particular) claimed the little woman had a big temper, and you know what they say about still waters running deep.

  (For you cliché spotters, never forget that clichés got to be that way because they reflect a basic, often uncomfortable truth.)

  Emily seemed a little rattled by the sight of me, but I was fairly accustomed to that reaction, and didn’t read much into it.

  I smiled sweetly. “I do hope I’ve not arrived at an inopportune time, dear. I realize I should have called first, but I was out and about, and the impulse just hit me!”

  “Uh . . . well . . . well, certainly. Mrs. Borne, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, dear. I’m sure you’ve seen me perform at the Playhouse. You and your husband are Golden Ticket subscribers, and we’re very grateful.”

  “Well, Mrs. Borne, if you’re collecting for that, I’m afraid Travis handles all—”

  “Oh, no, no! You misunderstand, dear. This is a social call.”

  I waited for Emily to invite me in, and when she didn’t, I turned to a familiar page out of my ploy book.

  Hand to forehead, I swooned. “My, it’s gotten so very hot out here—unseasonably so, don’t you think? I feel . . . I feel . . . I feel a little faint.”

  Afraid I shifted from Great Britain to Tennessee Williams, there.

  I went on: “Would it be poor etiquette for me to ask to come in? Perhaps sit down? Perhaps impose upon you . . . for some . . . some water?”

  About halfway through that, concern had replaced her guarded expression. “Oh, of course! Certainly, Mrs. Borne.”

  And she moved aside.

  I stepped into a vast entryway with an elaborate parquet floor beneath my feet and enormous chandelier above my head (not that either would be anywhere else). An antique grandfather clock stood like an expensive sentinel to my left, while to my right was an elaborately carved coat rack with mirror, also an antique. Perfect for the shop!

  Emily escorted me farther into the cavernous entryway, then into a formal sitting room with an Asian sensibility: oriental rug, room-divider screen with cherry blossom design, and framed wall pictures of Mount Fuji and ocean waves, which I recognized as the work of the Japanese artist Hokusai.

  Only the floral chintz couch, where she seated me, and various chairs were modern; but their muted colors fit in aesthetically with the rest of the room. Everybody feng shui tonight! (It was afternoon, actually.)

  Emily asked, “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  “Yes, most generous. So terribly thoughtful.” The British accent was creeping back in. That was all right—even a fancy place like this could use some classing up.

  As soon as she disappeared, I jumped up from the couch as if sitting on a tack and crossed to an oriental writing desk with a dragon motif, and began rifling through a drawer. But nothing among the contents seemed significant.

  Due to my unfortunate hereditary earwax buildup, I nearly didn’t hear Emily’s footsteps in the parquet hallway, and as such, was not able to straighten the drawer’s contents before closing it, let alone make it back to the couch. I had to reclose it, because at first the drawer caught a fancy blue silk bookmark ribbon.

  “My dear,” I said as she entered with a water glass in hand, “this piece is extrao
rdinary! I simply had to come over for a look.”

  Emily approached and handed me the glass. “That desk once belonged to Emperor Hirohito.”

  My jaw dropped, no acting required. “How ever did you come by it?” Some shady means, no doubt.

  She shrugged. “It was smuggled out after World War II. How Travis acquired it, I never asked.”

  “I do hope it’s properly insured.”

  “Oh, it is. Travis has also found some wonderful pieces for Wes, for his corporate office.”

  The petite beauty gestured to the couch I’d vacated. We sat, the center cushion between us.

  She said, “Now, how can I help you, Mrs. Borne?”

  “Do call me Vivian, dear. As I say, it’s a social call. Long overdue.”

  “Vivian. I’m a little pressed for time—I have to pick Jennifer up from ballet class.”

  “Such a lovely child—ten, is she?”

  “Eleven. The reason for your visit? It’s not really purely social.”

  I took a sip of water. “Well, dear, as you may know, the Sinclairs are members of New Hope Church—that is, Wes is . . . and Vanessa was.” Another sip of water. “We are a small congregation, and as such, aren’t able to give her the kind of memoriam that she so rightly deserves. Therefore, I am out seeking additional donations.”

  Emily frowned. “I thought you said you weren’t out collecting donations.”

  “For the Playhouse, yes, or that is, no. This is a memoriam for your late friend—for Vanessa.”

  Still frowning, she asked, “What kind of memoriam do you have in mind?”

  I took another sip of water, stalling—I admit I hadn’t quite thought this memoriam angle through. Without Brandy as a sounding board, I was pretty much winging it. It wasn’t easy, not having a flagpole to run things up.

  “Well, dear,” I said, calling upon my improv training, “we were thinking a new stained glass window in the church sanctuary might be appropriate . . . dedicated to Vanessa’s memory. So labeled.”

  Her cold lack of interest almost gave me goose pimples. “I told you already, Mrs. Borne. Travis handles that kind of thing. Anyway, why don’t you just ask Wes for the money?”