 
MURDER

at the Villa Maria-Sedona Retirement Home

### BY

BLISS ADDISON
All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2008 Bliss Addison

First Electronic Publication 2008

Second Electronic Publication June 2012

*Previously Titled Murder Most Wanted and

Previously Published by Club Lighthouse Publishing*

## **Smashwords Edition, License Notes**

This ebook 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 an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction based entirely on the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons is purely coincidental. Real places mentioned in the book are depicted fictionally and are not intended to portray actual times or places. All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

* * * *

Other Books by Bliss Addison:

A Battle of Wills (Shannon Murphy – Book I)

With Malicious Intent (Shannon Murphy – Book II)

Restless Souls

Wolfe, She Cried

Deadly Serum

A Waning Moon

Prophesy

One Millhaven Lane

An Equal Measure

Sleight of Hand

Watching Over Her

A Silver Lining (The Monahans – Book I)

A Little Rain Must Fall (The Monahans – Book II)

A Mistaken Belief (The Monahans – Book III)

Summary:

Genre: Humor/Spice of Life

Sometimes destiny needs a little push.... Eighty-year-old Calliope Fenwick's best friend since grade school is living in misery at the hands of her abusive husband. Calliope will do anything - anything \- to help her....

And sometimes destiny needs a swift kick.... Noah Madill, a homicide detective investigating a series of grisly murders, is suffering through a divorce he doesn't want but initiated...

Or sometimes destiny needs a helping hand... And Calliope and her friends of The Saving Grace Brigade figure a way to give fate the push it needs, which indirectly sets off a string of events that ends with two deaths, one expected, the other quite unexpected.

* * * *

Contents:

Chapter One – Plan of Attack

Chapter Two – Harold Dunn and Surveillance

Chapter Three – Lily O'Ree-Fenwick

Chapter Four – One Dead Lawyer

Chapter Five – Dinner with Dallas

Chapter Six – Calliope, Wilson and the Big City

Chapter Seven – Scoring Drugs

Chapter Eight – Calliope's Arrival at the Villa after her Arrest

Chapter Nine – Noah and the Voice of Reason

Chapter Ten – Dallas Re-examining her sister's murder

Chapter Eleven – Ambushed

Chapter Twelve – Loose End Disposal

Chapter Thirteen – Dust off yer cowboy boots, Pard'ner

Chapter Fourteen – The Hall Family Tree

Chapter Fifteen – The Soirée

Chapter Sixteen – Defaced Corpses

Chapter Seventeen – Ayaiiieeya

Chapter Eighteen – Calliope and The Crucifix Killer

Chapter Nineteen – All's Well That Ends Well

* * * *

# Chapter One

No one could wind up Calliope Fenwick like Frederick Q. Thornhill III, known around the villa as 'The Third'. In her eighty years, she'd never encountered anyone as insufferable. He taxed her patience on any given day, but today he seemed particularly obnoxious.

"You could have thanked her," she said. It wasn't too much to ask. "Ol' coot."

"Why? She's a criminal," he said in a huff, "and doing what she's been ordered by the court to do."

Calliope looked at the pigtailed sixteen-year-old and doubted the girl knew what she was in for when she chose to do her two hundred hours of community service at the retirement home.

The Third shot the cuffs of his monogrammed white shirt. "Can we play cards now, or does her royal highness have more insults to sling?"

"Royal highness?" She glowered at him, barely managing to hang on to her temper. She couldn't resist an insult though. "You pompous ass. Why don't I—"

Wilson, her husband, coughed into his hand — his polite way of telling her to shut up and forget about it.

She swallowed the comeback and took the deck of cards in her hand. "High card deals," she said, flipping the top card, an Ace, in front of Wilson. "Your deal, hon."

The Third smiled at her, a grin that said: I'm too smart for you, Calliope.

The man never let up. He acted as though he wanted her to kill him. "Frederick, has anyone ever told you—"

Wilson yawned, widely and noisily.

Again, Calliope understood her husband's subtle suggestion. She bit her tongue, thinking she would make up her lapse to Wilson later with a fine Merlot, a porterhouse steak and...well...she'd see where that took them.

The Third plucked a chocolate-iced brownie from the plate, popped the square in his mouth, and chewed slowly.

"That's your fourth brownie today, Frederick," Grace said. "Remember what the doctor told you?"

"How can I not when you constantly remind me?" He shoved another one in his mouth.

"She's just looking out for your health." Calliope didn't mean to spit the words. Oh, all right, she did.

Why Grace wanted her sorry excuse for a husband to live a long and healthy life mystified Calliope. Placed in Grace's shoes, she'd make sure the man had a cholesterol level to the moon.

Grace patted Calliope's hand. "It's okay, dear. He didn't mean to snap at me."

The Third jerked his head toward Grace. "Stop apologizing for me!"

Why Grace insisted on playing down her husband's nastiness was another mystery to Calliope. He did mean it. In fact, he meant every snide, condescending remark that spewed from his bird-like mouth.

The man should be shot.

Oh my.

God would punish her for such thoughts. She'd say three extra Our Fathers at rosary tonight.

"Shh, Frederick," Grace said, glancing around the room. "You're creating a scene. People are watching."

He peered over his shoulder and scowled at the residents staring at him. "What're you looking at?" He turned, smoothed his perfectly coifed silvery hair and smiled at Grace, obviously enjoying her embarrassment, then sneered at Calliope.

She returned the rude gesture with equal enthusiasm and did so without Wilson noticing, she happily noted. Or maybe he saw but had given up on her. That could be too.

"Get me a coffee, Grace," he said, jerking his head toward the refreshment stand in the gathering room. "And I don't want any of that damn sugar substitute or whatever you put in it. It makes the coffee taste funny."

Calliope curtained her chuckle behind a yawn. She thought the curmudgeon hadn't noticed. When Grace and The Third went grocery shopping last week, she slipped into their apartment and laced his dark roast arabica coffee with a concoction witch Esmerelda had whipped up. Belladonna, if memory served.

It upset Calliope that Grace took the blame for something she didn't do. But if the potion sweetened him, though she had yet to see any sign of it, it would make up for the discomfort Grace suffered in the interim.

"Now, woman!" he said and pounded his foot against the floor.

Calliope had all she could take. "Get it yourself, Frederick. God gave you legs, spindly, though they are." She drew a deep breath hoping to quell the desire to swat the toupee off his bald-as-a-baby's-ass head.

"Mind your business, you old—"

"Please, Frederick, don't make another scene." Grace looked at Calliope and smiled. "It's no trouble, really. It's my job to see to my husband's wants."

"No, it's not!" Something solid hit Calliope's shin. She massaged her leg and looked across the table at Wilson, who peered around the room and whistled a ditty beneath his breath. He didn't need to kick her so hard. It was sure to bruise. Wilson might not get such a fine Merlot with dinner tonight. She turned her attention to her BFF.

Grace, full of grace. For the life of her, Calliope couldn't understand why Grace stayed in a marriage that caused her such pain and heartache. 'Til death do us part, she had quoted when Calliope asked her why she stayed with him. I made a promise before God, before my family and friends. Promises are meant to be kept.

Calliope was certain God would understand if Grace left The Third.

The man deserved to die a slow tortuous death for what he put Grace through all these years. Her friends agreed with her too.

Unfortunately, The Third did not appear destined for the great beyond any time soon. Not even God wanted him.

Often, Calliope devised ways of putting the Almighty's plans for The Third into force, but as much as she would like to see the cantankerous man dead, she couldn't take a life. For one reason, she was one of those people who always got caught in the act of doing something she shouldn't. For another, she didn't have the chutzpah to kill, and even if she did, bragging about it from a jail cell seemed a partial victory.

She watched The Third belittle Grace. He enjoyed making her life miserable. The man needed an attitude makeover, that's a fact.

Short of killing him, how was Calliope to do that?

Drugs, perhaps. They would need to be potent, though. He obviously had the constitution of a horse.

In idle talk with her son Abbott, he had told her drug pushers filled the streets of downtown Bracebridge. She could easily convince Wilson to make the forty-five minute drive from Hampstead. While he browsed the bookstores, she could check out the streets and back alleys for people selling drugs.

"Calliope, it's your move."

Distantly, Grace's voice broke into her thoughts. "My move?"

"It must be Alzheimer's," Grace said and laughed.

Going along with the joke, Calliope stared at Wilson and asked, "Who are you?"

Wilson cleared his throat. "Your ... your husband."

"Oh." She examined his portly frame and studied his blue eyes and bushy brows, as though seeing him for the first time. In the silence that followed, she peered around the room. Streams of light from the setting sun shone through the windows. Golden-agers lounged on sofas and recliners watching television or chatting. "Where am I?"

"Don't you remember?"

The worry in Grace's voice spurred her to tell the truth. She laughed. "Of course, I remember. I was just pulling your legs." Lately, though, there were times when Calliope mistook the day of the week. Just last month she had forgotten her granddaughter Maya's birthday.

* * * *

After Calliope paid her daily penance to the Lord for her unholy thoughts, and while their husbands watched the evening football game on television, she assembled her friends, The Saving Grace Brigade, they jokingly referred to themselves, in the solarium.

Calliope shared the sofa with Madge O'Leary, Bitsy Green and Florence Jones, all eighty years old like her, but dressed and coifed more conservatively.

Across from them on the love seat sat Hannah Williams and Rose Smith, robust women and younger by a whopping three years.

The overstuffed chair sandwiched between them all but swallowed up Celia Cooke, a spit of a woman with dyed red hair and the freckles of a teenager.

"Something needs to be done about Frederick and fast," Calliope said, getting right to the point. "He's going to put Grace in her grave." She shuddered for effect.

Madge tsk-tsked. "The poor dear. She can't go on much longer."

The other women murmured their agreement.

Celia leaned in toward them and said conspiratorially, "She told me the other day Frederick's like a frickin' rabbit, wanting it morning, noon and night." She raised her eyebrows and stuck her tongue in her cheek, apparently happy with the reaction this latest revelation had on the brigade when they gasped and shook their heads. " Uh-huh," she said, grinning slyly. Her dentures clicked together, keeping time with the rapid nods of her head.

Calliope wasn't aware of that, but Grace didn't tell her everything. Maybe with good reason. Without warning, a man's hairy butt, The Third's hairy butt, she guessed, thankful the Lord, in His infinite compassion, had spared her the reality, flashed before her eyes. She blinked repeatedly to shake off the imagery, but the effigy held on. Damn him. Take deep breaths, Calliope. Deep, deep...deep breaths. Even as she concentrated on breathing, her mind filled with centerfolds of The Third. Oh, good Lord. Bile rose in her throat. She gagged. Come on, girl. Don't fold. She took one deep from the bottom of her stomach breath and exhaled, sending the disgusting effigy to the netherworld. She huffed a great sigh and smoothed her hair, certain it looked electrified.

With a renewed interest in the meeting, Calliope's attention rejoined the women.

"Oh, my," Olive said, placing her hand against her heart. "The poor woman."

Florence's mouth fell open. "How dreadful for her." She crossed herself and gazed heavenward. "God have pity on her kind-hearted soul."

Hannah placed a hand on the side of her face. "I can't imagine ...morning, noon and night, you say?" She stared into space, then shook her head.

Rose swallowed and crossed her legs. "We must start a prayer vigil for her immediately."

Calliope patted Rose's hand. "We will, dear, but just in case He doesn't hear our prayers, we need to do something about The Third and quickly before he screws Grace to death and he will, if we let it continue. The man's an ogre and is getting more obnoxious and contrary every day."

"What more can we do?" Rose asked. "That potion didn't have any affect on him. The witch said it was guaranteed to make him happy and carefree."

Calliope grimaced. "I agree. If anything, it had the opposite effect."

"The magic spell didn't work, either," Hannah said and sighed. "I'm convinced Esmerelda isn't a witch at all. She probably doesn't know toadstool from cow shit. Waste of good money, that's all it was."

"The same goes for travel tabs," Beatrice said, leaning forward. "They put me out like a light. The Third must have the constitution of a horse."

Florence heaved a sigh. "Let's face it, ladies, we're out of options. There's nothing more we can do."

"Not so fast." Calliope raised a finger in the air. "Maybe there is. We're all agreed something needs to be done about him?" The other women nodded. "And it's up to us to do it?" They nodded again. "Okay." She looked over her shoulder to make sure no one lurked behind them and beckoned her friends closer. "Here's what I have in mind."

Chapter Two

Huddled amid the branches of the cedar hedge bordering the boundary of Villa Maria-Sedona, Harold Dunn sat back on his haunches and took a break from watching the Thornhill suite. A look around ensured no one could see him.

He was not a man who stood out in a crowd, or a man anyone would give a second glance to, but he took precautions nevertheless.

Prudence demanded it.

Success depended on it.

They all had to die for robbing him of his inheritance. Only then would he feel vindicated.

He wanted to think he killed for a noble reason, but the truth of the matter was that his motive for killing was as commonplace as he: revenge. His uncle often described him as a weak and useless no good son-of-a-gun. Not anymore he wasn't. If only his uncle could see him now.

Strangely enough, killing seemed his calling, what he was destined to do. When this was over, he might look into contract killing as a living.

Through the lens of his birding binoculars, he saw Frederick, dressed in a white shirt and pinstriped tie and neatly pressed pants, enter the dining room.

The bastard. There he was, strutting himself and living in luxury on money that didn't belong to him. It's my money. My money! Mine, mine, mine.

His temper flared. He pressed his nails into the meaty flesh in the palms of his hands until he drew blood. Pain, hot and pure, seared through him. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the ache, savoring the delicious sensation. His groin tingled. He held onto the feeling until his breathing slowed. Within seconds, the need to rush across the finely manicured lawn and pummel Frederick to death left him.

He blew out a whopping breath and opened his eyes. When the time was right, Frederick would get his just desserts.

Soon you will pay for your sins, Frederick. Soon...very soon.

He watched as the thief took a seat at the oak table and stuffed a corner edge of a white linen napkin in the collar of his shirt.

Something in his peripheral vision caught his eye. He moved his head a few inches to the right and peered at Grace setting bacon, eggs, and toast onto a plate. Yawning, he watched as she poured coffee into a china cup, then pluck four sugar cubes from the crystal sugar bowl and drop them one by one into the cup. He noticed her fingering a medallion that hung from her neck as she looked over her shoulder.

He perked up. Curious to know the reason for her apparent anxiety, he leaned in closer, feeling but paying no mind to the brush of a cedar branch against his cheek and the dampness of the morning dew on his knees where he knelt. He observed her looking into the coffee, hesitating, then dumping a liberal splash of cream into the cup. After another glance over her shoulder, she opened the medallion that he recognized now as a locket and reached inside with her thumb and forefinger. A second later, she withdrew her tightly clutched fingers and sprinkled a fine, powdery substance into the coffee. With a silver teaspoon, she vigorously stirred the steaming coffee.

What was that all about?

Damned if he knew.

Harold continued his surveillance of the Thornhill suite.

Moments later, the door opened. Grace, dressed in a floral housedress and fuzzy yellow slippers, stepped onto the deck and took the hummingbird feeder from the holder. She paused a moment and turned, looking directly at his hiding place as though she sensed him staring at her.

He doubted she could see him, but leaned back anyway.

After a moment, with a cocking of a brow and a shrug of shoulders, she turned and went back inside.

Five minutes later, the door opened again and Grace, without a glance in his direction, returned the feeder to its place.

Harold looked through their living room window and watched as Grace cleaned Frederick's reading glasses then handed him a newspaper. Frederick settled back into a recliner and read the Star while Grace cleaned the kitchen.

For reasons he couldn't explain, Grace touched his heart. Perhaps she, too, was a victim of Frederick. If possible, he would spare her life.

He set the binoculars on the ground and took his coiled pad from his back pocket. He licked the tip of his pencil and wrote: Day One: Grace rises at seven o'clock. Showers and dresses, then makes Frederick's breakfast. At seven forty-five, she retreats through a hallway. Five minutes later, Frederick enters dining room and eats breakfast. Without so much as a word to his wife. Frederick then moves to the living room where he reads the morning newspaper while his wife cleans the kitchen.

The day would soon come when he would look into Frederick's eyes and see the same fear he saw in the lawyer and judge's eyes before he plunged crucifixes through their hearts.

Chapter Three

At eight o'clock, in concert with the chime of the pendulum clock, Lily O'Ree-Fenwick packed her daughters off to school, shooing them out of the house as though a busy day awaited her.

With her back against the door, she breathed a sigh of relief. Two down, one to go. She scolded herself. The thought made her sound like she lived a life of drudgery.

Why, then, was she unhappy?

She couldn't explain the feeling.

Her tall, dark-haired and gorgeous husband, Abbott, had made partner of Spalding, Noble, Spalding and Critch only four years after joining the firm. Totally devoted to her, he spoiled her mercilessly.

She loved him. That was a fact. No other man had interested her since she met him eighteen years ago, and after fifteen years of marriage, that hadn't changed.

But his touch no longer sent goose pimples bristling over her skin. His 'I love you-s' no longer made her feel like the luckiest woman in the universe.

Disgusted with herself, she looked around at the kitchen she had spent immeasurable hours designing and decorating. The expensively furnished room with every convenience imaginable offered her no pleasure, and neither had it yesterday or the day before that.

Contrary to her belief that the completion of the construction of their Cape Cod house would bring her immense joy and satisfaction, it had, instead, brought her to the finish line. She had her perfect family, her perfect home, her perfect life and nowhere to go from here.

Lately, more often than not, her days began with negative thoughts. She groaned and determinedly turned her attention to her daughters.

At ten years old, Maya, like the fabled Tuesday's child, was full of grace and a little lady at all times. She styled her dark hair in a pageboy, and not only used bigger words than Lily, but knew the meaning of them all.

While Maya was like her and Abbott in many ways, eight-year-old Kira had nothing in common with any of them. She and Abbott often joked that Kira had been switched at birth, baby elves having fairy-ed away their biological daughter to a faraway land. Had she not inherited her father's smoky gray eyes, dimpled chin and Lily's wild red hair and freckled face, they might have seriously considered looking into the possibility that their baby and Kira had, through a mix-up in paperwork or a switch of ID wrist bands, been transposed at birth.

Lily jumped to the side when the door hit her.

"Gawwwd, Maw-um, why were you leaning against the door?" Kira asked, pushing the door wide open. "I forgot the other part of my science experiment in the fridge. Mrs. Davidson would have a bird. That would mean she would have to change her schedule all because of me." She crossed her eyes.

Kira had lost her two front teeth over the weekend and her smile made Lily want to giggle. She choked the laugh down and stared at the wet globs of mud clinging to the sides of Kira's navy Mary Janes. "I'll get it for you."

"It's okay. You don't know where it is, and it'll take too long to explain it to you." She ran across the imported ceramic tiles, bits of mud resembling brownie crumbs thrown free from her shoes sprinkled the floor.

Only God knew where Kira found a mud puddle in a drought. Hampstead hadn't seen rain in two months.

She studied her daughter. One knee sock had fallen from below her knobby knees and found sanctuary at her ankle and her shirttail had escaped the waistband of her tartan skirt. One of her three braids had come undone. Kira liked to trend-set. The thraids, as she had dubbed them, hadn't caught on quite like she anticipated, though.

All in all, she looked put together in a hurry, when, in fact, Lily had supervised the thirty-minute preparation for school as she did every morning.

"I'm sorry I'm a doofuss," Lily said, needing to hear a compliment, but realized the second the words left her lips the mistake she made. No one ever asked a question of Kira unless you wanted to hear the terrible truth.

Kira, holding a pink plastic container in her hand, ran back across the kitchen, sending more debris scattering across the meticulously clean floor. At the door she turned and said, "You're not a doofuss, Mom. You're just getting a little slow. It's to be expected at your age." She bobbed her head, causing her pigtails to fox trot on her shoulders.

Lily had turned forty last week and didn't feel one year of her age until that moment. She tweaked Kira's nose. "I'll have to work on that. What's in the container?"

"Mouse turds. Gotta go. Don't forget you have to pick me up today. Remember I'm trying out for the boys' baseball team after school today."

Lily noticed the emphasis Kira had put on the word "boys". "I haven't forgotten. I'll pick you up." She bit her tongue to keep from suggesting again that she try out for the girls' team. They already had that discussion, or rather argument, and she wouldn't subject herself to the debate again.

Kira looked up at her with an expression that Lily had come to recognize as a prelude to a tactless suggestion. "Are you sure you won't forget between now and then? Maybe you should write a reminder in the palm of your hand."

"Good idea. Now go before you miss your bus. I misplaced my car keys so I won't be able to drive you."

"Aw, Maw-um." She rolled her eyes and heaved a breath too loud and too strong for such a mite of a girl. "You forgot Dad's still home, haven't you?"

"No, I haven't. Now skedaddle before I ask you why you put mouse turds in my refrigerator without asking permission."

That motivated the little imp out the door as Lily knew it would.

She went to the counter and poured coffee into a China mug thinking how time had changed her. Her wants and desires didn't seem as vital as they once had. Maybe that explained her funk.

Sunlight streamed through the window. As the morning sun warmed her face she watched a black-bodied, white-tailed Kaibab squirrel race across the dew-slicked grass. Suddenly, as though sensing imminent danger, he came to an abrupt stop. Standing motionless, his eyes, high on each side of his head allowing for a wide field of vision, scanned the yard. After a moment of careful scrutiny and apparently satisfied his life wasn't in jeopardy, he skittered to a nearby blue spruce and disappeared amid the branches.

She heard Abbott enter the kitchen, but didn't turn. He hugged her from behind and nuzzled her neck.

"Girls got off okay?" he asked.

With a nod and a forced smile, she faced him.

"Who were you talking to just now?"

"Kira. She forgot half her science experiment in the fridge."

He walked to the table. "This is the first I've heard of a science experiment. What is it?"

She took a sip of coffee. "I didn't know about it, either, until a few minutes ago. She didn't say, but it has something to do with mouse turds. Truthfully, I was scared to ask."

"Mouse turds?" He frowned as he sat and placed a linen napkin in his lap.

As he stared into space, Lily could virtually see his mind working to come up with an experiment involving a rodent's excrement.

After a moment and with a look as empty as a gambler's pocket book the day before payday, he said, "You should probably expect a call from her homeroom teacher today."

She laughed, thinking she'd best look for her car keys because, undoubtedly, that meant a trip to Kira's school before the day ended.

"Where did she get the...er ..ingredient for her project?"

She shrugged. "I'm hoping someone in her class has a pet mouse. Maybe she conned Laurie into taking her to a pet shop when she was shopping with her and Amie on Saturday."

"Both are welcome alternatives to what I prophesied."

"I tried not to picture our daughter in a dumpster knee-high in refuse." She stared down at the floor, thinking about what Kira had said. "I wonder what the other half of the experiment is." She smiled when he cocked a perfectly aligned black brow.

"The mouse?" He crossed his eyes, like daughter like father.

She laughed. "Okay, Mr. I-Got-An-Answer-For-Everything. Why did she keep the mouse turds on ice?"

With not a second lost to thought, he said, "Spit balls."

Lily curled her lip in distaste and hiked one brow, refusing to ponder the image the suggestion invoked. "I'm sorry I asked. You have a discovery today?" She set a bowl of oatmeal with strawberries before him on the place mat and poured coffee into his mug.

"Yes. How'd you know?"

"You always wear your blue blazer and gray flannel pants when you do." Some things never changed, at least with Abbott.

"I didn't realize; I suppose I do. Mom called last night while you were at Bonnie's. How is she feeling, by the way? I'm sorry I couldn't wait up for you, but I was zapped."

She acknowledged his apology with a nod and a smile. "Bonnie's getting there. It's a bad sprain. She can't put any weight on her foot at all." She sat across the table from him.

"She's lucky to have a friend like you." He spooned sugar over his oatmeal and added milk.

"What did your mom want?"

"She called to see if Maya was feeling better."

"Calliope's not in any trouble?" This surprised her. Her mother-in-law was the only person she knew who could get into more mischief than Kira.

He shook his head. "Apparently not."

Not that she didn't take Abbott at his word, but Lily found that hard to believe. The woman always had two reasons for calling. She usually led with the mundane and secondly with the curve that hit between the eyes. "She didn't need you to bail her out of jail?"

"Not this time. She did ask, though, where she could," he stopped to make air quotes, "score some drugs."

Lily repeated after him. "Score some drugs. Oh God." She immediately became fearful for her mother-in-law, picturing her in a slum neighborhood and thugs surrounding the bite-size woman. "Maybe you should alert your father to prepare him."

"I probably should, but it may be nothing. I don't want to worry him unnecessarily."

"Did you ask her why she wanted to know?" She waited patiently while he finished the last of his breakfast.

He dabbed the napkin at the corners of his mouth. "She said she was conducting a survey for the youth center around the corner from the villa." He took a sip of coffee, clucked his tongue and looked into the mug. "Is this a different blend?"

"I thought I'd try something new. It's a change from the same old. Do you like it?" There was that word again - change.

He nodded. "It's good."

She fingered the rim of her coffee mug. "Do you believe her?"

"Mom? Not on your life." He laughed. "Her stories are getting more credible, and she's getting more convincing, though. If I hadn't known better, I might have fallen for the story."

"Maybe you should prepare yourself for an SOS from her today or a call from the police."

He rolled his eyes. "Sometimes I think that's why she pushed me into law and thanks to her, I'm getting quite adept at practicing criminal law."

Keeping a straight face, she asked, "How many sons can say that?"

He chuckled, finished his coffee, picked his dishes from the table and put them in the dishwasher. "What are your plans for today?"

"I thought I'd clean the upstairs linen closet." She hoped that would not be the highlight of her day.

"I'll call later. Maybe we can have a late lunch."

"I'd like that." She forced happiness into her eyes.

After she closed the door behind him, feeling bleak from the doldrums, she sat at the kitchen table.

When the telephone rang thirty minutes later, she still sat in the same chair in the same position.

"Well, that didn't take long," she mumbled as she stood to answer the phone. "Hello," she said, pleasant enough and expecting the voice on the other end of the phone to be Kira's homeroom teacher, Mr. Woodrow.

"Lily?" a female voice asked.

"Yes." Lily could not understand why, but her heartbeat accelerated. The woman sounded strangely familiar, yet she couldn't put a face to the voice.

"This is Dallas Hall. We met last weekend at the annual policeman's gala."

Lily searched her memory, but couldn't remember meeting her and with a name like that, she surely would. "I'm sorry. I―"

"Roberta Crouse introduced us. You were standing behind a potted fichus, sipping a whiskey sour, and I jokingly suggested there were better hiding places. You laughed and countered with ―"

"Like a limb on the seventy-five foot oak on the front lawn?" Now Lily remembered. "Blond pixie-cut hair, blue eyes, midnight blue Pura Vida's chiffon cocktail dress with satin trim."

Dallas laughed, a throaty laugh that wrung a chuckle from Lily.

"I hope you don't think this forward of me, but I was hoping you could show me around Hampstead. The hot spots, best restaurants, that type of thing."

"Right. You just transferred in from the Bracebridge PD. Fifty-fifth division Central Field, if memory serves."

"Yes. Good memory. Can you spare the time?"

"Are there guns and handcuffs involved?"

Dallas laughed that throaty laugh again. "Only if you want there to be."

"Why don't we hold off on that until we get better acquainted?" Lily found herself smiling, the first smile that came freely in a long, long time. "How's today sound? I don't have anything planned."

"Sure. Where shall we meet and when?"

Lily rhymed off the name of a mom and pop delicatessen on Averdeen. "See you at one." She placed the receiver on the hook, smiled and danced her up the staircase and into the bedroom she shared with her husband.

##### Chapter Four

Fifty miles from Hampstead on Yorkshire Boulevard in downtown Bracebridge, Maine, Noah Madill pulled his Crown Victoria to a stop alongside a police cruiser in front of the Beatty Building. He lumbered from the car and looked up at the posh sixteen-story structure housing the offices of dentists, doctors, accountants, architects and lawyers.

A uniformed officer stood at the entrance. "Second floor, Suite 200, Lieutenant."

Noah nodded and took the stairs. The scent of furniture polish and industrial cleaners accompanied him through the hallway on the second floor. Patrol cops, Higgins and Johnson, awaited him.

"What we got?" Noah asked, directing the question to both of them.

"Levi Cain, lawyer, stabbed to death in his butter leather executive chair," Johnson said.

"Weapon?"

"Left on the scene. A crucifix."

Noah's eye twitched. Just like the judge.

"What's one dead lawyer?" Higgins asked.

"I don't know. What's one lawyer?" Noah played along.

"A step in the right direction," Higgins guffawed.

"Not on my turf, it isn't."

The door to the spacious office hung open. Sunlight streamed in through the vertical blinds hanging in the window. Noah took everything in — the victim, head slumped to one side, a silver cross protruding from his heart, his white shirt blotched with blood, the gold pen clutched between his fingers, the banker's light on the upper left corner of the desk, the telephone sitting to the front of it, the computer and keyboard on the opposite side, the papers and note pads strewn across the desk top, the volumes of statutes, law journals and bellows files piled high on the desk, chairs, tables and floor.

He turned to his left and studied an eight-by-ten portrait of a fifty-ish blond-haired woman sitting on the credenza among more files and journals.

Not a speck of lint blemished the plush carpet beneath his feet and not a dot of dust hazed the tops of furniture that he could see.

The air conditioning ducts swept the putrid odor of death through the office.

"This is how you found him?" Noah asked over his shoulder.

"Yes, sir," Johnson said.

"Touch anything?"

"No, sir."

He checked the lock on the door. No sign of forced entry. Nothing appeared out of place and nothing indicated a struggle, which made him wonder, like the judge, if the victim knew his assailant. He didn't need to examine the murder weapon to know the cross was identical to the one used on the judge or that the end had been sharpened to a point. He was sure, too, they would find no fingerprints on the murder weapon. Just like the judge.

Noah grimaced. All indications looked like they had a vendetta killer on their hands. "Who phoned it in?"

Higgins checked his notebook. "Donald Hubley. An accountant down the hall. He has coffee with Cain every morning. When Hubley arrived this morning, this was how he found him. He's pretty shaken."

"Did you take his statement?"

"Yup. Hubley said he didn't see anyone. The offices don't open 'til nine and with the exception of him and Cain who usually arrive around eight, there isn't anyone else on the floor until around eight-thirty."

"Did Cain have a secretary?"

"No. Hubley said Levi practiced criminal law and didn't need one."

Cutbacks everywhere. "Where's Hubley now?" Noah asked.

"In his office down the hall. Suite 204. Smythe is with him."

Noah sensed someone at his back. He turned and stared into the face of his partner, Joe Shephard, a cop in his early thirties who'd recently made detective and who loved the ladies. If he didn't miss his bet, Joe hadn't changed his clothes from yesterday.

"What a way to start off a perfectly good Tuesday." Joe looked at the body. "What're the odds? Two vics, stabbed with a cross and all within days of each other. "

Noah stared at his partner. "You look like shit."

"I feel like shit." Joe ran his fingers through his uncombed hair and belched.

The coroner, Max Anders, walked through the door. His six-foot height, three hundred pound weight and authoritative manner all but filled the room.

Noah'd worked with him many times over the past twenty years. He was a good friend and colleague and never failed to amaze Noah with his reverence for the dead.

"Remind you of someone?" Noah asked the coroner.

Max adjusted his bow tie and set his leather bag on the floor beside the desk. "Uh-huh. Judge Thomas Russell." He patted Cain's hands as though assuring him everything would be all right.

Noah would have asked the Doc for a guesstimate on the time of death, but Max refused to give educated guesses or to speculate, even for a friend and colleague. Max learned a hard lesson a long time ago not to give away too much information without scientific facts to back him up.

The crime team arrived, unpacked forensic equipment and set up quickly.

Noah stepped aside to let the photographer do his job.

His gut told him they wouldn't find any trace evidence. He already learned the crosses could be bought in any chain store across the country, and no one the judge had sent to prison was recently released. If it weren't for that, Cain's death might have made the connection they needed to solve these murders.

Noah scowled and headed out of the building with Shephard following close behind.

"You need a shrink," Shephard said on the sidewalk.

Noah ignored the comment and looked around for his partner's five-liter Mustang. When he didn't see the car, he turned to Shephard. "How'd you get here? The bus?"

"I hitched a ride with a black and white."

"Short again?" Noah asked, referring to Shephard's finances. He paid the equivalent of a month's rent for his Mustang. That on top of rent, food and utilities and the other necessities of life, like his social life, usually left the young fellow broke.

"Only until payday."

Shephard said that like the day was tomorrow. Noah raised his brows. "That's eight days away."

"I can do the math."

Noah reached into his pocket and took out a money clip. He peeled off five twenties and handed them to his partner. "Pay me back when you can." Noah noticed he didn't need to force the loan on him.

"Thanks, man. Okay, bring it on." Shephard made a come-hither motion with his hand.

"Bring what on?" Noah frowned.

"The lecture. The bit-off-more-than-I-can-chew spiel. The sell-the-car-or-cut-back-on-the-ladies advice."

Noah shook his head. "No lecture. I didn't loan you money so I could speak my mind about your state of affairs."

"No?"

"No."

Shephard swallowed. "You still need to see a shrink."

Again, Noah let on he didn't hear the remark and watched him pop a piece of nicotine gum in his mouth. "How's that coming?"

"The gum helps. I can only afford one vice on my salary." He grinned like a kid in a toy store. "Man, I love that car!"

Noah understood obsession and would give him his take on the subject, but found himself in no position to advise, not when he still felt for his wife what he did, even knowing her proclivities.

"I still think you need to see a shrink, and as much as you pretend the suggestion hasn't been made, it has."

"You're probably right." Noah couldn't take insult at his partner's recommendation. Shephard was a little low on discretion and diplomacy, but he had Noah's well-being at heart. He couldn't fault him for that.

"I can't imagine what you went through finding your wife naked in the arms of another woman." Shephard shook his head dramatically and stared at the ground. "Man, that's a blow to the ol' cajones, huh. No wondering if she was pretending all these years? Women are good at faking orgasms. Not that I know that firsthand, of course, but I've heard stories."

Noah jingled change in his pant pocket. Like he said, a diplomat Shephard was not. "I'm okay." He wondered what a shrink would say if he knew he had pinned an eight by ten glossy of his wife on his dart board and used her nose as the bull's eye.

"No manhood problems?"

"Nope."

"Fifteen years. Took her long enough to find out she doesn't like men. It sucks, man. If it were me, and I weren't such a stud, I'd probably think I caused her to jump the fence."

"It doesn't work that way, Joe."

He slapped Noah on the back. "Look, if it makes it any easier to accept, I say tell yourself what you want to hear and fuck your wife's bedfellows."

Noah smiled. He always appreciated Shephard's take on things. If nothing else, it entertained.

"Thanks for the advice." Noah climbed behind the wheel, started the car and turned on the AC. It was only nine o'clock and already the sun set the vinyl on the seats aflame.

Shephard plopped onto the passenger seat and shut off the air conditioning. "That stuff's harmful to your health and having that frigid air beating on your chest like that can cause respiratory problems."

Noah shook his head. Since Shephard was forced to quit smoking, he had become more aware of health risks and spewed his newfound knowledge any chance that came his way. Some Shephard took seriously. Some he misinterpreted, and some he simply didn't understand whatsoever.

"Don't we have a couple of murders to solve?" Noah asked.

"Yeah. The old lawyer probably had a coronary when he saw the crucifix coming at him. God. Wouldn't that be something? The murderer killing a dead man and gets to stand trial for defacing a corpse."

"We'll get him for the judge's murder."

"He was an old geezer, too, and could have had a heart attack. Who's to say at this point? The autopsy's not back, yet. Can't you see the headlines?"

Noah grinned.

Shephard looked across the seat at him. "What? You don't think it's possible?"

"Possible, not probable. Besides, I don't think our killer is finished yet. We're bound to get lucky at some point."

"And have one of our vics die from stabbing through the heart rather than natural causes, albeit natural causes brought on by sheer fright?"

Noah nodded, grinning.

Shephard punched him in the upper arm. "You're poking fun." He laughed. "It could happen. Stranger things have."

Noah had to agree.

"The lawyer's lips were blue, just like the judge's, and there wasn't much blood from the wound, either. Just like the judge."

Noah had noticed that, too, and mentioned it to Max. The Doc refused to give away anything, just as he suspected he would. He pulled from the parking spot, thinking Shephard might be on to something.

Shephard cranked down his window and yelled at a teen walking past on the sidewalk. "Those things'll kill you, man. Savvy up and butt out."

The kid gave him the finger.

Shephard shook his head. "Kids today have no respect."

Noah noticed him giving the kid his I'm-a-cop-and-I'm-going-to-bust-your-ass look. "That'll scare the crap into his droopy drawers, all right."

"Damn straight." He stuck his shirt inside his pants. "Where we going?"

"To see Mrs. Cain."

"I hate this part of the job. Telling the family." He blew a fierce breath through clenched lips.

Noah knew what Shephard meant. He hated this part, too. Disbelief came first, shock second, then tears and remorse. He was no different from any other cop. These emotions always triggered something inside a police officer, even the hardened ones and the ones that prided themselves on saying they had seen it all. Inevitably, when he thought like that, something came along and surprised the hell out of him. Like Dallas. He hadn't seen that coming and never would have believed it had he been foretold.

"Where do they live?" Shephard asked, smacking the wad of gum in his mouth.

"Kennebecasis Park."

"Ritzy." He spit into the palms of his hands and smoothed them over his hair. "How's that? Better?"

Noah looked at him. "You may want to zip your fly."

##### Chapter Five

Lily yanked outfits from hangers, held them in the air for inspection, then flung them across the bed in distaste.

Nothing appealed to her.

The ensembles either reminded her of Nana Penelope's attire or of one of the many unpleasant conferences with Kira's teachers concerning her daughter's forthright manner.

Feeling at odds with the past and herself, she peered into the open space at the one remaining candidate for her lunch date with Dallas.

She studied the black pantsuit with suede collar and cuffs, thought maybe, then pruned her face, remembering when she last wore the chic ensemble. Dr. Balle and a root canal. Then, as though she needed reminding of the painful event, her jaw throbbed.

Without further deliberation, she decided on designer jeans, an ecru fisherman's knit turtleneck and a rust-colored corduroy blazer. With some cussing, she managed her wild hair into a French braid.

Pleased with her reflection in the cheval mirror, she skipped down the staircase, humming beneath her breath. She couldn't remember ever feeling this carefree and happy. That sounded selfish and unappreciative. This funk had better end soon or she would believe she was.

The telephone rang as she rounded the corner to the den.

"Hello," she said into the receiver, feeling every bit as cheerful as her sing-songey voice.

"You sound chipper."

"Hi, Mom." Lily couldn't keep from smiling. Today, not even her mother could dampen her spirits.

Alexandra went into one of her tirades, hitting on everything from the high cost of gas to the gauche painters her father hired to give the interior of their six-bedroom three-story home a facelift.

Lily and her mother, Alexandra O'Keefe-O'Ree, shared the same birth date and though twenty-five years separated them, Alexandra acted more like her sister than mother. She refused to dress and act her age. Her mother pulled off the look, Lily had to admit, attributed partly to her workouts at a fitness center under the supervision of her personal trainer. Alexandra would never confess the truth, but Lily swore her mother's yearly trip to Los Angeles was not only for shopping but also for a nip and tuck. No one could be that well preserved without a little help from a skilful plastic surgeon.

Now if only Alexandra's lovely smile would warm her eyes.

Something had happened in her mother's past that scarred her for life. She wished Alexandra would open up to her, but any time Lily asked, her mother adroitly changed the subject.

Infrequently, Lily would give her mother a reality check, like now when her impulse was to ask what she would spend her first senior citizen's check on. At the last moment, she decided not to. Some questions were better left unasked where it concerned Alexandra.

Lily checked her watch. If she wanted to be on time for her lunch date, which she did, she needed to leave soon. Her mother hadn't spoken to her since their birthdays. She believed the snub stemmed from her question about whether she had applied for her old age security.

Alexandra held a good grudge and had, through years of practice, nailed cold shoulder tactics, often coming off like the injured party. If she brushed Alexandra off, Lily would have to suffer through the entire ritual again for her mother would certainly exact revenge.

She listened patiently while her mother rambled on about the ineptitude of her latest housekeeper.

"Honestly, Lily, I don't understand why a person who is hired to clean houses hates to clean. Sylvie―"

"Sophie, Mom." Lily figured Alexandra should at least get her employee's name correct. She understood, though, how she would forget their names since they weren't with her long enough to remember.

Alexandra huffed a breath. "Whatever. Anyway..."

Lily tuned her out. She looked at the clock on the credenza. Time ticked away at an exceedingly fast pace. There was little time to spare if she wanted to meet Dallas at one o'clock. She came to a decision. Alexandra gave her no other option. She gnawed on the knuckle of her forefinger and hoped for the best. "Mom, I'm sorry, but I have to go. I have a lunch date." She held her breath and waited for the biting remark that was a necessary prelude to commencing her cold shoulder strategy.

"Someone more important than your mother?"

"No, of course not, Mom. You know how much I love you, and how eternally grateful I am for everything you've given me, and the sacrifices you've made for me." Lily crossed her fingers and prayed Alexandra would not see through the diplomacy she employed or read anything negative in her words.

Thirty seconds passed that seemed unearthly longer to Lily before she heard her mother breathing again. With the cordless phone held firmly against her ear, she crossed the den, passing wall-to-wall shelves holding first edition books, family photos and portraits of Maya and Kira in various stages of their young life, all elegantly, but discretely, bragging the fruits of her marriage.

"Who are you having lunch with?"

Lily envisioned her mother giving her smile that could ice hot water. "Dallas Hall." She turned and sat on the arm of a leather recliner, purposely choosing not to get comfortable.

"I never heard you mention her before."

"I met her last weekend at the gala for the Hampstead PD."

"She's a police woman?"

Lily rolled her eyes at how Alexandra posed the question, like police officers were the dregs of the work force. "Yes, Mom."

"What do you know about her?"

"I don't think she has a membership at the country club if that's what you mean."

"Don't get smart with me, young lady. I remember the riff-raff you used to bring home."

Lily sucked in a breath at the biting remark. "They were my friends," she said softly.

"You always had the worst taste and judgment, mistaking friendship of those who wanted to take advantage of your kind nature."

Lily prided herself on being nothing like her mother. She realized going down this road with Alexandra would only lead to an argument, an argument Lily would never win. She took a deep, cleansing breath and smiled. "How's Daddy? Is he still having trouble with his knee?"

"Not that he'll admit. Who am I to tell an orthopedic surgeon he needs surgery." Alexandra expressed her disdain for her husband's arrogance by exhaling noisily.

"I'm sure he'll come to the right decision soon." Where was the emergency calling her mother away from the phone? She always seemed to be needed at one function or another when Lily called her.

"Let's hope it's while the damage can be corrected."

Lily checked her watch again. Five minutes had already passed. "Yes."

"How's Maya?"

"Fine now. She just picked up a virus."

"That's good. How's the other little munchkin?"

Where's the damn emergency needing her mother's immediate attention? "Fine." Lily related her daughter's science experiment.

"Good Lord. You must sterilize everything she came into contact with. The rodent may have been carrying disease."

"I gave the house a good cleansing this morning." Please, God, make someone need Alexandra.

"With a strong disinfectant?"

"Yes." Lily crossed her fingers and confirmed the lie. "Of course."

"Good girl."

Lily never thought of herself as a girl anymore. That her mother did showed how much in the past Alexandra lived.

"Mom―"

"Just a minute, dear."

Lily heard a kerplunk and the sound of high heels clicking on a hardwood floor. She checked the time again, scowled, and chewed on a thumbnail.

A door slammed on her mother's end of the phone. When she heard Alexandra's footsteps, Lily threw back her shoulders and mentally prepared herself to end this conversation.

After some shuffling with the receiver, Alexandra came on the line and said, "I'm sorry, dear, but I have to go. Syl...Sophie broke great-grandmama's Herend cake plate."

Yes! There is a God. "Okay. I'll talk to you soon. I love you," Lily said to the hum of a disconnected telephone line.

Forty-five minutes later, Lily parked her car in hourly parking on the corner of Chipman and Canterbury Streets and wound her way around pedestrians on Averdeen in downtown Hampstead.

She spotted Dallas standing in front of the plate glass window of the deli. Dallas looked très hip in leg-hugging jeans, red turtleneck, jean jacket and scuffed western boots.

Lily's smile came freely as she approached her new friend. In the state of mind Alexandra's telephone conversation had left her, that Lily could feel weightless and guiltless surprised her. Maybe Alexandra's grip on her was slipping.

Dallas turned in her direction. Lily knew the moment Dallas caught sight of her from her wide smile. Dimples dented her rosy cheeks.

"I'm late," Lily said when she came within several feet of her. She closed the gap between them with a few long strides.

"A minute or two." Dallas hooked her arm in Lily's and guided her toward the entrance of the deli.

A blinking sign in a window a few yards away caught Lily's attention. She unhooked her arm from Dallas's tight hold, looked upward and read the name of the diner. "The Striped Zebra." She smiled. "I can't believe this place is still open. I used to come here with friends at least twice a week in my high school days." She turned to Dallas. "Let's have lunch here. Do you mind?"

"Not at all," Dallas said. "I'm flexible."

"Great." Lily led the way inside. At reception, she looked around at the red and white checkered tablecloths covering round tables set for two and the booths lining both side walls.

"This brings back so many good memories," Lily said, smiling. She looked up at the paintings on the ceiling, very Sistine Chapel-ish. "The place hasn't changed an iota."

She watched a sixty-something woman push open the swinging door leading from the kitchen and weave her way around tables with a meet-and-greet-the-customer grin. The woman closed the distance between them.

"I don't believe it," Lily said, unable to take her eyes off the woman.

"What?"

"That woman. She's ―"

"Lee...lee," the woman exclaimed, running to her.

"Mon Dieu." Lily walked into the proprietor's open arms. After they hugged, Lily kissed both her cheeks and stepped back to await Juliette Brunette's appraisal.

Dallas, obviously intrigued, asked, "You can speak French?"

"Mrs. Brunette taught me all the French I know." Lily laughed, remembering that every second word coming from Juliette's mouth either took the Lord's name in vain or put a French spin on procreation.

"Cherie, you still look like a teenager." Juliette grabbed Lily's cheeks with both her hands and pinched. "Beautiful, oui?" she asked as she released Lily's cheeks and turned to Dallas.

Lily made the introductions.

"You are sisters, oui," Juliette said, looking from Dallas to Lily and back again.

Lily laughed. "No. No relation. We only just met last week."

Juliette slapped the palm of her hand against her face and held it there. "Non. C'est vrai? Bien, bien, bien. Encroyable!" She excused herself to tend to the needs of a diner sitting alone at a booth.

Dallas nudged Lily in the arm. "What did she say?"

"Something about well, well, well and the incredible." Lily shrugged. "I'm sure it's not important. The theatrics are very entertaining, though, don't you think? I loved coming here. She could always cheer me up."

"The woman is a miniature powerhouse of nervous energy," Dallas said, frowning.

Lily laughed as she watched Juliette. "She is and her nervous energy is contagious." When Dallas looked at her with a skeptical expression, she said, "Wait and see. You'll be fidgeting and babbling non-stop before our lunch gets to us."

"I don't think so. I'm a very disciplined person."

"If you say so." Lily jutted her chin to keep from laughing. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

"Booth or table, chérie?" Juliette asked, suddenly appearing at Lily's side.

"Center table, please," Lily said, wanting Dallas to have the full Juliette experience.

Juliette took off at a sprinter's run in the direction of the kitchen.

Dallas stared at Juliette's retreating back. "What is the woman on?"

"Nothing. That's the beauty of her attitude." How could she have forgotten about this place? Lily laughed. The snort came out of nowhere. She covered her mouth and felt the heat of a blush cover her cheeks. She apologized. "I haven't done that since I was ten."

In the middle of the dining area, Juliette, now all business, tapped her foot against the carpet and with rapid finger waves, motioned for them to come to her.

"We'd better sit," Lily said, recognizing Juliette's impatience. She grabbed Dallas by the sleeve of her jacket and hauled her toward Juliette.

"Why?" Dallas asked, running to keep step.

"If we don't, she'll come for us and believe me, you'll be tripping over your feet trying to keep up with her."

"You know this from experience, I assume."

Lily nodded. "I fell face first on the carpet." She rubbed her chin. "I can still feel the rug burn."

They arrived at their table. Lily took the menus from Juliette's hand and gave one to Dallas, then ordered her to sit. She chuckled when Dallas promptly plunked herself onto the black metal dinette chair.

Lily smiled, thinking how smart a woman Dallas was, and how well she took a directive.

"I'll be back to take your orders," Juliette said.

"Thanks." Lily watched Dallas study Juliette. "Are you looking for her on and off switch?" When Dallas answered with a 'huh', Lily knew she experienced her same reaction to Juliette all those years ago. Peripherally, she saw Juliette jog ― no other term could describe that walk ― toward them.

Within seconds, Juliette snatched the menus from their hands with her sincere apology for her tardiness followed by her fervent promise to return in ten and one-half minutes with their orders.

"Orders? Dallas asked after a minute. "We never gave her our orders."

"Uh-huh." Lily chuckled at the mystified expression that stormed Dallas's face.

"She...doesn't know what we want."

"She will."

"How?"

Lily looked into the kitchen at the portly mustachioed man dressed in a cook's uniform who stood in front of a countertop gas fryer. She was surprised and yet not surprised to see the man who her friends took bets on was Juliette's husband. "No one's ever figured it out. Some say she's part gypsy, while others say she's a descendant of a wizard." Judging by the skeptical expression on Dallas's face, Lily discerned she didn't believe her.

Instead of trying to explain Juliette, which she believed was impossible to do in any event, she handed her a pen and a piece of paper. "Write down what you would have ordered and compare it with what Juliette brings you."

She checked her watch. "One fifteen. Allotting thirty seconds for the time already gone by, I predict Juliette will return with our lunches at precisely one twenty-five."

With Juliette flitting around greeting and seating the influx of the one-to-two lunch patrons, handing out menus which would not be used and making promises and delivering on those promises, Lily saw Dallas get caught up in the woman's energy, as she knew she would.

"Are you all settled in?" Lily asked.

"Pretty much. Actually, the move went smoother than I anticipated. Everything seemed to fall into place."

"Are you renting or did you purchase―"

"I bought a garden home off Manawagonish Avenue. From upstairs, the view of Boogie-Woogie Lake is to die for. The place has two bedrooms and a full bath on the second floor, kitchen, half-bath with laundry facilities, dining and living room on the first floor, and the basement is completely finished with another bedroom, rumpus room and a full bath with a whirlpool tub. It's more space than I need and has more conveniences and toys than I'll have time to use, but I figure it's a good investment."

"Do you think―"

"It'll be an adjustment."

It wasn't what Lily was about to ask, but settled for the answer. Dallas, not that she realized it, was responding to Juliette's energy.

"I dropped by the precinct yesterday and had a look around. The captain introduced me to a few of my colleagues. From what I saw, he's no slouch and seems to run a tight ship."

"That's good." Lily settled back and listened while Dallas unburdened herself of the difficulties and hardships a woman encounters in a divorce. She made the process sound excruciating. Lily prayed Abbott would never tire of her or feel the need to look for comfort in another woman's arms as Dallas's husband had.

"Here you are, ladies," Juliette said as she approached wheeling a trolley laden with their lunch orders.

She placed a bowl of black bean chili, a generous serving of garlic pita chips, carrot sticks, a lettuce leaf with two tomato slices and a dessert bowl of green grapes in front of Dallas. In front of Lily, she placed three ounces of roast beef, a small whole-grain bagel, a slice of soy cheese and a bowl of mixed fruit.

"For you." Juliette looked at Dallas and set a cup of green tea to the side. "And for you." She moved to Lily's left and set a glass of barley wine on the table. "Eat hearty." Juliette left in a rush.

"Did she get your order right?" Lily asked.

Dallas cocked a brow, puffed her lips and studied her lunch. "Not even close."

Chapter Six

Buckled into the luxury seats of their Cadillac CTS, Calliope and Wilson took the scenic route, as they liked to call the country roads, to Bracebridge. The time was early, the sun bright, and their moods chirpy.

She passed Wilson a 'gas-begone' pill. "You forgot this morning," she said, handing him a bottle of water.

"You look after me so good."

True, but in this particular instance, her motive was purely self-serving. Wilson broke wind like a cannon blast and almost terrorized her heart into cardiac arrest on more than one occasion. There was too much mileage on her old ticker not to be intimated by a sound like that.

She turned from the winding, narrow road and looked out the passenger window. Wilson was not the speed demon of his younger years, zipping from lane to lane, and because of that, the countryside with its grazing cattle and fields of wildflowers and acres of rich farmland, rolled slowly past.

Calliope pulled her silk dress tightly under her derriere, as she had been taught. Less wrinkles, her mother would say. Some advice was never forgotten.

Lately, memories of her mother flooded her thoughts at the oddest times and for no apparent reason. She hoped it wasn't a precursor to an event not of her liking or choosing. Aside from the usual reasons for wanting to live, there were still many things and promises she had yet to fulfill. It would be a damn shame if the Big Guy called in her marker before she was ready. She would have a thing or two to say to Him if He did.

And the dreams...what was up them?

"I had the strangest dream last night, Wilson." Knowing intuitively she held his attention, she said, "I had to wear braces, but only for two weeks, and they weren't applied to my teeth but my lower lip. I took them off to eat, and my mother had to put them back in place. In order for her to do that, I had to stand perfectly straight with my back against the wall. The horse in the kitchen kept swishing his tail across my face, to and fro, to and...." Her voice trailed off to nothingness as she imagined the purple and white-spotted Appaloosa.

Wilson laughed.

She could always make him laugh. "Weird, huh?" She didn't expect him to answer. He never did. Instead, he would ponder her dream and, at the strangest moment, tell her what it meant.

After loosening the strap on her red sandals, she sat back, sighing loudly. Ten minutes into their trip and already boredom had overtaken her. She turned sideways and studied Wilson, his profile, as he drove. A handsome man. But looks weren't the only attraction for her those fifty-five years ago. His easygoing, kind, gentle nature caught her attention before anything else. Nothing ruffled him. She should know. She'd tested him often enough; not purposely, of course.

"I love you, Wilson." She ran her hand over his thigh, appreciating the rigid muscles beneath her fingers that came from twenty laps around the Aquatic Center every other day and eighteen holes of golf on the other days.

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "I love you, Calliope."

She sighed contentedly and relaxed against the creamy leather of the car seat. As she often did at these times when conversation was at a premium, her thoughts wandered to The Third. He hadn't always been a horse's patootie. Whoa. She took back the comment. He had always been an ass, but a tolerable one, which was not the case these past few years. She wondered what prompted the change. Old age either wisened or mellowed the bitter and contrary. For one thing, the oomph which would have been put into fighting, bickering and complaining was put to other, more important use – some mornings, simply getting out of bed without causing bodily injury proved both time and energy-depleting; something the elderly had in precious scant quantities. For another, memories failed, the eyes became less observant, and ears became deaf. Blind, deaf and dumb. What a fine how-do-you-do; at least, no one could accuse Calliope of any of those things.

"I know we've discussed this many times, Wilson, but do you still believe Frederick when he says he didn't have anything to do with embezzling that money?" She looked at him to gauge his reaction. Judging by the frown on his face, his opinion on the subject had changed. She turned sideways in the seat to read him more clearly.

"I always believed him, but lately...." He grimaced.

"What happened to make you change your mind?" she asked, crossing her fingers he would tell her straight. Wilson was sometimes reluctant about sharing all his views with her concerning The Third. She didn't take insult. He had only her best interests at heart.

"He mentioned, bragged is more like it, about how much money he has. It didn't add up for me."

Calliope perked up. This was important to know. She wished she knew why. "How much money?"

"A couple of million. So he says. Maybe he's exaggerating a little, but even so, there's no way he could have stashed away that kind of money, even with solid investments."

"Interesting." Supposing The Third had that amount of money, how did he come by it? Maybe there was some truth to the embezzlement rumor after all. The police had conducted a thorough investigation, though, on the claims of the young man. What was his name? She couldn't remember, but he was the old man's nephew. The young whippersnapper had also accused The Third of killing his uncle. Maybe there was some truth to that, too. But surely the police were smart enough to distinguish a murder from a suicide. Maybe not. Mistakes happened. All the time, in fact. The more she thought about it, the more she believed The Third was up to his flamboyant brows in the whole sordid affair.

She was more determined than ever to bring The Third down, and hoped her plan went without a hitch. The anticipation of finally putting an end to his nastiness made her squirm.

Wilson looked at her. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I'm anxious to get there is all."

"Why? Aren't you just getting yarn to finish the sweater you're knitting for Madge's great-grandson and doing a little browsing in the boutiques?"

That was her story. "Yes, but you know me. Can't sit still for two minutes." She fingered the plastic hoop earrings dangling from her ears.

"You're sure it's nothing more than that?" He jerked his head in her direction as though he had a sudden revelation. "You're not up to anything, are you?"

"Moi?" she said, raising her brows.

"Don't give me that wide-eyed innocent look." He chuckled. "You are up to something, aren't you? Should I ask, or should I wait and find out later?"

"Watch where you're driving," she said too late. She gasped and lifted her legs as they swerved onto the shoulder of the road. Gravel brushed the undercarriage of the car. She held her breath.

Without a word, Wilson expertly steered the car back onto the road.

She exhaled her relief and crossed her fingers, but couldn't look at him. "I'm not up to anything," she said, staring perfectly straight ahead.

"Remember the fiasco of a blind date you arranged for Beatrice's daughter last November?"

He had to remind her, didn't he? She grimaced at the memory. "How was I to know she was a man?"

"I never did find out how you met him ... her."

"I picked him up at MacKay's Bakery. There was something about the way he looked at the half-and-half cookies ...." She stared into space, remembering the look of desire on the young man's face.

"Yes, I can see how it wouldn't make him a serial killer."

True, she could have set up the poor girl with a psychopath instead of a transvestite. Her intentions had been pure, though. But just so Wilson would think she thought he kidded her, she poked him in the ribs.

He cried out in pain. "Hey, give an old guy a break. Those nails are weapons." He flicked on the blinker light, turned off the road and pulled up to the pumps of a self-service gas station.

She glanced at the gas gauge. Sometimes Wilson's preparedness for every eventuality irked her. "We still have three-quarters of a tank," she said, annoyance seeping into her voice.

He waved away her protest and shuffled from the car.

As always the sign above the door of the diner boasting 'Eat Here and Get Gas' got a chuckle from her. She could never get enough of some things.

She turned down the sun visor, flipped the cover from the vanity mirror and coated her lips with a fresh coat of red lipstick, put a dab of pink blush on her already rosy cheeks and dusted her freckled nose with powder. While arranging her curly hair around the brim of her floppy hat, she noticed the white roots at the sides of her head. She took her 'Things-To-Do' list from her purse and penciled in a reminder to call Bobbie for a dye job.

Minutes later, back on the road, she donned her new tortoiseshell sunglasses and turned to Wilson. "You like?"

He grinned. "They're you."

"I thought so, too. Maybe I'll wear them and nothing else to bed tonight and pretend I'm that actor with the big lips and big boobies." She inched her fingers along the inside of his thigh. Just as she reached his crotch, Wilson frowned.

"What's her name?" he asked.

"Who she is isn't relevant." She slapped his leg, not playfully. "Diggity, Wilson. You sure know how to burst a girl's bubble." She stared out the window and sighed. Sometimes, Wilson ― God bless his sweet soul ― lost focus.

"I'm sorry, kumquat." He looked at her. "Does this mean you're going to put me on a no-salt no-fat no-sugar no-sex diet again?"

The little boy in his voice made her smile. "I should."

He nodded. "I deserve it. What's it going to cost me this time?"

She thought about it a moment. "A pearl necklace. There's this―"

"But you already have three―"

She gave him the eye. He was wise enough to shut up, but not before he said, "Whatever your little heart desires."

"Which reminds me," she said. "Elvis is dead."

"Elvis has been dead for years." Wilson took his eyes off the road and stared at her.

"No, he hasn't," she said. "I read his obit in the paper yesterday, and I called his wife,....drat, her name always slips my mind." She waved a hand in the air. "I passed on our condolences."

"How did you get her telephone number?"

"In the telephone directory. How else? She said he was sick for a long time. Something about a little heart, disproportioned and on the wrong side, or something or other. The doctor said he was lucky to have lived as long as he did."

Wilson bit the inside of his cheek. "So, he didn't die from substance abuse."

She pruned her face. "Elvis didn't do drugs." It took her a minute, but her upstairs light came on, slowly, like those compact fluorescent bulbs. She threw back her head and laughed. "Not Elvis Presley, you ninny. Elvis Lowe," she said, referring to one of their neighbors in Bracebridge.

They drifted into a comfortable silence. Wilson tuned in the radio to a classical music station.

Thirty minutes later, they traveled down Yonge Street. The massive structure of the Trade Center Condominium never failed to impress her. "What a spectacular view of the city and the lake the roof top club must have." She pointed at the building.

"What are you saying?" he asked, jerking his head to face her.

"Keep your eyes on the road!" She smiled at the look of fright that crossed his face. Their move to Hampstead from Bracebridge hadn't gone well, in fact, nothing had gone right. Wilson solemnly believed she was the cause of the 'one fiasco after the other', as he liked to put it. "Relax, I don't want to move back to Bracebridge. I love it at the senior complex." She smiled when he released the breath he held.

She buckled the straps on her sandals and grabbed her purse by the handle when Wilson drove into a metered parking lot.

He pulled into the first available space and shut off the ignition. "Synchronize," he said, pocketing the car keys and lifting the cuff of his French shirt to reveal his watch. "Ten-o-four."

She adjusted her watch. "Ten-o-four."

"I'll meet you in front of L'Escargot Bistro at one o'clock. Don't be late. We have reservations."

"Aye, aye."

Hand in hand, they strode toward Market Square.

Inside the lobby, Wilson kissed her cheek. "Try not to get into any trouble, lamb chop."

The words rushed from her mouth. "It wasn't my fault the last time. I didn't know the scarf had caught on the bottom of my purse. It was all a big misunderstanding. Shoplifting, yeah right!"

"Uh-huh, but you didn't need to sock the police officer."

"I told you. I thought he was trying to steal my purse. I didn't know he was a cop. He should have been wearing a uniform."

He gave her a look that said she should have known better, but Calliope wouldn't give up, not when she knew she was right. "He should have identified himself."

"Be good," he said, issuing one last warning.

"I will. Promise." She crossed her heart and watched him walk away. When he was out of sight, she turned and exited the building.

This was it. She was on her own. Free to score some dope.

Some teenagers outside the movie theatre in Hampstead had said that. She liked the hip sound of it.

Those kids had also used the 'f' word freely. In all of her years, she had never said the word, never felt the need. A well-placed haughty remark stung more than any four-letter word. It was all in the timing, presentation and delivery. The Third could affirm the veracity of that fact, she was sure.

On the street, she hailed a cab. In record time, a City Taxi stopped.

"Chinatown on Spadina," she said, hopping into the back seat.

He looked in the rear view mirror at her. "Chinatown?"

Such a nice young man to worry about her. "Yes, I'm sure, sonny. I've been there before by myself." She returned his gaze in the mirror, smiling coyly.

"Any place specific in Chinatown?"

"No, just drop me off anywhere on Spadina."

On the drive, Calliope thought back over the years. She'd been very fortunate, certainly more than most and definitely more than her best friend. Grace didn't deserve the life she'd been dealt, and Calliope would do anything within her power to make her BFF happy. The only way she could see to do that was to make The Third easier for her dear friend to live with. She hated resorting to illegal drugs, but she couldn't very well get a prescription for chill-out pills for The Third from his doctor, could she? Nor could she from her doctor. He'd suspect she was up to something and ask her a bunch of questions.

The cab stopped, and she handed the driver a twenty. "Keep it." She smiled and waved to the nice taxi driver as he drove away.

Caught up in the energy of Chinatown, she quickly mingled with the hordes of shoppers and tourists examining the wares of merchants and absorbing the ambience of distant cultures.

The sidewalk narrowed in front of makeshift stands of fruits and vegetables labeled with Chinese characters. Lychees and rambutons hung in bunches from awnings shading the store windows. She held her breath against the putrid odor of a sliced durian. A neon sign flashed Herbalist and Acupuncturist. Farther on, a young woman dressed in silky lounging pants and a Mao-style blouse smoked a brown cigarette behind a table of scarves, handkerchiefs and vibrantly colored costume jewelry.

Calliope stopped and fingered a necklace. "Very nice," she said, getting the young woman's attention.

"You like?" she asked.

"Yes, very much." Calliope smiled.

"You buy?"

"How much?"

"For you, ten dollars. Real pearls. Real bargain."

If they were real pearls, it would be a real bargain. Calliope dug in her purse and handed the girl a ten. She shoved the necklace in her purse. "Do you know where I can buy some drugs around here?"

The girl pointed to her left.

Calliope looked over at a display of ginseng, dried mushrooms, ground seashells and dried sea horses in front of a medicine shop. "No, not that kind. Catch my drift?" She raised her eyebrows and jutted her chin to the side.

"Oh ... oh drugs, eh?"

Calliope nodded.

The girl shook her head. "No ... no know."

Sprinkles of rain dampened Calliope's euphoria. Gosh dang. It had to rain, didn't it? With not quite so much spring to her step, she moved on to the next makeshift table, stared into the face of an Asian outfitted in monk's attire. Her spirits sagged even more. Maybe Abbott didn't know anything about where to score dope. Maybe he'd humored his old mother. When she got back to Hampstead, she'd set him straight on the subject in a hurry. She didn't just get off the turnip truck today.

She ambled down the street, feeling more and more useless and heartbroken with each of her steps. The scent of fried onions and mushrooms wafting toward her reminded her of Wilson's lunch reservation. She checked her watch. If she were going to get lucky, it would have to be soon. She looked at the barbecued pig hanging in the window of Linn Chau's Restaurant.

"You eat. Yes?"

The voice startled her. She looked at the old Chinese man sitting on a red plastic crate, smiling a toothless grin. "I ... I was just admiring."

"You look for something?"

Peripherally, she peered at him, wondering if he could direct her to a dope pusher. Why not give him a shot? Time was running out, and she doubted she could convince Wilson to come back to Bracebridge any time soon. She decided on the direct approach. "Dope. Got any for sale?"

Like every second customer posed this question to him, he pointed down the street. "In alley. You see. You see."

Awright! Ecstatic, Calliope yanked her knee-highs to mid-thigh, raised her bent leg in the air and shouted, "Woohoo". She set off in the direction of the seller's outstretched finger, not sparing the horses.

##### Chapter Seven

Calliope closed her nose to the smells of urine and rotting garbage greeting her when she entered the narrow alley. Her arms swung freely at her sides as she marched toward the man huddled in a corner sleeping between a dumpster and water-stained cardboard boxes.

As she neared him, she found he didn't look like someone who sold drugs, but what did she know about such things? Nothing. Probably another wild goose chase, she surmised. Her spirits had been raised for nothing. This seemed always the way. She got her hopes up, then reality pounced.

Gosh dang.

At this rate, she would never fulfill her promise to herself to make Grace's life easy to live.

She kicked empty tins of beans and soup aside until she stood a foot from the supposed drug pusher. When he didn't acknowledge her presence, she bent at the waist, lowering herself until she came inches from his face. "Hey, sonny. You alive?" The stench emanating from him turned her stomach. She pinched her nostrils. This was for a good cause, she reminded herself.

The drug pusher still hadn't moved.

"Yoohoo, bud," she said and fanned her hand in front of his face. "Gone to sleep with the devil, have ya?" Wouldn't you know it!

She straightened, cursing her frackin' rotten luck.

Didn't it beat all?

One possible lead for drugs, and he turned out dead.

Bugger.

To know for sure, she gave him a solid kick in the shin. The hoodlum didn't move. If he were here and not in the hereafter, the blow should have awakened him, shouldn't it?

While she pondered the question, she realized how good lashing out had made her feel, so good in fact she decided to vent some more. She pulled her leg back and ―

"Let that leg go, lady, and I swear you'll be in traction before the end of the day."

Calliope promptly stopped the swing. She lost her balance and grabbed the corner of the dumpster for support. "Give an old lady a heart attack, why don't you!" she said after regaining her composure. "You looked dead. I was just making sure you hadn't gone to parlay with the devil."

"Well, as you can see, I haven't. What do you want?"

She backed away from the foul smell of him, and took a good, long gander at his emaciated frame. He looked more like a homeless person than a drug dealer. This was not how she envisioned the score going down. The man could have at least stood to serve her. A well-mannered drug dealer would have.

Then, as though he read her thoughts, he put a bony liver-spotted hand on the wet asphalt, paying no mind to the bird droppings under his fingers, and pushed to his feet with more creaks than century old flooring.

Kids today didn't get enough exercise.

She took a few more steps back, then a couple more when she could still smell him.

"Well?" he asked, hitching his jeans onto his waist.

"Well what?" With the dramatic jerk of her head, her new tortoiseshell sunglasses fell down her nose. She looked at him over the rims.

"What do you want?"

Good question. His horrible odor had given her memory loss. She pruned her lips, thinking. A second later, the reason came to her. She wasted no time telling him. "I was told someone would sell me drugs in this alley." She gave him another once over and cocked a brow. "Obviously, I was misled." Feeling disillusioned and heartbroken her plan had gone south, she turned and trotted toward the entrance, the flounce of her silk dress swinging against her legs.

"Not so fast, little lady. Maybe I can help you."

"I don't think so," she said over her shoulder without a break in step.

"You said you wanted drugs?"

That earned her full attention. She stopped, turned and looked him in his blood-shot eyes. "That I did, laddie." Oh, land of the free. She watched him pull plastic bag after plastic bag, like the ones holding a spare button on items of clothing, from the pockets of his jeans.

"What are you looking for?" he asked. "Uppers, downers?"

The question brought dentures to her mind. She was fortunate to need neither. "They're not for me. They're for a bastard of a man...." She waved her hand in the air in a dismissive gesture, thinking she probably told him more than he wanted to hear.

He held several bags in the air. "Heavenly Blue? Black Beauties? Bennies? 357 Magnums?"

She shook her head so rapidly her straw hat dipped to one side. Straightening the bonnet, she said, "I don't know." When he huffed a breath, apparently upset with little old ladies not knowing their minds, she lost her cool. "Don't give me attitude, young man. That's not very nice." Calliope was happy she spoke her piece when the drug pusher had the good sense to hang his head.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said.

He appeared contrite and because of that she accepted his apology.

"What did you intend the drugs for? Ice cream habit?"

She formed her lips in an 'o'.

"You know about morphine and Valium, don't you, ma'am?"

"Of course I do, boy-o. I didn't just get off the turnip truck." She jutted her chin as Calliope always did when someone mistook old age for senility. "I've been around the block a couple of times."

"I'm sure you have."

She took offense with the way he said it, like he humored her, or on second thought, like he thought she sold her body like those hussies on Water Street. Well! Of all the nerve. She could tell him a thing or two, but couldn't take the time. Maybe they would meet again, and when they did, she would be sure to advise him of her Irish lineage.

"Morphine," she said breathlessly. "I'll take morphine." She had so many choices and so little knowledge. Gosh dang. She should have done some research.

"Good choice."

Calliope beamed.

He handed her a small plastic bag holding several pills in a pretty cream color.

She dug her pocket book from her straw purse, plucked a five-dollar bill from the zippered pouch and handed it to him. The next thing she knew a metal bracelet encircled her bony wrist.

Oh good Lord.

Wilson would be pissed.

And the word that Calliope had yet to say in all of her eighty years spilled from her lips, "Oh fuck."

* * * *

Noah looked up from the stack of paperwork he was determined to sort through before quitting time when Shephard leaned into his face. He scowled at him for breaking his concentration.

"What?" he asked.

"Don't look now, but isn't that the old doll who gave you the shiner last year?"

A shiver went through Noah at the ego-bruising reminder. He peeked over Shephard's shoulder, past the pool of desks to the main entrance beyond the duty counter. He recognized her immediately, ducked for cover behind his partner's back, experienced a moment of embarrassment because he did, overcame the emotion and straightened.

She seemed smaller than Noah recalled, but she still had a mouth on her, that he remembered vividly.

He looked around the squad room and caught glimpses of the expressions on the faces of officers who had the misfortune of coming between Calliope Fenwick and freedom.

Snickers and muffled laughter came from those like him hiding behind a newspaper or the backs of colleagues. Some wrote furiously on note pads while others plucked away on antiquated typewriters and a few made a major deal of taking a sip of coffee with their eyes glued to their desk blotters.

Noah watched as Calliope gripped a rookie by the handcuffs attached to his belt, bringing the young lad to an almost top-heavy stop as he attempted to walk by her. "Not so fast, sonny."

The uniform turned and looked at her. "What is it, ma'am?"

He had to give the kid credit for standing his ground.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Calliope said, clucking her tongue and wagging her finger in his face. "Does your mama know you go out in public dressed like that?" She grabbed his tie and rammed the knot against the buttoned collar. She slapped his chest and sent him on his way.

Calliope looked around the room.

Other than suspects cuffed to desks, everyone who wasn't seated scattered in different directions.

"Yoohoo, boy-o," she said, raising to her toes and pointing an orange lacquered fingernail at the captain who hastily made his way to his office.

Captain MacGregor turned and mouthed, 'Me?'.

"Yes, you, laddie. I'd like a cup of tea. Earl Grey and lemon. Thank you."

Noah hid his smile behind his hand and followed Calliope's hazel eyes as her gaze traveled around the room, roving and stopping when something or someone caught her interest, smiling and making comments like she conducted an interview.

He watched her prance off to look at a photo on Detective Miller's desk.

"Looks like she got herself into trouble again," Shephard said, pointing to the handcuffs around her wrist. "I wonder what the charge is this time." He looked over his shoulder at Noah.

"Yeah, and I wonder who had the poor sense to arrest her. The cop is going to look like a schmuck when Abbott gets finished with him." When Noah was in that cop's shoes, his first instinct was to let the old broad off. He should have listened to his inner voice, the voice of reason, the sensible voice. It would have saved him tons of trouble and embarrassment.

But from the experience came something good ― his friendship with Calliope Fenwick's son.

A person never knew when a lawyer would come in handy.

His daddy had always said there were three friends a man must always have ― a lawyer, a doctor and Johnnie Walker. Unfortunately, he took the latter too seriously and, had a car accident not taken his life, his good pal would have eventually killed him.

Shephard turned and faced Noah. "Who would think a little old lady could pack such a wallop, huh?" he asked, smiling and clearly enjoying Noah's discomfort.

Too late for Noah to react, Calliope's eyes locked onto him like a heat-seeking missile.

"Mr. Madill," she sang. "Yoohoo, Mr. Madill."

With the abandon of the conquered, Noah groaned.
Chapter Eight

The news of Calliope's incarceration spread through Villa Maria-Sedona like a brush fire.

She was the evening's main attraction and enjoyed center stage tremendously. She took bows and lapped up every second of the attention, making sure, as well, that Wilson joined in on the fun and received his fair share of the recognition for riding in and coming to her rescue with her beloved son, the lawyer, in tow.

Her one phone call had been to L'Escargot Bistro ― the young officer who arrested her was kind enough to look up the telephone number in the directory ― where the manager was kind enough to fetch Wilson off the street where he awaited her for their luncheon date. Her second phone call, which she knew was not proper police procedure but since she had smiled nicely when she asked, the police had accommodated her, was to the administrator of the villa wherein Calliope advised him of her precarious situation and her anticipated arrival back at the villa.

Following an announcement over the PA system that Calliope would receive questions in the gathering room, she had changed into a leopard print dress and pushed her hair back off her face with a matching wide headband. The plastic multi-colored bracelets jangled on her wrist with every hand movement.

Not even Dottie whizzing around the gathering room in her motorized chair, singing, "Whee, whee!" could compete with Calliope's notoriety.

She posed for pictures in front of the floor to ceiling window that overlooked Orchard Lake and answered questions from her fellow golden-agers. Her friends were eager to hear about her adventure, speaking all at once.

"One question at a time, please," Calliope said.

"Were you fearful for your life, Calliope?" Madge asked from the back of the crowd.

"Of course. I was in a very dangerous part of Chinatown among all sorts of dangerous people and shady characters. Any one of them could have taken my life at any moment, and I would have been defenseless against them."

"Why were you there in the first place?" Bitsy asked from the front row. "Did you get lost?"

Honestly, the woman should have been named 'Ditzy'. Didn't she remember that Calliope went to Chinatown to score drugs, as was sanctioned by The Saving Grace Brigade, of which Bitsy was a member and who was present when Calliope presented the plan? Calliope, however, let on like nothing was amiss.

"Moi? Lost? I think not, dearie. I was there doing a favor for a friend." She scanned the crowd, making a point of looking at everyone and everything. No one outside of the Brigade but especially The Third, could know exactly what her business had been in Chinatown.

"What was this favor?" Bitsy asked.

God love a duck but the woman was a peck short of a bushel! "Rambutons. They have the best anywhere." Calliope had no choice but to give Bitsy her evil eye and hoped it was the last of her questions.

"Who were the rambutons for?" Bitsy asked.

Calliope ignored her and stood on the toes of her sandals to reach out to Olive in the middle of the crowd. "Yes, Olive."

"Was it scary in jail?"

"I've been in lock-up before, so I pretty much knew what to expect." The golden-agers needn't know she wasn't actually put in a jail cell or that she swapped recipes with those nice police officers while waiting for the paperwork to get processed.

She remembered Wilson standing beside her and included him into the conversation. "Of course, if it were not for my dear hubby," she linked her arm in his, "I'd probably be spending the night in the crow bar hotel!" She planted a kiss on his cheek and smiled when he said as he kicked an invisible stone, "Aw, shucks, Calliope, t'weren't nothing."

Wilson had been a little pissed at her for almost landing in jail again, but she was able to explain the big misunderstanding once she put the unfortunate happening in perspective for him. Wilson understood, as she knew he would.

Not too much got by Calliope, and there wasn't much she couldn't talk her way out of. What irritated her the most was that she, more often than not, got caught doing something she shouldn't.

Now that...that she had a hard time coming to terms with. After all, her escapades were for good, deserving causes. It didn't seem fair she should pay any price for her well-intentioned actions.

Calliope tired. The day had been long and arduous, and she needed to get off her feet. She panned the crowd. "Just one more question, please. Wilson and I need a little alone-time." She exaggerated a wink. "If you get my drift." She reached around him and pinched his firm buttocks.

Chapter Nine

The time was late ― ten thirty ― too late for a visit, but it wasn't the reason Noah drove the distance from Bracebridge to Hampstead. He hoped to catch a glimpse of Dallas in a window.

He coasted to a stop across from her garden house, turned off the ignition and stared at the structure she now called home.

Every window was brightly lit.

He knew the dark didn't spook her, or that she needed to sleep with the lights burning, so he surmised she must still be awake.

Since her sister's death, Dallas had become a different person. He knew how death could affect those loved ones left behind. After the tragic death of his parents, he almost retreated within himself. If it hadn't been for Dallas, he would have. Dallas, however, handled Katie's death by not grieving. He saw the mistake she was making and tried to tell her. Instead of listening, she turned a deaf ear to his pleas to seek professional help if she wouldn't talk to him.

At the moment, Noah found himself in a similar situation. He knew he should talk to someone, but refused to. If he did, he would be admitting his marriage was over.

Dallas had wanted nothing from him when they separated. Her one demand was a divorce and on her pleading, he initiated the action. He had to coax a check on her for half of the fair market value of their marital home by telling her the settlement wouldn't put him short, something she already knew. She wasn't needy or a woman who couldn't live without a man. He chuckled at the word choice. Could she live without a woman was the unanswered question now.

Was this a phase? he wondered.

Had Dallas been bored with her life and tried something different, something adventurous?

He didn't want to believe Dallas had been a lesbian in denial all these years. Nor could he believe she faked it with him. No one could be that good an actor. He wanted to cry, to purge himself, to let go and admit she was lost to him forever and to see her as she was, for what she had become. The tears never came. Mainly, he supposed, because he refused to accept Dallas's newfound sexuality.

He wished they had children. They hadn't planned it that way. It just never happened.

Dallas might have thought differently about her choices and decisions if there had been children to consider.

He'd always wanted children. She had, too. Maybe that was a reason she ended up in the arms of another woman. Who was he kidding? He was just making excuses for his failure. The simple truth was that he didn't please her in bed.

Accept it.

Accept your responsibility, Noah.

With a grimace, he glanced upward through the windshield. Clouds filled the darkened sky. Feeling gloomier, he turned his attention to the street. The occasional light in a bedroom window in the other houses and the old-fashioned lamplights every two hundred feet were the only illumination on the moonless and starless night.

He hadn't intended on visiting her when he pulled into the small subdivision of garden homes. Just a peek'n-peep, he'd told himself. He should have known he wouldn't be able to resist talking to her.

Without the virtually never-ending forethought or analysis he usually applied to a decision, he pulled back the handle and pushed open the door. Sultry air scented with freshly cut grass greeted him. He inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly.

This is not a good idea, Noah. Not if you want Dallas back in your arms. You do want that, don't you?

Of course I do.

Listen to the voice of reason, then.

I will. After.

It may be too late then.

It may be too late if I don't do something now.

He walked a few more steps and halted. She wouldn't take the visit well. He prepared himself for her negative comments. They would hurt, but if seeing him would make her realize how much she loved him, then he would gladly take whatever abuse she handed out.

It made him sound weak. Where Dallas was concerned, he supposed he was. And if that made him a lesser man, then he was.

So there.

Out of habit his hand fell on his hip holster and rested there as he sprinted up her front walk. It occurred to him as he stood on the wooden stoop in front of her red-painted door, Dallas could be entertaining her woman friend. Hell.

Walking in on that scene once was enough for him. He didn't consider himself a bigot ― to each his own had always been his motto ― but seeing the woman he loved, the woman he had spent the last fifteen years with, the woman he vowed to love and cherish for the remainder of his days, in the arms of another woman had hurt. No, that was not entirely accurate. In truth, the sight had shot through his heart like a ten millimeter bullet.

Was he strong enough to witness it again?

Would he react with anger this time?

This was different. This was her home. She was free to do what she wanted without repercussions and without answering to anyone.

With that straightened out, he relaxed, rang the bell and waited.

Though Dallas was not a person who could be talked into anything not of her own choosing, he had argued with her that she didn't know what she was doing. The other woman had seduced her, influenced her, goaded her into the act, he said. He had given her every chance to admit her mistake and back out gracefully from the divorce, and she wouldn't take it.

He wanted to be right.

He couldn't be wrong.

He would never love another woman like he loved Dallas. Without her, his life was meaningless and he, an empty shell.

Noah suddenly became nervous about facing her. Would she invite him in, and if she did, what would he say? Work was a safe subject, and he just happened to have two interesting and unsolved murders. Before he talked shop, he'd need a preamble. He couldn't say he happened to be in the neighborhood since his neighborhood was forty-five minutes away. Dallas would see clear through any of the usual excuses an ex used to orchestrate contact. Now, with Dallas living in Hampstead, he couldn't run into her as often as he had, making those accidental meetings appear authentic.

Suddenly, his tongue swelled to double its thickness; at least, it's what his brain told him.

He peered through the peephole. Where was she? She should have answered the door by now.

Another minute passed.

What was taking her?

He rang the bell again and heard melodic chimes ring through the house.

The door opened and Dallas, wearing blue spandex shorts and a white mid-riff top, stood in the doorway. Her blond hair was fashionably tousled and perspiration pocked her forehead, her cheeks flushed.

"Were you working out?" He mentally chastised himself for the word choice. Then as though on cue, a vision of Dallas in the arms of a woman flashed in his mind. He wondered if the memory would fade over time, which prompted him to question whether he could forgive her anything, as he believed he could.

"What are you doing here, Noah?"

Nothing would have prepared him for her angry attitude. Was it with him, or with the turn her life had taken? He hoped for the latter and smiled.

"I wanted to see you, see for myself you're all right." He studied her from top to bottom. She looked fine...more than fine. He never wanted anything like he wanted Dallas at that moment. Keep it cool, Noah. Don't bugger this up.

"Well, you have and now you can go."

When she grabbed the door to close it, he stepped inside. He pretended not to hear the breath she huffed.

"Why are you doing this, Noah? Haven't you said everything already? Nothing you say now will make me change my mind. We're over."

His inner voice had told him that, too. He wouldn't believe it, and he wouldn't believe Dallas.

The woman standing before him, with her pink toenails and navel ring, appeared a stranger to him. They had shared so much, had the same interests, had the same likes and dislikes, the same habits, and breathed the same air. It occurred to him he didn't know her at all. Maybe he never had.

"I hoped we could still be friends," he said around a catch in his throat.

"It's better if we aren't."

"Why?" Though he tried to remain calm, an edge had slipped into his voice.

"It just is."

He felt as though he swam against rapids. After taking a desperately needed breath, he said, "I didn't come here to fight." The opposite, in fact. On the drive here he had visions of Dallas throwing herself into his arms, kissing his neck, his chin, his nose, his lips and telling him how much she loved him and what a fool she had been, what a mistake she had made.

He closed his eyes tightly and if he listened closely he could hear her voice in his head.

Will you take me back, Noah?

Is it too late for us?

Will you ever be able to forgive me?

If he truly believed that would happen, at best, he was an optimist. At worst, a halfwit.

His friends had told him he was a fool. Let her go, they said. You're better off without the bitch, they advised. He couldn't believe them. He wouldn't. His life meant nothing without Dallas.

He caught a glimpse of hell these past few weeks, and though it might be an eternal state for him if he stayed with his current thinking, he couldn't give up on her. Not yet, anyway; maybe not never.

"You haven't cashed my check," he said. "It'll be stale-dated in a day or two. I can write you another, if you think you won't be able to get into the bank before then."

"I told you before, Noah, I don't want your money." She raked her fingers through her hair and looked him directly in the face. "I don't want anything from you."

From the tone of her voice and the coldness in her eyes, it seemed she found him guilty of something, something she couldn't get past, something she would never be able to forgive, which didn't make sense. He was the aggrieved, the innocent party.

He reflected on the facts, then looked at the situation from another direction and arrived at another conclusion, something which hadn't occurred to him before. Maybe she held him accountable for her lesbianism. But, like he'd told Shephard, it didn't work that way. Women, or men, don't change their sexuality overnight, as happened to Dallas, or turn gay because of someone.

Satisfied with his thoughts, he asked, "Can't we talk?" When she crossed her arms against her chest and planted her feet firmly on the hardwood floor, he decided the time was now or never. "We used to talk about everything. Remember? There was nothing you couldn't tell me. Please, Dallas, open up to me like you did before, tell me what you're feeling. Help me understand what happened. We can work this out. I know we can." He thought about something else they could do. "We can go to counseling." When she gave him a look that would freeze marble, he thought quickly. "I can go to counseling. It isn't too late for us."

She shook her head. "Please go."

When, after a moment, he made no attempt to leave, she shouted, "Go."

The door hit him on his way out.

Feeling drained and at a complete loss, Noah opened the truck door and climbed in behind the wheel.

He dug his keys from the pocket of his jeans and started the engine. The motor purred to life. He laid his head back against the headrest and listened to the quiet of the night.

His tears flowed freely.

Chapter Ten

"Oh Hell." Dallas threw the dead bolt and rested her head against the cool surface of the door. Reeling from Noah's visit, she closed her eyes and delved inside herself for strength.

"That didn't go well," a voice said at her back.

Without turning, Dallas asked, "How did you get in?"

"The back door was unlocked. I saw Noah standing on the stoop when I got off the bus so I walked by then double-backed and waited until he left. I didn't think you'd want him to see me."

"Good thinking. He's been hurt enough." Dallas turned and looked at Allison. She wore a long-sleeved blue denim shirt and tight-fitting jeans with the knees blown out. Her long, straight black hair, that she normally left free, had been sheared to an inch from her scalp.

"You like?" she asked, patting the tips of her spiked hair.

"It's very military-ish," Dallas said, forcing a smile. Allison had debuted the day she graduated high school. After suffering through the astonishment of her parents and their subsequent bitter disappointment of probably depriving them of the grandchildren they eagerly awaited, she continued to fight discrimination every day of her life for her sexuality.

"Great. It's the look I wanted."

Dallas pushed off the door. "Let's get comfy," she said, leading the way to the living room. "Noah is never going to give up on me." She offered Allison a seat on the sofa.

Allison nodded. "I'm spreading the word around campus about our love affair like you said. Hopefully, he'll take the bait and make his move."

Dallas watched as Allison bit the inside of her lip and gathered from the gesture that her partner in this plan experienced second thoughts about what they were doing. "Want to tell me what's bothering you?"

She sighed and stared down at the carpet. "Someone killed Katie because of prejudiced thinking, and now you're setting yourself up as cheese for the rat. You could end up in Meadow Rose beside your sister."

"True, but I'm a trained professional. Katie was not." Dallas waved off Allison's fears. "Just so you know, if Noah doesn't back off, things might get complicated."

"You can always back out, or you can still tell Noah what you're doing."

"Katie's killer has to be brought to justice." Dallas shook her head, envisioning Noah's face, his shock, disbelief and hurt at finding her in Allison's arms. "And telling Noah is not an option for me." Noah would not let her deliberately endanger her life for anyone, even for a noble cause. But Dallas had to be truthful with herself. The reason she was doing this was to ease her guilty conscience. She should have protected Katie, should have been able to save her. "I have to continue. I've come this far, and what I've already sacrificed would be for nothing if I give up now."

"Your sister would understand," Allison said.

Unbidden tears blurred her vision. She pulled in her bottom lip, fought her emotions and nodded. "She told me someone was stalking her, and I didn't listen. I failed her." Unable to hold back any longer, Dallas gave in and let remorse consume her, an indulgence she had refused until now.

Allison slid across the sofa and held her while she cried.

Moments later, embarrassed by her outburst, Dallas shrugged off the self-pity. "Let's have a look at those files."

"Did you have a hard time getting them?"

"I'm a member of the Hampstead PD now." Dallas stopped and thought about what she said. "It still sounds strange to me. I never imagined leaving Bracebridge, let alone my job there." Allison touched her hand, lightly as though to reassure.

"Did you make contact with Lily?"

Dallas experienced a moment of guilt for the lie she'd told. Why couldn't she tell Lily the reason for her divorce as everyone knew it? Shame, she supposed. She considered herself unbiased, but she wasn't, not really. If she were, she would have told Lily she was a lesbian. Another lie, true, but, as circumstances presently stood, the better population of Bracebridge thought her gay.

Unable to look Allison in the eyes, she nodded and became engrossed in unloading the files from her oversized handbag. "Lily and I hit it off pretty good, and we're on our way to becoming best friends. I'm hoping she'll feel sorry for me and invite me to dinner at her house. I'm anxious to see Abbott's reaction when I ask him why his name was Katie's last words. If he had anything to do with her death, I'll be able to see it in his face." She thought about Lily and wondered if she were involved somehow in whatever scheme her husband had going if, indeed, he had something going. Then, in answer to her unspoken question, she blurted, "She's really a warm, loving person. Not at all like her mother."

"You met her mother?"

"Oh, yeah, and I wish I could have been spared. She looked down her nose at me the whole time she drilled me about my pedigree."

Allison guffawed.

"It's not funny." When Dallas pictured Alexandra O'Keefe-O'Ree standing on the sidewalk dressed in thousands of dollars worth of designer clothing, interrogating her, a cop, she laughed, too. "Okay, it was a little funny. I have a new appreciation for Lily having survived a mother like her. She turned out well adjusted and normal. Go figure. Oh, by the way, Mom wants you to come for a visit. She misses you." Strange, she thought, that Alexandra brought her own mother to mind. They were not at all alike.

Allison acknowledged the invitation with a nod. "Did you come up with any reason why Katie's last words were Lily's husband's name?"

"He practices civil litigation, but Katie wasn't involved in any lawsuit, so that puts the kibosh on the idea." Dallas stood and paced the length of the living room. "If victims know their attacker, they usually try to identify them in some way. Katie saying Abbott Fenwick's name on her dying breath might indicate he was her murderer, but Noah is adamant Abbott is not who we're looking for. So that leaves us with one other plausible choice. Katie was trying to tell me something. What that is, I still haven't a clue."

"It's just one more piece to the puzzle." Allison cleared off the coffee table and laid out the detective's notes on all four women.

Dallas watched her take Katie's photo in her hand.

With a delicate touch, she trailed a finger over Katie's face. "She was really beautiful, wasn't she?"

Tears clouded Dallas's vision. The back of her throat filled with saliva. Unable to trust her voice, she nodded.

Without removing her eyes from Katie's photo, Allison said, "I miss her so much. She's gone, yet I see her everywhere. I threw out her Cocoa Puffs the other day. " She shrugged. "Eight months. I figured it was time."

Dallas didn't say anything, didn't know what to say.

Allison shook her head and dried her eyes. "Enough of that. What suspects do the police have?"

"They seem to be focusing their attention on her classmates."

"I'm one of her classmates. Am I one of the focused?"

Dallas decided to take the upfront approach. "Yes."

"How serious about me are they?"

"Serious. From the force of the blows, the police leaned toward male perpetrators, but given your muscular physique and lengthy frame, you fit the profile. And where you don't have an alibi for that night.... The police always look at spouses and lovers before anyone else."

"Do you consider me a serious person of interest?"

"I wouldn't be discussing the case with you, if I thought so."

"Good. Because I'm not." Allison stared directly at her.

Dallas caught a glimpse of vulnerability in her eyes. Nothing irritated the innocent like an intimation of guilt. If she had any doubt about Allison's innocence in her sister's death, it vanished. "I know."

"Good."

"Since we have that settled, let's work on finding my sister's killer." Dallas sat on the end of the sofa and picked up the detective's notes on the first of the four victims, Doadie Roberts. "A.J. Lance, Junior is in all of the four girl's Psyche classes. He looked real good to the cops for awhile, but they couldn't break his alibi, so they cleared him. We won't disregard him."

Dallas moved to the next sheet. "The second POI," she said, then explained for Allison's benefit, "person of interest, is Kirk Jacobs."

"Any relation to Hampstead's esteemed mayor?"

"Son."

"That'll put a political crimp in their investigation."

Dallas speed-read the notes. "Not according to this. Detective Winberry went after Jacobs like a pit bull on a T-Bone and got nothing. Zip. Nada. If he had anything to do with the murders, he covered his tracks extremely well."

"What about police corruption? Payola. The mayor's a formidable presence, has aspirations for the PM's residence, I hear."

"Winberry thought of that. So clean, he squeaked is how he referred to His Lordship."

"No skeletons, huh. There's always skeletons."

Dallas pressed her bottom lip between her thumb and forefinger. "True. The next is Robert William Ferris."

"Billy Bob." Allison took his photo in her hand. "He came on to me at the start of my second semester."

"How did he take rejection?"

"Not well. Made a remark that I should be thankful someone was interested." Allison snorted. "Imagine."

"Too bad he doesn't fit the profile. The guy must weigh one-twenty fully clothed."

"Something must have gotten the police excited about him."

Dallas read Winberry's notes. "Very vocal, against gays. Other than that, nothing links him to the murders. On to POI number four, Bo Warren."

"He's a weenie. Major Geekville resident."

"Don't underestimate the meek or the mild. This one, though, the police say has no motive. He looked good to the police for a while. Didn't know what 'dyke' meant and Winberry described him as ingenuous."

"Where do we go from here?"

Dallas pointed to the investigation sheets. "For starters, talk to each of these guys."

"Why? You just excluded them."

Dallas smiled at the puzzled expression on Allison's face. "Winberry has. I haven't. And as much as Winberry appears to have done a superlative job, it would be foolhardy to come to his conclusion without conducting my own investigation." She stared at the mess of papers scattering the coffee table. "I'm still puzzled how Abbott Fenwick fits in. Maybe Katie was having a will made or something, and Fenwick was her lawyer."

Allison shook her head, vigorously. "That makes sense, although she would have told me. It doesn't track for me that Katie said his name as her dying words for any reason other than she was trying to tell us he was her killer."

Dallas recognized that Allison wanted Katie's last words to be her name. The knowledge had to hurt. She placed herself in the situation, and couldn't picture Noah saying anything but her name he loved her that much, even now. The thought threatened to bring her down a road she had no intention of traveling. She distracted herself by focusing on the reason she asked Allison here tonight. "Maybe you should move in. The maniac is still on the loose. You don't want to be his next victim."

When the telephone rang, Dallas said, "The machine'll get it."

Six rings later, her voice sounded from the answering machine. "I'm, you know where. Do, you know what. Beep."

"Hi, love. It's Noah. Just wanted to say goodnight. I love you."

* * * *

Noah flipped his cell closed, thinking Dallas was lost to him forever. Still, he couldn't... wouldn't give up on her.

He wanted to hate her and in the minutes the drive home took him he told himself he had the right.

His split-level home looked as lonely as he felt when he pulled into the driveway. Tonight, seeing the flourishing trees and shrubs gave him no contentment, and the house seemed more of a prison than a home. Growling, he hit the remote for the garage door and pulled into his lonely parking place.

Shephard was wrong.

I don't need to see a shrink.

Keep telling yourself that, Noah.

On his way out of the garage, he slammed his hand against the button to close the door. A second later, the metal panels rolled at a turtle's pace along the runners.

The lights inside the house burned dimly. Where he and Dallas worked shifts and their home was often unoccupied for long periods of time, they had installed timers on staggered settings on the lights in different rooms throughout the house to deter burglars.

He unlocked the back door and hung his keys on the rack on the wall above the steps leading into the kitchen.

God, he could use a beer. But that was another want he would not give in to. Some of his colleagues suffering through separations and divorces indulged themselves and became addicts to alcohol or pills after giving in to the temptation to ease their pain and hurt.

It wouldn't happen to him.

He wouldn't allow it.

Not because he was strong of character, but because he wanted to be clean and free of any vices when Dallas found her way back to him. And she would. He merely needed to be patient.

He ambled down the five steps to the rec room and checked the answering machine, scowling when no red blinking light tried to get his attention.

Distressed, he ran down the steps to the fourth level, flicked on the lights. His hand traced the side rail of the pool table while he stared at the red felt. Dallas had put up a good fight for the color. Running his hand over the fuzzy covering, he remembered the promises she'd made when he feigned preference for the green felt. He was in his right mind, then.

Now...

You need to see a shrink.

What would a shrink do for him he couldn't do for himself?

Nothing.

Just as pills and alcohol temporarily eased the pain, so would a psychiatrist.

His life would get easier with each passing day. He would never have again the rich and full life he had before, but the days would get easier to bear.

Not believing a word of the self-analysis, he strode to the bar and grabbed a beer from the fridge.

Just one.

One wouldn't do any harm.

He unscrewed the cap and took a long pull, enjoying the cold burn down his throat.

Noah forbade himself to fall prey to self-pity and regret. Instead, he looked to the positive side of things.

Dallas wasn't dead. He could still remind her how much they meant to each other.

He had his work.

He had his friends.

He had a beautiful house.

He had reliable transportation, no debt and money in the bank.

Yes, he had a lot to be thankful for, yet, he had nothing without Dallas.

Heaving a sigh, he set the beer in a side pocket on the pool table and walked to the desk, knowing he should keep busy, keep his mind occupied with something besides Dallas. He had a few reports to write.

Visions of the judge and lawyer's slain bodies flashed in his mind. He should run through his murder files. There must be something he missed on the first, second and third run through.

And when he solved these cases, there would be something else to occupy his mind and time.

He didn't need to see a shrink.

Chapter Eleven

Dallas heard a noise at the back door. She straightened and listened more closely.

"Did you hear that?" Allison asked, crooking her head toward the rear of the house.

Certain something or someone was at her door, Dallas pressed a finger against her lips and nodded. Quietly, she stood and on the tips of her toes walked to the end table and took her gun from the holster. She motioned for Allison to stay put.

In the back hallway, she snapped off the light and slowly made her way to the door. She peeked out, the outdoor light clearly illuminating the small patch of back yard.

After a careful surveillance, she shut off the light and stepped onto the small stoop, holding her gun in a shooter's stance.

"Show yourself," she shouted, her heart pounding.

Birds responded to her warning with ear-piercing chirps and flapping wings as they took flight across her field of vision toward her neighbor's bushy maple.

Soundlessly, she walked down the three steps and peered to her right in the direction of an outlandish cluster of flowering shrubs.

She sensed rather than heard someone at her back, but the time had come and gone for her to react.

Everything blackened. Her legs folded at the knees. As she fell onto the dew-slicked grass, she fought for consciousness, but the need to close her eyes and sleep was too powerful. She sunk to the ground in a disheveled heap of raggedy arms and legs.

"Dallas."

Dimly, she heard her name. She struggled against consciousness, not wanting to leave this dark, peaceful place where memories and emotions didn't exist. Feeling carefree and contented, she floated along, drifting, drifting, drift....

Something hard hit her cheek.

Her eyes sprung open, a cry on her lips. She stared into Noah's steel gray eyes.

"Oh thank God," he said and roughly gathered her in his arms and lifted her upper body to his chest. He hugged her so tight she could barely breathe.

She forced him back and scooched to a sitting position, noticing she lay on her sofa. "How did I get here?" She eyed him. "Why are you here?"

"Allison dragged you in from the back yard, then called me when you didn't waken." He held up two fingers in front of her face. "How many?"

"Twelve. I'm fine, Noah."

"You have a nasty bump on the back of your head. We should get you to the hospital for an x-ray."

She waved off his concern. "I'll be fine."

For the first time since she came to, she noticed Allison hovering nearby. "Thanks for bringing me inside. You didn't happen to see who bushwhacked me, did you?"

Allison shook her head. "But...."

Dallas was in no mood for theatrics. Her head ached, and her eyeballs seemed to jiggle with every movement, causing additional pain to her already sore head. "Just tell me," she said, closing her eyes.

"I told Noah everything."

"You what!" Dallas opened her eyes with a jerk and immediately regretted she did when her head throbbed.

"I'm sorry," Allison said, wringing her hands. "I thought you were dead; I thought he killed you, like he killed Katie. You may not be so lucky the next time. Katie wouldn't — "

"Enough." Dallas held a hand in the air, wondering how Allison could have given them up so easily. How could she? Things get a little hairy, and she folds at the first indication of adversity? Didn't she know this was all in the process of catching Katie's killer? She should. Dallas had coached her and told her often enough since they'd devised the plan and how it might play out. Hell. Everything she'd done, everything she'd lost, what she put Noah through, his hurt, his embarrassment and the pain he suffered had been for nothing. Damn. She looked at Allison who had the good sense not to say anything when Dallas moaned her disappointment with her.

She'd wanted to use herself as bait, better her than an unsuspecting defenseless woman like her sister.

"I forced her to tell me," Noah said. "Don't blame Allison. You know how persuasive I can be."

With much chagrin, she said, "If it was Katie's killer who attacked me and if he hung around, he knows this," she swept her hand around the living room, "was all an act to get him out in the open."

Noah took her hand. "We'll find a way to put what happened to good use, Dallas. I promise."

She nodded, feeling hopeful. Noah never made a promise he couldn't keep.

"We'll do it together." He squeezed her hand. "Together."

"Together," she said, realizing how utterly naïve she had been to think she could do this without help, without Noah's help. She remembered the reason why she did what she did and chilled. Noah would not have let her set herself up as bait. There were no two ways around it.

Noah turned to Allison. "Where do you live?"

"Downtown."

"How'd you get here?"

"By bus."

"I'll take you home." He kissed Dallas tenderly on the lips. "I'll be right back, then we'll talk." He raised his brows to punctuate his intent.

With nothing left to do but acquiesce, Dallas nodded again.

"Lock up after me. The back door is already bolted."

After Noah and Allison left, Dallas stood with painstaking care and gingerly walked to the door and did as Noah instructed.

With quietude keeping her company, Dallas's thoughts, a jumble of them, all came back to the same conclusion ― Katie's killer would never be brought to justice.

Not now.

The killer was smart, and what happened tonight would make him wiser, more clever and devious. He would probably go underground, maybe surfacing years from now when Katie's murder was all but forgotten by those who knew her and wanting justice was no longer crucial.

She stared blankly into space as tears streamed down her face.

Her sacrifices and Noah's suffering had been for nothing.

All for nothing. All for nothing. For nothing...For nothing...

Dallas heard Noah's truck pull into the drive. She looked out the window and watched him stretch from the vehicle. Everything about him had changed since he'd earlier stood on her doorstep.

Hope had broadened his shoulders.

Relief had straightened his spine.

Love had put a swagger in his gait.

She smiled.

Noah obviously assumed they would pick up where they'd left off before the divorce, before Katie's death.

He was right.

Just as he reached the front step, he veered to his left and cut a path around the side of the house.

What the hell?

Ignoring the pain the movement caused her head, she sprinted to the back door and looked out.

Noah had his gun drawn.

Fear for his life overcame her. Noah could look after himself, as he'd proved time and again, but so could she and look what had happened to her tonight. Cops backed up each other.

Without further thought, she opened the door and dashed to where he stood just as he bopped into the shrubbery. She held her breath, thinking that Noah had captured Katie's killer. Her sister could finally rest in peace. Amen.

Could it be so easy?

Like exhaust, clouds of dust burst into the still air from the bushes. The sound of branches snapping and twigs cracking and Noah cursing resounded in the silence of the night.

Seconds later, he sprang from the bushes holding a tortoise Holland Lop rabbit by its drooping ears. "I almost shot the hell out of some kid's pet," he said, looking at the animal with disgust.

Dallas covered her mouth with her hand and doubled over in laughter.

Noah took her by the waist and hauled her against him. "You shouldn't be out here. How's the noggin?"

Now that she thought about the knob on the back of her head, the pain intensified. "Tolerable."

"Let's get you in the house."

On the sofa, Noah held her against his chest.

He always knew what she needed.

They sat in silence.

He always knew when she wanted to talk.

As much as she enjoyed being back in Noah's arms again, there was something needed saying. Holding onto him like he would try to escape her embrace, she said, "I'm sorry." For all what she put him through these past several months, the words seemed inadequate.

"I know." He held on to her tighter.

"Can you ever forgive me?" She looked into his eyes.

He stood and pulled her to her feet.

Unsure what to expect, she lifted her face to his and prepared herself for the worst, but hoped for the only answer that would help her through the rest of her life.

"What do you think?"

His voice sounded husky, she noticed.

He bent and kissed her cheeks, her eyes and nose.

She held her breath and cupped his face in her hands and searched his eyes for any sign of regret, anger or hurt. Love, pure and untempered, looked back at her. A cry of relief came on her released breath.

"I don't deserve you, Noah." Tears welled, then spilled over onto her cheeks.

He answered her with a kiss.

At his urgent demand, she parted her lips and responded.

He tightened his hold and deepened the kiss. Every nerve in her body responded.

Noah was right. Action spoke. So attuned to her, he didn't need to hear her apology to know how sorry she was. When you love someone — really love someone, the kind of love that comes once in a lifetime, the kind of love they had for one another— apologies weren't needed.

Lips against lips, hipbones to hipbones, and in perfect synchrony with him, Dallas led Noah across the living room, parting only when they reached the stairs.

In the darkness of her bedroom, she stripped away her clothes, then moved to him. Her nimble fingers undid the buttons on his shirt. Her lips blazed a path of kisses down the center of his chest, conveying her feelings and intentions.

Each caress said 'I love you'.

Each kiss expressed how very, very sorry she was for hurting him.

With each embrace, she promised to love him for the rest of her life.

He lamented her name. Nothing ever affected her so deeply. The emotional pain that stabbed her heart was as crippling and painful as a knife. She opened her eyes and studied him as though searching for his lost soul. Oh, Noah. What did I do to you? How could I have hurt you so?

For the first time since she put her plan to catch her sister's killer into motion, she realized the depth of his pain and the extent of his suffering. Nothing could have prepared her for how that made her feel. Up until that moment, she believed she was undoing a terrible wrong.

I'll make it up to you, Noah. All of it. I solemnly promise.

On the bed atop the covers, she held him, fondled him and kissed him until he flipped her onto her back. She held her breath as he pushed aside strands of her hair sticking to her face and looked into her eyes.

He didn't need to tell her how much he loved her for her to know. She read it in his eyes and felt it in his touch.

This must be what Heaven was like, she thought.

He sank himself into her.

She learned the true meaning of bliss.

If she never did anything right for the rest of her life, Dallas did everything right when she fell in love and married Noah.

God had shone down on her at both those times.

She bid Him a thank-you.

Emotionally and sexually sated, Dallas nestled deeper into Noah's muscled arms. "Wow," she said.

"You can say that again."

"The sex was always fantastic but that was...." She dismissed one adjective after the other as they popped into her mind. No one word she thought of could accurately describe what they just shared.

"Unbelievable?"

"Yes!" She cleared her throat and turned serious. "Are we friends again, Noah?"

"That had never changed for me."

"Even when...."

"Even when." He brushed his fingertips up and down her arm.

Dallas considered herself an incredibly fortunate woman. "Will you marry me?"

He rested his chin on her head and tightened his hold on her. "If that's what you want, but we're still married."

She got up on an elbow and looked at him. "What do you mean?"

"It seems Abbott is one amazingly incompetent lawyer. He forgot to file the divorce papers."

From what Noah had told her about Abbott, she considered him efficient and competent at his job. She pondered that a moment, thinking how impressions could cloud judgment. It wasn't until Noah cocked a brow that she caught on. "At the behest of his client, I assume."

"You assume correctly." He stuck his tongue in his cheek.

She poked him in the ribs. Relief washed over her. The day she married Noah had been the happiest day of her life. Divorce, short lived or not, a hoax or not, would have cast a shadow on that and remarrying him would be tantamount to saying they would do it right this time.

"How is Abbott, by the way?" she asked.

"Fine. I saw him this afternoon at the station, as a matter of fact."

Since Abbott didn't practice criminal law and would have no business reason to enter a police station, it could only mean one thing. "His mother got herself in trouble again."

"Uh-huh."

"What did she do this time? Pinch someone's butt?"

"Something a little more serious. She bought drugs from an undercover."

Dallas lifted her head and stared at him. He had to be kidding.

He pursed his lips. "It's true." He related the strange story. "According to Calliope, this Frederick Q. Thornhill the Third is one," he made air quotes, "cantankerous bastard, who makes his wife's life a living hell. The two women are, quote, BFFs. Calliope wanted something to mellow him and figured it was worth the five dollars she paid for the barbiturates."

"Five dollars?" she asked, squinting.

"Yep, but she paid ten dollars for a strand of pearls which she thought were fake but weren't and which turned out to be stolen goods."

"How did Abbott talk her out of those charges? He did, right?"

"She wasn't formally charged."

"Because of your learned experience with her?" She loved ribbing him about the incident.

He jabbed her leg. "No, because she was willing to identify the individual who sold her the stolen goods, which later led to the take-down of a burglary ring."

"Did you speak to her?" When he didn't answer, she knew what happened. "You hid from her, but she found you out." She chuckled. Noah was one of those people horrific at subterfuge and given his line of work, the failing had proved a detriment.

"Did she have anything interesting to say?" She felt him tense and knew he would, like a good politician, talk around his answer.

"Not much that made sense."

Calliope was anything but senile, though, she put on a good act. She suspected Calliope had said something about Dallas and her sexuality, which was the reason Noah wouldn't say. "I had lunch with Abbott's wife today. She's really a nice person. Why didn't we ever hang out? You're friends with Abbott. I just wondered."

He shrugged. "I don't know. He gave me the cold shoulder after I asked him about his name being Katie's dying words."

She drew circles on his chest with her index finger. "Why was that?"

"It doesn't necessarily mean he's guilty of anything, if that's what you're going for."

"I know, but it draws suspicion."

"He could have been insulted I asked."

"True." Still, though, she wouldn't dismiss Abbott's possible culpability in her sister's murder.

"Tell me about your lunch with Lily."

That Noah referred to Abbott's wife by her name didn't surprise Dallas. Noah made it a point to remember names and to address a person by their name. Recollecting Juliette, Dallas smiled and told him about The Striped Zebra. "It's on Averdeen and run by this eccentric woman, one part gypsy, one part wizard of French Irish descent."

"After she seated us, she handed us menus and said she'd be back to take our orders. When she returned, she snatched the menus from our hands and pronounced she would have our lunches to us in ten point five minutes, which she did." Dallas frowned.

As though Noah could see her expression, he asked, "Why do you find it odd?"

"We didn't give her our orders."

"How did she know what you wanted?"

"I did say she was part gypsy and part wizard."

"Oh. She can read minds."

"No." She chuckled. "Not at all."

"I don't understand."

"She thinks she can. Apparently, she never lets a customer place an order and as far as Lily knows, she's never gotten one right."

"People go back to this restaurant?"

Dallas laughed. "Like a sporting event, apparently." She related every detail of their lunch, from what Lily and she spoke about to the electrified atmosphere in the restaurant. Her thoughts drifted to her sister. "Katie would have loved Juliette and The Striped Zebra."

"We'll find who killed her," he said.

She nodded and determined from the set of his words they would.

"Why did you want to become friends with Lily?"

"I was wrangling an invite to dinner." She lifted her head and looked at him. "Not that I don't trust your interrogation skills, but I wanted to see Abbott's reaction for myself when I asked him why Katie said his name on her dying breath. Maybe Lily doesn't know about it. Her reaction would be interesting, as well."

He raised his chin in the air and stared off to a corner of the bedroom. "You may be on to something."

Three hours before dawn, their energy depleted and while Noah took a power nap, Dallas slipped downstairs to the kitchen where she rustled together cheese and crackers, strawberries, chunked papaya ― Noah's favorite ― to nibble on and a chilled bottle of Chardonnay to wet their parched throats.

When she re-entered the bedroom, Noah was waking. She set the tray in the middle of the bed and made herself comfortable beside him.

"I heard The Crucifix Killer struck again," Dallas said and bit into a plump, ripe strawberry.

Noah told her what evidence they had, which amounted to nada. "It looks like it's two for two. Like the judge, the scene was as sterile as an operating room."

"The killer'll slip up. They always do."

"I hope it's before he takes another life." He speared a chunk of papaya with a swizzle stick, popped the piece in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully.

"Nothing to connect the lawyer with the judge?"

He blew air into his cheeks, then let it out through pursed lips. "Cain had some cases before Miller, but they all dead-ended."

"What does the Doc have to say?"

"You know Max, as close mouthed as a clam in low tide until the formal autopsy."

"How's Joe doing?" They had so much to catch up on, and she wanted to know everything.

"Still the Don Juan. He quit smoking."

"Because he thought it was harmful to his health?"

He laughed. "It was either that or give up his five-liter."

"Ah."

"This feels like old times." He grabbed her hand and squeezed.

She smiled, thinking how easily they had slipped back together as though the past several months had never happened. Again she realized her good fortune. She had not dared to hope they would some day reunite, but hope had come through for her anyway.

"Joe made an interesting observation today."

She raised her brows. "Really?"

He laughed. "He has his moments. He remarked on the scant amount of blood on both vics, like the heart had already stopped pumping when they were stabbed."

She perked up. "They were dead when The Crucifix Killer struck?"

"It's been at the back of my mind for awhile."

"But too preposterous an idea to consider fully, huh?"

He pushed himself to a sitting position. "Cardiac arrest prior to, or in the moment of ― what are the odds?"

"Not so far fetched. People have suffered heart attacks before and during car accidents. What was their state of health?"

She listened to him hum and haw and determined he was reviewing his mental notes on the cases.

"They were both old geezers. The lawyer was a heavy smoker, and the judge had a weak ticker, as his wife put it, and liked his Cuban cigars."

She took her legs from under her and grinned widely. "This is looking very interesting." She grabbed her laptop from the nightstand.

Noah eyed the computer. "I thought we could...."

She slapped his hand off her breast. "In a minute," she said, pulling the sheet around her body and googling the judge and lawyer.

"Already she tires of me," he said in his best woebegone voice.

"Never!" She air-kissed him and read through the four items where both victims' names were mentioned together. The third one, a fraud and embezzlement case, seemed promising.

While waiting for the article to open, she nibbled on a morsel of cheese.

Noah, ever the persistent man, spread kisses across her shoulders. His touch sent goose bumps along her spine. "You're killing me." She tried to squirm out of his reach, but half-heartedly. She scanned the article. Nothing jumped out at her. "Cain didn't only practice criminal law."

"Hmmm."

She giggled. "Don't bowl me over with your enthusiasm."

"I am enthusiastic. Can't you tell?"

She looked at his groin, gawked at the mountain-like peak in the sheet and laughed. "The wine must be boiling." She threw off the covering and snatched the bottle from between his legs. "I'll have more, please," she said. "The wine, I mean." She handed him her wine glass and called up the next article with her other hand.

Quickly, she read the first few lines with interest, then scrolled down. "This fellow here," she tapped a fingernail against the screen, "Jacob Dunn, accuses his partner of embezzlement." She continued reading. Like a dandelion in a room full of roses, a name leapt to her attention. "What was the name of the man Calliope was getting the chill pills for?"

Noah frowned.

Clearly, he had only sex on his brain. Dallas didn't mind. "The guy, the cantankerous bastard."

"Oh." He thought for a moment. "Thornhill."

"Frederick Q. Thornhill the Third?"

"Yes, that's the man. Why?" He read over her shoulder.

"It says here Dunn and Thornhill were partners in a very profitable construction business, landing big contracts as far away as Washington according to this.

"Thornhill filed the charges and Dunn claimed Thornhill was the embezzler."

"Smooth move on Thornhill's part if Dunn is innocent. How much money was involved?"

"A million and change." She read more. "Apparently, Dunn's nephew went off the deep end, vowed vengeance, attacked Thornhill as he left the court room after the verdict, landing a right hook squarely on Thornhill's jaw. The cops hauled him off to the whooscow with him screaming he would be back to reclaim what was rightfully his. According to the last update, the poor man spent six months in Mother of Grace Psychiatrist Hospital."

"Poor man?"

"Well, yes. Isn't it obvious he's the underdog?"

"No. Convince me." He nuzzled her neck and pulled the sheet over them. "Plead your case, woman!"

Chapter Twelve

Harold Dunn stared up at the second floor of Dallas's garden home and cursed himself. He had been sloppy with the Hall girl, leaving evidence behind for the police to link him to the murder. Leaving his victim alive had been something he couldn't avoid, though. The other bitch, Allison Fraser, had almost caught him. She looked right at him when he boarded the fire escape out of their apartment. Thankfully, he hadn't registered in her brain.

He needed to kill the lezzie. She wasn't making it easy for him. He snorted. The woman must have a horseshoe up her ass. Every time he got close to her, someone or something intruded. Like tonight, for instance. She'd stood a hair breath away from him and just when he was about to make his move, the strange fella with the monster truck showed up.

His first kill had been...he couldn't remember her name, not that it mattered. He hated all lesbians, fruits, too, but he harbored a particularly nasty hatred for Katie. She didn't need to turn down her nose at him when he asked her for a dance the night at The Sugar Shack.

It was only a matter of time before the police came to arrest him, he knew. That would be a damn shame since he had put such forethought in the other killings and covered his tracks so well. If he was unable to fulfill the promise to himself that everyone responsible for depriving him of his rightful fortune would pay with their lives would be a travesty.

He thought over the events of the night. What was it with the Dallas woman? Who was she and what was she doing with a nine millimeter? That's some mean firepower to carry for protection. The gun appeared an extension of her arm she seemed so accustomed to handling the weapon and who was the guy she called Noah? He looked vaguely familiar. Harold was sure he'd seen him someplace before.

Where?

The guy had almost caught him in his hiding place in the bushes. Lucky for him the floppy-eared varmint ventured near at the time. He had to practically shove the damn rabbit in the jerk's hands for God's sake, the man was so stupid.

Yes! That's where he knew him. Noah was one of Bracebridge's finest, but obviously not the brightest.

Harold chuckled.

This would be too easy.

##### Chapter Thirteen

Calliope and Wilson overslept the following morning, and Wilson was cranky because of it. He was one of those people who had difficulty adapting to a change in schedule or routine and he, like no one else, allotted a time and place for his daily constitutionals, as he liked to call his groove.

First thing in the morning he showered, even though he'd showered the night before ― wouldn't want to meet his creator without bathing first, he always said. Then he brushed his teeth and shaved. Then came breakfast ― poached egg and dry toast ― and from there the daily newspaper kept him company for fifteen minutes, then it was off to either the Aquatic Center or the Gowan Brae Golf & Country Club, depending whether the day was even or odd.

The remainder of his day was devoted to R & R, which entailed a twenty-minute nap in his favorite recliner, and reading, all at their allotted times, of course.

Calliope's days, on the other hand, were as spontaneous as Wilson's were scheduled.

Today, however, Calliope had a purpose. In the hullabaloo Abbott had caused at the police station yesterday, the police had forgotten to take the morphine from her. She looked at the little button bag in her hand holding ten pills and giggled.

* * * *

"What are you doing today?" Noah asked.

Dallas sat across the table from him in the breakfast nook. Dressed in a crazy, but gorgeous, burgundy muumuu featuring embroidered flowers and sleeves that flared like wings, blush pink coloring her lips ― her only makeup ― hair perfectly tousled, she spread an old cloth across the table top and laid out her gun and cleaning supplies. "I thought I'd call Lily, for starters. Maybe we can all go out together this weekend. The Marina, maybe." She dipped an old toothbrush in cleaning solvent and scrubbed the inside of the frame and cylinder of her handgun.

"Sounds like a plan."

"How did you sleep?"

"Great." She looked at him and smiled. "Thanks to you. For the first night since Katie's death, I slept without waking and without nightmares for five hours straight. I take that as a good omen. Maybe soon Katie's killer will be behind bars." She used an old rag to wipe off dirt and grease on the Glock.

He leisurely sipped his coffee. "We'll get him."

Noah looked at the corkboard hanging on the wall in the kitchen. Centered in the middle, was an eight by ten photo of Dallas and Katie taken last year at Katie's high school graduation. Dallas, her head thrown back in laughter, wore a simple red sleeveless dress with a square neckline. He remembered Dallas teasing Katie she would wear her 'blues' to the ceremony.

In the photo, Katie looked up at Dallas, smiling. He could virtually see her lips move as she said something funny to her sister. Katie was always cracking jokes.

He missed her, too, and remembered that Dallas's mom kept Katie's room just as it was. When she had moved in with Allison, Eileen hadn't touched Katie's room, either. Just in case, she'd said. There was no chance for Katie coming back this time. Just in case...

"You didn't tell me if you found anything in the back yard," she said, eyeing him peripherally as she dipped a cloth remnant into the cleaning solvent. She ran the rod through the barrel of the gun, wiped the rod clean, then put on a clean cloth patch and repeated the procedure.

"Huh?" He frowned, though he knew the gig was up. She was on to him.

"When I was in the shower, you snuck out."

He took offense. It seemed his best defense. "I didn't sneak out."

"I'll go along with you, if you tell me what you found." She dabbed oil on all of the moving parts of the gun and wiped the outside of the gun with a dry, clean rag.

Busted. He cleared his throat. "A boot print in the huckleberry bush. A size twelve, it looks like."

Dallas, seemingly intent on polishing the barrel of her eight-millimeter, asked, "The same bush where you found the Holland Lop?"

"Uh-huh."

"Might the killer have been in the bush at the same time?"

"Might." And that's what harassed his gut. He was so close...so close...well, the asshole better get his affairs in order because he wouldn't be so lucky the next time. And there would be a next time. Of that, the interloper could be assured.

"I'll get a mould of the print," Dallas said, suddenly excited.

The phone jangled at the same time as she laid her hand around the receiver. "Hello," Dallas said breathlessly.

"Dallas, hello. This is Lily O'Ree-Fenwick."

"Hi there," Dallas said, giving the thumbs-up and mouthing Lily's name to Noah. "I was just thinking about you."

"So was I, hence my call. Abbott and I are having a backyard soirée Saturday evening. Nothing fancy. Barbecue, country and western, barley wine. Interested?"

Was she! She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and whooped her glee. "May I bring a date?" She looked at Noah and winked.

"Yes, of course. Anyone I know?"

"My ex. Noah Madill. We reconciled." She smiled.

"Excellent. You'll have to tell me all about it."

"Count on it."

Lily rhymed off the guest list.

Dallas hurried her memory to keep track.

"See you eight-ish on Saturday."

"Can I bring anything?"

"Just yourself and that handsome husband of yours. Ta."

"Ta." Dallas hung up and looked at Noah. "Dust up yer cowboy boots, pardner, cuz we're going to a hoe-down Saturday night."

"A hoe-down?"

"It's the latest fashion among the elite, darling," Dallas said in her best southern accent.

"Ah. Did she say who y'all be there?" he asked.

She laughed and slapped him with the dishcloth she used to wipe the table. "Lily's parents, Alexandra and Geoffrey O'Ree, and Abbott's parents, Calliope and Wilson Fenwick and―" She stopped abruptly when Noah visibly shuddered. "What is it?"

"Calliope. Her name always sends a chill down my spine. Do you know what she said to me yesterday?"

Dallas couldn't imagine. "What?"

"She said I had the nicest buns of any man she's seen."

She managed a straight face. "Given her age, I'd say it's quite a compliment."

"Yeah, but every man's buns probably look good to her ―"

She silenced him with a kiss. "Don't put too much into it, Noah. Give her credit and cut her some slack."

"I do. The whole of Bracebridge's PD does. Anyone half her age would be behind bars for the stunts she's pulled."

She hesitated, wanting to tease him more and wondering whether she should, until she saw the smile in his eyes. "You're bad."

He grinned as though to say 'Gotcha'. "Who else is invited to this shindig?"

"Judge Stanhope and his wife, Melissa, and the neighbors on either side of them, of course ― Rob and Judy Decker, and Dick and Annie Mullin. When you have a soirée, you always invite the neighbors."

"Speaking of whom, none of your neighbors saw or heard anything last night or if they did, they're not talking."

"We're back to square one." She huffed a breath.

"We've got the boot print."

"Which won't serve us until we catch him and match him, that is, of course, if he hasn't disposed of the boots before that. The boots are probably sold in every department store across the country."

He pulled her onto his lap. " Oh ye, of little faith."

She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Don't you have work today?"

"I called in. Said I'd be late. How about you?"

"I'm off for the rest of the week."

He nuzzled her neck. "Sounds like a plan. I have time coming to me."

"Great! We can work on Katie's case."

"We can―"

She looked at him and frowned.

"And we will." The words rushed from his lips lest she think that Katie was not high on his list of priorities. "But first..." He slid his hand inside her muumuu and as his fingers trailed up her leg, he stood, cradling her in his arms.

"Okay, but we'll spend the rest of the day going over Haye's murder file on Katie."

Rightly, Noah experienced guilt, but the moment quickly passed.

"What about the mould guy?" Dallas asked as she hooked her arms around his neck.

"We've got some time."

* * * *

While Wilson carried out his daily constitutionals, Calliope strolled the hallways of Villa Maria-Sedona bored out of her bloomers.

After yesterday's excitement and notoriety the day was shaping up to be the mother of all tedious days.

She shoved her hands in the pockets of her paisley Capri's and sighed. She smiled at Clara Denison as they passed. "What's shaking?" she asked. Neither of them stopped, but each turned and walked backward.

"Every roll, if I move too fast."

Keeping a slow backward walk, Calliope chuckled appropriately. "You're looking good. How many pounds is it now?"

"Twenty and a half."

"Good show! Keep up the good work."

"Are you on your way to Bingo?"

Ha. Now, there's a fun time. "No, just getting some exercise. Toodle-dee-do." Calliope waved goodbye.

She faced forward and ambled toward the rear of the building, checking her watch. 8:10. Gawd. Time seemed at a standstill.

On her way past the Thornhill suite, she heard The Third cussing something fierce. Grace might not be the recipient of his blasphemy ― there was always the chance he cursed his silk smoking jacket to eternal damnation ― but Calliope wouldn't take those odds.

She grasped the doorknob and with a swift turn and a hardy push, Calliope burst into the foyer and followed the sound of The Third's booming voice. If he'd laid one hand on Grace....

With her heart thumping, she flew into the kitchen in the same instant The Third raised a baseball glove-size hand in the air. Not intimidated in the least, she rapidly took in the scene. Certain the backhander was meant for Grace cowering and crying and covering her face in the corner, Calliope reacted reflexively and her mind set on one intent ― to protect Gracie.

Her hand curled around the handle of an iron skillet on a burner on the stove.

"Leave her alone, you old gasbag," she said and hefted the pan in the air and swung, hitting The Third squarely on the back on his head.

Bongggg ricocheted off the walls as The Third crumpled to the floor.

Calliope let the skillet fall from her hands as she stepped over his still body and ran to Grace's side. She brushed hair from her tear-drenched face. "Everything's all right now, Gracie. Shh."

Grace whimpered.

"Shh," Calliope said again and hugged her tightly, running her hand up and down the back of Grace's head. "You're safe now, honey." She looked at The Third's still motionless body.

"Is he dead?" Grace asked, wiping her nose with a tissue she dug from her brassiere.

Calliope hadn't considered it. She could have killed him. Truthfully, she wanted to when she saw him about to attack Grace. There was no doubt about it. But did she? Nah. The Third had too hard a head, and she didn't pack the wallop she did four decades ago.

She studied him more closely. His head was twisted at an odd angle and one of his legs was bent under him. His toupee sat askew on the top of his bald and wrinkled pâté. He looked a funny sight. Now was not the time to laugh, she told herself as she waited for the rise and fall of his chest.

The Third didn't appear to be breathing.

Oh my.

Maybe she did kill him.

Oh my.

She'd spend the rest of her life on her knees atoning for the mortal sin.

Calliope kicked him in the shin. When he didn't respond, she said, "Frederick!"

Still, he didn't stir. At another time, the sound of her voice would prompt a reaction from him. She grew more anxious with each passing second.

Oh Lordy.

She'd killed a man...well, to use the term loosely. With her cheeks sucked in on one another and her brows raised to her hairline, she saw herself in some deep doo-doo this time.

"Is he dead?" Grace asked again.

Calliope detected a note of hope in Grace's voice. On the one hand, she was happy to oblige, but the reason she could oblige scared the hell out of her.

Did they put little old ladies on death row?

No longer able to stand the unknown, she propped Grace, who now seemed lethargic and unable to hold her head up without assistance, against the wall. "Don't move. Okay?" Stupid question.

Grace was unresponsive, her eyes never moving from The Third's prone form.

Calliope dismissed Grace with a wave of her hand. "First things first."

Hating to touch his foul flesh, but seeing no way around the matter, Calliope felt for a pulse in his wrist. Nothing. Her heart rate accelerated. She flipped him over on his back and gave his chest a solid whack with her fist.

She listened for a heart beat.

Nothing.

Damn.

She looked at his thin lips and considered...no, no way. She turned to Grace, lying like a drunken sailor in the corner. "Grace, give him mouth to mouth."

Grace came to. "I'm not giving him anything! It's God's will he's dead. We should not interfere with the Lord's plans." She held a finger in the air.

Easy for her to say. She wasn't the one facing death row. With her choices limited, Calliope banged her fist against his chest one more time and sent God a fervent but quick prayer.

She yelled, "Yahoo", when The Third moaned. She ignored Grace when she groaned her displeasure at The Third's revival.

Now that The Third was coming to, it occurred to Calliope she needed a good story. Never mind that what The Third was doing to Grace when Calliope interfered was morally and legally wrong. Never mind that The Third deserved to die. Never mind that The Third should be happy she didn't kill him.

He moaned again, and his eyelids fluttered.

Calliope slapped him on the forearm. "Oh stop whining, Frederick." Think what to do, Calliope.

The Third would have a whopping headache. She'd clobbered him but good. The pills, Calliope. What about the pills?

Right!

She reached into her turban and extracted the plastic button bag from the folds. "Grace, give me a hand to lift him," she said, taking a morphine pill in her hand.

Between the two of them, they propped him to a sitting position. His head lolled to one side. Calliope took the capsule between her fingers and when she was an inch from his mouth, she said, "Open up, Frederick. Over the lips, across the tongue and down the hatch." That cracked her up.

Calliope decided she was in shock and abruptly shut her mouth. She pushed the pill past his lips and onto his tongue. She pinched his lips together more firmly than needed given The Third's semi-conscious state. "Now swallow, Frederick." That struck her funny, too.

When he didn't send the drug to his stomach, she slapped his cheek a few times.

What a rush.

The Third groaned, swallowed and opened his eyes. "Wh-hat happened?"

"Take it easy, Frederick," Calliope patted his hand. An idea came to her. "You took a nasty fall." When the truth would hurt, a lie was, therefore, permissible. She was sure this was a gospel maxim, although she could have read it on a bumper sticker. "You must have taken a weak spell."

"I did?" He ran his hand over the back of his head. "Owww...."

"You hit your head when you fell." Calliope crossed herself and swore to God she would become a better person from this day forward.

Chapter Fourteen

Dallas whizzed around her bedroom, snatching clothes from drawers and pulling on jeans. "Hurry, Noah. We're going to be late."

"Anyone worth their fashion sense knows it's unseemly to arrive early to a soirée."

This was what she put up with the last day and a half since Lily's invitation. "I'd like time to study Abbott." Oddly, she had never met the man. Noah and Abbott hadn't been friends that long, and it wasn't as though he lived in Bracebridge and worked at the police station where the opportunity was there to see each other frequently. Then, of course, Abbott giving Noah the cold shoulder after he questioned him about Katie didn't help introductions any, either.

But things would change now.

"Did you really mean it when you said you were thinking about relocating here?" she asked, hauling on a boot and smoothing a jean leg over it.

"Of course. I like Hampstead. It's quaint and the pace is slower than Bracebridge and the crime less, and you're here. All positives as far as I can see."

"What about your seniority in the department?"

"I can take an early retirement. I've got twenty-five years in."

Dallas studied him, determining he seriously considered moving. She had envisioned going back to Bracebridge once Katie's killer was apprehended. It had never entered her mind it would turn out the other way around. Go figure. "Then what?"

Noah lounged on the queen-size bed atop the cranberry satin spread. "I take off some time, relax a little, take up a hobby maybe, then look around for something to fill my hours. I'm too young to retire." He grabbed her around the waist and hauled her on top of him. "Unless, of course, you want to quit your job and stay home with me." He bit her ear lobe. "So's I won't get bored."

She laughed. "I'd give it all of two weeks." She playfully fought him off. "Let me up."

The telephone ringing captured their attention.

When she made a dash for the bedside table, he said, "Don't answer. We'll be late for the soirée."

She rolled her eyes. "Hello," she sing-songed.

"Dallas, it's Allison. I came across Katie's family tree she was working on. I thought you might like to have it."

"I would." The words jumped out of her mouth. She frowned, wondering why she thought the Hall family tree important to her. Who her ancestors were and what ship, train or motorcar they arrived on in this country never interested her before, not like it had Katie. She smiled, remembering how Katie always took interest in the oddest things.

"I hoped you'd say that. Katie would be so pleased."

Dallas heard the smile in Allison's voice.

"I can bring it by if you like."

"That's okay, Allison. Noah and I are on our way out for the evening."

"Look out your bedroom window."

From the edge of the bed, Dallas reached past Noah and his groping hands and located Allison in the back yard. "I see you. I'll be right down." She hung up and said before Noah had a chance to ask, "Allison's here. She has Katie's binder on the Hall family tree."

On the sofa in the living room, Dallas flipped through Katie's notes, impressed by the comprehensive search she'd conducted. She'd traced the family history backward from their father. "There are," she counted, "seventy-three names within our family tree."

"Did you know great-great grand pappy Nathaniel Charles Hall was born in 1588?"

Noah shoved his blue chambray shirt under the waistband of his jeans. "No. I didn't know."

"I would have been surprised if you had." She giggled and continued reading, aware Noah's gaze centered on her face.

"Shouldn't we be on our way?"

"Uh-huh. In just a sec...."

"What's gotten into you?" he asked. "You never showed the least interest in genealogy before."

She couldn't explain the sudden desire to know about her ancestors. "Maybe it makes me feel close to Katie." She ran her finger over Katie's precise handwriting.

"She never hurried at anything she did. The floor could have been on fire beneath her feet and still she would have moved at the same pace." She smiled. For the first time since Katie's death, memories of her didn't make her cry. In fact, thinking about it, she felt tranquil, totally, utterly at peace.

Noah sat beside her and draped an arm around the top edge of the sofa. "We can always call Abbott and cancel. Stay home. You can read up on your ancestors and I can watch sports on TSN."

That was her Noah. Always making the best of any situation. "No, we'll go. I'm anxious to see Abbott's expression when I tell him I'm Katie's sister. I know he already knows that, but he's never seen me face to face." She gathered the papers together in a neat bundle and shoved them into the bellows file.

"You dropped a sheet." Noah picked the piece of paper from the floor and handed it to her.

Her intention was to stuff the page with the rest of them for later scrutiny, but Abbott Fenwick's name stopped her cold. She read what Katie had written and finally understood why his name was Katie's dying words.

"Oh my God," she said, unable to remove her eyes from the notation below Abbott's name. It couldn't be true. Katie made a mistake, but as much as she would like to believe it, she knew her sister would have triple-checked every fact and not come to any unfounded conclusions.

"What is it, hon?" Noah asked.

The urgency in his voice made her look at him. She pointed to the page. "Read that. We have to go to the party now. We don't have a choice. I won't rest one minute until I confront her."

Dallas was buckled in the passenger seat of Noah's four-by-four before he made it to the vehicle and her urgency didn't lessen once they were on the move.

She checked the speedometer and grimaced. "Can't you go faster?"

"I could, but I'm already ten over the limit."

The need to do something, anything, gnawed at her stomach. "I'm calling Mom." She unclipped her cell from the waistband of her jeans.

"Are you sure you want to do that?"

She jerked her head toward him. "Why the hell not?"

"You don't think this is something you should discuss with her one on one?"

"It's something she should have told me years ago. Why should I cut her any slack?" But in her anger, she recognized that Noah was right. She stabbed her fingers through her hair. "I can't believe that Trojan horse is my biological mother. God." She wanted to throw things. She wanted to hit someone. "How did Mom ever think the truth wouldn't come out?" It always did. Sooner or later. "I'm forty-five years old, and I just found out my mother is not my mother, and my sister, who I loved and cherished all of my life and whose death I still mourn, is not my sister, and my real mother is a general in the Proper Pedigree Army, and I have a sister who is married to a friend of my husband, and I have two nieces who I never met or knew about my entire life. God." She threw her cell against the dash and buried her face between her hands.

Beside her Noah remained silent. "Do you have something to say?" She watched him bite his cheek and knew something worried him. "Out with it."

"We're all related somehow. Not related as in blood related, or even by law related, but we're all related. Yo ho." He tilted his chin.

Dallas couldn't find the sense in his deduction and said so. "Huh?"

"Calliope."

"Oh." She nodded once, twice and understood Noah's dilemma. "But it's not anything like my conundrum."

He grabbed her hand and squeezed. "No, of course not. I didn't mean to imply it was."

She knew that.

"Aren't the trees beautiful?" he asked, looking and pointing to the palette of colors on either side of them. "I love autumn."

She knew that, too.

Was it just fifteen minutes ago that she had never been happier? "I still can't wrap my mind around it." Alexandra O'Keefe-O'Ree was her mother. God.

"It's my favorite season," he said as he expertly maneuvered the monster vehicle around an extreme turn.

She knew that also and wondered whether winter would still be her favorite time of the year had she grown up as Alexandra's daughter.

"We should be there in approximately ten minutes," Noah said, looking at his watch.

"We don't look alike ― Alexandra and I. Maybe Katie was wrong." No, even if she hadn't seen her birth certificate that Katie somehow had gotten her hands on, was meticulous at everything she did, double and triple checking, and Dallas would have believed Katie's research and fact-finding was one hundred per cent accurate. Fact-finding. God. Now, she was a fact. A statistic. Besides being a child some woman, namely, Alexandra, didn't want.

"Do you really believe that?" Noah asked, glancing at her.

She didn't look like Lily, either. "Have you ever met Geoffrey, Lily's father?"

"No. Why?"

"Just wondering what he looks like. Do you know what he does for a living?"

"Abbott mentioned it once, I believe."

Dallas watched as he brought his brows together and pursed his lips. "And?"

"I think he said he's a surgeon. You're not going to cause a scene, are you, Dallas?"

She wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Don't I have the right?"

He twisted his head this way and that, obviously humming and hawing mentally. "Of course, you do."

Good answer. "I'm sensing a 'but'."

"But this is Abbott and Lily's home where they live with their two daughters, two little girls who probably have never seen or heard their parents say a cross word to each other, who have been brought up with love and were taught to love and respect their elders."

Something more struck her, something good. "I'm an aunt."

"Antie Dallas." He looked at her and smiled. "It suits you."

She shook her head. "Given Alexandra's my mother, that would be Auntie Dallas." For the first time in the last twenty-five minutes Dallas laughed, an eerie laugh that frightened even her.

"My father. Who's my father, Noah?" She couldn't picture Alexandra in an intimate relationship let alone having sex with anyone. Maybe she didn't. No, she would have had to. She's her biological child. Why didn't she want me?

Lily had joked that her mother was now receiving the Old Age Security. That would mean Alexandra would have been twenty when she was born. Why did mothers give up their children? Age. Too young to look after a child. Marital status – couldn't raise a child alone. Unmarried – what will people think? Finances – unemployed and couldn't afford the extra expense. God. Now she was an expense.

Dallas liked none of those options. Then she thought about another possibility, the horrible scenario that her mind skirted around when she listed possible reasons for Alexandra disposing of her. Dallas was the product of a rape.

Oh God. Her father was a rapist, the very scum she helped put behind bars all these years. Oh God. She could have arrested her own father at one time and not even known it.

Now, there's a bedtime story for her new little nieces.

"Have you been to Abbott's before? How do you know where to go? You've never been to Hampstead. Not that I know of anyway." Of course, she didn't know until a short while ago that she was a child who was given up by her mother at birth to be adopted by a woman her biological mother didn't even know. Dallas could have been adopted by maniacs, for God's sake. Oh, she knew the department of social services screened prospective adoptive parents. There were many lunatics leading productive lives, though, holding important positions, then going home and torturing little girls in the basements of their lavish homes in posh neighborhoods. She could have been one of those children.

Yes, Mother, did you think of that when you signed me away?

I did it for you, dear.

Yeah, right. Like she should believe that.

But didn't Alexandra do right by her when she gave her up for adoption?

But Lily turned out all right. Lily was sweet, loving and warm. Alexandra must have done something right raising her.

Noah pulled into the Fenwick's driveway, killed the engine and turned to Dallas. He held her hand and kissed her cheek. "Give me your gun, Dallas."

##### Chapter Fifteen

"I'm not going to shoot anyone," Dallas said.

Noah wasn't sure. She wasn't on duty, yet she'd strapped on her firearm. The action might have been habit, which was understandable, or reflex, which could imply anticipation or, and he hated to think it, reaction. If the latter, then he would err judiciously. Better that than what ifs and remorse. Taking into consideration that he had never in all of the eighteen years he'd known Dallas seen her as angered as at present, he thought it best not to chance anything and to consider every possibility.

"I wasn't going to shoot anyone," she said in almost the same way as before ― sullen, pouty and perturbed, but with less enthusiasm.

Nevertheless, Noah was not appeased. In fact, her words and the set of her jaw sent a chill scaling his spine. She was convincing herself she didn't have murder in her heart. Since she seemed adamant to attend this soirée, he needed to calm her. First, though, she needed to surrender her weapon to him. He held out his hand.

With a sigh, she slapped her Glock in his open palm.

"Thanks." He locked the gun next to his in the glove box.

He looked around. "Looks like we're the first to arrive." When Dallas didn't answer, he asked, "Do you want to wait a few minutes before going in?"

She nodded.

"Did you hear the one about the policeman who spots a woman knitting while she's speeding down the Interstate?" He didn't wait for her to answer. "He pulls up beside her and shouts, "Pull over." She shakes her head and says, "Cardigan."

The joke drew a chuckle from her, but she still wasn't in a tranquil frame of mind. Wondering what to do next, he noticed they drew weird looks and strange stares from people out for a stroll or walking dogs. Perhaps sitting in a driveway was unseemly in this posh neighborhood of quarter million dollar homes, or maybe his monster truck cast a zit on the street where Beemers and Porsches sat en masse.

Whatever he decided, he needed to do it fast before someone called the police. The thought made him grin.

"How can you laugh at a time like this?" Dallas asked.

"I was thinking we should make a move soon before one of these good old home boys call the police on us." Noah nodded toward the rear view mirror. "Take this guy, for example. See those beady eyes, he's taking everything in ― our license plate number, make and model of the truck and the color." He cleared his throat. "Those athletic shoes were made for running. If I were to take the wheel wrench from the back compartment, we'd see just how fast that would be. See the holster clipped on his waistband. You'd think cell phone, wouldn't you?"

Dallas nodded.

"But it's not!"

"No?"

"No. It's really a two-way radio, the latest in communication technology, as a matter of fact. It has built-in flexibility to handle all the needs of Neighborhood Watch with such advanced features as wide frequency range, multiple signaling and loud audio. It's rugged! It's reliable! It's the new direction in walkie-talkies!"

She slapped his arm.

"See that? He just checked his watch. Now, he's mentally recording the time of day that he'll enter later in a journal when he gets home, thereby marking our arrival. In fact," he looked out the driver's window, "it wouldn't surprise me if later we find our tires streaked with chalk."

Her smile made him smile. "How are we?" he asked, hoping for the best.

"Getting there."

That was not at all reassuring. He visualized her in a dark place, a place where emotions overruled principles. "We can still leave."

"Too late." She motioned her head toward the side of the house. "We've been found out."

Knowing what she meant and keeping his eyes fixed on Dallas, he said, "Probably that little old boy with the plaid shorts and checked muscle shirt I saw driving by on a scooter a little while back. I bet he telephoned the Fenwicks and advised them of the strange vehicle parked in their driveway." He looked out the windshield and watched a woman, who made jeans look real good, wearing a white blouse with a red bandana strung around her neck walk toward them. A loose ponytail held back a mane of red curly hair. "Jesus," he said after he found his voice. "Is that ―"

"My half-sister."

Noah realized he acted like an imbecile. When Dallas had told him about Alexandra being her biological mother, he had envisioned Lily looking like Dallas. Nothing could be further off. "You don't look anything alike."

"I know."

"Maybe Katie's research is wrong," he said, making the suggestion knowing Dallas would disagree.

"Hold onto that thought until you meet the Trojan horse."

"Didn't you already meet her?"

"Yes, but at the time I didn't know she was my mother, and I wasn't looking for family resemblance." She frowned.

"What is it?"

"I just thought of something Juliette of The Striped Tiger said." She stared into his eyes. "She thought Lily and I were sisters."

It was his turn to frown. "I don't see it," he said, shaking his head.

Dallas chewed on her lip. "Well, the woman is part gypsy, part wizard of Irish and French descent."

"Maybe we should get out of the truck," Noah said.

"You think?"

They hopped out of the vehicle. Dallas wore a bright smile, Noah noticed. Unable to do otherwise, his smile matched hers as he looked at Lily. He imagined every male and female reacted this way to her. He watched Dallas's half-sister approach them like she'd known and loved them all her life. He found himself responding likewise.

Noah knew the appearance wasn't an act. People didn't fool him and if the occasion happened, which wasn't often, it wasn't for long.

He stood back while Dallas and Lily hugged, then watched when the women stood back and admired each other.

"You look great," Lily said.

Dallas smiled and hauled Noah to her side. "All due to him. Lily, I'd like you to meet my husband, Noah Madill. Noah, this is Lily."

He shook her outstretched hand, finding her touch warm. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"The same here. I was just telling Abbott the other day how strange it was that you and he are friends and Dallas and I just recently met. Like it was meant to be."

"Kismet," Noah said, knowing full well that was hardly the case. Dallas had orchestrated their meeting, but that was not something he was about to tell this obviously loving and warm half-sister of Dallas.

"Yes!" she said. "Exactly. Shall we join the party?"

"Sure," he said. "Lead the way." When Lily turned, Noah draped an arm around Dallas's shoulders and hauled her close. "She's lovely."

Dallas looked up at him. "Isn't she."

"You're not going to make a scene, are you?" he asked in her ear. He had only just met Lily, yet he felt protective of her. He surmised she had that effect on people.

"You took my gun from me, didn't you?"

Dallas had never been so complicated, so difficult to predict. Of course, she had never been faced before with untold truths by people who professed to love her.

They caught up to Lily on the side of the double car garage.

"You have a beautiful property," Noah said. He admired the lilac trees that marked the property boundary, the Scotch pines that looked planted haphazardly over the yard but were aesthetically placed, the mounds of rock gardens showing off an array of begonias and geraniums in yellow, pink and white, and the rich green manicured lawn.

"Thank you. These lots are an acre and a half so if we want to get rowdy, the neighbors won't hear us."

Noah couldn't imagine Lily rowdy. "Then they won't mind when I play my drums." Noah noticed the mixture of expressions that crossed her face ― from interest to surprise to...well, downright fright, he decided. He threw his head back and laughed.

"He's kidding," Dallas said, poking him in the ribs.

Lily loosened her bandana. "I was just going to say the neighbors don't appear to mind when I shoot off my potato gun."

It was Noah's turn to be surprised.

Lily exaggerated a wink and said, "Gotcha!" She hooked one arm in Noah's and the other in Dallas's and looked at them, each in turn. "I just know we're all going to be such good friends." She sighed and smiled. "I just know it."

Noah turned away from Lily's sparkling eyes to look at Dallas, wondering if Dallas had any intention tonight of confronting her biological mother with the truth of her paternity. With another look at Lily, he wondered, too, how she could. The truth would change everything and everyone's lives involved, quite possibly ruining lives in the process.

Wasn't Dallas happy with Eileen and Dan? They were wonderful, loving, supportive parents. Telling them now that she knew what they knew, would lead to accusations, hurt and hate, which would result in destroying their relationship. Dallas wouldn't intentionally do that, would she?

Chapter Sixteen

"You did good tonight, Dallas." Noah kissed her cheek before backing out of the Fenwick driveway.

"It didn't feel good." She sighed and blew air through her clenched jaws. "I wanted to take that woman's scrawny neck between my hands and squeeze until I heard the hiss of her last breath."

Noah didn't believe it for a moment, but knew Dallas felt good saying it. He laughed, knowing how she might take offense, but figuring it was worth the shot.

"It's not funny." She turned away from his face but not before he caught a glimpse of a smile.

Noah and Dallas rode through the deserted secondary roads in silence. There was nothing to see in the blackness of the night except the area of asphalt directly ahead of them illuminated in the truck's high beams.

Ten minutes into the twenty-minute ride back to Dallas's garden home, Noah broke the moratorium.

"Calliope's a pistol, huh?"

She snorted. "I guess. I'm disappointed I didn't get to meet Maya and Kira."

"It's only to be expected when having a soirée ―" She silenced him with a rigid finger and a stony look.

"Please, no more soirée jokes."

Noah sobered. "There'll be other opportunities, Dallas." In his mind, he fast-forwarded the evening. "We all hit it off pretty good." With the exception of the Trojan horse, of course. No one could warm to that woman, he was certain, and that wasn't something he would tell Dallas. Ever.

"Uh-huh. We did. Abbott's a really great guy."

He nodded and wished he could take away her pain or turn back the clock, rework history. Dallas's biological mother was a bona fide snob. Perhaps she'd earned the title or came upon it naturally, he couldn't be sure. She attended the festivity, yet she'd turned down her nose at everyone, everyone that was with the exception of the good judge. It even seemed she had something against her daughter, the one she kept, as Dallas liked to point out, as though he'd forgotten. Not a chance of that happening. The thought of Alexandra as his mother-in-law made him raise his brows and brought on a grimace. Trojan horse. The term suited the woman well.

"I'm glad you decided not to confront Alexandra tonight," he said, turning his eyes away from the road for a moment to look at her.

"Harrumph."

Silence fell on them once again.

Normally, Noah never minded, but in this case, where there was so much that needed discussing, the quiet bothered him. "Have you given any thought to whether you'll continue to keep the secret?"

Dallas spotted the white-tailed deer running from the woods at the same time as he.

"Careful there, hon." She set her feet flat on the floor and pushed on an imaginary brake.

"I see him." Noah slowed and passed the animal without incident, remembering she hadn't answered his question. Purposeful, he wondered. "Have you?"

She let out a long sigh. "It's all I thought about all night . On the one hand, I want to pretend like I don't know the truth, but on the other..." she groaned, "on the other, I'm curious to know all the answers. And a little scared, too."

He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Whatever you decide, I'll be behind you one hundred per cent."

She smiled. "I know."

Noah could understand why she would be frightened. Some questions were better left unasked. Some things were better left unknown.

Land fog roamed along the road, and Noah likened the mist with how Dallas must be feeling at the moment ― there yet intangible.

"Lily's father seems ― " His cell phone rang. He checked call display. "It's Max. I should take it."

"Go ahead." She took her hand away from the side of her face and leaned her head back against the headrest.

"Max, I hope you've got good news for me," Noah said and brought the truck to a stop on the shoulder of the road.

"Sorry to call you so late, but I figured you'd want to know ASAP. As far as the good news goes, it depends on what way you look at it and from what side. Both your vics were dead at the time The Crucifix Killer struck. They died from natural causes, son. Did you want the medical terms?"

"Naw. I'll wait for the autopsy reports. You'll get those to me soon?"

"In the morning by email. The written report will take considerably longer."

Noah nodded. "The steno strike."

Max signed off and Noah closed his phone and cursed. He noticed Dallas looking at him expectantly. "It seems my vics, the judge and the lawyer, died of natural causes."

"God." She bit the inside of her lip. "But it shouldn't surprise you. You supposed as much."

True, he had. "It's something else to know for fact, though." He ran his fingers through his hair and cursed again. "What are the odds? It might be unprecedented."

"Corpses have been defaced before, been killed after they're already dead, too."

Murderers killing a body, thinking they took a life. He couldn't recall, though, a serial killer killing his already dead victims. "But in the exact manner?" He watched her cogitate. After a moment, she looked at him.

"I see what you mean. That probably shortens the list."

He would think so.

She tucked a leg under her. "If these are vendetta killings like you suspect, the killer's going to be upset when he finds out he didn't actually kill his targets. Did Max say how long they were dead when they were killed again?"

That sounded strange to his ears. "He didn't say, and I didn't ask. I was blown away by the news. It'll be in his reports, I'm sure."

"Did Max say whether fright killed them?"

"I don't know if he could pinpoint it precisely."

"True. Probably the only one who knows for sure is the killer."

"When I catch him, it'll be the first question I ask him."

Chapter Seventeen

Calliope sat at her kitchen table and pondered Grace's situation with regard to The Third.

Grace said he was becoming unbearable, and she didn't know how much more of him she could take before something happened.

She frowned, wondering what Grace meant. She had always been adamant she would never leave The Third.

Did she realize now, after all these many years, that everyone had a tolerance point and she had reached hers?

Or...

Calliope considered another possibility. Did Grace intend to put an end to The Third's nastiness by killing him?

Oh my.

Frightening thoughts flooded her mind. Visions of cops rushing into the Thornhill suite with weapons drawn ordering Grace to hit the floor with her hands behind her head. Envisioning a policeman Mirandizing Grace set Calliope's teeth to chattering. The nightmare continued with cops grabbing her dear friend under the armpits, lifting her to her feet and shoving her out the door and into the backseat of a squad car for transport to the police station where she would be processed ― fingerprinted, photographed and garbed in a hideous twill jumpsuit.

Grace would never survive a jail cell.

Calliope could. She could almost say she was accustomed to the procedure.

"Ayaiiieeya." She smacked her forehead.

"What's the matter, muffin?" Wilson asked at her back.

Surprised, Calliope turned and looked at him standing in the kitchen doorway. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you at the Gowan Brae?"

"I tell ya, darling," he walked to the coffee maker and poured a cup of decaf, "I love golf, but not enough to play in the rain."

"It's raining?" she asked, immediately turning toward the window to see for herself as though only what she saw would she believe. When her eyes convinced her mind, she said, "It is raining." So preoccupied with her thoughts and worries, her joints, normally attuned to the least change in atmospheric pressure, had failed her.

"Want to go back to bed and snuggle?" Wilson asked, raising his bushy brows high on his forehead.

She recognized the suggestive gesture. As much as the invitation tempted her, and as much as she wanted to try out the new feminine oil that not only lubricated but warmed and titillated, she had to take a pass. First things first ― stop a murder from happening, carnal desires, second.

When she looked into Wilson's eyes, though, she wavered. Quickly, she analyzed her reason for the rain check. What was the rush to get to Grace? It wasn't as though she had told her outright she was going to whack The Third this morning.

She took another gander at Wilson. He looked so cute in his plaid jodhpurs and yellow knee socks and, as if those weren't turn-on enough, the gap in his front teeth, as it always did, upped her desire proportionately. Oh Lordy, she thought when those stirrings in her southern regions hummed in anticipation. She checked her watch. Why, she didn't know. Perhaps for focus.

Mostly, Wilson took his time, like he was seeing and exploring her body for the first time. In many of those instances, she had suggested drawing him a diagram. That always garnered a chuckle.

"I'm all ready for you, darling," he said, smiling widely.

Without hesitation, her gaze dropped to his crotch. She saw his interest ― his avid interest.

Oh my.

As she considered his proposal, she rubbed the area beneath her bottom lip with her finger.

Since he was already primed, why not? She slapped his hand. "Oh, Wilson, you started without me. Shame on you." Giggling, she grabbed his tie, stood and pulled him toward their bedroom.

Fifty-five minutes later, Calliope, with all of her sexual fantasies fulfilled, danced through the spartan hallway of Villa Maria-Sedona, singing, "Hot time in the old retirement home tonight."

She reached the Thornhill suite and listened at the door. She couldn't hear anything happening inside. At first, she took it as a good sign. Maybe the pill she slipped The Third last night before the soirée had mellowed him. On further thought, she reconsidered and looked at her watch. 9:30. They should be up, and The Third should be complaining. Drugged or not, the man always had a complaint ― the paper was late; his eggs weren't cooked as he liked them; the day was dreary or too bright; he didn't sleep well.... mah blah hah. She could go on and on. Calliope took a deep breath and released it savagely.

Something stirred in the suite. She couldn't distinguish the sound. A shuffling, perhaps. No. She shook her head. Scraping, maybe. No. Not that, either. The noise repeated. Her power of distinction failed her once more.

On an exasperated sigh and with her ear against the door, she rapped her knuckles on the hardwood surface below the peephole.

The not-shuffling-not-scraping reverberation stopped.

She found it strange. She lifted on the tips of her bunny slippers and peeked through the door viewer but couldn't see anything amiss. Anyone else might leave to come back later, but something prompted Calliope to investigate. Quite possibly, her innate skill to predict and sense danger.

With a determined grasp, she turned the doorknob and entered the suite. "Grace," she said as she made her made through the hallway. But for the tick-tock of the wall clock, the suite was silent.

With a few exceptions ― this wasn't one of them ― The Thornhill suite was never quiet. Surely to God, Grace hadn't killed the old fool. Growing increasingly uneasy, Calliope quickened her step. In a matter of seconds, she peeked around the doorway into the living room.

What she saw almost frightened her out of her knee-highs. She jerked backward and flattened her back against the wall, coaching herself to calm. Breathe deeply. Long breath in through the mouth, hold, out through the nose. Careful, Calliope. Not too noisy. You don't want him to see you.

She regained her composure and felt strong enough and courageous enough to take another peek. With her forefinger between her teeth, she leaned forward. Her eyes hadn't deceived her. A strange little man wearing white painter's coveralls, paper booties, surgical gloves and goggles and brandishing a silver crucifix leaned over The Third's prostrate body on the floor.

"Do you remember me, you jerk-off-son-of-a-bitch?" Painter's Coveralls asked.

Calliope looked at The Third, waiting for him to answer, but then realizing he couldn't because of the duct tape holding his mouth closed. Why hadn't she thought about doing that?

"Answer me, you no good son of a gun!" he said.

When The Third still didn't acknowledge him, Painter's Coveralls picked up The Third by his shirt and slammed his head against the ceramic floor, once, twice, three times! Still, The Third wouldn't answer. He simply looked at the interloper wide-eyed, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Neither could Calliope, for that matter. She pinched herself to make sure this wasn't a dream. Ow.

Painter's Coveralls was obviously an enemy of The Third. Calliope was curious what The Third had done to make him want to kill him. Kill him...it just occurred to her that Painter's Coveralls intended to murder The Third.

She should run and get help. She should... Yes, she should. It was the Christian thing to do. Help a friend in need. Save a life. But The Third was not her friend, and she didn't know if she wanted to save his life. Oh my. She crossed herself and begged the Lord's forgiveness for such an unholy thought.

She looked around for Grace, but couldn't see her.

Did Painter's Coveralls already kill her, or was she lying somewhere bleeding to death while Calliope dickered what to do?

The thought prompted Calliope to react. Time was of the essence. She grabbed hold of a lamp on the hall table and charged Painter's Coveralls.

With a flying leap and all the force she could muster, she swung the marble base of the lamp against the back of Painter's Coveralls head. His legs folded. He went down with a thud.

She stepped over his still body and looked at The Third. "Frederick, can you hear me?"

The Third didn't answer, just stared straight at her. She straddled him and slapped his face a few times. Still, he didn't respond.

Maybe he couldn't breathe through his nose. He was so peaceful, though, with his mouth taped. Calliope? her brain asked. Aren't you going to render assistance? "Oh, all right."

"This is going to hurt," she said, lifting a corner of the duct tape. "I'll just rip it off in one smooth," and hopefully excruciating, "move. Okay?" She waited for his response. "I know you can't talk, Frederick, but you can blink or cross your eyes or something. This is no time to learn manners or turn passive." She sat back on his chest.

After a moment, she said, "Okay, here goes." She ripped the tape off his mouth.

The Third's head lolled to one side at a difficult angle.

It should have hurt, yet he didn't mutter a sound. The Third always had something to say.

Something was not kosher. She placed her hands on either side of his face and turned his head in line with her. His eyes stared directly at her.

Calliope cocked a brow wondering what was the matter. He should have regained consciousness by now. Painter's Coveralls had hit The Third's head hard against the floor, though. Ceramic didn't give. Maybe he had slipped into a coma.

As seconds ticked past, she grew increasingly alarmed. Her heartbeat picked up speed, every beat coming faster and harder than the last. Her fingers shook as perspiration broke out on her forehead. She wiped away the sweat with her forearm and slapped his face a couple more times. When he still didn't respond, and as much as it terrified to do, she checked for a pulse.

None.

Chapter Eighteen

Groggily, Noah answered Dallas's phone on the bedside table. "Yah," he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes and slipping his legs over the side of the bed.

"Noah, it's Abbott. Can you come to Villa Maria-Sedona? It looks like my mother apprehended The Crucifix Killer for you."

He came fully awake and alert. "Say what?"

Abbott repeated his news and gave Noah directions to the complex.

"I'm on my way," he said and hung up.

Beside him, Dallas stirred. "What is it?"

"That was Abbott." Noah told her what happened.

She sat up, ramrod straight. "What?"

He ran around the room, getting into clothes as he found them. " Yeah, no kidding."

"I'm coming with you."

The parking lot at Villa Maria-Sedona was packed with resident and visitors vehicles, ambulances and police cruisers. Noah created a parking space by situating his truck partly on the lawn and partly on the asphalt.

They hopped out of the truck. Dallas said, "I have jurisdiction."

"I haven't forgotten."

"Let me do the talking."

Noah nodded.

At the main entrance, Dallas flashed her badge at the uniformed cop standing watch at the front door. She pointed to Noah. "He's with me."

The cop nodded. "Straight through the hallway, ma'am. Second last door on your left."

Dallas read his nametag. "Thanks, Officer Burke."

She led the way through the double doors and into the main lobby toward the hallway. Noah's excitement was contagious. She knew how he felt. The Crucifix Killer was a clever murderer and if this were true, that he was caught, then his incarceration would mean one less maniac on the streets. It wouldn't matter who apprehended him, and that included eighty-year-old, one-hundred-ten pound little old ladies.

Abbott caught sight of them and met them halfway through the hallway. "I still can't believe it." He ran his fingers through his hair.

"Tell us what happened," Noah said.

"Off the record. Friend to friends?" Abbott looked from Noah to Dallas.

Noah nodded at Dallas. She returned the nod to Abbott.

Abbott guided them to a dark, secluded area next to the rear entrance. "The police already questioned my mother before I arrived, but, as her attorney, I will censor all further questions from the police. Understood?"

Noah and Dallas murmured their understanding with an 'okay'.

After a long swallow, Abbott related what happened as Calliope had told him. "I think you'll agree once you study the crime scene she's telling it true. She protected the victim."

Neither Noah nor Dallas made any comment.

"Where is your mother now, Abbott?" Noah asked.

"At home in their suite. My father's with her."

"Was there anyone else at the crime scene besides your mother?" Noah asked.

"My father." Abbott massaged the back of his head. "Mom ran to their suite and brought him back to the Thornhill's, then they ran back to their suite to phone for the ambulance."

Nothing like traipsing through a crime scene to contaminate it, Noah thought. He caught the sigh mid-way out his mouth. Even if Abbott didn't practice criminal law, he at least knew the basics of crime scene investigation.

Noah unwrapped a stick of gum and folded the piece into his mouth. "Why don't you stay with your mom while Dallas and I have a look at the scene?"

"Fine," Abbott said.

"I'll lead," Dallas said as she entered the Thornhill suite with Noah in tow.

"I hear you."

She walked up the uniformed cop standing at the entrance to the living room. "Who's in charge?" she asked, draping the chain holding her badge around her neck.

"Detective Hayes. He's inside." The cop jerked his head over his shoulder.

Dallas turned to Noah as they walked into the room. She stopped and looked up at him. "Hayes is the lead on Katie's case."

"I remember." Noah also remembered the detective's copious notes. He appeared to know his way around a crime scene and investigation.

Noah absorbed the scene. A tall man, who Noah took as the medical examiner, was inserting a thermometer in, judging from Abbott's description of the elderly man, Thornhill's liver.

Another body, wearing painter's coveralls, which according to Abbott's theory was The Crucifix Killer, lay beside him with a silver crucifix protruding from his chest.

"Detective," Dallas said, indicating Hayes to Noah.

Hayes walked over to them.

"Gene, this is my husband, Noah Madill," Dallas said. "He's―"

"I know who he is." Hayes looked at him and smiled. "You're the man who took two bullets defending his partner a ways back in the Ramsey matter. A difficult case, that one. But you got to the bottom of it, didn't you?" Gene stuck out his hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

Noah shook his hand, feeling a mite shy with the praise.

"And now you've got yourself another hard case. I read about it. It may be, though, we got your man."

"Has he been Id'd yet?" Noah asked.

Hayes checked his notes. "Harold Dunn. Ran the name through the computer and it seems he's the nephew of Jacob Dunn, who committed suicide after he was convicted of fraud and embezzlement. The old feller on the floor was the uncle's partner and who, coincidentally, not only testified against Dunn but was instrumental in the charges being laid against him."

"Has the Doc anything to say?" Noah asked, remembering how tight-lipped Max was and wondering why he was at the crime scene. Hampstead should have its own ME.

"Thornhill's been dead for at least an hour. He can't find any visible means of death, but intimated natural causes so far, but that can change. Now, Dunn, it looks like he done killed himself by falling on the crucifix. How's that for poetic justice?"

"So the blow to the back of the head didn't kill him?" Noah asked.

"The doc said it wasn't even enough to render him unconscious, probably only momentarily deterred him, but enough to make him fall forward, thus the cross into the chest."

To Noah, it looked like Calliope was off the hook, but he asked anyway. "Accidental death?"

"Dunn, yes."

"And Thornhill?"

"That'll depend on the results of the toxicology tests. The Doc smelled a bitter almond-like scent on his breath." Hayes rocked on his heels and sucked in his cheeks.

"Cyanide." Noah's stomach took a nosedive. He remembered what Calliope had said at the precinct a few days ago about The Third: The man should be shot! He's a cantankerous bastard who never gives his wife, my BFF, a moment's peace!

Calliope, what did you do?

Hayes cleared his throat. "Apparently, the deceased and Fenwick didn't get along. They fought constantly and always over how he treated his wife, Mrs. Fenwick's best friend. Glued his butt to a chair once, and another time fed him six squares of a laxative saying it was Belgian chocolate. See any pattern emerging here? Something that might escalate from a prank to something more serious."

Noah made no comment. "Where's Thornhill's wife?"

"No one seems to know. The administrator is checking on her whereabouts now."
Chapter Nineteen

Six weeks later....

Noah read the note from Hayes attached to a copy of the toxicology report on Thornhill.

~~Noah,

Thought you might be interested in seeing this. Get a load of the amount of lorazepam Thornhill had in his system.

I had a talk with the ol' folks at the Villa and, with the exception of Dottie Armstrong, all the women admitted to crushing a sedative and slipping it into Thornhill's ground coffee beans, unbeknownst to each other. One pill would have relaxed him, but seven at the one time done did him in!

I'm guessing the old man went out extremely relaxed and with a smile on his face.

One last thing—the cyanide. Doc found undigested apple core and seeds in Thornhill's stomach. Mrs. Thornhill said her husband ate at least three apples a day, eating everything, stem and all. As I'm sure you're aware, cyanides are produced by certain bacteria, fungi and algae and are found in a number of foods and plants, which would include apple seeds.

This case is officially closed.

~~ Gene

Noah chucked the report to one side of his desk and grinned.

Go figure.

* * * *

Calliope assembled The Saving Grace Brigade in the solarium. Acting as chair, she banged the gavel against the solid surface of the coffee table. "This meeting is brought to order." When she was satisfied she had the attention of all seven women, she said, "The first order of business is to change the brigade's name. The floor is open to suggestions."

She sat back in the overstuffed chair and listened to the ideas of her cohorts. After a moment, her mind drifted to the change in Gracie now that The Third was no longer making her life a misery.

Silently, she examined the life of each of the women of the Villa, deciding quickly on whom to assist next.

The Brigade would soon learn what Calliope knew ― Dottie Armstrong was being mistreated by her husband.

The Brigade would not tolerate such behavior.

THE END

