 
WITH MALICIOUS INTENT

By

Bliss Addison

Published by Bliss Addison

© 2007 Bliss Addison. All Rights Reserved

First Electronic Edition August 2007

Second Electronic Edition June 2012

Cover Design Annie Melton

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 this 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.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Summary:

Love can be murder...

After a grueling year of blending in at McIntyre & Montgomery, legal secretary Shannon Murphy is determined to keep her life on an unfettered keel. Fate, however, has something else in mind for her. An accidental introduction to handsome Zachary Hogan lands her in the face of his ex-girlfriend, who is intent upon winning him back at any cost, including murder, and a million dollar inheritance makes Shannon the prime suspect in the death of her generous benefactor.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter One

The tires squealed as the Jeep Cherokee careened around a turn, speeding past the Sandy Point town limits. Shannon clutched the armrest and ogled Will behind the steering wheel, praying he wouldn't get them both killed.

Normally, she would be discussing the day's events with him to pass the time: How so-and-so thought miracles could be bought with hourly fees, and Will carping he wasn't a miracle worker, he was a lawyer. And she'd commiserate: What was the jerk thinking? Or how what's-her-name thought she was his only client. And she'd sympathize: The gall of some people.

But there was none of that.

She suspected Will's contemplative manner stemmed more from who the client was than the rush to finalize the property transaction. She'd ask if she thought he'd be straight with her.

She squirmed in the seat.

"I know I'll regret asking, but what's the matter?"

"I need to go to the bathroom."

"You should have gone before we left the office."

"You didn't give me time, remember? Didn't you say something like, 'Get your coat and let's boogie' after we finished the paperwork?" She paused to tug on her ear. "But you've got a point, because I sure wouldn't want a bear licking my butt while I'm squatting on the side of the road."

He turned and looked at her. "That's an image I could've done without, thank you very much."

"Why? I have a cute behind. I'm sure you noticed."

Will wisely had no comment.

She grinned. "The weatherman said it'll rain overnight. A low pressure's moving in from the east. Winds will be light to moderate with a temperature in the mid-fifties." She fingered the St. Christopher medal hanging on a gold chain around her neck.

He slowed, shifted into first gear, and turned onto a rutted narrow path off Highway 111. Unkempt grass brushed the undercarriage of the car.

"Are you nervous, carrot top?"

"Me? Nervous? Nooo. Not nervous at all. No sirree."

"If you say so."

He maneuvered the vehicle over untended farmland, trampling saplings and immature alders in their path. The headlights shone on a barn, what must have been a Cadillac of barns in its day, but now nothing more than a heap of rotting timber and rusting metal. The structure listed heavily to one side, something a fierce wind would one day put out of its misery.

"I don't know why you couldn't have dropped me offffff – " Her head smacked the roof as the truck plunged into a crevice. Good restraints, these seat belts. She massaged the top of her head. "At my apartment."

He eased off the accelerator and pulled the Jeep to a stop, but left the engine running. "Believe me, I would have if there'd been time."

A gust of wind slammed into the vehicle, bringing with it the first drops of rain. "The weatherman was right." She pointed to the windshield.

"Uh-huh." Will checked his watch.

She switched on the radio. "This is Jeff Aube at C100, your oldies, but goodies station. It's two minutes to midnight, the witching hour – " Will flicked the off button.

Drumming her nails on her purse, she looked out the rain-peppered windshield. "Closing a property purchase in two days must be a record for you, huh?"

"I had to do the title search myself." He turned on the windshield wipers.

"Title searching beneath you now?"

"No, I'm simply saying because of the two day closing I had to search the title myself." He shrugged. "I didn't expect the title searcher to drop everything to my search."

"Why did your client want to meet with you here rather than at the office in the morning?"

"This is the only available time he had. Otherwise, I would've had to fly to Augusta. And the closing is tomorrow, so – "

"That makes sense, but why here, in the middle of a field, in the middle of nowhere?"

"Have you forgotten Sandy Point doesn't have an airstrip?"

"Sandy Point doesn't have a lot of things." Her eyes followed the precision movement of the windshield wipers as the patter of rain competed with the intermittent squeak of rubber against glass.

"True, but this is the land my client is about to purchase. I suppose there's some significance to that."

"Peehew." She pinched her nostrils. "Smells rotten to me."

"Uh-huh, and you're always right."

"Right you are." Several moments passed before she realized the sound of her heart in her ears overpowered the hum of running motors. "What does your client plan on doing with the land? What time is it now? Did you bring an umbrella with you?"

Will looked at her and grinned. "I dunno, midnight, and no."

Just then a thunderous _whuup_ , _whuup_ , _whuup_ came from above them.

Shannon and Will looked skyward through the windshield at the helicopter.

"I never did anything like this when I worked for Edward," she said, watching the helicopter circle once before touching down. "Is this a first for you too, Will?" She looked over at him, waiting for him to answer. He didn't. She turned her attention back to the idling chopper and watched the cargo doors slide open. She held her breath when two men leapt into the tall grass, their trench coats balooning in the wind from the swirling helicopter blades.

When the craft shut down, Will said, "I guess that's my cue." He reached behind him and took hold of his attaché case from the rear seat.

"Do you want me to come with you?" _Click_ went the seat belt.

"No."

"You didn't need to bite my head off. I simply asked. You might need my help."

He grunted.

"Don't say I didn't ask."

When Will hopped from the truck, she looked more closely at the two men and noticed the bulges beneath their coats. Not genetic endowments, but guns, she'd bet. Uzis, probably. What had Will gotten her involved in? Fear took hold of her, its grasp fierce and relentless. She cleared her throat, hoping to stave off the panic attack, which she was certain was not a panic attack at all, but a prelude to a heart attack. But did Dr. Lane listen to her when she told her these symptoms were mini-heart attacks? No. She merely smiled and insisted the 'palpitations -chest-constriction-shortness-of-breath that you think precede heart attacks was anxiety and suggested she leave the medical diagnoses to her. Shannon had wanted to sock her and, if Dr. Lane were beside her now, she would smack her.

This was the same Dr. Lane, Shannon reminded herself, who did her internship while pregnant, gaining eighty-three pounds and bloating to the size of a whale and feeling fortunate when she could grab two hours of sleep a night. Maybe she should get a second opinion. Yes, that's it. A second opinion. A male doctor, this time. If she survived the night, she'd do just that.

Moisture formed on her upper lip. She felt light-headed. What did Dr. Lane tell her to do at these times? She couldn't remember. What she did know was that she was too young for panic attacks and Peter was to blame. If it weren't for what he'd put her through this past year, she wouldn't be experiencing this anxiety.

Think pleasant thoughts, Shannon. Breathe. Take a long, slow breath in through the nose. Hold. Count to three. One...two...three...Let out the breath through the mouth. Relax.

Slowly, her breathing returned to normal and she was able to get comfortable.

A movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. She turned in time to see a third man, dressed in a dark two-piece suit, jump from the craft and shake Will's hand. The client, she presumed, and watched them open attaché cases on the floor of the cargo hold. Pens were withdrawn then from breast pockets, and both client and lawyer executed the documentation. "The Suit" handed Will an aluminum case.

And with no more than that, the two gun-toting Mafioso brutes and the Suit boarded the aircraft.

Will took no time darting back to the truck.

She opened the driver's door. He plopped onto the seat, tossed the cases in the back, and wiped his rain-drenched face with a tissue. He threw the vehicle into gear, and they sped from the scene of that unprecedented property closing; at least for her.

"I would have whupped their asses if they'd tried to hurt you, Will. I know Jujitsu – well, I've only had one lesson, but the Sensei said I show promise."

"Uh-huh."

"I wish I could be a fly on the wall when you try to explain this to your partners tomorrow."

He scowled.

She smiled.
Chapter Two

The following morning, Will sat before the senior partner, Peter Montgomery, in his spacious and handsomely decorated office. He thought about the events of last night. It might be nothing more than a simple real estate deal, he told himself. It didn't mean Rossi wanted him as his lawyer for future business. His mind flashed on the briefcase of money. How often did his clients pay for land purchases in cash? Nada. But it didn't mean he laundered money for the mob. Maybe he looked for trouble where there was none. Unable to shake an uneasy feeling, he told himself not to think about it. Idiotic advice if he ever heard it.

"Judging by the look on your face, you're about to tell me something I'm not going to like." Peter brought himself forward in his chair.

Will ran a hand through his hair and cleared his throat, but before he could say anything, Peter spoke.

"Are we being sued?"

"No, no, nothing like that," Will said, thinking if only. A lawsuit he could handle.

"Talk to me." Peter took a sip of coffee.

Will began at the beginning. "Two days ago I got this call from the executive assistant of a Vincent Rossi." Three minutes later, Peter was privy to everything about the transaction.

"And that as they say, is the long and the short of it."

"And nothing up to that point struck you as weird?" Peter asked, cocking a brow.

Will inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly. "Hindsight is twenty-twenty."

"Let's hope Rossi doesn't send more work your way."

"If he does, I'll plead a heavy work load and politely decline his offer."

Peter nodded. "How's everything going? Any problems with Shannon?"

"Actually, no," Will said after a moment of thought. "She's everything a lawyer could ask for in a secretary. And then some."

"She was with you when you met with Rossi?"

"Uh-huh." Will wondered where that question led.

"A word of advice?"

Will shrugged. "Sure."

"I wouldn't mention to Edward you took her with you. He became quite attached to the girl while she worked for him, and for whatever reason, he's protective of her." Peter shook his head. "I don't understand it, but that's the way it was and still is for that matter."

"Point taken." Will nodded.

"Changing the subject, I told Jamie Burhoe he could use Shannon until we set him up with a secretary."

"Sure, no problem."

"One more thing. What do you think about offering the staff flu shots this fall? It would certainly pay off in the long run. You know, absenteeism is a costly expense to the firm what with having to hire outside help because our secretaries are out sick. We then have not one salary to pay in sick leave, but another. The money we expend for the shots would pay for itself."

"You don't think the staff will question our motives and decide it's more to our benefit than theirs?"

Peter picked up his coffee mug and looked at Will over the rim. "We're lawyers. We could make it seem like it's not."

***

So much had changed for Shannon in the six months since Edward's retirement. Take Will's office, for example. In other circumstances, being the newest partner, he would have had the smallest office. But since he took over Edward's practice, he inherited his expansive office, and oddly, her as well.

Degrees and diplomas formed an impressive arrangement on the wall where once pictures of Edward's children in various stages of development graced the area.

In one corner, a fiddle leaf fig replaced Edward's life-size statue of a Golden Labrador Retriever, named Darrow. On the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the bay, vertical blinds replaced the heavy brocade drapes Edward favored. The first order of business for Will, though, had been to throw Edward's antiquated wooden chair into the dumpster, whereupon he purchased, at the firm's expense, a black leather executive chair worthy of his stature.

Oh, he did his best to make the space his own, but Shannon would always consider it Edward's office.

"I'm sorry I got you involved in that last night," Will said.

"No need to apologize. It was fun." The most fun she'd in a long time, in fact. "I do have a question, though."

"What's that?"

"Tell me how you can rotate your head like you did without breaking your neck." She smiled.

"Ha. Ha." Will crossed his arms against his chest. "Oh, by the way, freckles, I'll be sharing you with the new associate, Jamie Burhoe, for awhile.

Alarm bells went off in Shannon's head. "Whose idea is that? Mr. Montgomery's, I bet." What was he up to this time? For a brief time, before the feud, before things got out of hand, she thought Peter had liked her. She couldn't have been more wrong.

"What happened between Peter and you, anyway? I've detected a certain...shall we say, vindictiveness on his part toward you."

She took a deep, soothing breath and shook her head. "The man had it in for me almost immediately after I started working here. Don't ask me why. I still don't understand it. Am I not cute and smart and everything a lawyer wants in a legal secretary?" She held up a hand. "Don't answer. Anyway, for whatever reason, he made it his mission to get me fired. I fought back. I guess you could say I won because I'm still here." She smiled goofily.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side."

She sighed. "How long will I be shared this time?"

"A few days."

Uh-huh. That's what they always said. It had been her experience that days stretched into weeks and weeks into months when a secretary was _loaned_ out. It was the only part of her job she disliked. "I haven't worked for a new associate since Up-Chuck-Charles. New associates are always... _writing_ things and always wanting them typed toute suite. Then they're always changing them once they _are_ typed. They're indecisive and a pain in the butt," she said.

"Working for associates too good for you now?"

"Touché." Her remark to him last night about title searching hadn't been forgotten. She hadn't thought it would. "Once a girl's worked for the best, anyone less takes a little getting used to."

"You're just full of it this morning, aren't you?"

She grinned. "That time of the month, I guess."

He rubbed his forehead. "You just never know what's going to come out of your mouth, do you?"

She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed when he put his hand in the air.

"Please, I don't need to know." He set his hand down on the desk. "Getting back to the associate, Jamie shows promise of being a good lawyer. You shouldn't have any problem with him."

"I didn't know there was such a thing as a good lawyer. You know something I don't?"

"You're the smart one. Figure it out."

***

Shannon was called back into Will's office when he arrived from closing the property transaction. She could tell he was still unnerved by his new client and seemed to want to put an end to the matter as quickly as possible. He dictated Rossi's covering letter with precise detail and an eye to anticipate even the most diminutive of minutiae that could recoil with the elasticity of a bungee cord back in his face. Even his dictation seemed to take on a new dimension as each of his words, no matter how small or inconsequential, flowed from his mouth with precise diction. She wisely kept her observations to herself.

"Package up Rossi's attaché case and send the whole shebang to him at the same time. By courier, too, I think."

"Sure. And would you like me to add at the end of Mr. Rossi's letter: Thanking you for giving me the opportunity to assist you in this matter and if, in the future, I can be of any further assistance to you and your associates or your mob-affiliated companies, please do not hesitate to contact me."

"Ha ha. This letter is to take precedence over anything else you have on tap, and I'd like it done immediately."

"Of course. I want to put this puppy to bed with due haste, as well."

Chapter Three

Shannon ran up the steps of the Rocmorra Senior Care Home, opened the door, hurried past reception and through the hall. Celia's summons worried her. It could only mean one thing – bad news.

She jammed her hands in the pockets of her jacket and reminded herself to touch as little as possible. Since she contracted the mother of all flu's in January, she paid more attention to health risks. A whiff of disinfectant wafted toward her, but that didn't eradicate all of the microorganisms floating in the air.

In this wing of the one hundred-bed facility, many of the residents were bedridden and needed feeding tubes, blood sugar monitoring and insulin. Those who weren't confined to their beds required help getting dressed, going to the bathroom, and eating.

For the past six months, she visited the home regularly, distributing her time among those seniors who received no visitors. Celia proved the most entertaining, though, with her stories of pre and postwar eras. She never laid eyes on the woman before that time but now felt she'd always known her.

Up until a year ago, before the stroke, Celia was a spry eighty-two-year-old. Now the smallest of things gave her trouble. How many times in the past six months had Celia wished for God to take her? As much as Shannon would miss her friend, she wanted that for her, too.

On the periphery of her worrisome thoughts, she heard a door alarm ringing and the sound of crepe-soled shoes speeding across the floor. Down the hall and to her left a feeding tube pump beeped and to her right a patient hollered, "Stupid bitch, I want my whiskey now not later."

She rushed into Celia's room. "Mrs. MacTavish?"

Celia opened her eyes and smiled. "Oh, hello, dear. Thank you for coming so fast."

"Is something the matter? Do you need anything? The stores are closed now, but I can get whatever you need tomorrow." She peered into her friend's ancient, weathered face.

"That's so sweet of you, but I don't need anything."

"Then why – "

"I just wanted to see you. Is that all right?"

"Of course, it is." Though Shannon was relieved, Celia's rheumy eyes, almost buried beneath wrinkles, caused her concern.

"Would you read to me?" Celia looked at the bookshelf and furrowed her brows, her eyes all but disappearing beneath the folds of skin.

"Sure. Dickinson?"

"Yes. Would you put another blanket over my feet, dear?"

Shannon grabbed a thermal blanket from the top of the dresser, then opened a drawer, took out a pair of woolen socks and stuffed them under the waistband of her jeans.

"There you go, Mrs. MacTavish." She laid the blanket – folded twice – across Celia's feet. Taking the book in her hand, she sat and waited.

"My feet are still cold," Celia said on cue.

She slipped the socks on Celia's feet. Sitting back down, she opened the book at the marker and read, "A narrow fellow in the grass occasionally rides; you may have met him – did you not? His notice sudden is." Without looking up from the book, she took her friend's hand in hers.

***

In the bedroom in the semi-darkness, Zachary Hogan hurriedly dressed. He hoped to make it out of the apartment without waking her. It didn't shame him to admit it – he was afraid of her, afraid she might take her anger and frustrations out on him again. Even so, he couldn't resist the urge to watch her sleep. Her body had felt good against his, he admitted. Like it used to.

She stirred.

Christ. He quick stepped toward the door.

"Were you leaving without saying good-bye?" Francine flicked on the bedside lamp and propped herself against the pillows.

He turned. Her stare tingled his toes, his pulse raced. She could still enrapture him. God help him, but she had a hold on him he couldn't overpower. "I didn't want to wake you. I've got to go."

"Why don't you stay the night?"

"I can't. You know why."

She dusted the air with her hand. "Yeah, yeah. You need space. You need time to sort things through. You need to think. You need to reevaluate our relationship. Blah, blah, blah. I heard it all before."

He moved to the bed – a sad-looking piece of furniture with a saggy mattress and an antiquated spring for support, something they'd picked up at Goodwill. He kissed her forehead. How could a she-devil smell like rose petals caught on a balmy breeze?

"I love you," she said.

He knew all too well Francine confused love with obsession and possession.

"I love you, too." Uncomfortable as he was with the lie, he let it hang in the air.

"What happened to us, Zack? We used to be so happy."

No, he corrected. You were happy. I was miserable. But that was the way it was with Francine. She never remembered the arguments, the lies she told, the fits of rage which ended with him in ER. It infuriated her if everything didn't go her way.

"Yes. We were." Maybe at one time and only for a little while.

"I won't wait for you forever, you know." She slid from beneath the sheet and struck a seductive pose on her stomach, one leg bent in the air.

Though he couldn't stand the thought of another man raising his daughter, a part of him wished she would meet someone.

Wanting to part amicably, he apologized for cutting their interlude short and kissed her.

She rolled onto her back and locked onto his lips, sucking his tongue into her mouth.

He broke away. "I really have to leave," he whispered against her mouth. "I have an early appoint – "

"Fine. Go, you fucker." She pushed him backward.

He stumbled a few feet before getting his footing.

"You got what you wanted, now go." Throwing herself against the pillows, she wrapped the sheet around her and glared at him.

What Zachery truly wanted tonight or any other night wasn't sex, but to see his little girl. He visited her as often as Francine allowed. If during those times, she wanted him to perform, as she often did, he cooperated. He felt so...used.

He bowed his head. "Francine, please."

She lunged for the lamp and swung it high above her head.

"You'll wake – "

The lamp whizzed past his head, within an inch of connecting with scalp, and landed on the carpet.

"Go," she hissed. "That's all you care about is the fucking children."

No, I care about you, too, he thought. He had tried to help her. But she didn't think she was sick. He tried being reasonable with her, but how could he be rational with an irrational person?

He sped from the bedroom and risked a peek at his five-year-old daughter asleep in the next room. From the doorway, he watched her chest rise and fall with the spirited rhythm of her breathing. Tendrils of blond curls framed her face. His heart soared and ached at the same time, as it always did when he gazed upon his daughter. He glanced at the other little figure asleep in the crib next to Ginnie's bed. The sixteen-month-old toddler, Adam, wasn't his child, but he worried for his safety, too. How could he leave the children in the care of a lunatic? What kind of man was he?

He blew his daughter a kiss. "Sleep tight."

Tears blurred his vision when he slid into his loafers and walked to the front door.

Outside, the spring air captured him in a soothing embrace. He looked over his shoulder and breathed a sigh of relief to see Francine wasn't chasing after him.

He settled behind the steering wheel of his beat-up Honda and rolled his head around on his tense shoulders.

"You'll be sorry," Francine had said when he left six months ago.

And he was. Not only because he left his daughter in Francine's hands but also because he lacked the stamina and courage to stay.

He had tried to do something to help his daughter, only to learn he butted a mule when it came to the Department of Family Services.

"Can you prove your daughter is being mistreated, neglected, or abused by her mother?" the social worker had asked.

No, he couldn't prove it. All they had was his word.

"Not good enough," the social worker said.

Not good enough? What proof did they need before they would act? A broken bone? Bruises and welts that could not be blamed on a little girl tripping and falling?

The many times he went to see Francine's social worker, she always rushed him out the door like she wasn't interested in hearing that a child – a child she was paid to protect – might be in danger.

The Sandy Point Police Department's Children's Safety proved another concrete median.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hogan, there's nothing we can do for you. Bring us proof, then we'll act."

How could he prove Francine was vile and wicked and mentally abused the children when she appeared so sweet and innocent? How did you prove a Hyde complex? He'd surely like to know.

The lawyer he went to see had asked, "Do you have twenty-five thousand dollars, Mr. Hogan? Because that's what it will cost to go to court to fight for custody of your daughter. Even then, there's no guarantee you'll win. I can count on the fingers of one hand how many fathers have been awarded custody of their children throughout the country. It's very difficult to take a child away from its mother. Bring me proof, bring me cash, Mr. Hogan, then we'll talk."

Unfortunately, Zachary didn't have a lawyer assigned to him free of charge like what was provided for welfare recipients. Part of his taxes went toward that social program and because he worked for a living he couldn't afford a lawyer to fight for custody of his daughter. How ironic was that?

At least Family Court ordered that Ginnie visited with him every second weekend with liberal access in between.

All he could do until he acquired the proof the authorities needed to grant him custody – God forbid he ever did – or the twenty-five thousand dollars the lawyer required to commence legal action for sole custody was to ensure his daughter's safety as best he could.

He took his lawyer's advice and kept a log of Francine's telephone calls to his mother. He taped those conversations where Francine called her vulgar names and accused her of coming between them, the death threats, the warnings that neither of them would ever see Ginnie again. The tapes were tucked away in a safety deposit box, for all the good they would do.

Sergeant Norris Smythe, of the Sandy Point Police Department, refused to listen to the recordings. "Did you have the permission of Ms. Barnes to tape these conversations?" he asked instead. "If you didn't, they're not admissible in court."

Why did he go to such lengths to prove Francine an unfit mother if his efforts served no purpose?

Francine was too clever for him – a frightening admission. More frightening, though, was that she was too clever for the authorities. Of the many things he learned over the past five years, the fact that Francine knew the law and how to implement it to her best advantage was the most frightening of all. She probably knew the laws regarding welfare recipients, children, and custody better than the social workers, police, and lawyers.

How could he convince anyone this petite young woman with pixie-cut blond hair, the bluest of eyes, small upturned nose, wee mouth, and dimpled chin was anything but sweet and demure?

He fingered the twelve stitches on his hand. What caused her to explode that time? Oh yes, she wanted money, money to party, money for leather pants, money for a manicure, money for...he couldn't remember now. When he said he was broke – the God's truth – she sliced him with a butcher knife.

Zachary covered his face with his hands and cried.

Chapter Four

Jo's Java was brightly lit, and all but empty when Shannon stopped for a cup of cocoa on her way home from visiting Celia. She paid for her order and looked over her shoulder at the other customer sitting at a table in the middle of the diner.

"Here you go, Shannon."

"Thanks, Nadine," she said, taking hold of the mug. She turned, walked a few feet and sneezed. Continuing toward a booth, she was rummaging through her purse for a tissue when her foot collided with something solid and unyielding. In the next instant, the cup flew from her fingers and she was flying through the air and belly-flopping on the grimy floor. She landed heavily, the air rushing from her lungs.

She could hear a chair scraping the tile floor followed by rapid footsteps.

"Are you all right?" a man asked.

"I...uh...I think so." She turned over and sat up.

"Let me give you a hand," the stranger said, grabbing her arm and pulling her upright.

Nadine ran to her, clearly alarmed.

"I'm fine," Shannon said before Nadine could ask.

"You're sure?"

"Yes." Feeling more embarrassed than hurt, she brushed off her knees.

"I'll clean up this mess," Nadine said.

Shannon nodded and looked at the handsome stranger at her side.

"I'm Zachary Hogan, the oaf whose feet you tripped over. Maybe you should sit."

"Shannon Murphy," she said. "I think I will."

"I'll get you a refill. Cocoa, right?"

"Uh-huh." She sat, took two wet naps from her purse and cleaned her hands.

Seconds later, he placed a steaming mug on the table in front of her.

"Thanks."

"The least I can do."

Right. She looked down at his feet when he turned to sit. Size twelve's. How could she not have tripped over them?

"So, Shannon Murphy, are you from around here?"

Oh dear, he wanted to chat. She was horrible passing the time of day with anyone and always managed to say the wrong thing. She'd keep what she said simple. "Uh...uh-huh."

"A woman of few words. I like that." He smiled.

Lord, if he only knew. She looked across the round Formica table at him. His smile would make any woman's blood sear. It wasn't just that, though. Thick, blond brows arched over long-lashed blue eyes. Soulful eyes. The rest of the package wasn't bad either. But not nearly as gorgeous as Peter, she thought, unable to stop herself from making the comparison. Damn the man for getting to her like he had. He was in her dreams, in her thoughts and there was nothing she could do about it.

She massaged her elbows, thinking how much she'd like a hot bath. Before she knew it, she was on her feet and saying, "I really must be going."

"I'll walk you home. It's the least I can do."

"I..." He's a stranger _,_ she reminded herself. But a stranger she'd like to see again. How could she refuse his kindness without insulting him? "It's not necessary."

"I insist."

What could she say? "Well, okay."

"Where do you live?" he asked as he placed his hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the exit.

What was she doing letting a stranger walk her home? She must have bumped her head, too. He spoke well, and dressed nattily. He was a gentleman, she told herself. He had to be, right?

Out on the sidewalk, she looked back at the diner. "There's really no need – "

"I'd like to know you got home safely."

Shannon didn't see any polite way to refuse him. "I live at the Carlton Arms."

"So, Shannon, do you work?"

What do you know about this guy, Shannon? He could be dangerous. Despite her fears, she answered, "Yes."

"Is your work interesting?"

She giggled. "I work for lawyers. What could be interesting about that?" Man, could she tell him stories.

"Do you enjoy what you do?"

"Uh-huh." She looked around. The streets were empty. A crowd was gathered around the gazebo in the square listening to a band. No one would hear her cries for help.

"That's what's important, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh."

They walked along, side by side, the moon casting their shadows on the sidewalk. Soon, and without further conversation, they arrived at the Carlton Arms.

It wasn't until the doors of the elevator in her apartment building closed that she experienced outright panic. She looked up Zachary's lanky frame out the corner of her eye, praying she wasn't wrong about his intention.

The elevator doors opened.

"You don't have to walk me to the door." Her voice quaked.

"No trouble at all."

What could she say? What could she do? She sprinted through the hall, unclipping the key ring from the handle of her shoulder bag. Before she knew it, her keys dangled from his fingers. She took a step back, staring at the weapon she no longer held. She could call out to Louise Nelson, her neighbor across the hall, but what help would a sixty-nine-year old give? She looked over her shoulder and turned to hear the _click, click_ of the dead bolts.

"Here you go, Shannon." He handed her the keys to her apartment and smiled. "I hope we meet again."

"Uh...er...yeah."

She had nothing to fear from him, after all.

***

Francine stepped from the shadows and watched them leave the diner. _She was the reason he left my bed._ She should hammer her cute little face until nothing remained but a hideous, bloody mess of spattered freckles and bone slivers.

" _No,"_ the voice in her head screamed.

Why not? The bitch deserves it.

"There are witnesses. You'll get caught. You don't want to get caught, do you?"

Of course not.

"Bide your time, like you did with the others. There'll be other opportunities. Find out her name and where she lives, then go after her."

Excellent plan.

She threw back the hood on her coat, crossed the street, and entered the coffee shop. She approached the counter and smiled at the clerk.

"Would you happen to know the name of the red-haired young woman who just left here? On her way out, she dropped her day planner. I'd like to return it to her."

"Shannon Murphy. She lives in the apartment building at the end of Main."

Francine hugged herself. She learned not only the bitch's name but also where she lived. She couldn't believe her good fortune. God gave her so much, but she needed one more thing of Him.

"Perhaps it might be better if I return it to her where she works."

"I think she's a legal secretary or something and works for those lawyers at the corner of Main and Murray."

Francine smiled at her pronunciation of lawyers. Coming from the clerk's lips, it sounded like 'liars'.

Ten minutes later, thankful no one had learned she left her children alone again, Francine stood in the living room of her apartment with a child on either side of her and pictured Zachary and his new girlfriend strolling down the street. The image infuriated her. She picked up the "Old Country Rose" China candy tray from the coffee table – a gift from Zack's mother. She hurled it into the air, barely missing Ginnie's head. The dish hit the wall, broke in several pieces and fell to the floor.

Ginnie and Adam screamed as they did so often lately. She gathered them in her arms and soothed them with a soft voice and an affectionate hug. It was not a maternal act done out of care or love. These walls could talk, she knew. Her neighbors took great pleasure in reporting her to the authorities. Damn busybodies. Nothing better to do with their time than spy on her.

"What did we do wrong, Mommy?" Ginnie asked between sobs.

Francine looked from her daughter to her son. He wasn't really black, not like his biological father. She'd been so sure Zachary would think Adam was his child. How did he know?

God was good to give her these children. How else would she be able to make the living she did without them? And the more children she gave birth to, the more money the government gave her.

An odor emanated from her daughter. Christ. She messed her pants again. What was it going to take to make the child understand her panties were not the toilet? She pushed Ginnie aside and noticed Adam prancing around without his diaper. Where did he leave _his_ bundle this time? She wouldn't worry about that now, though.

" _Yes,"_ the voice in her head said. " _The children can look after themselves. You must stop Shannon Murphy before she takes Zachary away from you. Stop her now before it's too late."_

She picked up the telephone book and flipped the pages to 'M', With her index finger, she ran down the list to 'Murphy'.

Chapter Five

Shannon looked over the head of her coworker sitting across from her and glanced at the clock on the wall of their office – 9:20. She felt uneasy, but didn't know why. A premonition of impending doom? She paid close attention to superstitions. A child of Irish ancestry would. A black cat crossing her path. A bird pecking at her window. Why only last evening after she extinguished a candle, it continued to glow. A sure omen of misfortune.

She swiveled in her chair and looked out the window at the gloomy day. If she knew it wouldn't attract attention, she'd walk around her chair three times to change her luck. But everyone in the office already thought her strange enough.

Outside her office, lawyers strode through the hallway dressed in three-piece suits in shades of either blue or gray with starched white shirts and spiffy pin-striped ties. There was no conversation. No, of course not. That would take up valuable minutes out of their productive and lucrative day that couldn't be billed.

She neatened her desk, putting pens and pencils in the holder, arranging paper clips neatly in the tray, then swiped her hand across the top and looked around the room. _Something bad awaits me._

"I need a weekend away," Abby said and groaned.

Shannon looked at her friend and coworker and smiled. "Me, too. Where to?"

"How about Augusta? We can go antiquing and whale watching and stay at the Senator Inn and Spa. We can go home at noon to pack and leave after work tonight."

"Sounds good." A weekend away was just what Shannon needed.

"We'll have to take your car, though. Mine is nothing but a rust bucket held together, I'm sure, by my fervent prayers."

"No problem." Shannon shrugged.

"Say, why don't we invite Trish and Kathy too?"

"If you want." Shannon turned toward the direction of someone clearing his throat.

"Can you come to my office, please, Shannon," Will asked from the doorway.

"Be right there."

" _Please?_ What did you do to the poor guy now?" Abby asked after Will disappeared around the corner.

"Why?"

"He looks...whipped."

Shannon giggled and grabbed her pen and pad. "I didn't do anything to him, honest to God." She crossed her heart and left to learn Will's first crisis of the day.

"What do I have on tap for today?" he asked when she entered his office.

"Good morning to you, too, Will." She sauntered toward her favorite chair. "I'm fine, thank you. How are you?"

He turned from the window, rested his forearms on the desk, and sighed. "Good morning, Shannon. How are you this morning?"

"Fine, thank you, Will. Nice of you to ask. And you?" She grinned goofily as she sat.

"Now, can we get down to business?"

She saw that today would be one of those days. "You're in a mood, aren't you?"

"Let's – "

She held up her hand. "Okay, okay, you have Shawna Smith at ten. At – "

"Shawna Smith?"

"Hugh Smith's daughter. Reference, remember?" She rapped her pen against her note pad.

"Vaguely."

"At 11:30 you have the Robinsons – "

"Property purchase?"

"My, you have a good memory." He didn't really.

He scowled.

She smiled. "Then you have the rest of the afternoon to do what you do so well and Annie Dunn wants to see you tomorrow at 2:00."

He threw his hands into the air. "Do I have to? All she wants is someone to listen to her gripes. She talks my ear off for sixty minutes about her problems, the same problems she's told me about for the last six months, I might add, then leaves. She needs a therapist, not a lawyer. You call her and tell her I'll see her the next time we see Halley's Comet."

She was right. It would be one of those days. "So, I'll tell her a more convenient time for you would be tomorrow at two, then?" It had to be half-truths and manipulation with them, pure and simple.

"Yes, that's better, Shannon. Thanks."

She returned his won-that-one smile. "I'm here to serve," she said, which earned another scowl. She ignored that one, too.

After a half hour of instruction, Will asked, "How's everything going?"

She looked up from her steno pad. Oh God, another _little_ talk. She despised them. What did she do wrong this time? "Fine," she said hesitantly.

"Good, good." He shuffled files. "I'll get right to the point."

That'll be a first.

"The receptionist brought to my attention a little while ago that a woman called yesterday asking questions about you."

"About me? Really? That's strange." Who would be inquiring about her? And why? She remembered her feeling earlier. _Something evil awaits me._

"Uh-huh."

"What kinds of questions?"

"About your friends and hobbies, along the line of, 'Shannon was so helpful to my sister when she suffered through her divorce. I'd like to do something for her. Do you know if she likes movies?' That sort of thing."

"Divorce? You don't practice family law, Will."

"You're missing the point."

She wasn't missing the point. She knew all too well what the call meant. Someone had it in for her. Again. "It's probably nothing." She didn't believe that, not for a minute.

"I thought you should be told just in case. On the one hand – "

"Just in case of what?" She crossed her legs at the knees and attempted to relax.

"In case it's not kosher."

"That sounds like a pickle."

He heaved a long breath. "In case there might be an ulterior motive behind the calls. Something threatening to you."

Goose bumps broke out on her forearms. Of course. Why would someone be gathering information about her if it weren't to threaten?

He stood, took off his suit jacket, and hung it on the coat rack. "As I tried to tell you, on the one hand it could be nothing, but then again it could be a prelude to something."

"Uh-huh. So, the lawyer in you begs that these calls be treated as questionable and with suspicion until there is an assurance of coincidence or innocence."

"You've been around lawyers too long."

"What can I say? I'm a glutton for punishment."

"Watch your butt, though, okay?"

"Are you going to watch out for it, too?" A goofy grin. She noticed Will's attention to her little behind many times.

"It's time-consuming to train a secretary."

"Yeah, right. Come on, admit it. You'd miss me." She snorted.

"About as much as I'd miss an abscess on my – "

"Oh, you are _so_ bad, William." Great. Now the image of his chubby ass would be in her mind all day.

"What can I say? You bring out the worst in me."

"I prefer to think of it as the best."

"Seriously, though, take care."

She waved a hand in the air. "I'm sure it's nothing," she said with more bravado than she felt. These past two years taught her a lot about how the minds of people, particularly lawyers, worked. The old expression, 'If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck and walks like a duck, chances are it is a...' left her reflective. She looked out the window. It couldn't be possible someone wanted to physically hurt her, could it?

Dimly she heard Will ask, "How're you doing, Ed?"

She turned away from the window, looked at her former boss and smiled.

In two long strides, Edward stood at the back of her chair. He braced his hands on each side of the wood frame. "Can I steal this little one for a short while, Richard?"

Shannon and Will looked at one another and grinned, knowing Edward's difficulty with names. Neither of them said anything.

"Please, take her out of my hair," Will said.

***

From across the oak oblong table in the conference room, Shannon appraised Edward. Nothing changed about him in the six months since he retired. Semi-retired, she corrected. His hair wasn't any whiter and still neatly cropped in a buzz cut, still the same weathered face she'd come to know and love, his posture still as straight as a dart, all six feet of it.

"How're things?"

"Fine, Mr. McIntyre. No complaints." Much to her disappointment, these "little talks" of his still evoked the same feelings of fear, anxiety, and apprehension as they had in the past, albeit to a lesser degree, she happily noted. His retirement from the firm did not subjugate the clout he still held or the rod he could still yield if need be, though.

"Cabbagehead treating you all right?"

"Will...yes, of course." See? Nothing changed. He still couldn't remember names. He never forgot, though, what mattered to him.

"Any complaints?"

Why was he beating around the bush? He never did that before. Maybe this had nothing to do with her. Maybe it was about Will's clandestine meeting with his mysterious client the other night. Maybe he learned Will had mob connections. No, that couldn't be. Not Will. What if it were true? The firm would dismiss him, then and she'd probably be forced upon some other unsuspecting lawyer in the firm just as she had been forced upon Will. Yes, she knew she was a condition of Will's partnership.

"Not a one," she said.

"Any problems?"

"Nothing I can't handle."

"I'm sure." He sighed. "I'm afraid I have some bad news for you."

"Oh?" She leaned forward in her chair. First the mysterious caller and now this _._ Being right all the time sucked.

Edward stared at the table a moment, then looked at her. "There's no easy way to say this. Celia passed away Tuesday night."

She raised a hand to her mouth, tears brimming in her eyes. "Oh, God, no." Wait. Tuesday night? Why didn't someone from the home let her know?

Edward passed her a box of tissues.

She took one and dabbed her eyes.

"Celia named you sole beneficiary of her entire estate."

"Me? Why'd she do that? I'm not a relative, and I didn't even know her that long or that well," she argued.

"I don't know."

Something occurred to her. "How did you find out about her will?"

"I happened to meet Celia's lawyer in the coffee shop this morning and he told me."

"Oh." The look on Edward's face told her there was something more, most likely something she wouldn't like. "What else aren't you telling me?"

"Were you aware Celia had a son and a daughter?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Well, they're saying you insinuated yourself into their mother's life and coerced her into changing her will. Of course, they believe themselves the rightful heirs of their mother's estate."

"They're right," she exclaimed. "Celia's estate should go them." Shannon could only imagine the stories passing through Rocmorra. The seniors probably think she was a gold digger. She did something good and look what it got her. A shit load of trouble.

"They've already gone to the police and intimated an impropriety on your part, suggesting you caused their mother's departure to the hereafter."

God Almighty. "In layman's terms, these two buggers suggested to the police I offed Celia for her money." Could it get any worse than this?

"At the moment, I'm not particularly concerned with these accusations." He shrugged. "But valid or not, sometimes just the raising of questions can cause a domino effect. Innocent events get exaggerated beyond proportion, leading then to more questions, all the while the hole gets dug deeper, pointing then to guilt rather than innocence."

Yeah, she knew all about exaggeration, misinterpretation, and guilt. All too well. In fact, she could write a book about it. "Did they say, too, how I killed her?"

"Suffocation. But, we'll know more after the results of the autopsy."

Suffocation. Of course. It wouldn't be hard to smother an eighty-two-year-old to death. Even she, five-one and one hundred pounds soaking wet, would have the strength to do that. She thought about what Edward said. "An autopsy? Is that usual in an elderly person's death?"

"I can't say it is, especially since she was under daily health care, etc, but it's within the providence of the police to order one if they feel something is suspicious."

She saw enough movies and read enough stories to know something wasn't right. "I suppose Celia's children went to the police only after they learned I was named sole beneficiary of their mother's estate."

Edward picked up a pen and fiddled with it. "That may be."

"Just how much money did Mrs. MacTavish have? Would it be enough for me to commit murder?"

"A million and some change. Judge for yourself."

"Christ." _Motive._ She stared at the floor. This was not good. Not good at all.

"Where were you Tuesday night between the hours of nine o'clock and midnight?"

She couldn't believe her ears. "Has it come to that? I'm in need of an alibi, am I?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing like that. I'm thinking this could be nipped in the bud if someone can corroborate your whereabouts after you left the home."

She stood. "Thank you for your consideration and your preemptive move, sir, but I'll have to get back to you later on my alibi."

Chapter Six

Edward entered Peter's office, nodded and sat in one of the two chairs meant for clients. He placed his coffee on the desk, crossed his legs at the knees, his arms against his chest.

"So, how's the semi-retirement going?" Peter asked. "Any complaints? Any regrets?"

"What was that?"

Peter smiled. Nothing ever changed with him. Still attention deficient, still hearing impaired. He repeated the question. "Any second-guessing on your decision to retire?"

"For the most part, I'm enjoying myself." Edward grinned. "Maureen has us enrolled in all these various classes. I thought I'd be able to go to bed late and sleep late, but my wife seems determined I not become depressed by idle hands at idle times or worse, a couch potato."

"So retirement becomes you, then."

"It certainly does my wife. She even has me line dancing. Can you imagine? Line dancing." He harrumphed.

Peter envisioned Edward in a white Stetson, blue jeans, cowboy boots, a western motif shirt and a red and white polka-dotted bow tie. He imagined an old grandpa, smiling wide, showing off healthy pink gums, his gnarled fingers plucking the strings of a banjo. _"Twirl_ _your_ _partner_ ' _round_ ' _n_ _round_ , _dosey-doe..._ " Distantly he could hear Edward's voice.

"I'm sorry, Ed, you lost me at the dance hall. What was that?"

"I asked you how everything's going here at the office. Any mutinies, uprisings, or warfare?"

Peter cleared his throat and told him about Will's new client and the property transfer.

Edward sat back in his chair. "Jesus."

"My sentiments exactly."

"I can't leave you boys unsupervised at all, can I?"

Peter chuckled. "I guess not."

"Does Will see any future business coming our way from Rossi?"

"He doesn't anticipate any, but if it does, he's prepared to refuse the work. Gracefully, of course."

"Let's hope so," Edward said. "How well do we know Will? We didn't have him investigated, if you remember. His partnership rested solely on his academic credentials and his record thus far. Impressive though it was, there could have been something covered up or hidden – like ties to the mob."

"Maybe we rushed the racehorse from the starting line on that particular matter, but the question still remains whether this was coincidence or not. Will could have been a random choice by Rossi."

"Or maybe not."

"Or maybe not." Peter shrugged. "All we can do now is wait and see, then deal, if need be."

"Keep a close and watchful eye on him, Peter, would you?"

"Sure, if that's what you want."

Edward scratched his head and told Peter about Celia's death, Shannon's visit with her prior to her death, his meeting with Chas Hamilton in the coffee shop and his subsequent call to the director of the nursing home. The details of the allegations of Celia's children followed last.

"At this point it's purely circumstantial, but it still leaves a bad taste in my mouth. What if it's murder and not the hand of fate?" He studied Peter for a moment. "It wouldn't be the first time a murder case rested on circumstantial evidence. I'm sure I don't have to remind you that prosecutors win murder convictions based on those criteria."

Peter lost himself in thought as he pictured Shannon behind the iron bars of a federal penitentiary as three two hundred-pound lesbians lunged at her tiny body, her freckled nose jammed between the bars as she plaintively pled for someone to help her. No matter how hard he tried, he could not eradicate these feelings of hostility toward her or the desire for payback for being out bested by her in a battle of wills. The need for retribution sometimes overpowered his rationale. But his desire to be with her overpowered him completely. God, how he wanted her. How warped was that?

"Do you think there's any truth to the allegations?"

"'Allegations' is right. Stated, thus far, without a shred of proof. The mere mention of malfeasance on her part is ludicrous." Edward exhaled a long breath. "What concerns me is that the allegations could very well turn into criminal charges being levied against her."

"I'm sure it won't come to that," Peter said only to soothe his friend's agitated state. He knew better than most how situations could be turned to a disadvantage. "Have you spoken to the police?"

Edward nodded and uncrossed his legs. "The detective said, according to rigor mortis and lividity, he suspects she died sometime between nine and midnight. They'll know more once the coroner makes his report."

"When will that be?"

"Early next week, from what I'm told."

"This doesn't look good. Not good at all." Peter moved a legal foolscap toward him and placed pen to paper. "Where was Shannon after she left the home?"

Edward gave his face an all-encompassing massage. "I asked, but she said she'd get back to me."

"Why wouldn't she tell you?"

Edward shrugged. "Who knows with her. I'm way beyond trying to figure out what goes on in her mind."

Peter was with him on that. Edward's attachment to Shannon caused everyone in the office, lawyers and secretaries alike, a lot of grief. "Just so you know, there could be ominous significance made with an angel of mercy scenario."

"I know. The thought's been in my mind since I spoke with the cop. It's a God's blessing the girl works for lawyers. Though I'm sure there were times in the past when she thought we were a curse and not a blessing." Edward chuckled, took a sip of coffee and stared into space. "There are people in this world who are destined to go through life without incident and those who aren't destined to do so. Shannon falls into the latter category; unfortunately, for her and everyone around her."

Peter brought himself forward in his chair and considered the allegations of the heirs. "Means, opportunity and motive."

"Uh-huh. The worst has yet to come. I feel it in my bones."

Chapter Seven

Marilyn Leger and Maxwell MacTavish paid another visit to the Sandy Point police.

Maxwell cowered behind his sister while she stood her ground with the duty officer at the front desk.

"What part of 'we want to see Detective Gray immediately' did you not understand, Officer?"

"I under – "

"If you understand, why am I still standing here?"

"As I explained – "

"Yeah, yeah, I know, Detective Gray is tied up." She exhaled a long breath. "Tell me, then, when will Detective Gray be _untied_?"

"Tomorrow."

" _Tomorrow?"_ She rolled her eyes. "Is the Chief in or is he tied up, too?"

"He's indisposed at the moment."

" _Indisposed?"_ She snorted. "Sleeping off a hangover is more like it."

"Mizzzz Leger, if you would like to leave a – "

"No, I don't want to leave him a message, I want to see him. As I said before, I have new information concerning my mother's death. You must have heard of my mother, Officer, Celia MacTavish, a generous benefactor – "

"I'm sorry, but I can't do the impossible. As I suggested, leave – "

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Leave a message. You know, you really should lay off the doughnuts." She ogled his protruding midsection. "Come on, Maxwell, let's go." She grabbed his arm and hauled him toward the exit.

"And a good riddance to you too," the cop said to their retreating backs. "And may a grumpy Rott bite _your_ fat ass."

Outside on the street, Marilyn stomped her feet.

"Marilyn, calm down," Maxwell said. "You're attracting attention."

"How can I calm down? We're about to lose everything that's rightfully ours. We've got to keep this ball rolling if we intend to get Mother's estate. The little trollop can't get away with this. I knew she was bad news the minute I laid eyes on her. We have to act now and act fast. Keep the pressure on." She threw her arms in the air. "How could Mother do this to us, Max? How could she?"

"Maybe she felt we didn't deserve her money."

"Are you out of your mind? We deserve every cent of our inheritance just for putting up with the old biddy all these years." Marilyn looked down the street while her brother, meek by nature and mild-mannered by compulsion, stared at his feet.

"Max, you haven't forgotten what Charles Hamilton told us, have you?"

"A person who intentionally and wrongfully causes the death of another person may not benefit from the death by receiving an inheritance, life insurance or other property as a result of the death. It is not a rule in the technical sense, but a blend of common law and statutory law."

"God, did you memorize that?"

"No. I just thought it was worth remembering. I want everything that's coming to me, too," he answered, his voice barely audible above the noise from the street traffic. He turned and looked at the brick structure that housed the town's administrative offices and the police station.

"We've got to make sure the police arrest Shannon Murphy for Mother's murder, Max."

"And just how do you propose to do that, Mare?"

Marilyn watched cars whiz by them. "By doing exactly what we've been doing – stoking the fire we lit under the police. We'll keep the fire going with accusations of impropriety, subtle innuendoes against her integrity and indirect accusations of her intentions. The size of mother's estate gives her motive and her frequent attendance at Mother's bedside gives her opportunity and means. It shouldn't be that hard to make them believe she killed her."

"I understand how that benefits us now, but how will that benefit us once the results of the autopsy come in and show she died of natural causes?"

"We aren't sure of that, Maxwell. I know she was old, but her death seems too...I don't know...convenient."

"I'm not sure I want to play a part in what you have in mind. Maybe you should forget the idea."

"You wuss. You really did come up short when it comes to guts, didn't you? You'd better hope my plan works because we won't get one red cent otherwise. And you, dear brother, will have no way to support your drug habits or those little boys you're so terribly fond of." She hissed and waved a finger in the air before his face.

"Can't we contest the will or something?"

"Contest the will? What about Charles Hamilton's affidavit? He swore to Mother's sane disposition at the time of the execution of her will. Mother made sure her will was boiler plate and ironclad. We wouldn't have a legal leg to stand on if we were to contest it."

"What's our next step then?"

Marilyn leaned in close and whispered in his ear.
Chapter Eight

After leaving Edward in the conference room, Shannon trudged up the staircase and into her office. She slumped onto her steno chair. She a murderer? How could anyone think that? God. It was too unbelievable.

If Celia died while she sat with her, she had nothing to fear from the police investigation or the accusations of the heirs.

On the other hand, if someone murdered Celia, and if Shannon couldn't provide the police with a solid alibi, she would need the services of Stuart "Crime's My Game" Campbell. She pictured herself behind bars after his motion for bail was denied, she being a threat to humanity and all.

That was worst-case scenario. No, worst-case scenario would be if she were found guilty of a crime she didn't commit.

Could she account for her time between the hours of nine o'clock and midnight Tuesday night? What time was it exactly when she entered the coffee shop? How long was she there? When did she arrive back at her apartment? She couldn't remember.

When she'd left the nursing home, Celia slept peacefully. Oh God. Maybe she wasn't sleeping at all. Maybe she'd already passed away. Shannon hadn't placed a mirror under her nose or laid her ear to her chest to make certain. If that were the case, then she held her friend's hand while she died.

Abby entered their office. "Peter just told me about Celia. I'm sorry."

"Thanks." Shannon brought herself forward in her steno chair. "What else did he tell you?"

"That her children are accusing you of killing her."

"Anything else?"

"That Celia left you everything. Her house, all her money – "

"Can't the man keep his mouth shut? Christ." Shannon shook her head, disgusted. She imagined he took great pleasure in reporting that news.

Abby cocked her head. "You never told me what happened between you and Peter."

"Nothing much." Especially true when she wanted so much more to happen between them; romantically, that was. And for awhile, she'd thought he wanted the same thing too. "I guess you could chalk it down to a conflict of personalities – "

"I seem to recall you telling me that reason is just a diplomatic way for saying, I'm too obstinate, ill tempered and self-indulgent to get along with anybody. Remember Scarlett Whatley, the lesbian who lusted after you, told Peter that was the reason she left Blaine, Smith when he interviewed her for my job."

Shannon shuddered. "Don't remind me. You haven't changed your mind about Augusta, have you?" Nothing or no one would ruin her weekend.

"No, and I can't wait to get away."

"God, me, too."

***

Later that afternoon, Francine looked up at the windows at the rear of McGovern House and around the parking lot. Satisfied no one watched, she threw back the hood on her coat, opened the driver's door, and climbed into the car. "Shame on you for leaving your car doors unlocked Shannon Murphy."

She pulled the switch blade from her boot, opened Shannon's luggage and worked quickly and methodically. That would surely send the little trollop the message to stay away from her man.

Zachary was hers and no one else's.

***

Soprano voices echoed in the stairwell as Shannon, Abby, Trish, and Kathy bounded down the steps at five o'clock. Earlier, they'd made a pact no one would talk shop this weekend, no complaining about clients and no complaining about their employers.

Not even the small trunk space in the front of Shannon's Beetle deterred the girls as they each took turns arranging and rearranging the luggage to fit. It took eight hands pressing down on the lid to force the latch in place, but it closed.

They checked their watches and agreed, barring any unforeseen delays, they would arrive in at the Inn around eight-thirty.

***

That evening, after Trish and Kathy left for their enjoining double room to unpack, Shannon and Abby laid their luggage on the beds.

Shannon unzipped her carryall, lifted the lid and screamed. "Omigod," she said, covering her mouth with her hand and unable to stop staring at her shredded clothing.

Abby rushed over to her as Trish and Kathy, hearing Shannon's cry, ran into the room.

"What happened to your clothes?" Abigail asked, staring at the mutilated remains.

Trish and Kathy looked over Abby's shoulder and gasped.

Shannon's repeated wails, "Omigod, omigod" prompted the girls to sit her down in a chair far away from the bed. Her breath came in bursts. Breathe, she told herself. Long, deep breaths. Concentrate. She couldn't and clutched her chest. The room spun before her eyes.

"Trish, get me a paper bag from my luggage," Abby yelled. "Hurry. She's hyperventilating."

A minute later, Shannon's breathing returned to normal. She took the bag from her mouth, leaned back in the chair and took a deep breath.

"Thanks, Abs, for being here for me again. God, I'm so embarrassed." She covered her eyes with her hands.

Abby patted Shannon's shoulder. "There's nothing to be embarrassed about. Lots of people have panic attacks."

After a few moments, she pulled herself together. Through watery eyes, she looked from one friend to the next. "Any chance whoever did this mistook my car for someone else's?"

"Your car's pink," Kathy exclaimed.

"No, it's not." It wasn't the first time someone ribbed her about the color. "It just looks that color in the sun. It's really purple."

Abby walked over to the bed, zipped the oversized tote bag, threw it into the closet, and slammed the door. "Someone obviously has it in for you, Shannon. Met anyone new lately? Like a psychopath."

"I did meet someone at the diner the other night. Zachary Hogan, but I don't think he'd do something like this, and he didn't look like a psychopath."

"You met a guy, and you didn't tell us?" the girls asked one after the other.

Shannon grinned. "Tripped over him is more like it, and I doubt I'll ever see him again." She stood and shook her head. "I still can't believe this. Who do I know besides you guys, the people at the office, the people at the senior care home, and some residents in my apartment building?"

"Like I said, someone has it in for you. What we need to figure out is who," Abby said.

"I have a feeling that's going to be easier said than done." Shannon sat back down.

"And you met no one else besides this Zachary fellow?" Abby asked.

Shannon thought for a moment. "No. No one. I'm positive."

"You've got to go to the police, Shannon," Abby said.

She pictured herself at the police station.

"What can I do for you, Ms. Murphy?"

" _This weekend some friends and I went to Augusta, and when I opened my luggage..._ Oh, the cop would pretend to listen, but all the while he'd be wondering if this wasn't something she concocted to take the heat off herself in Celia's death.

"No police."

Abby took a step back.

"I'm sorry, Abs. I didn't mean to frighten you. It's just that don't want anything to do with the police right now." The way her luck ran, she was sure they'd soon have more than enough to do with her.

Abby's stomach growled, reminding everyone how late it was and they hadn't had anything to eat since lunch. "Why don't we go down to the restaurant and discuss it over dinner?"

"Great idea," Trish agreed.

"I'm starving," Cathy said, placing a hand on her tummy.

"You're always starving," Shannon joked, poking Cathy in the ribs.

On their way out the door, Abby suggested they stop at the boutique to replace Shannon's clothes.

***

A few minutes after Shannon arrived home, Louise Nelson, her neighbor across the hall, let her herself in.

"Hi, dear. How was your trip?"

"Good." Later, she'd tell her the whole story. For now, Shannon wanted to sit and relax. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"I'd love one. I'll make it."

Louise always made tea for herself at Shannon's. She hadn't yet mastered the art of a fine brew. Louise often said, 'you have to drink tea to appreciate how to make it'.

"Oh, before I forget, I let one of your coworkers in Friday night. I didn't think you'd mind. She said she was a good friend of yours and left her day-planner here when she visited you the other night. But it wasn't here after all."

Shannon immediately became suspicious. "Did she give you her name?"

"Junie something or other."

"I don't know anyone by that name."

"A petite young thing. Blond and blue-eyed. Very sweet. I didn't think you'd mind. She was knocking on your door when I came back from grocery shopping and asked me if I knew whether you were home or not. I told her you were away for the weekend and that's when she told me about her day-planner."

Louise placed her fingers against her lips. "Oh my. It just dawned on me that if she _was_ such a good friend, she'd have known you were away for the weekend."

Shannon touched Louise's arm. "It's okay. It's fine, really, I'm sure. So, you let her in with your key to my apartment?"

"Yes, she was such a sweet young thing, I didn't see..."

"You were with her the entire time?"

"Yes."

"No harm done, then."

Who is this petite, blond, blue-eyed, sweet young girl and what the hell was she doing in my apartment?

Chapter Nine

While Abby waited for Peter to begin dictation, she thought about Shannon and her mutilated clothing. The act spoke for itself – rage. But stemming from what? Jealousy?

Someone needed to be told. Someone who knew something about something. The authoritative figure sitting across from her seemed a likely choice.

She cleared her throat. "May I speak to you on a personal level, Mr. Montgomery?"

Peter looked up from the file he reviewed, frowned and nodded.

Abby told him about Shannon's clothes and gauged his reaction. There was nothing for her to read. His face was as impassive as a cabbage. What exactly did she expect from him, a lawyer? That he'd dance a jig on his desk? Slap the palm of his hand against the side of his face and utter, "My God, my God"? Maybe Edward would have been a wiser first choice. No – God love his attention-deficient, hearing-impaired heart – she possessed little patience for him at the best of times. She couldn't imagine trying to explain this to him.

"Shannon can't see, or chooses not to see, how serious it is. I tried to talk her into going to the police, but she's adamant not to. She thinks it was a case of mistaken identity, can you imagine? Someone's got to shake some sense in her head. She wants to brush the incident aside as though it never happened. Her cavalier attitude could get her killed."

Peter jutted his chin. "And you...what? Want me to help her?"

She nodded.

"Why would I want to do that?"

She knew he'd make her grovel. "Because she's one of your employees, because she would help you if you were in trouble, and because I'd like to think we mean something to our employers." A long pause followed where Peter stared into space. She wondered what he was thinking. Whoa there, Abby. She backed up and wiped away those words. No way she wanted inside his head.

"What do you propose I do?" He furrowed his brows.

"Maybe you could talk her into going to the police?"

He shook his head. "Shannon and I have had our differences in the past. She may not be receptive to any advice from me."

He made a valid point, but Abby saw another alternative. "Maybe you could tell Edward about it then?"

Peter shuffled files, seemingly deciding whether to reconsider his decision. "Okay, okay. I'll see what I can do."

She pushed the envelope, but she needed one more favor. "Can you ask Mr. McIntyre not to tell Shannon how he found out about it? I don't want her to think I stepped where I shouldn't have."

"Just how is he supposed to do that?"

"He's a lawyer." She shrugged. "And — "

"Lawyers are supposed to work miracles. Uh-huh. Uh-huh." He shook his head. "This may come as a shock, but we don't always get things to work out the way we want."

"Can you at least ask him to try?"

He gave her a long, steady look and said, "You owe me one, Abigail."

"Uh-huh." She was sure he'd collect.

***

Peter hit one on speed dial and listened to the ring of the telephone.

"Hello."

"Ed, it's Peter. How are you this fine spring morning?"

"Irish eyes are smiling. I just wish the rest of me were." He paused. "Maureen had us horseback riding yesterday," he whispered.

Peter envisioned Edward straddling a thousand pound beast, a gun strapped to his waist, his Stetson flying off into the wind and yelling, "Whoa, Lightning."

"Peter?"

Dimly, he heard the sound of Edward's voice. "What was that, Ed? Sorry, I got waylaid at the corral."

"Why'd you call?"

"I wondered if you planned on coming into the office today."

"What was that? You're going to have to speak up. My ears are still ringing from the music at the hoe-down last night," Edward shouted.

_Hoedown?_ If this kept up, Maureen would surely kill him with good intentions. "Are you coming to the office today?" Peter enunciated each word.

"Why?"

"There's something I need to talk to you about."

"I could swing by there after the police station."

_Swing by there?_ "Police station? Someone accuse you of stealing their banjo?"

"Ha. Ha. Just keeping abreast of the investigation into Celia's death is all."

"Good idea. I doubt we'll see an indictment, but it's best to be prepared for any event."

"My thinking exactly," Edward bellowed.

***

At 11:07, Peter looked up from the papers he reviewed to find Edward standing in his office doorway. As Edward ambled – and there was no other way to describe that John Wayne entrance – toward a chair, Peter smiled.

"Learn anything new from the police?" he asked.

Edward gingerly placed his obviously aching body into a chair. "Yes, as a matter of fact I did." He shifted positions and grimaced. "Lord, I don't think I'm going to survive retirement."

"Maureen seems to be really enjoying it, though." Peter grinned.

"Sometimes I think she's the only one. Now where was I?"

"The meeting with the police."

"Oh yes, right. The coroner has officially ruled that Celia was suffocated to death."

Peter nodded. "It confirms the cop's initial finding. Time of death?"

"Between eleven and eleven thirty."

"Anything else?"

"Yes, Celia scratched her assailant, or at least the police believe she did. They found blood and skin tissue under her fingernails."

"Any scratches on Shannon?"

Edward issued Peter a look. "Have you already tried and convicted her?"

"Not at all. Just trying to determine where we stand."

"Curly red hair was found on Celia's body."

Peter shrugged. "No surprise there. Shannon's presence at Celia's bedside on the night of her death has been established."

"Uh-huh. Okay, so what we have so far is: We know Sarah spent an hour with Celia from eight to nine on the night she died. Where she was after that time, we don't know. And she's the sole beneficiary of the victim's entire estate."

Peter nodded. "Whatever way you look at it, we arrive at the same conclusion the police will – means, motive and opportunity."

"True, but it doesn't work for me. Is she capable of killing someone? No. Would the motive, the money, subscribe to the means? For some, but not for her. As for opportunity, that's been prescribed, but did she take advantage of opportunity? No." Edward stood. "I can't believe we're here proving right and reasonable Shannon's generous and compassionate acts." He huffed a frustrated breath.

"Did the police have anything further to add that we don't already know?"

"Just that Celia's daughter and son have been pushing the detective to indict Shannon, which I'm sure is an unmitigated attempt at implication on their part. Once she's been convicted of murder, they can swoop in to reap the benefits."

"Do you know if the police are looking at them as suspects, too?"

"The detective can't put either one of them at the home that night. In fact, they rarely spent any time with their mother."

"Shouldn't we put a bee in the detective's bonnet? Turn that around?"

"That's my plan, Peter." Edward stared at the floor.

"Do you know Celia's children at all?"

Edward looked over at Peter. "I've done some checking. Maxwell Robert MacTavish and Marilyn Heather Leger, nee MacTavish. Maxwell is a weenie with a propensity for drugs and young boys. Marilyn, recently divorced from husband number three, JP Leger. No children. Irreconcilable differences. Lots of bad history between them. No alimony."

Peter made notes on a legal foolscap. "I think we can rule the weenie out. Now the daughter, any behavioral problems?"

"Oh yes. Always a problem child. Minor brushes with the law. Vindictive, malicious. Spoiled. Unruly behavior. One disastrous relationship after the other."

"She seems like a prime suspect."

"I think so, too, Peter. Now, didn't you say you had another matter to discuss with me?"

Peter told Edward about Shannon's butchered clothes.

Edward ran a hand over his head. "This just gets worse and worse. Shannon might need to employ us full time instead of the other way around. Have you ever seen anyone get into more trouble without meaning to? Christ. Does what's-her-name have any idea who slashed the clothing?"

"No."

"Does Shannon?"

"Not according to Abby. Shannon doesn't have a wide circle of friends, as I'm sure you know, but she told Abby she's absolutely certain no one she knows would have done something like that."

"Maybe it's the heirs sending her a message."

"That could be, or it could be something entirely different," Peter ventured.

"Like what?"

Peter shrugged. "A stalker, maybe?"

"In Sandy Point?" Edward stared into space a moment. "That's almost unbelievable."

"Stranger things have happened in this town."

"True. Did Annabelle say what Shannon's reaction was to the clothes?"

"She thinks someone mistook her car, or that her car was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A random act of mischief." Peter crossed his legs.

"What are the odds of that?"

"Since it happened here in the parking lot, I'd say slim to none." The more Peter thought about it, the more he thought _stalker._ "If I'm right, she's been targeted by someone, and the worst is yet to come. The act speaks for itself. _Ipso facto_."

"But on the other hand, it might be Marilyn Leger sending Shannon a message."

"That's possible too."

"Does...um...Wild...er Bill...Will know about this?" Edward asked.

"Not that I'm aware of. Why?"

"He should be told, don't you think? She's his secretary."

Peter checked the time. "How about now?"

"No time's as good as the present," Edward said, standing with painstaking care.

Chapter Ten

"Are you free, Will?" Edward asked.

Will turned from the window and watched Edward and Peter saunter in, side by side. "Not free," he said. "Just immediately available."

Peter and Edward chuckled as they sat in the Victorian chairs to the front of Will's desk.

With little waste of words, Edward told him about Celia's death, Shannon's frequent visits at her bedside, and what he'd learned from the police: Celia's death was now officially ruled a homicide, the coroner established the time of death at between eleven and eleven-thirty, Celia named Shannon beneficiary of her entire estate, and Celia's children pushed for an indictment against her. Edward then told Will about the lack of animosity felt by the heirs toward their mother, the daughter's hostile behavior, her rebellion against society and authority and her brushes with the law. He inhaled deeply, and let the breath out in a rush.

"And now Peter informed me Abby told him earlier this morning that while Shannon's car was parked in the lot out back of the office, her clothes in a carryall were slashed to ribbons."

Will sat back in his chair. "I had no idea. She never said anything to me." He looked off to a corner of the office for a moment. "Has she reported the incident to the police?"

Edward shook his head. "Apparently, she thinks her car was mistaken for another."

"Mistaken for another car?" Will asked. "It's the color of a flamingo."

"It is pink, isn't it?" Edward chuckled. He shifted in his chair, placed one leg over the other, then reversed the order.

"There's something else you both should know." Will told them about Shannon's anonymous caller. "I'm afraid the receptionist gave out more information than she should before she became suspicious."

Edward ran a hand over the top of his head. "How many calls were there?"

"Four or five, I guess."

"And the receptionist only became suspicious after the fourth or fifth call?"

"That's what I was given to understand." Fiddling with his pen, Will said, "Don't get me wrong, I'm not pleading the receptionist's case, but bearing in mind the volume of calls coming into the office each day and how fit her memory is, how could Gisele know whether a call is suspicious or not? And I understand it was through the course of the day and not one call after the other. So..."

Edward looked at Peter, then turned to Will. "Maybe it _was_ someone who wanted to repay a favor to Shannon as the caller said."

Will shrugged. "Why don't we get Gisele in here and you can ask her for yourself?"

"Good idea," Edward agreed.

Will buzzed the receptionist. "Gisele, it's Will. Would you have someone cover the phone and step into my office?" He replaced the receiver with a kerplunk and turned to his colleagues. "She'll be right in."

A moment later, a knock sounded on the door and Gisele entered.

Without preamble, Edward said, "Jezzebel, we have some questions about those calls you received last week about Sarah – "

"Yourself and Shannon, respectively," Peter interjected.

Gisele nodded. "Okay."

"What day was this?"

"Wednesday, I think. What's this about?" Gisele asked, looking at Edward, then at Peter and Will.

"What questions did the caller ask?" Edward inquired.

"She wanted to know about Shannon's hobbies, whether she took the bus, walked or drove to work."

Edward nodded. "Anything else?"

"Does she have a steady boyfriend? Does she live alone? What does she like to read? Is she involved in sports?"

"You answered her questions?"

"As best I could."

"Uh-huh. Tell me, young lady, why, when you have been properly advised not to give out any personal information on any employee of the firm, you were so forthcoming with answers?"

"Mr. McIntyre, it wasn't as simple as that. It was not one call, but a series of calls throughout the day and it was more like, 'Shannon was so helpful to my sister with her legal troubles, I'd like to do something nice for her. Do you know if she likes chocolates, or if she likes to read?' That type of thing."

Edward shook his head, stood and walked to the window.

"Thank you, Gisele," Will said. "That'll be all for now."

Gisele stood.

Will allowed her to reach the door. "Didn't you wonder why one person would make so many calls on the same day about the same person?"

Gisele looked back at the lawyers and narrowed her eyes. "Gentlemen, I answer hundreds of calls a day all with different voices and many of them with accents. A lot of those people are irate, rude, and impolite for whatever horrendous reason is consuming their lives at the time. Shannon's anonymous caller was particularly sweet and I, probably because of that, was accommodating." She took a deep breath. "At the time it never occurred to me it was just one caller. Only later, in retrospect, when I had a chance to think about it, did it seem off. It was at that time that I brought the matter to Will's attention."

Will nodded. "Okay. Thanks, Gisele. Any other questions you want to ask, gentlemen?

When both men shook their heads, Gisele escaped the office.

As soon as the door latched, Will turned to his colleagues. "I guess we've been properly told."

"I guess." Peter chuckled. "Will, do you think the anonymous caller and the person who slashed Shannon's clothing are one and the same?"

Will thought about that a moment. "It could be. Someone has it in for her."

"A stalker?" Edward asked.

Will looked at Edward, then at Peter. "The mutilated clothing could be a warning. Though it could be the heirs, it's quite possible it's two different matters."

"A warning for Shannon to stop what she's doing?" Edward asked. "She doesn't lead an extraordinarily complicated life. She spends a lot of her free time with senior citizens. That should tell us something, for God's sake."

"Maybe it's only one issue then. Maybe Celia MacTavish's children _are_ sending a message to Shannon and Marilyn Leger made those calls," Peter suggested, brushing imaginary lint from his suit jacket.

Edward stared at the floor. "That could be, but I think we should presume it's two entirely different matters just to be on the safe side."

Will and Peter murmured their agreements.

"Ed, what would be the heirs' motive for killing their mother?" Will asked. "They get zip from the estate."

"Yes, but did they know at the time? Remember, Celia changed her will the day she died. He, she, or they could have been acting on the provisions of a former will where they inherited everything."

"True. Maybe we should have a little talk with Shannon," Will suggested.

"Good idea," Edward agreed.

Before Will could make a jab for the telephone, Peter waved him away.

"One more thing. Abby doesn't want us to tell Shannon how we know about what happened to her clothing."

Edward folded his arms across his chest. "How are we supposed to get her to tell us without telling her how we found out?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure you'll think of something," Peter said.

***

Shannon entered Will's office and came to an abrupt halt when she spotted the three lawyers. "Y'all want coffee?" she asked and took the pen resting on top of her ear and placed it on her note pad.

"God, no," Peter exclaimed.

"You didn't need to bite my head off." She smiled, understanding his reaction. She made a terrrible cup of coffee; some described it as vile. It could be. "A simple 'No, thank you, Shannon, dear' would've cut it."

"No thanks, dear," Edward said. "Come sit. We'd like to discuss a few matters with you."

Shannon remembered his talk to her in the conference room earlier. She could feel the blood draining from her face. Maybe they were about to tell her an arrest warrant had been issued for her. Oh, God. Her smile froze on her lips as her thoughts centered on handcuffs, Miranda rights and the metal bars of a jail cell. She would have fainted dead away had it not been for their smiling faces. They wouldn't be smiling if she were about to be arrested, would they? She peered at Peter and decided he might.

Edward stood, motioned for her to sit, then walked to Will's desk and sat kitty-corner. "We are gathered together here today – "

Peter and Will guffawed.

Edward frowned and without a hint of a smile continued. "Since we last spoke, I learned Celia was murdered. And – "

"I didn't kill her, Mr. McIntyre." She jutted her chin, as she always did at these times when an accusation seemed imminent.

"No one here believes you did. That's why, when we spoke in the conference room, I didn't ask if you killed her."

She stared into Edward's eyes. "Oh, I thought the reason you didn't ask was because you didn't want to know one way or the other so you could give me the best possible defense."

The three lawyers chuckled.

What was so funny? she wondered.

"Did you really think any one of us would think you capable of murder?" Edward asked.

"Sometimes it's difficult to imagine what goes through a lawyer's mind." She did a double take when that statement elicited even more chuckles. She was a comedian this morning.

"Speaking of defense, I'm hoping to avert the need for one," Edward said.

"Okay." Finally, some sense spoken.

"Now what I would like you to do is tell us everything you remember about the night Celia was murdered. Be as precise as you can and don't leave anything out, however minor it might seem."

She cleared her throat and looked at Will when he flipped to a new page on his foolscap. She turned and told them what time she arrived at the senior care home and that she went directly to Celia's room. Then after spending an hour with her friend, she left and stopped at Jo's Java for a cocoa where she met Zachary –

"You have a boyfriend?" Peter asked.

"Why are you surprised?" She grinned.

Peter stared at her intensely. His gaze still made her feel he had eyes only for her, despite what he'd like her to think. It awakened an awareness in her she thought she buried. "Shall I continue?"

"Why don't you tell us about this boyfriend of yours?" Peter asked.

Someone else might have been blighted by the darkness in his eyes. "Zachary is not my boyfriend. He's someone I met that night."

"How long were you with him?"

"Maybe an hour. Then he walked me home."

"You let a stranger walk you home?" Edward asked incredulously.

"Yes." She waved a hand in the air. "I know how stupid it was, and I won't ever do it again, okay?"

"Okay." Edward gave her a stern look. "What time was that?"

"Ten or ten-fifteen."

"Then what did you do?"

"I went into my apartment, took a bath, and went to bed. Alone." She returned Peter's intense stare.

"Anything else happen?" Edward asked.

She turned and looked at Edward. "Nothing."

"Are you sure?"

"No," she answered. "Yes, I'm sure," she rephrased.

"We have to be certain," Edward said. "Put yourself back to that night and retrace your steps."

She did and after a moment, she remembered something. "My toilet backed up."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"You inquired, Mr. McIntyre."

Edward smiled. "I guess I did, didn't I?"

"Shannon, I think what Edward is asking is whether anything happened to you lately that you consider unusual," Will said from his desk.

Her mutilated clothing flashed before her eyes. How could she have forgotten about that? The words describing the incident coursed from her mouth, it seemed, with a will of their own.

"Do you know anyone who you think might have a reason to do something like to you?" Will asked.

"I'm happy to say 'no'."

"Have you made anyone angry lately?"

Before answering Will's question, she allowed herself a look at Peter. He stared into space, but he must have sensed her eyes on him because he turned sharply and focused on her. She held his gaze. "Not lately." He turned away. Good, he got the implication.

"Have you said anything rude to anyone? To a coworker? A clerk? The mechanic on your car?" Edward questioned.

Ah, he knew her so well. "No."

"Why don't you tell us all you know about this Zachary fellow," Peter suggested.

She wondered why Peter wanted to know. Was he jealous? Her heart rate picked up speed. God. Could they feel the same way about each other even after everything they did to one another? She dared not hope. She couldn't hope. He was married, remember?

In a very short time, the lawyers knew Zachary's eye color, hair color, approximate weight, height, and age, his three and one-half year relationship with a twit by the name of Francine, his five-year-old daughter, a product of that relationship, the torture she read in his eyes when he told her about their stormy relationship, the torment she felt he endured because of his need to take responsibility for his child, the scratches, the bruises, the bandaged hand and the persecution of his soul in all of his mannerisms.

"You learned all this the first time you met?"

She smiled. "No, Mr. Montgomery. I met him at the diner a few times since that night and we talk."

"Is there anything else?" Edward asked.

"Well, there is something else, but I don't know if it connects to anything," Shannon said.

"Why don't you let us be the judge of that," Edward stated.

"I got a late-night telephone call a few days ago. I know someone was on the line, but the caller didn't say anything. Just heavy labored breathing," she said, blushing. God, she could be such a girl at times. She studied her feet.

"Do you remember what night that was?" Peter asked.

She thought back. "The night Celia died," she answered, still staring at her feet.

"What time was it? Do you remember?"

When she looked up, she noticed Will furiously scribbling notes on his foolscap. "Sometime around 11:15."

"Anything else?" Will asked.

"No."

"Are you sure? Nothing you might have forgotten?"

She wasn't sure who asked the question, but it sparked another memory. "As a matter of fact there is something else. On Friday night, after I left for Augusta, my neighbor let someone into my apartment so she could get her day-planner she left there the day before. I had no visitors the day before."

"Did this person have a name?" Edward asked, giving her a long steady look.

"She told Louise her name was Junie. I don't know any Junies."

"Uh-huh."

She watched Edward look from Peter then to Will. Goose bumps broke out on her forearms. Something bad was in the works. She wished she knew what it was.

"Shannon, I don't want to alarm you, but you should limit your movements to the office and home. At least until we get to the bottom of this," Peter said.

Who was he to tell her what she could and couldn't do? From nine to five and pertaining to work, yes, but after five, no way, no how. "I'm not going to restrict myself just because some loony tune might or might not have it in for me."

Peter looked at Edward as though beseeching his intervention to argue the logic of his advice.

"Shannon doesn't need to be told how to lead her life, Peter. She's a very smart young woman and knows she'll have to take precautions and not go anywhere alone and that the doors and windows in her apartment are always locked and that when she's driving her car, the doors are locked, too."

"Right." Later, she would remember the won-that-one look passing between Edward and Peter.

"Okay, Shannon, that's all for now."

She returned Edward's smile and stood. "Are y'all going to talk about me now behind my back?"

"Yes, but with good intentions."

Will's intercom buzzed. "Yes, Gisele," he answered. Pause. "Okay, have him cool his heels for five minutes, then send him in. Thanks." He looked at Edward.

"Detective Gray is here to see Shannon."

Chapter Eleven

Detective Gray. The police. Here to arrest her. She was going to jail. Twelve highly skilled lawyers under one roof and not one of them would be able to prevent her arrest.

Soon, the other lawyers and her coworkers would know. They'd call her a gold digger and a murderer. The press would convict her before she even made it to court. They'd discredit her, dig into her past, digging and digging for something to condemn her. No, there was nothing to find. Wait. There was something. Remember your senior year when the strap on your backpack caught in the lever and you accidentally pulled the fire alarm? Her carelessness caused a great panic and a few injuries. At first, the school officials called the incident malicious, until her father stepped in and set the matter right. It could have happened to anyone.

Taking a deep breath, she told herself she'd get through this. She'd rock-climbed, shot the rapids at Papineau Falls, skinny-dipped at the base of those rapids, faced the tragic death of her parents, so by God, she was not going to take the fall for a bum rap.

She stood and listened at the backs of the lawyers huddled in the center of the office.

"It was to be expected," Peter said.

"We knew he'd want to question her sooner rather than later. Why don't we let him play his hand?" Will said.

"We haven't had a chance to prepare her for his questions," Edward said.

"Maybe we should ask him to come back in an hour then," Will suggested.

Edward shook his head. "He won't go along with it. The impression I got of the turniphead is that he's like a pit bull when he picks up the scent of blood."

Be cooperative but wary then seemed the consensus for all three.

"Circumstantial evidence can do a person in. She's going to fold, but before that she'll hyperventilate," Peter advised.

"Give her some credit, Peter," Edward snapped.

"We're out of our area of expertise. Let's get Stuart in here," Will suggested.

_Stuart-Crime's-My-Game-Campbell?_ Three lawyers, and they need help from yet another lawyer? She must really be in deep shit. Her eyes watered. No, she wouldn't cry. She yanked a self-willed ringlet over her ear. It sprung back. Cursed hair.

Sensing movement behind her, she glanced over her shoulder and almost lost her breakfast. Oh God. When did he come in? She turned and tugged on Edward's sleeve. Without looking back at her Edward said, "Not now, Shannon."

The lawyers continued to bicker.

"Mr. McIntyre, please."

The lawyers raised their heads and stared at her. She cocked a brow and jerked her hand backward. They looked past her face, over her right shoulder.

"Why, Detective Gray," Edward said, moving toward him. "What brings you here today?" He extended his hand.

"The same matter you've concerned yourself with for the last little while, sir," Gray answered, walking past Shannon to shake Edward's hand.

"Do you know my colleagues, Peter Montgomery and William Russell?" Edward asked.

"I don't believe we've met," Peter said. "Pleased to meet you." They shook hands.

"Detective." Will nodded. "Are you new to the force?" he asked as they shook hands.

"Yes, sir, I am. I'm not from Sandy Point, but my wife is originally from here. When a slot in the department opened, I applied for the position and the rest, as they say, is history."

"How long have you been in Sandy Point?" Will asked.

"About six weeks."

The threesome nodded and stared at the floor.

"I'm here to see Shannon Murphy, gentlemen. But then, I'm sure you already know that. I'd like to ask her some questions about the evening of Celia MacTavish's death." Gray paused. "I'm extending a professional courtesy by coming to see you first."

"Thank you for that," Edward said. "We like things relaxed."

At his back, Shannon studied the man who possessed the power not only to incarcerate her but one who had the wherewithal to bring about a conviction. She found him short, or at least shorter than the men who flanked him, trim and definitely fit as evidenced by his thigh muscles in the fit of his jeans.

"Has the coroner officially filed his report?" Will asked.

"Yes, he has."

"Do you have a copy with you? We'd like to see it before you speak with Ms. Murphy," came from Peter.

Detective Gray grinned. "Are you all representing her?"

"Representing?" The question echoed through the office in three different voices.

"I hope it doesn't come to that," Edward said, as Peter and Will nodded.

Gray took the copy of the autopsy report from the inside breast pocket of his blazer. Unfolding it, he gestured toward the lawyers. "Who wants this?"

Three hands reached out before two realized their place. The detective handed the report to Edward as Will and Peter sat.

The office grew quiet as Edward perused the report. Finished reading, he gave it to Peter who quickly scanned it before passing it to Will.

Will made notes and handed the report back to Gray.

"You can keep it," Gray said. "Now then, may I speak with Ms. Murphy?"

"Sarah," Edward said and beckoned her with a crook of his finger.

Shannon walked to Gray on unsteady legs. "Detective Gray."

Gray turned and looked at her. "Oh. You were standing behind me all this time."

"Some detective you are," she said, smiling and taking the chair Edward motioned her to.

Gray grinned. "I'm sorry for the loss of your friend. I understand you were very close to her."

She looked into the detective's eyes and answered, "Thank you. Her death came as quite a shock. I still can't believe she was murdered."

"As it turns out, there are over a million reasons why someone would want to murder her."

She didn't miss a beat. "Uh huh. Mrs. MacTavish's money. Mr. McIntyre told me about her bequest to me."

"Were you also surprised she named you the sole beneficiary of her estate?"

"Of course, and as I've already told Mr. McIntyre, I don't want the money."

Gray snorted. "You don't want a million dollars? I know I'd want it." He shook his head.

"Would you kill for it too?" she asked. Laughter filled the room. She looked from one lawyer to the next wondering what was so funny.

Gray folded his arms across his chest. "Why don't you want the money?"

She stared up at Edward who nodded. "Because...because I'm financially independent, at least by some people's standards."

"Are you telling me you have a million dollars?" Gray scoffed.

"Yes, and some."

"Another inheritance? That's convenient, isn't it?"

She studied his eyes and felt the chill of his skepticism. "Part of it was an insurance settlement arising from the death of my parents. Detective, since you're new in town, you probably wouldn't know my father was Mr. Justice Brock Murphy."

"Your father was a judge? What are you doing working here? You're just a secretary, right?"

She smiled. "I'm not just a secretary."

Gray looked from Edward, to Peter, then to Will. He flipped through pages of notes and frowned. "No?"

"No. I'm an excellent secretary." More chuckles from the lawyers. Did she say something funny again?

"Ah, I see. Why don't you tell me your whereabouts between eleven and eleven-thirty on last Wednesday night?"

"Between eleven and eleven-thirty? I was at home." She took a deep breath and swallowed.

"Can anyone corroborate that?"

"No, I was alone." She fiddled with her hands.

"What happened to your hand?"

She stared at the scratches, already scabbing, then placed one hand over the other. "I fell."

"Uh huh. Why don't you tell me everything you did last Wednesday starting from the time you left your apartment to the time you arrived back at your apartment."

She shifted in her chair and cleared her throat, then reiterated everything she'd previously told the lawyers.

"Did the deceased tell you she changed her will leaving everything to you?"

She masked her annoyance with a smile. "No." Her eyes watered. She stared down at the floor, wishing this interrogation would end.

"You said your answering message picked up the call at 11:15, but you were able to get the phone before the caller hung up? So, you would have been recorded answering the phone?"

"Yes, I guess."

"Is your answering machine one of those that has tapes you can take out?"

"Yes."

Gray nodded, giving her a steady look. "Can you have one of your lawyers bring it to me at the station?"

"Sure."

"If that will be all, Shannon has duties she must attend to." Edward smiled.

She searched the detective's face for a reaction. He remained as inexpressive as a bean sprout.

"There is one more thing," he said. "Would you give us a swab for a DNA test for exclusionary purposes?"

Shannon, about to answer in the affirmative, stopped abruptly when Edward raised a finger in the air and when Will stood and said "No."

Gray closed his note pad. "I have no more questions at this time," he said, looking at Edward. "Make sure your client stays in town."

"May I be excused now?" She felt the walls of the office close in on her.

"Sure," four male voices said.

She stood and walked to the door. Placing her hand on the doorknob, she turned. "Detective Gray, it was nice to meet you. It's a pity it was under these circumstances. Thank you for the courtesy you extended to me."

"Likewise and your welcome," Gray said to the solid hardwood of Will's office door. When he turned, the lawyers were standing, looking at him.

"Thank you, gentlemen." Gray nodded.

"Is Sarah a serious suspect, Detective Gray?" Edward asked.

"What's with the names? Is it Sarah or Shannon?" he asked.

A cacophony of voices sounded in the room. "Edward..."

"...Names..."

"...Sometimes..."

"...Whatever..."

Gray laughed. "Excuse me?"

Edward chuckled. "I'm afraid that's my fault. I have a little trouble remembering names, so I issue names as I see the person."

"So you must see me as a turniphead then?"

"Turniphead?" Edward frowned. "No, hardly. What gave you that impression? You haven't answered my question. Is she a serious suspect?"

"She is a suspect, sir, as are some others. Like I said, have her stay in town. Gentlemen." Gray nodded. "Oh, one more thing. I sent those curly red hairs, follicles and all, as well as the scrapings taken from beneath the decedent's nails to the crime lab for analysis. Have a good day, gentlemen."

***

Sitting in his car on the street outside the law office, Gray reached into his shirt pocket for a pack of cigarettes, then withdrew his hand. Three months without one and after only thirty minutes with Larry, Curly, and Moe, he wanted to chew tobacco.

He'd hoped to befriend her, weasel a little information from her, then trip her up. Instead, she'd turned the questioning into an almost carefree banter. Usually calm around women, immune to them certainly when it pertained to his work, this one nearly caused him to forget his purpose.

Why would he consider this little Raggedy Ann in a burgundy corduroy jumper and pink frilled blouse buttoned to the neck a murderer? Why would anyone? Because of the money, that's why. If ever there was a powerful reason to kill someone, it was money. Though as it turned out, not for her.

After listening to the residents of the senior care home, he hadn't considered her a serious suspect; to make her acquaintance in person only confirmed his initial impression. But evidence was evidence and he had to follow the trail.

Many of the residents of the home remembered her leaving about five minutes before nine because they awaited their favorite television show at nine o'clock – True Crime. And not one of the residents placed her back at the scene after that time. So, all of what she said jived with what he'd learned.

Reviewing his initial impression of Shannon as seen through the eyes of others with what he'd just learned, he had to admit she looked less and less a likely suspect.

***

"Exclusionary purposes, my foot," Edward exclaimed as soon as the door banged closed. "Who does he think we are – The Three Stooges? Cocky little rooster." He crossed his arms against his chest.

"All in all, I think it went well," Will said, sitting back in his chair.

"I thought so too until Gray noticed the scratches on Shannon's hand," Peter stated.

Edward stood. "The results of the blood analysis will prove her innocence. Now then getting back to the matter of the mutilated clothing, the obscene phone call, and the girl who Shannon's neighbor let into her apartment. I'm not prepared to dismiss any of this or put it down to a case of mistaken identity." He placed his hands on the back of a chair and leaned forward. "And it's too much of a coincidence these things happened right after she met this guy...what's his name...Zachary?" Will and Peter nodded. "Maybe he has a jealous girlfriend and she's behind it." He thought for a moment. "In fact, I'd bet my life on it."

Will and Peter nodded.

"We all need to keep a watchful eye on Shannon," Edward said, looking from Will to Peter.

They nodded somberly.

"We'll all work together," Peter said.

"I think it's time I made the chief of police aware of her other problems."

"Good idea, Ed," Peter agreed. "You still playing poker with him Sunday nights?"

"Uh huh."

Chapter Twelve

Shannon eased out of the tub and toweled dry, keeping her ears perked for the phone, yet hoping it wouldn't ring. She suspected Celia's children were the culprits behind the late night calls and her mutilated clothing, though she couldn't believe anyone acting so childish.

After slipping on a flannel nightgown, she climbed into bed. The sheets were freshly laundered, but not with the same scent as her mother's; one of those little things she took for granted, and probably one of the reasons why it never occurred to her to leave home. Parties, boys, and being on her own never beckoned her as it did her friends. Maybe something odd impelled her. Or maybe she was an old soul, as Louise liked to tell her.

She plumped the pillow, closed her eyes, and listened to the hum of traffic. Within a moment, her thoughts drifted to Detective Gray. He'd trolled for information, hoping to trip her up, keeping an ear tuned for anything that would tell him she killed Celia. It worked that way with cops, she supposed. An innocent word, a mannerism misconstrued as nervousness. She satisfied his queries, but then again, what did she know about those things? Nothing. Be that as it may, she had nothing to fear from the police since she'd done nothing wrong. That sort of naiveté could be her undoing.

Money would not be an incentive for her to kill someone. The idea was ludicrous and if Gray possessed any smarts at all, he'd start looking for other suspects.

She imagined he'd check into her financial affairs. Of course, he'd learn she wouldn't acquire the bulk of her inheritance until she attained the age of thirty and that in the interim she received only the accrued interest. Even in that perspective, the dynamics of the situation wouldn't change, would it?

Shannon never discussed her finances with anyone, able to count on the fingers of one hand the people who knew about her financial independence. Edward for one, and he would never divulge it to anyone. What did it matter now? The police knew and it would probably be written in a report for anyone in the police department to see and from there...well, in short order the whole town could know.

Her coworkers would regard her differently, and she'd no doubt lose the inroads she struggled to make with them. Everything would change for her, not for the better. Could she legally refuse the money? Who would get it if she refused it? Celia's offspring? If she wanted her children to have her estate, she would have willed it to them, right?

My God. How did she get into this mess? All she'd tried to do was give a little of herself, to show those seniors at the home someone cared. Now, because of that she could be sentenced to a life in prison. An orange jump suit, the words Sandy Point Jail imprinted in bold black lettering on the back flashed before her eyes.

Stop it, Shannon. Think pleasant thoughts.

She rolled over and pulled the comforter up to her chin. What about Zack? She did that a lot lately – wonder about him. Why? Because he was so damned cute, that's why. She imagined his lopsided grin and the shimmer in his eyes when he teased her.

But she was too smart to get involved with him. If her father were still alive, he'd tell her the same thing. Now, her mother on the other hand, would say, 'Follow your heart, dear'. My God, what was she thinking? Follow your heart? She'd be a fool to fall for someone like him. He appealed to her only because he didn't want her; at least, not in that sense. Oh, he liked her all right, but as a friend. And therein laid the attraction – wanting what you cannot have.

He carried too much baggage – an ex-girlfriend who, from the little she knew about her, was nuttier than Planters, a daughter – not a bad thing – but did she want to be a stepmother at twenty-three years old?

_For_ _Christ's_ _sake_ , _Shannon_ , _stop_ _it. Put_ _him_ _out_ _of_ _your_ _mind_. _He's_ _not_ _someone_ _you_ _want_ _to_ _be_ _involved_ _with_ , _remember?_

In the distance, she heard a car start, then the rev of a motor. The grandfather clock in the living room chimed on the half-hour as she drifted off in a fitful sleep. She dreamed Zack was there with her, his skin gleaming with perspiration, his heart beating wildly against hers, his lips caressing the most erotic places, his fingers exploring every minute curve of her body. She wanted him like nothing she wanted before.

_Footsteps_ _echoed_ _on_ _the_ _hardwood_ _floor_.

She froze. "Is anyone there?" she pleaded, her eyes searching the darkness.

More footsteps, sounding nearer.

Her heart pounded. "Zack?" She reached out. Her hand thumped against the down comforter.

" _Zack_ , _where_ _are_ _you_?" _she_ _cried_ _around_ _a_ _catch_ _in_ _her_ _throat_. _She_ _could_ _almost_ _feel_ _the_ _breath_ _of_ _the_ _intruder_ _against_ _her_ _skin_. " _Help_ _me_ , _please_ , _Zack_." _She_ _swung_ _her_ _legs_ _over_ _the_ _other_ _side_ _of_ _the_ _bed_. _When_ _her_ _feet_ _hit_ _the_ _floor_ , _she_ _ran_. _If_ _she_ _could_ _reach_ _the_ _bathroom_ – _she_ _looked_ _over_ _her_ _shoulder_. _God_ , _where_ _was_ _Zack_? _She_ _turned_ _and_ _landed_ _hard_ _against_ _the_ _chest_ _of_ _the_ _intruder_.

Her eyes flew open. Her pulse raced. Her heart fought its confinement. But for streams of moonlight filtering through the window blinds, darkness filled the room.

For a second, she experienced disorientation, then she realized she was in her apartment, safe and secure. Why then did her teeth still chatter?

Did I remember to lock the door?

She turned on the lamp and climbed out of bed.

In the hallway, she flicked on the light and sprinted toward the foyer. The doorbell rang, startling her. "Christ," she screamed. She laid a hand against her heart. With every nerve in her body strung as tight as a guitar string, she peeked into the peephole – no one in sight. She stood with one hand on the doorknob.

Don't open the door.

But it could be Louise needing help. Maybe she'd collapsed on the floor where she couldn't she her. Her need to extend a helping hand won out. After undoing the safety chain, the dead bolt and the door lock, she opened the door. Then she saw it. A box, neatly packaged, lay on the floor.

She swung the door closed and stared at the box she now grasped firmly in her hand.

Don't open it. It could be a bomb.

Panic threatened her breath. A chill wormed down her spine.

No, it couldn't be.

She put the box to her ear and listened. Nothing.

"God Almighty, you're letting yourself be frightened for no good reason. Open the package." She hesitated. "Go on, open it." She ripped through the paper with her fingernails and lifted the lid. Nothing exploded. "You wimp." She looked inside and her blood turned ice-cold. With shaking fingers, she withdrew the note that read:

GIVE IT UP, BITCH, YOU WON'T WIN.

"Jesus," she whispered. Then she caught sight of what laid beneath the single slip of paper. There, ensconced amidst folds of blood-spotted white tissue paper, sat a dead crow, one beady lifeless eye glaring fixedly up at her. The package slipped from her trembling hand onto the floor.

"God, oh, God," she stammered. "Okay, you win. I get your message," she sobbed. First thing in the morning, she'd ask Edward to call the heirs and tell the buggers they can have the money.

No, these whackos wanted exactly that. _I won't give in to them._ But then she'd have to go to the police. Something she hoped to avoid. _But I have to. Otherwise, the heirs will continue to victimize me. Is that what I want – to constantly look over my shoulder, to tremble at the chime of the doorbell or the peal of the telephone?_

She huffed out a breath.

Decide, Shannon, decide.

Slowly she calmed. The crow's corpse didn't terrify her now, though the intent behind it did. She reached for the phone to call the police, then withdrew her hand. No, the heirs probably watched her apartment building. They'd get some sort of perverse satisfaction when they arrived, knowing she called them. She'd wait until the morning, take the box and answering machine tape to the office, and let Edward bring them to the police.

The lunatics behind this dim-witted scheme would pay.

On surprisingly steady legs, she walked the short distance to the kitchen, took a zip-lock bag from a drawer, and placed the sealed box in the freezer.

We'll see how Celia's children like being the brunt of accusations and a police investigation.

Damn the consequences.

Nothing short of witchcraft would stop her now from fighting back.

***

She-devil.

From beneath the branches of a Maple tree, Francine stared up at Shannon's apartment. Rain drenched her skin and clothing, adding to the blistering rage that coursed through her veins. Goddamn rain. Up until a few minutes ago, not a cloud intruded upon the evening sky.

Hurried footsteps on the sidewalk neared her hiding place. She ducked behind the trunk of the tree, rattled she might be seen.

Keep walking. Look straight ahead. There's no one here you want to see.

The footsteps receded, then nothing but the sound of rain pounding the street. _Good._ She clenched her fists, her fingernails biting into flesh. _Calm down. You can handle her. You handled the others, didn't you?_ Though this one, she admitted, appeared different from any of the other girls – not easily intimidated. She recognized Zack's attraction to her. He especially liked cute, petite and sexy.

Bile rose in her throat. It couldn't happen; she wouldn't allow it to happen. Zack was hers. _You've invested too much in him to just let him go. You have to stop her before she gets her hooks into him any deeper._

Shannon probably opened the box by now. She wished she could have seen her reaction.

She looked up and down the street and listened for a siren. The police should be on their way by now. Maybe she didn't call the police.

_Why wouldn't she call the police?_ she wondered. Maybe she was too stupid. If she didn't get the message this time and stop seeing Zack, then Miss Murphy would plainly have to die.
Chapter Thirteen

The route to the office was familiar to Shannon, so familiar, in fact, she might be able to walk it with her eyes closed. She loved her work. The lawyers could act like horse's patooties from time to time, but they weren't bothersome enough for her to consider another career choice. She'd found her niche in life; she might even say law was in her blood. Perhaps it was, because the law firm was the one place where she felt at peace and now with this latest turn of events, the office had become her haven.

Earlier, in a moment of weakness, she considered locking herself away in her apartment. It would be easy. Her job didn't provide her daily bread. It did give her a life, though. No matter how this present predicament turned out, she promised herself there'd be no regrets. Wasn't it better to regret what you did do than regret what you didn't? If she failed, then she failed trying.

Suddenly, she felt vulnerable on the street. With a quick peek over her shoulder, she picked up the pace and hurried to work.

Before long, she stood on the sidewalk staring up at the office building. McGovern House looked as intimidating to her today as it did when she'd first stepped across the threshold almost two years ago. It belonged in a story. It might well end up in one. If she listened closely, she could almost hear a news reporter saying into a camera: And here, Ladies and Gentlemen, is where Shannon Ann Murphy worked as the legal secretary for the senior partner and founding father of McIntyre & Montgomery. She took the life of eighty-nine-year old Celia MacTavish for money.

Shannon couldn't stop herself from thinking what ifs. Her hands curled into fists. Edward would help her. Didn't he always? As in the past, she'd place her complete trust in him. When she had problems blending in with the staff, he'd helped her with the transition. When Peter made it his life's work to rid the office of her, he helped her with that too. Why? The question rolled around in her thoughts. She wanted to know the answer, but she wanted the police to catch Celia's murderer even more. If that happened, all her troubles would end. No, deep in her heart she knew that wouldn't be the case. If it weren't this, it'd be something else. She firmly believed she was destined to travel through life suffering one unfortunate circumstance after another.

She patted her pocket, feeling the outline of the answering machine tape, proof of her innocence at her fingertips. The plastic grocery bag that held the box with the dead crow was clutched firmly in her hand. She shivered at the implication of it. It had to be the heirs behind it. If it weren't them, who could it be?

Imagining a pair of eyes bored into her back, she glanced over her shoulder. No one lurked in the shadow of a doorway, or hunched behind a newspaper, or quickly ducked out of her line of vision, like in the movies.

Relax, she told herself.

***

When Edward entered the conference room, Shannon took her first deep breath since late last night. He always made her feel protected and secure.

"I'm so glad you called and asked to see me," Edward said as he sat across from her.

He never failed to bring a smile to her face. "Because you missed me?"

He chuckled. "There is that, of course, but it's mostly because I was able to send Maureen to our pottery class without me."

Shannon envisioned Maureen sitting on a stool, her legs straddling a pottery carousel. Her hands, covered in wet clay, articulately molded the vase into shape as it spun round and round in endless circles. Edward, bare-chested, approached her from the rear, then squeezed himself on the seat behind her. His white mat of chest hairs glistened with perspiration. He reached around her and tenderly placed his hands on hers.

Dimly she heard words being spoken. "What was that, Mr. McIntyre?"

"Where were you just now?"

"With Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore."

"Clients?"

She chuckled. "I wish. No, movie stars."

"Uh-huh. Not that I'm unhappy to see you, but why did you summon me?"

She passed him the answering machine tape. "Will you see that Detective Gray gets this, please?"

"Yes, of course."

"Do you think the tape will clear me?"

Edward nodded. "Iit doesn't, I promise we'll find out who murdered Celia."

His opinion and promise were a substantial comfort to her. His smile, an easy, friendly smile, made her momentarily forget her troubles. Not quite sure how to broach the subject of the dead crow sitting in its cardboard coffin on the chair next to her, she brushed a hand across the smooth surface of the table. Maybe she should have gone straight to the police station this morning, bird in hand. No, they would have just told her it was a prank, or that she orchestrated it to cast suspicion away from herself in the murder investigation. She needed someone with clout to make the police believe it was more than a random act of a mischievous adolescent. The gentleman sitting across from her possessed lots of clout.

She swallowed loudly. "I got another message from the heirs last night."

Edward sat forward. "What kind of message?"

She took the slip of paper from the pocket of her pants, handed it to him, and watched his facial expression as he read the note. It amazed her he did so without so much as raising an eyebrow.

"There's more, Mr. McIntyre, and it's not pretty," she said. His eyes told her there wasn't much he hadn't seen before.

"Go ahead."

She plucked the package from the chair and slid it across the table.

He lifted the lid and peered inside. "Christ," he exclaimed, jerking his fingers from the box.

"My sentiment exactly."

"Where was the note?"

"Sitting atop the corpse."

"It's time to go to the police. Actually, I thought that time was last week when your clothes were mutilated. I'll go with you, if you like."

It would help immensely having Edward at her side, but she wanted to go to the police station about as much as she wanted to stick her hand in a pot of boiling water. She'd seen the movies – the movies where someone's life was threatened and the police either don't believe the complainant or say they need more proof before they can act on the evidence. She took that to mean her dead body. Neither of those alternatives appealed to her.

"I hoped that wouldn't be necessary. I thought you could take care of it for me."

Edward sat deep in thought as though ruminating a complex problem.

She gave him time to sort out the details and smiled broadly when allowed her the indulgence. A huge weight lifted from her chest.

"Only for you. But you do know the police will want to talk to you?"

"I don't have any problem with that. Thanks for paving the road for me. I owe you one."

"More than one, I believe. But who's counting?"

"Ah."

"Now back to what you said earlier about the heirs sending you another message."

"Yes."

"It's not the heirs."

She frowned, wondering if her trust in Edwad wasn't misplaced. "Who would it be if it's not them?"

"Peter, Will, and I have discussed this matter at length, and we've arrived at the same conclusion. These incidents have the earmarking of a psychopath or sociopath. And since we last spoke, I consulted with psychiatrist and longtime friend, Jack Wallace. From that talk, I learned how dangerous a person like this is. A time bomb waiting to explode was my initial reaction." He cleared his throat. "I think it's all connected to this new beau of yours."

"Zachary?" she asked.

"Yes." He nodded. "From what you've told us about him and his ex-girlfriend, I...we believe she's behind these pranks."

"I don't even know the girl," she said _._ "Why would she...." Then it hit her. "You think Zack's ex thinks he and I are having an affair and is jealous?"

"That's it in a nutshell."

"We're just friends, Mr. McIntyre. We see each other only at the coffee shop and we meet by coincidence. How could she think we're lovers?" _Besides you fellas?_ "We've never even been on a date, for God's sake." She raked her fingers through her hair.

"Does she know that? Think about it for a moment. Place yourself on the outside looking in when you and Zachary are together in the coffee shop and tell me what you see."

Shannon did as he suggested and envisioned herself on the sidewalk in front of the coffee shop. She peeked through the window above the red-checkered gingham curtains and saw her and Zack sitting together, smiling, laughing, and carrying on and had to agree with Edward.

"I suppose you're right," she said.

"She's scared she'll lose Zachary and will probably stop at nothing to keep what she considers is hers. I don't think it'll be leap to say she has some sort of personality disorder that causes her to commit antisocial and violent acts. She might even be watching you."

She scoffed. He couldn't be right. Not this time.

"Don't underestimate her. She's probably quite cunning and ingenious when it comes to manipulation and scheming."

Maybe he was right. What did she know about these things? "Is there anything we can do about her? Have her committed to an insane asylum, incarcerated, strung out on a clothesline by her ears?"

Edward chuckled. "All good suggestions, but before we do any of that, we have to know her name."

"Francine."

"Does she have a last name?"

"I'm sure she does, but I don't know it."

"Can you find out from your beau? I want to know where she lives, as well."

"He's not my..." Oh, what's the sense? "Sure. Then what?"

"Then I'll go to the police with everything and let them take it from there."

Shannon thought she knew what Edward intended and voiced her opinion. "What am I supposed to do with a restraining order – slap her with it?" She snorted. "I'm sure that'd stop her."

"I wasn't thinking restraining order at all. No, we're going to catch her in the act. Count on it."

Chapter Fourteen

Shannon told herself she had every right to attend Celia's memorial service. Celia was her good friend, and friends paid their respects to the dearly departed.

Despite the pep talk, she dallied. She stared up at St. Luke's Anglican Church, a massive structure built in 1847, so said a plaque stationed to the right of the solid wood double doors at the front entrance.

She realized she shouldn't delay any longer, not if she wanted to be seated before Celia's heirs arrived. They would surely make a scene if they saw her. She sprinted up the stone steps and entered the church. The nave ceiling, approximately fifty feet above the marble floor, with bowed arches gave the feeling of an arbor. Wooden rosettes adorned the side panels to the well-worn pews. Stained-glass windows in umber and violet complimented the outer walls on either side of her. She had never been in any church other than the Cathedral. It seemed strange she was.

No one had arrived yet. She decided on a pew behind a stone pillar where no one would see her. She genuflected, bowed her head, and sat. There were no kneelers, but she didn't need one to pray. She'd often sent up a Hail Mary or Our Father from her steno chair. This was no different.

Minutes passed at an excruciatingly slow pace, allowing her too much time to think and second-guess herself. She shouldn't be here. When the heirs saw her, they would make a scene, maybe call her a murderer. Even if they didn't, everyone would look at her as one. No, she couldn't take their accusations, their condemnation, not even for Celia. She felt light-headed, as though the too sweet smell of the flowers adorning the altar snuffed the breath from her. Think pleasant thoughts and breathe. After a moment, she drew soothing air into her lungs and prayed for Celia's eternal rest.

" _I indulged my children, Shannon, and they hate me for trying to correct that mistake,"_ Celia once told her.

"I'm sure your children will come around, Mrs. MacTavish."

" _I hope so. I'm not getting any younger, you know."_

That time never came. Celia died never reconciling with her children.

Shannon looked over her shoulder when the door was opened and friends from the senior care home trickled in, looking solemn and mournful, arms enfolded within arms.

She sensed a presence at her side. Edward stood in the aisle, and he didn't look happy.

"What?" she whispered.

"Why are you sitting back here?"

_Because I have no right being here._ "It's as good a place as any."

He extended his hand. "Come with me."

She let him help her up. "Where're we going?"

"To a pew in the front."

"No." She stopped abruptly and shook her head. _I can't. I have no right. What will Marilyn and Maxwell think? They might – they will cause a scene. Celia would be disgraced._

"Hiding will only make you look guilty. Now come with me."

It took no more than that for her to realize he was right. She walked behind him as he led the way down the center aisle. He held his hand on the side rail of the pew directly behind the last one cordoned off and indicated for her to sit.

Marilyn and Maxwell walked past, turning toward her as they did. Hatred all but spewed from their eyes. She could only hold their gazes a second more before she turned away.

The minister took his place at the altar as the pallbearers wheeled in the casket. Tears clouded her vision. _I know you wanted this, Celia, but I miss you so much. I wish you were here with us._ A hand touched her shoulder, lightly, lovingly. She looked at Edward, thinking it was him. He stared straight ahead. She wasn't surprised or frightened when she realized what had just happened. Her parents had come to say good-bye, too.

The minister spoke warmly of Celia, of her accomplishments, of her love for the community, of her generosity, and how she touched so many lives. "She will be sadly missed," he said, in end. "Heaven will be a better place with Celia in it."

Marilyn's snicker echoed through the church.

Shannon stared at the casket as the pallbearers wheeled it up the aisle. She imagined Celia's embarrassment, and wanted to defend her, to shout what a good and kind woman their mother was. Edward, as though reading her thoughts, placed his hand over hers and squeezed.

"I'm fine," she whispered.

With a hand on her elbow, he escorted her out. On the sidewalk, he steered her toward the heirs. What was he doing? She didn't want to express her sympathy to them, or be anywhere near them. Neither Marilyn nor Maxwell was bereaved. All they had cared about while their mother lived was her money.

Shannon ground her heels against the cement, refusing to move another inch.

"Come with me," he said. "Hold your head high."

She knew when not to argue. Side by side, they reached the heirs.

"Marilyn, Maxwell, I'm sorry for your loss," Edward said, extending his hand. "Your mother was a wonderful woman."

Shannon studied Celia's children. She saw no grief or hurt in their eyes, only anger, and the vendetta they touted for her like a badge of honor. Without goodwill and compassion, what would they become? The answer frightened her. When Celia named her sole beneficiary of her estate, she put her in the middle, in a battle she didn't want to fight.

Why Celia?

_Because_ _you_ _thought_ _me_ _strong_ _enough_ _to_ _fight_?

_Because_ _you_ _knew_ _I_ _didn't_ _want_ _the_ _money_?

Marilyn would squander the inheritance and use it to wreak havoc. Money was power and power was dangerous to some. Maxwell would use it to buy drugs and little boys.

Was that the reason you willed your estate to me, Celia? You knew I would put the money to good use?

Celia placed too heavy a burden on her, gave her too much credit.

She squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and stared into the faces of Celia's offspring. "My condolences. I loved your mother very much."

Maxwell opened his mouth, but Marilyn pushed him aside. "You didn't love our mother," she sneered. "All you were interested in, all you were ever – "

Thunder boomed overhead.

"That's quite enough." Edward stepped closer to Shannon. "This is neither the time nor the place. Don't disgrace your mother's memory by making a scene."

Marilyn huffed, and grabbed Maxwell by the arm and hauled him toward her car.

Shannon turned to Edward. "That went well."

"Better than I expected."

Chapter Fifteen

Zachary stared out his sixth-floor office window in the federal building, pondering his position with Francine and chastising himself for becoming involved with her.

He knew how he fell in love. What he didn't understand was how long it had taken him to see her for whom she really was.

The first hunch into what made her tick came six months after they'd moved in together. Unlike Francine, he wasn't into taverns, pubs or nightclubs. In fact, now that he thought about it, partying wasn't the only thing they didn't have in common. Opposites attract. How true.

He remembered the moment. He'd said he'd meet her at the Wild Goose, the local watering hole, for a beer after he visited with his mother. It had been one of those beautiful evenings in Indian summer, the air rich with the scent of autumn. The kind of evening that made him happy to be alive. With a spring in his step, he walked along King Avenue beneath the limbs of the stately oaks lining the street.

Zachary arrived at the tavern around ten thirty and found Francine dirty dancing with a low life. She was dressed in a skirt the size of a napkin and a tank top that bared her midriff. When the music stopped, he watched as she slobbered kisses over the guy's face. He still didn't know what overcame him, but he marched up to her, grabbed her by the arm, and hauled her home.

Francine took no time the following morning when she woke at noon to trounce into the kitchen and lay down the law to him.

"So help me God, if you ever do that to me again, I'll kill you, you bastard," she screeched, waving a finger in front of his face.

"I...I – "

"I'm not your cave woman." She turned, trotted to the counter, and poured coffee in a cup, sloshing hot liquid on the counter in her indignation. "If I want to party, it's none of your fucking business, do you understand?"

"I...I – "

Later that night when he thought she'd mellowed, he apologized – profusely. Their lovemaking had been distinctly erotic. Not on his part so much, though he admitted, he _got with it_ after awhile. She couldn't seem to get enough of him. But no matter how good the sex, he troubled with the idea of sharing her with other men. Given what he witnessed at the tavern, it bothered him, too, that Francine wanted other men.

He should have walked away then. Instead, he stayed. Like a pussy-whipped pimply-faced teen with only sex on his mind, he stayed. God, he was such a fool. If he could turn back time, he'd do things differently. He wished he'd known then that over the course of the following five years his integrity would be flushed down the toilet. Swish, swish, and another tiny piece of his soul washed into the sewer.

His father had tried to tell him. But did he listen? No. "You're wrong about her," he argued instead. "She's not like that. We love each other." The war of words continued. No matter what his father said, he came back with a rebuttal. The heated argument ended an hour later when Zachary told his father if he didn't accept Francine, then he shouldn't consider him his son. He left, slamming the door behind him.

Zachary's father died before he could tell him he'd been right about Francine, gone before he could say he was sorry. "I'm sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry I didn't listen to you."

He found himself at an impasse. What could he do about Francine? How many times did he need to tell her it was over between them? Would there ever come a day when he could pick up Ginnie without Francine thinking she could convince him to come back to them? Would there ever come a day when she wouldn't try to claw his eyes out when he told her 'no'? Should he cut his losses and forget he had a daughter? No, not an option. He deplored Francine's behavior, but he'd despise himself more if he abandoned Ginnie. He'd made a mess of his life.

He looked at his watch and sighed. It was time to leave.

***

Detective Gray showed up at Shannon's apartment to ask her about the dead crow and the message just as Edward said he would and with his arrival came more questions. She'd answered them honestly as she'd done in Will's office when Gray interrogated her about Celia's death.

Gray cautioned her as well. There would be no more solitary walks after dark, no answering the door to anyone she didn't know, and no more opening packages left on her doorstep. It became a ritual to go through her apartment checking the door, windows, under beds and in closets that never once bothered her before.

She felt no sense of satisfaction from the police, as she'd thought she wouldn't. They couldn't knock on Francine's door and start asking questions or make accusations based on Edward's suspicions. Their hands were tied until they had some proof of Francine's involvement. Gray doubted they'd find her fingerprints on the box or the note. She was too smart to leave a print for the police to trace.

Since the police had been called in, nothing else happened – no phone calls and no anonymous packages delivered to her door.

The past few days made her realize she wanted something to happen, something that would give the police the evidence they needed to make an arrest. She looked forward to the day when she'd be able to walk without looking over her shoulder, to answer the door without looking in the peephole or needing a chaperone wherever she went.

Murder for gain, or murder for a man? Whether it was the heirs, as she liked to think, or whether it was Zack's ex, as Edward liked to think, it was clear they slipped over the line of proper conduct.

She checked the time on the wall clock in her office. Zack should be with Edward now in the conference room. She hoped Zack had paid attention when she told him to be open and honest with Edward and to remember three things about him: Never think him the chump he so enjoyed portraying; that he had a little trouble with names; and never ever underestimate his acumen for the law.

***

Until he was sure Shannon was safe, Edward wouldn't relax. Until this nut bar was in jail, he wouldn't be satisfied. He wanted to protect her as he had in the past and as he promised he would. This interim inactivity ate away at his gut. He choked down the taste of bitterness filling his mouth.

Running one hand over his hair, he squinted into the afternoon sunlight filtering through the conference room window. Once this ended, he'd take Maureen up to their cabin and spend some time fishing, relaxing, bird watching; things he really enjoyed doing, unlike riding horses, line dancing and molding clay.

A knock sounded on the door. "Come in," he said.

The door opened. "Edward McIntyre?" Zachary asked from the doorway.

"Yes, and you must be, er..."

"Zachary Hogan. Pleased to meet you." He walked over to Edward and extended his hand.

Edward stood, their towering builds equally matched. He shook Zachary's hand and appraised the blond, well groomed young man dressed in gray flannel dress pants, navy wool blazer, white shirt and a red and blue striped tie. He approved.

After they sat, Edward asked, "How are you today, Isaac?"

"It's Zachary. Zachary Hogan."

"Hogan? You wouldn't be Richard Hogan's son, would you?"

"Yes, I am."

"How is the old coot, anyway?" Edward asked, smiling.

"Dead, sir."

"Dead?" Edward repeated as though it were an inconceivable happening. He no longer smiled. "Sorry to hear that." He shifted positions, allowing for the arthritic ache in his hip. "Now then, Hogan, I'll get right to the point. It seems we have a mutual friend who needs our help."

Zachary nodded. "Shannon."

"Has Sarah told you about what's going on in her life lately?" Edward asked, adjusing his glasses.

"Sarah?"

"Yes, the little one about yea high," Edward said as he placed his hand five feet from the floor. "Spattering of freckles across the bridge of a tiny ski-sloped nose, red hair, feisty – "

"Dimples, eyes the color of earth and grass, breathtaking smile – "

Edward chuckled. "So you do know her."

"Yes, and to answer your question, she told me about her mutilated clothing, the dead crow and the note. If you think I had anything to do with it, then – "

Edward lifted his hands in the air, palms out. "Don't get yer knickers in a twist. I didn't ask to see you to make accusations."

"To be blunt, why did you?"

Honesty had always served Edward well in the past and he decided not to break from tradition. "I think we can help each other."

"You want to help me?"

"If I can. Now, from what Shannon told me about your situation, I get the impression you're caught up in something you wish you weren't. Why don't you start by telling me about this ex-girlfriend of yours?" Edward took his pen from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and positioned the legal foolscap close to him.

"Why do you want to know about Francine?"

"Why? Because some of my colleagues and I feel that your ex-girlfriend's the one sending our Shannon these messages," Edward stated.

"Francine?" Zachary asked incredulously.

Edward gave him a long, steady look. "You don't think she's capable of doing something like that?"

Zachary heaved a withering sigh and admitted, "Oh, she's capable, but I don't understand why she would though."

"Jealousy is a powerful motivator."

"Jealousy?" Zachary frowned. After a moment, he blurted, "Oh, I get it. You think Francine thinks Shannon and I – "

"Bingo."

Zachary jerked to attention. "Oh God. Shannon's in serious trouble."

"I think so too, which is where you come in."

"I'll help any way I can."

"Good. Why don't you start by telling me about Francine's parents, childhood, upbringing, etc?"

Within two minutes Edward learned that Francine's parents were Sophia and Henry Barnes, that she was the oldest of ten children, that her mother enjoyed playing mind games with her, that her father was an unemployed alcoholic and physically abusive.

"Molestation?" Edward asked.

Zachary shrugged. "She intimated there was."

"Shannon said you have a daughter. What's her name?"

"Ginnie. Short for Virginia. Francine has another child."

Edward looked up from the note pad. "She does?"

"Yes. An eighteen-month-old little boy. Adam. I'm not his father."

"How do you know? Did you have a paternity test?"

"No." Zachary smiled. "After Ginnie was born I had an accident that left me sterile. I never told Francine."

Edward made more notes. "When did you leave Francine?"

"About three years ago."

"So you weren't living with her when she got pregnant with Adam." Edward looked up from the foolscap. "How could she think you'd believe this child was yours?"

"I visited her." Zachary bowed his head.

Edward jutted his chin, his opinion of Zachary plummeting. "To your knowledge, does your girlfriend abuse or neglect the children?"

"Her neighbors told me she leaves the children alone while they're sleeping, and I know she doesn't care for them as she should. The authorities won't listen to me."

Edward brought himself forward in his chair and rested his forearms on the table. "Now then, tell me what your life with Francine was like." When he noticed Zachary hesitate, he said, "I have to know all the facts, if you want me to help. You do want that, don't you? You don't want Shannon hurt, do you?"

Zachary took a deep breath and nodded. "I was still in college and working two part-time jobs when we moved in together. Things were good for awhile." He sat back in his chair.

Edward surmised Francine had jumped at the chance to escape a life of physical and emotional abuse.

"Once Francine realized we wouldn't have much time to spend together, she started going out to clubs and bringing the party home with her. We argued about that a lot and I always ended up paying a visit to the hospital emergency room." Zachary stared at the floor. After a moment, he raised his head and looked Edward squarely in the eyes. "When she's told she can't do something, she reacts like a crazed person, throwing whatever's within reach, hitting, kicking, screaming. I've been stabbed and fingernail-gouged so many times I'm ashamed to admit it." He covered his eyes with one hand.

Edward absorbed the grim picture Zachary painted as he studied the streams of sunlight dancing off the polished oblong table. When he noticed Zachary lowering his hand, he asked, "Why did you stay?"

Zachary sighed. "Pride, I guess. My parents said I was making a foolish mistake when we moved in together. I didn't want them to be right. It wasn't too long before I came to my senses and told her I was leaving, which is when she told me she was pregnant. I felt I had to stay then for the baby's sake." He shook his head. "Francine was always one step ahead of me and always with an agenda."

"Are you positively sure the child is yours?"

"It's a bit late to dispute paternity, don't you think?"

"It's never too late to argue paternity, but that's a discussion for another time." Edward flipped to a new page. "What happened after your daughter was born?"

"Everything was all right until Francine started going out to clubs again. I realized it was useless to argue with her about it. I wouldn't win, I never did. I quit my part-time jobs to care for Ginnie. Attending classes, studying, looking after a baby and the constant fights soon became too much for me." He bowed his head. "This time when I told her I was calling it quits, I thought there was nothing she could say that would stop me from leaving. But, of course, there was. I took her at her word when she threatened to kill me and my parents." He raised a shaky hand and mopped moisture from his brow.

"Over the course of the following few weeks, I thought a lot about her death threats, and the more I thought about it, the more I believed it was just a ploy to stop me from leaving. Still I stayed. Shortly thereafter, I contracted a STD. That's when I swallowed my pride and moved back home with my mother. I thought I was freeing myself. Man, was I wrong again. She hasn't given me a moment's peace."

"What you leave behind catches up with you." Edward smiled, just a little.

"Tell me about it." Zachary raked his fingers through his hair.

"How did you live after you stopped working?"

"Francine went on social assistance." Zachary turned to look out the window.

Edward perked up. "What's the name of her social worker?"

Zachary turned. "Dorothy Hodges."

"Uh-huh." Edward wrote down the name and circled it. "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a civil engineer for the federal government."

Edward's opinion of this young man soared. "Good for you. I can't imagine it was easy." He stood and extended his hand. "Thank you, Zachary, for being so open with me. I'll be in touch."

Zachary shook Edward's hand. "You said earlier you might be able to help me?"

Edward grinned. "I have a plan."

Chapter Sixteen

Shannon entered the diner and immediately turned toward the booth in the back corner _._ Their booth, she thought. She saw Zack and smiled. It can be nothing more than friendship, she told herself. Just look at what making his acquaintance brought down on her. If they became involved, Francine would always be a part of their lives. Call her chickenshit, but she wouldn't be able to handle that. _Plus you're too smart to get involved with him, remember?_

She plopped onto the seat and shrugged out of her coat. "How'd it go with Edward?"

"Good. I took your advice and told him everything...well, almost everything."

She reached across the table and touched his hand. "Thank you for that. I know it couldn't have been easy. I'm sure Edward knows now how to deal with Francine." She sucked in her breath, incredibly aroused when he clasped her fingers.

"What did you think of him?" She wanted Zack to like Edward. She didn't understand why.

He chuckled. "He was a little bit the oaf. Thanks for the warning, otherwise I would have questioned his competence."

She swept her free hand through the air. "It's all a façade. He wants to be misjudged. It gives him an advantage dealing with people." She smiled. "At least that's my interpretation."

"What do you think he's going to do about Francine?"

Shannon furrowed her brows, thought for a moment and came up with nothing, always the case when it came to Edward. "I haven't a clue."

"He said he has a plan."

She stopped herself from reaching across the table and fingering the lock of honey-colored hair on his forehead. "Everything'll work out fine for both of us. You'll have to trust him on that."

Zack gave her a long, steady look. "I'm sorry you got involved in my problems." He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers.

No one had ever kissed her fingers before. Her heart skipped a beat, then eventually regained its normal rhythm.

"If I could have seen into the future, I wouldn't have stopped here that night for a cup of cocoa. And all this wouldn't be happening to me now, in all probability." She removed her hand from his grasp.

"Then we wouldn't have met."

She stared at his crestfallen face. "I was joking, silly." She checked the time. "God, I can't wait to get home and soak in a hot bath." In truth, she wanted to crawl onto Zack's lap and weep.

"Bad day?"

"The worst. Nothing went right kind of day. And this headache. Phew." She massaged her temples. And this business with the heirs and Francine didn't help. Casually she glanced around the diner at the red-checkered curtains, the round Formica tables, the red leather booths, and the potted ivies.

"Why don't I walk you home and get you into that hot bath?"

"Why, Mr. Hogan, you are a gentleman," she drawled.

"Quite the contrary. My motive is purely one of indulgence."

Oh my.

"Indulgence?" She felt her face flush.

"Yes, I want to make sure you get home safely." He smiled.

"Oh." Damn.

***

God it felt great. Like challenging gravity and winning. Could such a simple act really give so much pleasure, feel so...sensational? For so long now, she suffered from a tumorous cannot. Cannot do this, cannot do that, then as though to soften the warnings, must not and should nots.

Shannon looked over at Louise dressed in a peacock blue spring coat and matching hat with a sprig of baby's breath tucked in the band and felt underdressed in a leather jacket, jeans and penny loafers. Turning her attention back to her driving, she said, "I'm so glad you suggested a movie and dinner."

"It wasn't completely unselfish, dear. I wanted to see the movie and I didn't feel like cooking tonight."

Shannon chuckled. "Whatever your reason, thank you. Did you enjoy the show?"

"Yes, very much."

"Isn't Tom Cruise a hunk?"

"I never noticed."

"You never noticed?" Shannon asked, looking over at her. "What were you wiping from your chin then when he paraded around bare-chested?"

"Butter from the popcorn." Louise laughed.

"Uh-huh." Shannon cast a glance in the rearview mirror as they started down the long winding road leading to Cedar Rapids Inn. No one drove behind them and no one lurked in the back seat. Maybe her luck changed. She tapped the brake.

"How're you doing, dear? Really doing, I mean."

"I'm fine. Really. I've been through tougher times. Edward's on top of things and the police know about everything now, so..." Shannon downshifted into third, and reached over and squeezed Louise's hand. "Everything's going to be fine, you'll see."

"I hope you're not placing too much trust in him."

"No reason not to. It's strange, but..."

"But what?"

Shannon shrugged. "It's as though we share a connection, like...I don't know...as though I knew him in a past life or something. I know how cliché it sounds, but it's the way I feel." They neared a curve and she eased on the brake. Louise unbuckled her seat belt and slipped out of her coat.

"Maybe he feels sorry – " Shannon paused as they approached another curve. This time when she pressed the brake, the pedal sank to the floor. What the hell?

"Shannon, aren't you going a little fast?" Louise grabbed the dashboard as the car careened around the turn.

With one hand, Shannon held the steering wheel in a vice-lock while she yanked up on the emergency brake. The car continued to accelerate. She clenched the wheel with both hands and battled the next curve. "Buckle up, Mrs. Nelson. No brakes." She glanced at the speedometer. Eighty-five. She shifted into four gear.

Louise, fumbling with the seat belt, asked, "How will we stop?"

Shannon wished for a snow bank. One of those puffy ones a snowplow made. "Don't know." Gravel from the shoulder of the road snapped against the undercarriage of the car from the rear wheels. She turned the wheel to the left. The tires squawked around the next curve. She stared at the distance before a flat stretch. Her vision blurred as she stared at the bay beyond. They passed the road sign indicating a sharp turn ahead; below it read 50 KPH. She took that turn at ninety.

Familiar with this stretch of highway, she struggled to anticipate the next curve. If she couldn't maneuver the turn, they'd crash into the freezing water. They would die. Her mind numbed with the thought. The already steep incline deepened. The trees on the sides of the road took the form of a fence.

"Hang on, Mrs. Nelson." The tires screamed as Shannon steered the car onto the shoulder of the road toward a cluster of young poplars. The car listed, almost toppling. Trees sped past. For an instant, the tires seemed to get a footing on the gravel, but their speed was too fast. The car left the road and sailed through the air.

Louise made the sign of the cross. "O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee...and I detest all...my sins, because of Thy...just punishments, but mostofall...Oh, Christ. – "

Shannon awakened slowly. When her memory cleared, she jerked her head toward the passenger seat. With a shaky hand, she touched Louise's arm.

"Mrs. Nelson." Her fingers shook as she checked for the pulse in Louise's neck. "Oh, thank God." She ran her hands over Louise's body, checking for broken bones.

"You're okay," she murmured when Louise moaned.

"What happened?"

Shannon looked out the driver's window. "We had a run-in with some trees. I'm afraid we lost. The bright side is that we didn't hit them head-on, or we wouldn't be talking about it." Louise tried to move. She cautioned her, "Don't move." She held Louise's hand and sighed with relief.

"Remind me...we...ar a cra...craash helmet the next time I drive with you."

Shannon smiled as she peered out the windshield. The car was jammed between trees, suspended about five feet from the ground. "We must look like a giant blob of pink Double-Bubble sandwiched between these alders." The image struck her funny. Each laugh made her aware of another ache. "Good enough to blow," she added and laughed some more.

"Are you all right, Shannon?"

"I'm fine. Just a little sore," she said, sobering. She stared at Louise's peacock blue hat hanging from the gearshift and the matching coat suspended from the rearview mirror and took to laughing again.

"You're in shock, dear. Sit back and try to relax."

A stab of anguish pierced her heart for the concern in Louise's voice. Louise looked the worst for wear and yet her main concern was for Shannon's well-being. How unselfish was that?

Louise rested her head against the seat. "I saw those trees coming at us and I thought we were both dead."

Shannon's eyes watered when tears slipped through the lashes of Louise's closed eyes. "We're both fine," she said through a catch in her throat. "After a warm bath, we'll be as right as rain."

Sirens wailed in the distance.

"Do you know what happened, dear?"

Shannon nodded. "Someone tried to kill us." Me, specifically.

***

Shannon was standing at Louise's bedside when Edward arrived in Emergency. "Here's Mr. McIntyre." She glanced over his shoulder. "And look, he brought the police with him," she said, nodding at Detective Gray.

Edward rushed to her. "What happened?"

"Thanks for coming, Mr. McIntyre. The brakes gave out on my car on the road to Cedar Rapids Inn."

"Are you all right?"

Shannon heard the concern in his voice. "Just bruises and a whopping headache." Truth be told, she trembled from head to toe. "My car didn't fare so well though."

"Cars can be replaced." Edward extended a hand toward her, then pulled back. Shannon wondered why. She needed a hug. She needed him to tell her everything would be all right.

"We're taking it in, Ms. Murphy, and I'll have them pay particular attention to the brake lines and fluid. When was the last time you used your car?" Gray took a coiled pad from his pocket.

"I don't know. A week maybe. Since I'm not _allowed_ to go anywhere alone after dark – "

"Where do you park your car?"

Shannon took Louise's hand in hers. "In the parking lot behind my apartment building."

Gray turned toward Louise. "Were you with Ms. Murphy?"

"What kind of a stupid question is that, young fella? Of course, I was. How else do you think I got here? And I'm fine, thank you very much for askin', just a little concussion."

"The doctor wants to keep her overnight for – "

"I'm not staying in the hospital just because of a little bump on the head...big waste of money...going home."

"Mrs. Nelson," Shannon admonished.

"Now, dearie, I assured the doctor I'll rest and avoid stress for the next few days and at the first sign of nausea or dizziness, I'll come right back to the hospital. I told him I have a friend who will play nursemaid and that I'd be smothered, pampered, and hovered over. Old Doc Aaron'll just have to accept that." Louise harrumphed. "If I didn't know better, I'd think the old fart just wants to get another look at my heinie. I have the buttocks of a thirty-five-year-old, you know."

Shannon looked at Louise and smiled. "I'll call a taxi."

"I'll take you both home," Gray said.

"No, I will." Edward stepped past the detective to lend a hand to Louise, who had already thrown back the bed sheet.
Chapter Seventeen

Edward glared at the puddle of brake fluid on the asphalt in the parking lot behind Shannon's apartment building. Not an ingenious method to kill someone, but effective. It took on a different meaning when it was personal and it didn't get any more personal than this. He'd almost lost it at the hospital when he saw her cut lip, the red blotch on her cheek and the fright in her eyes. He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her no one would hurt her again. But he couldn't. It wouldn't be seemly for a boss – moreover a former boss – to hug his secretary. He thought about how close he came to losing Shannon and shuddered.

He cursed himself for not keeping a closer watch on her, for not restricting her movements to the office and her apartment. He'd recognized the pattern, had known it would escalate. The anonymous caller inquiring about her hobbies and friends, the telephone hang-ups at her apartment, the mutilated clothing, the dead crow, and the message – he should have insisted.

The failing brakes could be accidental, though. A rust hole in the lines. Possible, but unlikely given the newness of the car. Anyway, he'd find out soon enough once the police checked it.

Francine did this. He was sure of it. She was shrewd, conniving, and obviously unafraid of the consequences of her actions. Realizing that only reinforced his understanding of her.

Going back up to Louise's apartment, Edward swore he wouldn't be outmaneuvered again. Maybe he'd engineer his plan with some compassion for Francine's sick mind. Or maybe not.

***

Shannon bundled her into bed as soon as they arrived in Louise's apartment. From her attitude at the hospital and from what she knew about her, she expected Louise to resist, but there was none of that. It caused her to worry. She tucked her in and fussed over her and thought Louise hit her head harder than the tests revealed, when Louise, not only accepted, but also drank to the last drop, a cup of tea she brewed for her.

Miguel jumped up and down on the floor beside the bed. She picked him up. "There's a certain little Chihuahua who wants to say hello."

"Come to Mama, snookums." Louise took him in her arms. They smothered each other with kisses.

She touched Louise's cheek and trembled at the thought of how close they both came to dying. She wondered who was responsible. Francine or the heirs? Despite Edward's opinion on the subject, the heirs seemed the most likely suspects, in her way of thinking. With her out of the picture, it freed them to pursue their mother's estate. It made sense, since it seemed highly improbable a woman would go to such lengths to remove someone from an ex-boyfriend's life.

Not for the first time, she wished she understood the human psyche better. She looked at Louise and blinked back tears. She would never have forgiven herself if the crash had taken Louise's life.

Shannon envisioned Edward as he entered the emergency room. The fright in his eyes was genuine. Why was he so concerned about her well-being? Did she come to mean so much to him in the year and a half she worked for him that he worried about her now, even after she no longer worked for him? Peter once told her she was like a flea on an elephant's ass. If that were true, why then did Edward go to such lengths to help her and see to her safety? He should consider her an annoyance to be avoided. Why didn't he?

***

Without knocking, Edward entered Louise's apartment, perturbed that neither woman thought to bolt the door. He stood for a moment in the bedroom doorway watching Shannon as she fussed over Louise. She cared deeply about her neighbor, he realized, but it shouldn't surprise him. Shannon cared deeply about those close to her. When she noticed him, he beckoned her with a crook of his finger.

"Why don't we sit on the sofa," he suggested. After they sat, he said, "Tell me everything that happened from the time you and Louise left until the accident."

She took a deep breath and exhaled. "We left around sixty-forty for the theater...."

Soon Shannon arrived at the point where they descended the first hill on their way to Cedar Rapids Inn. She told him about tapping the brake, then learning, as they approached the first turn on the road, the brakes had failed.

He heard the quiver in her voice and imagined the fear she experienced at that moment and clenched his fists.

Edward remembered the puddle of brake fluid. Just a small puddle, not nearly all of it. Francine obviously did research to know to leave just enough fluid so the brakes would work for a little while. Smart, very smart, he thought. He believed that once the police finished with the analysis of her car they'd find a severed brake line.

"I...I fought the turns, one after another. There didn't seem to be any end to them. When I looked ahead and saw the bay and the huge chunks of ice, I made a choice. That's when I steered the car toward a clump of small trees." She massaged her temples. "My God, I still can't believe someone actually tried to kill me. It seems surreal somehow."

"People kill people. Anyone is capable of taking a life. That's the simple truth. Some kill to protect someone they love or their own lives. Money, power, love are strong motivators."

She nodded. "I can understand that. But what have I done to Francine? I haven't threatened her, or Zack, or her children. I don't even know the woman." She threw her arms in the air.

"I think Francine sees you as an obstacle in her way of getting her boyfriend back. Her desires, her wants are threatened. She probably feels once you're eliminated, Zack will come back to her. Plainly, she's obsessed with him and worse still, obsessed with wanting, perhaps even the need, to kill you."

Shannon puffed out a long breath. "You're sure it's not Celia's heirs? Funny, in some strange way I'm hoping it's them, the lesser of two evils, so to speak."

Edward stared deep into her eyes as she looked up at him. "It's not them. They want to put you in jail not in the ground."

She ran a hand through her hair. "I almost got Louise killed because I... _I_ felt cooped up and wanted to get out. God, I'm so selfish."

"Shannon – "

"I can't go anywhere without a chaperone. I'm constantly looking over my shoulder. My heart almost stops when the doorbell or the telephone rings. I'm such a wimp. And the dead crow, well, it's a wonder I didn't drop like an anchor, and..."

Edward so loved her babble. He watched as she paced from one end of the living room to the other and laughed when she stopped abruptly in the middle of a rant about what people will have to say to slap her hands on her hips. When she turned and walked with her back to him, raising an arm in the air as she sermonized about the crazies in the world, he covered his mouth with his hankie and pretended to cough. When she addressed the issue of why she didn't subscribe to telephone call display, she justified her action with, "Oh, yes, there was never a need before."

Just when Edward positioned himself comfortably and his arthritic hip no longer ached, Shannon turned and said, "I still don't see why you're so adamant it's Francine. It could well be the heirs. People kill for money, you said so yourself. And a million bucks is a lot of reason."

"Yes, but the heirs already played their cards," he said calmly.

She raised a hand in the air, palm out. "Okay," she paused. "Okay. So how are we going to stop her?"

He looked into her face. "You're pale."

"Mr. McIntyre, I'm _always_ pale after someone tries to kill me."

He still needed to ask the question. "Are you all right? I want you to tell me the truth, not what you think I should hear."

Shannon stared down at the floor, then looked up at him through her eyelashes. "I'm fine, really. I just get a little crazy when I'm threatened, violated, and victimized and nothing can be done about it until the police have 'evidence'," she stopped to make quotation marks in the air. "When I think about how close we came to not walking away – "

"But you did. A lot of people wouldn't have, and if you wouldn't have steered into those immature trees, you might not have. Give yourself credit. You earned it." She looked worn out, he noticed.

He looked around at the antique furniture, hand-crocheted doilies, and the numerous knickknacks in the living room.

"I asked before and you let on you didn't hear the question, so I'm asking again. How are we going to stop this lunatic?"

Edward recognized the look on her face. She'd taken a stand, ready to kick some butt; exactly the way he needed her. "I still have some things to look into, but once everything is firmly in place, I'll fill you in on what I have in mind. But you can be sure of one thing – we'll get her. I promise."

She smiled. "A need to know basis, huh? Okay, I can live with that...for now."

Edward heard what she didn't say: she'd give him this.

"But it's going to be soon, right, because I don't know how much more I can take."

"Soon," Edward said and watched as she folded her arms against her chest.

"Why are you doing this for me, Mr. McIntyre?"

Though he'd expected she'd ask at some point, the question still took him by surprise. "Well, er...I like to think it's nothing I wouldn't do for a secretary who I've come to trust and respect." _She doesn't suspect, does she? She must never know the truth._

"Nothing more than that?"

Edward gave her a long and steady look.

"What more could there be?"
Chapter Eighteen

Francine's evening of celebration came to an abrupt halt with the eleven o'clock news, blaring from the radio behind the bar. How did Shannon survive that crash? The girl must have nine lives.

The pleasant buzz from the tequila and beer turned into the mother of all headaches. Now, she was sick _and_ angry.

"What happened to my party girl?" her new friend asked. He bumped her with his hip. Beer and tequila sloshed in her stomach. The guy's name was Richard, no, Rob. She couldn't remember, if she even knew it in the first place.

They'd been partying for the last few hours. When she'd walked past Shannon's apartment building and had seen her car gone from the parking lot, Francine had headed straight to The Wild Goose to celebrate Shannon's death. She hooked up with this guy within the first five minutes after ordering her first beer.

"Why so glum, darlin'?" Rob asked again.

She pulled herself closer to the bar and stared into the bottom of the shot glass. "Had an awakening experience."

"Wakening? Like see the light?"

"Yeah," she said through a belch. "Somethin' like that."

Rob put his back to the bar, waved his beer in the air, and hollered, "Hey, did you hear that? My girl just got an awakening experience."

"You mean like she was reborn? Whooo-ieee," the guy standing next to Rob jeered.

Francine leaned into the bar and looked around Rob's back at the fella who'd just taunted her. She knew the guy. Not his name, but that he was a total asshole with bad teeth and an even badder attitude.

The evening was a complete bust.

"Why don't you tell me all about it out in my Vette?" Rob whispered in her ear.

Vette? Yeah, right. She saw his key ring with the Honda emblem. Honestly, do men think women were all freaking idiots? "Some other time, loverboy." She slipped off the stool. "Thanks for the drinks, tiger," she said and slapped him on the shoulder. "Better luck next time."

"Fucking bitch," Rob yelled over Hank Williams yanging about lost love on the jukebox.

Without turning, Francine gave him the finger. "Fucking loser." She weaved through the bar crowd and managed to make it to the door without barfing. Once outside, she concentrated hard on keeping the cement sidewalk from introducing itself to her face.

She walked across the street and teetered toward home. She was really drunk, but not so drunk she could forget about Zack's new girlfriend. No way. The girl can't have anything between the ears. After the dead crow and the message, anyone else would have dropped Zack like a piece of hot charcoal. All she had to do was look back to when the messages started, then put two and two together. Two and two made four. Anyone else would have. But not this one. Oh, no.

Francine envisioned Zack and Shannon sitting together in the same booth they sat at almost every day after work for the past few weeks, laughing and holding hands. "It's just wrong." Seeing them together like that had infuriated her so much she'd marched to the twit's apartment building, not exactly sure what she'd do, just knowing she'd do something. Once she stood in the parking lot behind Shannon's apartment, an idea immediately formed in her mind.

How close she'd come to getting caught in the act by the old man. Thank God for cataracts. The golden-ager hadn't seen her. How lucky was that? And how lucky was it that Shannon's car doors were unlocked. It was a simple matter to open the driver's door and pull the latch for the hood. God, she made it too easy.

She'd bet the police would think brake lines. Ha. True, she wanted Shannon to know it was a deliberate attempt on her life, but nothing said she had to make it simple for them. Her switch blade cut through the bottom of that plastic reservoir and those little rubber hoses leading from the brake lines like cutting through air. Of course, she waited to make sure the fluid trickled out at just the right momentum too.

The surgical gloves she stole from her doctor's office served a wonderful purpose. Now, if she could only find a purpose for the tongue depressors. She hated it when she couldn't put what she stole to good use.

She arrived at her apartment building and looked up at the third floor. Relieved to see the rooms swathed in darkness, she sauntered up the front walk. If she managed to sneak past the apartments of her busybody neighbors without being heard, no one would ever know she left her little brats home alone. A sitter was an expense she couldn't afford. If she had to pay a sitter, how would she be able to party?

Francine slipped out of her shoes, tiptoed up the stairs and padded through the hallway. She unlocked the dead bolt without too much trouble and opened the door without any noise. Closing the door behind her, she dropped her shoes on the floor, shrugged out of her coat and flopped down on the sofa. She sat in the dark and brooded. It wasn't that she couldn't think of anything else to do to Shannon, it was to find the perfect idea to make her point. The one that would get her message across clearly, with no room for misinterpretation.

She struggled to hold back tears. "I hate you Shannon Murphy," she said to the walls. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you," she whimpered, pounding the sofa cushions with a mixture of anger and frustration. Her life sucked. Her kids sucked. Her parents sucked. She sobbed into the tweed fabric, weeping for the years of abuse, weeping for her lost love, weeping for her miserable life.

" _Are you going to wallow in self-pity and let one little failure stop you? You've never given up before. Why now?"_

Francine stopped in mid-wail at the sound of the familiar voice in her head. She straightened, hiccupped, and wiped her eyes and nose with her sleeve. "I...I haven't given up. I don't know where to turn is all. I don't know what to do next. It's so frustrating," she murmured.

" _Don't_ _you_ _love_ _Zachary?"_

"I love him with everything I am. How can you question my love for him?"

" _Well, then, fight for him. Whatever it takes, do it."_

She cocked her head and smiled. Her resolve slowly rekindled. Fortified, she answered, "You're right. I am going to fight for him and I am going to win him back." She smoothed a lock of hair from her eye, laced her fingers behind her head, and leaned back against the cushions. What's a girl got to do? Ho hum. It came to her, then. And she could even use the tongue depressors. Perfect.
Chapter Nineteen

Shannon walked out of her office, through the darkened hallway and into the kitchen. The fluorescent light seemed brighter than usual today. It took a little getting used to, probably because of the sleepless night she had. Maybe she shouldn't have come to work, as Edward suggested. She grabbed her private stash of cocoa from the cabinet and filled her cup with someone's boiled water. Feeling a presence behind her, she turned quickly and almost rammed into the chest of Peter Montgomery.

"Geez, blow a horn when you enter a room." She laid a hand across her galloping heart. "You frightened the daylights out of me."

"Sorry. With everything you've been going through, you have a right to be skittish."

Skittish?

Peter moved closer. The woodsy scent of his after-shave wafted toward her. Heavenly. She raised her eyes and appraised his neatly shaven face, aristocratic nose, and emerald-colored eyes, but not for the first time. Truth be told, she did it every chance she could.

"Edward told me about your car accident last night. You must be pretty shaken up." He studied her face. "If you'd like to talk about it – "

"Would this be on your time or mine, like before? Do you remember?" She detected a sudden flush to his cheeks, though only for a nanosecond.

"If memory serves me correctly, it went something like you wouldn't have sex with me if I were Adam and you were Eve and the Holy Spirit prescribed it." He smiled.

She'd used those exact words to counter his indecent proposal shortly after she started working at McIntyre & Montgomery, only to learn two seconds later she'd misinterpreted. Why did he remember them?

"Well, it still stands _." Liar._ She held her breath as he stepped an inch closer, fearing he would touch her and fearing her response should he.

"Do you remember the office Christmas party last year, Shannon?"

She exhaled. "Some of it." In truth, she remembered every minute of the party vividly, even the minutes preceding her arrival. She'd dressed for the office Christmas party in the little black dress Louise had insisted she purchase on their spontaneous shopping spree. For flair, she wore her mother's pearl choker and matching earrings.

When she entered the dining room of Le Château, she noticed him standing off to one side, looking invincible, ruthless. There was something else too – a look in his eyes she never saw before. Pity, perhaps.

Nerves she'd managed to control raced back. She overdressed, she thought as she cast a glance around the room. No, that's not it. She wrinkled her nose. Whatever his problem, it was his to deal with.

Within a half hour, everyone was seated around the long, rectangular mahogany dining table. No one seemed any more relaxed than she. Edward sat at the head of the table with Shannon to his right. From there it was lawyer, secretary, lawyer, secretary. Peter sat directly across from her. Every once in awhile she glanced across the table at him, and each time she found his attention on her. Or maybe on her cleavage, she couldn't tell for sure.

"A toast," Edward said as he sprang from his chair. "To all of our secretaries, who we cherish dearly and without whom we lawyers would have trouble finding our pens."

"Ain't that the truth," came from the opposite end of the table.

Maybe it was the wine at dinner. Or maybe it was the three glasses of champagne and the cigar she smoked after dinner, but Shannon found everyone was being really nice to her. She wouldn't have thought she had it in her to make small talk, especially knowing how disliked she was, but there she was chatting away.

"This place is beautiful, isn't it?" she said, standing beside Patricia. "I've never been before." She took a sip from her drink.

"The firm always has its Christmas party here, Shannon. Although it's not really a party, is it? Not with these stuffy lawyers."

"Oh, I don't find them stuffy at all. Though I do find them uptight, arrogant, weird, and obnoxious." Another sip from the glass. "Not to mention Neanderthal. I'm having a great time. I loved the broiled salmon, and the chocolate mousse was to die for. Though I can't say I loved the way Peter gawked at my chest all the while I ate it." She tipped back the last of her champagne.

"Shannon, maybe you've had enough to drink."

Just then, _Jingle_ _Bell_ _Rock_ sounded from the stereo system. Shannon hip-hopped to the tune across the room, paying no mind to the smiles and elbow nudging. Tapping Edward on the shoulder, she asked, "Might I have this dance, Sire?" She jammed her sandals into the pockets of his suit jacket.

He turned and smiled. "I thought you'd never ask."

"I'm so glad we had this get-together, Mr. McIntyre," she yelled as she rocked and rolled to the music. "It was a great idea. Your idea? What does it matter? I'm having a great time."

"How much have you had to drink?" Edward asked as he caught her around the waist.

"Why's ev'rybody asking me that? I haven't been drinking. Champagne is celebrating," she said, stepping on his toes.

The music stopped.

Shannon clapped and giggled.

"May I have this dance?"

Shannon turned, looked into Peter's face and paled. "Dance? It's a waltz."

Peter smiled. "So it is."

"S'okay."

Peter took her hand. It surprised her his hand was hard and calloused. She expected it to be soft and limp. He held her close in his arms. _Not_ _at_ _all_ _appropriate_ , she thought. She made a move to step back; he strengthened his hold. She loved his after-shave. She moved her hand in a circular motion on his back and felt the swell of muscles. _God_ , _he's_ _gorgeous_. Swaying to the music, happy chatter behind her, Shannon lost herself in the moment. She laid her head against his chest, and such a massive chest it was. She sighed.

The music stopped. Shannon curtsied – almost toppling over – and said, "I need another, then another glass of champagne." _And_ _a_ _cold_ _shower_ , she thought, as she teetered toward the bar.

Moments later, she stood beside Edward listening to his stories about the sorrier side of the law when the lights went out. In the darkness that followed, glasses shattered and gasps rang through the room. Then she was twirled around so fast she didn't know what was happening. Lips – hot and soft – locked onto hers. She felt the stubble of an evening shadow against her skin. She kissed back, enjoying the intimacy.

Then the lights came back on.

Shannon's thoughts returned to the present, remembering how alone she'd felt standing by herself in the middle of the gathering room, attempting to figure out if the kiss had been real or imagined.

"Everyone had a great time that night," Peter said.

He stared into her eyes with an intense gaze, as though he were trying to see into her soul. Her resolve slipped a tad. As she'd come to realize, if she didn't fight her attraction to him with all her worth, she'd surrender to it. And she couldn't have that; Peter was a married man.

She managed a nod, realizing the kiss had been real. She didn't know whether to be angry he'd taken advantage of her, or to be thankful her curiosity was finally satisfied. Or maybe, in view of her present predicaments, she considered the incident inconsequential. That could be too.

"So, you aren't gay," she said, smiling.

His thick, dark eyebrows shot upward beneath the tendrils of jet-black waves grazing his forehead. "What about my wife?" he asked with another quirk of his brows.

"I was joking. You fellas have no sense of humor at all."

Shannon made a move to go around him. His massive bulk blocked her escape. As he brushed a ringlet from her face, the thought rolled around in her mind that maybe the kiss was an impulse he hadn't been able to control. She'd sensed his attraction to her, but never once had he made any advance toward her...well, other than the kiss and she hadn't really been sure about it until now. She slapped his fingers. "Don't touch me. My God, haven't you heard about sexual harassment in the work place, counselor?"

"You had a sliver of glass stuck in your hair." He smiled as he crossed his arms against his chest. "Things changed after the Christmas party," he murmured.

She snickered. "You got that right. You made my life a nightmare, doing your best to get me fired. Why? For my best interests? For my happiness? You started the feud, Mr. Montgomery." _Atta girl, Shannon._

He expelled a long breath and ran his long fingers through his hair. "I regret my behavior back then," he whispered. "I should have apologized to you after you won the battle of wills."

She snorted and folded her arms across her chest. "Darn straight."

Peter touched her swollen lip gently with the tip of his finger.

This was getting too weird for her. "My God, what are you doing?" She jerked away, then turned. "I thought we'd established unwritten rules where the two of us are concerned. You ignore me. I ignore you."

"Is it too late to apologize?"

She pouted. "It's never too late to say you're sorry."

He nodded and swallowed.

She watched the bob of his Adam's apple and God help her, she found even that fascinating.

"I'm sorry for what happened between us. I'm sorry for my behavior. I should have handled it differently, should have handled everything differently."

She detected a certain urgency in his whisper. It frightened her.

"Apology accepted." Why was he saying this to her now? Was it because he thought she would die soon and he would be left regretting he didn't apologize to her when he had the chance? Oh God. The thought sent her heart a flutter. _Breathe._ She coached herself.

"But that wasn't what I was talking about when I said things changed."

Shannon forced a deep breath. Oh. She could be such an ass at times. She felt blood rush to her face. "It wasn't?" Why must they speak in riddles? So she would misinterpret? Could they get laughs no other way? Unable to look at him, she lowered her eyes, and studied the cracks in the floor.

"No," he answered softly.

She braced herself with a gram of courage and stared up at his face. She didn't appreciate his sly grin, not one bit. Did she really need to know what he meant? No. What she needed was for him to leave the room. "Please," she closed her eyes, "leave me be. I'm not in the mood for any of your games."

"I'm divorced."

She opened her eyes. She cocked a brow. "Really?"

Chapter Twenty

Edward checked the time. Twenty minutes passed since Dorothy Hodges ushered him into her office, then left to talk to someone in the hallway.

He shifted positions in the uncomfortable aluminum and vinyl chair meant for clients. Clients. Everyone was a client these days. What happened to claimants, customers, buyers, consumers, patrons, and shoppers? He took no pleasure in this sign of the times, but then he adapted to change about as well as a cat to water.

Lack of sleep was catching up with him. He closed his eyes and shocking pictures crowded his thoughts: Shannon lying in a pool of blood; Shannon with stab wounds covering her entire body.

"Mr. McIntyre."

He opened his eyes. The social worker stood before him. He could tell from her body language she was braced for this conference. "Good morning, Mrs. Hodges." He stood and extended his hand. "I'm a – "

"I know what you are. You're a lawyer."

He shoved his unshaken hand in the pocket of his trousers. "Guilty as charged." He smiled. One look at her rigid posture told him those banana-shaped fissures on either side of her mouth were not laugh lines. This was a no-nonsense-all-business woman. He'd try a honeyed approach first. An amicable conversation between two educated people. How could that go wrong?

"Why don't you cut to the chase and tell me why it was so urgent I see you."

So much for the amicable conversation or honeyed approach. Her deportment came up as short as her one-quarter inched silvery hair. He couldn't see her eyes very well behind the coke-bottle lenses of her glasses, but he saw them clearly enough to tell they were steady and intense.

"Right. I'm here to discuss one of your cases, Francine Barnes."

"I can't discuss Francine with you without written consent from her."

"I hoped it wouldn't be necessary." The polite well-bred man in him wished she'd sit so he could sit. The ache in his arthritic hip pained him to stand in one position too long.

She snorted. "Why would you think that?"

Off came the kid gloves. "Because of the children," he said softly.

She sat and plopped the bellows file she held in her hands on the desk.

Edward, though happy she finally sat, doubted she sat because those few words turned her legs to jelly, but more of a matter of taking a load off her feet. "Off the record. It'll go no farther. You have my word." Now if only she would tell _him_ to take a load off.

She blew a breath Edward felt from across the desk. "I can see you're not a man who gives up easily. All right, I have five minutes. You talk, I listen."

He shook his head. "I'll need more than five minutes of your valuable time."

"Perhaps we should reschedule?" She shuffled files and papers, giving the appearance of being extremely busy and very important.

Not on your life, Butterball. As slippery an eel as she appeared to be, he would not walk out of this office empty handed. "I don't think so."

"Excuse me?"

"Excuse me?" Edward frowned, wondering if she'd read his thoughts.

"I suggested we reschedule and you said you didn't think so," she said, enunciating each word.

"It would be in your and the department's best interests to hear me out now," he said with more force than intended.

She stiffened. "I don't take kindly to threats, Mr. McIntyre."

He smiled. "It's not a threat. I'm merely suggesting you hear this old codger out. Given the negative publicity the department suffered in the media lately, wouldn't it be in your and the department's best interests? You remember the Smith case two months ago where an innocent eight-month-old little girl died because your department failed to follow up on the complaints they received. I'm sure you don't want that to happen again." Judging by the sudden flush of her cheeks, Edward had her right where he wanted her – quivering in her triple Ds.

She checked her day planner. "Twenty minutes now or one hour at the latter part of next week."

"I'll take the twenty minutes."

Dorothy sat back in her executive chair and told him to take a seat. "Now then, why don't you tell me what's got you all fired up. And that's not to say I'll contribute anything, just that I'll listen."

"Understood." Edward sat and brought her up to speed, beginning with what he learned about Francine from Zachary, and ending with the car crash. "If the police find that Ms. Murphy's car was sabotaged, and if it is proved Ms. Barnes was responsible, then it was a deliberate attempt on her life and she's going to jail."

She shrugged. "I sympathize with your client's plight, but I fail to see how I can be of any help, that is, if I could."

"I'm sure, Dorothy, you take your job seriously and your prime objective is to ensure the safety and proper care of these children. I'm also sure there are times when you're backed up against the wall, bound by rules and laws."

"Sometimes," she admitted.

"You could help me a great deal if you'd tell me what your personal assessment and suspicions are about Ms. Barnes, what you haven't put on paper. I'm not interested in getting her in trouble. In fact, I'd like to get her the medical help I believe she needs. But I'm going to need your cooperation to do it." Edward could tell from the social worker's expression she wanted to believe him, but was skeptical. He understood.

"My goal is not to antagonize you or your department, but to see to the safety of my client. And to confirm my suspicions about this woman. My way is the easy way, the way without police involvement. I can almost guarantee they will not be as understanding of your position when they talk to you, and they will be talking to you if they find that your department allowed those children to remain with a mother who needed psychiatric help. Neither will they endeavor to keep your department's involvement in this matter under wraps as I could choose to do. That is, of course, if things are not kosher on your part. I'm not interested in how you've done your job. My interests are primary, theirs would not be." He held his breath while she took a moment to think over what he said.

"We never had this conversation?" she finally asked.

He blew out a breath. "What conversation is that?"

Without the need of the file to jog her memory, she began, "From the first few months after the birth of the first child I saw a behavioral problem in Francine. Slight changes, but changes nonetheless. Then after the birth of her second child, she exhibited radical shifts in thought and temper. One moment contrite, the next angry, that type of thing. We investigated the neighbor's complaints, but to no avail. We can't find definite proof of any sort of child abuse." She shook her head. "God, you know, one time when I visited her, she sniffed glue at the kitchen table right in front of my nose, and there was not one damn thing I could do about it."

"What are the neighbor's complaints?"

"That Francine leaves the children in the apartment alone for hours. Complaints of shouting, children crying for long periods of time, her parties day and night, that type of thing."

"Do you think there's any merit to the complaints?"

"Sure, I think there's merit, but since we can't catch her in the act and without evidence of physical abuse, our hands are tied. There's not a whole helluva lot we can do."

Edward scratched his head. "I understand and to be completely honest with you, all I wanted to do was nail Francine's balls to the wall when she first starting terrorizing my client. Please excuse the metaphor." Dorothy shrugged. "But now – ." His eyes traveled to a spot on the far wall. "But now, after I've heard her story, her upbringing, her parents, etc. I've a different opinion. I see her in a different light, you might say."

"How do you see her exactly?"

"A victim. I'm thinking she has a personality disorder that stems from her upbringing. I've done some research, talked with a psychiatrist friend, and learned that most people can live normal lives with a mild personality disorder, but during times of increased stress or external pressures, i.e., work, family, relationships, etc., the symptoms gain strength and momentum and begin to seriously interfere with their emotional and psychological functioning. I think this is the case with Francine."

"You might be right."

Edward crossed his legs at the knees, feeling more relaxed. "As a lawyer, I can help with the legal work should the fathers want custody of their children, that is, if I'm successful in getting Francine the medical help I think she desperately needs." He stared intently at the social worker.

Dorothy looked off to a corner of her office. "There's something oddly believable about how honorable your intentions are, Edward." He noticed her smile, her first of the last twenty minutes. She lifted the cuff of her sweater and checked the time. "Oh my, Edward, your time is up. And now if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting that will take up the next hour." She extended her hand. "I'm sure you can find your own way out."

Edward stood and shook her hand. "Do you mind if I use your phone to make some calls?"

"Feel free," she answered on her way out the door.

He stared at the file sitting atop her desk. "Lord God, look what the dumpling left behind," he exclaimed as he grabbed hold of Francine's file. Removing his London Fog topcoat and silk scarf, he crossed his legs and settled in to read Francine's entire story from the point of view of the department of social services.
Chapter Twenty-One

Shannon leaned back in her steno chair and mulled over her conversation with Peter.

He still thought about her and the kiss they shared after all this time.

Knowing he did, gave her a secret satisfaction.

And the news of his new found freedom added to that satisfaction.

She'd worried about the impression she gave him, cocking a brow after he'd related the news of his divorce, but when he called her into his office only minutes later, it was business as usual with him. Peter virtually threw letters at her with the request...no, the demand, for three copies of each. It reminded her of the time, months before, during _the feud_ , when he decided everything in the files on his desk needed to be photocopied. She'd accepted the command with a sweet smile. On her way to the photocopier, John asked her to get him a coffee. She smiled, then stomped to the lunchroom. Just as she reached the coffee maker, Stuart Campbell popped his head around the corner of the doorway and asked her to swear an affidavit. She complied with another sweet smile. Then, as she was about to enter the lunchroom, Edward intercepted her. He wanted to dictate a letter. Though the burden of the files, coffee fetching weighed heavily on her mind, she managed to smile sweetly again and followed behind him.

Fifteen minutes later, she walked through the hallway with twenty-two files evenly distributed in her hands, a coffee mug dangling from her pinkie, a steno pad tucked under her arm pit and a pen tucked over her ear. Peter stopped her and inquired about the status of his photocopied files. She was dizzy, but she smiled widely. "Sure," she said, dumping the yet to be photocopied files across his chest. "Get Abby to do it. She's not busy. I am." John took that moment to ask her for his coffee. She grinned evilly. "God gave you legs," she told him, slamming the mug into his hand.

Later, she'd marveled not only at the fact that Peter hadn't canned her on the spot but at the elasticity of his chin as it fell to his crotch.

A realization hit her now like a moving locomotive: He wasn't repeating history, was he? She couldn't go through that again. She might not be so tolerant or forgiving this time.

It wouldn't be easy, but Shannon vowed she would not let him draw her into another battle of wills. Not this time.

If Peter couldn't keep things in perspective, she would. Though he sent her pulse racing, they were employer and employee. It seemed he wanted it that way anyway, though he occasionally indicated otherwise. She'd consider them lapses of better judgment on his part.

Still, despite his about-faces and what he wanted her to think, she believed he wished for something more with her. Did he look at the other secretaries the same way he looked at her? Did he know the color of their eyes as he did hers? Did he brush imaginary debris from their hair?

She barely contained her excitement and it didn't have anything to do with the fact that for the last hour her thoughts never once centered on the crazy heirs or the crazy ex-girlfriend. Her excitement came from knowing the answer to those questions was 'no'.

Could he want her, but refused to acknowledge his feelings because...what, she wasn't a socialite? If that's the case, Peter Montgomery could take a flying leap.

How could _he_ consider _her_ socially unacceptable? She knew about his past. Where he came from. His upbringing and the criminal activities of his siblings. He should consider himself lucky she even acknowledged him. Damn straight.

She remembered how, only one hour before, he stood so close to her, close enough she could see the evidence of a new growth of whiskers. If it had been anyone else, she would have told him to back off, giving him a dressing down in the process. But it wasn't. It was Peter.

Peter, with the incredible eyes she never tired looking at.

Peter, with the strong hands she yearned to have touch her.

Peter, with an appeal she found virtually impossible to ignore, not to mention, resist.

It was definitely time for her to look for another job; either that or put some distance between them so she could muster up a resistance to this raging attraction.

***

Really suave, Peter. Really suave. He flushed when he thought of what he said to her. God, how could he act so...so blatant? He was a lawyer, for God's sake. Never play your full hand. Never let your opponent see your vulnerabilities. Though Shannon was not an opponent, was she? How would he describe her? A desire? A want he could never have? He envisioned Edward's reaction if they ever got together in that way. He shivered at the thought.

Edward would never consider him a befitting suitor for his precious "Sarah".

And what was up with that anyway? Peter couldn't imagine doing for a secretary what Edward did for Shannon.

"What if she thinks he came on to her because of the money – the money she has and the money she's about to inherit?" he muttered to the gravel removal agreement beneath his fingers. No, it didn't have anything to do with anything. It didn't. It did matter though that when he was around her he enjoyed himself. And the fact he never knew what she was going to say next added to the attraction. Not to mention her eyes – eyes that had him acting like a horny fifteen-year-old when he looked into them.

And what about the difference in our ages? No, it can never be. It would never work. Nothing can happen between them.

There were a lot of women in town. So what if he might never be infatuated with any one of them like he was with her? So what if he might never ache to hear the sound of their voices like he did her? So what if he might never yearn to be near them like he did her?

"What do you think?" he asked the Hear-No-Evil brass monkey sitting on his desk. The news of his divorce seemed to have affected her. Maybe she liked the idea. But she did leave in a hurry once she knew. That couldn't be a good sign.

How would Edward react to the two of them getting together? Not well; not well at all. He had to fight his attraction to her, not only for himself but for her as well. He had to bridle those urges to touch her. To hold her. To kiss her. To do so much more. So badly, in fact, that he struggled to find the fortitude within himself to fend off whatever it was that pulled him to her with such ferocity.

The strength he sought materialized before his eyes.

"Peter, might I have a word?" Edward asked from the doorway.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Her phone was ringing when she returned from the ladies room. She sprinted to her desk.

"Hello."

"Miss Murphy, it's Detective Gray."

"Have you learned anything about my car?"

"It car was tampered with all right. The brake hoses were cut and so was the reservoir that holds the fluid."

She sank onto her chair, her breath laboring and her mind running wild with images of Zack's ex chasing after her with an axe. Her voice quivered when she asked, "What do we do now?"

"For starters, I'll take your fingerprints and your friends and compare them to the prints we found on the car. Hopefully one of the prints will be the saboteur. I'll be at your office within the hour."

***

Two hours later Detective Byron Gray sat on the edge of his chair before the police chief. Gene Buckley was in his late fifties and solidly built. Though he was no taller than Gray, he had an air of confidence and authority that seemed to heighten his five-ten stature. The chief's weathered face told him Buckley enjoyed a life in the sun. He saw him as someone who hunted, fished, and camped out under the stars, a bona fide outdoorsman. On the wall directly behind his desk hung a twelve by fourteen black and white photo of Buckley standing in two feet of pristine snow with a twelve-gauge shotgun aimed at a computer. Gray concentrated on the picture.

"How many weeks has it been? Four? Five? When can I expect an arrest?"

Though he didn't know Buckley well yet, he recognized his annoyance with the lack of progress made on the MacTavish murder. He understood why. He was annoyed with himself too. Gray handed him the report that showed the blood sample taken from the scrapings beneath Celia's fingernails was B Negative and the follicles from Shannon's hair sample was O Positive.

"Shoots the crap out of your theory Miss Murphy is the murderer," Buckley said as he flicked the report toward Gray.

"I thought you'd be happy she isn't at the top of my suspect list anymore."

"Why's that?"

Gray didn't like the rise of the chief's bushy eyebrows. "You were the one who suggested I concentrate on the heirs as suspects."

"Funny, I don't remember saying that." The chief paused to tug on his ear. "I might have said something about not putting all your eggs in one basket though."

He remembered Shannon and how her lawyers showered her with attention. He suspected she elicited that sort of behavior from the opposite gender.

"Do you know Ms. Murphy?" Gray asked.

"What you implying, son?"

"I'm not implying anything. Just curious. Do you know Edward McIntyre?"

"What you implying now, son?"

Christ. Within the space of two minutes, he'd managed to get the man's dander up twice. "Nothing. I – "

"Good, because I'd hate to think my newest detective who is still working through his probationary period might be suggesting his chief wants him to look the other way when it comes to Miss Murphy."

What Gray wouldn't do for a smoke and a cold beer right now.

The taut silence that followed was relieved by the ring of the telephone. While the chief answered the call, Gray reevaluated the heirs as suspects. If they didn't kill their mother, who did? Someone at the nursing care facility? An angel of mercy? They'd interviewed all of the residents and staff, but learned nothing useful. Maybe he should pay them another visit.

Buckley ended the call and turned to Gray.

"And the answering machine tape. Was Miss Murphy home when she said she was?"

"Yes, she answered the call at 11:15 just as she said she did. But that doesn't place her at her apartment between eleven and eleven-fifteen, or after that, for that matter."

"And what about this other matter of Miss Murphy's – the stalker?"

"The mechanic discovered a cut in the bottom of the brake fluid reservoir and cuts in all of the rubber hoses leading from the brake lines."

"Someone tried to kill her." Buckley shook his head. "The last time someone was convicted of murder in Sandy Point was back in 1952 and the guy was hanged two hours after the guilty verdict in what is now the parking lot of the courthouse."

"Two hours later?"

Buckley shrugged. "That's how they did things in those days. What's your next step?"

"I'll have a comparison test done on the fingerprints taken from the car with that of Miss Murphy's and her friends."

"Think you'll get lucky?"

Gray snorted. "No. I think Miss Barnes is too smart for that."

"You don't think it's the heirs?"

"I tend to agree with McIntyre on that one."

Buckley sat back in his chair. "Keep an open mind."

"I think it's time I have a talk, a friendly talk, with Francine Barnes."

The chief waved his hand in the air. "Hold off on that for the time being, would you?"

Gray wouldn't question the chief's motives. "Sure." He shrugged. "Getting back to the blood sample in the MacTavish matter, you wouldn't happen to know anyone in records at the hospital, would you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do, son."

***

When Gray returned from the records department of the hospital, Marilyn Leger and Maxwell MacTavish awaited him in his cubicle. They didn't look happy. He surmised their restlessness and irritability was directed partly at him for the lack of judicious steps taken to indict Shannon Murphy. The other part was probably directed toward the legal system and the rules that must be followed before an arrest was made. True, Shannon had motive and opportunity to kill Celia. The means to commit murder...well, anyone could have placed a pillow over her face and smothered the frail woman to death. Anyone. At least anyone who stood to inherit a million dollars.

Now here are two likely murder suspects, he thought. The question remained though, how would he prove it? No one in the senior's home placed either of them at the scene. Was that such startling news given the fact that the youngest resident of the home was seventy-eight years old and a good many of them suffered from Alzheimer's or the plain dottiness of old age, not to mention that a lot, if not all of them, had cataracts? Senseless and sightless. Not a winning combination if one desired irrefutable evidence.

He stared across at Celia's offspring. With their frequent attendance at the station, the lack of evidence, and the chief pushing him to make an arrest, his patience faltered. "What can I do for you today?" The calmness of his voice surprised him.

"For starters you could tell us you're about to arrest Shannon Murphy for my mother's murder," Marilyn stated haughtily.

Gray shook his head. "I can't tell you that."

"Why not? I understand she was seen with my mother on the night she died. Not to mention convincing trace evidence found at the scene. What more do you want? An eye witness to the actual murder?" she bellowed.

Gray sat back in his chair. "That would be nice." He pictured Marilyn Leger standing over her withering mother and snuffing the feeble breath from her lungs. What Shannon lacked in the temperament to take a person's life, Marilyn Leger made up for in spades.

"There are witnesses who saw her leave the home just before nine o'clock on the night my mother died, but that's not to say she didn't come back later and kill her." She waved a hand in the air. "A minute, that's all it would take."

"And you know this how, Ms. Leger?" Gray leaned forward.

"What I'm asking is how these old people, really old people, can be so sure of the exact time Miss Murphy left the home? It just seems you're grasping at straws, Detective, to prove why Shannon Murphy is not the murderer. Don't you have your job reversed?"

That's it, he thought. Enough. First the chief, now her. Did no one consider him capable of doing his job?

"If there's nothing more I can do for you today, I have a busy schedule. Eating doughnuts and all that." He stood.

"Humph. Yes, and you really should lay off them, Detective." Marilyn jolted from her chair and yanked her brother to his feet.

The eye-piercing look Marilyn gave him as she threw her silk scarf over her shoulder provided him with ample incentive to make an arrest. And soon. He waited until the heirs neared the exit, then grabbed hold of the bottle of the pink stuff from the open desk drawer. Fumbling with the adult restraint clips, he pressed, pushed and turned all in one motion without success. It made him want to pull out his gun and shoot the damn thing off he was in such a mood. He would prove that Shannon Murphy _didn't_ commit this murder simply because of Marilyn Leger. That was taking his job ass backward, but he was never known for his conventional or orthodox methods. He threw the unopened bottle back in the drawer and left the precinct to poke a hole. Hopefully, a rabbit would jump out.
Chapter Twenty-Three

Gray unbuttoned his coat as he walked through the hallway of the Rocmorra Senior Care Home. The heat was oppressive. A voice raised in anger echoed from one of the bedrooms. He followed the sound. Standing in the doorway, he cleared his throat.

"May I help you?"

The care worker, still in her teens, dressed in an over-washed pink uniform, one size too small, had an angular face, mousy brown hair pulled back severely in a ponytail. Gray tried not to stare at the marble-sized zit on the end of her nose that looked as though it might erupt in volcano-like proportions at any moment. His effort was futile. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his pants, giving her a clear view of his badge clipped to his belt.

He walked over to the bed and studied the form of an elderly woman. Snow-white hair framed a wrinkled face. Sharp blue eyes, hollow beneath white brows stared back at him. _Is this what's in store for my mother?_ he wondered. When he considered the alternative, he didn't know which was worse.

He turned to the care worker and introduced himself. "I'd like to ask you a few questions regarding the death of Celia MacTavish."

"Been there, done that." She yanked the blankets over the patient.

"Would you mind going over it again?"

"Everything I had to say should be in the other cop's report. Read it," she said, turning her back to him.

It was not as though Gray was unaccustomed to this type of behavior when it came to asking the same questions repeatedly of the same witness. What rankled him was her lack of compassion toward a defenseless person.

"Look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. It's your choice. Either you answer my questions here or I'll haul you down to the station." Gray shrugged and watched as she unwrapped a piece of gum.

"You sound like someone in a gangster movie. Things aren't done like that any more," she said, popping the gum in her mouth.

"Try me."

She sighed loudly. "Go ahead. Shoot."

Don't tempt me, Gray thought. He'd had his fill of obnoxious women today.

"Were you working the night Celia MacTavish died?" he asked.

"Yes." She chewed noisily.

"Did you tend to Mrs. MacTavish?"

"No," she said, blowing a pink translucent bubble.

"Did you see or hear anything unusual that night?"

"No," she answered around the bubble.

"Do you know if Mrs. MacTavish had any visitors around eleven o'clock that night?"

_Pop_ went the bubble. "No." She sucked the remnants into her mouth, chomped the wad into shape, and crossed her arms against her chest.

This was going nowhere. Just as he was about to facetiously thank her for her kind and courteous cooperation, the patient, who they'd both forgotten, chattered, "I saw someone. I saw someone." She giggled like a child who knew a secret but couldn't tell.

Gray placed his hands on the side rail of the bed. "Who did you see, Ma'am?"

"That woman," she answered.

"What woman?" Gray asked, his hopes uplifted.

"The woman with the bird in her hat."

"A woman with a bird in her hat?" Gray turned to the care worker, who rolled her eyes and twirled an index finger against the side of her head.

The detective liked this care worker less and less. A squeal of delight brought his attention back to the little old lady. He watched as she clenched her toothless gums and grinned. "Heehee," she giggled. "I know something you don't know," she sing-songed. "Heeheehee."

Gray was a cooperative audience, titillated with the prospect of a lead. Granted, there was a question of reliability and credibility, but it seemed he was at an impasse. With progress as slow as a tortoise, what did he have to lose? When he stared at the shrunken form of the geriatric, he felt that perhaps _his_ sensibility should be questioned if he intended to encourage her. Beggars could not be choosers though. He leaned in closer to her when she beckoned him with a crook of a gnarled finger.

"If a beautiful woman plays her cards right, she always gets what she wants," the old woman crooned. She showed off her healthy pink gums.

"Why don't you tell me about the woman with the bird in her hat?" he asked.

"A woman has a bird in her hat?" the old woman asked excitedly. "Where? Where?" She craned her neck and looked around the room.

"Tol' ya," the care worker said smugly.

Gray surrendered to the truth of the lucidity of the witness. Patting the woman's liver-spotted hand, he turned and issued a stern look to the end of the care worker's nose and left the room.

He strode through the hall toward the large gathering area that served as a games room, sitting room and a general meeting place for the seniors. For a moment, he watched the residents from the doorway. Judging by the looks in the eyes of the old guys they hoped, and probably prayed, they'd get lucky tonight. Maybe at a game of Gin Rummy, but who knew? Gray wished he'd get lucky.

"How's everyone today?" Gray asked, entering the room.

"We're breathing, so we're happy," answered one man.

"Who are you visiting, dearie?" the blue-haired woman on his right asked.

"Don't you remember, Dora? This is the stud who's looking into the death of Cici," a woman wearing a hot pink jogging suit said.

Gray noticed the change in the woman's countenance – from pleasantness to sadness in the flash of an eye.

"He didn't question me," she said.

"I'm Detective Byron Gray." He smiled and asked, "And you are?"

Placing her hand in his, she returned his smile and said, "Dora Roy. Pleased to meet you." Gray held her stare as she gave him a once-over. "Are you married, Detective?"

Breaking into the laughter that swept through the area, he asked, "Do you have time to answer some questions?" Gray artfully avoided using the "m" word. It was not his intention to create havoc and unnecessary worry. He wouldn't want them to think an angel of mercy was in their midst and that any one of them could be the next victim.

"Sure, I've got time. I think." She cast her eyes heavenward and made the sign of the cross against her chest.

"Were you here that night? The night of the demise of Celia MacTavish?"

"Murder, Detective Gray. You can say the word," Dora Roy chided.

Gray studied their faces. They enjoyed this, he thought. "Did you see anyone with Mrs. MacTavish between eleven o'clock and eleven-thirty?"

Dora nodded solemnly. "Yes, I did, Detective."

This took Gray completely by surprise. "You did?" Maybe he might get lucky after all. His toes tingled in his wing tips.

"Are you hard of hearing?"

"No," he answered sheepishly. "Who did you see?"

"That witch."

"Witch?" He envisioned the care worker he had the unfortunate opportunity to meet a few minutes ago. "Does she have a name?"

"Marilyn Leger," Dora stated succinctly.

"Marilyn Leger?" Gray practically bellowed in his excitement. _I knew it. Now all I have to do is prove she murdered her mother._

"Yes. Cici's daughter."

"Are you sure it was that night?"

"It was the last night Cici was alive, so it would have to be, wouldn't it?"

That made sense. "What time did you see Ms. Leger with her mother?"

"It was exactly eleven-o-five."

"Are you sure of the time?" This was too good to be true. He crossed his fingers.

"Yes. Because, Detective, as I walked through the hall I checked my watch and it read eleven-o five. I was five minutes late for my favorite show."

"Are you certain it was Marilyn Leger with her mother?"

"Well, duh, Detective. I looked in her room as I passed by her suite and recognized her. I was going to say "hi" but then decided not to interrupt. Cici's children seldom visited her."

He cleared the catch in his throat. "Tell me exactly what you saw.

"I saw Marilyn standing near her mother's head, fluffing the pillows."

"Fluffing the pillows?"

"Honestly, Detective, is there something the matter with your hearing?" Dora frowned. "She held the pillows in her hands, like she was ready to fluff them."

_Or like she was ready to hold them over her mother's face_ , Gray thought. Not an eye witness to the crime, but damn near and definitely something to work with. "How is it you weren't questioned before?"

"I left for Los Angeles early that morning and just returned yesterday. My granddaughter had just given birth to a baby girl. I have pictures. Would you like to see?" She hoisted three photo albums from the floor.

Gray eyed the albums. He glanced at his watch. "I'm sorry. I don't have time right now. I'd like you to come by the station later to make a statement."

"Sure, God willing," Dora Roy answered with another heavenward gaze.
Chapter Twenty-Four

Dusk engulfed Sandy Point as Shannon and Peter climbed the steps of her apartment building. Peter kept pace beside her, far enough out of the reach of her swinging arms but close enough for her to be aware of him. "You don't have to do this, you know," she said as she led the way into the building. "It's not as though Francine's waiting for me in my apartment."

"I'll see you to your door. Edward's instructions were explicit."

They boarded the elevator and Peter pushed the button for the second floor. "This girl is very angry with you and it's not something she's going to get over easily and any time soon. She'll come after you eventually."

Shannon chewed her bottom lip. "Are you trying to scare me?" The elevator doors swished open and she sprinted through the hallway toward her apartment. Peter caught up with her.

"Yes." He touched her arm lightly when they arrived at her door. She tried to turn. His grasp strengthened. "Do you remember the first time I came to your apartment?"

"I remember." Shannon smiled. She'd only been working for Edward a month at the time when...

The telephone rang. This better be important, she thought. Especially after the long, sleepless night she endured. Sleep hadn't come until the wee hours of the morning and then dreams of lawyers tormented her enough that she felt she hadn't slept at all.

"Hello."

"Shannon," came the voice she was so accustomed to hearing at the office.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. It's him. He's calling me at home now. Jesus, that's all she needed. Peter calling her at home. Wasn't it enough for him to give her grief from nine to five, five days a week?

"Yes."

"It's Peter."

Who? With this lawyer that question would be tantamount to blasphemy. Okay, she told herself, you're not paying attention. And it was always wiser to pay attention to any lawyer no matter what you thought of him. She bit her tongue and waited for him to continue.

"Did I wake you?"

_For Chrissakes, you ass, it's 7:35 in the morning. On a Sunday._ She blinked, but it didn't wash away the film over her eyes. It was way too early in the morning for this. A woman needed Valium to deal with this man at any time of the day. "No, I'm awake."

"Good. Could I prevail upon you to come into the office to prepare a subpoena for me?"

"I can't. I'm sorry." There was no way she could leave Miguel alone. Normally she'd run across the hall and ask Louise to look after him, but her neighbor wouldn't be home until later that night.

"I wouldn't ask if it were not an emergency, Shannon. Surely, there can't be anything _that_ pressing that you can't put it aside for awhile, is there?"

She noticed how quickly Peter turned authoritative. With a two-step to the side she asked, "What about Abby? Can't she come in?"

"I can't reach her. You're my last resort."

Shannon didn't like to be anyone's last resort. Maybe she would have fallen for a little flattery and a little begging. Maybe then she would have thought about the _possibility_ of complying with his request. She held the telephone receiver tightly against her ear and gave the room a hideous grimace before telling Peter that her dog had undergone surgery – castration, she emphasized – and she couldn't leave him alone. He surprised her by saying he saw no problem with her taking Miguel to the office; he'd even pick them up and bring them back.

If Peter possessed the sense God gave a goose, he'd have hung up already. Instead, he pushed her for the only answer he would accept. Shannon drew deeply from an inner resolve and clung tightly to the hard core of angst in the pit of her stomach.

Angry thoughts formed into nasty words gathering at the back of her throat, aching to be belched. But she wouldn't give him that satisfaction either, and she wouldn't do the yelling she wanted to do because that was exactly what Peter pushed her to do. She shivered and felt as though she might never feel warm again.

Okay, a small, realistic voice in her mind asserted, maybe she was being self-indulgent. But not overly so.

If she said a flat "no" and hung up, it would be one more black mark against her. Well, she wouldn't give him any more ammunition.

She sighed wearily. "Okay, Mr. Montgomery."

"Great," he said. "I'll be by in ten minutes."

_Ten_ _minutes._ Christ _._ Shannon slammed down the telephone. Shit and Goddamnit. She'd have to spend part of her Sunday with Peter. One of the two days meant for her, to do with what she would. God, how she needed that time to fortify herself for the coming week.

Babbling to Miguel about hexes, curses and voodoo black magic, she hurriedly got ready. Someone looking in would agree she slowly slipped over the edge of sanity.

"I can't tell you how much I regret my behavior back then," Peter said.

"You should."

"Whatever happened to the dog?" he asked.

"Louise became so attached to him I gave him to her." She giggled, remembering the rest of the story...

Peter had stood behind her on the dimly lit landing and whispered her name. With Miguel in the crook of her left arm, Shannon put her right hand on the newel post and looked over her shoulder. He leaned forward, coming within inches of her face. With the speed of a panther, she turned and made a move toward the stairs. As she did, she hooked her right foot with his. With the powerful momentum she had going and a force she wasn't aware she was capable of, she sent the barrister tumbling down the stairs.

From the top of the staircase she watched in horror as Peter bounced from one step to the next, hearing his cries of pain and bellows of fright until he landed twisted like a pretzel in the foyer.

"Omigod, Mr. Montgomery, are you all right?" She bounded down the staircase, holding Miguel tightly against her chest. She knelt beside him on the floor. He looked a funny sight with his hair in his eyes and his shirttail hanging out of his dress pants. Now is not the time to laugh, she told herself.

"Arf, arf."

"Shush, Miguel."

Peter sat up with a grimace. "Jesus, Shannon, what are you trying to do to me?"

"Me?" she yelled. "It was you, Mr. Montgomery. You scared me when you tried to kiss me. I tried to turn away, but my foot hooked – "

"Kiss you? Are you out of your mind? I noticed your Goddamn dog was slipping from the blanket. I didn't want _him_ falling down the stairs." Peter massaged the back of his neck. "Christ, I'm lucky I didn't break my freaking neck."

"Oh." It was all she could think of to say. She blushed, thinking she'd jumped to another incredible conclusion, which, it seemed, was always the case when it came to him.

Minutes later when Peter drove her home, he was not into idle chatter. With good reason. Neither was she. With good reason. Her thoughts wandered. A shiver traveled up her spine. It had been a dreadful week. God, the past few weeks had been simply dreadful. She rolled the window down a crack and breathed in the cool frosty air.

At her apartment building, Peter thanked her and said, "I'll remember it," with a wink and a little cry of pain.

_Remember what?_ she wondered. The favor or the fall? "Anytime," she said and hoped there never would be. "Bye, bye, see you tomorrow." _Nincompoop_.

Peter ran his fingers through his hair. "That was embarrassing."

Shannon laughed. "For both of us." She unclipped her keys from the handle of her shoulder bag and turned to look at him. "I'm happy those days are long gone. They are long gone, aren't they, Mr. Montgomery?"

Without answering, he leaned forward, took her keys from her hand, and unlocked the door. They moved into her apartment and she reached for the light switch. He stilled the movement and inched toward her, swinging the door closed behind him. When she didn't move away, he wound his hand around her back and drew her closer.

"Do – " His lips settled on hers and the unfinished plea turned into a groan, mirroring his. He enfolded her into his arms and embraced her tightly. She was weak from head to toe, but she found the strength to break away from his lips. "Mr. Montgomery."

Peter buried his face in her hair. "I think we can dispense with the formality, don't you?"

She arched her neck, giving him full access as he feather-kissed her feverish skin. "This...this isn't one...of your...games where...soon you'll...look at me smug...smugly and...and say, 'Sorry, sister.'"

"No. No more games," he whispered. His hands slipped beneath her sweater. His fingers moved slowly, tantalizingly upward. She gasped. The air around them seemed infused with electricity – their electricity. She told herself to resist, but the want, the need to be held and loved by him, was more powerful than her resolve.

"God, I've wanted to be with you from the first moment I laid eyes on you." His lips trembled against hers.

"Me too," she breathed.

"You scared the life out of me when you crashed your car. When I thought I could've lost you – "

She placed a finger against his lips. "Shhh. I'm fine, as you can see."

"More than fine, I'd say. You're beautiful." She giggled as he picked her up, feeling totally liberated and gloriously alive for the first time in a very long while.

"Which way?"

She pointed. "Left and straight ahead."

Peter stopped at the threshold of her bedroom. "Are you sure about this?"

Shannon cocked her head. "Do you smell that?"
Chapter Twenty-Five

Peter jerked as though he'd just been stabbed. "What?"

"Don't you smell that?" She sniffed the air. "It smells like someone died in here." She wriggled out of his arms and landed solidly on the hardwood floor.

Peter flicked on the light. "Christ," came his reaction.

"Omigod," she gasped as she stared at the bed. There, sitting squarely in the center of the leaf-appliqued white hand crafted quilt on her canopy bed with porcelain finials sat a mound of excrement. Someone, no, not someone, she corrected, Francine violated her again, desecrated her lovely bedroom with its peach-colored walls and antique furniture. Damn her.

"That goddamn bitch. I'm gonna kill her if I ever get my hands on her," he hissed.

Shannon understood the feeling. But instead of storming out of the apartment to find and strangle Francine, he unclipped the cell phone from his belt, took a couple of deep breaths, and punched in a number. "Ed," she dimly heard him say. She turned from the ghastly sight and studied Peter pacing back and forth across the length of the hallway, massaging the nape of his neck and speaking in a low voice.

After a moment, she turned and hesitantly moved into the room and opened the window. On her way out, she stopped to run her fingers over the fine wood of her dresser. The witch Francine probably ran her fingers along the ornate curve just as she did now. She pulled her hand back as though burned.

But in spite of all what Francine did to her these past few weeks, she felt sorry for her. It wasn't by choice she was borne to dysfunctional parents. It wasn't by choice she was made into what she was today. Her destiny was predetermined the moment she was brought into the world.

From the hallway, she heard Peter say, "No, she's fine." She turned and trudged over to him. He disconnected the call. "Ed and the police are on their way."

She nodded and rubbed her arms, feeling chilled to the bone. A sudden thought struck her. "Are we sure we're alone?" she whispered.

"Yes. I checked while I was on the phone with Ed." He put his arms around her.

She leaned against his chest and sighed. "I was clinging to a thread of hope Francine would give up this vendetta against me. Stupid, huh?"

"Maybe a little naive, but not stupid," he murmured. He released his hold on her and guided her toward the living room. He sat beside her on the sofa. "Everything's going to be okay," he soothed, gathering her close. They leaned back against the suede cushions. It seemed only a few minutes later when the doorbell rang. She jumped when Peter shot off the sofa like a cork from a champagne bottle and sprinted toward the foyer.

Seconds later, Edward entered the room and rushed to her. "Are you all right?"

She managed a nod, then looked at Detective Gray standing between Edward and Peter. She offered Gray a curt nod, then studied Edward. He looked shaken. She needed to put a stop to this foolish woman's antics soon before the stress killed him.

"I'm fine, Mr. McIntyre." The veracity of her answer surprised her. She shouldn't be calm, but she was.

***

Edward stared at her strangely. Were her cheeks flushed? Were her lips swollen from Peter's kisses? She turned her eyes downward, pretending to study the intricate weaving of the rug beneath her feet. The gesture made her look guilty. Truth be told, she felt guilty. Why, she didn't know.

"The bedroom is that way." Peter pointed.

She snapped her head up and looked at Edward who gave Peter a long, steady look.

"Uh-huh." Edward furrowed his brows. The silence that followed teemed with inference and an undertone of suspiciousness.

_He knows._ Just as surely as though it were written across her forehead: _Peter and I were about to make love._ Her face grew feverishly hot. God. She could be such a teen at times.

She watched as Edward and Peter followed Gray into the bedroom. They hadn't removed their shoes, she noticed. She doubted Francine had either. Though what did a few scuffmarks matter when someone number two-ed on your bed?

Similar incidents of stalkers happened routinely every day around the world. She didn't know if it happened before in Sandy Point, but it never happened to her before. Being the victim of a stalker though was far different from reading about it or seeing it on the television eleven o'clock news.

It affected everyone around her. She'd recognized the looks that crossed the faces of her coworkers when she invited them to lunch. Will I be in Shannon's car with her when the stalker's bomb goes off? "My treat" didn't induce an affirmative answer. A free lunch wasn't worth a life or an injury. Everyone was afraid to be anywhere near her. She didn't blame them.

She walked to the bedroom doorway. The three men stood in the center of the room with their backs to her. "It's not human. Judging by the size, I'd guess horse excrement," Gray told them. "I'll have to take the quilt in too. I can't imagine she'll be happy about that. It looks antique."

It was an antique, her grandmother's. Each stitch perfectly sewn by hand, taking months to complete.

"The fingerprint team should be here anytime," Gray said as he checked the time.

How busy can they be?

"You might suggest to Miss Murphy she spend the night elsewhere," he recommended to Edward.

"It might be more persuasive if the suggestion came from you," Edward said.

"Why don't you tell her?" Gray looked at Edward. "Are you afraid she'll tell you where to go?"

"No. No siree. Are you?"

"No, definitely not," Gray said, then added, "So you'll tell her?"

Edward chuckled.

They walked on pins and needles around her. True, sometimes she had no control over what spewed from her lips, but it irked her they felt they couldn't be upfront with her. She turned and retraced her steps to the living room. A moment later Edward, Peter, and Gray joined her. "I think I'll spend the night with Louise," she said, taking the burden off Edward.

The three men exchanged looks. "Good idea," they concurred after an awkward silence.

She smiled, her goofy one.

"Miss Murphy, there's no sign of forcible entry. Do you have any idea how someone might have gotten in?" Gray asked her.

Shaking her head, she said, "The door was locked when Pe...Mr. Montgomery and I arrived." She shrugged. "I have no idea." She turned toward a sound at her back and smiled when she saw it was her neighbor. "Hi, Mrs. Nelson."

Louise walked over to her as fast as her feeble legs could carry her. "What happened, dear?"

"Someone pooped on my bed." Shannon immediately regretted the no-beatin'-round-the- bush response.

Louise raised her fingers to her lips. "My God."

"Did you hear or see anyone outside Miss Murphy's apartment today, Mrs. Nelson?" Gray asked.

"No. No, I didn't. But I was out most of the day. I just got in as a matter of fact."

"I was just saying there's no sign of forcible entry and those locks would be difficult to pick." Gray turned to Shannon. "Did you misplace your keys at any time?"

Shannon, about to say no, stopped abruptly when Louise gasped. "What is it?"

"Do you remember when you were away and I let someone into your apartment?"

"What's this about?" Gray asked.

Shannon explained to him that when she and some friends went away for a weekend – the time she found her clothing slashed to ribbons in her luggage – Louise let someone by the name of "Junie" into her apartment to supposedly look for her day planner she left behind when she'd visited her.

"Supposedly?"

"I don't know any Junie and I had no such visit. I think we can assume it was Francine staking out my apartment."

Gray turned to Louise. "Where's your key to her apartment?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you. I misplaced it." Louise looked at Shannon. "How could I be so stupid? I'm sorry, dear."

"It's okay, Mrs. Nelson." Shannon patted her arm. "I'm sure we all could have done the same thing. Isn't that right, gentlemen?"

Edward and Peter agreed. Gray said, "One mystery solved. Change the tumblers in your locks first thing in the morning."

"I'll arrange for that now, Sarah. Billy Bob at the hardware store owes me a favor." Edward checked his watch. "He should still be there." He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and took out a cell phone.

Oh God, Shannon thought, Edward has a cell phone. She watched as he fiddled with the collapsible cover, the phone appearing minuscule in his massive hand. After several failed attempts to connect, he uttered a guttural expletive.

She grinned. The marvels of modern day technology were still lost on the man. "Cell phones are designed to confuse and perplex the savant, Mr. McIntyre. May I?" She reached for the phone.

"Would you, dear?" he asked. "Maureen insists I carry this thing when we're not together." He shrugged.

"What's the telephone number?"

"I'll get Maureen to look up the number for me." Edward rhymed off his home number.

Shannon punched it in, pressed send and passed the phone to him.

He placed the phone to his ear and listened. "I'm not hearing anything."

That was no great revelation, she thought. He was deaf as a pot, after all. But, when she looked at the phone, she realized his deafness was not the problem this time. "Maybe this'll help." She righted the phone so the receiver was positioned near his mouth.

"Oh. Thanks." Edward walked out of earshot of the group, speaking in low tones. Two minutes later, he rejoined the group, fumbling with the phone before learning the intricate and complex technique of closing the network of tortuous passages, mazes and interconnecting lines. "Billy Bob will be here first thing in the morning, Shannon."

"Good. Now, about this plan of yours, when are you going to set it in motion? I'm tired of being this girl's victim. I want her stopped and I want her stopped now." She jutted her chin, knowing how petulant she sounded.

"There's a slight glitch in my giddyup." Edward cast a peripheral glance at Gray. "But not something I can't overcome."

Shannon had no idea what Edward's plan was, but she knew it involved the police and by the grim expression on Gray's face, he wasn't one hundred percent behind it. She nodded and turned to Louise. "Mrs. Nelson, is it okay if I spend the night with you?"

"Of course." She smiled. "We'll pop some popcorn, light a fire in the fireplace. Hey, maybe we can rent a movie. I've been dying to see the Ben Afleck flick that just came out on video."

"Sounds like a plan." It wasn't the way Shannon envisioned the night, but it sounded inviting nonetheless. She was truly an old soul.

The fingerprint team arrived just then and everyone was shooed out of the way. Edward left with another warning for her to be careful. Gray accompanied his team and Louise left to prepare Shannon's room, leaving her and Peter alone. She glanced at the police car parked at the curb below her living room window. "Gray's idea," he said. She nodded. "A good one."

Peter hadn't had much to say since Edward and Gray arrived. Neither had Edward now that she thought about it. "Do you think everything's going to work out okay?"

"Yes. Edward is a mastermind when it comes to putting plans together and Gray seems to know his stuff." He stood at her back. With a heavy sigh, she rested her head against his chest. She looked across the street where a canopy of green sheltered the park. Couples strolled hand in hand, while others sat on park benches watching children play. Their lives appeared normal compared to hers. She turned and faced Peter. His eyes held the same intensity she'd seen many times over the past two years. She hoped he wasn't going to tell her what was about happen between them before the poop incident couldn't happen and ruin that beautiful, wondrous moment for her. Standing on tiptoes, she kissed him full on the mouth. When she ended the kiss, he said, "Sha – "

"Shh." She placed her finger across his lips. "I'll see you at the office tomorrow, okay?" She could wait until then to hear his regrets, denials and all of the many reasons he'd conjure to make her believe they should never be together. But for tonight, she wanted to savor the memory of his touch and the feel of his lips on hers, to fall asleep with his name on her lips and dream he lay beside her.
Chapter Twenty-Six

Gray stood beside Edward on the sidewalk outside Shannon's apartment building.

"It's time you arrest Francine," Edward stated.

"I need irrefutable proof before I make an arrest. As my father used to say, measure twice and cut once. I apply this same wisdom to my work. I'm sure you don't want this thrown out of court on a technicality." Gray saw from Edward's grim expression he was not allayed. Edward wanted action and he wanted it now.

"The longer you delay, the longer she'll wreak havoc on Miss Murphy," Edward cautioned. "The next time we might not be so fortunate as to be looking at bull pucky. We might be looking at her dead body, Detective. Picture a rainy, foggy night at midnight when you're called out to a back road where you'll find her mutilated remains. It'll be too late for you to act then."

The wheels of justice moved too slowly for Edward. Gray understood the feeling, but so should Edward.

Gray bid the lawyer goodbye with a promise to keep him apprised of any new developments.

Settled in his cubicle at the SPPD, Gray bristled at the thought of Edward telling him how do his job. He was new to the department, but not new to the work. It had taken all of the remainder of his patience not to tell the old coot to mind his own damn business and let him do his job.

And no, he would not go along with his plan. It not only endangered lives, it was foolhardy. Edward would have to pull some strings for him to agree. No doubt he would, just as he suspected he did all along.

With an audible harrumph, he leafed through Francine's file. It grew thicker each day. Edward had been thorough in his investigation, Gray gave him that. He provided him with copies of the information gleaned from interviews with Zachary Hogan and Francine's social worker. He even faxed him copies of pages taken from the text of a medical journal his psychiatrist friend gave him. It was interesting and enlightening stuff.

"Those with a personality disorder have difficulty with interpersonal relationships causing disturbances that create a pervasive pattern of behavior quite different from the normal individual culture that we live by."

Yes, we've seen those disturbances in Francine.

"The disturbances come together to create a pervasive pattern of behavior quite different from the normal individual culture which we live by and tend to be expressed in behaviors which appear more dramatic than what society considers usual and normal. As a result, those suffering from personality disorders often experience conflicts with people and, of course, vice versa."

So true, Gray thought.

"The causes may be a combination of parental upbringing, personality and social development, as well as genetic and biological factors. It has been noted by various psychiatrists who studied this particular subject that these disorders will most often manifest themselves during increased times of stress and interpersonal difficulties in a person's life."

Certainly, the case, he believed.

"The treatment, therefore, most often focuses on increasing that person's coping mechanisms and interpersonal skills."

If Francine wasn't too far gone, Gray reflected grimly. Sometimes, there was little hope for rehabilitation.

The next morning Gray met with Judge Thomas E. Wellens for a search warrant for Barnes's apartment. The judge denied his request. Insufficient cause, he said. Though exasperating, Gray understood the decision. Everything pointed to her, but what tangible evidence did he have that Barnes was the stalker? None. No one saw her near Miss Murphy's apartment or her car. The trace evidence of fibers and hairs collected would take weeks to sort out and all fingerprints were accounted for.

Wellens suggested he talk with Barnes and if he saw or learned anything to incriminate her, the judge would reconsider the warrant.

***

When Gray showed Francine his ID, she welcomed him into her home with a smile that, in other circumstances, would have warmed his heart. He explained he investigated a series of incidents involving Shannon Murphy.

"Who?" she asked after a second of hesitation. He knew full well Francine knew to whom he referred. Had he not been looking for a reaction, the slight hesitation would have gone unnoticed though. Cool as an ice cube, this one.

"She's a friend of your ex-boyfriend, Zachary Hogan," he answered.

"Oh. Is she? Zachary doesn't discuss his friends with me anymore," she said in a perfectly moderated voice.

"You've both moved on, have you?"

"Yes. Would you like a cup of coffee?" she asked after he took a seat on the sofa. "It's freshly brewed."

"Yes, thank you. I'd love a cup." After she left, Gray opened drawers and cabinets and found tubes of lip gloss, discarded gum wrappers, Chinese Take-out menus, check stubs and condoms. He sorted through her mail and, other than learning the telephone, cable, and hydro were two months in arrears, he found nothing incriminating.

When she returned from the kitchen, he continued, "No ill feelings? No wanting Zachary back?"

Francine smiled, a warm sweet smile, as she set a tray on the coffee table. "No. None." She poured them each a cup of coffee. "Cream and sugar?"

"Yes, thank you. No regrets?" He watched her hand when she handed him his coffee. Solid as concrete.

"There are always regrets, but I'm smart enough to know what Zachary and I had is over, though I don't regret being with him. Otherwise I wouldn't have my precious baby girl." She turned toward the hallway and caroled, "Ginnie, would you come into the living room, please. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

The five-year-old entered the room in a flourish of boundless energy. She had a small heart-shaped face, eyes the color of Wedgwood, and blond hair, like her mother. A cherub, he thought, who would become just as neurotic as her mother if left under her influence.

"Well, hello there," Gray said smiling.

"Who're you?"

"I'm a policeman."

"Are ya gonna a – rrest Mummy?"

Francine laughed. "No, sweetie, this nice policeman is just here asking some questions about a friend of Daddy's. Now come give your mama a hug, then make sure your brother isn't into any mischief, okay?"

Ginnie hesitated a moment before running to her mother and embracing her, then skipped out of the room.

Francine turned to Gray. "She's adorable, isn't she?"

If he wouldn't know otherwise, he'd think her daughter meant everything to her. "Yes, she is." He hoped Edward's plan to put Ginnie in her father's custody worked out so she'd stay that way. "Now then, getting back to Zachary, has he had a lot of girlfriends since the two of you broke up?"

"Oh, I wouldn't know. Zack doesn't discuss his love life with me."

"And you know nothing about a dead crow and a message that read 'Die Bitch', or about severed brake hoses or a busted brake fluid reservoir on Miss Murphy's car or a mound of horse excrement on her bed?"

Francine placed a hand over her heart. "Is that what someone did to her? The poor woman."

She was a cool one and didn't miss a beat, Gray thought. "Do you mind if I have a look around?"

"Do you have a search warrant?"

"Why don't you let me look around, then I can go back to the chief and tell him you have no involvement with the attempt on Ms. Murphy's life?"

She sighed. "Go ahead. I have nothing to hide."

It wasn't a large apartment, two bedrooms, eat-in kitchen, bathroom and everything was immaculate and neat as the living room. In the closets, clothes hung neatly on hangers. Dresser drawers revealed more of the same exemplary orderliness.

He returned to the living room. "Thank you for your cooperation, Ms. Barnes." He handed her his card. "If you think of anything that might help in my investigation, would you give me a call?"

She stood and took the card in her hand. "Yes, of course. I can only imagine what...er...Shannon, did you say?" Gray nodded. "Is going through. I'd like to help in any way I can."

Moments later when Gray sat in his car, he rolled down the window feeling the need for an insulin injection.

***

"Where are you, Zachary?" Francine asked the walls of her living room. "Why haven't you come to see me? Why haven't you called? It's because of _that_ girl, isn't it? The damn bitch. If you think you can forget about your obligations to me or your daughter, you've got another thought coming. Bastard. Who do you think you are."

Francine hoisted into her hand the first thing in sight. Seeing the object fly through the intangible air, hearing the shatter of glass as it crashed against the sheetrock, and watching as tiny shards fell to the tattered rug did nothing to appease her.

She screamed and lunged at a book lying on the floor. Her sweat-drenched fingers slipped off the book's corner. She wailed mournfully when yet another attempt failed. "You cock sucking mother-fucker," she hissed, envisioning Shannon's face. Her head ached as the hammer of unfulfilled desires struck the mechanism of jealously.

A fingernail broke off at the cuticle. She felt the pain, delicious and intense, and savored the feeling. Her eyes, momentarily freed from the reds of rage, stared at the cover: God's House. One of Ginnie's favorites, she thought, and watched as it flew through the air and hit the wall with a _thud_ , and falling to the floor, its spine broken. Still, she felt no better.

In a rage, she pivoted and stampeded from the room, body-checking Adam and Ginnie who stood fearfully in the doorway, silent tears streaming down their faces.

She sped back and forth through the hallway like a crazed wind-up toy, her eyes darting from one direction to the other and yanking at her hair. Her body heaved with sobs. "Why, Zachary? Why?"

Samantha trotted down the hallway obviously curious of the din. The cat meowed and rubbed against Francine's foot.

Francine felt the familiar soft cushion of fur. Looking down at the animal, anger surged through her in waves. An unnatural wail gunned from deep inside as she bent and picked up the kitten. "I thought I already got rid of you." Clutching the feline by the nape of her head, she ran ape shit through the kitchen. She opened the door, stomped onto the landing, threw the kitten over the railing, and watched as Samantha free-danced in the air before landing unhurt atop the garbage bags in the dumpster.

Francine slammed the door. "You're just like Miss Prissy Shannon," she yelled at the kitten from inside the kitchen. "I can't git rid of you." She turned and stared into the terrified looking faces of Ginnie and Adam who stood petrified to the floor.

_Oh_ _God_ , _what_ _did I do_? She brushed the sleeves of her sweater across her face and dried her tears. Her mind focused. She couldn't remember if she made any noise. Had she hit the children again? Maybe. Had she left marks this time? Maybe. She'd promised herself she would be more careful. Was she?

Finally, she broke completely free of the fugue. She must try to apply more restraint, she chastised herself. She didn't need a hassle with social services. Her sweet and innocent countenance won out before. She might not be so fortunate the next time. If that fat ass social worker had her way, Francine would have been committed to the psychiatric ward months ago.

She raised her head in a silent prayer. "Thank you, God, for keeping these social workers so overworked and underpaid they don't care how they do their job."

She laughed when she thought about reading those brochures on personality disorders the prim social worker brought to her. According to the information, she needed psychiatric counseling. With an audible harrumph, Francine rolled her eyes and said, "Yeah right," as she ruffled Ginnie and Adam's hair.

Ginnie brushed free of Francine's hand. She turned to Adam and screamed at the top of her lungs, "Gimme that, you cock-sucking mother-fucker. It's mine," she said as she yanked Pooh from Adam's hands. She sped through the hallway as fast as her short legs could carry her and slammed the door of her bedroom.

Francine smiled. She taught them well. No one would put anything over on her children. She sat on the sofa and recounted the detective's interview.

What a mockery. Shannon Murphy should be investigated. Shannon Murphy should be arrested for interloping and breaking up her happy home, for taking away her children's father. She was wanton, shaking her little tail feather at Zack like she did. The bitch. She did the wrong.

People like her never knew about the meaning of thou shalt not covet another man's girlfriend or thou shalt not engage in infidelity. They never knew about wanting something so badly they'd go any length to get it or that some things came easier to some than others. All that was important to them was what _they_ wanted. All wrapped up in themselves, they had no idea what someone would do to hold on to something that came easily for them. But they would. Both of them. Oh, Shannon Murphy would live and come to regret the day she decided to move in on her territory. And so would Zachary. Because once she finished with the girlfriend, she'd teach Zack the meaning of commitment, love, and respect.

She took a deep breath and wondered how the police knew to come knocking on her door? Must have been her, the drama queen, who sicced the police on her. Francine would make the girl pay for that, too.

Her anger rocketed. She shot off the sofa and ran through the hallway, yanking at her hair. In mid-stride, she noticed Samantha walking toward her. "How'd you get back in? I just threw you out of the fucking house." She bent and grabbed the kitten by the scruff of the neck. She sped to the kitchen, opened the pantry door, and hurled her inside. Slamming the door, she hot footed through the hall and back into the living room. "Who is Shannon Murphy to take something of mine?" she hissed, waving her arms frantically in the air.

The bitch broke up their relationship. Now, she would pay. If the fancy-pants cop only knew time was running out for the girl. Ha. She smiled when she thought how lucky it was she'd cleaned and tidied the apartment this morning. But didn't she always listen to the voice? It spoke the truth, all-wise and all-knowing. She hadn't bargained on the police coming to her door though. Their involvement complicated matters. This was growing out of proportion. She could stop. Yes, she could do that. Stop now and no one would ever learn the truth. Yes, the wisest approach given the hoopla generated from a few suggestions and a few words meant to smarten the twit. Maybe she should cut her losses and stop. _Snap._

"No, you can't stop. You have to keep going. You don't want her to win, do you?"

"No."

"She's the interloper. She's the one responsible for Zachary leaving you. If it weren't for her, you and Zachary would be married now. She has to be punished for what she's done. You know what you have to do?"

"Yes."
Chapter Twenty-Seven

Dreams of Peter left Shannon with an almost frantic desire to consummate what they started last night. She threw back the covers, hopped out of bed and walked to the window. She opened the blinds to bright sunshine and a cloudless sapphire sky. It was going to be a beautiful day.

After showering and dressing in the clothes she'd hastily chosen from her closet last evening, she virtually skipped into the kitchen. "Good morning, Mrs. Nelson," she greeted Louise exuberantly. "Isn't it a beautiful morning? Breakfast smells wonderful and I'm ravenous." She picked up Miguel, hugged and kissed him, then plunked herself down at the kitchen table and smoothed the white linen napkin on her lap.

Louise, dressed in a pink chenille robe and fuzzy yellow slippers, turned from the stove. Strands of her blue-tinted hair pointing toward the rooster-shaped clock on the wall. "We're in a good mood this morning."

"I'm in a grrreat mood. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping and flowers are blooming." And in an hour she'd see Peter. "Even my hair cooperated with me this morning. See?" She fluffed her hair.

"More compliant than mine, I'm afraid." Louise self-consciously ran a hand over her hair and stared at Shannon oddly for a moment. "There's something different about you. It's as though...as though...oh, never mind."

"It's as though what?"

Louise frowned. "As though you've fallen in love."

"I have."

"You have?" Louise asked incredulously.

Shannon nodded. "With life." She read the thoughts that swirled behind her neighbor's brown eyes: _You appreciate the little things life has to offer when someone threatens to take them away._ True, she did appreciate them more today than yesterday, but the reason wasn't because Francine threatened them. No, the reason was Peter. But that wasn't something she could tell Louise. Not yet, anyway.

Louise placed a plate of bacon, eggs and toast and a cup of cocoa with lots of miniature marshmallows, just the way she liked it, before her. "This looks delicious, but you shouldn't have gone to so much trouble," Shannon said.

"It was no trouble, dear. It's nice to cook for someone."

Shannon attacked her breakfast with a gusto she wouldn't have thought possible under the circumstances. In no time and even less conversation, she was polishing off egg yolk from the fine china with the last wedge of toast. She wiped her mouth, looked at her watch, and threw the napkin on her plate. "I hate to eat and run, but I don't want to be late for work." _And I can't wait a minute longer to see Peter._ She stood and noticed Louise's mouth hanging open. In a spontaneous moment, having everything to do with her mood, Shannon hugged her. "I'm so fortunate to have you in my life. You're like a mother to me."

"And you're like the daughter I never had." Louise looked at her oddly again.

The telephone rang.

Louise answered. "Shannon, it's for you. It's Edward."

***

From the brusque directive Edward issued when he called, informing her to meet him at ten o'clock sharp in the conference room at the office, she suspected he wanted to talk to her about Peter. To say she was apprehensive would be a gross understatement.

She suspected he noticed something had happened between them and he would be relentless until he learned the truth. It shouldn't matter if he knew. It shouldn't matter if he didn't approve. He wasn't her father. She didn't have to answer to him, at least not for her actions on her personal time. She'd keep telling herself that.

If given a choice, she would prefer to have a root canal to sitting through one of Edward's _little talks_. Either way she was sure to suffer, but at least a dentist wouldn't ask her embarrassing questions, though she'd probably be babbling her heart out to Edward within the first two minutes. He had that effect on her.

Peter's nonappearance at the office added to her disquiet. More disquieting still was that no one knew his whereabouts, not even Abby. Lawyers always kept their secretaries informed. Well, most lawyers. Edward hadn't always when she worked for him. But Edward was...well, Edward.

She queried a few of Peter's colleagues. Their responses ranged from a peculiar quirk of their eyebrows to a curious twist of their heads. She considered it odd, even for them. Maybe they found it bizarre that she, who usually went out of her way to avoid Peter, asked about him. Or maybe it was the familiarity with which his first name rolled off her tongue. So, she changed her strategy. "Do you know where Mr. Montgomery's at? He was all fired up for this opinion letter, a six and a half page opinion letter, I might add, wanting it typed ASAP and after I dropped everything to do his work, I can't find him anywhere. You lawyers are weird. Did you know that? Not that I'm complaining. It's just an observation."

Though she was no wiser, she did get a chuckle or two along with the facial grimaces she was accustomed to receiving after one of her astute observations.

As Edward more or less demanded, Shannon entered the conference room at precisely ten o'clock, looking very professional in a knee-length black skirt, short-sleeved cropped black jacket and black patent leather sling backs. Her only jewelry was a delicately entwined gold chain around her neck and small gold hoop earrings.

After Edward's telephone call, she had darted to her apartment, careful to avoid looking at her bed and the mess of her apartment the fingerprint team made of it, to change clothing. Three outfits later, she settled on the ensemble. She hoped it relayed the message she wasn't a little girl, or more accurately, his little girl, and she was all grown-up and capable of making her own decisions.

Edward stood. His stern expression did nothing to allay her apprehension. She was right. This was going to very unpleasant. Once he learned how she felt about Peter, she imagined he'd argue: _"What are you thinking? He's ten years old than you. You come from two different worlds. It will never work. It'll end in heartache for you, mark my words._ "

And she'd counter: _"I'm old enough to make my own decisions. I know what I'm doing. What does it matter if he's a few years older? What do our different backgrounds have to do with anything? Is it not better to have loved and lost than not to have loved at all?_ " Oh God, she was quoting Tennyson now. Edward was surely getting to her.

The smile she decided to dazzle him with emerged as a twitch-jerk-twitch out of the corner of her mouth. She decided then on a compliment. "You're looking dapper this morning, Mr. McIntyre. Is that a new tie? It's very fetching. It brings out the green in your eyes." _Okay, Shannon. Shut up._

He took one look at her and asked, "Somebody die?"

Yowzers. So much for making a point. "Why do you ask?"

Edward ignored her question. "Have a seat." Instead of pulling out one of the executive chairs, he indicated the couch that sat beneath the window overlooking the bay. That too added to her apprehension. The couch was used only for serious tête-à-têtes. It usually meant someone, normally a client but in this case Shannon, would be hit between the eyes with a _'this is the way it's going to be'_ speech _._

When he settled on the opposite end, she looked at him anxiously. An unfamiliar fatigue clouded his usually bright eyes. He clasped his hands and his shoulders slumped forward as though the weight of what he had to say was too great a burden to bear for them.

Edward stared through her for a long moment, then stood. With dread, Shannon watched as he paced the length of the room. For the first time since she knew him, Edward showed his age.

He came to a stop at her feet. "Before we get into why I wanted to speak with you this morning, there's something I'd like you to know."

_Here it comes._ She exhaled a pent-up breath. "Okay," she answered hesitantly, bracing herself with a gram of courage.

"Did you know your mother and I were friends when we were in high school?"

She didn't expect that. She nodded, remembering what Louise had told her about the two of them...

"We really must do something about the way you dress," Louise had said.

"What's the matter with the way I dress?" Shannon asked, looking down at herself. _Great._ _Now, I'm asking for fashion advice from a woman who tints her hair blue?_

Louise smiled. "What's not? You have a cute figure. Why not show it off?"

After a whirlwind shopping spree, Louise asked as they left the store, "How's Edward doing these days?"

"You know Mr. McIntyre?"

"Oh, yes. We go way back."

"He's fine. A little deaf, a little attention-deficient."

Louise laughed. "Yes. That's Edward."

"Tell me everything you know about him, Mrs. Nelson."

"Well, in his younger days Edward was in the navy. I think he was a spy – "

"Edward was a spy?" Shannon stopped in mid-stride.

"Well, that's the rumor." Louise chucked. "Hard to believe, eh."

How did these stories start? "So, tell me about the man, not the lawyer."

"He's one of the best, Shannon. He stands behind what he believes in and has been known to root for the underdog. Did you know your mother and Edward were an item years ago?"

No, she didn't know. "They were?" Why didn't her mother or Edward ever tell her?

"Oh, yes. In fact, the whole town thought they'd marry one day."

"Really?" _If that had happened, Edward could be my father._ Ha.

"What happened between them? Do you know?"

Louise shrugged. "I guess your father came along."

"Oh."

Shannon's thoughts returned to the present and she nodded again. "Yes, I knew that. From what I was told, you were more than just friends." She kept his gaze hostage with hers. He was the first to look away.

"Yes, we were."

She shifted uncomfortably and crinkled her brows. "Until my father came along."

"Until your father came along." He turned his head to the side and stared into space.

"And?" She gave him a long steady look.

"And I just wanted you to know that."

That was weird. Really weird. "Okay." She squeezed her eyebrows together. "Thank you for sharing with me." _I think._

Edward jutted his chin and slapped the palms of his hands against his knees. "Now then, getting back to the reason I asked to see you. It's time we put a stop to this psycho." His lips tightened. "I have a plan, as you know. Unfortunately, it entails risks. Risks you might not be willing to take. But as I see it, there's no choice, not if we want to put this girl behind bars."

She took a page from his book and quoted what he so often said to her, "Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" It earned a quirky grin.

He walked the few steps to the end of the couch and sat. Turning to look directly at her, and, in his customary confusing, erratic and contradictory manner he told her his plan.

"You want me to do what?" she exclaimed, all thoughts of Peter vanishing from her mind. _Lord Almighty. Who does he think I am? Rambo?_
Chapter Twenty-Eight

Shannon glanced out the window in Will's office. Earlier the sun was shining, now it hid behind clouds like a coward. A wind had picked up and rustled the leaves of the Maple trees at the side of the building. In the bay, waves washed to shore, layering the beach with an elongated line of salt deposits. Her life was like those waves. Back and forth, back and forth like a Ping-Pong ball, her head being the ball.

The thought of going into her bedroom tonight and sleeping in that bed depressed her. She hoped the cleaning service scoured her apartment as instructed. That wouldn't erase the memory though.

On the periphery of her thoughts, Will droned on about his new case. She wasn't the least bit interested in hearing how he would blind side the defendant with this action. An ingenious strategy, he thought, and the only one to say so.

"Why the civil suit? Why doesn't your client just foreclose on his second mortgage?" she asked, trying to steer her thoughts away from Edward's plan. A cockamamie plan if ever she heard one. She wished he'd kept her in the dark. No, what she wished more than that was to turn back time.

"Because the property isn't worth anything. Don't worry. The defendant will pay up before it goes to court."

_I wasn't worried._ "Uh-huh. Okay."

_Bait. Edward wants to use me as bait. Ha. His quintessential plan._ At least, it was what she'd expected, something intellectual, something which wouldn't endanger her life, something which would put an end to the stalking once and for all. She'd placed her trust in him, positive he would devise a brilliant method to outsmart Francine. And this was what he came up with after weeks of plotting? It caused her to wonder whether he could keep her safe as he promised. How was he to do that when Francine slipped in and out of her apartment without being seen, tampered with her car without being seen, dropped a dead crow on her doorstep without being seen? It was as though the girl wore an invisible cloak.

"Everything okay, Shannon?"

"What? Yes, yes, everything's fine." Just dandy.

Edward could shower her with all the compliments he wanted, tell her how brave and strong she was, how no plan was surely foolproof and ask her until doomsday if she wanted to sit back and wait until Francine carried out her insidious threat, but it still wouldn't convince her to go along with the harebrained scheme of his.

It occurred to her she'd known the feeling of euphoria she experienced upon opening her eyes this morning wouldn't last. Give the condemned woman her last meal. She was reminded of the feeling she had about her mother and father. She'd been listening to a CD at the time, and for some unknown reason removed the earphones to listen for the chime of the doorbell. She opened the door and there on the front stoop stood Chief Gene Buckley out of uniform. He removed his hat and clutched the rim tightly in his hand. She knew before the words were spoken they were gone. Then suddenly she felt them with her, felt her mother kiss her cheek and her father's strong, slender fingers rest on her shoulder. They'd come to say good-bye. Then the chief gently told her about the accident, the head-on collision that took her parents away from her. She loved them so much, but it was her mother she wanted at the moment, who she needed.

The sense of foreboding present since she awoke this morning, but which she carefully chose to ignore, returned.

"Earth to Shannon."

Not now, Will. _I want to be alone with my thoughts. I need to sort this out. I have to find another way to stop Francine._

Maybe she'd been grasping at straws thinking Edward would right this mess. Maybe she placed too much faith in him. Maybe Francine was too smart for him, for the police, for everyone.

What a fix she was in and she had Francine to thank for it.

Shannon's anger petered out. Fear took over when she thought about Francine and what the woman would do to her if Edward's plan failed. It probably would; she was no match for someone like Francine. No, Edward's plan was out of the question. She simply wouldn't agree.

Anger crept up on her, then grew in intensity until she wanted to scream out her frustration. But she couldn't, of course. Proper decorum in the office place was expected at all times.

"Just for the record," she said, "I don't like being dangled like a piece of meat in front of a rat."

Will looked up from the letter he read. "Ooo-kay. I wouldn't like it either. What's this about?" He listened intently as she told him what Edward wanted her to do. At the end of her account, he shrugged.

His attitude irked her. She flagged a hand in the air. "It must be only me who thinks this is an idiotic idea." Slowly, her control slipped away.

Will leaned forward and rested his forearms on his desk. "The police will be with you every step of the way."

"You knew about this all along and you didn't tell me?" she exclaimed. God. She should have known.

"It wasn't my story to tell."

"You lawyers all stick together." She sighed loudly. Some lawyers had a way of po'ing her. She wasn't enamored with any one of them at the moment and that included Peter. Where in the hell was he?

"How else is Francine going to be stopped? The police have little to go on. Detective Gray hoped she'd slip up and give them something to make an arrest, but that hasn't happened. And given what she's already accomplished, I doubt it will. So, when you consider that, isn't it time you turn the tables on her? Force her out in the open and put an end to this once and for all."

Exasperated and knowing he would continue to try to convince her to go along with Edward's plan, she asked, "What do we have on tap for today?"

"That's my line."

She managed a smile. "I guess it is. This entire matter has me slowly going bugaboo." God, she opened the door for him again.

"I feel sorry for those small children for having to suffer a life of abuse and neglect, a life without love with Francine."

"I do too." No child deserved to be raised by Francine.

"Edward arranged for Zachary to get temporary custody of his little girl and to place the other child with his paternal grandparents until his father can get here. It's a shame that'll all be for naught."

"Yes, it's too bad." _But it's not my fault._ She cringed as she thought how selfish she sounded.

"If it were me, I'd like a little payback. I'd like to look in that girl's eyes and tell her she lost and I won and smile when the cops cuff her and yank her sorry ass off to jail."

Yes, she liked the idea, too.

"And what about Zachary? Does he deserve to be on the receiving end of Francine's wrath for the rest of his life? One day he might be lying on a slab in the morgue instead of a bed in emergency because Francine went too far. I wouldn't want that on my conscience."

_Me,_ _neither_. She sighed again.

"Do you want to look over your shoulder the rest of your life? Do you want to wonder every time you turn the key in your apartment door whether Francine is waiting inside for you ready to put an end to your life?"

"No." She bowed her head. Will was right. Little by little, her life was being taken from her. Will was right. She caught on to what he was doing.

"And – "

"You're shrewd, you know that."

"But was I good? I've got more."

"You were so-so." He could always make her smile.

"You look nice today, Shannon. Or is that politically correct these days?"

"Mr. McIntyre thought I was going to a funeral. _Harrumph_. Oops, sorry. That should have stayed in my head." She covered her mouth and giggled. "And I don't mind compliments. I don't even mind it when you sling your arm across my shoulder when we walk together. Touch my butt, though and you won't come away unscathed."

"You're not afraid of me but you're afraid of Francine?"

"Damn right I'm afraid of her."

"I'm disappointed. I thought you might be just a teensy bit afraid of me." He measured a millimeter between his thumb and forefinger.

Lawyers didn't frighten her. Psychos did. "I imagine she's used to brawling in the streets, I'm not." She stared into space for a moment. "She probably fights with a baseball bat."

"But –

"Okay, okay, I'll do it. God, you lawyers are relentless when you present a case, you know that?"

Will smiled. "Did you know the brooch your wearing is a virgin pin?"

"What?"

"The pin on your jacket."

She looked at her lapel. "I wasn't even aware of it." She examined the filigree closely. "The center stone is missing."

Will guffawed.

"What's so funny?" She shook her head. "God, you lawyers _are_ weird."
Chapter Twenty-Nine

Confident Shannon would come around to his way of thinking, Edward spent the remainder of the day making last minute arrangements and putting the final touches on his plan to nab Francine in the act of committing a crime. With more coaxing, he was able to get Gray to cooperate, albeit not without a stern lecture on the risks involved. He knew all too well the effects of a plan gone awry, but felt the gamble was acceptable given what might happen to Shannon otherwise.

While they were on the phone, Gray brought up the matter of Celia's murder. It wasn't as though Edward had forgotten. It was simply a number two priority at the moment. There would be time to deal with that after Francine was apprehended.

With Gray on board, Edward made an impromptu visit to the grandparents of Francine's young son, Adam, to prepare them to take temporary custody of their grandson at a moment's notice. It surprised him, and yet on some level it didn't, that they'd known about Francine's irrational tendencies but had not reported it to the authorities. Perhaps they felt they would be beating their heads against a brick wall on that one.

When he arrived back at the office, he advised Joanna Evans, his first choice for a family law lawyer, that everything was set to go for the morning. Now he had only one more thing to do before he approached Shannon again.

He punched in Zachary's work number and listened to the monotonous ring of the telephone on the other end.

"Zachary Hogan."

"Zachary, this is Edward McIntyre. How would you like to get custody of your daughter tomorrow?"

"Ginnie?"

"Do you have other daughters?"

"No, no. Sorry. You took me by surprise."

"All right then, here's what's going to take place."

Thirty minutes later, Edward traveled the halls of McIntyre & Montgomery in search of Shannon.

***

Shannon turned when she heard the door to Will's office squeak open and watched Edward amble into the office. She attempted to smile, but failed.

Edward shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and looked first at Will then Shannon. "Have you reconsidered your decision?" he asked her.

She shifted in her seat. "Yes."

"And?"

"And yes I'll go along with your plan." She huffed a frustrated breath.

Edward smiled, his won-that-one smile. She didn't appreciate it. The wink he directed at Will irked her, too.

"Okay, here's what'll go down once you've carried out your part, Shannon. After Francine is apprehended, we'll place into play the temporary custody orders for the children. Joanna is scheduled to appear before what's his name, the family court judge, in an emergency hearing."

Will asked, "Hughes agreed to come to his chambers on a Saturday?"

Edward issued him a wily look. "Not initially. He saw no reason why the children couldn't be placed in foster care for a few days. I didn't like the idea. Placing them into homes of strangers would only increase their fear. They've been through enough already. So, I brought to his attention it _is_ for the welfare of the children, and if it's within his power, why subject them to needless suffering?"

"Good argument, especially when you take into account Hughes just recently became a father for the first time."

"Uh-huh."

"Everything else in place?" Will asked.

Edward nodded. "Jack Wallace, the psychiatrist friend of mine, will be doing the psyche evaluation. Zeke is ready to appear in court on a moment's notice and so are the grandparents of the little fella."

Will and Shannon nodded, deciphering Zeke to mean Zachary.

"Now then, we get to the tricky part and the most crucial, pivotal to everything falling into place," Edward said to Shannon.

"This is where I come in." She grimaced.

Edward turned toward Will. "Yes. It's a simple plan. You'll arrange to meet with your young man, have a cup of coffee together at Jo's Java, appear cozy and intimate, then leave. I'm hoping the ex will be close by to see the two of you together. From what I understand about her psychosis, this should be enough at this point to cause her to throw a fit of jealous rage and provoke an attack on you."

_Great._ "Isn't that coercion or entrapment?"

Will piped in, "No, but an excellent observation." Will let Edward dribble the ball.

"This is not the same where an undercover police officer propositions a prostitute."

"No? Okay, if you say so." They should know. They're lawyers, right?

"It's all within legal parameters," Edward said.

_Legal parameters, coercion, entrapment, propositions, undercover police officers, fingerprints, DNA._ It all seemed surreal, like a nightmare. She closed her eyes. Maybe when she opened them, she'd be lying in her bed beneath the cozy comfort of her grandmother's hand-stitched quilt... Hopeful, she opened her eyes. No, everything was the same. Damn. "How do you know Francine will be watching outside the cafe in the morning?"

Edward shrugged. "I don't know for sure, of course, but if she isn't, we'll try again later in the day."

_Wonderful._ She'd have to do this not once, but twice. Maybe a third time. God. She had to be insane to agree to this.

Shannon stood, laced her fingers at the pit of her back, and in the characteristic manner of an intellectual brainstorming, paced the length of Will's office. Evaluating Edward's plan one last time, she grew more skeptical. Many things could go wrong. Not to mention the mischievous evil of Murphy's Law. What was her batting average? Zip to hundreds of strikes. Indeed, she was more knowledgeable now than a year and a half ago where it seemed she was the focal point of bad happenings, the spindle in all. Did she really want to place herself into the throes of rage of a sadistic psycho? What were her options if she didn't? She could avoid Zachary altogether and hope Francine noticed, then backed off. But then, as a direct result of her failure to take these remedial steps of Edward's, those defenseless children would be left to suffer the dementia of their mother. Could she live with the decision to do nothing when she had the means and opportunity to bring about a solution? A no-brainer. So, really she had only one choice.

She turned and looked at Edward and was about to speak when he said, "Non compos mentis."

"Excuse me?"

"Non compos mentis," Edward repeated, like she should catch on. _In_ _cuckoo_ _hombre_ , she thought, waiting patiently for him to unfold the tangling vine of explanation of those fighting words.

After a moment, he explained. "Of unsound mind."

See? I am crazy to go along with his harebrained scheme. Even he admits it.

"Francine covets what she's lost and will go to any lengths to get back what she feels belongs to her." He stared at her over the rim of his glasses.

Oh, he was talking about Francine, furthering his case. This was torture, cruel and unusual punishment, as they said. Not wanting to hear one more convincing word, she envisioned herself as a piranha – a tiny but fierce fish lounging lazily in tepid water patiently awaiting its quarry. If only she felt like that in the morning. "Okay," she said firmly. "Let's do it."

"Good girl," Edward exclaimed. Will thumbed the air.

Apparently, she was the only one who thought this plan was foolish.
Chapter Thirty

Shannon stood next to Edward on the sidewalk outside Jo's Java.

"Now, you know what you have to do?" Edward asked.

She nodded. "Play all nice and cozy with Zack in the coffee shop for awhile. Then we make our way out onto the street together, chat for a bit, hold hands, and a peck on the lips before we part in different directions. Then I proceed, alone," she stressed, "along the route you mapped out and hopefully Francine will make her move and attack me." She remembered the stern lecture she gave herself this morning and the vow to be brave. Still, her hands trembled, her stomach quivered, her knees wobbled, and the damn nervous tic below her right eye resurrected itself. She arched her neck to peer into Edward's face. "Okay, let's do it."

"Are you all right? You look a little pale."

"Mr. McIntyre, I'm _always_ pale before a showdown with a psycho." She immediately regretted her testiness and took a deep breath. At his skeptical expression, she said, "I'm fine." No, she wasn't. "Peachy. Just peachy." She regretted her attitude again.

"Okay. Now go make nice with your beau."

"He's not my – " _Oh, what's the sense?_ Leaving Edward standing on the sidewalk, she entered the coffee shop and approached the counter. "Coffee, please."

"How would you like it?" Nadine asked.

How _would_ she like coffee? This was her first cup. Ever. Some things should be experienced before dying. Coffee was one. Sex with the man you loved was another. She would have done that too if only she could have found Peter. Where the hell was he? Her unsuccessful attempts to reach him by telephone last night left her feeling abandoned and disillusioned, in addition to feeling frightened and alone. "Two cream, two sugar," spilled out of her mouth without further thought. It seemed the preference of choice.

"Living dangerously today?" the clerk asked.

_You have no idea._ "Excuse me?" In fast rewind, her life flashed before her eyes. There was so much she had yet to learn and yet to do. To marry, to create a new life, to white water raft, to –

"You always order cocoa with marshmallows."

"Oh. Right. I thought I'd try something different today." Shannon slapped change on the counter, picked up the mug and walked toward Zachary, who was sitting at a table in front of the window.

"Hi there," she said, smiling as she sat.

"Hi yourself," Zachary said too seriously.

"Now, is that any way to greet your lover?" she teased, placing her hand in his and staring into his eyes like a star struck teenybopper. "We've got to put on a good show. Get with the program, Zack. I don't want to have to do this again."

Zachary smiled and clasped her hand.

"Better. Now kiss me."

When they broke apart, she ran her tongue over her lips and compared the kiss with Peter's. No contest, not by a long shot. Attempting to relax, she sat back and took a sip of coffee. Yuck. She set the mug on the Formica tabletop _._

Glancing around the cafe, she wondered who out of the eight customers was the plain clothed police officer Edward told her was there. The gentleman in the corner engrossed in a newspaper seemed a likely candidate. How many were there out on the street? Ample, she hoped. She shivered. God, she wasn't looking forward to coming face to face with Francine. She must have been nuts to agree to this plan. Nuts.

Zachary's knee shook beneath the table.

"Are you nervous?" Stupid question.

"A little," he admitted. "How is Edward so sure Francine is watching us right now?"

"That's the rub. He isn't." She shrugged. "We might have to do an encore presentation later."

Shannon read the doubt in his expression and delved into his thoughts: Why was I putting all my trust in an old man? She patted Zachary's hand. "I'm comfortable with Edward's plan." It was a half-truth, but Zachary would never know. "I have no reason to doubt him. He's always came through for me in the past." Another half-truth. She did doubt him. But this was the first time she had.

He relaxed his shoulders. "I hope this works, for everyone's sake. This'll probably be the only way I'll get custody of Ginnie." He rubbed his hand over the bridge of his nose and down his face. "I hope this works," he repeated. "If I have to wait until I have the money to fight for custody, Ginnie will be a teenager. By that time she'll probably be just as neurotic as her mother." He shook his head. "I want better for my daughter."

"We all do." It occurred to her he didn't seem concerned about what might happen to her. Was it selfish or callous for her to want him to appreciate what she was doing for him and his daughter?

He shoved his hair off his forehead with his hand. "If this goes the way Edward thinks it will, I'll never be able to repay you. Risking – "

"Shhh. Everything will work out fine." She hoped so. She slapped her palm on the table. "Okay, let's get this dog and pony show on the road."

Doom awaited her outside. She felt it in her bones. Her pulse points percussed against her skin. The palms of her hands grew cold and clammy. The diner took on grotesque proportions before her eyes. She couldn't draw a breath. Oh God, she was having a panic attack. _Breathe. Long breath in through the nose, hold, one_... _two_... _three and out through the mouth. There._ She felt better, not like a wonder woman, but close enough. "Let's make like bananas and split."

They stood and walked out of the coffee shop. On the sidewalk, Shannon hugged him and watched as he walked away. After a few steps, he turned. She blew him a kiss and stepped down from the curb and into the path of a vehicle. The car screeched to a halt. Christ. She was almost run over. God. She waved her hand at the driver and muttered, "Sorry" before continuing across the street.

A cacophony of metal crashing against metal as vehicles slammed together sounded at her back. But Shannon paid no attention to the accidents. Horns blazed. Voices shouted, "Hey, watch out." She didn't pay attention to that either. Her mind singled on one question: Was Francine lying in wait for her? The temptation to look sideways or behind her became almost overwhelming. _No, you can't look around. What did Edward tell you? It has to seem like you're out for a leisurely stroll._ Okay, got it.

Any other time she would have appreciated the crisp spring air, the Cocker Spaniel chasing its tail, the Robin perched on the white picket fence bordering MacKay's Delicatessen and the tulips in full bloom. She passed Veniot's ReXall Drugs, Gibson's Shoemaker's Shop, Anderson's Barber Shop and Murphy's Jewelers — no relation, she'd been told.

Where was the fruitcake?

Just then, from out of nowhere it seemed, a hand clasped a handful of her hair and Shannon was yanked into the alley between the jewelry store and an apartment building. She tripped over rubble and lost her footing. She put out her hand to protect herself from the fall when suddenly Francine slammed her against a building. Her head smacked the brick surface when Francine rammed her forearm across Shannon's neck. Everything darkened. No, she couldn't pass out. Forcing calm, she opened her eyes and stared into her worst nightmare. The sight of Francine's enraged face terrified her. Her knees buckled and her heart pounded savagely. She looked sideways, expecting to see the police rush in, guns drawn, shouting, "Police. Freeze, motherfucker." An empty entrance way returned her stare. Where was the freaking cavalry.

Shannon grasped Francine's arm and loosened the hold she had on her. "Fra...Francine, don't do this." She reminded herself of what Francine had already done to her without being caught. Now that she'd revealed herself, Francine had no choice but to kill her. _Peter._ Her heart cried his name as her mind worked like a pinwheel to come up with a way to win this fight.

"Bitch," Francine screamed and spat on Shannon's boots.

"Hey," she yelled before she remembered who she was screaming at. _Omigod, what are you doing, Shannon? Never mind your frigging boots. Pay attention. Reason with her, placate her, and keep her from killing you until the police get here._

Francine snarled, "You're nuts, you know that."

Shannon nodded. She knew that. "Let's...let's talk about this, Francine. Don't do...do something you'll r-regret." Despite the situation and the strain on her vocal chords, her words sounded calm. It surprised her. She gawked at Francine's crazed-looking eyes, then at the spittle on her chin. Both sights intimidated her.

Francine hissed, "I tried talking to you, but did you listen? Nooo _._ Zack is mine. Do you understand? Mine."

Shannon nodded. "I k-know, Francine. Zachary tol' me he 'oves you." Francine slackened her hold. "You, Fra...Francine, not me. There's nothing goin' on bet'n us, I swear."

"Yeah, right." She snickered. Francine turned and looked toward the street. For a moment, Shannon thought she might be mellowing. But only until she turned back. There was such a coldness in her eyes Shannon had to look away.

"Why couldn't you leave him alone? We have a child together. His place is with me. Don't you understand?"

"I...I understand. But we're jus' friends. Really."

Francine laughed. A maniacal laugh that made the little hairs on the nape of Shannon's neck stand at attention.

"Do you think I'm an imbecile?" Francine asked through gnashed teeth.

"You misinterpreted – "

Francine released her but only long enough to grab Shannon by the lapels of her coat. She hauled her within inches of her face. "Justice has to be served."

"Justice isn't always perfect, more of an ideal at times, Francine. Why don't we go to the diner, have a cup of – "

"There's only one way to get rid of somebody like you, but first I'm gonna have me a little fun." Francine reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a switch blade.

Shannon stared at the menacing looking weapon, waving in a curve back and forth within inches of her face. She hugged the wall at her back even harder, the crap nearly scared out of her. Okay, she thought, this is the perfect time for the cavalry. Out of the corner of her eye, she peered at the entrance of the alley that seemed a longer distance away than they'd walked. No one rushed in. No loud and angry shouts came. Fear gripped her insides, paralyzing her. No one ran to her rescue. Edward, Gray, the cops, they'd all failed her. She was on her own. If she survived, Edward and Gray would both be getting a piece of her mind. Rest assured.

Francine relaxed her hold and slashed the blade across Shannon's cheek.

She felt a trickle of blood slipping from the cut. Her temper flared. "You bitch." She raised her left forearm and blocked the second thrust of the knife, while her right hand slammed into Francine's nose. Blood spurted from her nostrils. And she smiled. _Smiled_. Like she liked it. What the hell was up with that?

"Lucky punch," Francine said, then snarled and lunged toward Shannon.

Shannon moved to the side, but not fast enough. The blade struck the shoulder pad of her jacket, throwing her off balance. Quickly, she regained her footing, trying to anticipate Francine's next move.

When Francine charged at her recklessly, Shannon parried to her left and deflected the blow. In the split second that Francine paused, she pirouetted, bringing her right leg up and around exactly as she'd been taught. With a force she wasn't aware she possessed, her boot smashed against Francine's jaw. "Hieeeeyah," she said.

When her foot landed solidly on the litter-strewn asphalt, she held her hands at eleven and four o'clock and danced from foot to foot like a boxer prepared to go another round. But instead of Francine rushing at her, she fell backward onto the ground. Her head hit the asphalt with a resounding p _uck._

A voice bellowed from behind her, "Police. Freeze." With lightning-like speed, she raised her hands high into the air and froze like an icicle. Footsteps sounded at her back, then icy fingers clasped her right hand and brought it down behind her. The same was done with her other hand. She felt cold metal encircle her wrists and heard the _click_ of handcuffs. "The bad guy is on the ground," she wanted to explain, but, like Edward and Gray, her voice failed her.

Chapter Thirty-One

Shannon stood still, petrified to move lest she be shot. Footsteps hammered on the frost-covered pavement behind her. Francine still hadn't regained consciousness. Maybe she killed her. That was all she needed – another possible murder charge.

"Uncuff her," someone shouted.

"Uncuff her. Now," came an even louder shout she recognized as Edward's voice.

She felt a cool hand on hers and the handcuffs were removed. Freed, she brought her hands around and massaged her wrists. A hand clasped her shoulder and she was swung around.

"My God, I'm sorry. It didn't go quite as planned," Edward apologized.

_No kidding._ She rubbed her wrists. "I'm okay." _In case you're wondering._

Edward ran his hand roughly over the top of his head, then down the nape of his neck. "Are you sure?" He gave her a long steady look.

She nodded. "Just a little cut and my hand is a little sore." Truth be told, her knees wobbled and nausea fought hard to win its fight with her stomach.

"You're taking this awfully well."

"Yeah, well, I'm just grateful to be alive." _No thanks to you or the police._ She managed a curt nod at Gray who stood beside her.

"Sorry about the handcuffs. An overzealous rookie."

She nodded again. It amazed her how Gray thought everything could be explained away with a few simple words. She could have been killed when she was assured the police would be with her "...' _every step of the way'_..." and all he had to say was, "'S _orry, overzealous rookie'?"_ God _._

"Somebody get a paramedic in here," Gray ordered.

"I'm fine, Detective. There's no need – " A paramedic appeared beside her from out of nowhere, it seemed.

Quickly, the scene became congested with police officers and the EMS. Onlookers pushed and shoved to get a closer look. After her cheek was bandaged, Edward grasped Shannon's elbow and ushered her out on the street. "You'll have to go down to the police station and file a report."

"Where the hell were you?" Shannon asked.

"Helping people out of their cars after the traffic accidents, then when the bus caught on fire – "

"What traffic accidents?" Then she recalled hearing horns and shouts of caution. "Was anyone hurt?"

"Not seriously."

She exhaled. "That was the reason you and the police didn't rush to my aid when Francine hauled me into the alley?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

She could live with that. Or could she? She should have been Edward's main concern. She thought she was. It was a bitter awareness to swallow. She snapped her eyes shut to quell the flow of tears.

Edward stared at her. "I'm sorry. I misjudged the situation. It looked as though Francine wasn't anywhere around."

"Yeah, well, Francine has a habit of being able to do things without anyone seeing her." _You should have anticipated that would have happened, Mr. McIntyre._ She turned her eyes away when Francine, still unconscious, was taken from the alley and wheeled toward the ambulance.

"What were those ballet moves?"

"You saw me?"

"Not all of it. Some of it. Well, just your war stance."

"Oh." How disappointing. "Jujitsu."

"What?"

Though she was perturbed with him at the moment, she didn't become exasperated with the question. "The modern sport where the opponent must be defeated using the minimum physical effort. I figured it applied to my present situation along with my steel-toed boots." She lifted her foot high in the air for him to see. "Boy, am I glad I decided to take that class and if it weren't because of the sorry state of my life at the time I probably wouldn't have and that ambulance would be for me and not for Francine. And – "

"I didn't know you were taking a marital arts class."

Like she should tell him everything _._ Edward, she realized, but not for the first time, had taken on the role of her father. How had that come about? "We don't have a chance to talk as much as we used to. I would have told you."

"You never cease to amaze me."

Shannon smiled. _You ain't seen nothing yet. When you find out Peter and I are together, you'll probably be so amazed you'll do cartwheels._

***

Shannon heard her apartment door open, but didn't turn away from the window. "I'm in the living room," she said.

"Shannon."

A squeal of delight escaped her lips at the sound of his voice. She turned and vaulted from the sofa. In four strides she was in Peter's arms.

"Where have you – " That was all she had a chance to say. He kissed her hard, embracing her so tightly she couldn't withdraw. Not that she wanted to. Her arms dipped below his and encircled him.

The kiss ended. He nuzzled her hair. "Ed told me what happened. Are you okay?" He held her at arm's length and looked into her eyes.

"I'm fine. Really."

He fingered the butterfly bandage on her cheek.

"A nick. I'm told it should heal with barely a scar."

"She could've killed you."

She liked that his fingers trembled at the mere thought she might have been hurt or killed. "Not a chance. I know Jujitsu. Well, I've only had a few lessons but the Sensei says I show promise. I'm certain I'll have a black belt in no time."

"Vital lessons, I'd say."

She nodded. "I wish someone could have seen me in action. I was pretty impressive."

He chuckled. "I'm sure you were."

She read the concern in his eyes. That too spoke volumes for his feelings for her. "I'm fine. See?" She spread her arms wide at her sides and pirouetted.

He caught her and hauled her to him.

"Peter, we can't – "

He released his hold on her so abruptly she tumbled two steps backward. "No, you're right. We can't. It would never work. The difference in our ages. Edward. Our different backgrounds. Edward." He brushed his hair off his forehead. "God, what got into me?"

She grinned, her goofy grin. "Well?" She stepped closer to him and traced his jaw line with her fingertips. "I like to think it's me that got into you." She looked into his eyes. "I'm thinking you finally came to your senses and realized you couldn't live without me and that your life would never be worth more than a plug nickel without me in it and that things that come to you normally, like thinking, breathing and blinking required your utmost concentration to do simply because your entire focus was only on me."

He frowned. "Then what did you mean by 'We can't'?"

"We can't because Louise will be here any minute with a bowl of chicken soup."

Shannon took his sigh to mean relief. "And then we pick up where we left off," she said, leading him toward the sofa. You can bet the farm on that.

"What are these?" he asked, pointing at the coffee table.

She sat beside him and curled her legs beneath her. "I think they're tongue depressors. Like doctors use. Thirty-four of them to be exact."

"Francine."

"Who else? They were jammed in the drains."

"God, that girl is sick and it's not just me who thinks so. Ed said she was admitted to the psychiatric ward for evaluation."

"Yes, I know. He called a little while ago and told me. And Zachary now has temporary custody of his daughter and Francine's son is in the temporary custody of his grandparents." She laid her head on his shoulder when he draped his arm around her. "So, are you going to tell me now where you were?"

"Out of town. Family emergency."

"Oh. And you didn't tell anyone?"

"Edward knew."

The one person she didn't ask, couldn't ask. "What was the family emergency?"

"My brother needed a lawyer. He – "

Louise walked into the living room. "Oh," she uttered as she stared at them wrapped in each other's arms. "Oh, my. Oh, dear."

Shannon smiled and sprang from the sofa. "That chicken soup smells wonderful, Mrs. Nelson. Yum. Thank you so much."

"There...there's enough for two."

Shannon took the soup tureen and placed it on the coffee table. "Mrs. Nelson, have you met Peter Montgomery?"

Louise walked over to him and extended her hand. "He was here the day you found the doodoo in your bed, but we weren't formally introduced."

Peter stood and took her hand in his and smiled. "Pleased to meet you, Louise. I've heard so many things about you."

"All good I hope."

"You bet."

"Mrs. Nelson, if you don't mind, Peter and I were in the middle of something important." Shannon turned to Louise and ushered her friend toward the door. "I'll tell you all about it," well, not everything, she thought, "tomorrow," she whispered.

"But – "

"Tomorrow, okay?" Shannon said.

"Okay," Louise agreed. In the hallway, she raised a hand, about to say something.

Shannon repeated softly, "Tomorrow. I promise." She slowly closed the door. After bolting the locks, she ran to the living room and curled up beside Peter. "Now, where were we?"

"Here, here, and here," he said as he feather-kissed her lips, nose, and neck.

She placed her hands on his whiskered cheeks and angled his lips with hers, enticing more intimacy. He kissed her hungrily. Denial a thing of the past. Conscience no longer a problem. Finally, their love would be permitted free rein. At long last.

He pressed her down onto the cushions. She smoothed back the tendrils of curls from his face. "Your ex-wife doesn't have a dimple in her chin, does she?"

"What?"

"Francine has a dimple in her chin." When his brows formed an inverted V, she elaborated, "A dimple in the chin, the devil within. Have you never heard the expression?"

"No dimple," he smiled and kissed her again with more urgency than before. A surge of heat spread through her lower body. She moaned. They'd waited long enough for this moment. First though –

"My mother taught biology at Sandy Point High. My father, as you know, was a judge. I have no siblings and no living relatives." She pointed to a spot on the side of her nose and waited for him to look. "Chicken pox. The itch drove me crazy. I have a scar on the right side of my stomach from having my appendix removed. It's nasty looking, as you'll soon see, but it's not because of the surgeon's ineptness. I ripped the stitches open from jumping in the crib, a crib can you imagine, because I wanted out of the hospital. I was four at the time – "

He jerked back from her. "What?"

"What? Oh, I thought you should know something about me before we're intimate." When he nuzzled her neck, she continued, "I'll be twenty-four on July first. I want children. Lots of children. It doesn't matter what gender. This is my first time. Pink is my favorite color. I don't wear it though because it clashes with the color of my hair."

He froze and pulled away from her.

"No, no, no." She cupped his face and looked into his eyes. "I'll wear pink. I'll do anything you ask, but we're doing this. Right here, right now."

He pulled back even farther. She grabbed his shirt and a few of his chest hairs as well, judging by the pained expression on his face. "You're doing this, Peter." He ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head.

"Yes."

"I...I can't."

What did he mean? Of course, he could. She felt his desire. "Yes, you can. You do like this..." She yanked his arm across her shoulders? "And I do like this..." She kissed his eyes, his cheeks, his lips, nipped his earlobes. "It's easy and the most natural thing in the world. I'll even make it easier for you." Her fingers trailed their way to his fly.

"No." He shot off the sofa.

"No?" Good God. What was the matter with this man?

He placed his hands on his hips.

She stared at his black leather loafers, then at his navy dress pants. She envisioned his muscular chest and powerful shoulders beneath his navy polo shirt. His hair, slightly longer than the average cut, curled at the ends. She loved that too. In fact, she loved everything about him, but he didn't love her. He didn't want her. Oh God, he didn't want her. He only pretended to so he could humiliate her. All this was just another one of his games. God, she was such a fool. She felt so...used. A guttural gasp escaped her lips. She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. After a moment, his slender fingers pried her hands from her face.

"Marry me."

She looked up at him through tear-drenched eyes. "What?"

"Marry me."

She jumped up, hitting him in the jaw with her head and screamed, "Yes, yes, yes," as he toppled backward.
Chapter Thirty-Two

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Shannon asked. "There's still time to back out."

"I'm not backing out." Peter sat relaxed, his right forearm resting on the opened window. His left hand rested casually on the top edge of her seat.

"Okay. Here goes." She turned the key in the ignition and his 1968 Mustang convertible rumbled to life. She looked over at him. "I can't believe you're letting me drive your car."

"Why not?"

"The last car I drove, I totaled. Remember?"

"I forgot about that." He squeezed his eyebrows together. "Maybe you should let me drive."

She poked him in the ribs. "Not a chance, mister." She depressed the clutch a couple of times, getting a feel for it. "Okay, we're all set to roll." She let the clutch up to where it grabbed –

"You don't need – "

– And with a leaden foot, she pressed down on the gas pedal. The back end of the car fishtailed, the tires screeching as the car lurched from side to side as though on ice. "Jesus." In one simultaneous action, her heart leapt into her throat and her foot jerked from the accelerator. The car stalled. "Let's try that again...without so much gas." Giggling, she restarted the car and this time they moved forward with a minimum of tires squealing.

As they traveled from the parking lot behind her apartment building, she looked in the rearview mirror and laughed when she saw the dual wavy strips of rubber that measured, she guesstimated, three hundred feet long. A plume of charcoal smoke hung in the air behind them. "Bet that took three thousand miles off the wear of your BF Goodrich TA 60s."

Peter turned, looked over his shoulder, and grinned.

She loved his good nature. Wasn't he wonderful? Like no other man she knew. Well, Edward, but she didn't want to go to bed with him. "What were you about to tell me back there?"

"That you don't need to give it much gas to take off."

"Oh." God, she could have slammed into a parked car or the side of the building and wrecked his completely refurbished '68 rag top, positraction, stock 428 Cobra jet, four barrel carburetor Mustang. "That was a close call."

"You had it under control."

She hadn't really. But she loved the fact he thought she did. "God, this feels good," she said as they cruised down King Street. "Being with you, the wind in my hair, the scent of freshly cut grass, and to ice Cupid's and Nature's fabulous gifts, Francine's locked up. Life is sweet." He squeezed her shoulder.

"You might still have to testify." He spread his fingers across the nape of her neck and gently kneaded.

"You think it'll go to court? Edward said Francine confessed to the police. Open and shut case, isn't it?" She thought about that for a moment. "Or can some whippersnapper lawyer have her confession thrown out of court because it was made under duress, coercion or whatever?"

"Either way, she doesn't stand a chance in court," he assured.

She felt better knowing that. "Now if I'm cleared of Celia's murder, everything will be perfect."

"It'll all work out. You'll see."

Alarm bells clanged in her head. She cast a quick sideways glance at him. _Please don't tell me Edward has a plan._ Though she couldn't imagine what it could be.

"Ed has a plan," he said.

Christ. That dampened her euphoria like a dip in the bay in February. "Does it involve me going head to head with the heirs?" The words Murphy's Law flashed in her mind like a neon sign. Not her law, but the law decreeing if anything could go wrong, it would. She held her breath.

"I won't let Edward put you in jeopardy again."

_That's my man._ The wind caught her exhaled breath and blew it past them. She reached over and squeezed his hand. "Do you know what Edward has in mind this time?"

He shook his head. "I'm not sure, but with Edward one never knows."

"True." She looked over at him. "How's your chin?"

"Not quite so sore." He flexed his jaw. "You have a hard head."

"So I've been told."

He brushed strands of her hair from her face. "Why don't you take her for a spin on the by-pass."

As inviting as that sounded, what she truly wanted was to take _him_ for a spin. But Peter had set the ground rules – not until their wedding night. June first was only six weeks away, yet it seemed like an eternity. She told him she wasn't saving herself for marriage but for the man she loved – him. He didn't buy her argument. Despite the strong measures she took to seduce him, it always ended with the word 'No'. Damn. She admired his restraint, but it perturbed her even more.

They approached the turnoff for Route 111. "There's this quaint little swimming hole off the highway a little ways," she said as they merged with traffic. "I used to bike there in the summer when I was growing up. Of course, there are some who would argue I haven't grown up yet, but – " She waved her hand in the air. "Never mind. We'd have the place to ourselves at this time of year. Whadda ya think? Up for a little hanky panky?"

"You're incorrigible."

She knew that too. "Can you at least consider it an experiment in probability theory?"

"You can shift gears now."

"What?" She turned and looked at him.

"Keep an eye on the tach. You're red lining."

"Oh." She shifted into second gear. Would their life be filled with these kinds of little instructions? She hoped not, because Peter would be told.

They traveled along in silence for a few miles. Time to change gears again. She threw the Hirsch shifter into third, speeded up, then into fourth.

They coasted down the highway, the bay on their left but hidden by the copse of spruce and fir trees. The brisk spring air whipped by them as did the telephone poles and trees standing sentry on the side of the road. She careened around a sharp turn. Her foot never left the gas pedal. The tires cried out. "Oops, sorry. More miles off your tires." She giggled. He squeezed her neck. His easygoing manner amazed her, but not only that, it amazed her how easily they slipped into their relationship. No more barriers. No more reasoning to convince themselves why they shouldn't be together.

"Pass," Peter told her when they came behind a car doing the speed limit.

She looked over at him. More instruction. He really had to stop. "Okay." She flicked on the left blinker light, checked the rearview and side mirrors, and nosed out. Just as they came alongside the 2005 Mustang GT, it zoomed away from them. What the hell?

Moving back into their lane, she said, "He's not going to let me pass, is he?"

"Guess not." He rested his palms on his thighs, fingers splayed.

The driver of the Mustang slowed to a near crawl. They breathed the fumes from his tail pipes. She downshifted into third and when the engine chugged, shifted into second. Now was the time for instruction. And Peter was mum. "He wants to see if we can pass him, doesn't he?"

"Looks like it." He sat up straighter in his seat.

"Well, I'm not going to."

"Why not? You've got the power. Four hundred horses versus three."

She couldn't believe his trust in her. Men were usually obsessive about their toys. But not Peter. See, what a wonderful man he was? The driver flashed his brake lights off and on. Oh, he really was looking for it. The idea of that guy's three hundred horsepower getting the better of their four hundred unsettled her. It just wasn't right. "I do, don't I?" No, she was not going to be goaded into anything. That was a trap a man would fall into. She decreased her speed and soon six car lengths separated them. Peter looked over at her, like he couldn't believe she was backing off. What the hell. He insisted, didn't he?

She floored the gas pedal, kicking in the four-barrel carburetor. Eyeing the tachometer, she watched the needle redline and shifted into third. Three car lengths behind the jerk in the new Mustang...two...and when she rode his bumper, she flicked on the blinker light. A cloud of ebony smoke burst from the dual exhaust of the GT as she pulled out. Eighty miles per hour...nose to nose...eight-five...ninety, the '68 rapidly gained ground. She looked at the tach. Red lining. She shifted into fourth, tooted the horn and blew past the V8 like it stood still.

Peter turned and looked behind them. "He's making a U-turn."

She laughed. "Smart boy."

"Check your speed."

"What?" she asked, cutting back into their lane. These instructions...oh. One twenty. "Whooweee, what a rush," she said. "God, that was exhilarating, feeling all that power beneath my foot, hearing that husky rumble of the dual exhaust," she exclaimed, leaving off the gas. "I gotta get me one of these."

Peter guffawed. "I love your enthusiasm. In fact, I love everything about you."

She looked at him, smiled, and remembered to look at the speedometer. Fifty. "I feel the same way."

"If I smoked, I'd light one up."

"I thought it was after sex when men most enjoyed a cigarette." She looked at him out the corner of her eye. "Look, Petey, up ahead. There's the trail for the swimming hole." She pointed to her right and applied the brakes.

"I'm up for it." He squeezed her knee.

_I just bet you are, big fella_. _Yaaayyy._ She yanked the steering wheel sharply to her right and on two wheels turned onto the path, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake.
Chapter Thirty-Three

Gray sat at his desk sipping cold coffee and reviewing his report on Francine's arrest. He'd felt a poignant pity for her when she regained consciousness and whispered Zachary's name and again when she repeatedly asked those attending her why Shannon hadn't heeded her warnings and babbling that "the others had listened". Where once her eyes sparkled with life a certain undeterminable sadness had filled them. Drool had trickled down her chin. She reminded him of Jack Nicholson in – the name of the movie escaped him – something about a nest and cuckoo. Though in Francine's case, it was not a pretense. She was virtually as mad as a rabid animal.

Francine admitted to everything she'd done to Shannon. Though it was not an ideal confession given her present state of mind and might even be thrown out of court, it at least served to confirm she was the stalker.

She had many months of therapy to undergo before she would be released from the psychiatric ward, but she was finally getting the help she desperately needed. He should take some comfort in that. He should also take some satisfaction in knowing Francine would stand trial one day and serve, he hoped, a very long sentence for her crimes.

He looked at the report and wished he'd be writing one up for the MacTavish murder soon. Though he was closer to making an arrest than before, he still had more ground to cover. Truthfully, he would gladly jump through fiery hoops to see one or both of the MacTavish offspring in jail for the murder of their mother. A suitable retribution for the aggravation they inflicted upon him and the department these past few weeks.

Violence was as old as life itself. The frightening fact was that it would always be a fact of our lives. What drove and motivated us was precisely what set us apart. It was not necessarily true the most violent of crimes were the most successful. And he would prove it when he had the pleasure of mirandizing Marilyn Leger. No more silk and lace for you, girl.

"Gray," the chief of police bellowed his name. He jerked to attention in his chair. What was Buckley doing here on a Saturday? Gray stood and walked across the squad room and entered the chief's office.

Buckley stared at him over his bifocal lenses. He had that look on his face. The look that said: You fucked up, Gray.

Gray guessed he was in for a good old-fashioned ass-kicking. Never mind that the chief had sanctioned McIntyre's plan. Never mind that Francine was arrested. All that would matter was that he let the situation get out of his control and as a result, Shannon Murphy could have been killed. He wondered who of his colleagues went blabber-mouthing to the chief. He sensed their animosity toward him. How could he not? He would have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to notice. They'd dubbed him _Big City Boy._ Not to his face, of course. If he hadn't walked in on a conversation in the locker room, he probably would never have known. He had filled a slot that one of their own, a born and bred Sandy Pointer, could have filled. Gray couldn't deny them their resentment. Blending in and being a team player was important to him, but it required as much focus as interviewing witnesses, taking depositions and tracking down suspects. At the moment, he didn't have time for that. Once he solved the MacTavish murder, he'd concentrate on getting to know them.

"Why don't you have a seat and tell me how it is that Barnes was able to get so close to Miss Murphy?" his chief asked point blank.

Gray sat and took Buckley step-by-step through what happened. "People were hurt. I assessed the situation and made a split-second decision. The accident victims needed immediate attention. When the bus caught fire, my reaction to help was a spontaneous reaction to a life-threatening situation."

For the next ten minutes, Gray defended his decision, even when it involved things beyond his control. The chief was relentless to prove the buck stopped with Gray. Then Buckley paused. Twenty or thirty seconds passed where all his boss did was stare at him. He could not wait out the inscrutable silence any longer. "Is that all?" he asked and stood.

"Sit back down, son." Buckley leaned back in his chair, the wooden kind with wheels, and laced his fingers behind his head.

Gray sat.

"Now then, tell me how close you are to making an arrest in the MacTavish murder."

Judging by Buckley's stern expression, if he didn't make an arrest soon, he might be looking for another job. The thought depressed him. His daughters were just settling into their new school and making friends. His wife was just getting their house the way she wanted it. She liked being in her hometown. Actually, he liked it also.

His own family was a dysfunctional lot and it was nice to be a part of a family who were normal. He only saw his relatives when they found themselves in trouble, which was often enough when it came to that. They knew who to call to fix traffic or parking violations, and those bigger problems, drunk and disorderly's, well, then they expected him to use his influence and make the charges disappear. He shuddered at the thought he could have followed the tradition of his predecessors and his siblings and ended up on the wrong side of the law. Had it not been for fourth grade teacher steering him on the right path he probably would have.

Gray related the new development in the investigation, pausing only to swallow and breathe.

Buckley removed his hands from behind his head and sat forward in his chair, resting his forearms on the desk. "How was it this Dora Roy was not interviewed at the time following the murder?"

"She was away visiting her granddaughter in Los Angeles."

"Didn't you get a list of all the residents of the home?"

"I acted on the confirmation of the director of the residence that all residents were present and accounted for." He waved his hand in the air and shrugged.

Buckley removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. "Uh-huh." He squinted. "But it's still not a smoking gun."

Gray knew that.

"How did you find Dora Roy credibility wise? Is she all there? Any impairments? What kind of witness will she be?"

"Reliable, I think." Truthfully, he wasn't sure. "I'd rather have a confession than make an arrest on circumstantial evidence."

"A confession?" Buckley scoffed. "A pie in sky, don't you think? Have you forgotten the indulged, nasty, and unconscionable suspects you're dealing with?" He sighed. "Okay, let's hear it. How do you propose to get a confession from them?"

Gray blew out a pent-up breath. "Haul them in, interrogate them separately, play one against the other, good cop, bad cop routine, sweat them and see what happens."

Buckley guffawed.

Gray studied the worn carpeting beneath his feet.

"Do you think Marilyn Leger hasn't seen those movies?"

Gray agreed. But how else would they prove Marilyn MacTavish killed her mother? The trace evidence didn't include any hair or fibers that didn't belong to either the victim or the Murphy girl. The blood sample taken from beneath the deceased's fingernails could be discounted by a competent attorney. But with Dora Roy's testimony, placing Marilyn Leger at the scene during the time of death, a court order for a blood sample from Marilyn Leger for DNA comparison could easily be obtained. If the results of the DNA test revealed it was in fact Leger's blood under her mother's fingernails, then an arrest warrant would follow. Both of these findings could be plausibly explained away at trial by a competent attorney though. And a person cannot be tried a second time for the same murder.

Did he want to botch their chances of a conviction?

Did he really want to take the chance?

A confession would be downright stupendous. As it presently stood, other than Dora Roy's testimony that Marilyn Leger was at Celia's side at eleven-o-five, nothing else linked her to the crime. The question remained: Would Dora Roy be a reliable witness?

Buckley had laughed at his suggestion, but it could prove to be the most productive method, maybe the only one. What did they have to lose? Just more flak for him to take. He could handle that.

Gray turned his attention to the chief when he slapped his hand against the desk. "Go for it. Don't make me sorry I agreed," Buckley warned. "Send out two uniforms to pick up them up." He paused a moment. "Get Lafayette to work with you. Let him be the bad cop with Leger. He's like a Pit Bull with a hand in his mouth. You take the weenie."

Well, well, well. If Leger confessed, Lafayette would take all the credit. Didn't that beat all? On the other hand, he had yet to show how well he handled an interrogation, though he came to the department highly recommended. He wished the chief had more confidence in him.

Buckley issued Gray a stern warning. "Bear in mind, Gray, Fruit of the Poison Tree – a confession reaped from coercion is inadmissible in court."

_Thanks for the explanation and reminder._ "Yes, sir." Gray resisted the urge to salute before he fled the room.

Gray marched to the dispatcher and issued instructions for two uniformed officers to pick up Marilyn Leger and Malcolm MacTavish, then hustled toward Lafayette's desk. He quickly filled him in on what was about to go down.

Lafayette rubbed his hands together. "I'd be happy to play the bad cop with the bitch. I had a bad day yesterday and an even worse night listening to my wife's gripes and complaints when I would rather have laid back and watched the football game with a cold one in my hand." He shook his head. "Can you believe the woman? I was home with her and all she did was gripe about how I didn't spend time with her. Women. And to be able to take out my frustrations on Marilyn Leger almost makes me smile." He slapped Gray on the back and suggested they go over their game plan in more detail.

With a bad-ass swagger, Lafayette led the way toward the interrogation rooms that formerly served as a broom closet and utility room, with their steel tables and uncomfortable metal chairs, without windows and a single bulb (pull chain type) hanging from the ceiling.

Gray surmised Lafayette was in top form to be nasty, mean, and downright insulting. They might get a confession after all.

Thirty minutes later, a cop, the same overzealous rookie who snapped the cuffs on Shannon faster than you could exclaim "Holy Smokes," poked his head into the room where Gray and Lafayette strategized. They looked over at him.

" _Mzzzz_. Leger told me to tell you that she and her brother will meet with you here at ten o'clock on Monday morning and I quote, 'You tell Gray never to send a police car to pick me up again when he wants to talk to me.'."
Chapter Thirty-Four

Shannon peered through the window of Jo's Java. Still no sign of Zachary. She checked her watch. He seemed eager to see her when she'd called him. Where was he?

Their relationship had not evolved beyond friendship, but the unspoken promise it eventually would necessitated this meeting with him. Zachary needed time and she had been willing to wait. But now with her engagement to Peter, the time had come and gone to let Zachary know they could be nothing more than friends. It would be devastating to him, she was sure. She drummed her nails on the table. Where was he?

The bell above the door jingled. Zachary entered the coffee shop looking every bit the professional in a navy suit, white shirt, and striped tie. His black leather shoes glistened. He held a single yellow rose in his hand.

He bent and kissed her cheek. "For you."

She held the delicately shaped bloom beneath her nose and sniffed, taking a moment to savor the divine scent. "Thank you. That was so sweet of you." This would be more difficult than she anticipated. Obviously, with Francine out of the way, Zachary felt free to pursue her. Letting him down easy required skill and tact. She came up short on both. Direct and right to the point had always been her approach.

"How're you doing?" The concern in his voice brought her close to tears. He wasn't making this easy.

"Fine." A lump formed in her throat when Zachary clasped her hand. The aroma of his after-shave wafted toward her. God, why did men's after-shave turn her on? "How's Ginnie?"

"Wonderful. It's great being a full-time dad again. My mom is in absolute bliss looking after her during the day while I work."

"Good. Good. And Francine is getting the help she needs and you have custody of your daughter. You have everything you want."

He fingered the cut on her cheek, reminding her how it came about. Hours could pass without her thinking about Francine and what might have happened, then suddenly a memory would plunge into her thoughts, forcing her to relive those horrific moments. Peter assured her that in time these memories would become less frequent and gradually her recollection of the incident would fade from her conscious mind.

"I'm told it'll hardly leave a scar. A little make-up," which she never wore, "will hide it completely." A small price to pay for her life.

"I've missed you."

Here it comes. Tell him, Shannon. Tell him now. But before she opened her mouth, he said, "Shannon, as much as I'd like for us to be a couple, it can't happen." He spread his hands wide and settled back against the booth. "Ginnie has to be my primary concern, my entire focus now. You understand, don't you?"

She looked out the window and noticed a pretty, young blonde-haired woman on the sidewalk who appeared to be loitering. What she did, in fact, was watch them in her peripheral vision. The slant of those beady eyes and the jut of her pointed chin spoke volumes. It galled Shannon that Zachary felt the need to lie to her. Like she would be devastated he didn't want a relationship with her. And how long had he been seeing that girl and stringing Shannon along at the same time? Jerk. If the thought had crossed her mind whether she'd made a mistake accepting Peter's proposal, this would set her mind at ease.

But instead of belching the words that would tell him what a liar and how shallow he was, she patted his hand and put on her best happy face. Actually, that last part she had no trouble with at all. The thought of Peter always brought a smile to her lips. "Zachary, the reason I wanted to see you this morning was to tell you that I'm engaged to the man of my dreams, Peter Montgomery. He's a lawyer."

"You're hurt."

"What? Sorry, this redhead just experienced a blonde moment." She shook her head. Did he think she made that up? The fear that she might make a scene etched clearly on his face had her wanting to dump scalding coffee in his crotch. If a cup were handy, she would. "I'm not hurt, Zachary. Why would you think that? Oh, and another thing, I would have appreciated a little honesty."

"Huh?"

She pointed to the window. "Tell your girlfriend I said hello." She stood. "Oh, and another thing. Start saving your money to fight for permanent custody of Ginnie because once Francine gets out of the looney bin, she's gonna want her daughter back. Rest assured there will be no more freebie lawyer's services and favors called in from Edward." He could bet his tootsies on that. She sauntered to the door and didn't look back. If that made Zachary feel bad about what he'd just done, then good. He should have been honest with her instead of stringing her along.

"She's not my girlfriend," Zachary said, but Shannon was already out the door.

Three minutes later, she arrived at work amidst much hubbub. The walls virtually vibrated with excitement. Everyone knew about Francine's arrest, it seemed. It still amazed her how quickly stories spread through the office. She strode through the hallway acknowledging the nods of congratulations, the slaps on the back and the high five's.

Her bravery was neither exceptional nor courageous though. It had been simply a matter of survival. But that wasn't something anyone needed to know.

She peeked into Peter's office, admired him for a moment sitting behind his desk looking very lawyer-like as he perused documents in a file. She cleared her throat. He looked over at her and smiled. Leaning back against the closed door, she returned his smile.

"Good morning, Mr. Montgomery."

"Ms. Murphy."

Talking wasn't the purpose of her visit. She sashayed over to him. But just before her lips met his, he asked, "The door?"

"Locked."

He gave himself over to her kiss with complete abandon. She couldn't speak to anything else – yet – but he was a fabulous kisser. Imagining that he'd be just as great in other departments as well, she explored his face with her fingertips, stroking the line of his nose and, tracing his lips, and sniffed every inch of his neck. "God, I love your after-shave. Heavenly."

Splaying his hand over her bottom, he lifted her onto his lap.

"Why, Mr. Montgomery, do you always greet your secretaries with such...er...enthusiasm?" _And you think you can hold out until our wedding night. Ha._

He nuzzled her neck. "I was just thinking about you."

She wouldn't like to think his erection was the result of a statement of claim, or something equally boring. Well, it might turn some lawyers on, but she didn't think it would Peter. At least she hoped not. A rush of heat swept through her lower body. She wriggled in his lap. He groaned. She supposed she shouldn't have done that.

His telephone rang.

"Damn. I have to take that. If I weren't expecting a call from Ottawa, I'd let it ring."

She hopped off his lap, walked around to the front of his desk, and hoisted herself onto a corner. While part of her mind listened to his end of the conversation, the other part thought up ways to get him into bed. He proved to be a bigger challenge that she'd anticipated and had the resolve of...of...she didn't know what.

The kerplunk of the phone landing in its cradle brought her attention back to the present. When she looked up, Peter stood in front of her. She opened her legs and he moved between them and took her hands in his. "I have to go to Ottawa for a few days."

How was she supposed to get him into bed if he was never here? "Ottawa? Why?"

"I'm representing the plaintiff on an appeal of a decision before the Supreme Court of Appeal."

"You have a case before the Supreme Court of Appeal?" she gushed. "So that means the judge's decision has been upheld by the Court of Appeal in Newton." He nodded. "That's a pretty big deal, Counselor, the Supreme Court of Appeal." She loved that he blushed. "Wow. I'm so impressed." Now, if he would impress her in some other way, as she knew he would, her life would be fulfilled.

"And how would you know that?"

"Well, I _am_ my father's daughter."

"That you are."

His telephone rang again.

Cursed thing.

"Hello." She loved the sound of his voice and the way his eyes never left her face. "Yes, she's right here." Pause. "I'll tell her." He put down the phone. "Will wants you in his office." She grabbed his arm and hauled him toward her. Will could wait. Just as their lips were about to meet, he said, "Tout suite were his exact words."

She drew back. "Bosses. They can be such a pain in the butt sometimes. You can't pull rank or something?" He gave her that look, the look that said he didn't do stuff like that. "Okay, okay." Just checking. After giving him a quick peck on the cheek, she hopped to the floor. "Coming by my place tonight?"

"With bells on."

And nothing else, she hoped. At the door, she blew him a kiss, then turned the key in the lock.

"You're belt is undone," he said to her retreating back.

She looked down and sure enough, it was undone. "Have you told Mr. McIntyre about us yet?" He shook his head. "Soon, though, right?" He nodded.

Coming out of Peter's office, buckling her belt, she ran smack into Edward. Christ. That can't have looked good.

Edward regarded her strangely for a moment.

"Hi, Mr. McIntyre. Isn't it a gorgeous day? Winds from the west will be light to moderate and there's absolutely no chance of rain. Whoo, whoo," she pulled an imaginary cord, "summer's on its way." _Okay, Shannon, stop babbling._

He leaned close to her. She took a step back. What?

"Gray has a ten o'clock meeting with Marilyn Leger this morning. Cross your fingers that he gets a confession."

"Mr. McIntyre, I'll cross everything I can, even my eyes if I thought it would help. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a man to please."

"Huh?"

She sang over her shoulder, "Will. My boss." Everything needed to be explained to Edward.

She entered her office, grabbed her pen and steno pad, and smiled at Abby. "Hi, Abs."

Abby looked up from the monitor. "You really kicked some ass, I hear. I can't wait to hear all the details."

"I can't right now. Will wants me in his office pronto." But that didn't stop Abby. "You've got a mean haymaker. Francine and Scarlett would both agree with that, I'm sure."

Scarlett – a name from the past. She'd forgotten about her and _that_ incident. How could she have forgotten?

***

It had been the end of the afternoon when the light of day shied from the pitch of blackness that Shannon answered the call of nature.

How could all that happened not show itself in her face? She moved closer to the mirror. They were the same eyes. Well, maybe a little wiser. It was the same mouth; it just knew now how to grimace. She forced herself to go through the motions, but within she felt as if her entire life had turned upside down again. Nothing was the same. Nothing would ever be the same again.

"God _,_ Mom _,_ what am I supposed to do?" she asked. When no answer came, she sighed. "My life is such a mess. Nothing is going right. I keep getting myself into one predicament after the other." There. It was out in the open. She never wanted to make that admission, those words – ever – but having said them, if only to her reflection in the mirror, it actually felt pretty good. As though once the admission was made, things couldn't get any worse. "Now there's a load off my chest," she whispered. Though how could things get any worse?

Shannon placed her hands under the stream of warm water and worked the disinfectant soap into a sudsy lather, feeling an uncharacteristic calm – a commodity of minute proportions for her lately. The drain gurgled as the last of the water and bubbles fought their way down the drain. If only her troubles could be as easily and swiftly washed away.

From behind, a hand smoothed her skirt and lingered on the contour of her buttocks. All of what Shannon had been through – the lies, the gossip, the looks, the snide remarks, and yes, even Edward's inattentive, hearing-impaired, doofus ways – catapulted through her. She had never felt like this before, this keen-edged rage.

She turned, pulled her arm back, and let it fly. Her fist connected with Scarlett's cheekbone. _Crack_ echoed off the walls _._ A great sound.

Scarlett staggered backward a few steps, then fell to the ceramic floor, her eyes rolling back in their sockets before her eyes closed.

"Bitch," Shannon screamed, knowing what she sounded like. She couldn't stop herself, just as she couldn't stop herself from bending down and pinching Scarlett's nose.

She walked over to the basin, filled a paper cup with water, and threw it on Scarlett's face, getting a little more satisfaction.

Scarlett's eyelashes fluttered. "My God, Scarlett what's the matter with you?"

"You misinterpreted."

Enough. Enough games, enough playing dumb, enough benefits of doubt. "No, I didn't."

Scarlett laughed. "For God's sake, I was simply smoothing your skirt."

"Yeah, right."

"I'm not what you think."

Shannon glared at her, knowing there could be no other way to interpret what happened. No one would convince her otherwise. "Yes, it was, Scarlett, and yes, you are." She grabbed hold of the door and swung it open.

Once inside her office she yanked her coat and purse from the coat tree, then rushed to her desk and turned off her computer. From there she ran out of the room, through the reception area and down the stairs.

Head throbbing, hand throbbing, she opened the door, jumped onto the verandah and sprinted down the steps. It wasn't until then, when the biting winds from the north parted her hair, that she felt free and safe from the mishaps, infelicitous circumstances, and frightening fiends of the zoo those people called a law firm.

She didn't look back.

***

Until this moment, until Abby's reminder.

Both times, she had been pushed and both times she pushed back. Maybe she was more like Francine than she cared to admit. She despised violence and yet her life seemed to steer toward it. God, poor Peter. Maybe he should be warned.

There'd never be a dull moment though.

Shannon turned toward the sound of someone clearing their throat. "Bruce Lee, grab your pen and pad and come to my office," Will said from the doorway, slashing the air with his hand.

She imagined she'd be getting a lot of that for awhile. But she'd take it because they'd tire of her celebrity status soon and focus their attention on something or someone else. "Oh, God, I forgot all about you."

"Just what every lawyer likes to hear."

Giggling, she followed close on his heels.
Chapter Thirty-Five

Detectives Gray and Lafayette secluded themselves in one of the two interrogations rooms in the Sandy Point Police Station. Gray stood in a corner, staring at the polished commercial tile on the floor. Lafayette sat at the metal card table reviewing the file on Celia MacTavish's murder. On the table sat a portable tape recorder and one blank tape in addition to the one already in the machine.

It was five minutes before ten o'clock, five minutes before the time on Monday morning that Marilyn MacTavish Leger told them she would meet with them. Gray angered at the thought. "Can you believe the gall of that woman?"

Georges Lafayette, a man of medium height with a pocked face and beady brown eyes and a head of brown hair as straggly as a corn husk, nodded. "She's a piece of work, all right." He looked up. "But the Chief was right. We'll let her think she can dictate to us, then wham, we'll hit her between the eyes."

With what? So far, they didn't have one piece of incriminating evidence against her. Just the word of an old woman who said she saw Marilyn at her mother's bedside with a pillow in her hands at around the time of her death. For all they knew, she might have been fluffing the old lady's pillow. As far as he was concerned, Lafayette had his nose up his own ass and had tunnel vision because of it. And it wasn't "we'll," it was "I'll." Lafayette would take all the credit for the arrest when Gray had done all the work.

He massaged the back of his neck, staring at the floor. Well, if Lafayette had something up his sleeve, he hoped it worked. If it didn't, Gray could probably kiss his career with the Sandy Point Police Department good-bye. That angered him too. "Think she'll crack?"

Lafayette leaned back in the metal chair and crossed his legs at the knees. "She'll crack."

Gray liked the sound of that. His colleague seemed cocksure, but still he couldn't help wondering if Lafayette placed too much faith in himself. He checked his watch. It was time for him to leave. "Well, good luck with Leger." _You'll need it._ He walked through the hallway a few feet and entered the interrogation room where he would await Malcolm MacTavish. The weenie. God, he wished he would be the one interrogating Leger. Just the thought of being in the same room with that child-molesting-drug-user disgusted him.

***

"What is the meaning of this, Lafayette?" Marilyn Leger demanded, barging into the room and stopping a few feet from him.

Lafayette looked at her and saw the pigtailed, freckled-faced, bucktoothed bully who gave him a wedgie in the first grade and angered at the thought. He made a big production out of pulling a roll of antacids from the pocket of his pants and flipping one in his mouth. He sucked noisily on the wafer. He wanted her angry, madder than she appeared at the moment. Getting her in the right mood was crucial to how this interrogation would end.

He stood, turned his chair around, and straddled it. "Have a seat." He relished the moment when he would wipe that smirk off her face.

Marilyn stomped the short distance to the table and plunked herself on the chair across from him. "Where's the other detective? Gray."

"He's talking with your brother."

She nodded.

"Would you mind answering a few simple questions about the night your mother was murdered?" When she shrugged, he placed the tape recorder closer to her. "Mind if I record this?"

"Knock yourself out, Sergeant, and I do mean that literally."

What a bitch. But he let it slide. Soon it would be his turn for the jabs. "It's Detective Second Grade," he said, pleasant enough,

She flipped her hand in the air. "Whatever."

"Would you state your name and address for the record, please, Ma'am?"

Marilyn did as he asked, punctuating each word and ending with a great sigh.

"Do you understand why we asked to see you, Ms. Leger?"

"Yes, to answer," she made quotation marks in the air, "a few simple questions about the night my mother was killed." She yawned. "Let's get on with it. I have things to do, _Sergeant_."

He let that one pass. "Where were you on the evening of your mother's death between eleven and eleven-thirty?"

She shifted positions. "This sounds more like an interrogation than answering a few simple questions."

"I'm just tying up loose ends, is all." She nodded, but he saw from the expression on her face, she didn't believe him. He was losing her cooperation. "The sooner you answer the questions, the sooner you can get on with your business."

"Okay, okay. I was at home with a friend."

He flipped through the file until he found the sheet of paper where Gray had written, "Home alone. No alibi." next to her name. "What's this friend's name?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Okay." For now. "When Detective Gray questioned you, you said you were home alone. Can you explain that?"

"Do I need my lawyer?"

"Do you feel you need a lawyer?"

"Am I under arrest or something?"

"No, Ma'am. We need your help to bring your mother's killer to justice and to clarify a few things for us. It's as simple as that." He didn't want her lawyer involved. Once that happened there would be no more answers. Not to mention Chas Hamilton was mean, nasty, and the most arrogant son of a bitch he'd ever had the misfortune of meeting. The farther away he stayed from him the better he liked it.

She shrugged. "I don't know what more help I can be. I've already told Gray everything I know."

"Let's get back to your friend, the friend you said you were with the night your mother was murdered. Does he or she have a name?"

"Of course, he has a name."

"So, why don't you tell me what it is?"

The longer she paused, the more Lafayette believed her alibi was a lie. After another moment where they stared at each other, she blurted, "Because he's married, that's why."

Lafayette took his hands from the back of the chair and straightened. This came as a surprise to him and by the look on her face, Marilyn liked that it did. So, she might be telling the truth. "I can't assure you that his wife will never find out, but I can assure that I'll do my best to keep it from getting out. I don't care who sleeps with who in this town, so I won't go blabbing to his wife that you're boinking her husband."

"How eloquent, Lafayette." She rolled her eyes and huffed a breath. "And it's with _whom_ not _who_."

Great. A lecture on correct grammar. He forced composure and waited, hoping she'd give up the name of her friend and yet wondering if she had any friends.

Finally, she leaned across the table and whispered, "Chas Hamilton."

Jesus. _That_ he didn't expect. "The lawyer, Chas Hamilton?"

"Yes. One and the same."

He didn't appreciate her smug smile. "I can have that verified, you know."

She shrugged. "He won't like it, but he'll tell you where he was that night. In my bed."

Why would she lie about being with him, him of all people? Would Hamilton corroborate her alibi? He doubted it. The man was a sleaze. In an odd sort of way, he could see the two of them together. "Do you have any idea who would want to kill your mother?"

"You mean besides the Murphy girl?"

"Yes, besides the Murphy girl."

"Who else would want to kill her? She gets all of my mother's money, her house, everything. That's motive enough for murder, isn't it?"

"How about you, Ms. Leger? Were you impatient to get your mitts on your mother's money that you moved the process ahead a little? It wouldn't have taken much. Just a little pressure over your mother's face with a feather pillow would snuff her out." He gave her a long steady look. "Come on, you can be straight with me."

"Yeah, right. Like you're my new best friend." She inhaled deeply and said calmly, "Didn't I just tell you Chas can verify my whereabouts on the night my mother was murdered? And besides, there was no reason for me to kill her. I didn't get anything from her estate, remember?"

"Did you know your mother changed her will on the day she died leaving nothing to you or your brother?" He saw that Leger was losing patience with him, but probably more because of the reminder that the conduit that provided the life-style she so enjoyed was gone. That had to be a sore point.

"Yes, I knew."

Another surprise. "You knew? How?"

"I saw a copy of her will in Chas' briefcase earlier that night when I was looking for his lighter."

Lafayette studied her face. She looked like she was telling the truth.

He continued the questioning relentlessly for the next half hour. He turned up the heat in the room. He pushed and shoved. He poked jabs. He sneered at her answers. He parried. He pirouetted. He raised his voice. He patronized. He sympathized. And throughout it all Marilyn Leger remained as cool as a day in January. But despite her alibi, he wasn't ready to give up. Not yet.

"Tell me how you knew your mother was murdered. She could have passed away in her sleep."

"I didn't know for sure. It was just a hunch. It just seemed like too much of a coincidence that the day my mother changed her will, she died."

"What would you say if I told you we have an eye witness who placed you at your mother's beside at the time of her death?"

Marilyn scoffed. "Who? Some geriatric who from one moment to the next cannot differentiate between reality and fantasy. Good work, _Sergeant_."

This was getting nowhere. He picked up the file. "I'll be back in two minutes. I have to check on something."

"Take your time."

***

Gray opened the door a second after Lafayette knocked on it.

"No luck with my puppy, Gray. How're you doing?"

"That's great news. Great news," Gray answered. "Good job, Lafayette. Damn good job. Thanks." He grabbed the file out of Lafayette's hand and slammed the door. He read as he walked, flipping pages back and forth, back and forth, murmuring "Hmm's and ahah's." Peripherally, he checked out MacTavish.

Gray took his time placing himself in his chair.

"What have you got there, Detective?"

The idea came to him when he saw Lafayette at the door. It wasn't a brilliant plan. If he had more time to think about it, he could have come up with something better. But nonetheless, the rat took the bait. Now all he had to do was make him believe they had his sister dead to rights. If anyone knew for sure Marilyn Leger killed her mother, it would be her brother. To save his own ass, the weenie would be caroling like a songbird in a few minutes. "A couple of days ago, I had analysis run a comparison test on the hair and blood samples taken from your mother's bed. You knew that your mother scratched her murderer, didn't you?"

Malcolm covered one hand with the other. The reflexive act sent chills coursing through Gray's spine. Christ, they'd been up the wrong trail all the time. Gray tried not to appear surprised. He threw the file on the table. "The jig is up. Are you ready to confess?"

Malcolm buried his face in his hands and cried, "Why couldn't she have just died naturally? But, oh no, not my mother. Not that Trojan horse. She had to hang on and hang on just to rub my nose in my failures. Pointing out, every chance she got, what a useless human being I am. A failure and disappointment to her. An embarrassment. She loved telling me that, you know. Always so superior. Always so snide." He wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweater and inhaled deeply. "I'm glad she's dead. Do you hear me? I'm glad."

Gray felt not one iota of pity for him. He was a sorry excuse for a human being. Pathetic and immoral.

"I fixed her. I fixed her. For once, I had the last word. I put an end to that pitiful excuse for a mother once and for all." MacTavish sobbed.

Gray pressed the record button on the tape recorder and said softly, "Why don't you tell me what happened that night, Mr. MacTavish."

And he was off. Quick to tell the sordid story. Quick to unburden himself of years of emotional abuse.
Chapter Thirty-Six

After they booked Malcolm Leger, Gray and Lafayette delivered the news to the chief.

"He cried the confession like a schoolgirl," Gray told Buckley as he flipped the full bouquet to an invisible Malcolm MacTavish. Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Lafayette sitting in the chair beside him. Judging by the glum expression on his colleague's face, he was none too happy that Gray solved the case. But that was too bad. It was only right that he did.

Buckley opened the bottom drawer of his desk, pulled out a bottle of Rye and three glasses. He twisted off the top and poured a thimbleful of whiskey in each tumbler. "That's one for the good guys."

Gray raised his glass. "And the meek shall not inherit the earth." They tipped back their shots.

The chief shook his head. "Who would have thought that weenie had the balls?"

"Not one of us, that's for sure," Lafayette said.

Gray recognized the dig. True, he believed Marilyn killed her mother, and if it weren't for a fluke, the murder might have ended up a cold case. He shouldn't take too much satisfaction in solving the murder.

"I'll call McIntyre and tell him the good news," Buckley said.

"Are the two of you good friends?" Gray needed to know just how much McIntyre maneuvered the case behind the scenes.

"Everyone ends up being a friend of Edward's at some point."

Gray deduced that some of the heat Buckley talked about when he put him on the carpet for not making an arrest came from the old lawyer. It shouldn't surprise him that Edward possessed clout. It was a small town, after all, and aside from the man's apparent dottiness, he seemed well respected and liked.

When the chief grabbed the telephone receiver, Gray and Lafayette left for the squad room.

***

After Shannon left his office, Peter picked up a pen and pulled a legal foolscap onto the blotter. He drew a line down the center of the page. At the top of the left-hand column, he wrote "Argument" and underlined it. At the top of the right-hand column he wrote, "Counter" and underlined it.

The first argument Edward would have to their marriage was age. He scribbled the word in the first column. He stared into space for a moment, then at the blank right-hand column. What did age have to do with love? He loved Shannon and she loved him. That was all that should matter. And wasn't Edward ten years older than Maureen? In the right-hand column, he wrote: Maureen.

Edward would probably bring up his background next. True, they didn't have the same pedigree. But hadn't he risen above his impoverished childhood? Hadn't he gotten a law degree when the odds of doing so were against him? That should be worth something, shouldn't it?

The thought that he was trying to prove his worthiness angered him. What was he doing? It was a waste of time and effort. He ripped off the sheet, balled it up, and threw it in the waste paper basket. He would tell Edward how it was and that would be the end of that. If he didn't like it...well, he'd have to get used to it because he would marry Shannon, with or without Edward's approval. And why did he need his approval anyway? It wasn't as though Edward was her father.

***

Edward stood in the hallway, scratching his head in his customary way and wondering why Shannon came out of Peter's office buckling her belt. Now that he thought about it, her face had been flushed too. What were the two of them doing behind a closed door? No, it couldn't be what it looked like. Not after everything they did to each other in the past. It just was not possible.

He rapped his knuckles against the door. "Do you have a minute?"

Peter turned away from the window and looked at Edward. "Er...sure."

In the many years Edward knew Peter, he'd never seen him blush. Something was going on, maybe something he wasn't going to like. "What's happening?" he asked, sauntering toward Peter's desk.

"I asked Shannon to marry me," Peter blurted.

Edward landed in a chair with a thud, then immediately stood and reached across the desk. He chuckled when Peter moved away from him. The look on his face was priceless. Why would Peter think he wouldn't be happy with this news? "Congratulations, Peter. I knew right from the beginning the two of you were meant to be together even though you were married at the time."

Peter took Edward's hand and shook it, vigorously. "I thought you'd be opposed to the marriage."

"Why?"

"I don't know. Just something I felt, I guess."

"So, when's the wedding?"

"June 1st."

"That's what...four weeks away? That's not much time."

"Not for Shannon."

Edward chuckled. "No, I guess not."

Peter stood and walked around the desk and sat in the chair next to Edward. "I've never told you this, but you've not only been a colleague and mentor to me, but a father as well. I'd be honored if you'd be my best man."

Without hesitation, Edward returned the sentiment. "And you are like a son to me, Peter."

"Well, what do you say? Will you be my best man?"

Edward had no idea what to say. Really, he had never been put in this situation before. How could he be Peter's best man when he intended to walk his daughter down the aisle? "Er...Peter, I don't know...I?" Before he could get another foolish word out, Peter saved him, seemingly reading his thoughts.

"I understand why you're hesitating."

"You do?" And here he thought he hid his feelings and his relationship to Shannon so well. And what of his vow he made to his wife and to Brock, the only father she knew? He held his breath, but didn't look away.

"You're thinking Shannon might ask you to stand in for her father and want you to walk her down the aisle."

Edward exhaled, feeling relieved. He tugged on his ear. "I kinda hoped that. You know I've grown quite fond of the little one and it would mean so much to me to do that, that is, if she asks. You do understand, don't you?"

"Of course. Actually, it should have occurred to me."

Edward would take no greater pleasure than to walk Shannon down the aisle, but he might be jumping the gun. "Does she want a traditional wedding?"

"Shannon not wanting traditional? How could you think such a thing?"

Edward's cell phone rang. "McIntyre." Pause. "Uh-huh." A long pause. "High time, isn't it?" Pause. "Poker game still on for Sunday night, or did the little missus lay down the law again?" Pause. "Good." He disconnected the call and put the cell phone back in his pocket. "The police arrested Malcolm MacTavish for Celia's murder."

Peter straightened. "Malcolm? I thought the daughter was the prime suspect."

"She was. I don't know all the details yet, but I will after Sunday night." Edward stood. "Is Shannon at her desk? I'd like to be the one to tell her the good news."

"I think she's in with Will."

Edward strode to the door and turned. "Are you coming?"

***

"Did you hear?" Will asked Shannon when she entered his office.

"Hear what?" She took a seat. She loved this part of the job. Being made privy to the intimate details, the little bits of gossip.

"About Charles Anderson."

The stuffed shirt. The cute in-a-penal-code-sort-of-way young whippin'-snappin' associate who she put in his place when he first started articling with the firm. "No. What about him?"

"He represented the bank on a foreclosure and all of the documentation said the property was to be auctioned off for five thousand dollars when it should have been fifty. And the market value of the property was seventy-five thousand."

"So, somebody bought a seventy-five thousand dollar property for five thousand dollars? Wow."

"Yippers." Will chewed the end of his pen.

"Geez, poor Charles." Though she didn't care for him, she empathized with his situation. "He's in some deep doodoo."

"He would be if there hadn't been buyers at the sale."

Why information needed to be dragged out of lawyers, she had yet to understand. "So, by some accidental stroke of good luck, the property was sold for what it should have been auctioned off at?"

"Uh-huh. You catch on quickly."

"I have good teachers." She stared into space for a moment. "How did Charles make a mistake like that anyway?"

"It wasn't his mistake, it was his secretary's."

That burned her. "And Charles didn't proof read what he signed?"

"If an employee proves credentials for a particular job then the employer does not have to monitor, supervise, scrutinize, etc. Blah, blah, blah. In other words, Charles, the employer, could have sued his secretary for negligence and dereliction of duty. There's case law to prove it."

Shannon couldn't believe her ears. "Is that true?"

"Would I lie to you?"

"No, but sometimes you don't tell me everything, like a need-to-know basis. Remember Edward's plan?"

"Yes."

She had to smile at his crestfallen face. "There's something seriously wrong with that law."

"That's why God made lawyers."

"God is a devilish sort, isn't he?" She turned at the sound of Will's office door squeaking open and watched as Peter and Edward strode into the room. Peter walked toward her and nodded furtively. So, he broke their news to Edward. Judging by the expression on Edward's face, the talk went well. She exhaled a sigh of relief. Not that it mattered whether Edward disagreed with their decision or not. Oh, who was she kidding? Of course, Edward's opinion mattered.

Now, if only Peter would cooperate on that other thing, she'd be the happiest woman in town, no, in the world. She looked up at him. He returned her smile. Little did he know what she planned for him tonight. He'd still be smiling though.

"By the look on your faces, I'd say you have good news," Will said.

"I do, that's a fact." Edward nodded. "And so does Peter."

"Yours first, Ed."

Shannon listened intently as Edward related his telephone call from the chief of police. When he came to the end, she thought, that bugger. Malcolm knew she was a murder suspect and yet he stood by and was willing to let her be arrested for a murder she didn't commit. She stood. It was some consolation to know that Celia's murderer had been arrested. But she doubted Celia would look at it that way. While the lawyers discussed that strange turn of events, Shannon looked back at the past and the many happy times she spent with Celia. She had enriched Shannon's life, for that she would always be grateful.

"So, have you any plans for your inheritance, Shannon?" Edward asked.

She forced herself back to the present, hating to let go of the memories. "I still don't want the money, but I have an idea what to do with it."

"What's that?"

"Well, the thought first stuck me when I learned Zachary wanted to fight for custody of his daughter but couldn't because he didn't have the money. I wondered how many fathers and mothers were in the same situation." She paused to take a breath. "Wanting to battle but no armaments to battle with, so to speak."

"Uh-huh," Edward answered. "Go on."

Shannon fiddled with her pen. "I'm thinking about setting up a foundation in Mrs. MacTavish's name to help men and women with that sort of predicament. The fund will underwrite motions, lawsuits, etc." She stopped to gauge their reactions. Pleased with their expressions, she asked, "How does that sound?"

"Excellent idea," Edward said.

"Generous and upstanding," came from Will.

"I expected nothing less." Peter squeezed her shoulder.

Shannon beamed. "It'd be a condition of the foundation's assistance that a lawyer from the firm would represent the recipient. It's a win-win situation for everyone involved far as I can tell."

The lawyers agreed.

"I expect a discount on the fees."

Edward chuckled. "Of course, nothing can be done until Celia's estate's been probated," Edward pointed out.

"But we can get prepared, though, can't we?"

"I don't see a problem with that," Edward agreed.

Peter cleared his throat. Shannon held her breath. Why she didn't know. She wanted the whole world to know Peter was in love with her and she with him, and yet now she suddenly felt shy.

"Shannon and I are engaged to be married," Peter told Will.

She wished for a camera to capture his stunned expression.

After a moment, Will stood and extended his hand. "Congratulations." He looked at Shannon with a quizzical look, then turned to Peter. "I thought the two of you," he moved his finger back and forth from her to Peter, "I thought the two of you hated each other."

"We did," came from Shannon.

"I never did," came from Peter.

"You never did?" She stood and looked into his eyes. "Aw, I never did either." God, how she wanted to run her hand through his hair, to trail her fingers over the growth of whiskers on his jaw, to feel his lips – .

"Ahem."

Shannon jerked back to reality. "Yes, Mr. McIntyre?"

"Oh, nothing."

"I guess I'll be looking for another secretary."

She turned her attention to Will. "Why? I'm not leaving my job."

He peered at Peter.

"Don't look at him. This is my decision, not his."

Peter glanced at Edward. He took the cue. "Shannon, how do you plan to set up Celia's foundation, run it and do fund raisers etc. and still keep your job here?"

Oh, she never thought of that. Hmm. "That's true. It might be too much." She paused, theatrically, noted that the three lawyers waited with dyed-in-the-wool attention, then turned to Will. "I'm going to be very, very hard to replace. You know that, don't you?"
Chapter Thirty-Seven

Peter and Shannon entered Le Château. They were a striking couple, as the admiring glances that came their way told her. She dressed very carefully for this night and was happy she chose the black sheath with the plunging neckline since it perfectly complimented Peter's Saville Row suit.

When she followed behind the maitre 'd, Peter rested his hand in the tilt of her back. She loved that.

"A table for two next to the fireplace, as you requested, Mr. Montgomery."

"Thank you, Gilles."

"Your welcome, Sir." He turned to Shannon. "May I, Miss?"

"Yes, thank you." He took her wrap, turned and signaled to a waiter and left.

Peter held the back of her chair while she sat, then took the seat across from her.

A waiter appeared. "Would you like something to drink?"

Peter picked up the wine menu and five seconds later decided. "The Château des Charmes Cabernet Sauvignon."

"Excellent choice, Sir." The waiter nodded and walked away.

His decisiveness pleased her. In fact, everything about him pleased her. She looked up at the wooden beams overhead, then at the tables swathed in red-linen cloths. "I love it here."

"I love being here with you."

His smile warmed her, making her feel happy, safe, cherished. She reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

The waiter returned with their wine and filled their glasses while they exchanged glances over their menus. One minute later, the waiter took their orders and they were alone again.

"This is perfect, Peter. I couldn't think of a better place to celebrate. Thank you for suggesting it."

"The pleasure is all mine."

His eyes rested on her bosom. She smiled. "Ed..." Still, after all this time, his first name stalled on her lips. "Mr. McIntyre is happy for us." She took a sip of wine.

The waiter refilled her glass.

Peter spared him the briefest glance. "He hugged me."

"Edward hugged you? He hugged me too." A display of emotion that seemed out of character for him, and yet, seemed quite natural. "I can't tell you how good it feels not to be a murder suspect anymore." She sighed with relief.

He clasped her hand and looked deeply into her eyes. "No one will ever hurt you again, I promise."

She wished that were true. Still, it was great to hear. She smiled.

"Have you given any thought about what you'll do with Celia's house?"

Celia's house. Manor house sounded more apt. She envisioned the six-bedroom brick structure sitting on the bay surrounded by acres of manicured lawn and the long cobble stoned driveway leading to it. "At first, I thought I might sell it, then when I came up with the idea of a foundation in Celia's name, I thought about converting it into a shelter for children and battered women. But then I thought about all the beautiful antiques in it and . . . I think it would be a shame to do that."

"It would make a wonderful home for someone."

Her thought exactly. "For us?" She held her breath.

"I'd be happy living in a grass hut with you, but if you want to live in Celia's house after we're married, that's fine by me."

She released her breath. Those few words made her so happy she wanted to jump across the table and kiss him. Instead, she smiled, widely. "Yes. I'd love that and I think Celia would be pleased." She raised her glass. "To Celia."

Peter touched her goblet. "To Celia."

They sipped their wine. The waiter poured her more.

"Do you think Marilyn will contest the will?"

He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. "She might, but any lawyer worth his salt would advise against it. Chas has that wrapped up with his sworn affidavit to Celia's sane disposition at the time of the will's execution. Celia made sure her will was boiler plate and ironclad. Marilyn wouldn't have a legal leg to stand on."

It still bothered her that Marilyn and Malcolm were left out in the cold. "If Celia wanted her children to have her money, she would have willed it to them, right?"

"That's the way I see it."

"Do you think Celia's at peace?"

"Definitely."

Their dinner arrived. They had eyes and an appetite only for each other.

Later, after dinner and dancing when moonlight shimmered on the bay and a fire burned in the hearth, Shannon snuggled against Peter on the sofa in her living room. She was where she wanted to be, where destiny intended her to be. "How about some champagne? A bottle is chilling on the butcher's block."

She admired his physique as he left for the kitchen.

"I thought that waiter was going to run someone over refilling your wine glass every time you took a sip," he said, entering the room.

She detected a measure of jealousy in his voice. "I'm sure he would have paid you the same attention if he were gay."

"I don't know about that."

She did. Peter was the handsomest man she ever met. It was a wonder the waiter hadn't swooned over him.

He handed her a glass.

"Thank you."

The fire twinkled light through the room. He touched his glass to hers. They sampled the champagne and sat in silence. After a moment, Peter lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the ring finger of her left hand. "I know you said you only wanted a wedding band, but..." He reached into the pocket of his trousers, pulled out a small black leather box, and handed it to her.

"What's this?" Her heart palpitated as she set her glass on the coffee table and took the proffered box from his fingers.

"Open it and find out." He smiled, widely.

With her heart in her throat, she lifted the lid slowly and gasped.

Peter picked up his glass of champagne. "If you don't like it, you can have another designed."

"You had this designed?" It shouldn't surprise her, but it did. The beauty of the ring took away her breath.

He nodded. "I have a friend who designs jewelry. She has a little shop in Newton."

She examined the half-inch wide white gold band. In the center sat a ruby surrounded by one-quarter carat diamonds. Encased within the delicate scrollwork encircling it sat diamond chips. She loved everything about the ring. It was as though she had designed it for herself.

"Do you like it?"

Speech momentarily failed her.

"Hon?"

"Like it? I love it."

His smile warmed her heart. "Check the inside of the band."

She did.

To My Wild Irish Rose, Forever Yours, Peter

She choked back tears, incredibly moved by the sentiment. His face filled her vision when she looked up, but her focus was on the sculpted shape of his mouth. A mouth that sizzled when pressed against hers.

"Shannon..." The fact that he hesitated before taking her hand in his told her he wasn't as in control of his emotions as he'd like her to think. And because he wasn't, tonight might be the night they expressed their love for each other. He slipped the ring on her finger.

"It's a perfect fit." She splayed her hand and admired the ring.

"Like us." He lowered his head.

"Like us." Her lips opened against his.

Passion guided her.

Desire pushed her forward.

With eyes only for him, she folded her arms around his neck. His scent whirled around her, intensifying the feelings the taste of him had created. Beneath his hands, her body reacted to his touch. A natural longing pummeled through her. His lips were warm and inviting. He didn't resist when her hands slipped down to his waist and unbuckled his belt. An act she did before, though only in her dreams. This was a time of acceptance, a time of pleasure, a time to cherish, a time...As though reading her thoughts, he drew back to look into her eyes. "I want you."

The moment she impatiently waited for finally arrived.

Maybe it was because he knew it was futile to argue.

Maybe it was because they'd already waited too long.

A thrill traversed her spine. "I want to be with you too."

"Are you sure?"

On a sigh, she nodded. They were about to become lovers. In her entire life, she never desired anything more.

He hefted her into his arms. She laid her head against his shoulder as he walked toward her bedroom. Holding her tightly, they sank onto the bed. No longer needing to hold back, he ran his hands over her body. His mouth claimed, then gave back. He was more giving, more uninhibited, more candid with his feelings than ever before, than even in her dreams. When his lips parted from hers, his eyes were clouded with desire.

Her fingers trembled when she undid his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and slipped it from his shoulders. She ran her hand over his chest. His skin was moist. She tasted it and craved more.

He undressed her, slowly as though he wanted the moment to last forever. His hands slid over her skin, fondling, caressing. Her pulse raced. Even in her wildest dreams, it had never been like this. She was sure the awe on his face mirrored hers. His body fascinated her as much, it seemed, as hers did to him. He was so patient, so tender. He pressed a kiss to her hair, her forehead, her eyes, her lips.

Her body shuddered. She dragged his mouth back to hers. They rolled over. She tugged and pulled off his pants. He tugged off his boxers, rolled on top of her again, and spattered kisses over her face, her neck. She took great pleasure in his frenzied breathing. She encircled him, arms and legs. He entered her, slowly. She clenched.

"Did I hurt you?"

Such love and concern showed on his face, tears pooled in her eyes. She could only shake her head.

"I love you with all my heart."

She cradled his face in her hands and peered deeply into his eyes. "I love you, Peter, with all my heart."

Later, their energy spent, they lay tangled in the sheets, staring up at the ceiling.

"Wow."

"Wow."

She nestled in the crook of his arm and grinned. "Why did you wait so long?"

He hugged her to him and kissed the top of her head. "I wanted your first time and our first time together to be special, not ruled by lust but love."

"That's why you wanted to wait for our wedding night?"

"The best laid plans of mice and men..."

"He is not wise who is not wise himself."

The End

