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for
sheriff, you wouldn’t be coming on like such a hardass, that’s what it
means,” she said.
    Ominous silence followed her
statement.  Nothing on earth could have compelled me to turn around.
    At last his footsteps thudded to
the door.  It creaked open.
    Fran said, “She’ll tell you
the truth.”
    “Please thank Cousin Claire
for the gingerbread.  Good night,” he said, his voice tired.  The door
shut quietly behind him.
    I turned.  “Fran, why didn’t
you just tell him—”
    “It’s complicated.”
    “What will you say?”
    She shrugged.
    “Fran, are you in some kind
of trouble?  Do you need help?”
    She yawned, head back, long arms
reaching for the ceiling, jacket falling open, breasts straining against the
sheer white fabric of her blouse.  She said, “Ask me no questions, I’ll
tell you no lies.”
    “I don’t understand.”  I
felt as though the yellow linoleum floor was tilting.
    “Lizzie, don’t look like
that, it’s nothing so terrible.”  She stood up and held a long arm out to
me.  “Come on, walk me to the door.”
    We tiptoed down the hall past
Mother’s room, carefully opened the front door, and stepped onto the porch. 
The clouds had blown past, and the moon shone so brightly it cast shadows.
    “Mmm—doesn’t it smell
good?” she whispered.
    “Lovely.  I’ll pick you up in
the morning—”
    “It’d probably look better if
we went in separately,” she said.
    “I don’t care,” I said. 
“What time?”
    ”About two?”
    “Gene said morning.”
    “Then, 11:55.  That’ll
preserve your writing time, too.  How’s the latest opus going, anyway?”
    “Pretty well.”
    “When you get that prim tone
it always means you’re working on a hot scene.”  She hugged me and ran lightly
down the steps.  “Night, Piggelty,” she called softly.
    “Night, Higgelty.”
    I watched her drive away, the
engine of the Mustang thunderous in the still night.  She didn’t even brake at
the stop sign, just whipped around the corner and out of sight.
    I sank into the wicker chair.  It
creaked.  It had absorbed moisture, and the chill crept into my jeans.  Fran’s
jeans, I thought, feeling their pinch.  They were too small and only the
strength of desperation had enabled me to zip them.  I giggled, then sobered as
I remembered the bloody blue gown I’d been so frantic to shed.
    The vision of Andre’s ruined head
rose in my mind.  It was awful to see someone so beautiful, someone who’d loved
life so much, dead.  “Andre, who would do that to you?” I whispered.  He’d
been charming, extremely likable.  What could he have done to make someone so
angry?
    I shivered.  I didn’t want to
think it was anyone living in this quiet town, this town that had always been
my home.  Chilled clear through, I went inside, locking the door behind me.

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    My phone rang at 8:30 the next
morning.  I settled deeply into my pillow and pulled the covers over my head. 
In the middle of the fourth ring it cut off.
    The phone rang again.  I burrowed
deeper.  After three rings, it stopped.
    The phone rang.  I snatched it
up.  “What?”
    “I knew you were there,”
Fran’s smug voice said.
    I groaned.  “How come you’re
awake already?  I expected to have to pry you out of your bed at ll:54.”
    “Bad news.”
    I sat up.  “What?”
    “Annamaria is dead.”
    I hugged the covers to me. 
“Dead?  But all she had was the flu.”  The vision of Andre’s body
flashed in front of me.  “She was murdered?”
    “Calm down, Liz.  Nothing
like that.”
    “I just can’t believe it. 
When I picked up the dress from her yesterday, she looked wretched, but
not—oh, God.”
    “What?”
    “She said she felt like she
was going to die.  I just thought—you know how sometimes when you have the
stomach flu—”
    “You couldn’t have
known—”
    “But I should have insisted
she let me take her to the doctor.  I was in such a hurry because of