By Rook or By Crook

The future is limitless for young advertising professional January Lamont and her CPA husband, Barrett, until they are unknowingly sucked into two different crimes. Forced to flee New York City, they hide and re-event themselves in rural Pennsylvania.

Believed to have absconded with priceless antiquities stolen by international thieves, the Lamonts face the battle of their lives. While the perpetrators inch closer, they invest their time and talent in good work and better causes than their former existence.

“Nancy Hughes masterfully crafts another crime novel that not only provides chilling thrills to the reader but also highlights the strength of its very human protagonists to recover from one setback after another thrown at them by a series of evil players. Through one plot twist after another, Ms. Hughes’s strong writing keeps the reader wondering to the very end whether January and Barrett Lamont will prevail…”

—Geza Tatrallyay, acclaimed author of sixteen books

A

M Y S T E RY

N O V E L

NANCY A. HUGHES

Award-winning author Nancy A. Hughes writes character-driven crime-solving mysteries. She followed her dream from journalistic business writing to a life of crime. She is the author of the Trust Mystery Series and The Dying Hour. When Nancy isn’t writing, she is devoted to shade gardening and to volunteering at the Veteran’s Hospital. She is a member of MWA, ITW, Sisters in Crime, and PennWriters. For more information visit hughescribe.com.

By Rook or By Crook

“The author’s intimate knowledge of rural Pennsylvania life and her mystery-writing acumen make for a unique and thoroughly enjoyable read. And did I mention alpacas?”

—J.L. Delozier, award-winning mystery author of The Photo Thief

NA NC Y A . H U G H E S

By Rook or

By Crook A Mystery Novel

Nancy A. Hughes

Publisher Page

an imprint of Headline Books

Terra Alta, WV

Other Books by Nancy A. Hughes The Dying Hour The Innocent Hour A Matter of Trust Redeeming Trust Vanished Buried Trust

By Rook or By Crook

by Nancy A. Hughes copyright ©2024 Nancy A. Hughes All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, except where noted otherwise, are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any other resemblance to actual people, places or events is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any other form or for any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage system, without written permission from Publisher Page.

To order additional copies of this book or for book publishing information, or to contact the author: Headline Books, Inc. P.O. Box 52 Terra Alta, WV 26764 www.HeadlineBooks.com mybook@headlinebooks.com Publisher Page is an imprint of Headline Books ISBN 13: 9781958914274 Library of Congress Control Number: 2023944995

P R I N T E D I N T H E U N I T E D S TAT E S O F A M E R I C A

In loving memory of Charlene Plushanski 1972 - 1991

1 January Gastineau Lamont effervesced into the elegant restaurant, barely able to contain her excitement. Having given her professional name to confirm her reservation, the owner escorted Ms. Gastineau to her requested window table. On an ordinary Tuesday evening, she’d collect takeout or head to their one-room apartment to whip up whatever she could defrost. While waiting for her husband, Barrett, she quivered in anticipation about how her news would change their lives.

They had enjoyed their grad school days of self-imposed poverty, knowing their investment would accelerate their careers into the stratosphere. Barrett Lamont, a newly minted CPA in a large firm, was on the manager track, a precursor to becoming a partner. And she, an advertising agency newbie, had just scored her first major coup.

She ordered a pinot grigio and sipped as she waited, willing her nerves to settle. She imagined a larger apartment, shopping at Saks, cabs rather than subways, and real vacations to exotic places. Finally—on time to the minute—her gray-suited, bowtied husband entered, giving a nod to the receptionist and pointing to her. He looked tax-season weary, which sapped every ounce of his energy from New Year’s Day until May extensions were filed.

When the waiter appeared, he ordered a Dewar’s straight up with a twist, then fixed her with a quizzical smile. “I detect a celebration. Did your meeting go better than expected?”

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“You will not believe what happened!” She started the moment he settled. “There I was, the newest kid at the agency, having been instructed to ‘listen and learn from my elders and betters.’ They didn’t use the word ‘betters,’ but their meaning was obvious. Anyway, we were gathered around that battalionsize table with me trying to be inconspicuous at the far end, my pen poised on a note pad, and our firm’s old guys posturing like corporate CEOs in their thousand-dollar suits, starched white shirts, and silk power ties. The clients, who couldn’t be thirty, if that, wearing designer jeans and open-neck shirts, are partners in a huge new fashion company whose lines have taken the tweens, teens, and new adult markets by storm.

“The senior designer—Jessica Something-Or-Other—pitched a last-century campaign that the clients might have watched from their grandmamas’ laps. The clients kept interrupting, asking her about fresh ideas and leading-edge strategy and current culture. I knew that meeting was over! And with it, a shitload of money.

Then the youngest guy—he looked close to my age—pointed to my class ring and said, ‘We are…’ and I responded, ‘…Penn State.’

He laughed and asked what year I graduated, what did I study— advertising, of course—and did I have Professor So-and-so. Like we’d just met at a bar.

“The prospective clients exchanged glances, then Penn State says to me, ‘Pitch us your best idea.’ I’d seen their clothing and imagined their fashions on concert-going fans. And I threw an impromptu tagline around which I could build a campaign. And the guy in charge said to the agency owner, ‘We want her for our account executive.’”

“Wow! What did you say? And what does that mean for you?

Is it a promotion?

“I demurred. Let our big dudes do the talking. Think of it, Barrett. It’s not just about writing the campaign and working with the client, but supervising the artwork, choosing which media, filming commercials, and, most important, capitalizing 6

Nancy A. Hughes

on social media. These guys know what sells in their markets and have all that demographic information. And, best of all, I’ll get a healthy cut of the fees. And, if the agency wants to keep me, a huge salary bump. Or I can go elsewhere. This has got to be one of the best days of my life—right up there with our wedding, of course. Now, country boy, aren’t you glad I talked you into staying in New York after graduate school?”

“May I bring you another?” the waiter said of her empty wine glass.

“Champagne! We’re celebrating tonight.” At that moment, January finally settled, registering her husband’s expression and sensing at last that something was terribly wrong. This kind, gentle man had always lit up about her successes, from her first souffle that didn’t fall to attaining her MBA. He was her unabashed cheerleader in his quiet, understated way. From their second date, she, the outrageous extrovert, had schooled herself not to steamroll this gentle person. But she’d done it again.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked. And waited.

He sighed, unable to dredge the first sentence. “I’ve had an impossible day.”

“Why don’t we order some dinner, then tell me what you can.

I do appreciate that client information is confidential.”

He downed the rest of his scotch in one gulp. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“How about at the end, then work backward?”

He sighed. “Okay. The end. I’m afraid that I, um, will have to resign and go elsewhere.”

January gasped, studying his face that didn’t look like he was kidding. “What happened? I’d bet my bottom dollar that you didn’t screw up a client’s return.”

“It’s a long story that started a couple of months ago. Do you remember when I stayed late to cover for Peter Vaughn? He was going to a conference.”

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“Yeah. That was October, I think. I asked if you wanted to go too—that I’d be fine. Arrange a girls’ night out with neglected friends.”

Barrett held up a hand to stop her from talking. “There wasn’t really a conference. I mean, there was a conference, but he had other plans. He’s seeing someone.”

She gaped at him. “Mr. Perfect Husband? If I had to sit next to his wife at one more rubber chicken dinner and listen to her brag about her life.” She pictured the smug woman who drew her share of accountant-wife envy. “I’m so sorry. Go on.”

“An urgent message about an overdue deadline that he must have missed caught my attention. Knowing what was expected and having access to his accounts, I looked to see if he’d completed the work. I couldn’t find it. So, I looked through his other client files, hoping the report had been misfiled or that he’d given it some other name. Nada.

“Because I’d overheard him say this was a valued client, and I wanted to cover for him, I called his cell phone, but when he didn’t answer, I tried to find relevant data and do the report.

“It occurred to me that he might have passwords that he doesn’t share. So, I took a stab, and on the third try, found folders for various clients with names I didn’t recognize. But the file in question was there. I found what I thought were duplicate spreadsheets. You know, like when you do a second or third draft but don’t delete the predecessor just in case you need to revert?”

“Did you find something wrong?”

“Yeah. He’s helping the client cook the books.”

“But how did he do it?”

“I can’t explain it in lay terms. I didn’t want to dig into the accounts until later. It took me two evenings until three in the morning to figure it out. I tried to copy the files onto my cell phone, but they were too large. I made paper copies and hid them in my old suitcase under the bed.”

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“I’m so sorry. I know he’s your friend. Someone who helped orient you when you joined the firm. I’m just, well, stunned. So, what did you do when he returned? Did you confront him?”

He shook his head. “I gave him the message that he’d missed and told him I’d taken a stab at filing the report but couldn’t find the documents in the system, which was true. That if he was that far behind, perhaps I could stay late and help him catch up.”

“What did he say? Do you think he suspected you uncovered his crime? Were you able to keep a straight face? Was he?” She was glad he’d ignored her advice to put some animation in his bland expression.

“He waved it off. Days and then weeks passed. I told myself that I didn’t understand the situation or that it was none of my business. Last week we attended a continuing education seminar for maintaining the firm’s accreditation. The topic was professional ethics—the requirements to report wrongdoing and so on. Then an IT guy shared a little secret—that all accounts accessed through the mainframe or the staff ’s individual PCs are noted by name, date, and time. He warned us to act accordingly for the good of the firm.”

“Did someone scrutinize your history and demand an explanation?”

“No. But I asked Peter to help me understand what I had seen when I was trying to help him meet that missed obligation.”

Barrett paused, taking a sip of water. With maddening timing, the waiter appeared to take their order with endless options for every selection. Finally, he withdrew. Barrett lapsed into infuriating silence.

“Go on,” she prodded, making a circular motion with her hand and hating herself for being impatient.

“He took my inquiry with flat-out calm and told me ‘Not to worry about it.’ That I was ‘mistaken.’ That he had ‘everything under control.’ I persisted, to which he told me the business was complicated and the accounting was over my head. I didn’t have 9

By Rook or By Crook

a snappy answer and muttered, ‘Whatever.’ But it’s eating at me.”

The waiter materialized with the champagne, uncorking it with deliberate theatrics, and poured two flutes. January turned her attention back to Barrett, tipping her glass to clink his.

The waiter returned with a basket of hot bread, butter squares imprinted with the restaurant’s logo, shrimp cocktail, and fried calamari with two plates for sharing. She sighed, her nerves tight as banjo strings. Neither dug into the luscious-looking dishes.

“Eat a little something. It will help,” she prodded, guiding a shrimp toward his lips. He smiled, accepting it, then motioned your turn. As the champagne tickled her throat, she dismissed his earlier comment about leaving the firm as the hyperbole of an exhausted man. By the color rising in his usually pale face, she knew he was relaxing.

“So,” he picked up without any preamble, “I went to HR and asked her a general question without elaborating. She sent me to the partner who is responsible for my department. I gave him my executive summary, adding that I could be mistaken, but I had felt prompted by our seminar to speak up. And, in addition to what I might or might not have understood, I wanted to go on record that I had no involvement with this client or his accounts.”

The waiter appeared, and with the theatrics of a prima ballerina, cleared their appetizer plates and served their salads, giving great attention to condiment choice. He had no sooner turned his back when she demanded, “What did he say?”

“Something about proper channels and that he’d have a word with Nevin Novak, the managing partner. He thanked me for my diligence, honesty, and taking the firm’s reputation seriously.”

“So—what do you think’s going to happen? Is Peter in trouble?”

“I have no idea. But I’m thinking I’ll take another peek at his files.”

“Wait! Didn’t you just say that IT knows every keystroke you perform?”

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Nancy A. Hughes

“If I have to explain, I’ll remind them that I don’t have the latest software on my computer, so I used his to understand what I’d been failing to see. I’ll pull up one of my client files to make it look legitimate.”

“You couldn’t sound that dumb on your worst day.” She brightened. “Tell you what. If you get blamed, I’ll use my newly elevated professional compensation to hire the best HR lawyer.”

He laughed, but it sounded brittle. “And you’d be a prized catch for any accounting firm in Manhattan.”

11

2 January practically skipped through the lobby to the elevator, through the agency’s beveled glass doors, and grinned at the lovely young receptionist who guarded the agency’s creative secrets. “Congratulations,” the girl bubbled with a new aura of deference for her coworker, who couldn’t be more than four years her senior. That, January reflected, made six years of college worth every second.

Inside what the worker bees called the zoo, the plush gray carpet gave way to industrial flat-nap floors and an array of workstations at which a dozen professional artists and writers worked on state-of-the-art computers and printers. The interior walls of the cavernous space held award-winning posters, plaques, and diplomas while natural light filtered through tinted glass on the opposite wall. January scurried to her cubicle, eager to put her existing busy work to bed and tackle her magnificent new account.

No sooner had she settled than she spotted Jessica Gruber’s angry face reflected in her computer’s monitor. When she whipped around to learn what she’d done wrong, the senior designer’s frown had transformed into a saintly smile. January jumped to her feet, sending her task chair rolling sideways, barely missing the senior designer.

“I’ve startled you. I am so sorry,” Jessica apologized in her soothing alto. “Congratulations on saving our account. I’m 12

Nancy A. Hughes

anxious to hear your inspiration and kick around what you’ll need to proceed.”

“Thank you. I am so honored to be making a contribution to the agency. It’s my first big gig.” That sounded dumb, she realized, but nevertheless, she couldn’t stop herself from babbling more similar nonsense.

“Why don’t you join me for lunch upstairs? I’ll order deli.

What would you like? Salad? Soup? Sandwich? All of the above?

Beverages—we have the usual on hand in the breakroom.”

“Salad would be great.” January almost admitted to brownbagging but thought it best to let this senior professional run with her plan.

“Have you had a chance to make sketches? Jot some copy?

Think about media? Market coverage? Cost versus benefit? Staff commitment?”

“Right here,” January tapped her personal Mac on which, unable to sleep, she’d fleshed out the concepts she had envisioned while fresh from the client meeting. Job one would be to transfer the data to her office computer.

“We’ll need to get our IT gal to set up the files you’ll need for your campaign. We wouldn’t want to be stuck if you’re run over by a bus on the way home, now would we?” January pictured herself splattered on Madison Avenue and couldn’t help laughing. “How about one o’clock? Come to my office first.”

At twelve-fifty, January stopped in the restroom. Grow up!

Stop being so intimidated by female executives, she muttered to the worried face in the mirror, securing a strand that had escaped from the tortoise-shell barrette at her nape. Since kindergarten, she had always been more comfortable with boys. Having no siblings or playmates nearby, she knew she was supposed to make friends with the girls, but their hostile attitude intimidated her. And they already seemed to know each other and excluded

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By Rook or By Crook

her. So, she slid into an empty chair with the boys who made her welcome.

Back then, she prayed her classmates hadn’t seen her pictures in ladies’ magazines, advertising toothpaste and children’s fashions. When the girls had been nasty throughout public school, her mother insisted they were jealous of her beauty. She hadn’t cared—she longed for friends, but a lifelong pattern of being more comfortable with guys had been formed.

Emerging from the elevator, she circled the perimeter of Jessica’s office, which sported a breathtaking view of the city.

She idly wondered how long and how many award-winning campaigns would be required for her to earn such digs.

“Let’s grab a bite here, then join the others,” Jessica said, motioning January to a round table cattycorner from her desk with upholstered chairs where she had already assembled their lunch. “Didn’t know what dressing you’d prefer—there’s a little of everything,” she said of the splayed packets. The salad was delicious and the rolls still warm. January relaxed as Jessica made small talk, confessing a few of her most embarrassing stories from decades in advertising.

“Got your stuff?” Jessica asked, grabbing a tote bag to which she added a leather folio, a legal pad, a calendar, her phone, an iPad, and an assortment of pens and pencils rubber-banded together. She led the way to the conference room.

“January, I think you know everyone,” Jessica said, motioning her to a seat in the middle of the table. She recognized an artist, a writer, a marketing executive, their media expert, and a couple of others she couldn’t place. “Do you have enough elbow room for your presentation?”

January startled. Presentation? That she hadn’t been asked to prepare. Perhaps this was a trial run for the client meeting that would soon follow. She cleared her throat. “I wasn’t expecting to simulate a client presentation, but this will be good practice. And 14

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I’d welcome your critiquing my content or my personal style.”

She flipped open her Mac. “If I can commandeer that projector and screen, my ideas would be easier for you to see.”

The marketing guy hopped to it, made some connections, and in a remarkably short time, had her document icons ready to open. One by one, she clicked sketches that alternated with lists for their placement and use, from dancing in the aisles at a rock concert to hanging out on a wall with their buds, which could be a college, high school, prep school, wherever. “My favorite is an age-old theme—a very young couple, shyly holding hands, looking down, assuming the client is planning a guys’ line. If not, they should be. Judging by the clients, their image is new preppy, not ripped jeans.

“Now—I ran some numbers, which could vary greatly depending—” “On what?”

“If they want celebrity endorsement. May I have the lights, please?” Everyone stirred as the bulbs came to life. “Do you have any comments?” By the silence, January feared she’d missed the mark or said far too little. Then somebody clapped, and the others grinned.

“I can see why the clients liked your ideas and how you’ve fleshed it out since,” Jessica said. “Why don’t you continue finetuning your presentation?”

January turned to the marketing guy. “Can you take my list and research numbers for the client? We need a range since we don’t know what’s in their budget.”

“Will do.” He smiled at January with a thumbs up.

After everyone left, January asked Jessica about a timeline.

“Anything you need, short of picking up your dry cleaning, someone will help or refer you. Our team’s talent and experience run deep. Ask before you re-invent the wheel. If it’s your job, they’ll tell you, but our resources are at your disposal.”

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“Timeline?” January repeated.

“Before computers, the clients expected their work in a week.

Now, we’re lucky to hold them off for two days. Work quickly, but do not sacrifice quality for speed.”

16

3 For the next two days, January practically worked around the clock, either staying late or huddling at their kitchen table, fine tuning her client presentation. She would not get caught off guard again. Barrett seized the opportunity to find out what Peter Vaughn was up to and how badly he had compromised himself.

After work, he swung by January’s office with Italian entrees and salad, omitting wine but including tiramisu and fresh hot coffee. He didn’t lie—he’d told her he’d be returning to his office to research a complicated account. If she suspected what he was up to, she didn’t ask, and he didn’t volunteer.

He dawdled until nine when even the most stalwart accountants would have gone home, tax season or not. The lights had been dimmed. Fumbling the panel, he hit the button that illuminated his workstation. Nobody’s head popped up from a desk to question his intrusion on the sleepy department. He went to Peter’s cubicle that abutted his own and contemplated his options. Feeling slightly paranoid, he scanned the ceiling, but no red lights blinked back at him.

From a cheat sheet on his iPhone, he entered Peter’s password—one of Barrett’s old ones that he had shared—and had guessed correctly in October. And, once again, it opened Pandora’s Box. It didn’t take long to find the documents in question. He clicked and the first pair opened. He configured a split screen and, line by line, compared the entries. Bingo! He had 17

By Rook or By Crook

not been mistaken. Without taking time to analyze and compare them, he inserted a thumb drive, copied, and closed the file.

Next, he opened the second pair and after a quick comparison, added them to a drive. Fearing he might run out of memory, he used an extra thumb drive to copy the third pair. Who knew how much memory such spreadsheets could hog? He glanced around the tomb-quiet office, half expecting security to pounce, demanding explanations, and hauling him off to jail. He logged off, slipping the thumb drives into his jacket pocket and looking around for anything he might have dropped, even a tissue.

With paranoid caution, he pulled a Clorox wipe from a zipper baggie he’d brought from home to erase his prints and DNA from Peter’s keyboard, chair, surfaces, and screen. As he cleansed Peter’s workstation, his clumsy hands struck a flimsy plastic bowl of Peter’s flotsam and jetsam, sending it rolling onto the floor.

He sprang to his feet, rolling the task chair aside, and on hands and knees, patted the plastic carpet protector and scooped paper clips, logo items, change, keys, and a collection of old subway tokens back into the bowl. As he was returning the bowl to its position, he spotted more spillage behind the chair and bent to retrieve them. Suddenly, he heard the elevator ding! on a lower floor and a co-worker’s distinctive whistle.

Barrett panicked, scanning the floor for anything he’d missed.

He found several miscellaneous objects, probably client logo items, and shoved them into his suit jacket pocket as he bolted from the cubicle.

Knowing the elevator’s passenger might generate unwanted questions, he hit the light switch and opted for the stairs, only to nearly capsize a maintenance fellow making his rounds. “Mr. Barrett. Sir! I am so sorry. Did I hurt you? I thought everyone was gone. Is it okay if I clean your offices? Wouldn’t want to disturb anyone.” It tickled Barrett that he’d asked him to use his 18

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first name—professionals doing their respective jobs—but the guy had just added Mr. “Of course. And it’s my fault. You know how it is—tax season.

I can’t concentrate on complicated corporate returns when the phone is ringing off the hook. I can accomplish three times the work in the evening when everyone’s gone. Guess I lost track of time.”

“Well then—if it’s all right, can I do my work?”

“Of course. Sorry to have disrupted your schedule. And thanks for doing such a wonderful job. We appreciate everything you do. Have a good evening.” If the man noticed the smell of Clorox on Barrett, he didn’t comment.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Barrett stepped into a bracing wind that emphasized March was not through with him. He hugged his wool dress coat to his sparse frame and dug into his overcoat pocket for the alpaca cap January had given him for Christmas.

Why his barber had talked him into cropping his thatch of thick curly hair in the winter defied logic. Oh, well. January thought it was cool—an unfortunate contradiction.

By the time he got home, January was snuggled on the couch in fleece jammies and socks, huddled under her grandmother’s quilt. The apartment was cold, but per her instructions, lowering the thermostat at night saved a ton of money. Rather than disturb her, he closed himself in the bathroom. Balancing his old laptop that he never took to work on the minuscule vanity, he inserted the thumb drives, one at a time, saved, and ejected them. Exploring the contents could wait. The memory had cooperated and saved all the data. Excellent! In the privacy of their own apartment, he could analyze the content without prying eyes.

“Barrett? Are you home?”

He snapped shut the laptop and safeguarded the thumb drives in his toiletry kit that lived under the sink. “In here. Be right out.” He set the old laptop on the kitchen counter and went 19

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to his wife, scooping her warmth into his arms. “If I’d known you’d be home by now, I’d have jumped ship sooner.”

“Hmm,” she responded sleepily. Realizing she wasn’t truly awake, he gathered her one hundred pounds into his arms and carried her into their lair.

For hours, sleep eluded him as his overstimulated mind conjured possible scenarios that could cripple his career. The thumb drives—he needed a much better place to conceal them.

He slipped out of bed.

He retrieved them from his kit and tore off a length of dental floss, which he threaded through the tiny loop on each drive.

Verifying that January hadn’t stirred, he emptied the vanity’s contents onto the bathmat. Crouching, he scrutinized the round metal escutcheon that covered the gash against the wall where the water pipe drained. He retrieved a flashlight from a kitchen drawer and a tiny tub of putty with which he’d attached a backsplash tile that had kept falling off.

Back in the bathroom, he wiggled the escutcheon forward, painstakingly square-knotting the floss around the pipe, said a prayer, then eased and lowered the flash drives behind the wall. He could always make additional copies from his PC and store them in a safe deposit box, but for now, he’d bought time to think. Before pushing the escutcheon back against the wall, he squirted putty around its circumference and held it in place while it grabbed. He smiled. What if the landlord remodeled this bathroom? Took down the wall? Someone would find an inexplicable puzzle.

The following morning, Barrett rose at five, showered, made coffee, then opened the old laptop on their threadbare couch. He double-clicked the first pair of spreadsheets and, using the splitscreen function, scrutinized them with time he didn’t have the previous evening. And there it was.

Why, in heaven’s name, if Peter Vaughn was keeping duplicate books, did he enter them so carelessly on an office computer?

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Ah, Barrett thought. Had he kept them on the PC’s local drive without transferring them to the mainframe? He verified each scenario on the subsequent pairs. Could an IT staffer obliterate the evidence if he had saved it on the mainframe? If only he’d been more interested in technology instead of mastering just what he needed. He didn’t need to manipulate code anyway, not with the vast array of apps on store shelves. It was IT’s job to customize software for corporate use and materialize when people like him freaked out and whined for help.

His attention focused next on the clients’ identification. Were they the same people, different people from the same entity, or unrelated clients? They didn’t have names, only letters, numbers, and symbols, like expanded passwords. Hm. If he’d had the time, he could have searched Peter’s client files by names and account numbers, but that wasn’t relevant at the time.

He opened the first pair, selected the shortest one that appeared legitimate, then eyeballed every keystroke. There—on the bottom left was a tiny code. He wondered, if he searched the firm’s database, would that produce the owner’s ID? He’d check that as soon as he could, but for now, he jotted the code on the back of a grocery receipt. He searched the other two pairs, found their numbers, and grasped their sequential numbering.

He added them to the grocery receipt, put the receipts in their household expenses envelope, and saved them on his cellphone’s Notes app. Redundancy—maybe that should be his middle name—but safeguarding the felony clients’ identities appeared crucial.

If what he guessed was correct, he needed to report it, if only to distance himself from the crime. Peter—he owed it to his friend to speak to him again first. Maybe he’d either clear it up or confess, either way leaving Barrett off the hook. Regardless, he would not tell Peter what he had copied and stored. *** 21

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Peter Vaughn jumped when a ping on his private cell phone alerted him to his furtive client’s incoming message. He fumbled it from the depth of his briefcase, clicked the button, and swiveled his chair from Barrett’s cubicle, even though he knew his coworker had stepped away from his desk.

“Yes?” A familiar voice said, “Are they safe?”

“Yes. Of course. I guard your stuff with my life.”

“Fifth Avenue. Between West 42nd and 43rd. Three-thirty.

Don’t be late.”

Peter checked his computer screen, on which 3:00 stared back at him. His watch agreed to the second. Before he could respond that he couldn’t manage that timeframe, the caller disconnected.

Not seeing the objects in question among the tokens, he panicked and dug through the plastic bowl with trembling fingers. He hadn’t been instructed to bring the merchandise, and time was ticking. Tomorrow. He’d find them tomorrow. With an economy of motion, he threw essentials into his briefcase and grabbed his overcoat from the rack. With a quick check of his watch, he dashed past their administrative assistant.

Sun splashed the bleak pavement, the puddles from yesterday’s storm having dissipated. When cab after cab failed to stop, he jaywalked across the avenue to try for an uptown ride.

Another quick check of his watch told him he didn’t have time to walk, but he might make it if he ran northeast. On a crosstown street, an available cab nearly struck him. Frantically gesturing for him to stop, he got lucky and tumbled into the back seat.

“Park Avenue between 33rd and 34th. Fastest route. Keep the change.” He passed a twenty over the front seat, and the driver, grinning and nodding, began zigzagging through honking vehicles.

At his destination, Peter hopped out, scanning the limos and luxury vehicles parked illegally, beak to tail at curbside. Five 22

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minutes late. From nearby, a black-tinted window slid down, a gloved hand beckoning him to approach. He did, cautiously peering into the Mercedes.

“Get in.” Peter did. “We have some confidential business to discuss.” To the driver, he uttered, “Go,” and the driver eased into traffic.

“What’s happening? Where are we going?”

“He wants to meet with you. Personally. At his country estate.

Up north. You’ll be gone overnight. Call the wife. Let her know you’ve been called out of town on confidential company business.

The destination is private. Your bonus will include a vacation— for two. You’ll be home tomorrow. Now call her.”

Peter hated sharing his secrets with this low-life thug, but he didn’t have a choice. He could fake a phone call, but not with the big guy sitting so close. He would hear. “She’s not expecting me this evening. I’m staying in town. Tax season, you know.”

“Call sweetie, then. Break your date. Same message.” Peter pulled a burner phone from his pocket and dialed, relieved when she didn’t answer. He could just leave a message.

Peter assumed they’d be heading north but lost track of their route until they emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel and continued on 495 until they merged onto I-95 South. New Jersey or Pennsylvania? But where would a meeting keep him overnight?

They were going in the wrong direction. He wished he’d grabbed the go-bag he kept stashed at the office per the mayor’s directive post-9/11. He did have a toothbrush in his briefcase, but that was it.

As the south-flowing traffic proceeded without incident, Peter’s companion remained silent, emitting occasional grunts or nods as Peter attempted small talk. Peter felt his wariness verging on panic as the man would not expand upon their mission.

Finally, the man unclipped his seatbelt and swiveled halfway in his seat. “Who’d ya give it to?”

Peter startled. “‘It?’ I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

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By Rook or By Crook

The man smirked. “Don’t lie to me. You know our work is extremely sensitive. You were instructed to share your password with no one.”

“And I haven’t. I promise. As instructed, it’s written nowhere.”

Peter felt a stab of fear. No way he’d mess with these legitimate businessmen who had paid him handsomely beyond what they billed the company.

“Heard lately from them goons who were threatening you when you didn’t pay your debts?”

“Not a word. They stopped calling, leaving messages, ambushing me in the street, even threatening to hurt my family if I didn’t pay up. And the compounding interest! I am so grateful to your boss. And I promise, I’ll never go near a casino again.”

“Then you realize you needed to uphold your end of the bargain.”

Peter shuttered. “Absolutely!” It had seemed so easy to exchange the sophisticated businessman’s simple request for small favors that salvaged his life, especially knowing he’d been promised that a skilled insider was taking the risk. And as for hiding an occasional trinket in plain sight—which he guessed had blackmail value—it was clever of him.

“I swear. I shared the password with nobody. And said absolutely nothing about any of you or your businesses. Everyone knows that our clients’ work is confidential, so they wouldn’t pry anyway. All of your work will stand up to the most exhaustive audit.”

“You going to tell me you didn’t log on at 9:30 p.m. on Tuesday evening?” Peter struggled to think faster. Tuesday. Tuesday.

Where was he Tuesday night? Ah, yes—he was at E’s apartment.

“I worked late.”

“No, you did not. You were with what’s-her-name. Who did you give the password to? Who logged onto your computer files on Tuesday evening?”

Peter’s voice rose with his anger. “Ask your insider. Maybe he 24

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did it himself. I did not! Not! Give access to anybody, nor have I uttered one syllable about your other business. Not to anyone!

You got that? Now take me back to the city.”

“I need a name. Then I’ll take you back, and we’ll forget we had this conversation. All will be forgiven and forgotten.”

“Forgiven? I did nothing wrong. I’ve followed your instructions to the keystroke. And I can’t give you what I don’t have!”

The guy sighed. “All right. We’ll meet with the boss. Let him figure out how to deal with our security breach. In the meantime, tell me your coworkers’ names, especially those with whom you have a social relationship. Their job descriptions, their families, where they live…”

“I need to make a pit stop.”

The man caught the driver’s attention. “Pull off at the exit— there—at the gas station.” And to Peter, he said, “Leave your briefcase and phone—yeah, including the one in your pocket— I’ll watch your stuff.” The driver exited the vehicle beside the convenience store and lock-stepped with Peter to the men’s restroom. He didn’t use it himself until he’d returned Peter to the Mercedes.

Peter imagined the layout of his department, which had generous cubicles, Plexiglas windows mounted on pale gray half walls, flat-nap carpet, and a U-shaped workstation around an opening that gave the illusion of a door. He loved the space, its muffled acoustics with handy access to everything he needed without the typical clatter of cheaper offices. One by one, he mentioned the personnel who shared the generous department, most of whom were not CPAs. “Sorry. I don’t know all their names, especially the newcomers and part-time seasonal help. And I don’t socialize with any of them or know where they live. Most are married, are students, and commuters from Jersey, Connecticut, or other boroughs.

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After work, everyone splits. Nobody has time to hang out, especially during—” “Tax season. I know. You keep saying that. Now—is that everyone?” A tiny voice of conscience whispered not to give him Barrett’s name. He had used one of Barrett’s old passwords because it was simply awesome. And he’d never mentioned that to his friend. “Yes. I think so.”

“Think? You’d better be sure. Your life could depend on it.”

Peter nodded, and the man gave him a genuine smile.

Peter said, “Believe me. I would not cross the guys who saved me from the sharks. Try your IT guy—he has access to everything, or so we’ve been warned. And whoever else you’ve used that I don’t know about.”

The man slid open a compartment that revealed a minibar.

“Okay. I believe you. Now that we’ve eliminated your part of our problem let’s have a drink.”

“No thanks. I don’t drink.”

“Soda? Water?” Peter bobbed his head to the last option.

The man chose a mini-size bottle of Scotch for himself and selected for Peter an icy spring water, twisted, and discarded the cap. Peter was so thirsty, even though he’d gulped water from the washroom’s faucet to relieve his sandpaper-dry mouth. He sipped. A vast improvement. And it was just water. He drank until he had drained it. As the tires’ soothing lullaby of the highway melted the miles and his anxiety, Peter relaxed and started to doze.

“Ya bring it?” His captor yelled.

Peter revived. “Briefcase. False bottom. It’s safe,” he lied.

26

4 Barrett arrived at the office before eight, awakened his computer, and poured his Starbucks coffee into his insulated mug. And waited. To kill time productively, he tackled a client’s complicated return, forcing his mind to concentrate. He and Peter had a running gag about who would beat whom to the only chocolate-iced donut from the treat box supplied by the partners during tax season. Nine-fifteen. Where was that man?

Something felt wrong. Summoning a nonchalance he didn’t feel, he approached their administrative assistant. “Is Peter working off campus today?”

She looked up, puzzled, and riffled through a stack of pink phone messages, Post-it notes, and finally through the last twentyfour hours’ email notifications. “Nope. Nothing from Peter. He owe you money or something? Maybe he’s hiding under his desk or in the washroom. Otherwise, he should be here.”

“He was in yesterday….”

“Yeah, until midafternoon when he tore out of here. Didn’t say goodbye or let me know where he could be reached. That’s unusual for this time of year.”

“Did he reserve a conference room for a client appointment today?”

She scowled. “Now that you mention it, one of his clients spoke to the receptionist in the lobby. You know—she lets staff know when their appointments arrive, offering coffee or water 27

By Rook or By Crook

while they wait—sometimes directing them to the restroom.

Offers to hang up their coats. Let me call downstairs.”

“Would you please? It’s important that I speak to him.”

She nodded, holding up a finger while the line connected.

Momentarily she hung up.

“Seems he blew off the meeting. A senior partner met his client in the lobby, offered apologies for the miscommunication, promised to resolve the issue, and escorted the client to his private office to deal with the client’s tax issues.”

Barrett returned to his desk by way of Peter’s, glancing at the old-fashioned blotter-size calendar on which he scribbled notes before transcribing them onto his computer or phone app. Any extraneous notations were innocuous scribbles about personal appointments and after-hour meetings. Peter noticed a cryptic E and abbreviated destination, designating when and where he would meet his girlfriend. Nothing was referenced for the previous afternoon or today.

Feeling his anxiety escalate, Barrett decided to approach Peter’s situation head-on before he lost his nerve. He had been told by the HR director in October to approach his department’s partner with any concerns. And he’d chickened out. Now he begged for an appointment.

Before Barrett could begin the executive summary of his situation, the senior partner cut him off. “You are correct. At the risk of insulting your credentials, this matter is over your head.

When you’ve been here longer, you’ll understand we have reasons for what we do and how we do an occasional work-around. You’ll appreciate our ways—how things are accomplished in the real business world—beyond those textbooks you studied in school.

And what happens to those who don’t pursue and protect the best interests of the company.”

Barrett was stunned. He studied the man’s still face, his unblinking eyes that his grandmother would describe as the 28

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color of boiled gooseberries. The man not only knew all about it, but Barrett grasped that he condoned it! He was shocked that anyone could lie so casually. Be so unprofessional, and yes, overlook such criminality with a benign smile. It was beyond him. He’d heard rumors of trivial misdeeds—how things were done around here—like fudging billable hours—but not in a criminal context. Barrett swallowed hard but couldn’t help but ask a leading question. “What becomes of a client’s duplicate books? Won’t they be exposed by an audit? Won’t somebody go to jail?”

Nevin Novak glowered at him. “To continue in our hypothetical vein, let me make a clarification—changing data in the system is easy for someone who has access and the skill set long before an audit is triggered.”

Barrett blinked. “I’m sorry. I must have misunderstood what I was seeing.” The senior partner ignored him as if he hadn’t spoken.

“In case a junior accountant like yourself is feeling noble, let me tell you what happens to whistleblowers in succinct detail, should he pursue false accusations against a fictitious firm. The results would range—hypothetically again—from business to political to legal suicide. One’s accounting career would be over, one’s license revoked, and the company would sue and bury that person in money if he tried to mount a legal defense. They’d embarrass his family, go after his credit rating, file false police reports. Anything to divert attention from themselves.”

“I would never believe this accounting firm would conspire to commit such criminal acts. Not with our solid reputation, community image, and honorable associations at stake. Why, that’s absurd. I think I need to pursue advanced computer training to better understand the nuances of the new software if that can be arranged.”

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“An excellent idea. I’ll make the appointment for you myself.

And Barrett—while you’re taking advantage of everything this firm means to your career, remember what I said about the dangers of misunderstanding; that is, divulging whatever seems off and then running with it in the wrong direction. Our firm and our clients’ success are built on confidentiality, from the managing partner to the guy who sweeps your floor.”

Barrett remembered the janitor in the stairwell. He escaped, praying the idiot partner had bought his mea culpa.

When January got home at eight, Barrett popped a frozen pizza into the oven and uncorked her favorite chianti. As they munched, and with an overabundance of calm, he repeated, verbatim, the ugly revelation he’d had with Nevin Novak, adding as a footnote that Peter Vaughn was missing in action.

Finally, she spoke. “Go ahead. Screw ’em. Tell them where they can shove their job. I can support us while you look for a better situation.”

“I went back to my office and wrote up my resignation, thanking them for the previous five years, but I’m sitting on it until we sort our priorities. I can 1) stay the course pretending I know nothing, 2) expose them, 3) tell them I’ve decided to accept another opportunity, or 4) flee and start my own firm out of state. Period. I’m sorry, January, but by now, I’m afraid those bastards will have put the word on the jungle drums that I’m poison—Do Not Hire.”

She stroked his hand that lay on the table, which was trembling. “I’m serious. Leave. Punt. Take a few weeks to sort out your priorities. Contact those old friends who’ve been nagging you to jump ship and join their firms. Just play it cool.”

“I’ve got a call in to my best option. Let’s see what he says.”

She rose, picking up his suit jacket and draping it over her arm. “If you’ll give me your pants too, I’ll drop them at the

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cleaners.” She fingered the stuff in the jacket pocket, extracting his keys and spare change. “And they’ll mend the split seam in the pocket you’ve been complaining about, you poor neglected soul.”

31

5 January Lamont was the first one on the floor the next morning. Organized and energized, she had emailed the departmental heads in the order she needed to secure their resources depending upon their time and commitments. It was time to secure their buy-in. The art department and marketing groups came first, coordinating with the media group that placed their ads and dealt with their calendars, which she prayed would have enough flexibility to accommodate her client’s campaign.

She’d been warned that artists, like architects, procrastinated until the eleventh hour and then worked around the clock to meet deadlines. Could her nerves take it? Had to! She didn’t have the technical knowledge to turn pen and ink sketches into computer graphics and camera-ready art. She’d stop there first.

The art department, she learned, owned a world of its own, located in a nearby old building’s lowest level, not because they were the least important but because huge windows afforded excellent natural light. These geniuses knew, by name and number, how color translated from fabric to computer screens to magazine stock. In the end, the shades and gradations must appear identical, from medium to medium, whether the customers saw it in the store, on their laptop, or in a magazine’s photo array. It was part genius, part magic, and a whole lot of experience.

As she stepped into their lair with a huge box of donut holes, she was greeted with the familiar scent that she loved and always 32

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associated with the art world. Even though what she’d originally thought was paint turned out to be duplicator fluid. Nevertheless, it stirred her creative soul.

Dressed in ultra-casual favorites that ran the gamut of creativity, the artists gathered around an enormous work surface of reclaimed two-by-fours glued together to form an eight-footsquare surface that had been sanded and varnished to death. It was supported by an electric lift. Drops of colors January didn’t know existed testified to years of its productive life.

Hung on the wall were authentic samples of her client’s new clothing line, under which a sign blared, “Absolutely no photography permitted.” One by one, the artists laid each of January’s original sketches in the center of the table and dealt printouts of their suggested takes. They lowered the surface until someone called, “Stop!” At their urging, January circled the table, lost in absorbing the interpretation of each. All were so good that she couldn’t choose one over another.

One of the girls spoke up. “Look at the details. The facial expressions. The movement of the fabric. The lights and shadows.

The feel! Take your time.” January searched her memory for her earliest impression of the customer’s product and how she imagined them as artwork. She grinned, having made her choices for each of the three scenarios.

“I see different illustrations for different purposes. That one, over there, I can see in a thirty- then fifteen-second commercial.

It’s moving! The next one is moody. And how about the advertising slicks that the salesmen take to their prospects if they don’t have real samples?”

Her mind burbled with excitement as she envisioned the campaign to the vanishing point—filming commercials on locations; a fashion show; perhaps at benefit concerts; magazine spreads.

“January?”

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She snapped to. “Okay. Your turn. You’re the artists. Tell me honestly what you see in each illustration.”

By that time, the entire department had crept into the periphery. “We’re usually not asked. The account exec and the client says ‘this, that, not that, they’re all ugly, all that matters is the label, the red’s all wrong, and so on.’”

“Tell me!”

For the next thirty minutes, everyone gave their input, and decisions were made for her three scenarios. “What’s next?” the art director asked.

“Since I haven’t been given a deadline, I’ll take a leap of faith here and assume you’ve prepared for client presentations many times. Using our beautiful choices, can you proceed with illustrations I can set on easels for my client meeting? How’s your workload? I hate to say hurry if there’s no rush.”

He laughed. “We work best under pressure. And, for your ears only, and in strictest confidence, business has been a bit slow. We’re excited to have this important project.”

“It’s my first big account. Make me look good, and I’ll be forever grateful.”

By the time January had reached the marketing department, its head had assembled his expectations for the lead time needed for each of her target audiences. He said, “Envisioning the campaign was the easiest part; scheduling and paying for its execution ranges wildly, depending upon the client’s timeframe and budget. Next meeting, you must pin them down to which exposure is most important to them. Has he given you a budget to work with?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t included in that discussion.”

“I have figures for certain variables—such as if the client insists on a specific celebrity endorsement versus a top-tier model or will settle for unknown pretty faces. How much of the budget is the client willing to burn on commercials—regional 34

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and cable TV on one end or a Super Bowl launch on the other?

Or somewhere in the middle?”

“Do we have some return-on-investment statistics based on market saturation?”

“Probably, but that varies widely from product to product, campaign to campaign. But don’t get ahead of yourself. If your client has already decided where he wants his product promoted, then the rest is preparation and coordinating with those entities.

Hey, kid—don’t look so worried. Your concept is great, and so is their product. When that combination generates all the excitement and sales that it should, your client will be loyal for the duration.”

“Thank you so very much!”

He handed her the bundle of papers from which he’d quoted prices by categories that she would digest immediately. “Let me know what your client decides, and we’ll separate the déjeuner from the debris.” *** By eleven that morning, January was back at her desk reviewing and updating her notes. If only she knew when the next client meeting would be held and could unearth any notes from the prior meeting the marketing director had mentioned.

That might involve budgeting. She was loath to recommend promotions with costs that showed her lack of knowledge about promoting the clothing industry.

Her stomach grumbled, signaling her to check the time.

Eleven-thirty already! Her breakfast at six had been a quick cup of coffee and dry toast. Realizing her coworkers did not eat at their desks, she decided to check out the lunchroom machines.

Sometimes boxes of pastries labeled help yourself remained from late-morning meetings. Ah, healthy choices. Sliding bills into the 35

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machine, she watched a carton of Greek yogurt tumble from its berth.

She dispatched her snack and munched a McIntosh apple she’d brought from home. As she was leaving the lunchroom, Jessica Gruber intercepted her en route to the elevator. “Ah, there you are,” the senior associate said. “I must have just missed you at your desk. I have an important mission for you. Got a minute?”

“I do,” January said. “Your place or mine?”

“Yours, since you’ll need to grab your coat. I have a meeting for you to cover with a valued client. It won’t take but a couple of hours but will bring a ton of excellent PR for the firm.”

Together they rode the elevator while Jessica explained.

“Every year, we coordinate with a large insurance company to donate professional time to promote the Special Olympics. This year we’re sponsoring different events where our clients’ work is being promoted. We’ll receive the contact person’s information to write a fill-in-the-blanks press alert. Each event’s chair can then solicit media coverage. It’s a great cause, but you’d be surprised how frightened these nonprofits are about begging favors from the press.”

January smiled, remembering similar events from her college days in central Pennsylvania. “It would be my pleasure.”

“I hate to squeeze this into your demanding schedule, but the media expert at the insurance company has arranged a meeting with a representative of Special Olympics at her office at one o’clock this afternoon. It’s an easy ride on the C train that you can catch a half block from here.”

“I know it well—that’s how I get to work. The good ol’ C train connects everywhere.”

Jessica rattled off the directions, including the insurance company’s name and address. “If you think you can handle this, that would be great.”

“All the prep work has been done for our next meeting with Richard Reuben and Marvin Gold—the artwork, the marketing 36

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options—in case your proverbial bus runs over me. By the way, I’d appreciate having the minutes of previous meetings, especially pertaining to budgets.”

Jessica said, “Sure. And thank you.” She grinned as she hurried to the elevator.

With another twenty minutes gone, January grabbed her coat and briefcase and shot out the front door toward the subway. After a twenty-minute ride on the local, she emerged into a threatening gray afternoon and scanned the skyscrapers for her destination. The street names were correct, but nothing resembled the insurance company’s tall silver building. She checked Jessica’s instructions that she’d tapped into her iPhone.

This should have been right.

On a hunch, she Googled the insurance giant’s name and was appalled to find she was off by at least twenty blocks. Should she grab a cab? Without checking, she knew she didn’t have enough cash and didn’t trust using a credit card. She dove back into the subway, endeavoring to correct the error cheaply and expeditiously.

By the time she exited the subway and caught a cross-town bus, the sky was spitting tiny balls of sleet. If only she’d brought her umbrella. With the sleek silver building coming into view, she hopped from her seat and was first out the door. Her leathersoled heels were a poor choice for navigating the pavement that was threatening to become slippery.

Her heart settled as she luxuriated in the warmth of the corporate lobby and approached the receptionist. “I have a meeting with a representative of the Special Olympics?” The girl frowned slightly but picked up the phone and announced her by name and her agency’s title.

“Take the elevator to twenty. Someone will direct you.”

The ride was so fast that her ears popped. She grabbed the handrail and swallowed hard. The door swooshed open, revealing an elegant suite where the executives must conduct business with 37

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their most prestigious clients. A receptionist rose to greet her and personally escorted her to a private office. The insurance executive, who also stood to greet her, motioned her to a visitor’s chair as if she were the most important client in her portfolio.

“We do so appreciate your agency partnering with us for this project. ‘Willing hands make easy tasks’ as my grandmother used to say. You do know—” and she winked—“that they’ll also want a significant monetary contribution, but corporate contributions committees are used to accommodating that.”

January warmed to the lovely woman, betting her clientretention ratio would be excellent. “Jessica Gruber was enthusiastic about my getting involved with projects on behalf of the community. I’m anxious to meet the Special Olympics representative. I had asked Jessica why the list couldn’t be faxed or emailed to me from which I could make personal calls, but Jessica insisted that our nonprofit clients be given the same redcarpet treatment as our largest commercial ones.”

“Thank you for going the extra distance on such a sloppy day. Why don’t you give me your card and contact information so we’ll have it next year when we need to make calls. She’ll be delighted to meet you. Our nonprofits joke that they have a special salve for their knees for the begging they do for funds, loaned executives, and volunteer help. From the Y to the shelters to the Red Cross, Americans are so unselfish and willing to help.

But it takes money too.”

Her host rose and extended her hand. “It was delightful to meet you. Thanks again for making the effort. Why don’t we touch bases next year before it’s time to launch the new season?”

“I’m sorry. I’m a little confused. I thought I’d be meeting their representative today to receive the list of Special Olympic coordinators to customize their individual media releases. I hope I wasn’t too late. My transit connections weren’t accurate.”

“Oh. That meeting was two months ago. Jessica Gruber had a staffer make the calls and produce the individual releases. So— 38

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you’re off the hook for another ten months.” She put her business card in January’s shaky hand. “Maybe we can have lunch in the meantime—shrink the size of this city, one friend at a time.”

January auto piloted her way back to the agency. Three o’clock. A day shot for nothing. Oh, well. Maybe Jessica had been confused but on this scale? She tried not to feel suspicious.

By the time January re-entered her building, droplets of sleet had melted on her shoulders and hair. She ducked into the lobby restroom to grab paper towels, blot her hair, and wipe her new leather shoes. She shook water from her coat into the sink.

As she emerged from the elevator and waved to their receptionist, the girl scowled, flicking a glance at her watch.

“Your meeting’s over?”

“Yeah, I just got back from a meeting about the Special Olympics which didn’t happen. The dates were screwed up. A real waste of time.”

“No. The big meeting with your designer client.” She pointed toward the ceiling, meaning upstairs.

“You’re mistaken. My meeting hasn’t been scheduled yet.”

“Oh. Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. Let’s have a peek.”

She tapped a few keys. “Hey, you’re right. Your name isn’t on the invitation memo. Look.” January scanned the list, which, to her surprise, designated Jessica Gruber’s name as the account executive who had reserved the boardroom.

39

6 Disbelief flooded January’s brain. “Would you please print me a copy of that memo?”

“Sure—if you don’t mind waiting. The printer’s down for the count. I’ll have to email it upstairs and run to get it.”

“Yes. Please do that. ASAP.” January rode the elevator to the boardroom floor and strode angrily toward the imposing room. To her shock and amazement, her finished artwork in poster-size glossy prints was arrayed on easels around the room. Water pitchers dripped condensation onto coasters with coffee and tea jugs spaced haphazardly nearempty cups and glasses. In the corner, remnants of sandwiches and cookies remained on a rolling cart.

Bruce, one of the principals who had attended the meeting when January had so impressed the client, strode toward her, blocking the door. Angry did not describe his red face and clenched fists. “So,” he bellowed. “You thought you’d take a threehour lunch and blow off this important client meeting? It’s a good thing Jessica could step up to the plate.” He turned to stomp off, her in pursuit.

“Now, wait just a minute! I knew nothing about this meeting!

I was not only not informed of it, but Jessica Gruber sent me on a wild goose chase with scrambled directions to participate in a meeting about Special Olympics that had actually taken place two months ago.”

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She thumbed over her shoulder toward the boardroom.

“That’s my artwork which I’d left in the art department’s capable hands to finish with no idea of when a client meeting would be scheduled. And those papers on the table with the numbers— that’s my work with the marketing department. Here—I can show you.” She reached for her iPhone.

The man’s ugly expression did not lighten. “Jessica told me that she told you—twice—with an additional reminder this morning. And that you’d said you’d try to attend. Try!” “She’s flat-out lying. She said nothing to me. And I just checked—the memo reserving this room clearly lists her as the account executive who reserved the room, complete with all personnel needed to attend. My name is not on that list! Go see for yourself.”

Staff, intrigued by the drama, crept from their desks, making excuses to circle the area at a safe distance to watch the bloodletting. “You’re trying to tell me our best senior project manager with decades of experience is lying?” he screamed.

“Yes! And I have no idea why. Maybe she’s nursing a grudge from that first meeting when the client chose me as his account executive.”

“Since you’re so adamant, I should tell you that she’s dissatisfied with your ability to interface with staff. I’m not surprised. Didn’t you think it was strange that you landed such a cushy job at a prestigious agency right out of grad school? That was because your Professor Gibbs was a fraternity brother of our founding partner.”

January was seething. “I suppose my straight As, class rank, awards, leadership, community service, and Phi Beta Kappa key had nothing to do with it? I had other offers—I preferred this.”

She swept a glance, askance, at employees who skulked from the scene.

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At that precise moment, Jessica appeared. “Well. It’s about time you showed up. Fortunately, we managed just fine without you, didn’t we, Bruce?”

“You set me up. But why? If you wanted to do the presentation that badly, you didn’t have to sink to subterfuge. I would have let you explain my campaign to my client.”

“Let? Let?” “Now, just one moment, young lady,” Bruce barked. No one on the floor—perhaps the entire building—could have missed his baritone bark. “This was not your campaign. This was not your client. Both belong to the agency. You’re just an inexperienced cog in our well-established machinery.”

He glowered at her, shoving her out of his way, which, given the great disparity in their sizes, caused her to stumble backward, cracking her arm on a metal shelf so violently that January feared it was broken. Pain shot from her fingers to her shoulder. A coworker scrambled to help her. Bruce stormed away as January straightened her clothes and her dignity, angling to face Jessica.

“I suppose you’re going to say, ‘Oops. Wrong date for the Special Olympics?’ What you did was totally unprofessional.

How could you!” She stalked toward the elevator, cradling her arm, but took the stairs to the receptionist’s desk instead. As she poked her head through the fire doors, she saw Bruce turn from the receptionist and enter the elevator. He didn’t see her.

“Were you able to print that memo for me?” January asked.

The girl turned to the screen and swiveled it for January to see. “This one?”

To her dismay, someone had entered her name in both places.

“What did you do? And who told you to alter the document?”

“Hey,” the girl said angrily. “I am not going to get involved in petty office politics.”

“But if you were asked to testify in court during a lawsuit, would you lie under oath? Perjury is a felony for which you could do hard time.”

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“I’ve already forgotten everything I saw. Now go away, or I’ll call security.”

Still clutching her coat and unable to shrug into it through her throbbing arm, January hustled outside and headed to the building that housed the art department. One of those guys would have the original memo. But when she arrived, a security guard was blocking the door. “Hi. I’m with the agency. I left my scarf here this morning.”

“Sorry. No admittance, per executive orders.”

What had she done prior to losing her temper today? She wracked her memory from her first day on the job and came up with nothing. As she entered her building, another security guard met her and insisted on escorting her to her desk. The floor was quiet; everyone hunkered down. Nobody looked up.

Handing her a cardboard box, she was instructed to pack her personal possessions.

She glowered at the rent-a-cop and the carton. “I can’t carry that with this arm.” She loaded her prized possessions into her roomy briefcase: Barrett’s and her parents’ photos, a Cross pen, and some personal stationery. From the bottom drawer, she rescued her folding umbrella, wiggled into her old Nikes without untying them, and stowed her damp pumps. She examined the belly drawer and file folders, salvaging personal files. When the guard crooked his finger to let him check the contents, she impaled him with such a threatening look that he backed off.

As she started to slide her Mac into the briefcase, he stopped her. “Leave it.”

“It’s my personal property.”

“I said leave it, or I’ll have you arrested for stealing the agency’s property.”

Not knowing if that was remotely correct, but not willing to risk it, with head erect, she stalked from the floor. As she passed the receptionist, she approached the red-eyed girl. “You!” “I’m alone. I have a baby to feed. I need this job.”

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“That, young lady, is a pact with the devil. My only question is what they’ll do to you once they figure out you have leverage against them. Maybe I’ll include your name in my lawsuit.”

She pulled her phone from her pocket and, one-handed, photographed her nameplate, mostly for effect, before heading outside. She did not wait to see the girl’s reaction. *** On autopilot, she trudged north on Madison Avenue, willing herself not to cry. The entire day was too shocking to absorb.

And she needed a drink. Through a misty drizzle, she spotted an Irish pub on a cross street. A beer and bar food might make her feel better. Unable to manage her umbrella and her briefcase with one hand, she endured the rain and turned toward the pub.

“Ms. Lamont! January! Hey! Wait up!”

Peering toward the voice, January spotted the designer, Richard Reuben, from whose meeting she had been excluded.

He hustled to close the distance, panting. She blinked back tears as he braked beside her.

“I must have just missed you,” the designer said, struggling to catch his breath. “Expected you at the meeting instead of that old bat in the red suit. She said you were gone. No explanation.” He took a cleansing breath, then resumed. “That sounded off. When I pressed, she said that you weren’t coming back. That she’d be happy to give me her best blah, blah, blah. When I cornered that rent-a-cop at the door, he said you no longer worked there. What the hell happened?”

January tried unsuccessfully to sound professional but couldn’t concoct a plausible lie that would work. “They fired me.”

“Because?” When she wouldn’t respond, he touched her arm to coax her attention. She yelped, causing wet pigeons to take flight. “My god! What’s wrong?”

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“My arm. I think it’s broken. I can’t explain…I shouldn’t… it’s so unprofessional…” With a useless right arm and juggling her possessions, she couldn’t wipe at tears that coursed down her face. She pivoted, trying to swipe her cheek against her shoulder.

“Come on, Ms. Fellow Penn Stater. We need a beer. Maybe two. And I want, make that need, to know what happened. I’m not giving up on your talent. You are exactly what Marvin and I need. Here. Gimme your stuff. Let me pretend I’m a gentleman.”

Richard shouldered the Irish pub’s heavy, beveled glass door.

Inside, its inviting warmth and beery smell mingled with hot grease, the perfect antidote for everyone’s TGIF. He directed her to a booth along the wall. “Sit. Stay put. I’ll be right back.” Settled with her gear stowed, he strode toward the bar.

January’s thoughts flickered to Barrett—what on earth would she tell him? Their situation had just gone from bad to worse. Her new friend returned with two glasses of ale, a heaping mound of fries, and a bottle of ketchup. “Eat. Drink. And tell me what the hell happened. I will repeat nothing you tell me without your permission. Deal?”

Succinctly she unspooled the day while they sipped, feeling every bit like a foolish schoolgirl. “I was not invited. In fact, I was deliberately sent on a protracted mission, so I’d be unaware it was happening. And when I found out, I pitched a fit. And accused that bitch of setting me up to usurp your campaign. And that partner Bruce fired me. In the altercation that followed, he shoved me.” She nodded to her arm.

“Three things. You better ice that. And go to the ER today for an X-ray. You don’t want it to start healing wrong and necessitating re-breaking to set it.” She shuddered. “And find a damn good HR attorney.”

Without preamble or coaxing, he relayed the meeting’s high points. “You’ve created a campaign that meshes exactly with what Marvin and I envisioned; the theme and the drawings are perfect.”

45

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“Do you have copies of the presentation?”

“I do.” He set his computer on the booth’s tabletop, angling the lid against the wall, and scrolled to photos she’d seen arrayed on the easels. He summarized the spoken highlights.

She smiled at the images. “Your designs are outstanding.

From them, the art department turned my sketches into options from which I made my selections. Here.” She opened her iPhone and showed him forty-some versions the artists had created, including the sign that read, Absolutely no photography permitted.

He laughed. She added, “I don’t know the legalities about who owns the artwork now. Do you?”

“It won’t be worth a damn to them when I fire the agency.”

“You’re planning to do that?”

“Your firm wasn’t my first choice until I met you at that first meeting and learned our education had shared philosophy, courtesy of good old Professor Gibbs. And your impromptu tagline! You were exactly what we needed. A deal won’t be finalized until we approve the campaign, run the numbers, and our legal guys vet the contracts.”

“I just wish I had that memo. Security wouldn’t let me back into the artists’ building.”

“Call them. Ask them to forward it to you.” She nodded, scrolling to their saved number, but found she was blocked.

“Let me,” he said, dialing. Someone summoned the head artist to the phone, and Richard clicked Speaker. Of course, they’d met at the meeting when the designer had lavished praise on the artists, who were equally impressed and anxious to please a celebrity who could have a long-lasting impact on their careers.

“Two things. I need a favor—do you still have the email about the meeting? The one that mentions who should attend?”

“Just a minute.” Keystrokes could be heard in the background.

“Is January’s name included?”

“Yes. On the first one, but not on the second, which was overwritten—let me calculate— much later.”

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“Can you forward both to me? I’ll give you the address.

Unless, of course, that compromises you in any way.”

“I can send both to my personal phone, then forward them to you. I’m doing it—right—now! The birds have flown.”

“Second—I love your work. Give me your personal contact information, and we’ll work together in the future.” Ping! Ping!

He turned to January. “And now I’m forwarding the emails to you.”

“I’m sorry to have put you in the middle of a mess,” January said.

“Not at all. You’ve saved me from dealing with duplicitous people. And Jessica?—in her power suit and god-awful makeup?”

He snorted.

“How’d she do with the presentation? I’ve never seen her in action.”

“What’s to do? You did all the work for which she gave you no credit.” He scowled at January’s grimacing. “That arm’s gotta hurt like hell. I’m going to give you a lift home.” He packed his laptop and motioned gimme for her to relinquish her stuff.

Draping her coat around her shoulders, he managed the doors.

A cab skidded to a stop on the slick pavement in response to his uplifted briefcase. “Who says cabs dissolve in the rain?” He bundled her inside.

In her tiny apartment, Richard ordered her to sit while he rummaged for a zipper sandwich bag and filled it with ice. From the stove’s handle, he snagged a tea towel and followed her to the couch. “Let’s have a look,” he said, angling a pillow to brace her arm. “Yikes! That’s going to leave one nasty bruise. I hope it’s not broken. No bones sticking out.” Gently he iced her wound through the tea towel lest he add frostbite to the injury.

The apartment door opened, as did Barrett’s mouth, shocked by the sight of a handsome stranger cradling his wife’s hand. “This is exactly what it looks like,” Richard quipped, easing to his feet.

“I’m Richard Reuben, designer, artist, impromptu paramedic, 47

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and extreme fan of your talented wife, as is my business and life partner, Marvin.”

January willed herself not to cry, but all this niceness threatened to break her. While Richard hunted tissues from the bathroom dispenser, January sobbed her horrible experience to Barrett.

48

7 Barrett clicked on lamps to frustrate the gathering gloom.

“You sit. Keep that arm propped, and I’ll run to the Amish market. I haven’t eaten all day, so you must be starved too. What sounds good?”

“Whatever you choose for yourself times two. And thanks.”

He smiled. “Then I’ll surprise you. Back in fifteen.”

What wouldn’t she pay for a reset button? Maybe she’d notice and avoid the snares, quelling her colossal ego, for starters. She eyed her rumpled clothes, which made her laugh at their old joke when he did something dangerous, scolding him that she wasn’t dressed for the ER. Changing her clothes would involve too many motions with her broken wing.

Heavenly scents preceded Barrett, triumphant from hunting and gathering. She peered into the bags. “I know what’s not in the fridge, so I thought I’d bring plenty for leftovers.”

January accepted a plate piled high with scrumptious morsels that did not need cutting. Periodically, she winced.

“After we eat, we’re going straight to the ER.” He didn’t mention that she might need surgery to treat a complicated break. “I’ll repurpose our go-bags with snacks, entertainment, and our legal documents. We don’t want to die of boredom.”

The Lamonts arrived at a quiet ER and anticipated speedy treatment. But the scene erupted into anguishing chaos when a multi-car wreck and gunshot victims arrived. January’s non-life49

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threatening injury was demoted. Hours ticked by as they waited with no recourse but to be patient or go home.

January’s cell phone chimed, revealing a familiar number from her former employer. She answered. The smooth alto stunned her. Jessica! “What do you want? Haven’t you caused enough damage?” January snarled.

“I’m so terribly sorry about our misunderstanding. I honestly did look at the wrong month on my calendar and thought it best to cover for you. I had no idea that my mistake would grow legs and cause repercussions.”

“Jessica, would you like me to replay every nasty word that you said before Bruce assaulted me? No? I didn’t think so. Why are you calling? And what do you want?”

“Assault? Well, I’d hardly call a little stumble assault.”

“Tell that to the orthopedic surgeon who will be treating my broken bones.”

Silence.

“I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Just why are you calling?”

“I was hoping that you’d forgive us and approach Richard Reuben and Marvin Gold on our behalf. Of course, you’re their account executive, and Bruce will authorize substantial compensation, including damages that resulted from your spill.”

“Spill? He decked me! And I notice he’s not calling me himself to apologize. Why is that?”

“Um—he asked me to call since we have a relationship.”

January’s anger hit a boil. “You can tell Bruce he’ll be hearing from my attorney first thing in the morning. And I’m blocking all agency numbers.” With that, she hit End, the phone slipping from her shaking fingers. ***

50

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A skinny black-clad figure hid behind a dumpster in the recessed alley of an abandoned mid-century manufacturing plant. From here, he had a clear view of the Lamonts’ onebedroom apartment in a block scheduled for demolition. Why these yuppies didn’t take public transportation from other boroughs was beyond him. He couldn’t live in this squalor for a Manhattan address. He rechecked the Lamonts’ apartment number. This was it.

He watched. And waited, ever alert to his surroundings for uninvited guests. A rat peered at him as if demanding an explanation for his intrusion. Before the rat could utter one squeak, the man crushed its skull with one stomp of his boot.

He touched the bulge of his concealed weapon—a bad habit that he should break. He turned his attention across the dark street. The couple had grabbed a cab, the man barking their destination to the closest hospital with a trauma center. By the cloak around her shoulders and the way she cradled her arm, he guessed they would not return any time soon. He’d have all the time that he needed. The old neighborhood of shuttered businesses was shrouded in shadows. He’d be in and out in ten minutes. *** “You’re lucky,” the orthopedist on duty said, studying January’s X-rays. “One inch closer to your hand and your wrist could have snapped from your radius and ulna. That would have required major surgery with metal pins if you hoped to regain full range of motion.”

“I don’t feel lucky. Will the bones knit well enough for me to draw and type? If I can’t use my hand, my career is over.”

The orthopedist’s smile was benign. “It’s a clean, uncomplicated break. We’ll immobilize it this evening and cast it as soon as the swelling goes down. Then, if you don’t use your 51

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forearm as a weapon, it should heal nicely. We’ll also provide you with dietary instructions to support the healing process.”

“Can you fax copies of everything to me suitable for the attorney I hire?”

“Sure. Just leave your contact information at the nurse’s station.”

January and Barrett exchanged knowing thoughts—what attorney? They must hire one. And fast. *** January tried not to think about how much two cab fares had skewered their budget as they flirted with unemployment. She watched Barrett make the motion that broke her heart. Even as grad students on miniscule stipends, he insisted on paying her way. It was that motion of pulling his wallet from his right hip pocket that filled her with a mixture of love and guilt. That oldfashioned good guy—she’d let him down.

Barrett looked up as January approached, her arm stabilized with wads of wrapping, her coat draped over the other arm.

He adjusted her shawl. “I’ll get a cab,” he said, jerking his head toward the entrance where a trio of yellow vehicles hovered, beak to tail. “Does it hurt very badly?”

“They gave me some pills to take if I need them, but I told them I’d rather have a stiff drink, to which they spouted the obligatory warnings. He was so serious I had to laugh.”

As the cab braked at their curb and Barrett was paying the fare, January stepped onto the cracked sidewalk, her attention drawn to their lone front window. “Barrett? Didn’t we light a lamp in the window?”

“Yeah. When we got home—I left it on when we left for the hospital. Maybe the bulb has burned out. We should have a spare. Wait here.” He unlocked the door while she waited on the 52

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stoop. “You don’t need to trip and break something else. I’ll get the kitchen light.”

A shaft from the overhead fixture shot a swath across the living room floor. “What the hell!” Barrett yelled as January stumbled into the apartment.

“Aaaah!” January gaped at the snow globe effect. The contents of every drawer and cabinet were dumped on the floor. Bolting for the bedroom, January wailed at the sight of emptied lingerie drawers. Even the paper affixed to their bottoms had been ripped from their moorings. The drawers lay upside down on the floor.

“My laptop’s gone!” Barrett yelled from the kitchen. “I left it right here on the counter.” He stabbed 911 on his cellphone, but having second thoughts, disconnected. He rummaged through pots and pans, cleaning products, and tea towels until he found a flashlight. The bulb had survived.

Surfacing a paring knife, he strode into the bathroom and picked his way through the rubble that lay heaped on the rug. He slid the pile out of his way. Kneeling, he slit the putty that sealed the escutcheon to the wall and eased it loose. He couldn’t help grinning.

“What?” January exclaimed at her addled husband’s crouched body.

“They didn’t find it,” he said, gingerly easing the dental floss and thumb drives from their hiding place, gleefully brandishing them for January to see. “The evidence! First thing tomorrow, it goes into an attorney’s safe.”

“But—didn’t you copy what you found onto your laptop?

And that’s missing. Won’t they know what you learned?”

“Babe, my paranoia saved me—I deleted it from my hard drive.” He dialed 911.

53

8 Barrett was not a good actor, nor could he lie convincingly.

He felt sure klieg lights would have been installed over his cubicle with the corporate version of Big Brother recording his every move and keystroke. That Saturday morning, Barrett chose to avoid the firm and focus on his mission to make a lateral move. It was, after all, tax season when the odds of finding an available CPA were less likely than winning Powerball. He’d be in demand, especially since it was easier to change jobs while one was employed.

The previous evening, the cops had arrived, appearing bored by their little break-in when they didn’t find evidence of a major crime. One jotted a few notes in a spiral notepad and then left.

Together, the victims reassembled their meager possessions and restored a semblance of order.

Rather than put out feelers in a scattergun approach, Barrett approached a close friend from graduate school who had often tried to coax him to jump ship. He glanced at his watch—ten o’clock. January was enjoying her omelet while coaxing him to finish his brunch. “Stop pacing and just do it,” she admonished.

He sighed and dialed his friend’s number, who picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Barrett, I was just going to call you. Heard something on the jungle drums that I thought you should know.”

“If it’s a tantalizing job offer, I’m all ears. I’m thinking about making a change.” Barrett perceived that his friend’s pause was entirely too long. “Hello? You still there?”

“Um—yeah. Something freaky is going down at your shop.

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might be getting a call about you joining us and that we should pass. I have no idea what that was about.”

Barrett was stunned, not at all what he had expected. “Can you find out? Ask discreet questions? If somebody’s badmouthing me, I need to get on top of it.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But in the meantime, rattle your other connections and see what they know. But be careful! Don’t arouse suspicion. You don’t want anyone to think that an indictment is imminent or that it—whatever it is, has any credence.”

“Can we meet outside the office or our homes? Out of camera or listening range? I’d like to bounce the situation off you.”

Another long pause. “Let me put out some feelers first.”

“All right. Good idea.” Barrett frowned. “Should we buy a pair of burners?” He’d been joking and thus was surprised by his long-time friend’s reaction.

“Might not be a bad idea, depending.” His friend said goodbye and disconnected abruptly.

“What the hell…” Barrett murmured to himself.

“Is the firm poisoning your reputation? Can we get a two-forone deal with a lawyer?”

“Are you thinking of suing the agency to get your job back?”

“If I do, I’ll never work in advertising again in this town. My plan is to print out those two memos, photocopy and redact the identifiers, and have a lawyer demand a severance package to avoid a lawsuit. Don’t forget that Bruce guy assaulted me in front of witnesses. I’m not one to go quietly into that dark night.”

Barrett couldn’t help smiling at the image of Bruce—all sixfive, three hundred pounds of blubber to his bride at five-two, one hundred ten pounds, if that, sopping wet. “I can picture the cartoon on the editorial page, across from that agency’s bankruptcy story.”

She shook her head. “There are lots of good-hearted, talented people who don’t deserve to be caught up in this melodrama, all because of one jealous witch. Let’s try for $100,000 plus the return 55

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of my retirement investment, company stock, signing bonus, and percentage of promised bonuses. Two hundred sounds better.

Make that two-fifty. The lawyer’s gotta eat and may have a better approach. But Barrett, if we’re being driven from both our jobs, we need get-out-of-Dodge money.”

“Hon, we’re not destitute. We’re ultra-conservative by today’s standards. We don’t run up credit card debt. Don’t have a mortgage and couldn’t afford a car in Manhattan. And we socked away six-month’ emergency fund.”

“But that was just-in-case money. Like another terrorist attack.

Injury or illness not covered by insurance. A real emergency, not a substitute for our salaries. I suppose we could cash in the investments I made with the residual from my parents’ estate.”

Barrett shook his head. “Liquidating long-term investments would trigger huge tax and early-withdrawal penalties. And in this down market, you’d take a loss besides having to pay capital gains. Stick to the plan. Forget that money exists.”

“But what if…”

“Isn’t that why you married an accountant? Let it play out.

We’ll be fine.”

“Guess it could be a whole lot worse.” She thought of her grandmother’s philosophy: “Fat sorrow was better than lean sorrow.” She’d ramble on about war widows and orphans, famine, and natural disasters. Poor starving children and on and on.

Her attitude, January reflected, wasn’t about feeling luckier than others, but the basis for her charitable work, even though, as immigrants, they’d started from scratch.

Barrett’s cell phone interrupted. At first, he didn’t recognize the caller ID, but then it dawned on him—Peter Vaughn’s wife.

She’d kept her maiden name, having established her professional reputation as a musician before they were married. “Hello?”

“Barrett, this is Peter’s wife. Do you know where he is? I haven’t heard from him since Tuesday, and he hasn’t checked in. I knew he was going to stay in the city to get caught up on corporate tax 56

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returns, but it’s been days! He doesn’t keep spare clothes at the office—well, maybe an extra shirt and tie for overnights—but I checked with the bank and his credit card companies. There hasn’t been any activity for five days.”

“Have you called—” “Everyone I can think of, including the hospitals. Do you think I should file a missing person’s report?”

Barrett considered the infamous E. Might he have run away with his lover? “Um—his personal computer. Have you checked Contacts for names and addresses you might not have considered?”

“I was hoping he’d said something to you. We’ve hit a bit of a rough patch, and I thought he might have wanted to just get away. Still, I think he’d have told me. He always does if he’s staying in town for more than one night.”

Barrett had an idea. “Does he have a particular hotel he uses when he does?”

“He stays with a buddy he calls E. I think it’s Edward or Everett or Edgar. An old school chum, he said.”

“And you have no idea how to reach this E.” “I hoped you would.”

“If I hear from him, I’ll give him hell and tell him to phone home PDQ. And if anyone else calls with information, including at the office, I’ll be in touch.” After entering her information in his Contacts, he turned to his wife.

“This does not sound good. He flew out of the office on Tuesday afternoon, and his wife says nobody’s seen him since.”

“You didn’t tell her he has a girlfriend?”

“No. E may be a guy. And I’m not wading in there.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing we can, but I think I’ll contact my gym friend who works at the morgue on weekends. Ask him to let me know if a John Doe turns up who resembles Peter.” A good place to start, he thought, wishing he had better connections.

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Barrett’s friend picked up on the third ring. In the background, he could hear the clattering of metal utensils and imagined brains or a heart being weighed.

“Hey, Barrett. Great hearing from you. Can’t thank you enough for setting up that little 501C3 for my wife’s pet fostering nonprofit. They couldn’t afford to pay an accountant and are so relieved to be handling their finances legally.”

“Happy to do it. Um—I’m hoping we can trade areas of expertise.” Succinctly he summarized Peter Vaughn’s disappearance. “I’ve been asked by his worried wife if the city has acquired an unidentified John Doe. Like, since Tuesday.”

“Sure. I’ll check. Give me his particulars. Height, weight, race, age, identify marks, tattoos.”

“I can email you a recent photo of us at a CPA event. I’m six feet, and he’s several inches shorter. Greek descent, I think.

Maybe Italian with a bit of Arabic thrown in. Black hair, but I think it’s dyed. His name might be Anglicized. I don’t even know if the city has a database of people who have been found, you know, dead without IDs.” “That’s pretty recent. I assume she has already called the most likely people, exhausting family and friends since she’s down to her husband’s coworkers. Does your firm have a marketing directory with your friend’s portrait?”

“I think so. His mugshot has been on advertising slicks. I can check Monday, but you know—the more I think about it, the whole situation is farfetched. It wouldn’t be the first time a husband took off without telling the wife.”

“First things first. Let me make some calls. See if a body fitting this dude’s description has floated in. In the meantime, tell the wife to file a missing person’s report if it’s been over fortyeight hours since anybody’s seen him. That might be the quickest way to get the ball rolling.”

Barrett was surprised by how quickly his friend got back to him. “I guess it’s good news—nobody fitting your friend’s 58

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description is refrigerated with a tag on his toe. I checked the databases for the Five Boroughs, and I’m pretty sure your friend isn’t our guest. Maybe he’s one of those drunks who occasionally disappears for a week at a time?”

“That doesn’t sound like him. He doesn’t drink and never misses work without telling someone when he’ll be back.” Even if he’s cheating with E. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything. You might suggest to his wife that she call the state police, including New Jersey’s.”

“Thanks, buddy. I’ll do that.” They disconnected.

“Barrett,” January injected. “Does Peter drive into the city? Or park somewhere and take the ferry or the train from Jersey? Ask his wife if his car might be parked or abandoned somewhere. And she should give the police its make, model, and license number.”

She shook her head. “Sounds like a made-for-TV movie.”

“I’m terribly afraid it might be related to what I found on his computer. Think about it. Could he perpetrate a scam at the firm all by himself? I don’t read him as being that smart. Or that ambitious. No, something else is up, and I need to distance myself. Let’s pursue your two-for-one deal and find us an HR attorney.”

January slipped behind him, draping her good arm over his shoulder. She kissed his ear. “It’s Saturday night, and we haven’t taken a break since the Christmas holidays. Can we afford a simple meal out? Nothing fancy. A little Italian with a lot of cheap wine?”

He laughed. “Sure. Let’s do it. We can fantasize about where to go with our ill-gotten gains. That’s the first thing I loved about you—a cheap date.”

“The first thing?”

He gave her a lascivious look and licked his lips. “Come here, wounded warrior. You deserve some loving.”

59

9 First thing Monday morning, January and Barrett found themselves somewhere they’d never dreamed of being just one week ago. The young attorney, Luke Holmes, welcomed them into his tiny office with an ingratiating smile. His modest desk and his guest chairs nearly filled the windowless space.

January grinned broadly, pointing to his wall on which hung Luke’s Penn State and Dickinson Law School’s diplomas, certificates from both the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and the New York State Bar Associations. Framed were his professional affiliations, academic fraternities, including Phi Beta Kappa, and a framed Order of the Arrow and Eagle Scout certificate.

And still so young. They couldn’t help but feel encouraged by a friend’s glowing referral.

“I thought when we spoke on the phone yesterday, you were kidding about a two-fer, like in the grocery store.”

“But here we both are in need of a human resources attorney.

And thank you for speaking with us on a Sunday.”

“Who wants to go first?”

“I can be brief. I’m an accountant with M & N Accountants, LLP. I need to know, first, if that would be a conflict of interest for you.” When the lawyer shook his head, Barrett continued.

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activity. And that’s about it, except to say that I will not be a whistle-blower.” He nodded at January. “Go.” “I was set up by unscrupulous people, and in the confrontation that ensued, was assaulted by the principal at the agency and have been fired. I have documented what led up to the incident, the names and contact numbers of the witnesses, and a summary of the compensation I want. They’ve ruined my promising career that could have spanned decades. I want you to threaten a very public lawsuit that can be avoided with a generous settlement. I am not suing to be reinstated.”

Barrett added, “We’ve been screwed.”

Luke Holmes took a deep breath. “Sounds like you’ve angered some unscrupulous people.” He grinned. “This will be fun.”

She handed him a document that summarized monetary damages—compensation owed to date, an additional year’s salary and benefits and other payments per her hiring agreement, percentages of all client work to date and pending, medical expenses, pain and suffering from the assault, slander and damage to her professional reputation, criminal mischief, and theft of personal property.

Luke said, “You missed a few things like unemployment compensation to follow the year’s extended salary and benefits.

I’ll start at a million—maybe more, depending upon what they’re worth. You are correct about one thing—negative publicity could ruin the agency. Their exposure is far greater than yours.

They have significant capital invested; you don’t. You could go anywhere. Here, nobody wants to do business with a brute who assaults little ladies.”

He turned back to Barrett. “You said on the phone you have evidence to safeguard. We have a safe. Now, I’m not a criminal lawyer, but your exposure shouldn’t reach beyond civil matters.

Have you resigned? Or are you thinking about it?”

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“I’ve learned on the jungle drums that someone attached a poison label to me. Yes, I’m looking and will leave as soon as I can secure other employment.”

“I’d advise you to cut ties right now. I can write a letter on your behalf to the appropriate parties, including their corporate attorney. They, like your wife’s agency, can be threatened with exposure and civil suits. We’ll strategize about that.”

Both passed him their detailed summaries and goals, which they’d drafted, edited, and printed Sunday afternoon while sipping beverages of choice and throwing outlandish ideas at the wall for their lives’ destinations.

“What’s this going to cost?” Barrett asked.

“I charge by the fifty-minute hour. If we chat for ten minutes, that’s ten minutes, not fifty. I’ll research both firms—that should be easy, thanks to the Internet. I’ll draft a letter for your approval, January, which will be delivered by messenger first thing tomorrow. We won’t spell out the details of the suit until their lawyers get back to us. I’m expecting they’ll counter; we’ll do a little dance, then hammer out the details.”

“How much are we suing for?” January asked.

“Your idea of what’s fair is only the beginning, considering the impact on your career potential, having invested six years in college at your personal expense and your experience.” He nodded to her sling. “If that injury includes nerve damage that limits using your professional talents over the course of your working lifetime, then we’re looking at millions.”

“Seriously? You’d ask that much?”

“I’ll startle the hell out of them. Force them to make an excellent counter to avoid protracted public exposure. Have you seen an orthopedist yet?”

“Yes. It’s broken. They can’t cast it until the swelling goes down.” She wiggled her puffy fingers for effect.

“Ask your doctor to fax me copies of everything. Now—what did they steal?”

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“They kept my personal computer.”

“I’ll demand its immediate return to my office by messenger.

Now Barrett, can you get me copies of the evidence that you discovered? And I’d like to depose you—as if you were testifying against these felons. Capture the details while they’re fresh in your mind. I’ll review your resignation letter.” He rocked his chair a couple of times, its leather upholstery grazing the wall.

“What’s my excuse for resigning?”

“A better offer couldn’t be disputed, especially with a noncompeting firm. Out of state would be even better.”

“I wouldn’t know where to look.”

“Let me make a few calls. I have an idea, which may not be permanent but would ‘get you out of Dodge’ as you put it. Now January—expedite those medical records to me.” *** January couldn’t tell what hurt more—her arm throbbing with every jolt of the subway or her pride from losing her job. If she had asked Professor Gibbs why he was so enthusiastic about that particular agency, he might have shared his association with its founder. She might have submitted a different reference, priding herself on her own initiative. But Jessica—why hadn’t she seen through that witch?

Tuesday morning, they returned to Luke Holmes’s office.

While she sat fingering the threads on her arm’s wrapping fabric, her husband paced behind their chairs and the wall. “What could they have been looking for? If it were a snatch-and-go, they wouldn’t have tossed the place. The only thing of any importance was my laptop, but there were other electronic devices a druggie could fence or trade. Obviously, the thief was looking for something specific, and I’m betting it has something to do with Peter and the firm or both. Nobody knows about these,” he said, digging into his pocket.

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To Luke’s raised eyebrows, Barrett added, “Here. Will you put these thumb drives in your safe? They contain the evidence I mentioned yesterday. And, if you will, this envelope has original copies of our wills and powers of attorney.” He glanced at January as if for permission to vocalize their agonizing decision, which would make it real. “We need to leave New York. As soon as possible.”

January said, “Printouts of important family business, like our PINs and passwords, were in my go-bag or on my cell phone.

Guess the thief wasn’t impressed by our plastic dinnerware.

Anything of real value, like our wedding china and silver, is stored at my godmother’s.”

January fingered the pearl necklace that had been Barrett’s wedding present. “I was wearing this, the matching earrings, and my watch. The thief wasn’t interested in my costume jewelry, which is expendable. Heirloom jewelry is in my godmother’s safe deposit box.”

January sighed as a dream slipped away. She had pictured their first dining room decorated for holidays and parties, the table set with her china and crystal. Entertaining had never been in their budget. And potluck suppers, the staple of students, weren’t suitable for professionals. She would not cry.

“I have news from your agency,” Luke said. “A messenger delivered your laptop this morning. I’m sorry, but it appears to be broken. But, the agency’s attorneys are willing to talk settlement.”

Luke slid a paper across his desk, tapping some figures, his smile betraying a game-on expression.

She gasped. “You’re asking two million bucks?” She counted the zeroes. “That is insane.”

“They’ll counter, but knowing how serious we are, won’t suggest chump change. Maybe one million? But before you start spending it, remember that if you take a lump sum, you’ll share half of it with Uncle Sam. And it may take time to get any real 64

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cash. I advise you to work with a good CPA to minimize your exposure.”

January grinned at her husband, Luke’s joke having lightened the mood.

“But— if my advertising agency goes belly up, maybe I should grab the money while the getting’s good.”

Barrett patted her hand. “We’ll figure it out.” He turned to their attorney and said, “Sounds like the bottom line would be around $250,000. If that’s as good as it gets, January needs to add other items, like her signing bonus.”

“We’ll go over the add-ons, and I’ll send them your counteroffer. Then you can deal with distribution. Item next, Barrett. I’ve drafted for your approval a letter of resignation in which you would give them two or three weeks’ notice— depending upon any PTO accrued. If you wish to give notice personally, you can send a confirmation letter after the fact. You may wish, first, to return to your office and collect your personal possessions.

“If you do not wish to deal with them personally, the letter can be sent by registered mail. Now—do you want me to write a letter to their managing partner and counsel as your representative that you do not have now, nor have you ever had, any dealings with the named accounts handled by Peter Vaughn—or words to that effect?”

Startled, Barrett jumped to his feet. “No! I’m afraid to call attention to myself, especially since Peter has gone missing.”

“He has? When did that happen?”

“He vanished a week ago. And I’m positive he couldn’t have pulled off the scam by himself. There’s got to be others pulling his strings.” He sighed and collected himself, dropping back into his chair. “Look. We need to leave town. To feel safe. To be safe.”

The attorney opened a second folder, angling a sheet for Barrett’s inspection. “According to your resignation letter, your reason is to accept an out-of-state position. That won’t trigger a 65

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non-compete clause if there was one in your hiring agreement.

You know—to take your clients to a competing local firm.”

“I don’t know where to begin finding work out of state.”

The attorney grinned. “I just happen to have a prospect for you. A delightful old gentleman who was my Penn State fraternity’s financial advisor. For many years, he’s had his own CPA firm in south-central Pennsylvania. Just him and a parttime secretary. Don’t know if he’ll ever retire, but he could use a young buck to give him more time to go fishing. He can’t pay a New York salary, but the cost of living is drastically less.”

“I don’t have a car…”

“He says take Amtrak to the Lancaster station, and he’ll pick you up.”

January scowled. “Lancaster? Where’s that?”

“It’s beautiful Amish country between Harrisburg and Reading. You’d love it.”

Barrett patted her good arm. “Won’t hurt to meet with the guy.” He accepted a summary sheet from the attorney’s folder.

“Walter Farnham? Sounds substantial enough. Tomorrow we have an appointment with the orthopedist to get January’s arm cast. Do you think Mr. Farnham would be willing to see me on Wednesday?”

“I’ll set it up.”

66

10 Peter Vaughn regained consciousness slowly. He felt warm and comfortable as if he were floating. If he were lucky, he could sustain the feeling for a couple more hours until his alarm clock blared. Cocooned, he dozed, letting his mind retreat to better places. Until— Someone was shaking his shoulder. “Peter. Wake up.” It wasn’t his wife or E. It was a man’s insistent voice.

“Mmmm. Who are you?” He frowned, eyes remaining closed.

“And where am I? Did I have an accident or something?”

“You don’t need to know. But you do need to tell us—where is it? Tell us, and this unpleasant incident will never have happened.

You won’t even remember. Where did you hide the box?”

Peter struggled to connect with reality, but his mind floated to some other realm, and he couldn’t focus. He heard voices swirling around him, like an old sci-fi movie.

“You gave him too much! Fix it!” a disjointed voice said. “If you’ve scrambled his brain, we’ll never find it. Give him a shot of the antidote.”

They weren’t making sense. Like a scene from Rosemary’s Baby or a Stephen King movie. Soothed in his cocoon, he wanted to drift until he woke up in the morning and bored his wife recounting his unearthly dream.

A woman’s voice. “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Using this dimwit as an intermediary.”

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“We agreed we couldn’t pass the merchandise off directly. And he was just going to hold it for a couple of days. We had power over him. He never crossed us before. Now get him talking. If the shipment is at his office, we’ll get Stan to retrieve it.”

Heat gushed through Peter’s veins, and reality rattled his mind. “Hey! Who are you?” he stuttered. “Where am I? What do you want?”

“The package. Where’d ya hide it? Where did you put it? Tell us, and nothing will happen to you. If you don’t, we’ll kill you, your wife, and your kids. Unpleasantly. We’re waiting.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A searing pain shot through his body. “Yes! You will tell us.”

Peter tried desperately to piece it together. The package.

Stolen jewelry? As instructed, he hadn’t peeked. No one could have found the innocuous package hidden in plain sight. He remembered feeling paranoid, certain it would land him in prison if he got involved with these thieves. He’d had to get rid of it. “I mailed it,” he whispered.

He felt an assembly of people pressing on him, enveloping him with their hot, stinking breath. “Where?” the deep voice persisted. “Who’d ya mail it to?”

He couldn’t do that to Barrett.

More heat exploded into his veins. He could almost trace the shot’s trajectory like one of those diagrams in his high school biology lab. In a moment of clarity, he knew he must protect the person he’d had no intention of hurting. The guy who had always been there. Covered for him. Didn’t tell about E. He felt his face collapse like soft putty into a smile. “I don’t...”

“Who!” Peter saw bright lights and felt an incredible calm. He saw his mother, his father, and grandparents he’d only known from their pictures. And Sarah—their tiny daughter who had died in infancy whom they didn’t have enough money to save—now a 68

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beautiful young woman beckoning to him. With every ounce of his being, he reached for his family, ignoring the commotion in his prison-like room. Levitating, looking down, he rejected their devilish ugliness and turned his face toward the light, joyfully embracing eternity. *** It was harder than Barrett imagined it could be. He arrived on time at the accounting firm, greeted their administrative assistant, Ellie, and collected the stack of pink message slips that had arrived overnight. His letter of resignation seemed to burn a hole in his briefcase. Calm, he cautioned himself. An ordinary tax-season morning was unfolding, and already he missed the normalcy of his soon-to-be prior existence.

Everyone was bent to their tasks. The smell of fresh coffee and warm coffee cake wafted from the breakroom. Subdued chatter updated the younger accountants’ previous evenings. Managers touched bases, dealing with details left hanging from the previous day. How Barrett loved this place and his work. Anger grew as his hatred festered for the insiders who’d screwed up his life.

“Barrett?” He turned his attention to Ellie. “Got something for you.” He returned to her workstation, where she was holding a large USPS box aloft. “Peter mailed this to my personal attention.

When I slit the outer mailer, I found a note he’d attached, instructing me to be sure to give this to you. He said to tell you, ‘It’s a secret. Do not open until your birthday.’”

Barrett frowned. “That isn’t until August. I wonder what he had in mind.”

Ellie shrugged. “Sounded pretty emphatic. Said you’d get the joke when you opened it on your birthday.” The package was not only sealed but double-secured with inch-wide packaging tape and weighed a ton.

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“How odd. It’s only March.” It was as if he knew he wasn’t coming back. “By the way, have you heard from him? He’s been gone for a week today.”

“Nope. Guess he took off on vacation. Very unprofessional, if you ask me, especially during tax season. But it’s none of my business.”

“Um—if I tell you something in confidence, will you keep it a secret?” Ellie brightened and crossed her heart. “I’ve been offered a phenomenal position in a firm out of state, and I’m weighing my options.” Her eyes bugged. “Not one word to anyone. It may amount to nothing, but it’s an honor to be wanted. But if it happens, I may need a trusted insider to forward any personal mail to my attorney.”

She grinned, crossing her heart again. “However it turns out, good luck. But we’d sure miss you here.”

Barrett zigzagged through the cubicles to his desk, feeling an anxious twinge as he digested Peter’s absence. He glanced at the package he’d tucked under his arm with Peter’s familiar handwriting. He hadn’t succumbed to printing like today’s kids.

Birthday indeed. Oh well. He could wait. Birthdays were made for surprises.

He lowered the heavy package into the oversized tote he’d brought to pack his personal stuff and added a few files. His plan—to shove the bag to the back of the knee hole and grab it after going to HR. He felt like a thief as he’d waited to add family photos until later, hoping no one would notice.

In the end, he chickened out and approached HR’s administrative assistant, asking her to hand his sealed letter to the director. And then he fled. He half expected to be accosted by security before he could clear the building, but everything went smoothly—collecting his tote, briefcase, overcoat, and fold-up umbrella from the employees’ closet. He even remembered the

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black rubber slip-ons he’d often needed to protect his wingtips from a sudden downpour. *** “It’s too damn cold to be hiking,” the gym rat’s date grumbled.

She puffed frozen breaths to emphasize her point. “It’s not just the temperature. I thought the Pine Barrens would smell like the Pacific Northwest, not like dead animals. Ugh!” “Would you shut the hell up? You’re the one who’s been complaining nonstop about being cooped up in a tiny apartment with no money for clubbing or movies. You agreed that hiking was free.”

She yelped as one foot crunched through dried leaves frozen over ruts in the terrain. “I can’t feel my feet. ‘Buy decent boots!’

That’s what you said.”

“Insulated hiking, not designer. And you should have broken them in. Walked your lazy ass around the block a few times every day. But no. You didn’t want to stain the fine leather.”

“I cannot go one more step.”

“All right a-ready! I’ll hike back and get the car. You wait here.”

“I can’t see the road. How are you going to find me?”

He pulled a red bandana from his backpack and waved it at her. “Hear that? The road’s about 200 feet from where we’re standing. I’ll hike straight up and tie this to a stick. You, stay put.

There’s a fallen pine tree. Park it.”

She limped toward it, fingering its gnarled surface. “It’s so cold the toadstools are stiff. How am I supposed to—” “Your choice, crybaby. Hike, stand, or park it.” Without waiting for her reply, he stalked toward the sounds of the road.

At least he knew that she wasn’t a keeper. The very first driver that

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approached his upraised thumb stopped his truck and motioned for him to hop aboard.

“Just going a few miles,” he told his new best friend.

She harrumphed, stamped her sore feet, and considered her options. She could kill her friend who insisted she’d never meet great guys in a bar. “Join a gym. Buy some cute togs. Take cycling or yoga or aerobics. See what cool guys belly up to the juice bar.

Strike up a conversation while checking for rings. Pretend to be athletic.”

Cookies—there were treats in her mini backpack and BandAids! Yes! She gobbled the cookies and then pushed the nasty log to its smooth underside. She spread the empty zipper bag to protect her designer jeans, and when she sat, the log didn’t collapse. Crossing her wounded right foot over her left thigh, she unfastened the dirty, knee-high laces. And tugged. Her larger right foot must have swollen. She wiggled and pulled until the boot relented and pulled free. Blood and fluid soaked her sock.

“Eeew!” she exclaimed. A squirrel that had been eyeballing her cookie crumbs split.

Securely bandaged, she wiggled her foot into the icky sock and tried easing it into the frigid boot. Perhaps if she loosened the laces all the way to the toe— That worked reasonably well. She could hobble to the car and possibly repair the damage to their fledging relationship. The boots were pretty cool. If she never hiked again, she could wear them with skinny jeans. Perhaps with a fisherman sweater and matching cap? She scowled at the dirt encasing the stitches and looked for a stick to scrape it off. What could she find without having to walk?

Ah! Bingo. Behind the log that she had displaced was a stick, smooth and white, as if its bark had fallen away. Pivoting, she grabbed the stick and pulled, tugging harder when it wouldn’t budge. When it finally relented, it was attached to what looked 72

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like a hand. Her first thought was a discarded Halloween skeleton.

Then she saw what was left of a sleeve.

And she screamed.

73

11 A man with the accounting firm’s lanyard half tucked under his jacket approached the accountants’ administrative assistant at her station. She looked up at the man who looked vaguely familiar. “Yes? Can I help you?”

“Peter Vaughn asked me to retrieve a package that he left in his desk. Would you direct me, please?”

Ellie eyed him suspiciously, hating that HR put way too much extraneous stuff on company IDs, making it virtually impossible to read their names. The faces, however, did match. “Sorry. I didn’t catch your name,” she said, squinting at the lanyard. She poised a pen over a notepad. To his scowl, she added. “Policy.”

“Stan. Stanley Ballinski.”

Ellie stood, reaching across her desktop for his hand, which he reflexively extended, exposing his lanyard. “Nice to meet you, Stanley Ballinski. I thought I knew all the accountants. Which department are you with?”

“IT. Information Technology.”

“Oh! The geniuses who fix our computers when we screw things up?” She let go of his hand, studying his face. Something about him seemed off. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen you before, and I’ve been here forever. What is it you do?”

“I’m in another building—not retail but corporate.

Mainframe. Now about my friend Peter’s package…”

“Oh, you’re a friend? Fantastic. Did he tell you where he was going or when he’ll be back?” She thumped a pile of pink slips 74

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with her index finger. “We need to reach him ASAP. When did he ask you to pick up his package?”

“Last evening. Said he’d be back sometime next week. Shortterm rehab clinic, I think. Didn’t leave contact details.”

“So—if you were to pick up his package, where were you supposed to take it? That would be helpful to know.”

Stan Ballinski shrugged. “Didn’t say. Guess he’ll get back to me.”

“Well, if there’s a package with your name on it, I suppose I can help you retrieve it.” She stood, circling the desk. “This way.”

“He didn’t say it would have my name on it. In fact, it should be addressed to somebody else.”

“In that case, we can have security witness your opening the package. Make sure it’s not ticking or contains poisonous stuff.”

She chuckled, enjoying her own joke. “Can’t be too careful these days.” She started to walk into the CPA’s arena. When she turned, Stanley Ballinski had vanished. Returning to her desk, she called Security. *** The head of Security and his assistant searched Peter’s desk and unearthed nothing suspicious in or around his cubicle.

There was no package. And a fellow named Stanley Ballinski was, in fact, employed in the firm’s IT department. “What made you suspicious?” the security chief asked Ellie.

“His story was weird. No way would an employee from another department be allowed to search or take something personal from another employee’s desk without that employee’s written permission. Or a phone call to his supervisor, like, ‘My buddy Stan will be stopping by to pick up my gym bag,’ or whatever. ‘And, by the way, I’ll be back Monday. Sorry to have left so abruptly…’ Like that, followed by some lame-ass excuse.”

“And you thought Ballinski was lying—” 75

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“I just knew, but I couldn’t guess why. I know when someone’s lying. I raised four kids. Alone. Divorced two cheating husbands.

Everything about this guy was off. And his story about Peter’s whereabouts didn’t fit. Detox? No way. Not Mr. Straight Arrow.

He doesn’t drink or do drugs.”

Ellie excused herself and returned to guarding the accountants’ domain. The only package from Peter had arrived in the mail after Peter disappeared. That had been addressed to and was delivered to Barrett Lamont by herself. She saw no reason to divulge that information. *** Barrett was home in time to escort January to the orthopedist’s outpatient clinic to examine and cast her arm. While he waited for her procedure, he phoned their attorney. “January plans to stay with a friend while I go to Pennsylvania—that is, if you can arrange for Walter Farnham to meet my train tomorrow.

There’s one that arrives at 4 p.m.” By the time January returned, her forearm encased in pink plaster, Barrett had purchased his Amtrak ticket.

They spent the rest of the evening organizing their meager possessions into two piles—what they’d leave for their sublet med school student friend and their clothing, linens, personal items, and keepsakes. January looked at the pathetically small pile which would fit in a rental SUV. *** January felt Barrett slipping away. She glanced at her left wrist, where her watch should have been, replaced by her ridiculous pink cast. At least she hadn’t needed surgery, could forego a sling, and wiggle her fingers. She resumed folding Barrett’s dress shirts and adding them to the large suitcase he kept under the bed. She 76

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flipped open a file folder that lay on the bottom—spreadsheets that must be important but the accounting minutia meant nothing to her.

Packing was simple. With one small chest and a tiny closet, their wardrobes, like many New Yorkers, were minimal mixand-match black. Two large suitcases and two smaller ones had doubled as drawers. She added her cosmetics bag and a jewelry pouch and put her passport in her purse. Her oversized computer bag held precious documents like their marriage certificate, proof he had joked that he owned her. Their suits lived in two garment bags, which she took from the closet and draped on the sofa.

She took one last sad look around. Only two weeks ago, she’d practically danced to the restaurant with giddy anticipation of leaving this behind. How had they partied in such small quarters, crammed in their hopes, dreams, and memories? She checked under his side of the mattress, finding a large envelope into which he had smoothed every letter she’d ever sent him. That made her cry. Knock it off—it’s not like he’s dead. She buried the envelope under his shirts.

By now, his train should be approaching Philly’s Thirtieth Street station, then swooping due west toward the middle of nowhere.

Someone knocked. Her ride! But an hour early? Fear sluiced through her, but she steeled her nerves and cracked the door.

She melted in relief at the sight of their renter, glancing behind her in dismay at the assembled remnant of their lives. A few boxes were sealed for shipping, but to who knows where. She opened the door for their sublet friend, his fist raised to knock again. Over her shoulder, she saw his friend stacking cardboard boxes on the sidewalk. She gave him an impulsive hug, motioning the guys inside. “Home sweet hovel.”

She pointed to an area beside their thread-bare couch, and the guys bucket-brigaded a dozen boxes that thunked onto the bare floor as if loaded with bricks. “It’s a racket,” the med student said.

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“Those guys who write textbooks spend every summer tweaking them so that students can’t buy ’em used. I’m not biting—unless they prove that we have two livers, I’ll take my chances with last year’s.”

He reached into his pocket. “Next month’s rent. Thanks for letting the next ten days go.”

She raised her hand in the stop position. “That’s okay. We can wait.”

He chuckled, pressing the check between her thumb and index finger. “Never turn down rent from a student.”

“Bedroom and bath are empty, so make yourselves at home.

It came furnished, and what we’ve added was super cheap. Now, for the kitchen. I can’t haul small appliances to Pennsylvania, so enjoy. Pawn them if you need food. Tableware is early Goodwill.”

He scowled at the coffee pot. “What? No Keurig?” She turned her pocket inside out, and he laughed. “You do not want to leave those fine knives behind. What if you need to defend yourself from Nittany lions and buffaloes in the wilds of Pennsylvania?”

“They’re all extinct, except on game day.”

He inspected the lower cabinet, rewarded by a cascade of takeout containers. While she stuffed them back into the cupboard, he located terry tea towels, spread them on the counter, and pulled the largest knife from its mooring. Enclosing it with a lap of the towel, he rolled another weapon against it, folded, and continued, finishing his masterpiece with paring knives. He double-folded the terrycloth over their lethal tips and rolled and secured the bundle with rubber bands he found in a junk drawer.

With a flourish, he pulled a plastic grocery bag from under the sink and secured it with a twist-tie.

“If you’re flying, check ’em,” he said, pointing toward the largest suitcase for her to open.

She glanced at the empty knife box in dismay. “What will you use?”

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Grinning, he pulled a pocketknife from his pocket and hit a spring that released its three-inch blade.

“Men!” “I won’t use this stuff,” he said, peering into her gadget drawer and handing her a large zipper bag. “Or that whatchamacallit.”

“It’s a zester. And yes, if you can’t use them, I want the Tupperware measuring spoons and cups. They have all the odd sizes.” She added them to her computer bag, suspecting that unpacking would be a treasure hunt.

Their attorney’s knock, right on time, ended their kitchen inspection. January, her renter, and his buddy made quick order of loading her possessions into the van. She took her attorney aside and handed him a key to her safe deposit box to which she had added his name at the bank. “Thank you for letting us use your mailing address. I’m sure anyone could find us if they tried hard enough, but we need to buy time.”

“Of course you do. It’s my pleasure.” He handed her a cell phone with a wink. “A burner—just like the crime shows on TV— with lots of minutes. You can add more as needed or replace it.”

“So you don’t think we’re being paranoid?”

He gave her good arm a squeeze with a troubled expression.

“I do not.”

January’s cell phone vibrated, the caller ID being Barrett.

“Hey! Didn’t think I’d hear from you so soon. Where are you?”

“Passing Ardmore. Everything okay?”

“Our attorney’s here, the renter and his friend are unloading a library, and I have a burner number for you.” She dictated it.

“You remember my gym buddy who works at the morgue?

Just got a call. Seems Peter’s wife’s been harassing everyone from the local police and FBI to the hospitals, her congressmen, even the governor’s office. Consequently, everyone’s looking for Peter.

And, it may be nothing, but he says a body was found in the New Jersey Pine Barrens that matches Peter Vaughn’s general description. He’ll keep me updated.”

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January jumped to her feet. “I gotta get out of here. Now! Let’s go.” *** January couldn’t stop shaking, even though her best friend Gretchen’s apartment was toasty. On an ordinary day, the pair would zigzag southeast to The Mysterious Bookshop on Warren Street and return with armloads of the latest crime fiction and an occasional first edition.

She stopped pacing and tried to sit down, then hopped up again and continued the circuit around her friend’s lovely living room. Gretchen appeared from the kitchen with a tray, two hot toddies, and an array of delicious hors d’oeuvres. “Dig in,” she said, setting January’s mug at her elbow and a pottery plate of mini baguettes, baked brie, grapes, and sliced apples on her leather footstool. “My one-wing friend, I know your weaknesses.”

With a flourish, she set a cut-glass bowl filled with Ghirardelli dark chocolates nearby.

A single tear escaped as January did her best to mask her overwhelming gratitude coupled with loss and her world being crushed. She’d always been the strong one, unable to convince her best friend that her good luck was an accident of her birth and genetics. Brains, beauty, health all handed to her like a designer helix on steroids. If she thought too hard about her late parents and how they’d have the right words, she would dissolve. Instead, she drew on her grandmother’s platitude, which huffed: “Well— we’re all adults here!” Grandmama brooked no self-pity.

Gretchen brought a pottery jug from the kitchen and topped off January’s mug. “So. What’s the plan?”

January sipped the warm liquid that coursed through her body and soothed her soul. “First, I told nobody where we’re going. Nobody knows I’m here except my attorney, who personally drove me. Someone he referred to as an associate 80

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followed us two car lengths behind. Barrett is finding a place we can stay; he’ll come for me, then our attorney will arrange to ship our belongings.”

Gretchen scowled. “Is it really that bad?”

“Not taking any chances. I wish I could tell you the details.”

Both laughed, the hackneyed joke understood about neither having a death wish.

“Stay as long as you wish. And if you need anything, help yourself or make me a list. It’s the least I can do after you and Barrett hid me from that stalker until he got caught.”

81

12 Barrett felt New York’s stress melt as Amtrak’s Quiet Car accomplished the miles, leaving New York and New Jersey behind. He thought he might read, surf the net, or catch a nap but instead watched small towns and the lovely countryside tick off the miles that flattened beyond Philly’s mainline stops.

Approaching Lancaster County, a smattering of melting snow dotted the Pennsylvania Dutch farmland. Tiny green shoots were emerging, and Holstein cows ambled single file toward barns and 5 p.m. milking.

When the conductor bellowed, “Next stop: Lancaster,” Barrett shrugged into his overcoat, scarf, and hat and muscled his suitcase from the overhead bin. Accustomed as he was to subway travel, he inched toward the door, prepared to hurtle from the train the minute it stopped. The locals, he noticed, were far less concerned.

A man seated on the platform’s bench rose and waved as Barrett stepped from the train. He bore a remarkable resemblance to the actor, Wilford Brimley, with his trim white mustache and stately demeanor. Two dozen of his fellow passengers surged toward the three-flight metal stairs as Walter Farnham approached, leading with his hand. “That all you brought?” he asked, pointing to Barrett’s roller suitcase and computer bag. “Let’s take the lift.”

Walter Farnham was not what Barrett expected. He was elegant in a starched blue and white check dress shirt, rust tie, natty gray wool vest, and dress slacks over an open navy car coat.

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Thick white hair peeked from a black leather pork pie hat. His gloveless handshake was warm, and his brown leather shoes shined. Walter’s pink face and startling blue eyes exuded vim and vitality beyond his sixty-some years. Barrett’s mental image of a country accountant—something about jeans and an old guy expression—went poof.

By the time the elevator opened upstairs onto the concourse, the other passengers had departed, and a dozen awaited the next train. Such a far cry from Penn Station! The elegant structure, while clean and maintained, must have served travelers since the 1800s. Nothing was open except for a ticket window, restrooms, and a traveler’s aid Red Cap desk. Deja vu stirred a childhood memory of rural Ohio.

“Snagged a spot right by the station,” Walter chortled, motioning Barrett toward a Toyota Highlander. He fobbed the tailgate and muscled Barrett’s suitcase before Barrett could stop him. In ten minutes, they exited onto Route 30 East/ Philadelphia, then onto 222 North. “That’s a joke,” Walter said as they passed a sign for New York City, four hours away. While Walter shared amusing client stories, they entered Berks County, passed a small mall, then veered true north and began a dizzying series of exits into the northwest countryside.

Walter pulled into a two-car garage that abutted a large twostory brick colonial. He ushered Barrett into a combination laundry and mud room. “Follow me.” He directed Barrett upstairs to a guest suite. “My late wife loved country frills,” he said. “Made all our curtains, bed skirts, and scads of pillows. Just dump the pillows aside—that’s what I do. Make yourself at home.”

“I’d assumed I’d stay at a local motel.”

“Nope. You’ll be my guest. Now, you’ve gotta be hungry, so I’m taking you to a local diner that has the best pot roast you’ve ever tasted. Pies, cakes, all homemade. Put some meat on those skinny bones.” He chuckled, patting his own belly. “Take your 83

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time getting settled. Grab a nap if you wish. When we’re ready, we’ll do it.” *** The next morning, Walter took Barrett on the grand rounds of his accounting business that was housed on the first floor.

After enjoying coffee and muffins brought from the diner the previous evening, Barrett learned that Walter’s firm was pretty straightforward. The clients included small to mid-sized businesses and personal taxes. Some, such as small medical practices, overlapped. A few families were third generation as children and trust-fund kids were coming of age.

The challenge, he quickly discovered, was that Walter had never computerized. He was fastidious about keeping up with the latest regulations and forms and admitted shamefully for succumbing to a calculator some years ago, although just for fun.

He did the math in his head and only verified with the blasted contraption. While all the other kids had been allowed to use calculators, his math teachers drilled that they produced mental weakness.

“What about the forms? Doesn’t the IRS insist they be filed electronically these days?” he asked.

“That’s Yolanda’s job. Her office is on what we call the lower level.” It’s dry, warm or cool, depending, and has two aboveground windows for natural light, nice paneling and carpet. As long as the PC is new enough to download the current forms, she’s on it and transcribes my work. You’ll meet her today.”

As promised, Yolanda appeared, bundled in wads of wool, scarves, and gloves, and fluffed her bluish-gray curls. She was barely five feet and half as wide and was dressed simply in baggy black pants and a fisherman cable-knit sweater crafted in magenta wool. With great pride, she took Barrett to her domain.

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“Before you ask, no, it wouldn’t be easier for him to enter his numbers on the PC. He hates all things electronic. Would have a rotary phone if he could. He plans to retire or die before being forced to use this ‘contraption.’ But, in his entire career, his clients have never been audited.”

Barrett realized that Yolanda’s office and a full bathroom occupied only one-half of the building’s basement. Then he spotted double doors centered on her interior side wall, obscured by matching wood paneling. “What’s in there? Storage?”

Yolanda opened the doors and switched on the lights. “This is where our bodies are buried,” she said over the dehumidifier’s hum. Floor-to-ceiling shelves held cardboard storage boxes, and four-drawer filing cabinets lined the opposite wall. “Client files, going back forty years.”

“You haven’t started filing them electronically?”

“The newer ones, yes, but he doesn’t trust them. We have a paper backup of everything!

“What about correspondence? Billing? Payment? Orders?”

“Everything’s here. Some client files take a whole drawer. And some are dead. He’s really quite proud of his work. In fact, he’d relish getting audited. Occasionally, some young buck from the IRS shows up with a question. He’ll never come back, not after Walter has him trapped for a day. And Walter doesn’t get how funny he is. If he ever tires of accounting, he could do standup.”

Yolanda delivered Barrett back upstairs to Walter, who got right down to business. “Well, what do you think? You interested?”

Barrett grinned. “I certainly am. I think it’s just what we need. I’ll have to find a place to live quickly. And, in New York, we didn’t need a car, which isn’t an option here.”

“Got just the thing—a rent-to-buy fixer-upper on four acres with a horse barn and shed. One of my old clients, a widow, passed years ago, and the daughter thought she might keep a 85

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horse or two for weekend riding. She started to renovate the house but ran out of interest and money, not necessarily in that order. It does have new kitchen appliances—the basics mostly— but the rest of the place is vintage 1970. It’s rural, sturdy, handy for us, but the nearest neighbor is a stone quarry, which the price reflects.”

“I thought if I were staying that I’d lease a car short term until I see how our lifestyle unfolds. I’ll need to see a dealer anyway to collect January and our worldly possessions.”

“Got just the thing,” Walter said again. “Out in the garage. I kept the wife’s car—it’s a 1998 Honda Accord with 10,000 miles, in mint condition. I’d hung onto it in case the grandkids wanted it, but they’re out of state and, um, it’s not their ‘image.’”

“Not cool enough, right? All I need is reliable transportation.”

“Take it for a spin. If you like it, I’m asking $500, which you could pay me over time.” With that, Walter took a set of keys from a hook in the mudroom and tossed them to Barrett. “Help yourself. And while you’re at it, I’ll give you directions and the keys to the house we discussed. See what you think.”

Barrett didn’t need to kick the tires. The Honda looked showroom pristine. If it had ever been driven, there was no evidence. The engine purred to life. Surely Walter had driven it from time to time. From the dates on the inspection stickers affixed to the windshield, the Honda was legal. Not trusting himself not to get lost, he opened Waze on his cell phone, entered the address, and ten minutes later heard, “Your destination is on the right.”

The ranch-style house’s gravel driveway had serious ruts, around which Barrett eased his borrowed ride. Rather than track mud into the house and back to the car, he stuck to the narrow cement walk that connected to a front stoop protected by an aluminum roof. The lock did not protest. He nudged the door open. The house was dead quiet, cold, and devoid of any human 86

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existence. A damp smell like new drywall lingered in the dead air. Barrett proceeded, nearly tripping when his foot became tangled in heavy-duty plastic that swathed abandoned furniture left by the previous owner.

Barrett wandered the rooms—three bedrooms, one and a half baths, a large combination dining/eat-in area with an anglebay window, and a generous kitchen that anchored the right rear quadrant. Lots of cupboards looked like maple. As if drawn, he approached the large window that overlooked the acres Walter described. A three-bay barn and an open shed from which Barrett could make out a vehicle in John Deere green. A tractor suitable for mowing. Beyond the fields, he saw corn stubble and the Appalachians in the distance.

He was in love! In his state of euphoria, he selfishly decided not to send pictures to January until he’d sealed the deal. It was, after all, rent to buy. With mounting excitement, he made the rounds, inspecting the windows, looking at closets that seemed gargantuan to what they were accustomed. Basement—he found the steps that led to a full, unfinished concrete and block foundation. Furnace? Yes. He peered at a service company’s sticker, which bore a recent date. Water heater? Ditto.

High on adrenaline, he bolted upstairs looking for—yes, a closet door in the hall, behind which were steps that led to an attic. That, he concluded, would be the first order of business. A foot of insulation was needed.

The kitchen door faced the backyard. A garage—two-car, detached. That would suffice. He unlocked it. Stepping onto a square yard of poured concrete, he gazed at his farm, smelled the fragrant earth, rejoicing in a panorama of blue sky and puffy white clouds streaked with peach that would have been blocked

by New York skyscrapers. A distant rumble caught his attention.

The quarry? He’d check it out when he had time, but Walter did not share Barrett’s definition of next door.

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Back at Walter’s, the men tackled the paperwork. They shook hands. Fait accompli. Tucked in the middle of nowhere, Barrett felt his life reclaimed. Challenge next—convince January of the beauty of this brand-new lifestyle. That, he decided, could wait. Who knows—maybe she’d like country living, although he conceded that might be a hard sell.

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13 The medical examiner hated nothing more than a smart-ass medical student with a bad attitude and no respect for the dead.

The newest specimen who swaggered into his turf wore earbuds effusing rap, which prepared the doc for a fight.

Without looking up from the stainless-steel table, the ME barked at the student. “Kill the racket. I will not tolerate an unprofessional attitude or lack of respect for my patients.”

Surprised, the kid complied, stuffing the devices into his pocket.

The ME finished dictating his findings—cause and matter of death—and barked to his assistant to bring in the John Doe. “Stand there. Pay attention,” he said to the young student he’d already considered a lost cause. He began his dictation, a tray of sterile surgical instruments at the ready. “What we have here is John Doe number whatever, male Caucasian, mid-forties, normal development.” He scowled. “There are ligature marks around both wrists and ankles. Possible homicide. Time of death within the last twenty-four hours.” He nodded to the kid. “Cause and manner to be determined according to where the evidence takes us.”

He clicked off the recorder and scowled at the corpse.

Something about his pale blue lips and skin tone triggered a thought. He looked at the chart, noting the frigid conditions where the victim had been unearthed. He studied John Doe’s skin and frowned, remembering a death by hypothermia in icy 89

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water and shared a teaching moment from his history of unusual experiences.

“Cold does not necessarily mean dead. He’s not dead until he’s warm and dead. Cold lowers the oxygen levels in the cells and prevents their dying. Hypothermia gives a pretty good imitation of death. The heartbeat is so slow and sluggish that you won’t hear it. Breathing’s so slow you won’t see it. Check the skin, pulling a pinch into a peak that holds its shape, lest you send a living victim to the morgue. Resuscitation should be attempted to slowly raise the body’s temperature. The record for surviving ice-water submersion is ninety minutes.”

He beckoned to the student. Paused. “What do you observe?”

The student approached the corpse, grimaced, and pinched the skin. “Um—little peaks shouldn’t keep their shape if he’s dead. Right?”

The ME had moved beyond the teaching moment and, taking a scalpel, pierced John Doe’s flesh beneath its left clavicle to begin the Y incision. “Wow!” the student exclaimed. “Should he be bleeding?”

Alarmed, the ME grabbed a stethoscope, listened for a heartbeat, and, although hearing none, snagged an AED. Two jolts later, John Doe’s heart registered a faint beat. The ME lunged for the phone and bellowed a code to send a team STAT. “Cool!” the student exclaimed, pulling his iPhone from his scrubs pocket.

The ME growled a menacing warning. “Don’t even consider it!” *** Stan Ballinski hung out near the mailroom, pretending to check the equipment. He needn’t have bothered—no one was around. The rectangular room with numerous cubbyholes like

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an old-fashioned post office had been designed to enable an employee with limited potential to sort, assemble, and deliver mail throughout the complex. Initially a pilot program, the firm had received copious goodwill from the community and many compliments for sharing their program with other companies.

Alone, Stan did a quick visual for incoming packages that had been addressed in Vaughn’s distinctive hand. Disappointed, he waited for Mike, the firm’s charity case. He didn’t have to wait long for the clerk whose limitations were instilled in the firm’s culture to pretend they didn’t exist. He shuffled in, pushing his cart. He looked straight at Stan, nudging his bottle-thick glasses to the bridge of his nose but said nothing. He was a big, pearshaped fellow with clear blue eyes and a blond buzz cut. Had it not been for that extra chromosome, he could have been a star linebacker.

“Hey, Mikey, how are you?”

“I’m good.”

“Brought you something. Just a little thank-you for all the hard work you do for us.” He offered the man a Heath bar.

“Nooo. I’m not allowed to have candy.”

“This kind is special.” He turned it over, pretending to read the small print. “Says here it’s full of protein, vitamins, minerals, and doesn’t have a lot of sugar or fat.”

Mike licked his lips. “Well—I suppose I could ask.”

“It could be our little secret.” Mike scowled, shaking his head.

“But you’re right. Take it and ask.” Stan didn’t know who that would be, but he was sure Mike had been tempted before, and his family—or whoever—had instilled some rules to control his predisposition for weight gain.

“Say Mike, do you ever deliver mail to Peter Vaughn?”

“Yeah. He gets lots of mail.”

“Do you recognize his handwriting?” Mike frowned, looking confused. “Do you know how he prints?”

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Mike brightened and nodded. “He gave me colored pencils.

He helped me print my name.” He beamed at the memory.

“Peter told me he mailed a package to someone in his department, and they didn’t get it.” Stan made an inclusive sweep of the mailboxes that would include Peter’s department. “Did you see his package come in the mail?”

“No. I did not.”

“Maybe you’ve forgotten. It would be about this big.” Stan rotated his hands to indicate the size of a shoebox. “It would have come in the U.S. Mail.”

“No.” Stan saw a flicker. Mike couldn’t lie. “Please think hard. It’s very important. Maybe it was addressed to somebody in another department?” Mike shook his head, obviously conflicted. “You like your job, don’t you?” Mike bobbed his head with half his body. “And you’d hate to be fired because you lost somebody’s mail.”

“I. Do. Not! Lose mail!”

“Well, the box isn’t here, and it isn’t in the department, and Peter swore that he mailed it a week ago. I promise I won’t rat you out, but I have to ask. Did you keep it? Hide it? Maybe for safekeeping for somebody else? Or did you give it to someone as a present?”

“No, no, no, no! I do not steal. Stealing is wrong.” He started to wail loudly enough for two employees to approach the mailroom.

“We’re fine,” Stan called with a smile to the curious employees.

“He’s just having a moment. You’re fine, aren’t you, Mike?”

He snuffled, pulled a red checkered handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. “I’m sorry. I believe you.” He gave Mike a gentle pat on the arm, surprised at how doughy his muscles felt.

Poor guy.

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Stanley Ballinski left the mailroom and shouldered the heavy glass door that separated the back office from the public areas.

Hearing footsteps, he turned to see Mike trotting after him. “Mr. Stan? I remember. Someone mailed a box to Miss Ellie. She took off the paper. It was a birthday present.”

“Who printed the address?”

Mike practically glowed. “Mr. Peter.”

“Huh! That’s very good, Mike. Who was having a birthday?”

“Dunno. Miss Ellie didn’t say.”

“Did she give the present to someone? Or say who it was for?

I’d like to wish him a happy birthday myself.”

He shook his head and hurried away.

Euphoria overwhelmed Stanley Ballinski. Bastard had mailed the treasure to someone in the accounting department.

He savored success and the enormity of wealth it represented.

He’d search Personnel’s database for March birthdays—April as well to be safe—and disable the security footprint tonight.

He’d toss the place before the trash was collected, checking for birthday wrappings. If the package was there, he’d take it. If not, he’d instruct their operative to execute a home invasion. *** Barrett’s New York buddies had been right. Waze directed him, lane by lane, into Manhattan by daybreak on Sunday. He’d spent Friday and Saturday shopping for essentials, vacuuming, dusting, and scrubbing their new rental home until his muscles ached and his knuckles bled.

He’d bought a new queen-sized mattress and frame, admitting a king would never fit without tearing out a wall. Having studied the construction of load-bearing walls, he decided that might be an option. Or maybe rent-to-buy would simply be rent. In the meantime, the antique bed would have to do.

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By the time he cleared Lincoln Tunnel, sunshine sparkled on skyscraper windows. Having been a subway mole forever, he was stunned by how far Tribeca was via surface roads. At least, as promised, the city that never sleeps actually did on Sunday mornings. He’d promised to phone when approaching the tunnel but had been too busy not getting lost or killed.

He laughed out loud as he approached Gretchen’s address.

There were the girls guarding a parking space with January’s luggage. And, as luck would have it, the space in front vacated as he approached, either by Saturday night stragglers or early churchgoers. Who would know?

The trio loaded the Honda’s generous trunk and back seat; everything jig-sawed into position without blocking the panoramic windows. Gretchen dashed back into the flat and returned with a large thermos, cups, and an insulated bag that contained January’s farewell to Italian bakeries. One last pit stop, hugs and kisses, and the Lamonts eased into light traffic via Waze.

Finding 95 South and the 322 West merge was seamless, and once able to choose a lane and just follow the steering wheel, January divvied up their breakfast. She’d flown many times from New York to other big cities but never taken a serious road trip.

The caffeine jolted her euphoria as the miles brought blessed separation, leaving their ugly nemeses behind. She studied her husband’s happy face. Yes, a prolonged vacation in the country while their attorney and law enforcement dealt with the bad guys was the perfect solution.

Three hours plus a leisurely lunch later, January’s bubble burst. What had seemed like an adventure, fleeing Manhattan like a couple of jewel thieves, melted as all traces of city life disappeared. Sleep-deprived, she dozed. When she awoke, civilization had morphed into a bleak brown winter vista. Longdistance truckers en route to market and crazy drivers with outof-state plates demanded Barrett’s concentration. The farther 94

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west they went, the more pickups joined the flow, many with gun racks and camouflaged good old boys who leered down at her.

Silly—at the end of this dream, she should wake to the alarm and zip back to reality.

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14 As they swapped PA 222’s four lanes for rural roads, Barrett sighed with relief. “Round trip to New York without getting killed.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “And yes, I am surprised.”

“How much farther? I need to go.”

“We’ll be home in ten minutes. You be okay? Doesn’t look like anything’s open on a Sunday evening. Before you ask, I found a grocery. Snagged a few things to tide us over. I can’t wait for you to see our bargain digs. It’s vast by New York standards at onetenth the cost.”

January scanned the vacant countryside, assuming that residential housing communities would spring up any minute.

They didn’t. She thought he’d missed his turn and was making a U-turn in someone’s gravel driveway when he killed the engine and made the announcement. “We’re here!”

“Where?”

“This is it—our new home.”

January didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as she took in the pathetic, neglected old house. Scanning what should be a neighborhood, she saw nothing but an undeveloped expanse, abandoned clay banks, and scrubby outcroppings. “Watch the potholes,” Barrett said, directing her toward an ugly steel front door, topped with a trio of little windows that were framed with yellowing plastic.

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He opened the door and offered to carry her over the threshold. One look at decades of neglect assaulted her, the dilapidation nearly leveling her. She planted her feet on the concrete pad and glared. “Find me a motel. Right now. Or I’ll find that train back to Manhattan tonight!”

“Come on, babe. Come inside. Take a look. I’ve spent days cleaning it, just for you. And the price is—” “Cheap? I get that without the grand tour.”

“Come inside. Things will look better in daylight. Tomorrow we can consider our options.” She took a tentative step onto a square yard of slate, then ancient carpet, worn flat as felt, its original color indistinguishable. Flocked red Victorian wallpaper assaulted her eyes. An interior wall separated the living room from a central eating area beyond a center hall that bisected the house. A kitchen anchored the back-right quadrant. Green and mustard-color wallpaper around a bay window transitioned abruptly to pots, pans, and flowers that covered every square inch of the kitchen walls.

Seeing her look of dismay, he preempted. “Before she gave up, the owner replaced avocado appliances with stainless.” She opened the oven door for a peek. “Scrubbed them myself,” he added.

Barrett redirected her attention. “Under these worn-out carpets, there are real hardwood floors. Imagine a 1970s spec builder doing that. Most would have slapped cheap carpet onto the subfloor. I can buff and seal the wood. And look,” he said, propelling her toward the bedroom and sliding a closet door with a flourish. “Just look at that space! Our garment bags will get lost on these rods. And see what I found at Target—bundles of tube hangers. We can hang our clothes! And use our suitcases for traveling.”

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noticed the queen-size bed covered with a hand-made quilt.

“Where did you find that? And so quickly? It’s lovely.”

“In a little Amish store. I told them I wanted something special for my bride. The pattern’s called double wedding ring.

And look,” he said, flipping back a corner. “The woman who made it embroidered her name and a blessing. She said if you didn’t like it, you could exchange it for another.”

January wiped a tear from her cheek. “I love the quilt. I love you. Let’s unpack the car.”

He trailed her toward the front door, pointing out the multiple windows. “There were curtains, which I tossed in the washer— it’s downstairs in the basement—they disintegrated—but no more schlepping to a laundromat. You can order something from Amazon, or we’ll find a big-box store.” *** January awoke Monday morning to the smell of fresh coffee and momentarily forgot where she was until she recognized the luxurious comfort of a brand-new mattress and the silky texture of their Amish quilt. The hot-metal scent of central heat dispelled the aura of neglect. The smell of cleaning products and a new vinyl shower curtain diffused from their bathroom. And the owner’s idea of furnishings was a relief—a kitchen table and chairs and a Victorian sofa and chairs that would have been a grandmother’s prized possessions. At least there was somewhere to sit.

Wrapped in a flannel robe and fleece-lined moccasins, she followed her nose to the kitchen. God love him, Barrett had unearthed their coffee pot and toaster from the depths of the trunk and set her mug beside a package of napkins, a sleeve of paper plates, and a package of Thomas’s English muffins. She peeked into the fridge, and yes! He had purchased cream cheese.

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A drawer held mismatched silverware and, to her amusement, no knives. Their sub-let friend in Manhattan had been right.

She carried her breakfast to the large maple table, the chairs facing an expansive view of the land. In the distance, several deer nibbled, and a V of Canada geese winged southward. Sitting on something soft, she discovered that Barrett had tied tufted seat cushions to side-by-side chairs. In front of the left one, he’d scribbled a note. “Gone to the office. Be back for lunch. There are deli cold cuts in the fridge and canned soup in the pantry. Just relax until I get home. XXOO” Pantry? She had a pantry? She returned to the kitchen and found a skinny closet that Barrett had packed with staples. She sighed. He was trying way too hard. She’d better get with the program before he scouted a divorce lawyer. *** “I’ve signed a minuscule month-to-month lease and paid first and last. That gives us sixty days to weigh our options.” Barrett pointed to the organized piles of paperwork that were becoming more jumbled as he jumped from topic to topic.

January interrupted his tour. “Two months should be ample for our attorney to sort out our affairs in New York. And I can demand what compensation they owe me, irrespective of any settlement.”

“We may need to stay a bit longer since most of our investments are tied up. The firm didn’t cut me a check upon departure, and our attorney’s having some challenges with your agency.”

She scowled. “Do not use the word challenges if you mean problems. I expect a check by the end of the month.”

“The ad agency’s attorneys are countersuing. They’ve presented a laundry list of your indiscretions.”

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“Isn’t that part of the game? Ask big and settle somewhere in the middle? That was our plan.”

“They not only don’t want to negotiate, but they’re holding you liable for certain losses.”

She smacked the table with her palm. “That’s outrageous!

What’s Luke Holmes doing about it? As our attorney, he has a vested interest in getting big bucks for me.”

“He’s upping the ante and threatening criminal charges against that principal partner, Bruce McCallum. That should get their attention. Look, January, your case is in capable hands.

Luke is confident that restitution will happen, but it will take longer than just cutting a check. Which brings me back to our living arrangements.”

He pulled relevant papers from another pile. “The owner of this house is anxious to sell it. We can rent, month to month, beyond sixty days if she hasn’t found a buyer.

I’ve been to the bank and have crunched some numbers.”

“Barrett! Accountants don’t crunch numbers. Bookkeepers crunch numbers. You taught me that yourself.”

“Same difference. If we pool our savings for a down payment and take a 30-year mortgage, we’d cut our rent in half. We take down that awful wallpaper, do a little painting, deal with the floors, and flip it.”

“Will the owner give us long enough to check other options?

Maybe get a contractor’s estimate to do the upgrades that we can’t handle? There are way too few outlets, and wiring isn’t for amateurs. I read that slogan on an electrician’s truck. Maybe there are housing developments. I could get a Realtor® and see what’s on the market rather than jumping at this.”

“That could be a good way to get underwater if we can’t buy cheap and sell high.”

“Won’t hurt to look.” She clicked on her cell phone. No bars.

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He pulled a list of internet providers and ticked through the list. “I’ll get on this if you’ll take our change of address cards to the post office.”

“Can’t we do that online?” She caught his smirk. “Oh. No bars. On it, but I’ll need the car.”

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15 Luck blessed Stanley Ballinski. Armed with a surprisingly long list of spring birthdays, the opportunity to search the accounting department presented itself. Even if diligent accountants stayed late, the cleaning crew’s rotation wasn’t scheduled until the following evening. His plan necessitated searching trashcans before birthday wrappings could disappear. Even if the recipient’s desk yielded no present, he could direct an operative to search the birthday boy’s home.

He killed the surveillance cameras on the target floor’s quadrant, entering the code to ignore the brief interruption into which he’d substitute a pre-recorded segment of the empty, dark department. That would camouflage the interruption to the second. He supposed that was overkill—the numbers’ jumping in an unoccupied space—but he couldn’t get sloppy. Wouldn’t it be awful if he were discovered by a staffer while crouching at a bottom file cabinet drawer and had to improvise?

Stanley crawled from cubicle to cubicle, sifting trash cans for discarded wrappers with gloved fingers, then opening and searching every desk and file drawer with master keys. Just when he thought his search was fruitless he saw a yellow Post-it note caught on the side of Barrett Lamont’s trash can. It screamed possibility. Peter’s handwriting said, “Do not open until your birthday.” He scowled at the birthday list. No Barrett Lamont.

Tomorrow he’d visit HR’s personnel files for Lamont’s DOB and address.

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*** “Ya missed one!” Stanley barked at the mob boss’s fixer who had escorted Peter Vaughn to New Jersey and supposedly forced a complete list of Peter’s coworkers and friends to whom he had given his password. “Barrett Lamont! He’s gotta be the one who hacked Peter’s files at 9:30 p.m. that evening and conspired with him to hide the goods. Go after Vaughn again. Find out this time who has the jade.”

Silence.

“You still there?”

“Had a little problem in Jersey. Evidently, our friend has some medical issues that predispose him to that small-print gibberish the attorneys make drug manufacturers admit.”

“And?” “We lost him.”

“What!”

A lengthy silence followed. “Find that guy Lamont. Get the package.” Another pause and a sigh and a laugh.

“I fail to see the humor in any of this.”

“Imagine the boss going to jail for tax evasion instead of his dealing in priceless stolen antiquities. Should have quit while he was ahead but with Vaughn such a tempting hostage-insider after we canceled his gambling debts.”

“It isn’t about greed. It’s the high-stakes thrill and feeling invincible.”

“Okay, Stan. You deal with the package and the cooked books.

Erase all duplicates. Let the boss pay the damned taxes. I’ll make sure he appreciates the lengths you’ve gone to on his behalf. And that your loyalty should be rewarded.” ***

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A cute little blonde with a pert ponytail knocked on the Lamonts’ former front door. The drowsy medical student rallied when he saw the pretty stranger on his doorstep.

“Barrett? I’m not sure you remember me….”

He grinned. “If I were Barrett, and I sure wish I were, of course, I’d remember you.” He smiled, extending his hand and trying to enunciate his complicated Romanian name for her in a memorable way. “Come on in anyway.”

She eased into the tiny apartment, giggling when he executed an attempt to clear several days’ worth of clothes, newspapers, and books from the threadbare couch. “Is he home?” she asked.

“Who?” “Barrett. Barrett Lamont.”

“Sorry. The previous tenant wasn’t him, and he’s long gone.

I sublet it from a friend of a friend after he moved away with his girlfriend. Think they’re doing post-docs in Germany. Can I offer you some wine? I’m afraid it comes from a box, but it’s not half bad by student standards.” Without waiting for an answer, he went to the kitchenette, found mismatched wine glasses, and washed them.

“It’s really, really important that I find Mr. Lamont. He owes me some money, and I really need it. Did he leave a forwarding address? Or have you received any mail addressed to him?”

“Nope to both. The previous tenant was a pharmacy student and a real neatnik. Could have eaten off the floors when I moved in, which, as you can see, is no longer an option.”

She took a sip of wine and tried not to grimace. “Do you have the last tenant’s address? I’d really appreciate it.”

“Might.” He pulled open a kitchen drawer and rummaged through scraps of paper, take-out menus, and miscellaneous business cards. “Here. He moved close to the morgue. I’ll write it down for you.” He tore the margin from a local newspaper and penciled a fictitious number that would be in the East River.

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“Thanks,” she said, setting her glass on the counter. “If anyone asks about me, please don’t rat me out. If he knows I’m trying to locate him, I won’t get my money back.”

“You know where I am, but could I have your number?” he asked as she opened the door and climbed the steps to street level.

“Sorry. Don’t have one. But maybe I’ll be back.”

“I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t pitch it.”

The medical student watched the young lady’s shiny ponytail bob to the rhythm of her bouncy steps as she neared the corner.

Momentarily a black Lincoln halted; a driver sprang to open her rear-passenger door and tuck her long coat in after her. Returning to his seat, the driver edged the incongruous car from the grimy neighborhood.

He watched as the taillights disappeared, not sure what to make of what had just happened, but felt unnerved nevertheless.

From his cell phone’s contacts, he located Luke Holmes, Esq. and dialed the Lamonts’ attorney. *** What does one wear, January contemplated, to impress a rural Realtor® whose specialty seemed to be residential for both renters and buyers? Her skimpy New York wardrobe yielded few choices and all of them black—leggings, a cashmere turtleneck, tall black boots, and her winter coat. She’d forego her customary winter knit cap to save her hairdo.

The Realtor® arrived promptly at eight and, declining January’s invitation for coffee, directed her into a silver Mercedes.

If business were that good, January mused, surely she could find their perfect new home. After navigating country roads back to the highway, then exiting into what looked like civilization, the Realtor® escorted January into the model home of a new condo community.

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“Just the thing for young couples,” she said. “Two thousand square feet, three bedrooms, two and a half baths, great room, dining room, designer kitchen, private patio, full basement.

This model has many upgrades, but if you choose one under construction, you can customize the options.” January was awed. The cathedral ceiling in the great room had windows that overlooked a golf course. The kitchen with Corian counters and pickled oak cabinets looked magazine photo-op ready. Hardwood floors peeked from Persian-style rugs, and the furniture was to die for. She sank into the bedroom carpets and ogled the bathrooms that were as big as their New York bedroom.

The Realtor® said, “This townhome is the largest; they are available in other sizes without sacrificing the elegant quality.

Let’s take a look at one that I think would be perfect.” The Realtor® motored past two cul-de-sacs and stopped at a unit with a for sale sign. By comparison, the interior seemed half the size, and January pushed her disappointment aside. They could wait for the house.

“How much is it?” January said, immediately regretting her choice of words, having never dealt with anything but rentals.

“Depending upon the options, the price of this model ranges from two-fifty to three-fifty. Oh! I’m terribly sorry not to have checked. As of this morning, this one’s under contract after a bidding war. Homes in this price range are flying off the market.”

What was that? Millions? Thousands? Payments? She hadn’t a clue but knew she was in over her head. “I was thinking of something a little less pricy. Something we could resell in a couple of years.” Or two months. “Or perhaps something to rent?”

“From what you said on the phone, I did some research and have a few rentals to show you. Are you sold on country living, or would a city rental be an option?”

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“Why don’t we swing through the neighborhoods with the rentals,” she said, not making January feel small or cheap to have not snapped up a luxury condo. “If you’ll share with me what you’re paying now and what you can afford, we can narrow the options.”

January’s heart sank as they swept through scary neighborhoods reminiscent of the condemned building they’d vacated in New York. A few 1970s bilevels, splits, and raised ranchers looked promising until the rent would be triple what they were now paying. “Would you be willing to walk through the house we’re renting with an option to buy? I’m wondering if we could fix it up and then flip it.”

January felt downright ashamed as she walked the Realtor® through the dismal house. “I could use that coffee now,” the Realtor® said, inspecting the new stainless-steel appliances.

“These are nice.” January brightened, setting the maple table with placemats, silverware, plates, and napkins.

“The acreage is lovely. Does the house come furnished if you buy it?”

“I didn’t ask. Why?” “That Victorian furniture could fetch a bundle. Try to get it thrown into the deal if the owner isn’t savvy about antiques.”

While they sipped coffee and nibbled store-bought pastries, the Realtor® ticked through the structure’s challenges: those that would need a contractor’s expertise, sweat equity, or a combination of both. As she was leaving, the Realtor® gave January several contractors’ cards. “I trust these guys who do good work and charge by time and materials.”

“You don’t think it’s awful?”

“This house has good bones and on four acres? It’s a steal.”

She smiled, turning as she stepped through the door. “A house is just brick and mortar until you make it a home. For me, that means touching every square inch and laughing a lot. Let me know how you make out and if I can help.”

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*** Later that day, January hadn’t driven five miles toward town when she saw the cop car’s blazing lightbar in her rearview mirror. She couldn’t imagine why the cop was pulling her over.

She eased onto the berm that bordered the hard-packed edge of dead corn stubble. He sat in his squad car entirely too long, tempting her to reach for the handle, but she chose to stay put.

She turned off the engine and opened the glove box where the registration and proof of insurance should be. She should have checked before this maiden voyage, but having not driven in years, it hadn’t crossed her mind.

The young cop, the brim of his cap pulled halfway to his chin, made the universal gesture to power down her window. “License, registration, and proof of insurance, miss.”

“Why did you stop me? I was practically crawling.”

“You were doing forty in a twenty-five-mile zone. Speed limits change as you enter town.” It was out of her mouth before she could stop herself, exclaiming in disbelief that she’d found the town.

“We just moved here on Sunday. I don’t know my way around.

Thanks for telling me. I’ll be more alert.” She held out her hand to retrieve her paperwork, but the cop was inspecting every character. She studied his face, which resembled a Marine in a made-for-TV movie. His crisp khaki uniform retained knifeedge creases, undoubtedly done by a commercial laundry. That reminded her of Manhattan and Barrett’s dress shirts saved in plastic bags for wealthy-client meetings.

“Your license has expired...”

She sighed. “I didn’t have a car in New York. I just used it for ID. I’ll put renewing it on my to-do list.” “…three years ago. If you plan to live here, you’ll have to apply for a Pennsylvania license.”

“Can I drive in the meantime?”

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“Sorry.” His scowl traveled back and forth from her license to the car’s registration. “Did Walter Farnham give you permission to drive his late wife’s car?”

January felt her face redden. “My husband didn’t steal it. It’s part of Walter’s deal with my husband, who’s going to be working for him.”

The cop tipped back his hat and beamed, shaking his head.

“I’m sorry. I should have guessed. You must be Junior’s wife!

That’s what he called his new partner.”

Junior? Partner? “Um, I guess so.”

“Ms. Gastineau,” he addressed her by her professional name on her license. “I’ll give you a warning and a note to take to the State Police barracks. They’ll expedite a permit subject to passing their test. I’ll give you directions.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Anything for Walter Farnham. He’s one institution this community could not do without.”

“What about all these errands? They’re important,” she said, holding up her pink cast. “I need to find the post office, a doctor’s office…”

He scribbled a note and ripped it from his pad. “First up— the State Police—go there directly.” That he emphasized with a no-nonsense glare. “…and a post office, and a doc’s office.” He handed her the directions, her paperwork, and a formal written warning.

“But—what if another cop stops me?”

“Lady, I’m it.” He straightened his hat. “Y’all have a nice day now,” he said in a mock Southern accent.

“I think I just did.”

After dealing with the State Police paperwork for a permit, January found the historic town’s main drag, parked centrally, and walked to the post office. An old man with a green visor looked at her change-of-address cards on which she had changed 109

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their attorney’s address to their new post office box. He glared over his reading glasses. “This used to be a nice Dutch town.”

January was too stunned to respond to her second encounter with a native. Back in her car, she followed Waze to an Ace hardware store located outside town among fallow cornfields.

Barrett had asked her to buy a padlock for the shed that housed the Deere. She approached an old clerk who looked like an expert to whom she confessed knowing nothing about locks. Handing her one that she hoped was appropriate, he mumbled, “We didn’t have to lock our doors until you folks started moving in here.”

Okay. So they didn’t like newcomers. That was no excuse to be rude. Back in town, she found the doctor’s office sign on a large Victorian brick house on the main drag. She entered. “Doc’s not taking new patients,” a woman in white greeted her without looking up. “He’s retiring.”

“I’m new in town and just need a referral to an orthopedist for this,” she said, holding up her pink-casted arm. At that moment, a storm that had been threatening all afternoon unleashed torrents. A wet spluttering man erupted through the front door.

He slammed it, glowering at January.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, shaking drops from his hooded jacket.

“I saw your sign and need to see a doctor about this,” she ventured, nodding to her cast again. “I need a referral.”

“No. What are you doing, moving into our town?”

She groped for an answer. “My husband’s work brought us here, and it looks like a nice place to live.” He scowled at her, wiping rain off his glasses and motioning her into his inner office.

He picked up her arm, turning it this way and that.

“You should see the other guy,” January attempted, which seemed to go over his head.

“When did it happen?”

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happened in such a short time. My employer’s managing partner decked me and fired me, my husband’s coworker was kidnapped, our apartment was vandalized, and these really rude people don’t want us here, and we—we—” January realized she was crying and couldn’t stop. She held up her arm. “I thought pink was a happy color.”

The doctor patted her shoulder in a grandfatherly way. “Sit down, young lady. Let’s have a look.” Carefully, he manipulated her forearm, nodded with satisfaction, and jotted a note on a prescription pad. “Go see this guy in the doctor’s office building at the hospital. My nurse can give you directions. I’ll give him a call and let him know you’re coming. I don’t suppose you have the X-rays with you.”

She shook her head. “That’s okay. We have those machines here in the sticks.” While she waited, he dialed and then told her they’d see her at five.

She got up to go. “Thank you. Do I pay out front for the visit?”

He handed her a few tissues. “No charge. Welcome to our town.”

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16 Unleashing the power of her anonymous burner, January made appointments with contractors—one whose secretary portrayed her CEO boss as cutting-edge elite and the other who answered against a backdrop of hammering and shouting. Mr. Corporate CEO would arrive on January’s doorstep at nine in the morning.

January peeked around makeshift curtains she’d found on a kamikaze raid through a Walmart and hung with rings and clips from existing rods. Like the Realtor®, the well-dressed contractor’s ride was a Mercedes. Either the local dealership had a fire sale, or the town’s housing gentry made mega bucks. Instinctively, she wished she’d dressed in something better than faded jeans and a Penn State sweatshirt.

She ushered him into the house. Flicking a disdainful look that encompassed the living room, dining area, and kitchen, he said, “Are you the new owner of—this?”

January took an instant dislike to the man. “Maybe. Maybe not. We’re renting with an option to buy. I want to know what’s involved with renovations should we decide on the latter.”

He glanced around again. “I don’t take just any job. It has to be worthwhile. What is it you want?”

“You’re the expert. I’ll give you a tour, and then you tell me what it needs.” It didn’t take fifteen minutes to cover the entire footprint, including the basement and a glimpse of the empty 112

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attic. Outside, he used what resembled opera glasses to scan the chimney and roof.

“I recommend gutting it, opening up the entire public area.

Tear it down to the studs—you have to do that anyway for complete rewiring, new central heat and air, replacing old plaster with drywall. I suppose the hardwood floors could be salvaged if vintage wood could be matched for the kitchen. New kitchen, new bathroom, and a second one. Having just one full bath is uncivilized.” At some point, January zoned out.

“How much are we talking about?”

“I do time and materials, not a fixed contract, but I do expect my foreman to bring in my projects on time and on budget.”

“That sounds encouraging. Best guestimate?”

“Depending on your choices, anywhere from one to two hundred thou.”

She blinked. In the middle of nowhere? I could have a new condo for that and pocket the sale of this land. “I’ll talk it over with my husband. We may want to renovate in stages.”

“Young lady, I do not do piecemeal, toggling together several contractors and do-it-yourselfers’ mistakes. Have homeowners said it was my work? Good heavens, no! I only do whole projects or historic renovations.” He snapped into a different personality, complete with a silkier voice. “My company also builds magnificent custom homes that would be the envy of your neighbors should you decide to tear down and start fresh.”

“Another consideration. I’ll have my secretary hang on to your card,” she fibbed, hustling him to the door and policing herself not to slam it. Then she dissolved in laughter at the thought of being the envy of anyone visiting the quarry. And if one more person calls me young lady… .

At one-thirty, a Ford F250 pulled into her driveway, and a bearded man in work clothes, suspenders, and Wolverine boots jumped out. He tipped his straw hat, introducing himself as Dean, the man with whom she’d spoken that morning. January 113

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liked him immediately, especially after Walter Farnham had sung his praises as a talented, honest Mennonite family man.

January explained their predicament—Rent? Buy? If the latter, how much would it cost to make it livable?

“Let’s start outside,” he said, motioning toward the barn.

“Wait a minute. I’ll get you my son’s barn boots.” She accepted the loan and slogged through her first tour of their squishy mud.

He smiled appreciatively at the three-stall horse barn and tool shed. “This has possibilities and adds greatly to the property’s value.”

They approached the house from the back. “That’s good,” he said, pointing to the roof. “Shingles can’t be more than four years old. Ridge vent is straight as an arrow. Now the chimney looks solid, but I’ll need a closer look.”

Once inside, he loosened the stuck damper with a hammer’s tap, which, when it relented, forced him backward as soot and creosote chunks tumbled onto the hearth. Returning, he examined the interior’s height with a flashlight.

“Before you have one single fire, get the chimney sweep in here. I’ll give you his name. If there’s anything wrong with the flue, he’ll let you know what’s involved with fixing it. In the meantime, whether or not you buy it, no fires until it is cleaned.

You probably wouldn’t until fall anyway. Sorry about the mess,” he added, flicking debris from his beard onto the hearth.

“Another guy said we should gut the interior. Make one big room out of half of the house.” By his stunned expression and bugged eyes that preceded a hearty laugh, she knew he concurred that was horseshit. “He said the walls needed replacing to rewire the house.”

“Let’s take a look at the breaker.” She led him to the basement, unsure where to find it. A fancy wood cover that reminded her of a medicine cabinet was hinged and included a pull knob. When the contractor opened it, he growled something she guessed was Pennsylvania Dutch.

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“First, this is a fire hazard: an old-fashioned fuse box. See that penny? When someone got tired of blowing fuses, they used a penny to keep the current flowing. That is so dangerous. Could have burned down the house. I’ll put a new fuse in today—I have spares in the truck—but use your small appliances one at a time until an electrician can rewire the house. And no, you don’t have to tear out the walls. New wires can be routed and dropped through the attic or up from the basement.”

At the table, the pair sat sock-footed, boots at the door, making lists in order of importance and the estimated costs.

“The owner will want to sell it ‘as is.’ You can agree to that, except for items that aren’t code. For instance, it’s not radon compliant, which the township requires when selling a house. We live on the Reading Prong, a seam of radon gas that runs under the Appalachian Mountains. It’s odorless and colorless.”

“Is it dangerous? Could it start a fire?”

“No, but it’s like smoking a pack a day. A specialist must install a pipe under each continuous concrete basement floor— you have only one—and install a vent pipe outside above the roofline. It’s powered by a small motor.

“The electrical wiring’s not code, and the water heater has no pressure-release valve.” He jotted several smaller items.

“Whoever did the roof failed to vent the bathroom exhaust to the outside; it’s in the attic.”

She sighed. “Sounds like it would be a poor investment.”

“Not at all. It’s a fine house. Solid foundation properly graded, brick exterior, dry basement, good roof, and all that land. Industry’s booming along the interstate, with housing in great demand. Most of what this needs, besides bringing it up to code, is cosmetic.”

“You don’t think we need to gut it—” “No. You can clean or paint the kitchen cupboards or buy surplus. Paint or paper, refinish the floors or buy warehouse carpet. Buy rolls of insulation for the attic—I’ll recommend how 115

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deep. Just wear respirators and gloves. You can hire me to handle what you shouldn’t, like wiring and plumbing, but I can send you to my wholesalers for fixtures at cost.”

“You’ll work piecemeal, as one fellow called it?”

“We build and remodel houses, too, but small jobs keep my crews busy when we can’t work outside.”

“The wallpaper must go.”

“That you can do yourself, but honestly? My wife would like it.” He circled the windows and penciled an X where detached curtain rods would find purchase in studs.

“He said we’d have to replace all the windows. Did you notice?

Two of the bedroom sashes are fogged.”

“Where the gases have deteriorated. For a fraction of the cost, I can order and install replacement sashes. New windows could wait for years.”

As he was leaving, he pointed to the driveway. “A fresh load of gravel will buy you time to decide if you want to pave it. Delivery will be cheap since the quarry is right down the road.”

As his truck eased away, January felt excited as she stabbed Barrett’s number into her phone. *** Peter Vaughn drifted toward consciousness, roused by the murmur of unfamiliar voices. In response to a moan that seemed to come from inside his head, the whispering stopped. He struggled to understand what they were saying but kept losing the thread. He drifted. The time that passed could have been moments or days as he woke up a bit.

Pressure. Someone was touching his arm. Although he could see nothing, that nothing was no longer absolute black. A swish of light penetrated his lids.

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voice sounded pleased. If only he could remember who they were or where he was—or even who he was. He panicked and thrashed, trying to force his mind, his eyes, and his mouth to work. Machines beeped, and running feet approached. Hot blood swooshed in his ears but seemed to cool after someone jostled his arm. His panic subsided. His mind refocused to locate the light where his parents had beckoned him. But all he experienced was nothingness. *** “Here are the items you suggested,” Peter Vaughn’s wife said, offering the detective a gallon zipper bag with her husband’s toothbrush, some strands of his hair, and a tissue she’d rescued from his wastepaper basket. She included a pair of stained jockey shorts. “I feared the worst and didn’t launder his clothes, just in case someone might need them. His DNA has never been tested that I know of, nor has he been fingerprinted for the military, a security clearance, or by the police.”

“His employer didn’t require his prints?”

“They did a low-level background check when they hired him, but that was some time ago. And he doesn’t handle money.”

She paused for a moment. “You’d have to ask them.”

“Mrs. Vaughn, if John Doe does turn out to be your husband, we’d like to keep his identity confidential until we investigate what happened to him. Could you hold off telling anyone besides family members you can trust to keep quiet?”

“Most people don’t know that he’s missing. I was embarrassed to tell anyone that he’d left me. His family is either dead or estranged because of his gambling addiction. And we don’t have young children. If I don’t follow up on my inquiries, I can keep it quiet.” She thought for a moment. “There is one person he trusted who would be worried and might shed some light on who 117

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kidnapped him. His name’s Barrett Lamont. They work together at the accounting firm.”

“Thank you for these. We won’t approach his employer until we compare DNA. And, if he regains consciousness, he can tell us himself what happened.”

“When. Not if.

He nodded. “Of course.” *** Panic gnawed in Stanley Ballinski’s gut. The police had inquired about Peter Vaughn’s security clearance and if the firm had his prints on file. No reason for the inquiry was offered. He spent the evening searching media outlets for a body found in the Pine Barrens. And he found it! A pair of young hikers had stumbled onto a body when moving a fallen log to makeshift a place to sit down. The events had unfolded, as expected, with the John Doe transported to the morgue.

Stanley didn’t like it. Properly buried, that body should not have surfaced, decomposing into the elements until the next century. Somebody, however, had taken a shortcut, not digging the grave deep enough to discourage scavengers. Of course, the cops would scroll the missing-persons databases and find Peter Vaughn MIA. Once identified, they’d follow his movements backward. It was time to fast forward. *** The detectives interfaced with hospital administrators and security, sharing the challenge du jour. “We know his name, thanks to DNA analysis, but we need to keep it confidential.

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place, and we’re posting a guard twenty-four-seven. A rotation of officers will pose as family and friends inside his room.”

His doctor concurred. “If he needs surgery or a procedure that cannot be performed in his room, then his transport will be escorted by security personnel whom we recognize on sight.”

“What about the press? Any chance the word’s gotten out?”

The administer said, “Everyone from the medical examiner, his student, the ER staff, and peripheral personnel who were aware of the situation are onboard from HIPAA to hospital protocol. Any leaks will be dealt with swiftly and severely.”

“What about his wife? She’s insisting on seeing him. How are we going to handle that?”

A nod to the security chief gave him the floor. “She gave me the location where she is hiding. I’ll give her a set of hospital scrubs and bring her to his room by a secure entrance. She’ll join the officer who’s protecting him. We’re hoping her presence will bring him around, and we’re counting on his trusting her with what happened and why. *** Barrett Lamont presented his wife with a bottle of her favorite chardonnay, which luckily, the PA state store carried. In the third cupboard he tried, he found their wedding flutes and held them up for her approval. She beamed. “I hope this means you had as good a day as I did.”

He located a corkscrew and popped the cork. “You go first.” He poured, they clinked glasses, and then carried them to the Victorian loveseat in the living room. Even in small sips, Barrett drained his glass as she burbled the uncut version of her adventures with the Realtor® and two contractors.

“And—” she concluded, “I think we should buy it, renovate, and flip it. What do you say?”

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“When you start your summary with a coordinating conjunction, I know my approval is superfluous. You’ve made my news easy. Our landlord has decided to sell, not continue renting after sixty days. So—” “Then we can do it? Why didn’t you stop me?”

“A, because you’re so cute when you’re on a roll, and B, I wanted to hear how I didn’t need to worry about finding a contractor.”

“I’d say, ‘let’s go out to dinner and celebrate,’ except that A, the closest thing to fine dining is a pizza joint ten miles away, and B, we don’t have a fine dining budget.’”

“Seriously,” Barrett changed direction, “We need to concentrate on the best possible deal for the house. I’ll tell the bank we’re interested in that mortgage. We’ll meet with your contractor, Dean, to price the renovations. That way, we’ll know how much to borrow.”

January tipped her flute in agreement. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I call our landlord and act as if we’re over the moon about her decision to sell? Tell her how much we love it, and that we’d like to talk price as soon as possible. If she mentions a figure, I won’t comment. Let her enjoy the luxury that she’ll be unloading her white elephant. Then, when she offers her great deal, almost as an afterthought, we disclose the cost of code remediation that needs subtracting.”

Barrett scowled. “Wait. What if another bidder surfaces and is in play? We can’t afford a bidding war. Someone with a couple of horses and big bucks to throw at renovating the house. Hell, raze it and build a McMansion to go with the horses.”

“Let’s just try it. I’m game if you are.”

“Most of the work will fall on you while I’m bringing Walter’s accounting firm into this century.”

“Not a problem. I’ll get it livable, find a job to pay Dean, and advertise for our own renters or a buyer when it’s safe to return to New York.”

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“Before you get carried away with creating a Taj Mahal, remember we only have our combined six-month’s emergency income to work with. We swore, from day one, not to squander what’s left of our parents’ legacy. I swear I can hear my dad’s mantra, ‘One does not live on one’s capital.’ And cashing our investments in this down market and liquidating our 401(k) s would trigger massive tax ramifications that we’d have to pay now.”

“All right! No Persian rugs. But we can use the settlement from my agency for the down payment, okay?”

“I’ll work up a spreadsheet.”

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17 Under cover of darkness, the operative watched Peter Vaughn’s house from a nondescript black sedan with mudsplattered plates. The minute his wife exited her home with a suitcase and a terrified expression, he knew he was right. The cops might be keeping Vaughn’s whereabouts a secret, but the public’s right to know did not muzzle the press. After hikers found the dead body, the operative cast a wide net about its identity.

And when nothing popped, he concentrated on hospital insiders.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! The boss must have used his low-life kids to dump Vaughn’s body.

From his place down the street, he observed a plainclothes cop bundling the missus into a nondescript ride, stowing her suitcase while casting furtive glances that a civilian might miss.

The operative followed at a distance which, as anticipated, led to a cheap motel that catered to traveling salesmen and afternoon trysts.

He felt safe, obscured at a perpendicular side street, giving the wife time to settle after the cop drove away. Where could she go without wheels? The adjacent diner, of course. And sure enough, within thirty minutes, she locked her door and hustled for its safety. With high-power binoculars, he watched the kid behind the reception desk. Five minutes later, the kid adjusted a sign on the door that read BACK IN 30 MINUTES. He jogged diagonally to the next block and entered a bar.

Perfect!

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Security, as expected, was non-existent. The operative jimmied the lock with one single motion. He pivoted and scanned the desktop PC, clicked registrations, and found the last entry. A Jane Black, bogus-sounding address somewhere in Wisconsin, had paid cash for three days. Home sweet squat. The operative swabbed all traces of his visit and walked two blocks east, one south, and one west to his car at the mouth of the side street opposite the motel. He slurped hot coffee and ate a cellophanewrapped turkey sandwich while he waited.

An hour later, the delivery cop returned, doing that silly fiverap signal on Ms. Jane Black’s door. She practically bolted onto the walkway. Wouldn’t it be a hoot if her neighbors thought she was having an affair with this loser? He didn’t need to trail them all the way to a hospital—just long enough to confirm in which one he’d find Peter Vaughn, a.k.a. Mr. Black. Peter had a lot of explaining to do—like where the hell was the merchandise? *** Peter Vaughn stirred and followed her voice with his mind.

With excruciating effort, he forced his eyes open. He wasn’t dead!

Focusing on her, he moaned a smile, tears spilling and trickling into his ears. “Oh, my dearest,” he whispered. “I thought I’d never see you again. And then I died….”

The police officer, dressed in nursing whites, rose from the visitor’s chair. “I’ll be right outside.”

“What happened? Who did this to you?”

He cleared his raspy throat and pointed to the water glass with built-in straw and pitcher. She poured and held it for him.

“It’s okay if you never want to see me again,” he stuttered. “You can have anything you want. But I swear to you, on my family’s souls, I will never, ever gamble again.”

“Did the people you owed money come after you? How did they expect payment?”

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He flopped his head back and forth. “No. It’s something else.

In exchange for canceling my debts, I altered some accounts.

That’s a felony, so they owned me if I ever told anyone. Then my contact had a different job for me. I thought it sounded safer. Less criminal. I was to meet some guy at a coffee shop with a large briefcase, and he’d slip me a package. I’d keep it at the office until someone else called for a client meeting. I’d take the package and give it to the new person. Then the sequence repeated, over and over.”

“What was in the package?”

“I was told to never unwrap it—that they’d know. I was terrified that it was a bomb. But they assured me it wasn’t dangerous or explosive.”

She made sweeping motions to the expansive equipment and his bandaged body. “If you did whatever they wanted, why this?”

“I panicked when Barrett Lamont tried to help me with my delinquent reports. I’d been so rattled I couldn’t think straight.

He figured I’d used one of his old passwords, found the cooked books, and copied the doctored files. It was just a matter of time until my crimes were discovered and I’d be arrested. And I had one of those parcels in my possession—I took it home for safe keeping and couldn’t resist. I opened it.”

The officer/nurse re-entered the room. “Changing of the guard,” she quipped.

“Can you give us a minute?” Peter’s wife asked. “It’s important.”

“All right, but a pair of us at your door will look suspicious.”

“Please,” Peter whimpered.

“Okay. But wrap it up.”

“What was it, Peter? In the package?”

“I’m no expert, but the contents were exquisite. Jade, I think. Figurines. Like you’d see at a fine jeweler’s or a museum or in National Geographic. And priceless gems. I re-wrapped it, terrified of what was about to happen. Being busted for whitecollar crime was one thing, but being at the mercy of underworld 124

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thugs? I didn’t know how much time I had and didn’t want to get caught with what I guessed was stolen. I mailed it to someone I trusted in birthday wrappings, not to be opened until August.”

The new officer entered the room, accompanied by the wife’s escort. “Time to go, Mrs. Black. You’re not safe here.”

She bent to her husband’s ear and whispered, “Who’d you send it to?”

“If they figure that out, they’ll kill him for it.”

“Mrs. Black—” She turned angry eyes at the cop and barked. “Stop! I’ll say when it’s time.” The officer backed into the hall. She bent close to his mouth to catch his utterance.

“I am so sorry,” he sobbed. “It’s going to get ugly for you—the publicity—but I must tell the police. Confess. Make things right.

Tell Barrett Lamont to tell the police about the accounting scam.

And that it goes to the top of the firm. I don’t care what happens to me, but I never intended to harm anyone else. Or to embarrass you. Your family was right all along.”

“Silly man. I love you. Concentrate on healing. We’ll get through this. Together.”

“I don’t deserve you.”

“I know. But that’s okay.”

Out in the hall, Peter’s wife impaled her escort with a nononsense glare. “Take me directly to the detectives who assigned you to my husband’s case. He’s terrified but determined to expose who did this to him—and why.” *** The owner of their rental, her Realtor®, the banker and his notary, the Lamonts, and Walter Farnham, for moral support, convened around the banker’s polished board table. Everyone went through the motions of reading the fine print, pens at the ready. “I believe everything’s in order,” the Realtor® said, directing 125

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them to various lines where stick-on acetate red arrows indicated to sign.

Barrett frowned. “The asking price doesn’t include certain figures that should be subtracted.”

The owner scowled. “Like what?”

Barrett addressed the Realtor® passing her a document he’d researched from township records. “You forgot the cost of radon remediation. Here.” He handed her Dean’s estimate for venting the dangerous gas. “It’s code. You can’t sell a property in this township without its being in compliance.”

“He’s right. You’ll have to fix it or pay them to do so if they agree,” Walter added.

“I, ah, didn’t know about that,” the owner conceded. “Okay.

Subtract that from the total. I don’t want to fiddle with it myself.

I want this done ASAP.” “Thank you,” Barrett murmured, sounding grateful. “While we’re on the subject, there’s another challenge—the wiring’s not code. The obsolete fuse box is a fire hazard. And the water heater lacks a pressure-relief valve. Afraid that’s code too.”

The room fell pin-drop silent.

“We’re not trying to hold you up; I promise,” January ventured.

“We love the house and are so excited about living in it. We’re not asking for a decorating allowance. We just want to be safe, not be burned crispy, or have the township and our homeowner’s insurance on us for code violations.”

The owner flipped her pen in the air and caught it. “I should have had a reputable inspector go through it when I inherited it. Penny wise, pound foolish. I just wanted a weekend hangout and a place to stable my horses.” The Realtor® was squirming as if knowing her percentage was dwindling line by line. “What else you got? I have no intention of sticking you with code violations.”

With apologies, lesser items were discussed and deleted from the total. They’d meet again the following day to sign and seal the deal.

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It didn’t take January long to realize their mortgage down payment would gobble their emergency savings. They could eke out groceries and incidentals if they were careful, but there was no wiggle room for renovations, much less an emergency. The idea of pillaging her long-term investments was abhorrent. She needed that settlement check. And while she waited, that meant finding a job. Fast!

Alone, she soothed her anxieties by inspecting their castle.

She would scrub every neglected square inch. Patch and sand cracks in the plaster. Paint the interior—how much could that cost? She lovingly rolled white ceiling paint in each bedroom, then painted their bedroom walls with a color she’d pulled from their beautiful quilt.

By week two, she had exhausted what she could do without a fresh infusion of cash. She refused to run up credit card debt with its shark-infested waters and only Barrett’s salary to make payments.

She flopped on the Victorian loveseat her predecessor hated.

Having no idea of its value, the seller had asked them to dispose of the wretched old junk as a personal favor. Sell it? No way. It transported her back to her grandmother’s parlor and the dear soul whose silver and cut glass waited in storage. January smiled at the connection. She wasn’t depressed—no gray, inexplicable cloud enveloped her. All her life, she’d thrived on an overbooked schedule. And people! Her nature flourished on the energy she derived from human contact.

From her perch on the loveseat, she faced reality. She was lonely and bored. She needed to work. No, define that as making a career move. She’d be an asset to any advertising agency. They needn’t know until it happened that she was a short-termer.

A quick search of the newspaper’s Help Wanted Professional ads yielded nothing remotely appropriate. Doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief—no, make that chef. She giggled. Maybe she could apply for a pharmacist assistant and draw a paycheck 127

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until they figured out she didn’t have the credentials. Manage a pet store, operate a daycare, computer repair specialist, ugh!

Maybe ads for advertising professionals never made it into the newspaper.

She googled advertising agencies within a twenty-mile radius and found only two. Okay—she just needed one offer that would yield sufficient income to feather her nest. And while she was at it, from the Bureau of Commerce and Industry’s directory, she located the county’s major employers and, with a few phone calls, found contact information for their personnel offices, a.k.a. human resources. Surely these people needed advertising professionals. She made calls, charming her way into four interviews, two the next morning and two in the afternoon.

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18 The operative seized the opportunity. Rather than take a crack at a defenseless and presumably well-guarded patient, he’d ransack Peter Vaughn’s house for the missing treasures. Arriving in Peter’s 1920s neighborhood, he slowed at the intersection long enough to scope out the street. A tunnel of mature sycamores graced the well-maintained properties and hid vintage streetlights, some of which were unlit. Substantial two-story homes of individual design predated McMansion eyesores and had integral one-car garages. Two lanes, curbs and sidewalks, kids’ toys and bikes discarded on lawns. Parallel parked cars, one for each licensed driver, replaced an era of one car per family.

None of the cars betrayed a huddled occupant eying his target’s house.

He eased onto the parallel street and found parking. The neighborhood slept with no bluish light advertising bingewatching night owls. Separating these properties from the Vaughns’ grew a hedge row of dense arborvitae. Dressed in flat black, he eased from his ride that betrayed no dome light. No security alarms or houselights alerted homeowners as he cut between the houses and through the hedgerows that delineated the township’s right of way. He parted the bows and took a tentative step into the Vaughns’ backyard and scoped the ground with night-vision goggles for telltale tufts of grass. No dog. He proceeded.

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The door to an add-on sunroom wasn’t locked, nor was the interior door. Stupid people. If his calculations were correct, he’d have the place to himself until dawn, but his mission shouldn’t take nearly that long, and he didn’t want nosey neighbors to notice an unfamiliar car. A systematic search of the first and second floors, including possible false-bottom drawers, hidey holes under rugs, or boxes stowed in the far reaches of closets, yielded nothing.

In the attic, an old steamer trunk and moving cartons were coated with dust, and the basement was no handyman’s dream.

The large open area was the missus’ domain—a quilting frame with work in progress, sophisticated sewing machines, and a computerized system for hand-wrought-looking stitches—filled the space. Every neatly lettered plastic box held exactly what was expected.

Not trusting Peter Vaughn to have told his wife anything, he inspected every possible place of concealment, including the freezer and open bookshelves, thinking Peter might have hidden the artwork in plain sight—as if anyone might confuse antiquities with carnival souvenirs. A single chirp caught his attention. April—and with it, the start of nesting season, which momentarily would awaken an avian chorus and human early birds. The operative did not exit disappointed, however, being convinced that Peter Vaughn had a partner. *** The girl with the perky blonde ponytail smiled and gave the receptionist at January’s former agency a thousand-watt smile.

“Hey!” The young mother looked up, annoyed by that non-greeting that young twenties should have left back in high school. “What can I do for you?”

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“I’m trying to locate my friend January Lamont? She said she worked here? Said to stop by when I arrived? Her cell phone isn’t working, and I don’t have her home address?” She batted her eyelashes as if another female would be remotely impressed.

“I’m not permitted to give out personal information.” The receptionist was tempted to give blondie what she wanted following January’s nasty threat to sue her, but anything she used to know was obsolete. And a dire threat hung in the agency’s air about any slip that might influence an ongoing lawsuit. Rankand-file employees who valued their jobs pretended to know nothing.

“Oh, dear,” she sniffled, working up real tears. “It’s important.

She said I could stay with her while I hunted for an apartment.

And now I have nowhere to go.”

The receptionist dug in a file, tempted to tell the kid to stop making everything she said sound like a question. That was so annoying! “Here. Start with this list of commuter hotels that are supposed to be safe.” The girl instinctively reached for the paper, dabbing her eyes. Nice trick, the receptionist thought, noting that she was wearing waterproof mascara for the performance.

“Do you have a public restroom I can use?” The receptionist pointed to a door to the left of the elevator bank. “Thanks.”

She hurried inside and found a sophisticated-looking middleaged woman wearing way too much makeup and a red suit. She worked up a few more tears.

The startled professional bit. “My dear, what is the matter? Is there something I can do for you?”

“I was supposed to go to my friend January Lamont’s apartment, but her phone isn’t working, and I don’t have her new address. You don’t happen to know her, do you? She said she worked here, but the girl out there refused to help me. I think she knew but blamed it on some silly rule.”

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Jessica Gruber suppressed a grin. It was obvious that this little ploy was lame—that she was not who she pretended to be.

If this friend couldn’t track January down, maybe January didn’t want to be found. “You might try her attorney, Luke Holmes. He should have her contact information.”

“Thanks! Really appreciate it!”

“Let’s keep this conversation between us girls, okay? We have surveillance cameras by the desk, in case you didn’t notice, and you wouldn’t want to be caught in, ah, shall we say, a compromising situation?” The girl gave her a thumbs up and fled. *** Ponytail metamorphosed into a middle-aged cleaning woman, complete with a worn uniform and grungy sneakers.

She slipped into Attorney Holmes’ waiting room, looking like someone who didn’t belong. Rain dripped from her gray wig, and her coat wafted the scent of industrial disinfectant. Luke’s secretary made eye contact and smiled as if she were their most important client arriving on time for a meeting. Stranger relationships had started that way. Rather than asking, “May I help you?” she said, “How may I help you?”

The cleaning woman stole furtive glances as if expecting to be nabbed by the mental-health police at any moment. Slowly, she pulled a manila envelope from under a man’s threadbare overcoat. “You’re January Lamont’s attorney.” A statement, not a question. “You need to send this to her.”

“I can’t verify that she’s—” “She’s in a lot of trouble. Folks at that agency think I’m too dumb to hear, but I know plenty. One of them women who can’t do this herself told me to give this to Mr. Holmes.” She flapped the envelope. “She said to tell him to forward it to her. Do not look inside.”

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The secretary frowned. “If I accept this, that verifies that she is our client, and I can’t do that.”

“Look here, sweetie. January’s in danger. Her friend at the agency is risking her job and mine to get this to January. Just send it to her.” She turned on her heel and disappeared, leaving the secretary staring at January Lamont’s scribbled name.

“What was that all about?” Luke Holmes asked, having eavesdropped on the strange conversation.

“I’m guessing someone at the ad agency has insider information and paid that old woman to get it to her without implicating either of them. She insisted that we not look inside.

What do you want me to do with it?”

“Since we’re already forwarding the Lamonts’ mail to Pennsylvania, let’s add it to the pile. When I speak to her, I’ll suggest that she keep an eye out for it. That it might be sensitive material.”

Ponytail, knowing she had thirty minutes until the mailman made his run, strode to her car parked several blocks away. She ditched the overcoat under which she wore the uniform of the USPS. She circled the block and waited until the truck arrived.

When the postal employee entered and emerged from the lawyer’s building with his plastic container of mail, she started the engine and followed him to his next destination.

As he entered that building, she double parked and jumped through his passenger-side door, found and riffled through the attorney’s outgoing mail. Spotting the envelope she had edged in red marker, she grabbed it and snapped a photo of the Lamont’s forwarding address. She was back in her car within twenty seconds, long before the mailman returned.

Ponytail sped away, weaving a circuitous pattern until she was sure nobody followed her. She parked and scrolled to her last photo. And sure enough, PLEASE FORWARD TO: was politely added to January’s name, complete with her Pennsylvania 133

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address. “Gotcha!” she muttered. One inconvenient problem, she reported to her contact, was its being a post office box, but that simply meant a little more legwork in Pennsylvania.

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19 Rather than risk a scary-looking freight elevator in the belly of the former garment factory, January hoofed four flights to the top. Ancient hardwood floors testified to centuries-old glory when manufacturing had boomed. She followed a corridor along floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city’s declining neighborhoods. Within the massive footprint, interior offices had been constructed like a box within a box. After rounding the third corner, January found a wide entryway where a girl at a computer worked, surrounded by mounds of papers. She looked up.

“Hi. I’m sorry to disturb you. I’m looking for Rita.” The young lady, who looked like a temp, jumped to her feet. She stumbled into her stilettoes, smoothing a jean skirt that barely covered her butt, and straightened the seams of a skin-tight sweater.

Regaining her composure, she motioned for January to follow her.

The HR director’s office would be the envy of any cubicle staffer, twenty by twenty with natural daylight. Florescent lights hung on chains from steel beams, popular in upscale city restaurants. “Let’s sit over here,” Rita said, motioning January to an enormous table on which she had set carafes of coffee and hot water, mugs, iced water and glasses, assorted herbal tea bags, a plate of delicate pastries, and cocktail napkins. “I was so glad you called. It’s been ages since I met a real New Yorker. What made you decide to move here?”

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“I married a country boy. And after a few years in the city, well—” She chuckled. “So now you’re in transition. Please. Show me what you brought.”

January unzipped her large leather portfolio and started with Richard and Marvin’s work. She loved this woman who didn’t try to disguise her genuine appreciation for her work. January flipped to a synopsis of her marketing plans and preliminary sketches for television ads.

“Wow. If you’d come along ten years ago, maybe the owners wouldn’t have moved to the Carolinas. I checked our open positions after you called, and we have a great opportunity for someone like you. The company is rebranding, emphasizing Made In America since market research indicates people who love our line would pay more for American-made goods. And that means a major investment in marketing our brand as well as our fashions. I can hardly wait to tell the president about your work.”

Bingo! January was elated. Not only could she practice her profession, but if all the staff were as lovely as this person—” “If you’ve just arrived, like you said on the phone, that’s a good thing, assuming you haven’t unpacked your boxes. Or you can have your mover store your things until you find a place to live in Greensboro.”

“I’m not familiar with the area yet, but we did find a house to rent. So I’m not looking for a development. What part of the county is Greensboro in?”

A moment of stunned silence followed until Rita recovered.

“Oh! I am so sorry. Greensboro is in North Carolina, where the corporate offices moved years ago. Our marketing and advertising functions are located there.”

“Ah—do you have anything a little more local?” January asked, trying to mask her disappointment with a joke.

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“I am so sorry, but no. I didn’t understand you weren’t available to relocate. However, if you’ll leave your contact information with me, I’ll do a little networking on your behalf. Even though we’re not a large city, we do have sophisticated entrepreneurs. Let me give you my card, too. And please keep in touch.”

January risked the freight elevator, barely remembering how she located her car as she tried to shut down the sad little voice in her head and shift mental gears. Her next appointment was with a battery manufacturer in the far northern reaches of the county.

By the time she arrived, she had better reboot her enthusiasm.

At least she was meeting interesting people and was out of the birdcage. She located visitor parking and claimed a badge at the front desk.

The corporate offices in which HR, marketing, and advertising were located were surprisingly sophisticated for a company that didn’t market to walk-in clientele. She’d researched them online, thinking flashlights and watches, and was stunned by the size and scope of industrial batteries. She could learn anything she needed to know to design winning advertising campaigns.

The HR director, rather than doing a formal interview, escorted her directly to the employee who had posted the opening. He jumped from his chair, circling his desk, extending his hand as he approached her. “Please. Have a seat. And thank you for thinking of us. In case you missed the PR pitch, we’re one of the largest employers in the tri-county area, and our retention rate is unsurpassed. In fact, we have employees who are secondand third-generation. We’re proud of them, our products, and our safety record. But enough bragging. Tell me about yourself.

What are you hoping to find?

Money to remodel my kitchen. My bath. Refinish the floors. Pave the driveway. Landscaping! Maybe an addition with a sunroom. A master suite. A second car. This time a new one! “The opportunity to use my advertising and marketing education and experience to promote and enrich my employer’s goals and opportunities.”

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The man grinned. “Well-put. I like that. Your enthusiasm will go far.”

She measured the man who could have been an accountant.

Flat-top haircut, clean shaven, black-rim glasses, starched white shirt, bland striped tie, nondescript gray jacket parked on the back of his chair. She glanced at his wall: BS in mechanical engineering; Master’s in metallurgy. Oh dear, from Ohio State, a Tau Beta Pi. Portrait of family displayed on his bookshelf. This guy was the real deal.

“I marked some campaigns in my portfolio to show the breadth of my ability. Of course I have nothing from your competitors, but I have designed campaigns for industrial products. I thought this one in particular would make you smile because part of my challenge is creating new markets. This company invented, believe it or not, a better mousetrap. But, more importantly, they manufacture humane traps.”

He smiled, nodding appreciatively at her approach. “The position I need to fill deals with industrial clients. The typical clients are blue-collar guys and their families who built their companies ground up but who still identify with their own. Did you study any of the physical sciences? These days, our clients are highly educated and expect to converse with our salespeople in technical terms.”

The question caught her off guard. She’d squeaked through math, earning a tortured A, and loved organic chemistry. But physics? Engineering? Advanced mathematics? No way. He explained. “Rather than advertising, I need a salesman who can talk batteries with the customers. That rules out a crash course or a public relations specialist. ” “I sense that, although you’re legally and corporately not allowed to mention gender, that ‘someone’ would have a physical science degree or would have come up through male ranks,” she said.

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“We promote from within, whenever possible. More to the point—our market isn’t retail. I wish my opening were perfect for you. I do, however, have someone I’d like you to meet. But first, let me give you the nickel tour of the plant, then I’ll introduce you to our Director of Community Relations.” He shepherded her through the outer office, telling his administrative assistant, “I’ll be back in an hour.”

“I’ll leave you in her capable hands,” the engineer said after introductions were made. The Community Relations Director escorted January to a well-appointed break room and insisted she join her for refreshments. An icy spring water hit the spot in January’s parched mouth.

“Except in the outer offices, I didn’t see many women.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised how many young ladies are graduating with engineering degrees these days. The generation of girls who were discouraged from taking math and science is now giving the old guys a run for their money. Still, the production crew is mostly guys because of the physical demands. Is that your portfolio? I’d love to see what you brought.”

After her host wiped a large lunch table with paper towels, January slid the zipper that spread the left and right sides of the laminated pages like an open book. January was delighted that the woman studied every photo, drawing, and advertising slick for a half dozen campaigns. “You are truly talented! I wish we were in a different line of work. You’d be hired in a heartbeat.”

“That’s very kind.”

“I’m serious. Your challenge is being a big fish in a little pond.

Maybe your forte could be doing campaigns for small businesses.

But, to get your foot in the door, I have a thought. My specialty is community relations—to be a good neighbor. Our community thrives on our hard-working nonprofits that don’t have big bucks to hire talent. Years ago, women ran the community, but today they keep their jobs even after they have children. So, professionals who can donate a few hours ingratiate themselves 139

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and get noticed, which leads to jobs. Why don’t you leave your contact information with me? If I hear of opportunities that mesh with your credentials, I’ll be sure to get in touch.”

Two down, two to go, January mused as she headed across the county, stopping for a quick bite at a diner on the highway.

Settled in a booth so deep that she needed to perch on the edge, her ear picked up foreign accents. It wasn’t French, Italian, or Spanish. She eavesdropped as she munched a BLT. One guffawed and said something that sounded like “git awt naw.”

She stole a peek at two of the largest men she’d ever seen. In fact, one of them would make two of her. Having finished platters of hot roast beef sandwiches and vegetables, each large enough to feed a family of four, they were devouring homemade pie with double scoops of vanilla ice cream. New Yorkers were so skinny by comparison. Without cars, they walked everywhere, even for blocks to catch public transportation. She didn’t even know if there was such a thing here.

She glanced at her watch—time to go. In the lot, she unlocked her car, and as she straightened to climb in, her peripheral vision caught movement—a man or a shadow—but when she focused in its direction, the image was gone. Curious, she closed the door and approached the diner’s door as if she’d forgotten something.

No one was around, and the sluggish door was not trying to close. Turning, she scanned the lot, spotting nothing but empty vehicles. She tried to ignore the creepy sensation, but her skin crawled nevertheless. Quickly, she jumped into the Honda, locked it, and cranked the engine. Business at hand, she scolded herself and sped to her next appointment.

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20 At one-thirty, she arrived at the Fox Advertising Agency, which was located west of the city in a well-kept older neighborhood that was a residential-commercial mix. Original homes on the main drag, built in the twenties, now housed professional offices. Once-vacant lots had sprouted brick-fronted commercial structures. Fast-food and specialty restaurants and shops dotted the gaps in between. January climbed a half-dozen concrete steps, opened the door, and was announced by a jingling bell.

Immediately the intoxicating smell of art supplies swept her into her happy place.

A lovely mid-thirties woman in wearable art rose to meet her. From her perfect features, soft shoulder-length curls, and understated makeup, she could have been New York aristocracy at a top agency. “Thank you for making time for me to meet Mr. Fox.” She grinned. “That would be Andy. Mister’s retired. I’ll take you back to his lair.” What had once been a very large home, its architecture reminded January of the Salmagundi Club on New York’s Fifth Avenue. Unlike the Club, the interior had been partitioned for practical purposes. The walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with decades of memorable campaigns. Andy emerged from the depths, wiping his hands on a rag.

“I’d shake your hand, but—.” He laughed, shaking his head.

He called over his shoulder to his lovely assistant.

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“I know,” she responded. “I’ll call him again. But you know what he’ll say—‘You need a new one.’”

“What this town needs is some serious competition. Oh well.

I am so sorry for the rude introduction to our little shop. I’ll be right back after some soap and water. Why don’t you have a seat over there,” he said, pointing to an enormous oak table that looked like a library rescue.

By this point, January had her pitch down to soundbites, but she had quickly learned that locals were not New York fast. Even if there was no business to transact, getting acquainted followed gentle protocol. She was armed with a series of compliments about their beloved county, which did not include a middleof-nowhere reference. She set her zippered portfolio aside and prepared to ignore it until she was asked.

“So,” he began. “How do you like us so far?” That, she now knew, did not mean them personally. For the multiple generations that lived here, inhabitants were still one big family, dating to the earliest settlers.

“It’s beautiful, and the people are so friendly,” she fibbed. “And so much land! I’ve lived in large cities all my life, but I actually ran into someone I knew after being here for three weeks. And they remembered me. I’m going to love it here.”

“What do you miss most?”

“Little bakeries on every corner. No matter which neighborhood you live in, you can find anything you need within a few city blocks. And, with public transportation, no need for a car. But driving all over the county is such a treat. I swear I can hear the leaves and flowers budding.”

“Got just the thing for you.” Andy sprang from his seat and returned a minute later, setting a paper placemat in front of her with a flourish. Was it tea time? Andy pulled a Sharpie from his pocket and put a large dot on assorted squares, which she realized were ads for restaurants. “Round here, folks eat out 142

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Friday nights. Get your husband to take you to any of these. And here—bakeries. Of course, you’ll have to drive.”

“Was this placemat your project?”

He laughed. “Here’s what you need to know about business around here—it works hand in glove with the nonprofits. First, the Bureau of Commerce invites the new business owner to lunch, then to a community event as their guest. He’s introduced to potential customers who are involved in the community. Then he’s invited to attend a Commerce meeting at which like-minded members ask him to join. That, his little voice whispers, is good for business.

“When he joins, he’s offered an array of committees that need his experience. The ol’ head swells. He’s important. And needed.

And, as he makes friends, the importance of their commitment makes sense. So, of course, he’s happy to design and print their placemats and, the following year, to recruit additional sponsors.

“So, Ms. Lamont, give serious thought to community involvement but screen the options for what fits you personally.

Some of our finest community leaders will be poised to drag you kicking and screaming to their pet project. You must be selective, or you’ll be overwhelmed.”

She couldn’t help smiling, reflecting on her own experience— like that failed Special Olympics meeting. “My husband’s an accountant. In New York, he was involved in helping nonprofits, like pet rescues, set up their businesses as 501(c)(3)s. For him, it was easy, and of course, he didn’t charge them. Their unexpected gratitude made him very happy.”

Andy chuckled. “Don’t worry if you don’t have something in mind. It will find you!” He handed her the placemat and told her to keep it. He numbered the bakeries with a pen.

“That your portfolio? May I have a look?” Campaign by campaign, January walked Andy through her work, pacing

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herself to indulge his side trips. No sound bites here. Finally, he asked something she couldn’t answer.

“What software did you use for this artwork?”

She hedged. “Our Art Department created the final work, but the concept and sketches are mine. I roughed them up on my computer, and by hand, then they ran with it.” She pointed to the pen and ink drawings. “Like these. I worked with the clients to create the campaign, place it, direct the commercials and so on.

The respective departments execute the details.”

Andy looked closely at the marketing plan for Richard and Marvin’s fashion line. “This budget is huge. Obviously, you work with some top-tier clients with deep pockets. We don’t have anyone like that around here.” He looked at another page. And another.

“What I really need is a graphic artist that can do what your art department did. I’m afraid I’m ‘it’ when it comes to working with the clients and creating their campaigns, although all our clients can afford is stock art and placement. And the locals are extremely thrifty. They’ll argue, threaten, and beg for every nickel. Oh, those poor buffalo.”

The contrast to the last horrible scene with Bruce and Jessica at the agency in New York and this man gently declining to hire her was striking. Instead, he kept complimenting her work as if he had the honor of meeting an esteemed colleague. How could being overqualified for a job make her feel ten feet tall?

“Having seen your portfolio, I can safely say I couldn’t compete with your level. Here, if you had the capital to start a business, you could bury me. If, however, you can master the graphic software and are willing to do some pretty boring stuff, we’d love to have you on board.”

“Let me give that some thought.”

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write it down for you—they all sound so much alike, and I use the word ‘latest’ facetiously because we can’t afford to upgrade without real need.

“There are night school classes through the high school and community college, but you need to learn how the art in your head can be translated onto the screen. I bet you already know how the same colors differ from screen to paper to fabric.”

“That I do.”

“Please leave your contact information with us, and I’ll get back to you. Who knows—we could end up partners or fierce competitors.”

As she was leaving, she couldn’t help but notice the clever way Andy’s assistant had tied her scarf. “I learned the trick on YouTube. Here—I’ll show you.” She untied and tugged it free.

“Watch.” January did, delighted with how easy it looked. She pulled it free again. “Now you try it. A scarf would look smashing on that white blouse. Is it real silk?”

“In New York, we were desperate for closet space, so everything was black and white. Accessories help. Thanks for the demonstration.”

“Don’t forget we want your contact information.”

Back in her car, January reset Waze for her last appointment.

When she found it and presented herself, a receptionist showed her to a tiny room with an old model PC. “I’ll set you up for the typing test. You are proficient in the numeric pad, aren’t you?

Most of what the job entails is data entry.”

“Actually, I’m interested in the advertising position.” The woman looked puzzled and shook her head. “I spoke with a Mr. Walker on the phone yesterday. He said to come in at three.”

“Just a minute—I’ll ask him what he had in mind.” Momentarily she returned, beckoning January to follow her through a maze of blond-paneled walls that reminded her of a doctor’s office. The man seated in a small back room looked up over rimless readers.

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He didn’t get up. The receptionist disappeared, leaving January to introduce herself.

“Hi. I’m January Lamont. We spoke yesterday about possible positions at your agency. I just moved from New York and wanted to talk with you about your advertising needs.” That sounded dumb—and abrupt, she thought, but the guy wasn’t making any effort to chat.

The man took off his readers and used them to point to the chair opposite his desk. She sat, propping her portfolio between the chair legs and the wall. “I produce a monthly newsletter in which locals run ads and coupons to drum up business. I need someone to cold call potential new advertisers. Do you have any experience doing that kind of work?”

“My client experience involves large businesses that expected fresh, original campaigns to market a range of products in varied industries. I imagine cultivating lots of small clients rather than a few big ones would require the same skill sets—calling on clients, helping them choose options to support and grow their businesses, and then closing the deal.”

“I’m sorry. I’m looking for someone with current experience in the skills I mentioned. Someone who’s local and understands the culture, like someone who sells classified ads. I do wish you luck in your career. Thank you for coming in. Sorry I can’t help you.”

January acquiesced, nodding to him as she collected her portfolio and followed the imaginary breadcrumbs back to reception. As she reached the door, the receptionist said, without looking up, “Have a nice day.” *** She drove aimlessly in the general direction of home. Her day’s experience that started with such high expectations went nowhere but down. And she was lost. She found herself idling 146

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past a series of churches. A large parochial school was springing happy, uniformed kids, and next door, preschool moppets were cavorting on playground equipment. In celebration of a perfect spring day, its adjoining church’s front doors were propped open.

A sign read, “A happy childhood lasts forever.”

On impulse, she parked and peeked inside and was drawn into its soothing quiet. She dropped into a pew and let the blessed silence still her throbbing mind, giving herself permission to just—be. To shut down her mental tapes. She made a conscious effort to forbid herself to think in words, instead visualizing something pretty like daffodils fluttering in the breeze.

In time, she became aware of a woman walking back and forth behind the altar, carrying and positioning silver vessels.

If the woman noticed her, she didn’t comment but went about her duties. January watched as she moved one candelabra onto the floor, unscrewed the first of five candle followers, moved the wick to one side with one hand and, with the other, poured liquid into the candle.

Setting the bottle aside, she reattached the follower and unscrewed its nearest neighbor, repeating the process until all five were filled. She replaced the candelabra on a high table behind the altar and moved the other candelabra to the floor. Just as the woman was replacing the third candle, it slipped from her hand, hitting the open bottle, sending both rolling in opposite directions. Even from a distance, January could see the mess as the large bottle glugged oil in a widening puddle.

January jumped to her feet and hurried to help. The woman mopped liquid wax with wads of paper towels while the candle rolled in the opposite direction, the candelabra teetering and threatening to capsize. January grabbed it and, after setting it at a safe distance, rescued the runaway candle, which she wiped with tissues she found in her pocket.

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don’t mop all the wax and an acolyte drops a match—.” January sprinted to the light box and tapped them to their brightest level. As the LEDs intensified, January got her first real look at the beautiful Episcopal church. The sanctuary’s contemporary design formed a half theater-in-the-round with six sections of pews, each six rows deep. She returned to the altar to see what else she might do.

“I was terrified they’d break, and they were an expensive memorial gift. And the oil—what a mess! Oil candles save a ton of money, but they are breakable and tricky to fill. I took a shortcut. First, I didn’t refill the smaller bottle. And we have a caddy to take the candles back to the sacristy. But no. I got lazy.

I’m sorry to babble. I’m a little unhinged. Thank you for coming to my rescue. I’m Gloria, the altar guild chair. I don’t believe we’ve met. Are you new here?”

January introduced herself. “My husband Barrett and I just moved here a few weeks ago.”

“Well, welcome, January, to our little spot of heaven.

Whatever your faith, you’re welcome here. Nice folks and lots of great programs. I’m sorry I didn’t see you come in.”

“It wasn’t planned. It’s just that I had a disappointing day of job interviews. Now I’m out of ideas and needed a little, well, sanctuary.”

“If you’re not in a hurry to get home, why don’t you stay awhile? We can chat will I finish setting up, and you can tell me all about it. I was new too not long ago, and I know how hard it can be to get established.”

Later, as the ladies sank into comfortable couches in the narthex, they chatted over chilled bottles of spring water that Gloria pulled from a mini fridge. “Since you’re a Penn Stater, why don’t you try either the local branch campus or the Penn State Extension Service? I have a special friend, Katherine, who serves as the volunteer advisor to the kids’ 4-H clubs. She knows 148

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absolutely everyone, and I know she would love to meet you. I’ll jot down her number, and I’ll give her a call to introduce you if that’s okay.”

“Thank you! That’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”

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21 Exhausted, January lacked the energy to concoct a bona fide cocktail. She opened a screw-top chardonnay and poured a serious glug over ice. She sank into the Victorian side chair opposite the love seat and toasted their coup in acquiring the antiques. She kicked off her shoes and propped her feet on the claw-foot coffee table and set her mug on the matching end table.

She’d have to research Victorian antiques and bone up on decor, but that red-flocked wallpaper had to go.

Barrett entered via the mudroom with Walter Farnham in tow. Barrett opened the refrigerator and chose two beers, passing one to Walter. Neither had much to say beyond cursory greetings.

“Let’s go in here,” Barrett said, steering Walter by the shoulder to the chair January had vacated. He motioned her to the love seat beside him.

“What somber faces,” January teased. “Who died? Or did you lose a rumble with the IRS?” The pair exchanged glances. Who indeed? They had no mutual friends except their attorney, Luke Holmes. “What’s wrong? Did you have bad news from Luke?”

“He received a call from the detective who was assigned to Peter Vaughn’s disappearance. He’s been found, alive, but had a near-death experience at the hands of some desperate kidnappers. January, you remember the whole sordid story about his cooking the books for a client? That I found and copied the bogus spreadsheets to thumb drives and printed hard copy?”

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“Of course. After our apartment was ransacked, we left the evidence with Luke. And we’re hiding out here until it’s safe to return.”

“During his ordeal, Peter died and, having had an out-of-body experience, is determined to make things right by confessing to the crimes he committed.”

“How did Peter find us? And Luke? How did he learn that he’s our attorney?”

“Peter didn’t know where you were,” Walter provided. “So, the police got a warrant for your phone records. They found the call you made to Luke that first Sunday when you made the appointment for the following morning. He was the only lawyer you called. Without admitting anything to the police, Luke called me. They want you to come to New York, turn over the evidence that’s in Luke’s safe, and tell the detectives what you know.”

“Wait a minute,” January interrupted. “Is Peter implicating you in his crime? You did nothing that wasn’t consistent with acting in the better interests of your company. And you said your supervisor gave you that ‘when you’ve been here longer, you’ll understand why we do things the way that we do’ bullshit. In other words, ‘shut up or your life as you know it is over.’”

“That’s exactly what my supervisor said, only not that nicely.”

Barrett took a long swallow of his beer, which January recognized as his way of buying time to think. “I’ll give Luke a call and ask if we need to have him line up a criminal lawyer.”

“Can’t he work out a deal whereby you’re given immunity for anything you might know about Peter’s case? And stumbled onto in the course of doing business without realizing what you were seeing?”

“I’ll ask Luke, although I think he’ll say that safeguarding work product isn’t against the law if no crime is in play. Remember, the original thumb drives, along with the only printouts, are in his safe, waiting. And that exhausts my only connection to what amounts to someone’s alleged white-collar crime.”

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“There’s something I don’t understand,” January interjected.

“If Peter didn’t act alone—even if he worked in collusion with someone in the firm who had the ability to make files disappear or be altered—why all this skullduggery? Peter’s kidnapping, the threats to your career, our apartment being ransacked, the danger to our lives. It doesn’t make sense. Why didn’t ‘whoever’ at the accounting firm cut bait, erase the evidence, and call it a busted play? It’s overkill just to avoid tax evasion, isn’t it Barrett?”

“Depends. That’s how the Feds caught Al Capone. And the ‘insider’ may have powerful friends. Maybe the whole firm is corrupt.” He paused momentarily. “Okay. I’ve made a decision.

If Luke blesses my legal position, recommends a criminal lawyer to protect us, and the police can protect my meeting with them, then I’ll go to New York.”

“I’ll drive you to the train and hold down the fort while you’re gone,” Walter offered.

“What about me? Can I come along? I need to get my cast removed anyway.”

“Done,” Barrett agreed with a nod. He accompanied Walter to the door, their murmured voices diminishing as they exchanged parting comments. As Walter’s headlights disappeared, Barrett returned to the living room to recap what they’d been discussing.

January refocused her attention. “The dry cleaner returned something he found in your suit. I’d forgotten all about it until now and think it might be important. The tailor mended the raveled seam in the jacket pocket and, in doing so, found this, which had dropped through.” She placed a green object in his hand. “Any idea what it is?”

Barrett rolled it on his palm, thinking. It was chubby, about two inches tall. Then he remembered. “I started to leave Peter Vaughn’s office after copying those duplicate files, bumped and spilled a bowl of his junk all over his floor. I heard the elevator bing, snatched the few objects I missed, and shoved them into my pocket. You know—like paper clips. I had forgotten all about it.”

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He took it to the kitchen table for better light. “Huh. There’s no logo. One end is smooth, and the other feels rough, as if it had been broken from something larger or is unfinished.” He sighed.

“It’s Peter’s. I’ll have to return it to him.” Barrett continued the examination. “Why would he have it on his desk?

“Can’t you just mail it to his home?”

Barrett shook his head. “It might be intended for E.” January connected the dots. A gift for his lover? She pointed to a cut glass pitcher on the built-in bookshelf beside the fireplace, which held her grandfather’s marble collection. “I could add it to those. Here—let me have it.”

Examining the lovely piece, she admired its exquisite variations in color. “If I had to guess, I’d say that it’s jade—like the earrings you gave me for our anniversary. There must be a jeweler in town—I could ask.”

Barrett frowned, anxiety threatening to trigger a headache over anything associated with Peter’s disappearance. He shook it off. “Pour half the marbles out, put it in the center to hide it.”

“Good idea. I’m afraid it would get scratched or lost with miscellaneous stuff in a drawer.” She eased half the marbles into a plastic bowl, enveloped the green object in a scrap of bubble wrap, and steadied it with one finger while reassembling the pitcher’s contents. “Perfect. Set it on the mantel.” *** The escalator whisked the Lamonts from the bowels of Penn Station into an explosion of light and activity that never failed to thrill January. Hundreds of racing commuters dodged between clumps of people who stood like statues beneath blue message boards hung throughout the arena. Electronic data ticked upward to a vanishing point, posting the ever-changing status of trains. Boarding announcements triggered a stampede 153

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of travelers toward numbered gates where escalators whooshed them down to the tracks.

Luke Holmes, armed with their itinerary, was waiting by the information desk as they slid into view. He hurried to meet them, his face a mixture of genuine relief and happiness to see them.

“First order of business—restrooms,” January stated.

“Across the way, left of the police desk. I’ll wait there, and then we’ll proceed.”

Ah, New York. She relished the scene as she queued up for a stall. Women of all nationalities, dress, and languages instructed small children in the universal language of proper hand washing. Strangers helped an elderly woman with her walker, and another befriended a haggard mother with three little ones. World peacemakers could take a lesson right here, she thought, remembering to tip the cleaning woman who must mop a hundred loops through two dozen stalls every day to feed her family.

Luke steered them east, around a circular area of shops and grab-and-go restaurants beneath Madison Square Garden.

Halfway around, an elevator took them outside to an area January had never seen—possibly intended for official business and event attendees, like the hundreds of dogs, owners, trainers, and officials unloading for the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. Several police cars were parked along the tunnel-like street. Compared to exiting Penn Station onto bustling avenues, this darkened area felt downright spooky.

A pair of plain-clothed officers approached Luke; their expressions pleasant but professional. Introductions dispatched, the one in charge directed the Lamonts toward a pair of waiting vehicles. Panic threatened to overwhelm January when she realized that she and Barrett would be separated.

“Just for a short ride.” Luke said as if reading her mind, assuring her as he and the male detective hopped into one car, and January found herself in the back seat with an ordinary154

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looking, no-nonsense woman. Even without lights and sirens, the ride south was remarkably fast as they blew through many blocks of synchronized lights.

They arrived at a substantial building and made their way through a labyrinth of corridors and offices. The central area reminded January of a pressroom or TV set, with dozens of desks abutting in fours, phones ringing nonstop, back dropped by the beehive-like hum of computer machinations.

A man in a suit approached Luke with a grin and a handshake.

“This is my friend and law school buddy, Robert Morris. He’s agreed to sit in since he’s familiar with such proceedings,” Luke said. Obviously, he was the criminal lawyer whom Luke had suggested.

That January was merely along for the ride was quickly established by the female officer, whose name and rank January couldn’t remember even if she had been told. The conference room had no resemblance to a TV interrogation room’s drab green paint, mirrored wall, and beat-up metal chairs. Still, she kept up her guard.

She accepted the offer of coffee, which gave her a chance to observe this alternate universe through the open door. No handcuffed prisoners were being dragged, screaming obscenities by a blue entourage. If it weren’t for so many workers crammed into an expansive core, this could be any business’s back office.

Way across the expanse in a large, windowed room, Barrett, the attorneys, the detective who met them, and two other people sat at a large table. The newcomers’ heads were bent over notepads. The infamous thumb drives and printouts that had caused so much trouble lay on the table. When someone opened a laptop and inserted the first drive, the screen enjoyed the rapt attention of six pairs of eyes. Barrett was speaking and pointing, sometimes at the screen and sometimes at the printouts. She knew he’d morphed into accountant-mode as if doing a client presentation.

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The female officer reappeared with two Starbucks cups, which January couldn’t help receiving with delight. “Ah, New York! You gotta love it. At home, we don’t have this nearby.” She heard herself say home and shook off the feeling that she was losing the only reality she’d ever known.

“So,” the woman began benignly enough. “How long have you and your husband been friends with Peter Vaughn?”

“We aren’t friends. I’ve met him a couple of times at professional dinners that I couldn’t dodge. You know the kind— the men brag about their exploits, and the woman complain about their husbands, their kids, their neighbors, and coworkers.

He and Peter work for the same accounting firm, but they don’t socialize outside the office.”

“Were you aware that he’d copied data from Peter’s computer?”

“He told me he was covering for a deadline Peter had missed by going AWOL. He suspected Peter was having an affair and didn’t think it was his business to rat him out. You know how men are about such things. Anyway, he told me about the discrepancy the same day he found it. She repeated the scenario as best she remembered—why he had copied the files and why he told his superiors about it. And, when they told him to keep his mouth shut, he said his options were to go along, be a whistle-blower, or resign. I urged him to quit, and he did.”

“And you left town and went into hiding because—” “We had no jobs. I was embroiled in a lawsuit over my being fired and the managing partner assaulting me and breaking my arm.” She lifted her smudged cast with its ragged edges.

“Then, when Peter went missing, our apartment was ransacked, and we were unemployed, my husband accepted a position in Pennsylvania.”

“Did your husband show you what he found on Peter Vaughn’s computer?”

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transferred them to his laptop so he could print them. The files were too big to open on his phone, and he needed time to study them. He was hoping Peter had an explanation or would take responsibility, but he never came back.”

“Can you testify as to what the evidence means?”

“No way. Wrong side of my brain. Evidently, there are pairs of documents that don’t match. To me, that would look like Draft 1 and Draft 2. Or Hocus-Focus in the comics. As for interpreting the content, I don’t speak Accounting.”

“Did your husband say why he didn’t turn his evidence over to the police?”

“I guess he was waiting for Peter to return and explain, thinking there was a logical explanation. And after the break-in and Barrett’s laptop with the documents was stolen, he thought it was best to put the thumb drives and printouts someplace safe.

And since we were moving out of state where we had nothing, we thought it was best to keep anything important or valuable in our attorney’s safe.”

“Is there anything you can think of that might be important?”

“Yes! My husband’s character is impeccable, his word irrefutable, his honesty unquestionable. He is an honest man who would not know how to lie. Whatever he says, you can believe him. And he’s an Eagle Scout.”

The woman kept flicking glances at January’s throat, and finally, she asked. “How did you tie your scarf?”

January laughed. “Here. I’ll show you.” *** As the sun sank lower over Manhattan and lights flickered to life, the Lamonts and the lawyers grabbed a cab and headed to Luke’s office for a post-mortem. From a nearby deli, they ordered takeout and assembled their supper in Luke’s conference room.

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The first thing out of Barrett’s mouth was as expected: “How did I do, and am I in trouble?”

“Fine and no,” Robert Morris answered for the legal duo.

“They seemed to accept everything I said.” Barrett sighed.

“I don’t know whether I’m disappointed after rehearsing for an intense cross-examination.”

The attorneys exchanged glances. Robert spoke. “Your involvement may be part of a much bigger crime, something you innocently stumbled upon. I noticed they didn’t follow up on your manager or partner’s names or press you about them. Not like they weren’t interested, but like they already knew. That your evidence substantiates their case.”

“Wish I’d been in there,” January said. “I’m very intuitive.

Give me fifteen minutes listening to a stranger, and I’ll tell you what’s on his hidden agenda. Most people are pretty transparent.”

Barrett laughed. “It’s possible they recognized that and preferred to keep your talents at a distance.”

“Or dismissed me as the dumb wife. I did answer some routine questions, but I suspect my jailer’s role was to keep me occupied.”

Barrett swallowed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “What do you think will happen next? Having given them what I know, can we simply go back to Pennsylvania as if nothing happened?

That the tax evaders will spend a year in a country club prison, be fined, and do some community service? Or, if it’s a much larger conspiracy, will they think I’m an integral part and show up on my doorstep and arrest me?”

January stabbed the air with her finger. “I still say the whole thing is overkill, especially what happened to Peter. Or that he’s involved in something huge. I mean, just how much trouble could one mid-level accountant get into by himself?”

“I wish we could talk to him,” Barrett said. “Luke, do you think the police could arrange it?”

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“I thought of that. Laid out why you think he’s alive. Hinted you would be incented to be discreet for his safety. Without admitting anything to such a scenario, they conceded that if that were true, he and his wife would be secluded as protected witnesses. In a word, no.”

“That’s the answer, then. If it were just Peter and the dude for whom he’s cooking the books, why would someone try to kill him? Barrett, you saw the data entries. Just how serious was the crime? Are we talking about paying back taxes with fines or prison time?”

“She’s right. They weren’t that incriminating and could be dismissed as careless record-keeping. Unless they’re the tip of an iceberg.”

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22 January awakened to a warming sun that slanted through the bedroom window overlooking the pasture, making the colors of their quilt seem to glow. For the very first time since she was a child, she felt as if she were home. After her parents’ death, she’d lived in student housing, the sale of their brownstone that she’d inherited paying for her education. She missed the one home she’d shared with her parents but not the prospect of taxes, maintenance, and upgrades that would have been required had she chosen to keep the grand old manse. Investing in herself and a nest egg for her retirement was a wiser decision. Not having school debts was a luxury she kept to herself rather than risk jealousy among her classmates.

Barrett tiptoed into the bedroom wearing casual slacks, a pinstripe shirt, and a V-neck sweater. “What—no suit and power tie?” He jumped, hand over his heart, obviously startled and pretending death throes.

“I thought you’d sleep late. Recuperate. We didn’t get to bed until after two. And nope, no suit. It’s casual Friday all week. I may need different shirts, but I draw the line at jeans as unprofessional unless I’m visiting a dairy or poultry producer. By the way, I’ll make you a deal. If you throw on some clothes and drop me at work, you can keep the car.”

“Done! I’ll continue job hunting and run to the Ag Center to meet a friend of a friend.”

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“And, as an added incentive, you don’t have to cook dinner.

I’m attending my introductory community supper at the Grange.”

“Strange? What’s that?”

“Grange. With a G. It’s supper. Dinner in a farming community is served at noon. The event is the country equivalent of the New York Leaders Club—same rubber chicken, different clientele. Walter wants me to meet some shakers and movers in our little community. I think this one’s a dairy association.

We’ll go straight from the office. I’d say ‘don’t wait up,’ but these farmers get up early for milking.”

After chauffeuring Barrett, January showered, dressed, and ate a leisurely breakfast. She indulged her Suzy-Homemaker gene by unpacking and arranging a few remaining possessions, relishing the luxury of so many closets. She opened one last U-Haul box in which Barrett had neatly stacked his beachwear— an oversized towel, shorts, terry hoodie, flip-flops, a zipper bag with goggles, sunscreen, a few dollar bills, sunglasses and a goofy floppy hat. She glanced around the room at the substantial but worn man’s bureau that Barrett had claimed for his underwear and socks. Two bottom drawers were empty.

As she was lifting the contents from the box, being careful not to disturb his careful folding, her fingers touched something cool and flat at the bottom. As soon as she guessed what the object might be, she laughed out loud. Before leaving New York, Barrett had visited her favorite boutique and bought her a present, although her birthday next January, Christmas, and their anniversary were months away. Why would he do that?

Did he think they couldn’t return to New York for nearly a year?

Or did he fear the shop might go out of business? Carefully, she lifted his beachwear onto the bed, taking care not to disturb his signature organization lest he find out she’d been snooping.

The bracelet-size gift box was wrapped in shiny silver paper with purple wire ribbon and a bow. Ever so gently, she returned the present to the carton, lowered his beachwear into place as 161

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she’d found it, and returned the carton to its exact place on the closet shelf. She giggled. No way would she give herself away by asking about it. She would wait until he surprised her.

January refocused to job-hunt mode, heading toward her last nibble. She’d been warned by the owner that his shop was deep in the woods, but after missing the turnoff three times, she finally found the gravel road that took her into old-growth forest.

It took every ounce of concentration to avoid potholes that were more like tank traps. What colossal nerve—the township giving this trail a name.

As she navigated serpentine bends in the path, incongruous weapons slammed her windshield and passenger window. She jammed on the brakes and waited for the assailants to finish her life. What she saw, instead, were brown feathers stuck to the windows. She squinted, her vision coming to rest on two enormous wild turkeys that strutted and preened a victory dance in front of her car.

She flung open the door and hurtled a string of obscenities at the unperturbed fowl. “You! Thanksgiving dinner if you do that again! And a feather pillow!” She examined the car. Nothing soapy water couldn’t fix. Restarting the engine, she made a hard left and continued down the gravel lane.

Perched on a hill to her left was a one-story structure clad with weathered cedar shingles. Lazy smoke curled from a brick chimney. Landmark noted, she proceeded and arrived at a contemporary cedar building on the right, nearly hidden by twenty-foot hemlocks. The minute she parked and exited her car, the smell of the dense woods captivated her—cedar and fir and rich loamy soil.

She parked among a scattering of all-terrain vehicles and approached the door of Tony Coronette’s studio. From the plank door’s sidelights, she could make out a large open space where several people in jeans or coveralls worked. She knocked. A fiftysomething man with gray hair and a matching goatee flung open 162

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the door, giving her a brilliant smile. “You found us!” he beamed.

The intoxicating smell of art supplies transported January to heaven.

“I left my portfolio in the car,” she apologized, realizing that decision was a mistake.

“There’s time for that later. Come in! Come in! Let me show you around.” He led her into a vast studio nearly as big as the entire footprint.

“I started my business thirty years ago in that house on the hill. It wasn’t much more than a shack. By the time it was finished and my business had grown, I needed people and a place to put them. So, I started this.” What thrilled January was the floorto-ceiling windows that covered the back side of the structure, giving the sense of being in a tree house where she could touch the roof-level hemlocks that descended down a steep bank into Penn’s Woods.

As they circled the interior, Tony introduced her to artists who were working on various projects, two on computers and others at drawing tables. A woman was boxing magazines for an antique car organization. Everywhere, the exotic smells permeated the air. She took a deep breath. “I love that smell!” she enthused to Tony, who only laughed.

“That’s duplicator fluid!”

“What a wonderful, happy place. I’d love to show you my portfolio. Maybe you have a job for me?” She retrieved it and spread it onto his worktable, forgetting her soundbites and relishing the company of a kindred spirit. Tony examined each slick, drawing, layout, and photograph, sighing contentedly like a connoisseur being treated to a vintage French wine. No one had ever examined her samples with such delight.

“Your work is beautiful. Looking at your fashion collection, I can hear the swoosh of the fabric. Feel the texture of the silk.

Imagine the lovely lady, stunning her beau. You should be in New York.”

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She sighed. “But now I’m here and hope to find work.” When he looked up, she caught his eye and asked a direct question.

“Might you have an opening for someone like me?”

His smile was sad and a bit contemplative. “When I first started, I wanted with all my youthful soul to produce beautiful books from nature photographs I took myself. Getting magnificent shots and laying out my work was incredibly rewarding. I pictured my books in stores, libraries, museums, and exquisite homes, but no publisher was interested. Dubbed them ‘coffee table books.’ I was outraged. Insulted. So, I started my own little publishing business, built it from the ground floor, and, to pay the bills, started publishing other authors’ books.

“I learned quickly to be picky because my reputation depended upon the quality of others’ work, not just mine. And from there, I expanded to other projects, such as niche magazines.

From antique cars to horse fanciers—people who are willing to pay for quality work that endures; that enthusiasts keep rather than recycle.”

“So you don’t do promotions for retailers.”

“Good heavens, no.”

“I’ve been told that to do agency work, I need to learn computer graphics. You seem to have that covered.”

“Why go back to square one when you can do this?” he asked, making a comprehensive sweep of her portfolio. “Art is in the eye—the imagination—not in computerized stock.

“I’ve also been told I’m a big fish in a little puddle. And I cannot relocate, even as far as Philadelphia. And starting my own agency is out of the question—the capital, the space, the employees, the business of running a business.” She shook her head.

“Then why not start a sole proprietorship from your home? I assume you have a kitchen table or a spare room you could use.

Solicit little jobs. In fact, I have one you could have now. Not exciting, but it would pay by the hour. Proofreading! Editing!

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Some of the best authors and artists can’t spell worth a damn and don’t know the nuance of the language.”

“We’re barely unpacked, one laptop was stolen, and the other trashed in New York. Our renter’s insurance will pay for one, but shopping is a low priority.”

“You could come here to work on my projects, then use your own home for your clients’ work. Not like regular part-time but when your clients need you. I must warn you, though—this kind of business doesn’t pay benefits or half of your Social Security.

You’ll need to figure out what to call your business and how much to charge. Research the going rate. If you know a good accountant, he could set you up as a sub S.” She laughed. “I sleep with one—my husband.”

Having exchanged contact information, she felt she could float. As she was starting to leave, she called over her shoulder.

“If I can grab one of those turkeys, I’ll invite you to dinner.”

He laughed. “Those tough old birds would have you for dinner. Leave ’em alone. Trust me. I tried and still have the scars.” *** January seized the momentum and located the Apple store in the Park City Mall. Parking, she lugged her portfolio into the store and was amazed by the gaggle of people on a weekday afternoon who ranged in age from little kids to elder grandparents. All were focused on the latest technology, armed with technical questions against a backdrop of upbeat music. She prowled the display models, fascinated by the crisp displays’ exquisite colors and options. She felt like a kid in a toy store. If she were forced to invest, at least she’d enjoy it.

A salesperson approached with a welcoming voice and merry direct eyes. “How may I help you?”

“I need a computer. Right away. I’m in advertising.

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a business, and I just moved here. I love Macs. My experience is with desktops in a large agency.” She shrugged. “I need a computer. Right away.” She heard herself babbling and, feeling ridiculous, stopped to take a breath.

The salesman grinned. “If you’re used to the Mac environment, you’ve leaped the big hurdle. What kind of projects will you be doing? The first decisions are whether your new Mac needs to be portable and how much you want to spend.”

“I love the iMacs, but that would nail me to a desk. But would a MacBook Pro be powerful enough? Do you have a few minutes to look at my work so you know what I’m talking about?”

He directed her to an unoccupied table where she spread her portfolio. “Ah,” he said. “Let’s have a look at the display models and see what corresponds to the work you envision.

These new models are very powerful—you may never need their full capacity. But, having decided, if the fit isn’t right, you can exchange it during a specified timeframe. By the way, do you need a numeric keyboard?”

She shuddered. “Not if I can avoid it. But I need Office. I’m not sure about graphic programs yet.”

“Why don’t you play with our display models? Get a sense of their capabilities compared to your needs. Your new Mac will come loaded with impressive software. You don’t want to buy what you don’t need. And Apple isn’t going anywhere. Also, you can access a real person at Apple Support via our free 800 number or online for whatever challenges as long as you own your Mac.” She squinted back and forth between the thirteen and the seventeen-inch screens, the choice being weight and price.

“That,” she said, pointing to the thirteen-inch MacBook Pro. “I’ll take it.”

“If you have data to transfer, our Genius Bar will do that for free.”

“By now, the old one’s in a New York pawn shop or traded for drugs. So, no.”

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“What about anything stored on the cloud? Photos, Notes, and Contacts from your phone?”

“Oh my gosh. That didn’t occur to me. I have it with me. I haven’t used it for a while, so the battery may be dead.”

“Not a problem.” At checkout, she whipped out her Visa without giving the automatic motion a second thought and then compounded her transgression by surrendering her iPhone to transfer the data. Could somebody track her in real time? She had no idea and brushed that aside.

January scarcely remembered driving home, her new Mac tucked in the trunk with a goodie bag of extras from the store.

Only then did she reflect on her executive decision. Should she have crunched the numbers with Barrett? Silly girl—of course, she didn’t need his permission on any aspect of her professional life. Besides, her needing to make the best of a dire situation was his doing. The credit card charge, when posted, would be forwarded with the statement from Luke’s office along with the rest of their mail. She felt as if she were split into two different people, and the sensation was weird. *** The isolated house with the Realtor®’s sign looked abandoned, situated on a lonely stretch near a quarry. Avoiding the front and side doors, the stranger circled behind the garage that was separated from the house by a gravel driveway. Entering the garage via an unlocked rear door, he found it empty except for rusty garden tools that hung from pegs on the side walls. That the space hadn’t been painted for years was evidenced by gouged drywall that had been make-shifted over the studs. Hand tools would make excellent weapons, but none were in evidence.

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to try the light switch, he focused a penlight on the floor and completed a walkthrough. One man, one woman, no kids, no pets. Judging by discarded cartons, they had moved in recently but were not at home. No evidence of guns—hand or hunting— or other weapons. He returned to the kitchen to search for knives but found nothing but plastic. Brilliant lights illuminated the interior as a car pulled into the driveway. Killing the pen light, he slipped out through the mudroom and headed for the shed in the pasture.

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23 January was ravenous. She should go home, rummage through leftovers, and finish unloading the trunk. She needed those kitchen knives. But on an adrenaline high, she opted instead for a Burger King table.

As she munched a bacon cheeseburger, she contemplated names. I do the work. I want the credit. She scribbled January Gastineau Lamont on a notepad. Too long for cards. JGL Promotions? Too vague. JGL Communications? Not bad for a temporary handle—she rather liked it. She could add her name in a small font underneath.

She needed business cards pronto but could create stationery for billing and contracts on her Mac. She wiped ketchup from her fingers and googled Vistaprint. Smart designs could be on her doorstep in days. As she slurped a chocolate shake, she lost herself in their artwork candidates.

But—contact information. She didn’t have a website, address, or phone number that was safe. Her PO Box, city, and state? Not good either. She could buy a burner, dedicate it to her business, and keep its minutes fed. When handing a card to a vetted prospect, she could use the back to jot additional information.

She eyeballed the price for the smallest order. Yeah, she could afford it.

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Barrett as Junior, the son of a good buddy from college. And here she was, about to put her name on a business card? Not good. She felt deleted. Anonymous. Erased. She crunched up the driveway, circumventing the potholes from memory. Her car knew its way better than she did.

The house looked forlorn, with no streetlights, lamps, or porch lights. She should have left lamps on before leaving for dinner. Or, here in the middle of nowhere, would that be supper?

The new lock clicked smoothly, the door screeching on hinges that still needed WD-40. She groped around the doorframe and flipped two switches—one for the porch and the other for the fixture over the slate vestibule that had been popular in the seventies.

She went straight to the table, dumping the day’s treasures from her various missions, and entered the kitchen without turning on more lights. The refrigerator’s bulb was sufficient to stow her doggie bag.

And then she heard it.

A noise she couldn’t identify.

Scolding her imagination, she reminded herself that she still hadn’t made peace with strange-house sounds. Still, goose flesh rose on her arms, and her scalp tingled. “Barrett?” she called in her bravest voice. “Are you home?” She glanced at the clock on the stove—no—even for dairy farmers, it was too early for their supper to end.

Maybe it was the wind. A loose shutter. Did they even have shutters out back? A downspout or piece of the soffit could have come loose. Mice? A raccoon? She listened for scurrying feet, but there were none. Only silence. But she sensed a presence. An odd smell. Like sweat. And knew that she wasn’t alone.

Gotta get out of here!

She glanced at the clock on the stove. Seven. Shortly the 4-H meeting at the Ag Center would begin—an ideal excuse to which she’d been invited. Flipping on multiple lights, she grabbed her 170

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purse and her new Mac and headed for the company of people, leaving her paranoia in the tomb-like house. *** January climbed the Ag Center’s broad staircase and followed voices down the second-floor hallway to her left. Inside a brightly lit board room, twenty-some youngsters were having a meeting.

The group’s president, a tiny strawberry blonde with enormous, black-framed glasses whom the kids called Charlene, presided at the head of the table and was listening intently to one of the kids.

An adult, who slid from her chair at the back of the room, met January in the hall. “Thank you so much for offering to help.

I’m Katherine, Gloria’s friend from church. The kids are finalizing the details for their annual Rabbit and Cavy Club Show, and the officers are giving their reports. It’s crunch time. Come in and listen. I’ll introduce you to the boy in charge of publicity after they wrap.”

January followed Katherine into the meeting and was stunned by what she saw. The kids appeared to range in age from fourth to ninth grade, with a few younger siblings in tow.

“May we have the report from the judges’ committee?”

Charlene asked.

A girl rose, juggling a sheaf of papers. “I’m happy to report that Ms. Jan Shive from the Maryland Adult Club has agreed to be our cavy judge again this year. I have her email address if any of you want to purchase a ‘competitive pig’ for breeding. She said to remind you that any pig she brings may not be entered in the competition. Also, Matthew Waltz is on board to judge the rabbits this year.”

“Madam Secretary, will you send our packet of information to our judges?” Charlene asked.

“On it,” a girl said, high fiving the kid who had just reported.

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attend, so we’ll have a great show. Their presidents are mailing their entry fees to our treasurer.” Cheers greeted the news.

“Refreshments. Have we a report?”

An older boy rose. “The Swine Club and their parents will provide chicken corn noodle soup, sandwiches, hot dogs and rolls, and homemade desserts as a fundraiser for their club.”

“Aw, why can’t we have pizza for a change?” someone whined.

“Point of order!” another snapped.

January caught Katherine’s eye, trying not to laugh. She whispered, “They love any excuse to say that, but Robert’s Rules of Order keeps things moving along.”

In quick order, the club dispatched the financial report and logistical considerations for the show. Charlene said, “Does our advisor have anything to add?”

January’s companion rose. “Security and facilities are squared away. And the Adult Rabbit Club’s president said to tell you they’ll be on hand to be assigned jobs as needed.”

“Do I have a motion to adjourn the meeting?” Charlene called. In quick order, it was made, seconded, and scraping chairs and chattering voices concluded the meeting. Several members surrounded Charlene, exchanging information deemed too personal for general consumption. A tall, slender boy who looked about high school age approached Katherine and January.

“This is Tom. He’s been trying to drum up publicity for the show. The kids designed and produced great posters, which are displayed all over town. Good work, Tom.” He blushed to the roots of his blond buzz cut. “Tom, this is January Lamont. Ms. Lamont has volunteered to help you with the press.”

“How’s it going so far?” January asked.

“Not very well. A kid I play soccer with has a dad at the paper, but he’s in the advertising department and can’t help for whatever reason.”

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advertising departments of the paper. Advertising brings in the money; editorial writes the news, which cannot be bought at any price. For instance, what’s the biggest department store that runs ads in the paper?”

“Boscov’s, I think.”

“And they spend lots of money on advertising, right? If editorial could be bought, all the stories would be about Boscov’s.

So, that’s probably why your friend’s dad couldn’t help you. It would be a conflict of interest.”

“So, how do we get a reporter to cover our show?”

“Do you have details about the show and background material about your club? I can help you with that if you have time.”

“My folks aren’t picking me up for an hour—that is—if that’s okay. I have lots of stuff,” he said, hefting a fat folder.

“Why don’t you two have a seat at the table, and I’ll leave you to it,” Katherine said.

As soon as they settled, Tom opened his folder and handed January a two-page typed essay. January skimmed it and was delighted.

“You wrote this yourself?”

“For class. My English teacher gave me an A+.”

“This is a perfect backgrounder. All you need, in addition, is a brief press alert with the who, what, where, when, why, and how. If your club doesn’t have press letterhead, we can create something on Word. I’ll tell you what to include; also, Photo Opportunity with brief captions about what would make great shots. And everybody’s names and titles, correctly spelled, especially the judges’.”

“What do we do with it then?”

“If it’s all right with you, I’ll call the editor who covers community events and ask if you can send your material and learn their deadline. I assume you saved your essay on your computer?”

Tom grinned. “You bet.”

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“Then let’s get together to hammer out the details. By the way, when is the event?”

“Two weeks from Saturday.”

January smiled. “Great. That gives us plenty of time to assemble your press kit. And you’ll need duplicates of everything for the day of the show to put in a reporter or photographer’s hands. But be prepared—even if they promise to come, they could be pulled off to cover whatever’s blowing up or burning down.”

He grinned, digesting her point. “I’ll be terrified to talk to a reporter if they show up.”

“That will be Charlene’s job since she’s the club’s president.

Her name and contact information will be on the press alert.”

“This seems scary.”

“Anything’s easy if you know how to do it. Reporters seem brusque, but they’re in a hurry, working deadlines. I always plan what I need to say. I’ve even written a script and read it to them on the phone. I promise; they don’t bite. They’re just in a hurry.” *** The lieutenant exploded in anger at the operative. “That package alone is worth millions. It belongs to some dangerous clients! I don’t care what you have to do. Find it! Vaughn had to hide it or give it to somebody. Figure it out! Fast! Or your life will get ugly.”

Silence.

“Well?”

“It wasn’t in his office or his home. Stan looked,” the operative pleaded for understanding. “They didn’t find it on Vaughn in Jersey, even though he said it was in that large briefcase. At the time, all your boss demanded was to know who Vaughn gave his password to—before we knew the package was missing. Now Vaughn’s being guarded like the crown jewels.”

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“Humor me. When did you know for sure that he had it?”

“The boss’s personal lieutenant handed it off to him at the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal. Identical brown shopping bags set side by side between his stool and our contact’s.”

“And you know—how?—that he actually received it?”

“An operative followed him. No one coming or going contacted him. Just him with the bag. We’d have known if there were a switch.”

“Then he went where?”

“Back to his office. Ballinski told me, ‘I tailed him personally.

And I had eyes on him from the minute he entered the building.

He went straight to his office. He was seen leaving for home with the bag, then returning with it the following morning.’”

“So he kept it overnight in his home—where it is not. He kept the bag under his desk until he got the New Jersey call.”

“So, you have no idea what he brought back in that bag!”

“Again—if you were listening—it went home with him, where it is not—back to the office, ditto. He went nowhere that evening.

When asked en route to Jersey, he said it was in the bottom of his briefcase.”

“And it wasn’t?”

“Correct. After he had a ‘bad trip,’ he couldn’t talk intelligibly, but he did babble something about ‘mailing it.’ But when would he? And to whom? And then—you know—they lost him. Or thought that they did.”

“It’s gotta be in that building somewhere. Order Ballinski to go over every tick of security tapes. Again! Every bit of it. Find out what he did with it,” the lieutenant bellowed and disconnected.

The operative snapped his finger, grinning. “I’ve got it! It was so simple!” He laughed. “That night at home, he gift-wrapped the package, then secured it in something innocuous, like a repurposed Amazon box, then asked his wife to do him a favor the next day. Then he took something of comparable size back to the office. And she, unobserved, went to the post office.”

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*** “Chauffeur service could be habit-forming,” Barrett joked as he coiled his long legs into the passenger side of the Honda. “But as long as you’re willing to run endless errands, I’m game. Start with the post office. Luke’s forwarding a bundle of mail—perhaps legal documents to sign for our settlement.”

“Wishful thinking. Didn’t he say they were balking? And counter-suing?”

He ignored the rhetorical question. “How about going to the bank and renting a safe deposit box? If getting two keys requires my signature, ask if you can bring the cards home. Or I’ll stop by tomorrow.”

“I’m meeting with Katherine, the 4-H Rabbit & Cavy Club advisor, this afternoon. We didn’t have time to talk after their meeting. I got the sense that she wanted to tell me something privately. She seemed anxious, although the meeting went very well.”

Barrett chuckled. “All these new names. I’d better start writing them down. You’re losing no time making friends. And contacts.

Just don’t be fooled by friendly strangers whom someone you trust hasn’t vetted.”

“I can’t act like I’m running from the law.”

“Well—in a way. Just don’t lower your guard.”

After dropping Barrett at the office, she zipped into the post office vestibule, key in hand, and pulled a copious bundle of mail from its clutches. Included was an official USPS card instructing her to come to the window to claim a package that wouldn’t fit.

While she waited three-deep in line, she took a minute to scan the neighborhood beyond the ceiling-high windows. Stately sycamores lined either side of the street, their trunks filling the entire space between the curbs and sidewalks, many of which were raised by encroaching roots. The tunnel-like canopy resembled 176

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the plane trees—or were they plain trees—that bordered French avenues.

“Next!” A woman behind the counter barked, and from the scowling faces behind her, January realized she’d been daydreaming. A woman parallel-parked by the curb whom she noticed earlier hadn’t left, although everyone in front of January had. She shivered.

She handed the woman the card and, in return, accepted a number of large envelopes, one with a bright red stripe on its edges. She rotated it, looking for a return address, but it bore none. “You’ll need to rent a larger box if this continues,” the employee stated in a flat monotone. January nodded in agreement and escaped her reproachful glare. As she started her engine, the woman-in-waiting’s motor synchronized its ruminations and, as January pulled away, fell in behind her without picking up a passenger.

Next stop—the bank. At a kiosk, she filled out the obligatory box rental form and paid with check number 001 from their starter supply. It looked naked without both their names and address. That, they’d been assured, could be added at their convenience.

As she waited in yet another line, she scoped out the shops in the strip mall that was anchored by a grocery. She should pick up enough meat for several days’ dinners, but she’d better get organized and make a list. What else was there? A pet store, a Hallmark—and that same car waiting—for whom? As January squinted, the driver ducked as if searching for something she had just dropped. She didn’t look up again.

January shrugged off the creepy feeling. She paid for their box and followed the teller to a private room where she offloaded documents. She returned the box to the teller, pocketing her new key. Before exiting the branch, she scanned the parking lot from a discreet distance. The strange car had disappeared. Or so she 177

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thought. Then she spotted it several rows removed from her location. January’s panic flared.

She backed from her spot and, making two quick lefts, roared to the empty spot beside the strange car, their driver-side windows inches apart. January signaled for the woman to lower her window. She gasped, groping for an apology to the wizened little white-haired driver, who must have been ninety years old. “I’m so sorry,” January stammered. “I thought you were somebody else.”

“Eh?” she said, cupping her hand behind her ear, partially obscuring her expression.

Not knowing what else to do or say, January shouted a second apology and eased away, embarrassed by her paranoia.

In the rearview mirror, she noticed the old woman removing her hat and her gloves. Re-aligning the Honda, she circled the lot and parked near the grocery’s entrance. As she crossed the lot, she was surprised by how many models looked just like the one at the post office. She redirected her mind to the contents of her pantry, the fridge, and what could be made with some extra ingredients. Leaving forty-five minutes later, armed with four overflowing sacks of fresh choices, she refused to scan the lot like a victim.

But halfway home, she swore she saw that same car—again— in her rearview mirror. It was bad enough that they all looked alike, from luxury to the thriftiest models. New Yorkers who didn’t drive only needed to know if the yellow cab’s light was on or off. While annoyed by feeling suspicious, nevertheless, she swooped into a school parking lot, circling behind an elementary building, prepared to wait until assured she had the road to herself.

From her vantage point angled behind a line of parked buses, she could watch the road from either direction. Knock! Knock!

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window. She powered it down. “Ma’am, you can’t park here. This lot’s for school buses. The visitors’ lot is on down the street.”

“But,” she stammered, “Can I just wait for a minute until I catch my breath?” What could she have said? That a deer had spooked her? That she felt ill? That she was sure criminals had followed her from New York?

The man in a driver’s uniform looked concerned. “Are you all right, ma’am? I didn’t mean to scare you. Do you need an ambulance? Or could I call someone for you?”

With that, the police officer she’d met her first day pulled into the lot. He approached her window. “Ms. Lamont…”

“Short version? Someone’s following me. Longer version?

That would take half a day.” With an economy of words, she explained the odd coincidence of spotting the same car. The more she spoke, the more irrational she sounded to her own ears, like a mental case. Should she trust him with why they were staying under the radar? Since he was it for local law enforcement, should she and Barrett fill him in? That, she decided, she should discuss with her husband.

“Do you know of any reason for someone to be following you?”

She sighed. Best to confess. “My husband stumbled onto a crime in progress in New York that seems to have grown legs.

He’s told the NYPD everything he knows, but until they account for the perpetrators, we’re keeping a low profile here. Still— anyone who really wants to find us probably can.”

“And your husband would be called upon to testify?”

“We hope not. To add to our problems, I’m embroiled in some nasty litigation with my former employer that could destroy their agency. To say they’re angry is an understatement. Not only are both our careers threatened, but our lives could be too.”

“I could follow you home. Check your house.”

“You don’t think I’m crazy?”

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He chuckled, shaking his head, and returned to his unit.

“After you.” *** The intruder heard a vehicle approaching from the vicinity of the quarry and, as it drew closer, realized there were two cars.

He scowled. The Honda, he expected, but her erratic schedule made being undetected difficult. The second car with its light bar belonged to that local cop. Why was he here? He’d only been in the house a few minutes, hardly long enough to search systematically. And he’d left no trace of his visit. The young officer joined the woman on the stoop, holding her elbow. They appeared to be chatting. Unconcerned. Not as if she’d summoned help. A nooner?

He scanned the barn for the best place of concealment rather than force a double murder, but within a few minutes, the cop retraced his steps, got into his car, and eased down the road. She was alone. He’d wait until she left again. *** As soon as the officer left, January unloaded the trunk, hauling her groceries into the kitchen by the side door. Before stashing the food, she gathered the accumulated mail from the passenger seat and dropped it on the kitchen table. She did a quick sort for what screamed immediate, especially an envelope bearing a check. She wanted to touch it, smell it, rejoice over it, but none of the number ten envelopes contained anything promising.

A plain brown eleven-by-fourteen envelope with a bright red stripe on its edge caught her attention. It had no return address nor company name, but she recognized Luke’s secretary’s handwriting that matched other pieces of mail she had forwarded.

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was perplexed to find nothing but a postcard advertising a gym membership addressed to Occupant. And nothing more.

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24 Following Katherine’s directions, January located the duplex she shared with her daughter near the railroad tracks at the center of town. Katherine greeted her like a long-lost friend, ushering her into their cozy home that smelled of fresh-baked cookies. Their two-story apartment, half of a former large home, consisted of a living room, a dining room, and a kitchen in a straight line that led to a back door and a yard. She admired an arch of stained glass that topped a picture window facing the street and its companion that shed rainbows on a stairway landing that was anchored by an old-fashioned oak balustrade.

“Before you take off your coat, let me show you Charlene’s rabbits. They stay outside when the weather is nice. When it gets cold, Charlene moves them indoors. They’re cuddly and make wonderful companions.” A tall, stockade fence surrounded a portion of their corner lot, protecting several generous cages from intruders. Enclosed were beautiful rabbits that appeared to be show-quality groomed. They were tri-colored, mostly caramel and white, with a few darker markings, and had pink twitchy noses.

“They’re wonderful,” January exclaimed, approaching the cages. Katherine opened the door to the closest one and gathered the bunny into her arms as one would a favorite kitten. “May I touch him?”

Katherine handed her over. “This is Molly, the mother of the other two. They’re Mini Lops, the breed most noticeable by their droopy ears and diminutive size.”

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“And she’s so tame!”

“They need to be handled a lot if they’re going to win ribbons.

They must have good table manners for the judges to examine them and feel their bone structure. If you’ve ever watched a dog show, it’s the same principle. They’re also evaluated against the standard of their breed. Here—let me show you.” She put Molly back into her cage and selected one of the others. “This little one is what Charlene calls ‘pet quality.’ If you look straight at her face and know what you’re seeing, her ears aren’t exactly the right length, and one is a bit higher than the other. Her sister is perfect, so Charlene may breed her.”

“How’s that accomplished with three females?”

“As seriously as with breeders of pedigree dogs. The 4-H club members know each other, even beyond state lines, and are very selective about their animals’ parentage. They learn so much about animal husbandry! One of the little kids who has guinea pigs took a shortcut and bred a brother and sister. The babies were born without teeth, which meant they couldn’t eat, and they died. Talk about learning a lesson the hard way.

“Another kid, whose cavies are Teddy Bears, a.k.a. Teddies, has been trying for three generations to get good ears. They’re airplaned, which means they stick out instead of drooping. The kids sell the ones they won’t show for pets to pay their expenses.

It’s chilly out here—let’s go inside. How about some coffee? Or a cup of tea?”

“Tea would be wonderful.” They sat at a square kitchen table that was covered with a red checkered cloth and had a view through an expansive double-hung oak window from which hung a spider plant and a Boston fern. On the sill, three African violets bloomed. January thought of her own angle-bay window, realizing the exposure was perfect for houseplants. In the city, she’d spent the tiny windowsill’s space like gold.

“How did you get involved as an advisor to the Rabbit and Cavy Club?”

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“I’m a farm girl. Grew up around here, went away to school, where I met my husband who was in the ROTC. I followed him around the world, staying at his last duty assignment when he deployed. When he was killed in action, I returned home.

Charlene was just a baby. But at least I have my husband’s benefits, including healthcare.”

“She’s a delightful little girl. I couldn’t get over those kids conducting such a grown-up meeting, complete with parliamentary procedure. And your daughter presiding—how old is she?”

“She’s twelve and in the eighth grade.” To January’s puzzled reaction, she added, “She’s small for her age, partly because she has CF—cystic fibrosis.” Katherine rose to collect the whistling tea kettle. “With or without caffeine? Earl Grey or herbal? You name it, I’ve got it. Family and friends know my weakness.” She filled mugs with boiling water and set a plate of cookies and a tin of teabags within January’s reach.

“Being a farm girl turned townie, I embraced the 4-H programs and the huge benefit for kids. Most live on farms or have access to them, but the Rabbit and Cavy program is perfect for city kids who don’t have space for large animals. The cavies—guinea pigs—can live in the corner of a kitchen. They’re delightfully friendly and aren’t smelly like mice. And entertaining? Open the refrigerator door, and they begin squeaking for treats. Their diet is simple—a few piggy pellets, water, and all those veggie trimmings you’d discard anyway. The kids make friends, as do their parents, and get involved in other 4-H programs too.”

The front door flew open, and Charlene bounced in, bubbling with excitement about the day’s activities. She stopped midsentence when she spotted January, then proceeded with a bright smile. “Ms. Lamont! Thank you so much for helping with our publicity.”

“You and Tom did all the work. If you’d like me to go over the copy…”

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“That would be great!”

“Your mom introduced me to your rabbits. I hope it was okay that we didn’t wait for you. They are magnificent animals.”

“Cookies! Thanks, Mom. I’m starved. I’d better get some protein to go with it. A peanut butter sandwich would be great.

And a glass of milk.”

January noticed the small girl’s slender frame and wondered where she would put so much food—perhaps she’d missed lunch.

Or had eaten at eleven. “I need to consume lots of calories to boost my metabolism,” Charlene explained, glancing at the clock. She reached into the cupboard for several bottles of pills and after checking the labels, poured several into her palm. She tossed them into her mouth and washed them down with two gulps of milk.

Charlene slathered peanut butter on whole wheat bread and, almost as an afterthought, asked January, “May I fix one for you too? Mom?” “Cookies and tea are plenty for me. But thank you.” What a charming, short grownup, January thought.

“Maybe Ms. Lamont would like to see your artwork. Why don’t you take your snack to the dining room table and then get your drawings?” Charlene beamed, and January waited with Katherine while Charlene ran upstairs.

“She seems so robust,” January demurred.

Katherine wilted. “She’s had a bad winter—colds and complications, but she’s healthy now, which she appreciates.

Just being back in school is such an upper, and thanks to some wonderful teachers who’ve privately explained her disease to the kids, they’re super supportive. She appreciates every good day, and I do everything in my power to keep her life as normal as possible.”

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material while you eat your snack, and then you can show me your work?”

“I should soap my hands anyway so we don’t smudge my drawings.”

Katherine handed January extra copies of the club’s press release draft that Tom’s mother had emailed, and she had printed.

“I love how the letterhead turned out,” January said of the simple club name and address in a professional-looking font. Under that was added Attention Requested Material: where the editor’s name, title, and address at the newspaper would go. “I’ll give Tom the contact’s name. The editor I spoke with will be expecting to hear from him.”

Underneath was typed Press Alert, Charlene’s name, title, and phone number, as well as the Extension Service’s adult contact.

She skimmed the particulars: Who, what, when, where, why, and how in two clean sentences. Next paragraph, the judges’ names and titles, which Tom promised were spelled correctly.

Under Photo Opportunities, several one-liners about what would make good shots. That the kids had used their imagination and done a great job showed.

“If the reporter interviews me, do I need to have a speech ready?” Charlene asked.

“No. Just answer their questions simply. For instance, she’ll say, ‘Tell me about what’s happening here today.’ Or ‘Tell me about your show.’ Or ‘Tell me about your club.’ Here’s a little trick I like to use. Think about what’s the most important thing you’d like readers to know. Say it several different ways. Like ‘The 4-H Rabbit and Cavy Club Show is run by kids for kids.’ Or, if it’s the fifth or tenth or thirtieth annual show, ‘It’s our nth show and the best one ever.’ That’s the only answer I’d plan in advance.”

“But what if she doesn’t ask it?”

“Work it into the conversation anyway. And take her to the judges’ tables. Judges are used to reporters. Let the judges know the press has been invited. In fact, your club secretary can email 186

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that detail to them. It might affect what they wear, especially if they have special clothes, like lab coats or their personal clubs’ shirts. And introduce the press to the person in charge of the kitchen. Maybe the reporter will give them a plug. Offer them something to eat or drink. And don’t forget to give them copies of your press kit. They will be more inclined to include names if they don’t have to research the spelling.”

January followed Charlene’s lead and soaped her hands before turning her attention to the girl’s artwork. Her portfolio blossomed with a dizzying array of knit garments that covered page after page.

“Blue is my signature color, based on that particular shade when the cumulus clouds part and it magically appears. Not just any blue, but the one that fills me with awe and hope. And, sometimes, at sunrise or sunset, there are swirls of tangerine or rose. I look at the sky and imagine those colors in my alpaca caps and scarves or in silk scarves. I call my business A Patch of Blue.”

“Where did you get the idea for alpacas? Why not sheep?”

“I fell in love with them at the Pennsylvania Farm Show.

They’re smaller and gentler than llamas, and their fleece is amazingly soft. When I thrust my hand and arm into it, I was awed by its warmth and incredible softness. And, because alpaca fleece doesn’t have lanolin, like sheep’s wool, and doesn’t prickle, it’s hypoallergenic. I saw a demonstration of the beautiful garments being woven on looms, and I thought, ‘I could do that!’

After thinking and dreaming about it, designs began popping into my head.” She turned pages in her sketchbook, showing January her ideas.

“You have real talent.”

“I know,” she stated, not from conceit but as a matter of fact.

“So—is your goal to be an alpaca farmer? Perhaps go to Penn State and major in agriculture?”

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She shook her head. “I’m going to art school in Philadelphia to study fashion design. Then I’ll run my own business, which I hope to have up and running long before then.”

January forgot she was talking with a kid as their conversation unspooled. “Do you have a business plan?”

Charlotte tapped her forehead. “Up here. Step one is to learn everything I can about alpacas and what they need—their nutrition, housing, care, and so on. When to shear them—how and when. And where to send their fleece for cleaning, dying, and so on. And looms and spinners—I need to know where to get them and how to use them. It didn’t look that hard at the Farm Show.”

“And you hope to get started—when?”

“As soon as I buy my first alpaca. Maybe I’ll get lucky and find a rescue. And someone to house her for me. In the meantime, I’ll keep designing.”

Ah, January thought. The exuberance of youth. She couldn’t remember her aspirations at age twelve. “And who will keep your alpaca when you’re away at school?”

Charlene took a tentative nibble on her lower lip. Brightening, as if inspired, she shot January a grin. “I’ll rent stable space and board her. By that time, I’ll have sold enough clothing to pay for her upkeep.”

January glanced at her mother, who was busy peeling vegetables for dinner. She looked at her watch. How did it get so late? “Thank you both for a lovely afternoon. I hope to see you again before the show.”

“Will you come?”

“You bet! I wouldn’t miss it. And please call if there’s anything I can do to help or if you just feel like chatting.”

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25 As evening shadows shrouded their property, January stepped from the car to unlock the door. Movement caught her peripheral vision. It was gone when she turned. She must have imagined what resembled a dark figure crossing between the barn and the house. Deer, she thought, wondering idly if hunters were about, poaching free meat after cutting the fences.

She set her bags in the vestibule and fingered the light switches. Nothing. She felt her way toward the living room lamp. That, too, was dead. And then registered the utter silence.

Nothing hummed. Not the refrigerator, the furnace, even the whir of electric clocks. She should call someone, but who?

Simultaneously two thoughts coalesced. The silhouette in the yard and the need to be quiet—not call out for Barrett or mumble nonsense about faulty wiring. Her mind flickered snapshots of logical possibilities, like a rodent that chewed the main line and fried itself in the process. An area blackout. A truck at the quarry hitting a transformer.

Then she heard a faint squeak. Like a floorboard. Long and drawn out, like someone withdrawing a foot slowly to prevent the rebounding noise. It was coming from their bedroom down the hall, which had no carpet.

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waited, feeling her heart beat double time. The pulse in her temple throbbed.

The next sound she recognized immediately—the squawk of the powder room vanity’s hinge where she had stashed bathroom supplies. She pictured the tiny room, its double-hung window facing the street, located between the living room fireplace wall and a tiny spare room destined to be her office.

January scanned the room for a makeshift weapon. The bookshelves that flanked the fireplace were bare, and the mantel awaited decorative touches from the hodge-podge of treasures haphazardly parked. Beyond the couch, side chairs, and two end tables, half-emptied cartons contained books.

If only she carried a pocket knife, which Barrett insisted no one should leave home without, except for the airport or theatre.

A sheetrock knife she’d purchased along with other wallpaperstripping tools remained in her trunk, sealed in its packaging.

The diagonal sight line from her position against the wall was yards from the front door. By the time she could lunge, pull it open, slam it shut, and get in her car—no time. She felt in her pocket for the keys to activate the emergency horn. But the fob had gone missing, dropped somewhere in the dark.

She knew without looking that her tall boots and jeggings were worthless for kicking an intruder, but her jacket? Designed like a Navy peacoat, its deep pockets sometimes negated the need for a purse. Her iPhone—of course! She’d call 911. But where would she say that she was? She had no street name or house number.

Smothered deep in her pocket, she thumbed it on, praying the tone wouldn’t ding. To her ears, it sounded like the bells of Canterbury Cathedral. She froze. Listening. She heard another incongruous noise—the knobs on the Venetian blind pull cords by the kitchen’s bay window. Simultaneously, she felt a cold draft.

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gained entry that way. And, if he were rummaging for stuff in the powder room, in moments, he’d realize the effort was worthless.

She needed a weapon. One of those candlesticks would not do. Her great-great-grandmother had purchased them at the original Old Curiosity Shop in London. They’d been cherished and passed down ever since. But they were little and skinny, six inches if that. Then her eye fell on the cut-glass pitcher, filled with her great-grandfather’s marble collection. The one in which they had buried Peter Vaughn’s curiosity until Barrett could return it to him. Empty, the sturdy pitcher must weigh five pounds, and it had a serious handle and a sharp dental edge.

January crept to the mantel and eased the pitcher to her chest, practicing the perfect hold on its handle while balancing it with her left hand. If she dared tip it, the marbles would clatter everywhere and send her cartwheeling across the floor. Her eyes then made a remarkable discovery about the front door’s effect.

Those awful little glass panes at the top provided a perfect mirror of the angle-bay window over their kitchen table. With her back against the wall, she edged behind the couch while maintaining the perfect angle on the center hall.

The intruder was stealthy as if he could sense her. If he’d noticed her arrival, surely he would have bolted through the back window, which was blind from the driveway. With complete darkness, save for the rising moon’s sliver of light, he might not have been aware of her presence until he looked out the powder room window and spotted her car.

January clutched the pitcher, forcing herself to study his movements, what weapon he might be carrying, the length of his stride, and how often he turned his head to sweep the interior.

She held her breath, praying that he, too, hadn’t noticed the front door’s reflection—on her. He was surprisingly short—five-eight at the most, wearing sneakers. She steeled herself to make one perfect shot, imagining her target to be his right ear. For once in her life, being left-handed might have worked to her advantage 191

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had it not been for the cast. She balanced the pitcher near her solar plexus to keep the marbles from shifting.

Momentarily her good angel tried to intervene. What if he were a drunk who’d stumbled into the wrong house? A homeless person? Was he even a man? She flashed to their ransacked New York apartment and the bank stalker. She told the angel to shut the hell up. And, as he stepped directly in front of her, she executed deadly aim.

Crack!

Momentarily the guy looked surprised, his hand moving involuntarily to his head. Through the moonlight’s illumination, January could see his eyes roll toward the ceiling before he crashed to the floor, taking a kitchen chair down with him. She set the pitcher on the floor, yanking her hand from the distasteful object to which clung his blood, skin, and hair. And, as if in slow motion, she could hear the marbles bouncing and rolling, pinging and careening in every direction. The guy lay motionless, blood pooling onto the kitchen floor.

January stabbed 911, willing her voice not to fail her. “Help me! I’ve killed an intruder. No, I don’t have the address. It’s the house by the quarry with the Realtor®’s sign. The old Miller place, I’ve been told. Send help. Please! And flashlights. The power’s off.

And don’t fall on the marbles.”

With chattering teeth, January shuffled through the marbles and fled up the driveway to flag first responders. Within minutes, a stream of vehicles with competing lights and sirens braked hard by her feet. None was smiling. The local cop and a PA state patrolman ordered her to stay back while they crept toward the front door, guns drawn. Through the open door, she could see brilliant lights sweeping the interior. Backup arrived and circled the exterior. Inside the basement, pinpoints of light dotted the window wells as officers called “Clear.” She inched toward the door, yelling. “Don’t stumble on the marbles. They’re all over the floor.”

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More help arrived, including an ambulance, another state cop, a nondescript dark Ford with a guy in plain clothes, and a photographer. Bringing up the rear was Walter Farnham’s vehicle, from which Barrett erupted, scanning the scene for his wife. “January! Are you all right? What happened?”

“I think I killed an intruder. I knew something awful like this would happen. That they’d find us. First, the New York breakin. Then a stranger following me. And I thought something felt weird in the house this afternoon. Then this guy broke in, and I hit him. I think he’s dead.” An unexpected flurry of flashes blinded her.

“Is he really dead?” January demanded. “Are you going to arrest me? I didn’t mean to—” “He’s got a nasty head wound, but he’s alive. They’ll sort it out after he gets medical treatment.”

“Who is he?” the incredulous husband asked the local cop, but a commotion diverted everyone’s attention. Paramedics wheeled the intruder toward the waiting ambulance on a collapsible gurney, its wheels stuttering on the gravel and ruts.

With synchronized efficiency, the medics loaded him, and momentarily the ambulance took off, sirens screaming and lights flashing.

Walter inserted himself into the chaos. “As you can see, Ms. Lamont has had a terrible shock. If you have no reason to detain her, I’ll take her and her husband to my house for the night. Any questions can wait until tomorrow.” Walter didn’t wait for an answer—like they needed to interview her while everything was fresh in her mind. Anchored between the pair, Walter steered Barrett by his shoulder and her by the elbow toward his car.

“Can I grab the stuff I left in the foyer first? And my New York go-bag from my trunk?” With the cop’s nod, she trailed his powerful Maglite. Sadly, she had expected a far different evening. At the precise moment she slammed the trunk’s lid, the photographer captured her face.

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Walter pivoted her away from the journalist, shielding her face with his shoulder. He turned to the officer, extending his card. “You may come to my home tomorrow but at a civilized hour.”

“Please!” January hated begging. “Don’t lose any of my family’s marbles. They were his special collection and are precious to me, especially since everyone’s gone now.” She tried edging closer but was blocked by a second photographer intent on capturing the drama.

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26 Much as January hated to disentangle herself from Barrett’s warmth and the cozy flannel sheets in Walter’s guest bed, she edged away. “I’ll never sleep anyway,” she muttered to Barrett, who had been trying heroically to stay awake and listen to every version of her drama and suppositions. She’d flipped and flopped more times than a fish out of water.

“Maybe I’ll read for a while. Walter has an amazing library and said to help myself.” A bit of research might be better—if only she’d brought her new Mac. “Would it be okay if I used your office computer to read the Times—maybe there’s something about my ad agency. Or Richard Reuben and Marvin Gold’s design business?”

“It’ll be chilly down there. The thermostat’s set at sixty from ten to six in the morning.”

“I’ll be okay with this borrowed fleece robe and wool socks.

Do I need a password?”

“Yes. And you know what it is.” She swore she could hear him grin through the darkness at the naughty reference. Thank goodness for those black dots, or their secretary would be embarrassed.

In the first-floor office, January was free to wander and steep herself in the world that Barrett inhabited beyond her. How different from his gray fabric cubicle, which was large by New York standards. That a woman had been involved in Walter’s decorating was evident by its traditional cherry furniture, muted 195

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colors, and Williamsburg aura. Chair rail separated hunter green wallpaper below with a creamy beige motif dotted with tiny pineapple geometrics. His black leather chair faced matching guest chairs and glided by one finger away from the desk. She perched and imagined what it must be like to be him. He’d have to own a New York agency to duplicate this understated luxury.

The computer looked new and felt responsive as she logged on. A PC, of course. No self-respecting accountant would have a Mac. She tapped Google’s icon and, just for fun, typed in Barrett’s name, which brought up a world of references, news, backgrounders, publications, on and on to a vanishing point.

And still so young! What a winner. She grinned. She called up her advertising agency’s website and found no reference to herself. Poof! As if five years of blood, sweat, and tears, to say nothing of awards, had existed.

Then, on a whim, she typed Peter Vaughn. An obituary popped up! Stunned, she scanned the copy, looking for two people by the same name. A father? Or an uncle? A child who had died? No. His last place of employment matched Barrett’s accounting firm.

It was their Peter Vaughn, all right, who supposedly died in New Jersey the previous week.

Wait—that was impossible. The reported date of death predated their visit to New York, their chat with the detectives, and their attorney’s verification that he had just checked with the powers that be. And, although Peter had survived, Barrett couldn’t speak to him yet. The dates didn’t jibe. Was the obituary planted to keep Peter incognito? Should she wake Barrett and tell him? She considered that for a moment and decided it would be pointless. Troublesome news could wait until morning. *** January hardly expected to find a detective on Walter’s doorstep first thing the next morning. Would he have an arrest 196

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warrant for her? What if she’d killed a homeless person seeking shelter? Or a lost newcomer? A drunk? Someone seeing the Realtor®’s sign hoping to sneak a quick tour or scavenge for valuables to fence or trade for drugs? What had she heard about shooting intruders—make sure they’re dead so they won’t sue you?

But, from the moment the detective arrived, his deportment seemed resigned. She had expected a barrage of questions, the need to defend herself, to be Mirandized, and then scramble to surface a criminal lawyer. The detective got straight to the point.

“Not only did your intruder survive, but he turned out to be an escaped convict who had walked away from a work detail in a minimum-security prison in central Pennsylvania. He’d hoped his escape would bring a massive manhunt and statewide publicity—APBs, helicopters, every cop in multiple counties.”

“But why would he do such a thing?” January couldn’t get her mind around such idiocy.

“His had been a white-collar crime with a relatively light sentence until he got into too many fights, which he claimed were self-defense. For one, he was charged with serious bodily harm and had extra time tacked onto his sentence. That sent him to the library where he studied the Constitution and found his cause in the Thirteenth Amendment.”

“That ended slavery if I recall my U.S. government classes.”

“That’s right. Except for punishment for a crime. But historically, once Reconstruction ended, blacks throughout the South were routinely arrested for fake charges during harvest time so that states could sell their prisoners’ labor.”

She asked, “And my intruder, whom you say was an escaped prisoner, claims that his additional charges were fabricated? To keep him available to do what—be on a road crew?”

“He’s calling it a ‘chain gang,’ although the convicts aren’t chained together as they once were to build the infrastructure.

Such assignments are classified as voluntary, a chance to be outdoors, do something constructive, and alleviate boredom.

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This so-called perk, he maintains, does not pay the prisoner the going wage, the fee being pocketed by the prison. In other words: slave labor.”

Barrett frowned. “That was a dangerous plan to make a point.

He could have been shot.”

“He says he’s mailed the media a detailed argument against slave labor. To underscore his point, his ancestors were slaves.

Had he been killed by police, being martyred only showcased his goal and would go viral on social media.”

January caught Barrett’s eye. “Then this home invasion was unrelated to everything that’s happening to us in New York?” She turned to the detective. “So—am I off the hook? Or might I see this guy in civil court?”

“With his fingerprints all over your house and having cut the electric supply, you had every right to defend yourself.”

“Can I return home now? Last I saw it, a dozen people left quite a mess.” She scowled at the detective. “I certainly hope you’re not going to put any of those photographs in the paper.

Protecting our privacy is of paramount importance, as I’ve already explained.”

“We never release victims’ names or addresses other than the county or town. As for our photographer—he didn’t come until later.”

“No—the woman. She was shooting pictures through the front door.”

He shook his head. “Not one of ours. Maybe a freelance ambulance chaser? She wouldn’t have been let inside a crime scene anyway.”

The minute the door closed after the detective’s departure, January grabbed Barrett by the arm and hustled him into his office. Seated on his chair, she searched Peter Vaughn’s name, which brought up his obituary. She turned to her husband, who scanned over her shoulder, the stunning revelation jolting him.

At first, he couldn’t speak.

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“Call your buddy from the gym who works at the morgue.

See if he can verify this news. If he can, ask the pathologist for his cause and manner of death. Maybe suggest a code, like ‘above my pay grade’ if he really is dead or ‘too soon to tell’ if he’s been sworn to secrecy.” *** The operative enlarged the color photos on her computer screen and pointed. “There! Among those round objects that look like craft ornaments. The green one. It’s the jade! I’d know it anywhere.” Her ponytail bobbed in excitement. “That’s what Peter Vaughn did with the shipment. He gave the stash to Barrett Lamont, who took it to Pennsylvania. All of it has to be there!”

“Search the house. Immediately! Or as soon as the commotion over the break-in subsides.”

“Talk about luck—we should make a substantial contribution to that intruder’s defense fund. If he’d invaded another house, that pitcher and its contents would have been decorating their home for decades. Wonder why he put that piece in the pitcher?”

“We’ll ask him after we retrieve the package and before we eliminate the problem.”

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27 Duck-walking, January gathered her family’s marbles from every conceivable place of concealment, put them in a Tupperware container, and buried it in the cupboard assigned to plastics. Somewhere among her father’s papers was a list, identifying each by origin, intricacy, and the date when acquired.

Her dad’s grandfather had treasured the toys, which were so appreciated during the Great Depression. Each generation added special pieces.

January’s grandmother displayed them in the cut-glass pitcher to enjoy without touching them. January’s goal was to build a shadowbox to secure them in chronological order. She’d hang it with framed mini-portraits arranged like her family tree once they were settled back in the city.

Her phone startled her, unused as she was to getting calls in obscurity. “January? This is Rita. I had the pleasure of interviewing you about a job opening in North Carolina?”

“Yes. Of course. I enjoyed our conversation very much.” Wait for it. Wait for it—Is there something local after all?

“We would have loved your skill in marketing our brand to customers who are devoted to American-made fashions. Have you given any further consideration to North Carolina?”

January sighed. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. But, if you need someone local, might you consider my joining the Carolina team remotely, with in-person visits from time to time?”

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“Perhaps in the future, but that’s not possible at this time.

I do have a little project if you’re interested in freelance work.

Your name came up—twice—in an unrelated Zoom conference among nonprofits’ loaned executives. One of the banks needs help with their Special Olympics commitment. Might you have time to call their PR director, hear about their involvement, and let her know if you’re interested?”

January rolled her eyes, remembering Jessica’s wild goose chase in New York, her motive being to replace January as Richard and Marvin’s account executive.

Rita continued. “There are thirty-some events for which press releases must be customized with local contact information, location, date, etc. The release is drafted, but they need someone to call each coordinator, get their specifics, customize each release, and email each back to the bank. They will then transmit the releases on the bank’s press letterhead to the appropriate media outlets. The bank will pay you by the hour. Just send them an invoice with your hourly fee and the total.

“Yes. I’d be interested. And thank you for the referral. Did you get a sense of their budget?” She closed her eyes, squinting, crossing her fingers, and named what seemed to her like an outrageous sum Tony had suggested.

“That’s more than reasonable. Let me know how you make out.”

January gathered several more marbles from under the table and two that had rolled down the hall. Her new Mac, having weathered the fracas from inside her trunk, now sat undisturbed on the table. She grinned and blew it a kiss. “You! Looks like we have a business for which I’m claiming that tiny extra bedroom. I hereby appoint you senior VP of technology and communications.” She giggled at her silliness and made the call.

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Barrett, but so far, he was happy to avoid leasing a second vehicle.

Keeping even one car in New York City had been untenable. She was getting spoiled fast.

On her way out the door, she pocketed her wristwatch. She felt naked without it and longed to be rid of the cast. She’d grown tired of checking the clock on the stove and fumbling for her cell phone. As an afterthought, she secured the green object that Barrett had found on Peter’s office floor. If she learned more about it, they’d know how much to insure it for if asked to mail it to him or his wife. She Googled jewelers near me and found one between her new bank client’s corporate office and their home. Meet-and-greet with the bank’s PR officer completed and the Special Olympics project in hand, she parallel-parked by the jeweler’s front door.

She gazed at the lovely display cases of tasteful jewelry that would satisfy a wide range of gift-giving budgets. January approached the watch case, and a man she suspected was the owner approached with a smile. “I have a dead watch that needs your help. I’m told the battery is an odd size. It may need to wait until I return to New York, but I thought I’d take a chance.”

She fumbled in her coat pocket into which she had shoved several tissues and liberated the watch onto the display case’s immaculate glass. “Oh. Sorry. They aren’t used,” she apologized, disentangling the watch. As she did so, the green object rolled from its depth. The jeweler glanced, transfixed, but forced his attention to her watch.

“Yes. We can help your patient. If you can wait a few minutes, I’ll take it to our watchmaker, who’s doing some intricate repairs but will enjoy taking a break. While you’re waiting, feel free to look around. Some of our customers like to leave little hints to pass along to their oblivious husbands who are desperate for my ‘suggestions.’” He winked and disappeared.

She wandered, enjoying each case’s theme, from baby bracelets and christening cups, estate jewelry, wedding rings, 202

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watches, and a wide variety of bracelets and necklaces, many with birthstones. If shoppers needed special gifts, surely they’d find something affordable and lovely. She circled again to the baby items, another sad part of being an only child: no little nieces to spoil, and she had quickly lost touch with her married girlfriends, now scattered to the wind.

“Here you are,” the jeweler said, returning her watch on a black velvet plate. “Good as new. It’s really quite lovely. And valuable.

Did you know that the metal isn’t white gold but platinum? I’d insure it for at least $5,000.”

“It was my mother’s and her aunt’s before that. I’ve been told I should have family pieces appraised for an insurance rider, but between being a student and getting established, I didn’t get around to it. And with my mother’s death and both grandmothers gone—well—I’d give it all back to have them with me again.”

“I’m sure they’d be happy to know you’re enjoying their lovely things. It’s a connection, don’t you agree? When you have time, bring in your collection, and I can give you an estimate on the appraisal. And,” he said, pointing to her engagement ring, “it doesn’t cost anything for us to check the prongs. You should do that every few years. I could take a look now if you wish.”

“It’s fairly new.” She wiggled the ring from her finger and handed it to him. He took a look through his loupe.

“The prongs are fine but do have them checked periodically if you wear it every day. The stone is beautiful—blue-white and flawless. Your husband has excellent taste. I’ve seen larger stones that are flawed and milky.” He nodded toward the wedding case.

“Even our smallest stones can be beautifully set with larger ones added for a special occasion, like a milestone anniversary.”

“Could you take a look at this little green thing? We think it might be jade. Or junk.” The jeweler reacted momentarily and then stilled his expression. “It doesn’t belong to us,” she added.

“My husband needs to mail it back to the owner and doesn’t 203

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know how much insurance to buy. It would help to know if it’s plastic or a cheap logo item.”

“May I?” He pulled on white cotton gloves, adjusted his loupe, and took his time, rotating it in his palm.

“We think it broke off something larger like a bookend or a statuette, but it could be a carnival souvenir.”

The jeweler squinted, frowning and shaking his head as if unraveling a complex equation. “This is definitely jade and highly unusual. And there’s no evidence of its being broken from another piece. Here. Look.” From behind the case, he produced what looked like a square of a lady’s stocking. Gently, he drew the fabric over each area. The cloth didn’t snag. “It’s perfectly intact.

Where did you say your husband got it?”

January chuckled. “My husband found it under a coworker’s desk. He dropped it into his pocket to return to his friend, but the guy quit without notice. He’s been waiting for him to get in touch, but time passed, and my husband forgot about it.”

“I think he found something unique and possibly valuable.

Under magnification, one can see delicate carvings. I’m not an expert, but I can put you in touch with someone who is. He’s in Philadelphia and does work for major auction houses. He could answer your question better than I can.” He turned a business card over and jotted the expert’s detailed contact information.

“Now, about those appraisals—I can give you a rough idea without charge and let you decide which pieces are worth a certificate for insurance purposes. Some lovely pieces have great sentimental value, while other ugly ones are worth a fortune.

Antique jewelry can be fun to puzzle.”

“All right. And I’ll get my pieces out of the bank, and we’ll take it from there.” ***

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The old lady used her cane to haul herself up the four carpeted steps from the jewelry store’s front door to the showroom. The owner leaped to her assistance, offering his arm. With his help, she shuffled into the gallery, winded, and struggling to catch a deep breath.

“I’m sorry. Just give me a minute.”

“Would you like to sit down? Can I get you some water or a cup of tea?”

Before the jeweler could finish, the old woman was shaking her head in refusal. “I was supposed to meet my granddaughter here, and I’m afraid I just missed her. Tall, pretty, blue-eyed. Was she here? Did I just miss her? I swear I caught sight of her leaving, but I couldn’t walk fast enough.”

The jeweler tried not to stare, but something about the old gal seemed off. He knew a wig when he saw one, but maybe she’d had chemo. Before she pulled her hand from the rail and positioned it under her cloak, her fingers looked smooth and young, her fingernails manicured. He waited.

“Young man, I’m sure I saw her leave a few minutes ago. Did she say where she was going? Maybe I have the wrong shop.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am. My last customer needed a battery for her watch, which we supplied, and then she left.”

“Did she happen to leave her address?”

“No. She paid cash. But even if she did, our customers’ personal information is private. I’m sure you understand.” The woman rose a bit too abruptly to fit her compromised situation.

“Since you’re here anyway, can I help you with something?

Perhaps a gift for your granddaughter?”

“No. I’ll ask her mother for some ideas.”

The jeweler excused himself and went behind the farthest case as if looking for something, hoping to study her reflection in the glass. When he straightened and returned to the front of the store, the old woman was gone. Curious, he descended the four carpeted steps to the street and looked left and right through the 205

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glass. Nowhere, not even across the street or getting into a parked car. He shrugged. Maybe she’d parked in their lot around back.

Something the woman said bothered him. Or maybe it was the sense that she wasn’t that old. Then he remembered. Ms. Lamont had indicated that her mother and grandmothers were dead. On impulse, he pulled his copy of her receipt, but it revealed no contact information. He shrugged, putting it out of his mind.

206

28 January no sooner got in the door than her phone chimed.

“I just wanted to tell you how much it has meant to Charlene to have your encouragement,” the child’s mother began. “Given her limitations and being an only child, she’s more like a grownup than a kid. And it’s obvious that you took her as seriously as you would an adult friend.”

“Charlene is delightful. I can’t help feeling excited about where her generation is going.”

“You remember our mutual friend, Gloria, whom you met at her church when you first came to town? I don’t know if she told you that she’s a school nurse.”

“I’m embarrassed to say that our first conversation was all about me. I’d made a disappointing stab at finding a job, and she indulged my pity party with lots of suggestions, which led me to the 4-H meeting and you.”

“She’s been an enormous help in coping with Charlene’s challenges. In fact, Gloria is stopping after school to bring Charlene the work that she missed. I was wondering if you’d have time for me to come by. I’d just like to talk beyond her earshot.

Charlene wouldn’t hear of my arranging a companion, but Gloria has an excuse to be here, which gives me an opportunity to sneak out and run errands.”

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“Of course! And while you’re here, I’d welcome a real country gal’s suggestions about what we might do with our barn. If you’re game, bring your mud boots.”

January pulled on a pair of old rubbers she’d found in the garage and was waiting for Katherine when she pulled into the driveway. “I’m volunteering my husband, Barrett, to mend some fences—literally. I’ve walked the perimeter, and it looks pretty sound, but a number of spots need attention. And the hinges are broken.”

Katherine, digesting the vista, sighed and grinned as she followed January across the field. “Ta-da! Meet our predecessor’s failed attempt at being a weekend horse woman. We bought it mid-project. Watch your step. The ground is rutted and sloppy from the spring thaw. Our intent is to over-seed it with clover and orchard grass. I’m getting some expert advice from Penn State’s Cooperative Extension Service. In fact, when I was out at the Ag Center, I picked up soil sample bags to mail to University Park for their evaluation.”

“Do you ride?”

“Subways, cabs, buses—yeah. Horses? No way. City is in my DNA.” “So—does your husband want horses?”

“No. I’m the troublemaker. Charlene’s love of alpacas got me thinking. Come take a closer look at the barn. It has three stalls and a water line from the house.”

“I can see where this is going—Charlene’s plan includes a place to house a critter if she can find one.” She smiled, shaking her head. “She is one determined young lady. Did she tell you she’s exhausted her 4-H friends who live on farms? Their families, while eager to help, have incompatible animal situations.”

“So—what do you think? I hate having the barn go to waste.

Let’s go inside and look around.”

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Katherine inspected, inside and out, being particularly complimentary about the roof and the rock-solid beams and floorboards. “Now, that is essential,” she said, pointing to the water spigot. If you’re lucky, the pipe is insulated. You wouldn’t want to haul buckets from the house in sub-zero weather.”

The pair trudged back to the house. Leaving their boots at the back door, they settled at the bay-window table while the kettle heated. “This is lovely,” Katherine demurred, appreciating the view from the window of the distant Appalachians beyond the pasture. “I see you like African violets too.”

“I stole your idea. Found those two in the grocery. In New York, our entire apartment would fit in the living room with one tiny window that overlooked concrete steps below street level. If our former owner hadn’t abandoned this old furniture, we’d be sitting on boxes. Excuse me a sec; I promised you tea.” January took her time assembling mugs, tea bags, condiments, and napkins, sensing Katherine needed time to organize the mission for which she’d come. She was looking beyond the window as if into her memory while January waited for the kettle to boil.

“Sometimes I almost forget that she has it,” Katherine murmured, as if fearing to summon a demon if she called the monster by name. “She has good spells for stretches and takes responsibility for her meds, exercises, and nutrition. With all her heart and soul, she wants to go away to college, and she’s focused on preparing both of us for that goal. But she’s afraid I won’t let her go.”

“Can she do that? I mean, be on her own? Responsible for her health if it’s that precarious?”

“She is determined. My constant struggle is to conceal my worry and my anger. As a baby and toddler, she had so many colds. I was assured this was normal, that they could catch up to seven a year, and she would outgrow them. But complications increased, like bronchitis and pneumonia. She was four when the 209

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diagnosis was made. Except for my contributing one bad gene copy, there was nothing we could have done differently. There was no CF in my family that I knew of, and couples don’t get screened routinely without a family history.

“Preschool and daycare were out, and I agonized over whether to have her tutored at home. But I wanted her life to be as normal as possible. She begged to be allowed to go to school and loves having friends. They’ve been so kind, not laughing at her wearing a mask. Calling when she had been absent, even as young as first grade.

“Cystic fibrosis is an insidious disease and has cost her dearly.

One of her goals is to be the poster girl for the cure. I’m terrified that she’ll volunteer for experimental drug trials or therapies.

And, in six years, she’ll be an adult, and I can’t stop her.” Katherine dabbed her eyes with her napkin. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be! I’m honored you’re willing to share your feelings.

In New York, I had one close girlfriend—one! whom I could talk to. I know the importance of having real friends, which I hope I can be for you and Charlene. If there’s anything I can do—ever—I want to know.”

Katherine patted her hand. “Thank you. Having a sick child is an isolating experience. I do have friends, but they read articles and hold forth on irrelevant advice. Another friend keeps trying to fix me up. The last piece of advice was, ‘Find a nice single man who has grown kids or doesn’t want any, so you don’t have to worry about genetics.’ Can you believe it?”

“I have an idea. Charlene started me thinking about a purpose for that barn. I’m going to visit a family that has an alpaca farm and see what’s involved. If Charlene’s business plan requires a place to house an alpaca…”

Katherine’s eyes welled again, her countenance drooping.

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to live long enough to graduate from high school. So, I swallow my fears and forget reality. I mean, none of us know how many hours we have. Just read the papers.”

“Let’s say I have an encouraging experience with the alpaca farmer and talk to their vet. And, like Charlene, do my research.

My husband is dying for me to find something productive to do.

He says that leaving New York and losing my career has left me depressed and lonely, in need of distraction until I can accept my fate. Which, I might add, I have no intention of doing. I will go back to New York.”

Katherine frowned. “Suppose everything you learn proves encouraging. What then?”

“I’ll put out feelers for rescue animals. If I can install an alpaca successfully, would Charlene be able to help? She’s researched intensively. Might she be able to spend some time? The rescue animal would need company. Charlene told me she needs to exercise. The animal needs to be tended, and the barn mucked.

Once the grass grows, she might enjoy riding the Deere to mow it. And, when she’s here, I’ll take very good care of her. I know she needs to eat like a horse—forgive the expression. Might she even sleep over sometime? I know, I know. I’m getting way ahead of myself. But I can see it out to my own vanishing point. What do you think?”

“I think you need to decide if being an alpaca farmer is right for you—as if Charlene didn’t exist. She may have tweaked your interest, but having animals is a huge responsibility. I do, however, appreciate your enthusiasm. Let’s keep this conversation between us for now. And please! Don’t feel obligated. What Charlene doesn’t know can’t disappoint her.”

January sighed. “You’re right. I have no idea what I’m doing.

But I didn’t think I could start my own business, but that isn’t stopping me from trying.”

“What exactly do you do?”

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“Business writing. Public and media relations. Small design projects, like brochures and leaflets.” The latter sparked an idea as she pictured Tony Coronette’s graphic art studio out in the woods with the turkeys. If she picked up a little design work, might she do his proofreading in exchange for using his facility?

“January? Are you all right?”

She jerked back into the moment. “You’ve just provided me with an answer before I knew the question.”

212

29 January felt a jumble of activity was overtaking her life. At dawn, Dean, their contractor, showed up with his electricians to continue the first order of business—deal with the wiring.

Throwing on jeans, she followed him throughout the house, the attic, and the basement as he asked questions about their lifestyle and needs, making recommendations for bringing the wiring up to code and accommodating modern technology’s voracious appetite for power.

The kitchen was easy—an additional 220 line for a microwave and extra 110s for small appliances. From the attic, he recommended dropping lines to accommodate pendant lights over the peninsula that would light the dark countertop U that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house. Code, he told her, was an outlet every eight feet, but he recommended extras around workstations for computers, printers, and lights.

That, she decided, would include the bay area and the tiny third bedroom. Furniture placement—where to place wall switches and outlets for lamps. If they ever wished to finish the basement, Dean suggested they save their money and deal with that later, except for a workshop area.

January snapped photos where Dean made black marks on the walls and texted them to Barrett, who responded immediately with further instructions. By 8 a.m., the plan was in place. Fiat lux, she smiled, as Latin 101 illuminated the occasion.

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*** On a whim, she called the owner of the Fox agency, who had interviewed and treated her so graciously. He picked up immediately. “January! My spies tell me you’re up and running.

Should I prepare for the fight of my life or simply retire with my dignity intact?”

“Neither. My specialty is evolving toward community relations, media, and PR, not advertising and marketing.

“Speaking of which, I was about to call you. An architect friend needs some high-end publicity, hoping to get his pet project into Architectural Digest. I’ll give you his contact information; just tell him we spoke. And one more thing—with for-profit work, charge by the hour, portal to portal, including time lost for missed appointments. Make a proposal and get them to sign off on both the assignment and the finished work. Once burned, as they say.”

“Thank you so much. And believe me, your agency is secure.”

Next call—the architect, another Penn Stater who’d worked in California developing his signature style. And now he yearned to showcase his awesome designs in prestigious publications if only he could find the right person to court the editors. He’d settle for lesser publications to start, but why not think big? And yes, he had an excellent freelance photographer. As he described his work, January could picture the layouts, read the captions, and bask in the colors. The prospect of this assignment made January salivate, her excitement for the project winning his trust.

“Where did you hear about me?” she asked the architect.

“A friend said ‘she’s from New York. Check her out.’ And another said, ‘She’s the best if you can get her.’ Then my buddy at Fox mentioned you. So, I found your bio on the internet. When can we get started?”

Me? The Best? I’m a long way from earning that!

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*** January recognized the caller ID belonged to the auction house gentleman referred to her by her neighborhood jeweler.

Karl Malbourne’s British accent oozed the polish of an antiquities scholar. Referring to January’s detailed message that she’d left on his phone, he got straight to the point. “My associate said you had an unusual object—possibly jade—that you hope I could authenticate.”

“Did he tell you that it belongs to a friend and we aren’t authorized to pay for an appraisal? We’re just hoping to identify the material. For all we know, it could be plastic.”

“That I doubt, judging from what my jeweler-friend told me.

I’d be happy to take a peek.”

“I notice your auction house is in Philadelphia, and getting to you would be complicated. Perhaps I could text you some pictures?”

“Actually,” he said, dragging the word into four syllables, “I’ll be in your area tomorrow to arrange an estate auction. Where precious items are concerned, I prefer not to meet in public, where security systems could spy on my clients, their artwork, or jewelry. I’ll email my credentials and photo to verify with your jeweler. One can’t be too careful these days.”

“Thank you! I’ll send directions and GPS coordinates by return email. Please use the driveway and pull close to the front door to avoid the potholes.” That, she realized, they’d need to deal with before they were sued by FedEx. January expected Karl Malbourne at 9 a.m., but by 8:30, she couldn’t stop pacing from the kitchen to the living room window.

Exactly on time, a silver Jaguar crunched down the driveway, its driver stepping onto the narrow walkway. She leaped to admit him before he could knock. Introductions completed, she led him into the living room, where he stopped in his tracks, captivated by the Victorian furniture.

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“Oh my!” he said, approaching the grouping like royalty.

“Wherever did you find these lovely pieces?”

“We’ve had them awhile. Someone we know didn’t want them, thought they were ugly, and asked us to dispose of them as a favor.”

Mr. Malbourne roared. “My dear, these pieces are identical to those found in the governor’s mansion in Puerto Rico. Those medallion-back motifs of flowers and birds are hand pounded, and they’re assembled with fishtail glue. May I?” To her stunned nod, he proceeded to lift a thread-bare cushion from one armchair, examining its underside, and smiled broadly. He tapped it, which produced a hollow-sounding thud.

“These cushions were made by someone who understood the value of protecting the seat’s seven-step caning. The base, under the stuffing, rests on the chair’s wooden frame. Do not let a hefty person flop on this furniture. I suggest you arrange a sitting area by the fireplace, then put a couch and a couple of side chairs that don’t matter where these pieces are now.”

“I thought they were Victorian.”

“They are. And they’re very old. But—to the mission at hand.

Your green mystery object.”

“Let’s go to the kitchen table where there’s better light.” She motioned him to Barrett’s seat on her left, facing the bay window.

His reaction duplicated every other visitor’s. “What a beautiful view. Pity if someone throws up a condo development and spoils it.”

“They can’t. We own four acres, which is deeper than wide, and beyond that is state game land. I’m more worried about hunters. I’ve counted two dozen deer at a time.”

“Before hunting season next fall, electrify your fences and post signs.”

While he continued to gaze at the vista, January unearthed the Tupperware container into which she had secured the marbles and the jade. Spreading a terry towel on the table, 216

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she eased enough marbles from its depth to unearth a bubble wrap bag that held a small fabric drawstring bag from a jewelry store. She set the green object on the towel near him. While she deposited the marbles back into the bowl, he withdrew some tools from a leather satchel. Included were a square of black velveteen, magnifying glasses, a jeweler’s loupe, a tensor lamp, and a tiny squirt bottle of solution January recognized from her ophthalmologist’s office as sterile cleaner.

From an inside jacket pocket, Mr. Malbourne withdrew a new pair of white gloves, still sealed in original plastic, and smoothed them onto his slender, manicured fingers. “May I?” he asked, pointing to the jade. “And if I could trouble you for a little electricity,” he added, nodding to the lamp’s cord. Brilliant light flooded a narrow beam onto the velvet. After a cursory inspection, he rotated and viewed all its sides with various implements of magnification. Next, he repeated the process, holding it gingerly.

Finally, after squirting a square foot of tabletop and drying it with a paper towel, he set the piece upright on its end.

Mr. Malbourne smiled like a connoisseur. “This lovely piece is most certainly jade, exquisitely carved, and in perfect condition.

Where did you say that you found it? No—never mind. That’s not important. Yet. If I may take multiple photos, I’d like to research its provenance.”

“But what is it? A piece of jewelry? A trinket? An ornament?”

“Here. Take a look with my magnifying glass. What does it look like to you?”

January squinted, noticing its intricacy, undetectable to the naked eye for the first time. “A toy. It looks like a little soldier.”

“Exactly! A rook, to be specific. I believe this little guy is a chess piece. The question is, where are its fellows? Maybe it’s the sole survivor of a long-lost set, or it has become separated from its brethren. Regardless, it’s precious.”

“It’s not ours, as I told you before. We need to return it to its owner once he’s out of danger.” She clamped her mouth shut, but 217

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it was too late. “I’m sorry. Please forget what I said. Our friend is in a precarious situation, and I…” Either because of good manners or being inattentive, he interrupted her. “Here’s what I want you to do.” He took a soft chamois bag from his case and handed it to her. “Wrap this little fellow, take him straight away to your safe deposit box, and lock him up. In the meantime, I’ll do some research. And no—it’s a professional courtesy I’m delighted to extend to my friend.” He extracted a card and jotted his personal email address on the back. “But, if your family or friends ever need auction services, please keep us in mind.”

The minute Mr. Malbourne’s taillights disappeared past the quarry, January snagged her safe deposit box key from her jewelry box, secured it in her purse, and settled her little rook’s chamois bag in the bottom, tucked inside a leather glove. As she passed the quarry on her way to the bank, she was aware of a dust cloud rising from its bowels. Reflexively, she hit the button to squelch incoming filth from infiltrating the Honda. Somewhere between her house and the bank, she noticed a black car making every turn with her. Stop being so paranoid!

She found parking near the bank’s entry, opened her door, flicked the lock button on the handle, and took several steps toward the entry. Where the skinny guy in a black running suit came from, she hadn’t noticed, but he capsized her as he attempted to tug her purse strap from her shoulder. She kicked and screamed, instantly drawing startled customers toward the commotion. Somehow, she’d managed to fall on the purse, its precious contents protected. Scrambling to her feet, she bolted for the bank’s door, shouting to workers inside. “Somebody, please! Help me!”

Tellers froze, and the branch manager erupted from his office to assist the terrified lady. With an economy of words, she described the assault and accepted being led to his office.

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over possible injuries. She rubbed her sore hip, on which a nasty bruise was sure to rise.

Insisting she’d be okay, she accompanied a teller to retrieve her box. “Would you mind staying with me a sec?” she asked, not relishing the idea of being alone in such a tiny room. “I just need to add something to my box.” In less than a minute, her little rook was secure.

By then, a township patrolman had arrived and took a detailed report. If any of the security cameras caught the mugger, they might identify him. Rather than head home immediately, January browsed a Hallmark store. She bought a few birthday cards she remembered needing but peeked out the large picture window from time to time. *** “You’re not listening. He’s dead! I saw Peter Vaughn’s obituary with my own eyes! We are dead-ended. Literally! Wherever he stashed the packages—he took the whereabouts to his grave.”

“Prove it!” the boss’s lieutenant demanded of Stanley Ballinski. “Show me the ‘body of proof.’ Like, where did he die?

How? Of what? And what arrangements have been made? Tell that medical student who works in the morgue that we demand a return on our investment. If Peter Vaughn died anywhere in New York or New Jersey, there will be a trail. The paper wouldn’t publish an obit without it coming from a funeral director. Track that down immediately and report back.”

“I still say we should let this one go. Reimburse the client for his loss and move on.”

The lieutenant kept shaking his head. “Not a possibility.

Ballinski, question that administrative assistant in the accountant’s department. If the package wasn’t in Vaughn’s house or his office, then it’s gotta be somewhere he could hide it.

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assistant and trace every place she has been. Peter Vaughn could not possibly have fenced artwork worth over $2 million.”

“But that’s just one piece. We could offer the client something better—take the loss and retire. Or start another business.”

The lieutenant slammed his fist on the desk so hard that the snow globe teetered. “Find that package! That’s an order, not a discussion.”

220

30 January and Barrett were enjoying a rare dinner at home.

Tax season proceeded toward April deadlines, and January ricocheted from client meetings to nonprofit meet-and-greets to renovating their house into flip-it condition. Her phone chimed, the caller ID revealing Karl Malbourne.

“I have interesting news, which you may or may not appreciate,” he began. “I was right. It is a chess piece. Very old.

Very valuable, especially to the rightful owner.”

“That’s wonderful! Should we wait to return it to our friend until we can hand-carry it? Or send it by armored vehicle?” She winked at Barrett, who was listening on speaker.

“How to handle it is complicated. It is, in fact, part of a set that was stolen during the 1930s and never found. The owner’s entire family, except one little girl, died in a German concentration camp. That little girl ended up in England, married, and has living descendants.”

January and Barrett exchanged worried looks. “What do you advise us to do with it?”

“For the meantime, keep it locked up. I’ll research which historians are involved in returning stolen heirlooms to heirs. If the family bought the set before the war from an auction, estate, or dealer, there might still be a catalog in existence. I’ll let you know what I find.”

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“Thank you so much.” After disconnecting, she sat stunned for a minute, realizing Barrett had the same thought. He mused, “How did Peter Vaughn come into possession of a priceless piece of stolen art? And what was it doing in a bowl on his desk?”

“And if it’s part of a set, trouble may follow it here.” *** The following morning, January thrilled to her Honda’s responsiveness as its wide, low wheelbase gripped the secondary’s curves through a dense first-growth forest like a race car. Zip zip zip, she hummed along as the Michelins gobbled the rural two-lane toward the alpaca farm. As if shot from a cannon, she suddenly emerged in an area of small farms delineated by splitrail fences and undulating pastures. The first two had horses that grazed contentedly, stretching their long necks to nibble lush shoots on the road’s side of the fence posts.

Entranced, she almost missed her destination. She swung into a wide paved driveway that fronted a lovely home with a broad front porch. When she knocked, the owner of Fleece Haven Alpaca Farm opened the door and ushered her into their home’s back-right quadrant, the heart of their weaving business. From a large picture window, January caught sight of a manicured pasture, a barn, and several animals. He said, pointing to a halffinished colored hat, “This is an Addi circular hat loom. The weaver sits on the bench and works the shuttle.” A multi-colored scarf was in progress on another loom under the window. “That’s a Schacht weaving loom,” he said of the scarf of natural alpaca colors.

“This is exactly what the little girl I told you about on the phone wants to do.”

He smiled at the image. “I don’t see why she couldn’t if she’s eager to learn and has the patience to master the basics. Why 222

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don’t I take you to the barn to meet the animals and show you what’s involved?”

January pulled on the barn boots she’d left on the porch while her host slipped into his barn Crocs. As they wandered downhill, a half dozen alpacas sidled up to the fence that surrounded the males’ part of their barn, looking expectant. “They’re hungry and know I’m running a little bit late. First, though, I’ll send the females to the other pasture to pee. While they can’t be housebroken, they’ll empty their bladders in the morning before they eat. Fine with me—less sweeping to do. And, unlike cattle, their pellet-like feces can be used or sold directly as fertilizer without aging it.”

“Your farm is so beautiful. How many acres do alpacas need?”

“Five can be accommodated per acre. We have sixteen on four acres. A horse barn or an Amish shed is sufficient shelter from winter weather, and they don’t need a heater. In the summer, though, you need fans. And if it gets really hot, you need to hose them down. Ours are shorn in April, but by fall, their fleece is growing back, which keeps them warm in the winter. In their native Bolivia, Chile, and Peru, they graze in lower elevations in winter, then are herded to the highlands where it’s cool for the summer. Somehow their owners know whose animals are whose.”

“We have a three-stall horse barn with water and four acres, which sounds ample. Do you think I could find the little girl a rescue animal? Our plan is to house it for her.”

“Rescues are uncommon, and there are no strays. One might be found at a farm going out of business or where a couple of alpacas have been kept, but one has died. Alpacas became popular in our country in the 1980s, prized for their wonderful fleece. It’s softer and warmer than wool and hypoallergenic because it has no lanolin and doesn’t prickle like sheep’s wool. The luxurious, softest fleece is closest to their bodies that runs down their backs.

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Because the fur isn’t sticky, after sheering the dried mud is shaken in a tumbler—no need to bathe the animals during the year.”

“What’s involved if I want to buy one? Are there breeders who sell them? How would I know about the animal’s parentage?”

“They’re chipped, and all of them have registered lineage, dating to the first arrivals. Records are kept. The cost depends upon supply and demand. Years ago, when there were fewer, they were very expensive—around $10,000 apiece, but the cost has dropped since then to about $2,000.”

January felt her spirits sag. “Then they have to eat.”

“Not as much as you’d think. They graze on the second cutting of our meadow grass, which we supplement with grain and alfalfa, but you can feed one alpaca for a year for what it costs to feed a dog for a month. Alfalfa hay costs $6 to $6.50 per bale.

Each bale lasts us two to three days for our sixteen alpacas. They cannot eat horse or cow hay. Food costs per animal per year runs us about $125 to $150.”

The females ambled back into their section of the barn, looking for breakfast. He filled shallow metal trays with grain and water buckets from a spigot. Each animal seemed to know her place at the table. After eating, while they milled around, he encouraged her to feel their fleece. “They’re rather like cats— curious and gentle but aloof unless they want to be fed. They recognize their human family and are curious about strangers.

“Go ahead. You can touch their backs, but avoid their heads and rumps.” She knew the animal would be soft, but when she eased her hand into the dense fleece, she was amazed by how luxurious it felt.

After eating their grain and allotment of hay, they flopped onto the floor and began chewing their cud. “They have three stomachs,” he continued the biology lesson. “They have a hard upper palate and lower teeth. They rip hay first, swallow quickly, then ruminate at their leisure, dropping to the cushing position 224

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with their legs tucked under them. It’s believed that this might have evolved to enable them to jump quickly to their feet.”

“What about a vet? What routine care do they need?”

“Males have a pair of hook-like ‘fighting teeth’ in their upper jaw to grab and rip, which must be trimmed with a diamond-bit drill. Lower teeth need trimming as well. Alpacas have two-toed hoofs, the nails of which need trimming.”

“Do they spit? Like camels? And what’s that noise that they’re making—like growling?”

“Spitting is a form of communication, like yelling or cursing in humans and usually at each other over food. They’re humming!

And no, I don’t know the words.”

“We do have water in the barn. How much do they drink?”

“About fifty gallons a day. I can give you a list of the grains and the proportion, our vet’s name, and other farmers’ contact information. As you can imagine, we all know each other and enjoy sharing our knowledge and breeding information.”

January dug in her bag for her phone and thumbed to pictures of her barn. “What do you think—is this suitable?”

“That looks sufficient to house a small herd. You’ll need electricity for lights, fans, and heated water buckets for the winter. A word of caution: Alpacas are herd animals. You need at least two of the same sex. Or you would need to board one at an alpaca farm. They need the company of their own kind. Just saying…”

January heaped thanks on her host, who gave her far more intel than she possibly could have gleaned from the internet.

As she waved goodbye, she imagined Charlene, overjoyed with their little farm over-seeded in meadow grass and a lovely alpaca following her around like a puppy. She made a notation: Call Dean’s electrician to inspect the plumbing and electrical service to the barn and make any necessary renovations. She laughed at herself, having no idea if that had already been done.

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First thing, after writing a thank-you note to the farmer and deciding on a gift, she’d Google alpaca farmers in central Pennsylvania. And she’d cast a wide net for a rescue alpaca. Oh my God—did she need a truck and a trailer? Maybe their second vehicle should be an old pickup. *** The Rabbit and Cavy Club’s show was coming up fast. At Katherine’s invitation, January attended their last meeting before the event. Besides the logistical details, the youngsters agonized over practical concerns, like why one third grader’s guinea pig was developing bald spots and how often the judges’ tables should be wiped and with what disinfectant.

January sat down beside Katherine, who whispered a greeting. “You’d think they didn’t do this every year. The biggest challenge is, having everything done, they’re over-prepared and have time to worry.”

“Just like adults. By the way, if you can keep a secret, I visited an alpaca farm. He was delightful and so interested in Charlene.”

Katherine looked anxious, cocking her head in a now familiar pose that January interpreted as her worried look. “You wouldn’t—” “Absolutely not one word to Charlene until something comes of it.”

“You haven’t mentioned moving back to New York since you and Barrett met with the police. Are you still thinking of returning? I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry. It’s just that Charlene has become rather attached. Perhaps you should cushion the eventuality by keeping her in the loop, I mean, rather than leaving abruptly.”

January sagged. “I apologize for seeming secretive. I dream nonstop about returning. The friends I’ve made here might think 226

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this community isn’t good enough for me or that I look down on their country ways. It’s as if I’m living in alternate realities—there and here. No decision I make will be easy, especially for Barrett. I never dreamed our backgrounds would clash, but we didn’t have a long-range plan.”

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to upset you. I can’t expect everyone’s world to revolve around Charlene as mine does.”

“But you are right. I need to treat her like the adult that she is. We’ll have that conversation. She’s so wise—maybe she’ll have some perspective for me.”

“I would suggest, before this goes any further, that you evaluate the commitment you’re considering. I hate to state the obvious—country girl to city girl—you can’t just start an alpaca farm or any agricultural enterprise and walk away. Caring for animals is a 24/7 obligation. You may want to rethink the whole idea. What if Charlene loses interest or, heaven forbid, becomes incapacitated? At the very least, you should have another alpaca farmer lined up to take your rescue if you find one.”

January admitted that Katherine was right. Her career necessitated returning to the city, not if, but when.

Charlene’s voice, as she finished the meeting, cut through January’s musings. “Is there any other business before we adjourn?” Something hit January, and she raised her hand to be recognized. “Ms. Lamont?”

“Photo op! Before everything gets crazy, you’ll want to gather for group shots. Perhaps one of your adult club members would volunteer to take them?”

“I know,” Tom, their publicity guy jumped to his feet. “Let’s meet under our banner as soon as all of us arrive.”

“And let’s each hold one of our animals,” another kid added.

Moved and seconded. The meeting was adjourned.

Saturday morning, January thought she’d be early, but when she arrived at the Ag Center at eight, the parking lot was jammed 227

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with vehicles. Visiting clubs’ kids of all ages, wearing their signature T-shirts and jackets, crammed the huge facilities with their cages and animal paraphernalia. And, kids being kids, they ran all over the place, meeting and greeting friends from other clubs whom they knew from competitions. The kitchen buzzed with adults whose offerings started with breakfast snacks.

Like a fly on the wall, January watched the event unfold with all the excitement of a Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.

Charlene welcomed the judges and showed them to their tables.

Wearing a small white lab coat, she displayed the decorum and professionalism of a seasoned veteran. A murmur rippled through the assembly when a photographer and a videographer arrived with their equipment. Charlene and Tom gravitated toward them. If they were terrified, they didn’t show it.

A lengthy conversation ensued, the reporters referring to the kids’ papers and pointing to areas that caught their attention. The videographer interviewed Charlene against the backdrop of the bustling room while Tom took the still photographer to meet the two judges whose tables were side by side. Clever kids, January thought, realizing the judges’ proximity meant the photographers wouldn’t have to choose which judge to shoot. She was overjoyed that the media representatives were in no hurry to leave, spending time interviewing the adults whose clubs provided refreshments.

January wandered among the visitors, meeting the kids and learning about their animals. She was in time to observe the cavy judge compliment a young owner about its perfect ears.

The child beamed. What struck her most was the kids’ joy in their accomplishments that spanned years of commitment while just being kids. She edged closer to the rabbits in time to see Charlene’s Molly display her table manners.

January choked with pride and admiration for this brave young lady, momentarily angry that her exceptional future could be cut short in spite of her determination and spunk. I’ll do it.

I’ve just got to do it for her! As soon as she got home, she Googled 228

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alpaca farms in Pennsylvania and alpaca rescues. The former produced an impressive list, complete with maps; the latter, nothing.

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31 The lieutenant’s quiet voice unnerved both Stanley Ballinski and his operative. “There’s only one place it could be—that house by the quarry where our gal captured that shot. Nobody will expect another visit. A simple search and recover mission without prying eyes. No vans have been spotted at the house that could be installing a security system. Our gal is confident that the Lamonts are creatures of habit and that their routine has stabilized. Get in, find it, and get out.”

“Would have been a lot easier in New York. But our gal managed to follow a guy who works at the quarry to a bar, chat him up, and learn they’re suspicious of strangers and vehicles that don’t belong; been a lot of stuff stolen from the guys’ trucks.

The owners have posted a guard after hours.”

“How much time we got?”

“Us? None! The boss’s client is expecting his merchandise yesterday.” He lowered his voice shy of a whisper. “Do not forget there are numerous more pieces to be placed with our clients.

One disaster and no amount of prior success will save our business—or our lives.”

“So—is this like reverse dominoes? We deliver the package as promised, and we’re home free?”

“Not exactly. The Peter Vaughn matter must be resolved— permanently. Who could have imagined that some little accountant could bring down a multi-billion-dollar enterprise!

He is part two of our number one priority.”

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“About the Lamonts? What if someone’s at home? There could be collateral damage.”

The lieutenant growled. “Think seriously about who will be collateral damage, Ballinski, since your bungling put you in the crosshairs of international businessmen who have millions at stake. This operation was botched from the day you inserted Vaughn into play.”

“But he was a natural. We had him by the balls with his gambling addiction. He delivered every single package exactly as instructed.”

“Until you pushed him too far, he got scared, and he started keeping records. And he was kidnapped before you could delete the spreadsheets, which you, Ballinski, failed to notice on the mainframe. The entire operation could be brought down like a house of cards by something as simple as an audit for tax evasion, which he must have thought gave him leverage.” The lieutenant banged his fist on the desk so hard that the objects on its surface jumped. “He did not have to keep two sets of records. Just the one that appeared legitimate. Don’t you get it?”

Silence. They nodded.

“Now get on it.” *** January ambled around the barn, wondering how it would feel to a homeless alpaca. She’d need feed and supplies ASAP, although she had hauled garden implements from the garage to the shed that she anticipated needing, like rakes and shovels.

A galvanized feed trough could be fabricated later when—if— an adoption could be arranged. She had located a general store in Fivepointville and invested in serious boots. She smiled, remembering when she described what she needed to a woman in a homemade dress and kapp. The woman laughed. “Shit kickers!

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That’s what you want.” She also bought wool socks, coveralls, heavy-duty gloves, and some basic pots and pans.

Her cell phone chimed from deep in her pocket. Having left dozens of requests for information, she answered. “Ms. Lamont?

I’m calling about your inquiry for rescue alpacas. Do I have the right number?”

January hurried to the house, tracking mud into the kitchen as she lunged for paper and a pen as the woman began her story.

“My mother kept up the farm since Dad died five years ago, but she turned eighty in December and decided it was time to move to a Delaware retirement community near us. An auction is scheduled to sell the property, the house, and its contents.”

“Oh. That sounds so sad.” January toed off her boots and took her notepad to the kitchen table. She waited for her to continue.

“No. Not really. She’s more than ready. How she kept the farm going this long is miraculous. She promised she’d know when it was time, and she made up her mind all of a sudden. Our problem is her beloved Oleander. Mom won’t leave Pennsylvania until Oley has a good home. If you’re as interested as you sounded in your email, we could bring Oley to you. And we have leftover feed, hay, a bale of straw, and some necessary equipment that’s old but serviceable.”

“I don’t know what to say. If you think Oley will be a good fit for a twelve-year-old girl, my husband and I will give her a good home. Should I drive to your mother’s farm for a meet and greet?

See if your mother and Oley like us?”

“Well. Actually. I was hoping we could just bring Oley to you if you give me directions.”

January was stunned but unwilling to let the opportunity pass. The daughter continued with additional information. “If you find she isn’t a good fit, we’ll retrieve her and try another farm. But frankly, Mother’s afraid she would be picked on by an existing herd.”

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“It sounds like your mother really loves her and wants what’s best for her.”

“She was captivated by your message about the little girl and how she hopes to weave hats and scarves. Mother says to tell you Oley is six years old and has beautiful fleece.”

January swallowed hard and made a snap decision. “I’ll take her. What day would work best for you?”

“Um—I was thinking today?”

January blinked. And looked at the Audubon clock, which chirped ten times. “OK. I can do that. What time?”

“Well, um, actually, we’re on our way now.”

January didn’t know what to do first beyond summoning Barrett to come home for lunch and be prepared for a surprise.

Noon came and went and approached one o’clock. January paced while Barrett munched sandwiches. Finally, when a pickup truck pulling a trailer arrived at one forty-five, January hustled to greet her. She opened the double gate and motioned for her to pull straight into the field to the barn.

“You really sure about this?” Barrett asked, grinning.

“In for a penny…” As she approached the daughter, instead of extending her hand, she grabbed January into a hug. “Well—let’s see how Oleander likes our barn.”

The daughter opened the back of the trailer and led a beautiful alpaca into the meadow. Sunlight gleamed on her beautiful dark chocolate-colored fleece. She was shorter than January imagined, but some of the alpacas she’d seen on the farm were large males.

“Here. Would you hold this, please?” She handed January the lead.

She returned to the trailer and momentarily emerged, leading a second alpaca. “This is her daughter, Clematis, Clemmy for short. She’s four.” She handed the lead to Barrett and returned to the trailer again and emerged with a third one. “And this is Foxglove—Foxy, Mother calls her. Oley is the mom, Clemmy 233

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is her daughter, and Foxy is Clemmy’s half-sister. What do you think?”

Barrett laughed, enjoying January’s only speechless moment in the entire time that he had known her. He answered for them both. “If they’re a package deal, we’ll take them.”

“I am so relieved. Mother did not want to separate them, and if you know anything about herd animals, they do not do well alone. They need company of their own kind. I was afraid to mention it, hoping maybe the girls would sell themselves.”

The woman turned to the passenger in the pickup, who had gone unnoticed until then. “Come on, Shorty. Let’s get things unloaded.” A guy in bib overalls and boots began unloading bales of straw and spreading some in the barn. “Mother said you’ll need these—their feed troughs. You’ll have to nail them up at mouth height.” Next came feed buckets with lids, the contents marked in black, then water buckets and hooks.

“What do we do with them now?” January asked, suddenly feeling overwhelmed.

“Let’s give them some feed, fill their water buckets, then let them wander around. As long as they have each other, they’ll be fine.”

Barrett took Shorty to the shed, unlocked it, and together they stowed dozens of useful items the mother had insisted they’d need. “What do you think?” the daughter asked. “Please tell me those are happy tears.”

“You bet!” January turned to Barrett. “We need to call Katherine and tell her to bring Charlene over right now.” She turned to the daughter. “Can the two of you stay for supper? I’d love to have you see our girl interact with the biggest surprise of her life.”

While the others led the alpacas to their stalls and poured some grain into their pans, January called Katherine. “You have got to bring Charlene over right now. I have a big surprise for her.” January realized that either Katherine had caught a cold or 234

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that she had been crying. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“Charlene’s been sick. It’s been a bad day. She’s resting, but I don’t know which is worse—to wait and see or alarm her by taking her to the doctor. We’ve been down this road so many times, and I never know.”

“Katherine, I promise. I’ve got the cure. Bundle her up and bring her right over. Trust me on this.”

Thirty minutes later, Katherine steered her old car into the driveway. It didn’t take either of them more than a minute to realize what had transpired. Charlene shrieked and, jumping from the car, hurried toward the barn, dragging the blanket she’d been wrapped in behind her until it fell off. “Are they yours?” she asked January in amazement.

“They’re ours. And this lady’s mother has made it possible.”

Charlene threw herself into the daughter’s arms. “All you have to do is get better. And if your mom thinks the doc should check you, go for it.”

“Please tell your mother thank you. And that we’ll take very good care of them,” Charlene promised, crossing her heart. *** “They shouldn’t be here,” one black-garbed man hissed to the other, glancing through field glasses at the Lamont property from their place of concealment behind the quarry. The last loaded gravel truck of the day had lumbered toward a highway construction project in Montgomery County. The gal who had hung out in the bar to gather intel had been right every time.

Between 5 p.m. and dark, when security arrived, they had the quarry to themselves, which should have left plenty of time to search the house.

“What are those funny-looking animals—camels? Llamas?

And what are they doing here?”

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“Grazing looks like. Long as they don’t bark, they won’t be our problem.”

“No. All those extra cars. The house all lit up. Lots of people.

What do you wanna do, come back after everyone’s gone to bed?”

“Can’t. Guard on duty would see us.”

“Don’t think we have much choice. Can’t go in with guns blazing. I say abort and try another time.”

“He’s not going to like this.”

“Come on—what’s he gonna do? Shoot us? That won’t get him the package. He’d have to start all over with green replacements, and that would take time he doesn’t have.” *** At six the following morning, Barrett awoke to the smell of fresh paint, not coffee. Following his nose, he opened the front corner bedroom door to the sight of his wife rolling blue paint onto the walls. “What do you think? I’m calling the color A Patch of Blue. Yesterday I used the leftover white ceiling paint from our room and will add fluffy white clouds. Look out the side window—you can see the barn.”

“How long have you been up?”

“Since five. I wanted to give the alpacas their breakfast and then get started on the walls. I used Lowe’s paint comparison for natural light and to choose the tile that most closely resembled Charlene’s interpretation of her patch of sky. That’s what she’s calling her business, and which blue is very specific.”

“You’ll need some curtains.”

“Already ordered, thank you, Amazon. You can be my hero and install those rods that are lying on the closet floor once the paint dries.” She set the roller down in the tray and climbed down from the ladder. “I’m hoping Charlene can stay over from time to time if it’s OK with Katherine and if her health cooperates.

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With summer coming, fresh air and activity might help, and that would give Katherine a little break.”

“She’ll need a bed…”

“You can order anything online. Have it on your doorstep in twenty-four hours. I’ll sing you a few lines of their jingle that’s trapped in my brain.”

“By the way, how are the girls this morning?”

“Great. Happy to see their waitress. Other than that, they’re just hanging out and nibbling grass. They seemed contented if their humming was any indication. Somehow it seems odd.

If they were dogs, I’d need to be doing something with them, but they aren’t companion animals. I was spooked at first about taking three, but at least I don’t have to sleep in the barn to keep an only child company.”

“I’ll put on the coffee.”

“Breakfast would be nice too.” Barrett closed the door, chuckling and shaking his head.

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32 “It couldn’t be helped,” Barrett explained about the disappearance of their Honda after Walter dropped him at home.

“The inspection sticker had expired. I got a warning to get it done immediately or be charged an enormous fine. So, Walter and I left it at the dealer overnight. They’ll inspect it first thing tomorrow.” He stopped his speech when he spotted their guest.

“Hey, Charlene. Good to see you. Hope you’re staying for dinner.”

She beamed. “And a sleepover. I’ve never been allowed to do that. Mom is sooo overprotective.” She rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “You’ve gotta see how Ms. January finished the guest room, which she says is mine.”

“Charlene, just plain January will be fine now that you’re a teenager. Let’s show Barrett how your inspiration turned out.”

Charlene clasped his hand and led him down the hall. Fluffy white curtains fluttered in the warm spring breeze that brought with it the scents of the meadow.

“Charlene thought the headboard should be in the front corner, with the bed along the side wall.”

“That way, I can sit on it and watch the alpacas in the barn. I love the comforter,” she said, stroking the log-cabin quilt, below which hung a complementary dust ruffle. “The blues match the wall and the sky.”

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news is that everything’s washable. Traces of barn are bound to follow us into the house.”

“Can I go to the barn after we eat and feed the girls some treats?”

“Sure. Just be sure to take your phone in case you need to reach us. Given the distance, we might not hear your voice.”

“Mom repurposed a fabric passport neck safe to wear like a cross-shoulder bag. It’s just the right size for my phone. She says to remind me to plug in my charger tonight.” She sighed. “As if I’d forget.”

“Take a flashlight,” Barrett added. “There’s enough ruts out there to stop a tank. And, by the way, if you see the house lights flicker or stay out briefly, don’t be alarmed. I’m running some wires for ceiling fans and need to kill the juice at the breaker. It shouldn’t take long. But, if you see the house go dark, don’t be alarmed.”

After the girls finished the dishes, January realized that Charlene was stalling until it was pitch dark outside. A crescent moon and sprinkling of stars peeked through scurrying clouds, giving the only light in the otherwise black countryside. An occasional car passed, but even that was infrequent.

“I want to sneak up on them and catch them sleeping. Do you suppose they’ll be lying down? Or standing up like a horse?”

“I’d bet they’ll be down, chewing their cud after the heaping dinner you gave them.”

Charlene looked wistfully at her with moist eyes. “Did you really plan to have alpacas, or did you get them for me? I, ah, just hope I didn’t talk you into them. Or that you felt sorry for me.”

January set down her tea towel and looked the child straight in the eyes. “Absolutely neither! You may have given me an idea for repurposing the barn, but it made perfect sense. And believe me, I did my homework and made a deliberate decision. Besides, they’re easier than dogs. And look at all the fun we’ll have that never crossed this city gal’s mind.” She gathered Charlene into a 239

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hug and brushed a kiss on the top of her head. “It’s completely dark now. Just be careful. We don’t know how easily the trio gets spooked. As you approach, you might want to whistle or call them. Let them know that it’s you.”

Barrett set a ladder on the living room floor beneath the circular mark where the ceiling fan would go. “I wish you’d let Dean’s electrician do that,” January stated for the umpteenth time. “‘Wiring is not a hobby; hire a licensed electrician.’ That’s what their van says.”

“I watched him do it. I have the right wire, and I can route it from this hole, over the attic studs, and down between the wall studs to the switch. Piece of cake. Why don’t you make yourself useful and go to the breaker box in the basement? The switches are labeled. I just need to know which one controls the outlets in the living room. See—Dean installed a triple switch with an extra nob to control the fan’s speed in addition to the one that turns on the lamp.”

“Oh, I don’t know. What if you do it wrong?”

He smiled entirely too confidently for an accountant. “We flip the breaker back on, turn on the fan, it goes bang, the house goes totally dark, then we call the electrician.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

“You’re such a turkey!”

“Seriously, I’ll cut the hole in the ceiling, use the wire that goes nowhere right now, and then twist the individual wires to the fan’s. We’ll hoist the fan into position, I’ll screw it into the studs, and then—and only then—will I attach the wires to the wall switch. As long as both the breaker and the wall switch are off, nothing can go wrong. You can spend what I’m saving on feed for the alpacas.”

“Oh, I do not like this.”

“Get used to it. We’re homeowners. Pioneers. And very smart people. Now be a trusting helpmate and turn on the living room lamp. Go to the basement and flip breakers, one at a time, then 240

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turn them back on unless I yell Stop! That’s it! when the living room goes dark. Then leave that one alone unless you want a big bang and a dead husband.”

January watched from the window as Charlene’s flashlight bobbed to the rhythm of her footsteps as she trotted around the barn and disappeared inside the stalls. How little it took to make her happy!

“Get going, my willing helper!”

“On it.” January trudged down the basement stairs into the pitch darkness. Flashlight, she chided herself and returned to the kitchen to grab a Maglite from a cupboard. She returned to the basement, found the lightbulb’s pull cord, and called to Barrett to let her know when he was ready for her to begin flipping switches.

“Shouldn’t we light lamps in all the rooms so you’ll know?” she yelled.

“Nope. Only the living room lights are important. Just flip each breaker, one at a time, and when I don’t holler, flip it back on. You ready?”

“Go for it.” By the bare bulb that was closest to the breaker box and with the aid of the flashlight, she could see that beside each switch was affixed a white numbered square with careful printing identifying the location it controlled. Two double black switches were dedicated to the heat pump and the oven, respectively, with two extra blank pairs for future use. A column of single red switches bore labels for different parts of the house, such as bedrooms, bathroom and powder room, kitchen, living room, and basement lights. The latter made her glad that she’d grabbed a flashlight.

She began with the switches she felt would be obvious—the bedrooms—and worked her way toward the kitchen, avoiding the double black ones. And, sure enough, when she flipped the one marked living room, Barrett yelled. “That’s it. Leave it off.”

She pulled the string on the basement lightbulb and climbed the stairs, following the tiny glow on the microwave’s nightlight.

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Interesting. The overhead light in the kitchen and over the table were on the same circuit as the living room outlets. How dark the night was! Maybe she should feel her way back to their bedroom and turn on a lamp.

But where was Barrett? She heard something she couldn’t quite place and then realized he must be in the attic, guiding the wire over the beams and insulation to the access hole that led to the wall switch. Beyond the picture window, complete darkness enveloped the yard until an occasional wispy cloud drifted away from the silvery moon, the fence-row trees throwing ghostly skeletons across the meadow.

Either she was dreaming, or her eyes were deceiving her, but Barrett was standing stock-still by the fireplace, and two shadowy figures faced him from inside the front door. She gasped, bolting for the light switch that failed to respond. “Who are you, and what do you want?” she demanded.

The taller one motioned to both of them with the sweep of a flashlight that momentarily blinded her. “Sit. Over there at the table.”

They complied.

“What do you want? If you’re here to rob us, we don’t have anything of real value. But take what you want and get out.”

The looks January and Barrett exchanged conveyed the same horrified thought— Charlene!

There had been no mention of how long she’d stay with the animals, enjoying the lovely May night. They had to give the intruders whatever they wanted and get rid of them before she wandered into danger.

“You alone? Just you two?”

“Yes,” they said in unison, sounding too emphatic to her ears, but the pair hadn’t seemed to notice. If they’d been under surveillance, surely they’d know that no one else lived here.

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“Check it out,” he said to the short, silent one who made a cursory check of the small house, apparently not needing to go farther than halfway down to the cavernous basement’s unfinished footprint. Having brought so few possessions, they hadn’t needed to store boxes down there.

“Whose is that front bedroom?”

“It’s a guest room. I just finished decorating it—you can still smell the paint.”

The big man with the flashlight focused on Barrett. “We know that you’ve got it. Where is it? The box Peter Vaughn gave you.

We want it. Right now. Hand it over, or I’ll kill your lovely wife.”

“Barrett, do you know what he’s talking about? If you do, just give him what he wants.”

“I haven’t seen Peter Vaughn for months, and he certainly didn’t mail me a package.”

The big man laughed. “Gotcha! I said that he gave it to you. I didn’t mention anything about mailing it.”

“Well, there’s your problem. Peter never had my new mailing address, so he couldn’t have sent it USPS, FedEx, UPS, or carrier pigeon. You’ve been given some bad information, and since we can’t see who you are, I suggest you just leave.”

The big guy pulled a roll of silver duct tape from a black fabric bag and handed it to his partner. “Bind their legs to their chairs and their hands behind their backs. Then we can search.” He tore off lengths, securing January, then approached Barrett, who seized that moment to leap to his feet, sending the chair crashing onto its side. The pair yanked Barrett onto his feet and thrust him onto another chair, having produced a gun. “Nobody will hear you in the middle of nowhere. I will not hesitate to shoot both of you if you don’t cooperate. Your choice.”

He motioned to his accomplice. “It’s gotta be here. Turn the place upside down. It isn’t that big. Start back in the bedrooms and look everywhere, like for loose floorboards, fake bottom drawers, and so on.”

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As January’s line of vision followed the short guy down the hall, she panicked. What of Charlene’s overnight bag and sketch pads? Maybe he wouldn’t realize that equaled a third person. Or maybe she put her things in the closet or dresser drawer. Then her peripheral vision caught a glimmer of light crossing the meadow.

Charlene!

The second both men’s heads were turned, she caught Barrett’s eye with a quick jerk of her head toward the window. His eyes widened in recognition and fear. If they grabbed her, they’d have a bargaining chip, and they had nothing to swap.

A gentle breeze fluttered the Venetian blinds, their pulls tapping the window frame. January was sure she could hear Charlene’s feet swishing through the dew-dampened grass. With no neighbors, as these thieves had pointed out, surely if they kept quiet, it wouldn’t occur to them to tape their mouths. The big guy swaggered back from the guest room, obviously not having found what they wanted.

He hollered again, his patience taught as banjo strings.

“Where is it? Where’d you hide it? We are not leaving without it!”

He scowled, momentarily lowering his head, giving January a second to catch Barrett’s eye. How often had he teased her about her saying, Wait for it… Wait for it… prefaced by raising her eyebrows in a certain way? Without making a sound, she pursed her lips as if saying shhh. His eyes widened with recognition and then waited for her to act.

She screamed, “I’m telling you, we are alone here! We cannot call for help. We have no cell phones to call the police.” She yelled at the top of her lungs, “Go away! Go away! Take my purse. Our wallets.”

Silence. No swishing feet.

Charlene’s approach had halted—unless she was circling the house to come in through the mud room to learn what was up.

She’d think to use that entry if her feet were muddy. All January wanted was for her to go hide in the barn and be safe.

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Evidently fed up with her yelling, the big guy ripped off pieces of duct tape and slapped them over their mouths. Time dragged on as the invaders could be heard tearing bedrooms and bathrooms apart before moving on to the kitchen and proceeding to empty every cupboard and drawer. The knives! The big guy stalked from the kitchen, brandishing a meat cleaver. He yanked the tape from Barrett’s mouth and grabbed January by the hair so hard that he lifted her, chair and all, an inch off the floor. He laid the knife against her throat, then looked expectantly at Barrett.

“Well? What’s it going to be?”

In a flash, the house exploded in activity, with police in riot gear storming from two different directions. It happened so suddenly that the man in the kitchen was trapped, stumbling through jettisoned plastic containers and soup cans that stymied any possibility of escape. His partner dropped the knife and threw up his hands. Charlene wedged her way through the police to hug January and Barrett and peeled the tape from their mouths.

“Are you OK? What did those bad men want?”

“We were so scared that they’d find you. Or that you’d come through the door, and, and…”

“I saw what looked like guys in Halloween costumes. Like shadows or ghosts. And you’d said nothing about having weird company, so I decided to eavesdrop. And when I heard you, I got the message and sneaked back to the barn to call 911. I told them my name, that I was calling from the house by the quarry, and that some men had you tied to chairs. She had me say it twice and then asked for my parent’s name and number. Then I called Mom. I’m afraid she’ll make me come home tonight.”

“None of us can stay here now that it’s a crime scene. But I promise we’ll give you lots of rain checks.”

Charlene’s mother, Katherine, erupted through the front door, elbowing past protesting officers, eyes blazing with anger.

“Where is my baby? I demand that you bring her to me.”

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Charlene had been methodically ticking off her story, finger by finger, to an officer who was jotting her statement in a notebook.

She turned from the fireplace with a quizzical expression. “Mom! It’s all right. Everything’s cool.”

Katherine bombarded the officer with questions without allowing her to respond, finally adding, “My child is a minor.

You cannot question her without my consent or being present.

Furthermore, she isn’t well. If your badgering her causes a relapse—” “Mom! Chill! I’m fine. All I did was call 911 when I looked in the window and realized something was wrong.”

January approached, scraping lingering strands of duct tape from her hair. Katherine spun to confront her, beyond furious.

“You! How dare you bring criminals from New York, pretending to acclimate, turning our lives upside down only to return to the city. And raising Charlene’s hopes only to dash them. How dare you!” she repeated. She pivoted to her daughter. “Come on, sweetie. Get your stuff. We’re leaving.” She turned hostile eyes on the officer, daring anyone to stop them.

Charlene cast pleading eyes at January, held her fist to her ear like an ‘I’ll-call-you’ message, and turned toward the hall.

“You can’t go back there,” the officer said. “This is a crime scene.”

Charlene straightened as far as her stature would accommodate. “I am not leaving without my portfolio.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared her defiance at the officer.

“All right. But I have to come with you.”

“Fine.” She turned and stalked down the hall to her pretty blue room, turning her back to prevent the officer from seeing her swipe at a tear.

Pent-up anger boiling in his eyes, Barrett approached Katherine, spinning her shoulder to face him. “Don’t you dare speak to my wife like that ever again. She’s done nothing wrong.

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We have no idea why we were targeted. Your daughter is a hero, intervening on our behalf with an adult’s common sense. We have never, ever, misrepresented ourselves.” He turned to January.

“Come on, honey. The cops have more questions.”

Charlene emerged from the bedroom, clutching her portfolio.

“Mom, I’m leaving my overnight bag here for when the police say I can return. Let’s go.” She turned at the door and called. “January, you’ll have to forgive my mother. She’s just upset.”

When the pair were out of earshot, Barrett turned to January and wiped her tears with his thumbs. “Katherine has to accept that Charlene can’t be her whole life forever. She’s growing up.

We can’t help her with that. For now, let’s just let things cool off.

Unless I miss my guess, it’s time for them to have some serious conversations.”

He made a sweeping motion of the aftermath. “We’re going to get to the bottom of this. Get your things. We’ll accept Walter’s hospitality again, then tackle our mess in the morning.”

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33 “I cannot believe this. Twice! I wonder if I can get a quantity discount on a cleaning product that removes black fingerprint dust.” January continued muttering oaths as she sorted staples and returned them to the pantry closet. “Did you ever figure out what they wanted?”

“Well. Yes. Sort of. But it isn’t here. Peter mailed me a package, supposedly a present, which arrived at the office after he disappeared. Ellie, our administrative assistant, gave it to me.

The outer wrappings were addressed to me, and when I removed them, I found a birthday present with a note that said, ‘Do not open until August.’ The guys in the department exchange gag gifts—ten-dollar limit—and he knew my birthday wasn’t in August. So, I went along with the joke and brought it home.”

“So where is it? And did you ever open it?”

“No. It’s in my desk drawer in Walter’s office. I’d forgotten all about it. Why would anyone want my gag gift, especially with a ten-dollar limit?”

“After everything that’s happened, you’d better unwrap it and see what was so important.” January decided it was time to confess. “When I was unpacking our moving boxes, I found your beachwear and thought I’d put your stuff in a dresser drawer. I found a present—the one in the little silver box with a purple bow. I recognized the signature wrappings, and I didn’t want to spoil your surprise.”

“And you didn’t say anything…”

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She shrugged, palms raised in supplication. “It didn’t occur to me that they’d want my gift. So—can I open it? It’s not my birthday or our anniversary. What’s the occasion?”

“Well—it was meant to be a consolation present for dragging you away from New York and putting you in danger. I was saving it for when I thought you needed it most.”

She grinned. “I can wait. But you’d better open Peter’s gift. It might explain a lot.”

Vigorous knocking drew January to the front door in time to see a florist truck back out of their driveway. On the stoop, she found a tissue-wrapped container. She carried it to the kitchen counter, trying to guess what occasion someone had remembered. A lovely woven basket held two thriving African violets with a little envelope attached to a plastic holder. Thrilled by their beauty, she ripped open the card.

I am so sorry. Please forgive me. Katherine. January placed the basket with care on the bay window seat, grabbed her phone, and texted heaps of thanks and apologies to her friend.

They left the clean-up project unfinished, scrubbed their filthy hands, and swapped their work clothes for more appropriate attire to intrude on Walter’s professional space. Catching him in between appointments, he followed them into Barrett’s office, intrigued. Barrett shoved work in progress to the far side of his desk. He dug the birthday present from the cavernous bottom drawer and set the heavy shoebox-size gift on the surface.

“Looks like what it is,” January said. “Hurry up and open it.”

Barrett ripped the colorful paper with a child’s happybirthday balloons, bears, and ribbon motif. Inside, its lid taped shut was an actual shoebox that had seen better days. Barrett scanned its end and laughed. “Nike size 9 running shoes. Now that would win the office gift prize—Peter’s old shoes. Even if they were new, he knows I wear a size 12. Calls me big foot since I’m always tripping over chairs.”

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“I can repurpose them—fill them with soil, plant geraniums, and set them on the front stoop. Let’s see what’s inside that was important enough to warrant a home invasion.” She grabbed scissors that he kept in a mug on his desk and snipped the reinforced packaging tape that secured the lid. Barrett lifted it cautiously, expecting slinky snakes. The contents appeared to be numerous little objects wrapped individually in new white tissue paper like one would use to protect Christmas ornaments.

Barrett selected the closest one and gently unwrapped it. The object was less than two inches tall, thin, and green. He set it on its flat end. They stared. He unwrapped a second and a third piece which he lined up with the first, their meaning becoming clear. “They’re pawns! Part of the set that goes with the rook.”

Barrett smoothed the first three pieces of tissue paper, then one by one, added more pieces while saving the wrappings. The top layer yielded eight perfect pawns, the sunlight streaming from the window lighting their exquisite faces.

“There’s more,” Walter stated the obvious about the halfempty box. Barrett secured the pawns perpendicular to his desktop, lest in the trio’s excitement, they topple the pieces like dominoes. Walter and January took turns unwrapping two knights, one rook, two bishops, and finally the miniature queen and the king. Setting the shoebox and wrappings aside, Barrett arranged the pieces as if for a game.

“There’s a hole,” Walter said, pointing to the space in the back row.

“That’s where the rook we found would complete half the set.”

January fingered extra tissue paper that lined the bottom of the box and frowned. “There’s other pieces—I feel two more lumps.” As the others watched, she unrolled a square of tissue paper and gasped. “It’s a ring!” Instinctively, she reached for it, unable to stop the urge. “May I try it on?”

“No!” the men shouted in unison. “Fingerprints. Don’t touch it.”

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Barrett handed her a pencil with which she lifted it into the sun’s rays, the center stone larger than a Fordhook lima bean, its refracted light throwing dazzling prisms on the walls.

Walter recovered first. “It would take a lot of lettuce to buy those karats.” They stared for a moment as if not knowing what action to take or whom to call.

January set the remaining bundle on the desk, patting the bottom to see if that was it. She unwrapped one last mini bundle.

Another ring, set with a huge blazing ruby surrounded with diamonds in an ornate filigree setting that had to be white gold or platinum.

“This complicates everything,” Barrett said, stating the obvious. “Let’s call your jeweler’s friend, Karl Malbourne, and see if he’ll come and tell us what we’ve got.”

“What about the police?” January added. “Not those who responded to the escaped inmate—that’s unrelated. But our homeinvasion detective. Or the ones in New York regarding Peter’s kidnapping and the tax-evasion evidence they subpoenaed.

These two events must be related, since you found the jade rook in Peter’s cubicle. Why do you suppose Peter even had it?”

Barrett shrugged. “Maybe for insurance. Or maybe as a sample for a prospective buyer of high-end or stolen artwork.

I doubt the latter—Peter Vaughn doesn’t strike me as clever enough to move in those circles. A simple accountant who made money cooking the books for clients to evade paying taxes? Still, there’s got to be more to it.”

“Haven’t I said that from the beginning?” January asked.

“That everything that happened to us, as well as Peter, was overkill for a little book-cooking.”

Barrett made a decision. “Let’s call Karl Malbourne. Maybe he’ll make a house call and can give us some direction on how to proceed. At least he would know if the stones are real.” She dialed and was delighted to hear Malbourne’s British accent when he picked up on the second ring. She covered the mouthpiece and 251

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whispered, “He’s in the area about the auction he mentioned and says he’ll come immediately. That he found some exciting information and was about to call us anyway.”

“Stop!” Barrett called a halt to their excited chatter. “Before we speak to anyone, we must get our attorney, Luke Holmes, involved. Maybe his criminal lawyer friend, Robert Morris, who represented me in the New York police procedure. We must include them. These chess pieces could very well be stolen, and now we’re in possession of priceless jewelry too. And somehow, we’ve got to locate Peter. He’s the only one who can answer our questions.” *** Karl Malbourne gazed at the beautiful chess pieces, then softened his awestruck expression to a more professional demeanor. “These are magnificent,” he muttered. “And look very much like photos I found in a catalog of stolen and missing artwork. The original set was old, even before it was stolen from a Jewish family in the 1930s.”

“Has the other half of the set ever been found? I wonder what they’d look like.”

Malbourne pulled a color photo from his briefcase that held the answer. Although blurry, the jade pieces were recognizable.

The pale contrasting pieces might have been marble, alabaster, or an obscure mineral or process lost in antiquity.

“Chess sets date to Persia over 1,300 years ago. The game was brought by Muslim armies across Islam to North Africa and then on to Europe. They’ve been enjoyed by most cultures ever since and are made in a vast array of materials, designs, and sizes. What they are worth varies widely, depending upon their provenance, material, supply, and demand. Some sets are one of a kind or incomplete; others mass-produced.”

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Karl affixed a jeweler’s loupe to his eye, although he said he wouldn’t have needed it. “These rings are worth a king’s ransom; their stones are genuine and flawless. Such exquisite pieces like these have surely left a trail—perhaps even been stolen from a museum.”

“So—that begs the question,” Barrett said. “What’s next? We do not want to be charged with being in possession of stolen property. Let’s call Luke immediately and get him and Robert Morris involved. You agree, January?”

“I don’t want to be responsible for them one minute longer than necessary.” She laughed at her silly observation. “Of course, they’ve been safe enough in your desk drawer for months.”

“That, my dear, was pure luck.”

Karl Malbourne clicked the nob on his antique pocket watch and squinted at the hands. “I really must skedaddle. Please do feel free to call me any time you need my expertise.” Walter escorted Karl to his car, the pair shaking hands and appearing to exchange gracious chit-chat.

“Tell Luke who’s here and put him on speaker,” Barrett said, placing the call. Their luck held as Luke was available.

After reviewing his copious notes with them, Luke proposed the following: that he approach the detectives with whom Barrett had met in New York, update them on this development, ascertain how they wanted the evidence safeguarded, and if—again—if they would agree to Barrett meeting with Peter Vaughn at their safe house. Given the circumstances, and with legal guarantees, Peter might be willing to fill in the blanks about the criminal conspiracy and the accounting firm’s complicity, especially knowing that his missing package was safe.

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34 “The kid in the morgue verifies that Peter Vaughn is alive,” Stanley Ballinski said to the cartel’s lieutenant. “The obituary was planted.”

“Did you double-check with the funeral home that supposedly supplied the details to the media?”

“I did—and they didn’t. Blamed it on some clerical error in the food chain but insisted it was unimportant since the home wasn’t hosting any viewings, services, burial, website condolences, and so on. He even thanked me for bringing the misprint to their attention so they would be prepared for any inquiries. I assured him that had been handled, that they shouldn’t be bothered with any further action.”

“So where is he then? Find him!”

“On it.”

Ballinski sent a second text to the kid at the morgue. “Call me. Now.” Five minutes later, his cell phone vibrated.

“My next term’s tuition bill arrived,” the medical student responded. “I’m hoping that my new information will equal my obligation. You know I’m very grateful for freelance assignments.”

He lowered his voice to a whisper and mumbled a figure. “As soon as I see my account balance updated, I’ll accept the risk on your behalf. Remember, my risk is substantial, as I’m sure yours would be without my intel.”

“I need to verify your source.”

“Sorry. That’s proprietary information.”

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He lowered his voice to a growl. “In case you’ve forgotten, I have powerful people who would not hesitate to deal with any treachery.”

“And I, too, have my own ways to retaliate should I come to any unfortunate circumstances.”

Ballinski scowled at the phone, regretting that this brainiac kid, this weak link, held all the aces, but Stan needed that address STAT. *** Peter Vaughn squinted through the heavy door’s peephole, wondering what was taking her so long. His wife, pleading extreme cabin fever, had begged that an escort take her to Walmart to buy feminine essentials. She must have figured that no man would argue with that or insist on shopping for her. Perhaps the store had been crowded, or she had dawdled to extend her vacation from house arrest. That the FBI had insisted on sequestering her for her own protection had gotten old fast after the initial shock had worn off.

Peter strained to see. Where was the rotation cop who should be lurking in the vicinity? Against orders, he slid the collection of locks as quietly as possible and cracked the door. A stranger in a black suit that screamed law enforcement pushed his way into the room. He flashed credentials so quickly that Peter glimpsed only a fancy insignia, a blurry face, and huge FBI letters. The agent, dressed in a crisp black suit, white shirt, and skinny black tie, could have come directly from any federal building or topsecret assignment.

FBI. That made sense since international trafficking in stolen art and his being kidnapped across state lines were both federal crimes. Peter relaxed and motioned the man further into the room. “My wife’s escort should have hustled her along. What’s taking him so long? And what if somebody spots her?”

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The clean-shaven, buzz-cut agent put his index finger to his lips while pointing to the heating vent in the ceiling. He handed Peter a slip of paper. Your location has been compromised. We’re moving you. Now. “What about—” “Shhh.” He bent to Peter’s ear. “She’s safe. She’ll meet us at the new safe house.”

“Her stuff!”

He bent to Peter’s ear again. “Maid will bring. Shhh.” He motioned for Peter to grab his shoes and jacket, his wallet, keys, and phone that lay on the dresser. He opened the door, and, looking left and right, motioned for Peter to follow. With a firm grip on Peter’s upper arm, he led him to the exit, across the parking lot to an unmarked van. “Be very quiet until we arrive,” the agent instructed, motioning Peter into the back seat behind the cage. Peter tried to dismiss feeling imprisoned, rationalizing that these vans would have limited styles to save taxpayer dollars.

He did as instructed but was unnerved by the agent’s unusual scent. *** In response to their call, the Lamonts’ local police officer arrived at Walter Farnham’s accounting firm. Walter rolled an extra task chair into Barrett’s office, which was getting crowded.

Barrett opened the window.

With the consent of everyone present, the officer listened attentively to the conference call with Luke Holmes and criminal attorney Robert Morris’s instructions. Luke said for the officer’s benefit, “Barrett believes those objects, supposedly a gift from Peter Vaughn, are evidence in several crimes. They haven’t been touched since the Lamonts unwrapped them. The immediate question is how to secure them until the New York City police or the FBI decide how they should be handled. Can you help us?”

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The officer chuckled. “Sure.” And to Barrett and January, he added, “You newcomers sure know how to bring trouble to our town. I’ll call the local field office of the FBI and ask for instructions.”

Barrett said, “They’re bound to be interested in the so-called chain of custody. I was given the package by my administrative assistant in February, I brought it to Pennsylvania in March, and it’s been in this drawer, unwrapped until two hours ago. And we haven’t fingered the rings.”

“I assume they’ll want to take our statements, photograph the objects, and check for fingerprints. We’ve all handled the chess pieces, but not the rings,” January added.

“Have any of you been fingerprinted before?”

“Yes,” the three responded in unison. *** An evidence technician arrived. “Do you want the gift wrap too?” Barrett asked, lifting the ripped paper from his wastepaper basket.

The evidence technician grinned. “Sure. Why not.”

“You’ll probably find Peter Vaughn’s fingerprints on it as well.

All of us had been printed for security clearances at work.”

January watched the agent in charge of the procedure.

“Times like this, I’m glad we don’t have neighbors. What would they think?”

“There goes the neighborhood!”

After what seemed like hours, they were presented with copies of their statements to read, sign, or initial where indicated. The objects, having been photographed, tagged, bagged, and placed in labeled cartons, were toted to a van. “Is that it?” Barrett asked.

The agent gave the threesome his cards and, just like on TV, said they’d be in touch. And if they thought of anything else…

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It was dark when the Lamonts staggered into their house, as weary as if they’d been doing hard labor all day. January popped a frozen pizza into a hot oven and opened a chianti to go with, as the local Dutch said. They wolfed their supper at the table, ignoring the news anchor holding forth in the background.

January was refilling their glasses when Barrett’s cellphone rang, a look of surprise transforming his face as he concentrated on the caller’s message. To January, he mouthed, “It’s Peter!” He made a scribbling motion for her to grab paper and pen.

“Speaker,” she mimed.

He shook his head no and mouthed that Peter had said not to.

“Where is he? What does he want us to do?”

Barrett pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the interface as if it could reveal something. “He hung up.”

“Hit redial.” But when Barrett did, he shook his head, indicating the number was not in service.

“What did he say?”

“That he’s being held hostage. That they—whoever they are— will exchange him and his wife for the package.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen since we don’t have it anymore. Does he know that?”

“He yammered so fast I couldn’t wedge in a word. Someone must have stopped him as soon as he delivered their message.”

“Which was what?”

“That someone would give me instructions, which I must follow to the letter without involving the police, or they’ll kill him and his wife.”

“I still have my burner phone. I bought additional minutes.

Let’s call that FBI guy and ask for help.”

January had no sooner hung up with the agent than Barrett’s cellphone chimed. Before clicking to answer, he hit speaker, hoping the caller wouldn’t know the difference, and poised a pen over the tablet. January hit the video function on her phone, 258

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hoping the sound would pick up. Barrett pumped up the volume, and she positioned her phone close to Barrett’s ear.

“Hello?”

The voice was mechanical, artificially altered as if by a scrambling device. “I’ll say this just once, and if you value your pal’s life, you’ll do exactly as I say. Take your birthday present to the Oyster Bar in Grand Central Terminal at 2 p.m. tomorrow in a brown grocery bag with handles. Sit at the counter on a stool next to the end one. Put your jacket on the last stool so nobody can sit there. Put the present on the riser beside your right foot. Someone will approach the last stool and, without comment, hand you your jacket. Do not look at his face. Leave immediately and go directly to the main floor and wait by the clock for instructions.”

“Will Peter be there? Hello? Hello! He hung up.”

“So what do we do now?” Before they could discuss their options, her phone rang with the agent responding. She replayed Peter’s instructions.

“I think it’s far too dangerous for my husband to pretend to hand over the package. That guy, whoever he or she is, will know immediately that they’ve been tricked. That is, unless you want to use the stolen pieces as bait. And we’ve got to assume that they’d recognize someone posing as Barrett.”

“I’ll do it,” Barrett said. “Just fix me up with the Nike size 9 shoe box, roll up some cheap green chess pieces—you may have to paint them—and two bulky costume jewelry rings. Re-secure the box lid with lots of strapping tape. I doubt he would pull out a pocketknife right there at the bar to cut it, especially since security would notice someone brandishing a knife.”

“Well, I don’t like this one little bit. Please, Barrett. Let the police handle it.” She scowled at him, mocking his offer. “‘Fix me up with a box.’ You’ve been reading too many crime novels.”

“Honey, don’t forget my contact may never have seen how Peter wrapped the contents, and the evidence technician kept the 259

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wrapping paper. They wouldn’t question a substitute package as long as the size is right. I really want to do this. If I don’t and they kill Peter and his wife, I’d never forgive myself.”

“They may kill him anyway.”

“Excuse me?” the agent interrupted. “If you two could cool it for a minute, it’s our show to run. The two of you take Amtrak to New York early tomorrow morning. Luke Holmes will be waiting when you emerge from the track. Stroll around the circle, past the grab-and-go shops to the escalator to street level just as you did the last time. We’ll take you to a private location to be briefed.

And, once at Grand Central Terminal, we’ll have eyes on you, Mr. Lamont, every minute, although you won’t spot us.”

“But what about Peter…”

“We’ll find him.”

“And Luke and me?” January asked.

“There’s a nice Italian restaurant on the main floor. Barrett can meet you there when he’s done. One more thing—hold off on buying round-trip tickets. If everything goes as we hope and we find Peter alive, he might be willing to talk with a friendly person in his corner.”

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35 January could not have felt more conspicuous if she’d had a huge X on her back. Dressed in typical post-Memorial Day tourist garb down to her sneakers, she shouldered a large canvas bag suitable for souvenir purchases. Here in the world’s largest train station, rush hour in Grand Central Terminal’s main concourse never seemed to abate. Commuters streamed to and from its forty-four platforms that served sixty-seven tracks, dodging knots of gaping tourists and surging around her like spawning salmon.

Every five minutes, she relocated to another quadrant of the cathedral-like monument to New York City’s historical grandeur.

She eyed the famous clock topping the information booth. If she stared, she could see the hands moving. She was tempted to find an elevated spot where she might surveil the Oyster Bar, but she’d had strict orders to behave, or her handlers would whisk her away to a discreet location where she’d have no way of reconnecting with Barrett. She glanced at her watch as if it would report something different from the magnificent old clock. And it didn’t.

One forty-five.

Barrett should be taking that stool right about now. But what if that seat were taken? Was fifteen minutes sufficient for him to order, munch, sip, and dawdle over a sandwich until the stranger appeared? What if—no, the seat by the wall should be available at that time of day. Other diners, arriving in multiples, wouldn’t 261

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split up unless it was mobbed, and it was human nature to leave personal space when other seats were unoccupied.

“January! Are you back in New York? God, we have missed you so much!”

Horrified to be made, January jumped, casting furtive glances in every direction. “Hey. Fancy meeting you here,” she managed.

“Do you have time to grab a bite or a coffee? I’d love to hear what you’re up to. And please tell me you’re back to stay.” January recognized one of the artists from the advertising agency—if only she could have stayed in touch.

“I was hoping to return in two months—three tops, but certain affairs keep dragging on.”

Steering her friend out of traffic, she vacillated between honesty and damage control. “I’m, ah, just here for the day, maybe two. Sort of incognito. Barrett and I are involved in some nasty litigation, and I’m to meet with, ah…”

“An informant? Oh, that’s so delicious! Bet it has to do with the lawsuit over your firing and that awful partner Bruce. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve had another job offer—mine for the asking— with that wonderful Richard Reuben and his partner Marvin Gold. If the agency still owes you any money, grab it now. Word has it they’re going under. Soon!” She pulled in her cheeks and did a fish imitation that made January giggle and relax.

Her artist friend rummaged in her fanny pack for a business card on which she scribbled her private numbers. “Call me, you hear? I’ll be your mole.” With a double air kiss, she merged into traffic and disappeared. January glanced at the clock and at her watch, both of which displayed 2:13. A dozen extraneous whatifs stomped through her brain.

“Time to go,” a stranger said.

“What about Barrett? I was supposed to meet him at that Italian restaurant for a late lunch. My attorney was supposed to meet us there.”

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“Change of plans.” When he tried to secure her elbow, her bag fell from her shoulder, hitting his wrist, the impact forcing him to recoil. Instantly, two men converged from different directions, grabbing and cuffing the guy. January stared at the pair—one short guy in jeans with a black sports coat and the other in a gray running suit.

Jacket said, “Lady, you’ve got to be on the lookout for purse snatchers. Carry your bag cross-shoulder.” While his partner started to propel the guy away, he added, “He’s fine. Go to the restaurant.” He jerked his head in the opposite direction.

Completely disoriented, January approached the information kiosk and thanked the kind soul who must answer a thousand such questions a day from lost tourists. How embarrassing for a New Yorker! As she was approaching the restaurant’s receptionist, she spotted Luke. He rose and hurried to intercept her.

“Come on. We’ve got to hurry.”

“Where’s Barrett? Is he all right?”

“I’ll tell you on the way. There’s a car waiting outside.” With a word of apology to the hostess, he hustled her to the East 42nd Street exit, where a police car waited for them. With lights and sirens, the cop threaded his way north, ultimately arriving at a nondescript office-type building. A dozen what-ifs flooded January’s brain.

To her enormous relief, Barrett rose from a meeting room’s conference table, an Oyster Bar doggie bag emitting a tantalizing aroma. He circled the table and hugged her so long that one of the detectives cleared his throat. “If I’d known we were having a party, I’d have ordered more food,” he quipped. “I’ll share what I brought.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I got there, found what I hoped was the correct stool, studied the menu—man, it’s amazing. I’d never eaten there before. So I ordered—” 263

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“This is not the right time to turn into a conversationalist!

Give!”

“The transaction was anticlimactic. Just as instructed. The guy handed me my coat, sat down, faced the wall to answer a call, said ‘sorry’ to the waitress, threw a five on the counter, picked up the bag, and left.”

“Did you get a look at his face?”

“I was told not to, but he was circumspect. Even though he had to pick up the bag between our stools, he rose facing the wall, then turned to take it once he was behind me.”

“He didn’t try to open the box?”

Barrett gave January a withering look. “Think about what you just asked. He picks up a shopping bag that doesn’t belong to him, reaches in, extracts the box, and opens it? I don’t think so.”

They turned to the detective. “What happened after he left the restaurant?”

“An undercover guy followed him to the restroom but didn’t go in until after he left. Then he checked the trash can for the wrappings, including the strapping tape. We think he’s waiting to check the contents until a later time and location. Plan is to follow the box, which has a built-in tracking device.”

Barrett sighed. “That’s a reach if you’re counting on it leading us to Peter. I can think of a half-dozen hitches. The guy opens the box two blocks from Grand Central, realizes he’s been duped, and phones the kidnapper. Or the box is opened in front of the customer, although that would be stupid—they’ve got to authenticate the merchandise first. And it might be for two different customers. And, why would they take the box to where Peter’s being held?”

The detective responded. “If it becomes necessary, we’ll take the subject into custody and sweat him, but we hope to trail this guy to bigger guys and on up the food chain until we rescue Peter, who, in exchange for a deal, will lay out the whole scam— 264

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the identity of the thieves, the insiders at the accounting firm, the customers, everything.”

“That’s a stretch and counts on a lot of luck and stupidity,” Barrett said.

“So what do we supposed to do now?” January asked.

“I’m going to eat my lunch, which I’ll share with my wife. You guys are on your own.” *** Stanley Ballinski had never trusted his operatives with priceless merchandise unless he had them under constant surveillance. Time had underscored that wisdom, except for one obvious exception and near disaster. So far, this new operative, tasked with the Oyster Bar handoff, had done exactly as he was told without hesitation or discussion. Stan had personally vetted the replacement for the thugs sent to Pennsylvania, now missing in action. He felt personally protected, having never revealed his identity, with the unfortunate exception of Peter Vaughn. If only the managing partner hadn’t gotten greedy. Just paid the damn taxes. Didn’t everybody dream of owing huge taxes because they made too much money?

Stanley ran mental calculations. Speaking of greed, he was shy of his retirement goal, but it was time to bail. And, having no family or friends to interfere with his relocation, the world was his for the choosing. Yep. Being an IT accountant had paid.

Outside Grand Central, he traded his new operative a roll of circulated bills for the bag and walked a block to his car.

He’d parked near a dumpster and, snatching the ticket from his windshield, ripped it and threw the scraps to the wind. With the sealed Nike box secured in a canvas satchel on the floor, he dumped the shopping bag in the dumpster. The Adirondacks should be lovely in early June, he mused as he hopped into his car and headed upstate.

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En route to the cabin, he bought dinner and a bottle of excellent scotch at the last town with decent takeout. He was in no mood for ambience or idle chit-chat with wait staff. In anticipation, he had packed the trunk with essentials that weren’t in the cabin.

Stanley had to laugh at himself, putting off instant gratification for the luxury of opening that box. He grabbed a rock glass from the cabin’s cupboard and glugged a generous fill, taking half in one swallow. How rewarding the burn of that amber liquid! Standing at the old porcelain sink, he took two additional swallows, then refilled the glass.

He pulled a chair from the battered old table, set the glass and the bag of carryout ribs beside a paper plate, and positioned the box like a centerpiece. He sat. Now this was his idea of ambience! As he savored the barbequed ribs, licking his fingers between stripping the bones, he ran a mental to-do check list.

Deliver the artwork, collect his cash and, from his apartment, his passport, traveling cash, bank, and legal documents. Then he’d decide which flight to book.

As for Peter Vaughn, as a precaution, they would not see each other. In fact, Peter had not laid eyes on him since his last day at the office. Peter would never know it was he who made the exchange. He felt no remorse for Peter’s predicament—if he hadn’t gotten greedy and had done as instructed, he’s still be buried in his gray cubicle, entering keystrokes on tax returns and counting his money.

Stanley soaped his hands with vigor, wiped them on his jeans, and pulled a small pen knife from his hip pocket. He allowed himself one last thrilling moment before opening the box, like a kid just before a parent said “Go!” to begin opening Christmas presents. He positioned it in front of him like dessert and studied the tape, wondering if it would leave a sticky residue on his knife. He attacked the first band, which proved tougher than he anticipated.

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An old knife block beside the sink yielded nothing useful, but inside a drawer, he found poultry scissors with serrated blades that looked sufficiently vicious to dismember a body. He returned to the table and stood to cut the first strapping tape.

And the next, and the next, until one side of the lid was loose. He flipped it open and gazed at the neatly wrapped white bundles of tissue paper. He sighed. And, ceremoniously draining the scotch, unwrapped one piece as gently as bunting on a newborn baby. *** The detective stared, unblinking, at the moving bubble displayed on the monitor. “This is pure genius. If we’d tried to follow him into the middle of nowhere, he’d know he’d been made. Where are we anyway? This road’s barely paved.”

“God’s country,” his partner responded, slowing his speed to accommodate the S-curves, ruts, rocks, and occasional broken branches. “Do we still have cellphone reception?”

His partner glanced at his phone that was tethered to a charger and plugged into their vehicle. “Yep. But I wouldn’t count on it forever. What’s the range on that tracker? Given that we’ve been forced to proceed slowly because of this miserable road, we might lose him.”

“Miles and miles and miles.”

“You don’t suppose he’s going to Canada, do you?”

“We’ll deal with that if and when.” *** Trusting he was looking at extraneous filler for practical reasons, Stanley Ballinski forced himself to calm the hell down.

He unwrapped a second piece, then another and another until twelve matching chess pieces were revealed. As a final desperate move, he scraped the surface of one with his penknife, hoping 267

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what lay beneath was genuine. Green paint flaked from its surface. He dug deeper, dislodging slivers of wood that identified the piece for what it was—a cheap substitute. Enraged, Stanley scraped another and another until he unearthed the cheap costume jewelry. He roared with anger. Who did this to him?

Raking his hands through his hair, he retraced the movements. The operative in the Oyster Bar didn’t have time to make the switch, and he had arrived empty-handed. No— this ploy was manufactured in Pennsylvania—had to be. Or in New York by the thieves before Peter was kidnapped. After all, Peter Vaughn had been instructed never to open the packages.

The contents might not have seen the light of day until now, and he, Stanley, would be held responsible. Answers! He’d get them from the thugs holding Vaughn. They would not expect an angry confrontation.

He loaded his Glock. Stuffing the chessmen back in the box, he dumped it into his canvas tote. Stanley bolted for his car and threw the tote onto the passenger seat. Jamming his car into gear, he hit the gas. His wheels spit mud and gravel as he fishtailed onto the road. As he roared around hairpin curves, the jolting motion threw the tote onto the passenger floor. Enraged, he went for the brake and missed it, jamming his foot on the accelerator by mistake, which sent the car airborne as it hit the curving embankment. *** The officer squinted, not quite believing what he was seeing.

For thirty minutes, the tracker went missing in a remote area with no signs of habitation. “We’ve lost him somehow.”

“Think he found the tracker or dislodged it somehow? Or threw out the box?”

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swept the woods with a Maglite through his open passengerside window. Five miles farther, they reversed direction and continued the search for another ten miles. Nothing. They were about to give up in defeat when the tracker came to life, accelerating toward them, then halting abruptly.

“What the hell…” He made a U-turn and proceeded, both agents peering into the dense woods until they came parallel with the stationary signal. Inching forward, it appeared that they’d passed it. After reversing directions again, they scrutinized both sides of the road for a driveway or lane but found nothing. “It’s gotta be here.”

“Look for the box. Maybe he pitched it.” Finding a safe place to park off the serpentine road, the pair continued on foot, arcing flashlights, until they came upon a swath of flattened brush, fresh tire tracks, and skinned saplings. Fifty feet farther, their lights hit something shiny and black—a car. With due caution, they approached it, cognizant of the absolute silence. Crouching, they inched closer from opposite sides, identifying themselves and calling for passengers to respond. Nothing.

As they neared the driver’s side, the situation became evident by the smashed windshield, a man’s lacerated head, and massive blood spill. He reeked of booze. While one called for backup and an ambulance, his partner wedged open the door, which groaned on damaged hinges. He touched the man’s bloody neck for a pulse, verifying the obvious. Within five minutes, a distant siren could be heard, its dual approach sounding like a cop and an ambulance.

The lead detective sighed. “There goes our chance to find Peter Vaughn.” He pointed at the capsized bag on the floor from which poked the Nike box, its open lid spilling white tissue paper and green objects.

“Is that his cell phone in the cup holder? That seems odd unless he was using it for directions. Let’s check; it’s worth a try.” He forced open the right-rear door, reached and snagged 269

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the phone, which was still tethered to the USB port. When he touched it, the screen came to life, having been set to Waze.

“Bingo! We know where he was headed, box and all. And from its condition, he knew he’d been duped.”

His partner relayed their situation, nodded, then pointed to the phone. “As soon as the first responders arrive, we’re authorized to use the phone. I’ll relay the destination programmed into it.”

After a quick exchange of information with the first responders, the pair jumped into their unit, looped through the woods to the highway, and sped north. “Given the target location, we may arrive first.” They agreed stealth would be necessary.

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36 Two hours later at a desolate upstate location, the agents halted to evaluate the best course of action. “According to this, we’re six hundred seventy feet from our destination—about an eighth of a mile, give or take.”

“The pines are so dense I can’t make out anything on our right.” It was overcast and inky black. No houses or barns. No moon. “Ease up a bit farther. Maybe we’ll spot a light. Has to be on the right, given the steep vertical embankment on the left.”

They studied the screen’s display, noting the minor jogs in the road to the east.

“There. Through the trees. Down the hill.”

“Should we wait for backup or recon the building?”

“Yes to both. Call in our position, then let’s check it out.”

Vested, helmeted, and armed, the pair crouch-walked downhill through dense white pine and hardwood saplings toward the old house’s blind side that had neither windows nor doors. Reaching its rear foundation without being spotted, they scrutinized the site. One vehicle. One rectangular light’s illumination thrown onto the ground from a front window. They crept around the structure, ducking under a dark kitchen window and doorway.

The lead officer edged toward the window, pointing to a lace curtain lifting gently in the still air. They listened.

Thud! Thud! Thud! “Lemme outta here!”

“Tell your damn wife to shut the hell up, or I’ll tie her to a chair and tape her yap shut.”

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“Do as he says, honey,” a male voice called. “We don’t want to make this guy any more impatient than he already is.”

Silence. “What’s taking so long?” the husband asked. “You promised if I told Barrett to come to New York with the package, then you’d let us go.”

“You are so stupid. They’re not going to let you identify them.”

“But I don’t know anything! I was a simple deliveryman. Like FedEx or UPS.” “The Jersey guys…”

“All a blur, just like I told the cops. They drugged me. And when I woke up in the hospital, my mind was blank. Still is. A near-death experience will do that to you. And my wife—she knows nothing!

He snorted. “Her? I know the type. She’d do whatever it takes to get even with us for your treatment. As for your so-called near-death experience? Ha!” The man whom the agent confirmed must be Peter started speaking again. But Peter stopped mid-sentence as if sensing their presence, perhaps by a change in the atmosphere. An interruption in the breeze’s movement. A twig that snapped.

Their scent. A calm settled over Peter’s attitude.

“What?” his interrogator challenged.

Peter’s voice changed direction as if he had turned to face his captor. His voice was gentle. Soothing. Against the wall, outside the window, the closest agent tipped his head toward the voices, raising his finger to his lips. They remained stock-still, listening.

“It wasn’t necessary to threaten my wife with your gun. Thank you for putting it down and not pointing it at me. Tell me, how’d you get into this line of work in the first place? You strike me as an intelligent guy. Don’t you want to get out from under their thumbs? You’ll never be free until you do. Who are they anyway?

You could make a deal; start over. It’s a big country.”

He snorted a scoff. “You accounting types are so stupid.”

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The agents spotted fresh backup slipping into position behind them. With a series of hand gestures, they communicated the situation—one lone perp in the front room, armed but not pointing it at his captive; the captive’s wife locked in the right rear bedroom. The lead detective held up one finger. Two fingers.

Three. Then they burst into the room, throwing the perpetrator to the floor and cuffing his hands behind his back. Another freed the wife from the bedroom while a third attended to Peter.

“I’m okay. He didn’t hurt me, but my wife must be scared half to death.” Bad mistake—she was furious, charging their captor, kicking his face before they could stop her. “‘Hell hath no fury…’” *** The Vaughns, the Lamonts, Luke Holmes, and Robert Morris assembled in a conference room with coffee and sandwiches while various law enforcement representatives sorted out jurisdiction in another room. January’s only interest in the proceedings was to extricate their friends and themselves from this awful situation. Eventually, the suits entered the room. They identified themselves by name and affiliation, which January would never remember. The one whom she suspected was the lead detective spoke first.

“Peter Vaughn says he won’t tell us anything without an attorney. Robert Morris is here in that capacity?”

“I am.” Robert affirmed.

“Let the record show that Peter asks that Barrett Lamont corroborate his story without self-implication; and that the ADA will honor the immunity agreement, previously executed.”

“And your testimony as needed,” the ADA stated. Peter agreed.

With voluminous paperwork generated and signed, Peter unspooled his agonizing descent to hell from his gambling addiction, to the loan sharks’ demands to unsurmountable debts.

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Frantic, he was sucked into criminal enterprises without any recourse.

“Stanley Ballinski, our IT VP, offered me a way out—to do some creative accounting for a grateful wealthy client. And he would further reduce my debts by being a currier for a legitimate enterprise. I realized too late the scope of the scheme, got scared, and started photographing the contents of the packages.

“Barrett saw one of my duplicate files while trying to help me and copied it. As God is my witness, Barrett, I never told anyone that it was you who knew my password.”

“Why did you send me the chessmen and jewelry disguised as a birthday present?” Barrett asked.

“Of all the people I knew, you were the one I could trust. That when I said not to open the present until August, you’d figure it was important and wait. By then, I assumed the criminals would be caught, or I would be dead. I never intended to put you and January in danger. I simply wanted to save examples of the evidence in case something happened to me. I hoped that you would figure it out and expose those involved.”

Barrett frowned. “But I quit, taking the present with me. They must have panicked when the package disappeared.”

Peter nodded and turned to the group. “You’ll want the files and photos, which I hid in our bathroom. If you can trace the buyers, you may be able to confiscate and return the artwork to the rightful owners.”

“Where did you hide the evidence?”

“On a thumb drive. The one place a man wouldn’t look—a repurposed tampon applicator in a box, which my wife had bought, didn’t like, but was too thrifty to pitch.”

“Sounds convoluted to involve a middleman like you, Peter.

Why did they do it?” the ADA asked.

“To keep the parties from identifying each other.”

The ADA interrupted. “Are you now prepared to identify the leader who conspired with the cartel?”

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Peter hung his head. “I am if you’ll keep the identity confidential until all of us are safe. And as long as you understand that my friend and colleague, Barrett, his wife, and mine had no involvement in any of this whatsoever.”

Barrett interjected. “The insider has to be someone in our firm—someone at the top. Who is it?” *** January’s phone interrupted the proceedings, identifying Charlene’s mother, Katherine. “I’ve got to take this,” she said, leaving the conference room. She stepped into the quiet corridor, anxious that something had gone wrong, having left Katherine and Charlene to care for the alpacas a second day. “Hello? Is everything all right?”

“Charlene’s in the hospital. She’s caught a virus. For normal kids, a cold is no big deal, but it went straight to her lungs. She’s got pneumonia.”

January braced her hand on the wall. “Is she going to be all right? Is she responding to meds?”

“The doctors have always worked miracles, but this time it’s as if she’s giving up—more psychological than physical. I know you’ve got to attend to business in New York, but will you come to see her as soon as possible? I’ve put your name on her contact list; they’ll extend family courtesy to you.”

January glanced at her watch. “If I hurry, I can make the 8:30 train, which gets into Lancaster around eleven. Could you pick me up?”

“Text me from the train if you make it. If not, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

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get home. Hurrying into the conference room, she summoned Barrett aside.

“I’ve gotta leave. Charlene’s very sick. You stay. I’ll catch the train.”

Without waiting for his buy-in, she departed immediately and grabbed a cab to Penn Station. Once in the car, she booked a ticket online. Racing through the concourse, she was checking Penn Station’s blue message boards when her train was called.

She fell into the line that swooped down the escalator to the track, verified which train, hopped aboard, and charged to the back to snag a seat in the quiet car. Only then did she relax. And text Katherine.

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37 Katherine was waiting in the circular driveway by the Lancaster Amtrak’s main doors, exhaust puffing into the deserted June night. Having stopped in the ladies, January was alone, all other passengers having fled to their rides. Even the highway fronting the station was deserted.

“How is she? And when can I see her?”

“She’s having a rough time. With school and her club’s activities done for the summer, she’s isolated. Her friends are off to camp, on vacation, or taking extra-curricular summer school classes. Still, she managed to pick up a bug that would be no biggie for a normal child, but—she’s really ticked off at being in the pediatric ward, insisting she be treated like an adult.”

January couldn’t help smiling. “She’s the oldest, most mature thirteen-year-old I’ve ever met. Can’t the hospital accommodate her wishes?”

“No. Her specialist’s focus is children, and that wing is where she can be isolated. While she understands the logic, she feels disrespected.”

“How soon can I see her? And does she know that I’m home?”

“If you go to the nurses’ station at eight tomorrow, they’ll let you see her. I’ve signed the necessary forms. And it will be a surprise. I’ll be there already. If I need to wave you off, I’ll call.”

January understood the code for taking a bad turn and didn’t press her for details. Evidently, the progression of Charlene’s CF was worse than Katherine’s stalwart demeanor indicated.

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As January hopped out of the car, Katherine pointed to the quiet barn, its nightlights casting a soft glow on the pasture.

“They’ve been fed as I promised Charlene and took her new pictures. How she loves those creatures!”

At six the following morning, January shooed the alpacas into the pasture, filled their water buckets, scooped grain into their troughs, and spread hay in their bins. By seven-thirty, she had showered, dressed, and downed a quick breakfast, having no idea when she’d see food again. Promptly at eight, she followed the charge nurse’s direction to a single room at the end of the hall.

She stopped short of the open door to listen, fearing what she might find, although Katherine had not called or left a message.

She jumped when Charlene’s determined voice reverberated around the room.

“I do not belong here!”

“If you want to make a speedy recovery, you do.”

“I mean here! This ward’s for babies. The least they could do is put me with the adults. Cutesy art on the wall? And look at the pattern on this dreadful gown.”

“I brought your favorite loungewear, alpaca socks, and robe.

As for the ward, this is where your doctor sees his patients, and it’s his decision. Everything he needs is right here, and the staff is devoted to kids. Come on. Be a sport. And stop giving the nurses a hard time. They work very hard and don’t deserve impudent behavior.”

Silence. January took a deep breath and poked her head into the room. “Surprise!”

Charlene bolted upright in her bed and grinned.

January beamed. “I’d come give you a hug, but who knows what virus I’ve brought home from city throngs.”

“Mom, why don’t you go grab some breakfast—I know you haven’t eaten—and let January and me visit? If I go into cardiac arrest, they’ll page you.”

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“Young lady, that is so not funny, but I’ll overlook your gallows humor. I could use some coffee.”

“I’ve never seen you angry before. What’s happened?” January asked once Katherine’s footsteps faded.

“I had an episode—I’ll spare you the gory details—a complication of a cold that went into pneumonia. They’re pumping me full of this ultra-good stuff to kick it,” she said, pointing to the IV bag, dropping her head, and studying her hands. “I am so sick of fighting. Waiting for the next virus or complication to level me. I just want to be normal.”

She looked up, a single tear sliding down her cheek, which she swiped with the edge of her sheet. “Please tell me the truth.

There’s nothing wrong with my hearing. In fact, it’s acute. I’ve overheard Mom talking. When are you going back to New York for good?”

“We left here so suddenly and couldn’t share the details.

Your mom didn’t press me for information when I asked her to feed the alpacas; there wasn’t time. We were summoned by the New York police to help save a kidnap victim. My husband’s still there—I’m not sure how long they’ll need him—and he might need to return to testify. But they don’t need me. Besides, I have client work, the animals to feed, and people like you who matter to me.”

“That’s not what I meant. When will you move back to stay?

It’s no secret that your coming here was temporary, that this isn’t home. That country life isn’t what you bargained for whenever this awful ‘it’ happened in New York.”

“I wish I had a good answer, but we can’t just pack up and return any time soon. Neither of us has jobs waiting or a place to live. We need the former to afford the latter. A decent apartment costs thousands a month. But you are right. Returning ‘when’ not ‘if ’ was always the plan, although life got complicated. Returning to our former normal isn’t possible.”

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“What about your house? And the alpacas? Will you find a buyer and a good place for them?” Another tear slid down her cheek. She ignored it, and January looked away, searching for words to defray the sad reality.

“Charlene, nothing’s going to happen anytime soon. But I promise I’ll keep you in the loop. I know how you’re looking forward to being an adult, where you can turn your dreams into reality by the force of your own will. And part of that, just like being stuck in this ward, will be beyond your control. But you’ll learn, as I must, to cope and fine-tune your direction mid-stream.

I never dreamed that being an adult required so much patience, which is not my long suit. But I’m trying.”

“I wish you could stay here forever.” Charlene gave her a quizzical look as if a light bulb had lit. “Can you do both? Have customers in New York and do the work here? I mean—the internet has been invented.”

January laughed. “Charlene, in a few short years, you’ll be off to Philadelphia. But regardless of whether I’m here or return to New York, Amtrak connects all three places. I promise you we will remain close.” And, in the meantime, as soon as you’re better, the alpacas miss you.”

Katherine reappeared in the doorway, pausing for a discreet moment. January rose from her chair. “I’d better get going. Work awaits, and the cupboards are bare. Charlene, you have my number. Don’t hesitate to call, even if you’re just bored or saw or thought of something you want to share. Anything I’m doing is less important, and I always welcome a break.” *** “What would you like for your birthday?” Barrett asked, happy not to rehash police procedurals, ongoing in excruciating detail.

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January plucked a farming catalog from the top of a Longaberger basket. “This.” She offered the paper clipped page for his inspection. To his puzzled expression, she tapped what looked like a miniature cement mixer. “It’s perfect for mixing grain. The alpaca farmer showed me his. The cracked corn, crimped oats, alfalfa pellets, and whole soybeans must be weighed by a formula and then blended and stored in a bucket with a tight lid. We serve grain in their trays twice a day. With this contraption, I could mix a week’s supply at one time. Think of the time that would save. Of course, the bucket must be stored out of those greedy gals’ reach.”

Barrett grinned. “I’m so glad you’re enjoying them.”

“Speaking of the alpacas, I’ve had a brilliant idea. No, don’t make that face. My idea is really inspired. Let me try it on you.”

Barrett sat down.

“I’ve been wondering how to manage our little farm when we return to New York, and it suddenly hit me. Charlene and her mother could move in here. She’s paying way too much rent for her tiny duplex, and Charlene would be in heaven with her beloved alpacas. They have a car, so they wouldn’t be stranded, and they could take care of the farm and the house in exchange for rent.

“Charlene’s doctor says it’s important for her to stay active, and she loves sweeping the stalls and riding the Deere. Our mortgage payments here are itty bitty compared to New York, and with city salaries, we’d never miss it. And this farmette is such an investment. You know what Mark Twain said about land—‘They aren’t making any more of that stuff.’”

Barrett took a deep breath and said nothing. She waited.

“Well? What do you think?”

He sighed. “You’re assuming we’re returning to New York permanently.”

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mouths me to the advertising community. Besides, that will be in my settlement agreement. And I have a standing offer with Richard and Marvin. If it’s okay with you, I’ll pursue it. It’s time we start planning.”

“Um, January? I can’t leave Walter in the lurch.”

She batted her hand. “Tax season’s over. And now you have Yolanda trained in computerizing Walter’s hand-written drafts.”

“She’s going to take early retirement. Her daughter’s having twins, plus there’s the two-year-old. She’s going to babysit.”

“Okay—so Walter can hire someone. There must be dozens of women with school-age children who would jump at a parttime job. And that generation is computer literate.” Barrett was shaking his head. “And why not?”

“He wants to wait on hiring someone.”

“Because?”

“He wants to retire as well.”

“That’s perfect timing. He’ll sell the firm and enjoy his retirement. Fish. Travel. Hang out with the guys at the VFW. When’s this going to happen?”

“Around the first of next year before tax season ramps up.”

January smiled, thinking about the small business and personal clients arriving just shy of the April deadline with their shopping bags bulging with receipts and dreams of a hefty refund. “That gives us plenty of time to find new positions. Here.

I’ve done a little research for you.”

She went to her desk and pulled a file from the first Pendaflex folder, and thunked a pile of printouts with New York City addresses in front of him. “And here’s possibilities in Philadelphia, a short walk from the Thirtieth Street station. An easy commute to New York, meaning we could still live in Manhattan. With your laptop, you could work in the quiet car while en route. Or we could live someplace neat in Philadelphia, like Society Hill, or buy a condo in Old Town. Just the thought gives me goosebumps.”

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The house fell so quiet that January could hear both the grandfather clock and the schoolhouse clock in the kitchen ticking in unison. Barrett rose and stepped to the window as if mesmerized by their land, the fertilized meadow blindingly green, and the old fruit trees that bordered the pasture masses of blooms.

“January…,” He turned to face her. “He’s grooming me to take over the firm.”

“Surely you told him that wasn’t possible. That we are shorttermers. He knew that from day one—he did, didn’t he?”

“I knew when our attorney proposed my coming here that Walter, his fraternity’s old financial advisor, was looking for someone to take over. Walter agreed to take me immediately, sight unseen, as a favor to our attorney, regardless of whatever criminals followed us here. And they did. As soon as we met and hit it off, he stopped looking for a successor. I can’t let him down.”

“You can’t let him down? What about me? And just when were you going to spring this major, permanent lifestyle change on me? You know I’m a city person. That I cannot practice my profession in the middle of nowhere with only a stone quarry for a neighbor.”

“I thought you loved it here. You’ve started a business, made real friends, and thrown yourself into alpaca farming. And Charlene. What about her? I thought you loved our new life.”

“I do. But not forever. It was a temporary adventure from day one. And you promised.”

“I did not.”

“You did so. With every when not if. ‘Buy the house. Renovate and flip it when it’s safe to return.’ If that’s not a promise, I don’t know what is.”

“Perhaps not Cross my heart and hope to die promise…”

She stalked over to him, glowering. “It’s always been when and not if. It’s part of hundreds of comments I’ve made. And don’t forget—if you hadn’t gone snooping in Peter Vaughn’s files 283

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then tattled to your supervisor, we wouldn’t have gotten into this mess in the first place and had to sneak out of New York.”

Barrett hung his head. “You’re forgetting about being fired…”

“I have friends. Contacts. Potential clients like Richard and Marvin. And my credentials are sterling.”

“You’re right.” He gazed into the distance and sighed, dejected, his shoulders drooping. “Go ahead,” he conceded. “Return as soon as you want. I’ll work through things here, although it may take a few years until I can sell the business.” He hesitated in thought, then added a postscript. “You’d better line up a job first.

Even an efficiency will cost the earth but should suffice for one person.”

“Just like that?”

“I’m not suggesting an open marriage. It’s three hours by train.

You can come home whenever you want. Enjoy the farm, your friends, the animals, the weekends. By the way, if I buy Walter’s firm, it comes with the building, which includes his home as well as the office. I can live there. So, you win. Go ahead,” he said, his words dripping sarcasm. “Approach Katherine about moving into our home. Charlene will love the pretty blue room with the white fluffy clouds and curtains.”

Without waiting for her to comment, he stomped outside, slamming the door.

January choked back angry tears. He’d planned this all along!

He’d never, since day one, said that returning to his country roots would be permanent. Such a drastic change in venue would have warranted intense communication. How could he have failed to mention something so important?

Would she have married him had she known? And now she’d been maneuvered into being the bad guy. How many conversations started when we returned to New York or the city?

Not one peep of correction. Anger fueled her determination.

She grabbed her phone and dialed Richard Reuben’s number. If she intended to re-enter New York City, he might give her some 284

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leads.

Richard practically bubbled across the distance. “My talented, psychic little muse. I had my phone in my hand, poised to poke your number, and here you are! I could not wait to share my amazing news.”

January couldn’t help smiling, remembering his ministrations the day she was fired. “You go first.” She clicked on the speaker function and readied a pad and pencil for his advice.

“Fifteen years of toil, sweat, and tears, and I’ve got a huge break,” the thirty-year-old effused. “You know the kids’ favorite country-turned-pop singer who mints millions? No, don’t say her name; I don’t want to jinx it. She called me personally—her!

Not her people. To see if I’d consider designing her new signature look. Wardrobe for her next international concert. Costumes for TV commercials. Product ads. Possibly her own off-the-rack label for tweens and teens, which is my time-tested bread and butter. The possibilities are endless. Endless, I say!”

He hurried on to a new vein. “I cannot for the life of me understand why mega stars and athletes need the additional income from product endorsement. Oh well, maybe they think they’ll be washed up by thirty-five. So—the reason I called—or did you call me first? Yes, that was it. I need a top advertising professional to join my little company and handle that end.

Please tell me that by now, you can tell that ad agency to go to hell. Whatever anyone’s offering, I’ll double it. Just hop on the train, we’ll meet and thrash out the details. Hello? Are you still there? So sorry for babbling on and on. I’m just too excited. How are you? How’s the wing? Tell me it’s safe for you to come back.”

January unleashed her dismay in a torrent, unable to stop herself once the dam burst into which he wedged words of dismay and concern. “I’m sorry,” she concluded. “It’s just that in this last hour, my world exploded. I was calling to ask you for referrals; references so that I can support myself. Alone. I would have died for your opportunity a year ago, but it sounds like you 285

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need someone yesterday.”

“Come to New York, and we’ll talk. Eat at your favorite haunts, smell refreshing polluted air. We have a guest house where you could crash. And, as for the business, I have a new studio near your old agency. You can hire or fire whomever you wish for your staff, like those great artists who did your presentation.”

“Give me a week to finish some freelance projects, which masquerade as employment around here. And I have some commitments I must honor. I’ll catch a train—my old roommate Gretchen will keep me—and we can discuss it.”

“That’s my girl. Give me a call, and I’ll meet your train. Can’t wait to tell Marvin.”

Even after they exchanged kissy goodbyes, January remained rooted in the moment, gazing out the bay window at the vista beyond the barn. The redbuds, a mass of purple and pink flowers, leaned for the light. How lucky they had been to stumble into this beautiful place; how conflicted she felt, wishing she could be more like Saint Matthew’s lilies of the field that grow without needing to toil or to spin.

She felt Barrett’s presence before she saw his reflection in the window. “How long have you been listening?”

His response was barely a whisper. “You are right. I am so sorry. You’re not a mind reader, and I’m not much of a talker.

Our universe was in the city where we needed to be to get our start. I didn’t think beyond graduation and getting experience.

Go ahead. Meet with Richard and Marvin. See if that’s what you truly want. And if not that gig, then something else. I never intended to hurt you or ruin your dreams.” Head down, he moved toward the door and reached toward the knob.

“Where are you going?”

“To the office. Tax extensions wait for no man. Let me know what you need me to do.”

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and Charlene, would Barrett have stalled forever, weeks melting into months? Would the passage of time have made it impossible for her to return when her professional experience became obsolete? Was there the slightest chance that this rural existence would grow on her? That’s what he’d hoped by stalling.

She glanced at the clock. Not too late to phone her old night owl roommate. She dialed Gretchen’s number from memory but policed herself to propose a brief visit instead of unburdening herself.

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38 The next morning January scrutinized her overnight bag, portfolio, and her Mac for what she might need. She added a small cross-shoulder purse for her wallet, phone, and miscellaneous sundries. The landline rang. Barrett answered, tapped Speaker, and handed it over, mouthing their attorney’s reason for calling.

“They’re ready to settle. If you’re in agreement, come sign the documents ASAP.” He handed her the phone, and Luke continued. “We could mail the documents, and you mail them back, but it’s urgent to wrap it up. Can you come to New York right away?”

“As in, before their check bounces?”

“Something like that. I can email-attach the documents for you to read on the train, and then you text me if you spot anything that requires correcting—like the spelling of your name, SS number, or anything you think should be added or deleted. I think you’ll be satisfied with the settlement.”

“Go ahead with the email and I’ll phone you as soon as I’ve read them. I was coming to New York today anyway to meet Richard Reuben.” They wrapped up the call.

Barrett, she noticed, didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. She began gathering her stuff, determined not to cry.

“Here. Let me help with your bag.”

“It’s okay; I got it. You’re welcome to tag along.”

“That’s all right. I need to mend fences—literally—and talk with a dairy farmer about protecting the alpacas from hunters.

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They paint COW in white on their animals but still lose a few every year. And alpacas could be mistaken for deer. I’m thinking about a stockade fence along our rear border.”

He held out his hand and asked for her cell phone, then scrolled and downloaded an app. “See this icon? If you tap it, a locator is activated, broadcasting your location to anyone with the corresponding app, like me. I’ll get an alert on my phone.”

“Like the weather app giving me the location of flooded roadways?”

“But in reverse, since the weather app doesn’t want to draw you to the water.”

She shook her head. “After all the danger we’ve encountered in the middle of nowhere, you still can’t get it through your head that I’m safer in Midtown with brothers in blue on every corner.”

“That is an extreme exaggeration. How quickly you’ve forgotten last February. I’m just saying—if you feel threatened, remember, unlike a landline, phoning 911 on a cell phone will only bring help if you’re able to tell the operator your exact location.

All that pinging off cell towers is TV cop stuff, not ordinary concerned people looking for where Grandma wandered.” He handed back the phone. “Try it.” When she tapped the icon, his cell phone beeped, and a map showing their home filled his screen.

“Huh! It works.” She brushed his cheek with a kiss and thanked him for his thoughtful gesture.

He glanced at his watch. “I have time to drop you at the train if…”

“I’m good. My ride will be here any minute.” Hands in his pockets, he turned and shambled through the mudroom door.

Alone, she surveyed their living room’s freshly varnished floors that glowed beyond a colorful rug. She memorized their freshly painted walls, mantel with its antique clock and cut-glass pitcher, family portraits hung with care, and their new curtains—as if 289

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she would never return. Her victorious return to New York was ruined. *** Two hours later, settled in Amtrak’s quiet car, she relaxed in the gathering distance, hating every minute she’d just endured in their too-quiet house. How she detested unpleasantness, even if she felt justified, but she wasn’t giving in without exploring her options. While compromise was necessary in successful relationships, where was the elusive middle ground in this impossible situation?

Opening her computer bag, she fished out the power cord, set her Mac on the tray table, and booted it up. While the battery would go the distance, she had no idea what her demand would be in the coming days. She also plugged in her cell phone. Her new Mac, with its powerful operating system, zipped to life, opening emails and documents in a flash.

She skimmed Luke’s cover letter, a document of legalese from the advertising agency, then the summary of their settlement offer. Without bothering to read the words, she went straight to the numbers that were grouped by category: Compensation owed with a breakdown that included salary, bonuses, health care, retirement contributions, and a string of miscellaneous items; projected salary for an additional year, and unemployment compensation to extend beyond that. And no non-compete clause. She could steal whomever she wanted.

Luke Holmes was good, earning every penny of his fee.

Next subject: compensation for her medical expenses, pain, and suffering. That also included her wrecked personal computer and ripped clothing. Legal expenses—nice touch, Luke! Included was their agreement to cease and desist from damaging her personal or professional reputation, violation of which would be costly.

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The total—what was it all worth? All that pain and disappointment to say nothing of threatening a promising career? She blinked—just over $2 million! She stabbed Luke’s number onto her phone but, acknowledging quiet-car rules, sent him a text instead. Approved! See U at 1 pm, OK? JGL While Richard and Marvin joked with Luke’s pretty secretary in the outer office, January reread the documents one more time, although she’d committed them to memory. Luke said, “We’ll sign our copies and messenger theirs. I have instructed them to wire their obligation immediately to our escrow account, from which I will cut you a check.”

“Sounds great. I’ve been cautioned to wrap it up quickly as the agency is rumored to have financial difficulty. Barrett says that if they declare bankruptcy, I’d be pretty far down the food chain to collect what they owe me.”

“I think their attorney was hoping we’d hold out for more, keep the back and forth going for a while, which would buy them time to do creative things with dwindling funds.” He handed her a souvenir pen with his law firm’s logo with which she signed at the red plastic arrows.

After prolonged goodbyes and well wishes, Richard steered January to a cab. “You’ve got to be starving. Winning a lawsuit is hungry work. Let’s go to that Irish pub I took you to the day those idiots fired you. Then we’re off to tour our new suite.”

They stepped into a hot, muggy afternoon that immediately reminded January of all those attempts to keep her curly hair from exploding. Over her favorite bar food and beer, Richard continued the tale he’d begun on the phone. Was that just two days ago?

“First, I want you to see our new digs. And your beautiful new office,” he said, giving Marvin a wink. “You will not be able to turn us down.”

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the holiness of this lovely pub. Then we’ll talk.” An hour later, the guy’s toted January’s bags in the reverse direction she’d stumbled that rainy day in February, arm broken, and juggling the scant possessions the agency’s security cop had allowed her to salvage from her desk. To her surprise, Richard swept open the agency’s glass door and motioned her into the very area where that little receptionist had altered the email that named her as the person in charge of the meeting.

“Why are we coming here? I don’t ever want to see those dreadful people again.” Marvin pushed the elevator button. It whooshed open. He hit 4, and they ascended.

“Just wait.” When the doors opened and they stepped into the zoo, the entire arena had been transformed. Gone were the multiple gray-fabric cubicles, replaced with an open area where a half-dozen people worked at well-spaced creative stations that reminded January of Tony C’s studio in the woods, sans the wild turkeys. The aura of colors, fabrics, and the scent of artwork in progress was intoxicating.

Richard propelled her toward the exterior wall where four executive offices overlooked Midtown through expansive glass walls. “The center two are ours. And we’ve reserved both corners for whichever you prefer as Director of Advertising and Marketing.”

One year ago, she’d have killed for this opportunity, now having zigzagged her way back through improbable circumstances. January opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The designers then steered her into the boardroom, the very site where she’d first impressed them and later was robbed of pitching her presentation. On easels were the original posters she had directed the artists to make.

“Here’s the deal,” Richard spoke for the pair. “It makes good business sense to bring our marketing and advertising activities in-house.” He jabbed a thumb in Marvin’s direction. “Marvin agrees, being the financial genius of our studio.

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“We want you to handle the advertising campaigns from start to finish—from inception to media promotions, which will mean interacting with some very talented and sometimes demanding and prickly celebrities. And—wait for it—we need a sharp accountant with the ability to handle a multi-faceted business where a lot of money changes hands. We’re hoping you could coax your husband Barrett to join our merry band. Without triggering discrimination, Marvin and I are most comfortable working with our peers—people who relate to our young clients and their fans.”

Caught off guard by the offer, January inhaled, struggling to regain her composure at the tantalizing idea. “I can’t speak for Barrett, but I think he’ll tell you he’s made a commitment to take over the accounting firm in Pennsylvania. He’s one of those honorable people who keeps his word, even if it means turning down something more lucrative.”

Before Richard could interrupt or sweeten his pitch, she asked them to take a seat. She took the posters from the easels and laid them on the table, and then opened her portfolio. “I want to show you what I can do from my tiny home office and an art studio in the woods which does, by the way, mean dodging wild turkeys.

This first client is located in North Carolina, and they design collapsible kayaks and tents that can be hauled by a bicycle or an SUV. Their market is anywhere that outdoor vacationers seek wilderness adventures without owning campers. Exciting stuff.

“The next client designs elegant eveningwear for upscale women age fifty-plus who will never admit being older. Their gowns will be sold as one-of-a-kind fashions in exclusive shops for important events, like inaugural balls, society weddings, or major donor events.

“My point—as my favorite thirteen-year-old pointed out— in this internet age, I don’t need to be physically present one hundred percent of the time. Find a place to park me with the 293

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others out there, and I’ll commute when I’m needed, such as for client presentations.”

Marvin frowned. “I anticipate we’ll be shooting commercials on location. Would you be available to travel?”

“Yes. And it would also make sense to add an event planner to my little staff. My wonderful advisor, Professor Gibbs, could recommend outstanding students who, by now, would have three to five years’ experience in the trenches. And I already know which artists I’d like to steal.” She gathered her materials while giving them a confident smile. How she’d love working with these guys!

“I propose that, for expenses only, you give me a month or two to demonstrate what I can do from the middle of nowhere.

We can put the details in writing so you have the no-quibble luxury of saying, ‘This isn’t working, but we’ll remain friends.’

And you could call on me for freelance work as needed. Now— why don’t I get out of your hair, check into my hotel, and call my dear friend Gretchen? We’re meeting for a late supper.”

From the way the partners were grinning, she knew she had a chance—as long as she produced A+ work from the farm. “Why don’t Marv and I pitch you a project, we’ll wiggle it around a bit, and see what works? We’re not letting you off the hook without trying. And we’re holding an office for you. Now—we’ll drop you at your hotel, which is…”

“A stone’s throw from Grand Central Terminal from which I can catch the S train to Penn Station tomorrow.”

“Let’s meet for breakfast at your hotel before you go. We can talk further after we’ve all had a chance to sleep on our possibilities.” *** January waved goodbye as Richard pulled away from his double-parked spot at her hotel’s front door. Entering the lobby, 294

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she observed two well-dressed gentlemen quietly conversing in what might be Russian. Diplomats, she guessed, as the hotel was convenient to the United Nations and Grand Central. They stopped talking as she drew abreast, following her with their eyes.

“I have a reservation,” she told the man behind the desk, whose heavy accent suggested Indian or Pakistan. New York— the land of opportunity, she thought. It felt good to be back.

“January Gastineau,” she responded, using her professional name. The clerk frowned, shaking his head, then looking up expectantly. “Try January Lamont.”

“Ah, of course, Ms. Lamont. So sorry.” After she confirmed her credit card information, he handed her an envelope with her key. “Room 606. Take the elevator over there,” he said, pointing to the pair. As she waited for whichever one came first, she glanced toward the entry where the two diplomats sat, possibly waiting for someone to join them, maybe for dinner.

The nearest elevator door whooshed open, discharging a large man in a navy suit, white shirt, and lavender silk tie. He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. Barrett, she thought, distractedly, would look great in that tie. Exchanging brief nods, they swapped places in the elevator. As she waited for the door to close, she noticed his mirrored reflection behind the front desk. The Russians rose, but no handshakes were offered.

Perhaps like the Japanese, it wasn’t their custom. Her elevator door closed. *** “The wife came to us. No, I would not joke about something that serious. We passed each other at the hotel’s elevators. I wasn’t three feet from her face. She nodded pleasantly enough, but not as if she recognized me. How do you want to handle this?”

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she doesn’t cooperate. All we want is the box, and it’s got to be somewhere in New York. It’s not in Pennsylvania if it ever was.”

The big man adjusted the knot on his tie and glanced at the Russians. He studied their faces in the mirror to verify their identity and approached the desk. “One of your guests, Ms. Lamont, was supposed to meet me in the lobby, but I was detained. I don’t have her phone number. In which room is she staying?”

“I’m sorry, sir. We are not permitted to give out our guests’ information, including their names and room numbers. Perhaps you’d like to wait for her in the bar? If you leave your name, I’ll tell anyone who asks for you, Mr...”

“I’m sure she’ll be down momentarily. I’ll just wait.” The clerk turned to answer an incoming call, then to assist a flurry of guests with their reservation.

One of the Russians gave the big man a nod to approach.

He did. The Russian whispered 606, to which the man muttered his thanks. The Russians grinned at each other as if enjoying a hapless American suitor’s dilemma.

Alone in her tiny luxury room, January kicked off her shoes and pawed through her suitcase for her cosmetics bag and a fresh outfit. She’d forgotten how hot and inconvenient New York summers could be, having been spoiled by her air-conditioned Honda, taking her from portal to portal, to say nothing of having a trunk into which she could dump as much stuff as she wanted.

The indulgence of wearing cute, impractical shoes and sandals!

She loved not having to walk miles on hot city concrete, having joined the ranks of spoiled shoppers who circled free parking lots for the closest spot to the door. Her country friends could not believe that one-half hour’s parking in the city cost eight dollars.

She hopped into the shower and luxuriated in its tepid deluge that cooled her sweaty body. Flowing silk pants with a matching tee and short-sleeved sweater, for which she’d had no use in the country, would be perfect for dinner in this fashionable place.

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She wiped condensation from the mirror and, while applying fresh makeup, noticed a dab of paint on her cheek from her living room decorating coup. She scratched it off.

Emerging, she scanned the tiny room, knowing an efficiency this size in Manhattan would cost thousands a month. Still— could she have it both ways? How badly she wanted to work with Richard and Marvin, having missed big-city creative work.

She let her mind wander. They’d need a new logo—an artistic embellishment of R & M? She laughed as gooseflesh rose on her arms, she was that excited. Back in the moment, she should call Barrett, then Gretchen, and check on Charlene and Katherine.

Rooting in her bag, she extracted her cell phone and thumbed it on.

Someone knocked. “Room service, compliments of the manager,” a male voice said. She looked through the peephole at the turned back of a navy jacket from above which peeked a crisp white collar. Dropping her phone to her left pocket, she used both hands to unfasten the locks. She opened the door. The man she recognized from the elevator smiled, lifting a sweating green bottle that hinted of something bubbly and a pair of flutes.

“Compliments of the hotel, Ms. Lamont. If I can just set this on the credenza…”

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39 She opened the door farther and motioned the employee into the room. He set the bottle on the little tray the hotel supplied for glassware, coffee cups, napkins, and condiments. “May I open it for you?”

“Thank you, but no. Let’s put it in the micro-fridge. I’m leaving directly, and we’ll enjoy it after dinner.” She started toward the door, but he didn’t follow, which bothered her enough to clutch her cell phone that bulged in her pocket. “I appreciate the courtesy, but you’ll have to excuse me. I need to get some work done before dinner,” she said, nodding toward her Mac that stood open and waiting on the tiny bedside table.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Ms. Lamont. You have information we need, and I’m not leaving without it.”

She frowned, her anxiety heightened. “What could I possibly know about hotel business?”

“The package. The chessmen and rings. Where did you take them and who has them now?”

“You can’t be serious! Who are you anyway? You look vaguely familiar, but I doubt you’re a cop because…” She stopped talking, realizing that if she told the truth—that the missing contraband was in police custody—she’d be of no further use. “Look. I don’t want any trouble, and I have no idea where to tell you to look for—whatever. You’ve been given bad information.”

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lives are at stake—yours and your husband’s. Now tell me the truth—what did your husband do with the box?”

“I, um, don’t know. What did it look like? Tiny? Bigger than a breadbox?” Stupid thing to say, but it was all that came to her rattled mind. He gestured with his hands, correctly sizing the Nike shoebox.

“This complicates everything. If you tell me the truth—and I’m sure that you know—I’d just have to babysit you until one of our people retrieves it. You’d be fine as long as you’re honest with me. Instead, we’ll have to keep you while we make a deal with your husband.”

“Who are you? I know we’ve met somewhere before, but I can’t place you. Are you connected to my former advertising agency on Madison Avenue? I know! You’re with their law firm.

Well, buddy, you’re too late. I signed the settlement agreements this afternoon. So tell your client it’s over. And as for any box I might have, the only items I took from my desk in February were personal.” She crossed her arms and gave him the snake eye with a guttural harrumph.

“Wrong venue, sweetheart. Sorry you’ve chosen to be uncooperative. Now I’m forced to take you to some very unpleasant people who won’t give you complimentary champagne Let’s go.” He motioned toward the door with a small handgun, the make and model of which she was ignorant, but she was sure it could kill her dead.

“I have to go to the bathroom. If you don’t let me, I’ll howl all the way down to the lobby. And you wouldn’t dare shoot me in front of witnesses. Just let me go before I pee my pants.”

“All right. But leave the door open.”

“Seriously? You come anywhere near me, and I’ll scream loud enough to be heard above the trains in Grand Central.” She pivoted into the bathroom, blocking the view of her pocket with her phone lest its outline show. She sat and pulled it from the depth of her flowing trousers, thumbing the screens to the last 299

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page and stealing a peek at the pretty silver icon her protective husband had installed. If this gets me out of this alive…

“Come on, come on,” he urged, then propelled her into the elevator. “If you make me shoot you, I will kill anyone else who gets in my way. Do you understand?” She nodded, her left-brain scanning volumes of data for his name. If she escaped in one piece, she would need to identify him. As soon as the elevator door opened in the lobby, he gripped her elbow and steered her into the hotel’s kitchen, past puzzled workers, and out the service door where a black car waited. He stuffed her into the back seat and climbed in beside her. *** Barrett returned from the pasture, having walked the perimeter to make repairs to the fence. Oley, Clemmy, and Foxy seemed glad to see him and the prospect of food. January’s idea to have an educational open house might protect the alpacas from hunters once the community knew of their presence and that they, in fact, were not deer. In the meantime, he posted signs along the back and sides of the fence.

Having fed the animals, he returned to the house. He pulled a Bud from the fridge and carried it to the tiny back stoop where January had crowded two lawn chairs. He grabbed one and relocated it to the lawn, which was responding nicely to a fortune in fertilizer and over-seeding with meadow grass. If January were home, she’d have the air conditioning cranked to the max, but he loved the hot, fragrant summer breezes. Soon it would be the Fourth of July. He wondered if the town had old-fashioned parades.

He tried to picture her—right now—glorying in her beloved hometown. Had he really imagined he could sell her on this?

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and-now kind of guy. Left-brained; unimaginative. Had their chosen careers been in conflict from day one? But didn’t that make them two halves of a whole? He drained the bottle, then went to the kitchen to grab another. What if she never came back? Or drifted away. What if— The landline rang—another telemarketer, no doubt. January would call his cell phone, per their agreement, since she knew he’d be out in the pasture. After five rings, it stopped, then resumed for a second, then a third round. What the hell! More curious than annoyed, he went to the kitchen and checked for messages. There were three from Gretchen, January’s best friend and college roommate with whom she should be at dinner right now.

After quickly identifying herself, the frantic woman unloaded her dread. “Something’s terribly wrong. January called me as she was leaving Richard’s new studio, he was dropping her at her hotel for a quick shower and change, and she was to meet me in an hour. She’s two hours late and isn’t answering her phone. That is so not like her.”

“Did you call Richard?”

“He did drop her off. So he returned to her hotel, but when the desk clerk wouldn’t give him her room number, he demanded that security do a welfare check. All her stuff ’s there, but she’s gone. She left everything, including her purse and wallet, and her Mac open and running. She would never have done that. So, Richard called the police. They should be there by now.”

Barrett leaped for his cell phone and tapped the new app that corresponded to January’s locator. “What the hell!” It was moving at a high rate of speed down the New Jersey Turnpike.

In a panic, he tore through every place where the FBI agent’s contact card was kept. “Think! Think!”

He called Gretchen back, got Richard’s number, and implored him to get the police to call him on their landline. “Tell them I’m tracking her in real time.”

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In what seemed like all eternity, an FBI agent returned his call, which in reality, only took a few minutes. While he waited, Barrett opened Google Earth on his laptop and concentrated on visually syncing the tracking device on his cellphone with Earth.

He prayed that January’s phone would hold its charge and that his stupid little device performed as advertised. Summoning every ounce of composure, lest he be dismissed as a lunatic or prankster, he described her progress, mile by mile, and what it looked like from Google Earth.

The cop peppered him with questions: Might someone have stolen her phone? Impossible. They’d have no reason to activate the device. Why was she abducted? And by whom?

Then it dawned on him. Peter Vaughn’s rescue and the recovery of the chess set and jewelry had been kept secret in hopes of tracing the masterminds. The Vaughns were sequestered in protective custody. For all the thieves knew of their American co-conspirators, the box was still out there somewhere. There would be no mercy for their failure to recover their merchandise.

Barrett agonized as he watched the tiny silver circle’s progression. The treasure’s whereabouts, entangled through the accounting scam that trapped Peter Vaughn, caught the Lamonts as collateral damage. And January was a loose end with no information to trade. He relayed the background as succinctly as possible with every ounce of calm he could muster while keeping the cop updated on her trajectory. *** “You’ll never get away with this. Everyone knows where I went and with whom I was meeting. I’ll be missed. And when my husband gets his hands on you…”

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it alone, but he wouldn’t listen.” He snorted. “Bet he was an Eagle Scout.”

Barrett’s accounting firm? But it was huge. Where might they have met? She never dropped by the office, and her husband never brought co-workers home for dinner or Monday night football. His life was all about helping his clients succeed and being with her, every minute of his waking life committed. No guys’ night out, poker, or hanging at sports bars after work. He was a homebody. So—where did her path cross with this pig?

She focused on the firm to make a connection. “With the salary and benefits you command, why would you risk prison or worse to make even more money? How much can you spend anyway?”

“Someone in my position has obligations to impress top-tier clients—membership in the right clubs, looking successful by what I drive, wear, and live. The best schools for the kids, the greedy ex. Clients’ pet fundraisers with their hands leveraging for contributions. You middle-class types are lucky and don’t even know it.”

An image of their farmette, the animals, Charlene, and church friends clicked in her mind. “We’re rich in ways people like you will never understand. How did you get involved with these lowlifes anyway? You can’t spend your cut in prison.”

“Not my destination.”

“People will miss me; they are looking already. You can’t get away with this. When they find me…”

“They won’t.”

January’s heart rate ticked up, remembering Peter Vaughn being buried alive and left for dead. She prayed her tracker app was working and tamped down her temper rather than throw that information in his ugly face. But what if her seat had bumped her phone off way back in Manhattan? Or the app didn’t work?

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strip-search her and toss her phone miles from her body. Maybe drive it back to a Manhattan trash can.

Her host slid open the minibar and offered her a beverage of choice. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she spat, declining his offer that included a bottle of name-brand spring water. “It’s probably drugged.” When he tried to press it into her hand, she cussed him and batted his offering onto the floor, where it rolled around on the floormat.

He shrugged. “Be a bitch. We have ways to make you talk.”

“Yeah—like the clock repairman said to the clock, ‘Ve have vays to make you tok.’ You don’t get it—I know nothing!”

He threw back his head and emitted a high-pitched laugh that was part cackle. And January remembered! The letter N floated into her memory—first name—Nathan? Nathaniel? Norbert?

Ned? No. Nevin! That was it. Last name? It also felt like an N. She dug deeper.

The managing partner at Barrett’s accounting firm! Nevin Novak. That was his name. The guy who had spoken at one of those terrible banquets Barrett had begged her to attend. Her husband loved her company at those quasi-social gatherings, as she was a natural at finding common grounds for him with strangers and then stepping back to let him pick up the thread.

Her captor sobered. “But your loved one knows. And he’ll trade.”

She stole a look at his pudgy, ugly face, knowing that she wouldn’t have looked at him twice but now would never forget it. As the Cadillac left the turnpike at exit 7, January gave their bearing her undivided attention. They stayed on US 206 and passed a sign for 68 South that would lead to Fort Dix/ McGuire Air Force Base. When her captor momentarily focused his attention outside his window, she glanced surreptitiously between the front and back seats to locate the odometer as the Caddy gobbled up the miles.

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She kept looking for route numbers, but, finding none posted, realized she needed to memorize road names. A fastmoving thunderstorm lashed the car’s windows, making backseat passenger visibility impossible. She couldn’t distinguish what few signs or landmarks they passed and instead began adding the odometer’s progress and the driver’s numerous left and right turns. Of course, she knew that was silly, as if she could give someone directions to follow, but the exercise kept her mind from collapsing into hysteria.

About fifteen miles farther, he exited onto an isolated rural two-lane. Peering out the window, trying to maintain a semblance of their direction, she was stunned by how desolate the relative proximity to New York City had become. Their chauffeur exited the two-lane onto a gravel driveway that was delineated by luminaries and passed through an open wrought-iron gate. Of all the ways she had imagined herself dying after her parents’ fatal crash, this had never crossed her mind.

The vehicle crunched to a stop. Nevin Novak made a quick call and barked to someone that they were approaching. She looked hard through the dense woods that enveloped them.

The driver eased forward, and over the front seats, January saw a stone structure come into view through wispy fog created by the cold rain hitting scorched earth. Haloed spotlight outlined a massive home. The driver circled a flagstone semicircle that fronted a columned entry. As the front-seat passenger exited, her door lock disengaged, but before she could react, a man yanked it open. Escape, she conceded, would have been impossible anyway, engulfed as they were in old-growth forest. *** “Catch up with them! Set up a roadblock! Stop that car!”

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don’t lose it. I can’t count on this connection holding forever.

Please! Rescue my wife from those criminals.”

“Mr. Lamont! Stay calm and keep watching. We’ve zeroed in on the most-likely vehicles and don’t want to spook the driver.

Keep appraising us of any deviation in their route, particularly exits.”

“Where could they be taking her? They can’t keep going all the way to Florida. If they stop anywhere, surely you’ll surround the vehicle, free my wife, and apprehend them.”

“Our goal is to avoid a hostage situation. We’ll follow them to their destination and follow the appropriate protocol. You just stay on the line. What you’re doing is enormously helpful.”

“I don’t care if they all go free. Retreat to some Caribbean resort. Your capturing them means nothing if January is dead.”

“Of course. Our vehicles are rotating positions, and so far, there’s limited activity within the vehicle. If that changes, we will respond.” *** A grim-faced, silent man dressed in black gripped January’s arm and propelled her down a wide stone stairway to a dungeonlike room with a concrete floor. It felt about fifty-five degrees, but a dehumidifier humming nearby made the air feel unusually dry for an underground cavern. An interior door led to a brightly lit utilitarian space that reminded January of morgues on TV. An unlit gas fireplace faced a circle of upholstered chairs and sofas that could accommodate a dozen or more people. Empty bottles and takeout containers on a huge coffee table indicated recent activity.

Two men emerged from an interior doorway. She recognized them immediately, having seen their faces reflected in the mirror behind the hotel’s reception desk—the pair with the Russian accents who had eyeballed her while she was registering. Why 306

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were they here? Such an unholy vibe. They did not sit. They stood, arms folded across their chests. If the situation weren’t so frightening, she would have laughed at the stereotypes portrayed in B-level spy movies or lower if there was such a category.

When someone commanded her to sit, she’d had enough and refused. “All of you! Whoever the hell you are—listen up!” she growled, staring the foreigners in the eye. “Whatever it is that you think that I have, I do not! Nor does my husband.” She lowered her voice a notch. “Since I don’t know any of you, I am no danger to you. Go back to the Middle East or Siberia or wherever the hell you call home and leave my family alone.”

To the silent Russians, she added. “If I understand your country’s position on defectors, if you harm me, our FBI will claim you are counter-intelligence agents who betrayed their intel. Then they’ll deport you. Good luck with your country’s version of criminal justice.”

To the others, she added, “They know where I am. They’re coming for you.” To the accountant, she added, “Your life as you know it is over. And for what!” she said, jerking her head toward his co-conspirators. “If you think for one moment that they’ll let you live—you’re just one more loose end in a cheap suit.”

“You are misinformed, young lady,” the Russian who appeared to be the boss said. “It’s not just a chess set and a couple of rings, no matter their provenance or value. It’s about, shall we say, our operatives’ commitment. Any weak links must be repaired and made an example as a matter of principle. As your Benjamin Franklin said, ‘For want of a nail, the shoe was lost.’ And so on and so on. In our business, mistakes mean swift reprisals.”

“The reverse of that works too. Your harming me could topple your enterprise. Imagine those chessmen falling like bowling pins.”

The man who had been driving the Cadillac spoke. “You’re wrong. They’ll never find you.” And to the others, he muttered, “Enough. Let’s get on with it.” He opened the door through 307

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which the Russians had emerged and gave a silent nod to another person. January gasped at the woman who emerged, wearing a look of sheer triumph.

“Jessica Gruber! What are you doing here? And what do you have to do with these thugs?”

“Your little lawsuit destroyed my thirty-year career. Bruce McCallum threw me under the bus the minute the paperwork hit his desk and he realized he’d been goaded into a fight with you. The word was put out so that no one would hire me.” She grinned at the others. “And then I got an offer I couldn’t refuse.

You see—I wasn’t always in advertising. I didn’t get your upperclass perks. I had one year in nursing school before I ran out of money and found a job as a gopher at that firm. But, as they say, nothing you learn is ever wasted.”

“You have no one to blame but yourself for losing your job.

If you hadn’t sent me on that wild-goose chase to take over Richard’s presentation, none of that would have happened.” She stopped, hoping to think of a desperate new angle to enlist her cooperation. But that, she realized, was impossible.

Jessica pushed a teacart into the room that held an assortment of beverages, glassware, plates, and napkins. “Refreshments for you, bitch.” From a container on the bottom shelf, she selected a vial and, with an exaggerated flourish, withdrew a hypodermic needle. She held it high for effect and brandished it inches from January’s arm.

Nevin Novak said, “One last chance, Ms. Lamont. Where’s the box?”

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40 Obscured by the woods and fog-shrouded night, a half-dozen agents in tactical gear crept toward the mansion’s facade. No dogs barked, nor did security lights betray their approach. Counting a half-dozen cars parked haphazardly near the entrance, one agent whispered, “Hail, hail, the gang’s all here,” and called for backup.

The front rooms, l likely a living room, dining room, and library or office, were dark. Two agents crept under the windows and squinted through the sidelights that fronted a massive double oak door. Lights could be seen at the back of the house, which must be the kitchen. But where were the occupants of all those cars? The upstairs appeared dark as well. By the ticking sounds of cars’ cooling engines, they hadn’t been here very long.

He tried the doorknob. As expected, it was locked, and no alarm sounded. Their lax security astounded him if theirs was a criminal enterprise, which usually included high-level surveillance against law enforcement and their enemies. Might they have left security unarmed for newcomers who were expected momentarily? He sequestered a pair against the front sides of the house to alert him to further arrivals. The others, he motioned around back.

The first agent to reach the kitchen door spotted a man outside in a white chef ’s uniform, inhaling a cigarette, eyes closed in ecstasy, then slowly exhaling a stream of smoke.

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the cigarette to his mouth. By the time he noticed a man standing three feet from his face, it was too late.

“FBI. Not one sound.” The man dropped the cigarette, bobbing his head. He looked terrified. “Where are the others?” the agent whispered. The cook jerked his head toward the kitchen behind him and held up two fingers. “In the kitchen? Who are they?” The cook held up his left hand and pointed to his ring finger, then placed his palm, face down, about three feet from the ground. “Wife? Child?” He nodded vigorously, clasping praying hands together. “We’re not going to hurt you or your family.

You’re not in trouble. Motion for them to come outside.”

A large woman wearing a hairnet and apron approached.

“Giuseppe! What’s taking you so—” When she saw the agent, she clasped her hand over the mouth, her eyes wide with terror. The agent put his finger to his lips and mouthed for her to summon her child, which she did. One of the agents escorted the little family to a safe distance from the house and instructed them to be quiet and stay put, which they promised with vigorous nods.

“The chef says there’s a ‘fancy lady hostess’ getting ready for dinner, which will be served in the dining room when she says to. The men—she says the owner is having a meeting in that lower room. Lots of visitors came a little while ago. Chef ’s upset there won’t be enough food. When asked, he says they always have guns. That they’re dangerous.”

“Did you ask him to describe the room? And how to access it?”

“He says it’s a spooky place, a big dungeon. Side rooms where he’s never allowed to go. Maybe offices? Storage? There are two stairways, one from the foyer to the big room and one off the kitchen to the side rooms.”

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past the front door as she appeared to be searching the rooms, calling a man by his name. At length, when she entered the kitchen, the agents grabbed her as she passed them and covered her mouth.

“FBI, ma’am. You’re under arrest.” They hustled her out back, where other agents waited. “Now, where are you keeping the hostage?”

She trembled, shaking her head and wobbling as her heels began sinking into the wet mud. She started to sob. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The agent snapped a photo inches from her face. “Her. She was kidnapped in Manhattan earlier today and was brought to this house. Now where is she? Lady, this is a federal crime, and if they kill her and you’re an accomplice, you’ll get the needle too.”

“Noooo! I know nothing about that woman. I haven’t seen her. She couldn’t be here, unless…”

“Unless what? What do you know? Or hear? And how many men are in the basement room?”

“I don’t know! I was upstairs taking a nap, then getting bathed and dressed for the evening. I heard car doors but didn’t pay attention to who was arriving.”

“Here’s what you’re going to do. You stay outside with the officer, and we’ll sort you out later. But lady—if we need your cooperation, you’d better be willing.” She bobbed her head in agreement, wiping her eyes and runny nose on the back of her hand.

Backup skulked into position after ascertaining that there was no lookout and noting the vehicles by license lined up like pigs at a trough. The decision was made to access the cavern through both staircases simultaneously. Silent as shadows, they crept down the stairs, poised for instruction to pounce. Three!

Two! One! They stormed through the dungeon and from the back room, screaming their identity and shrieking demands to show their hands and get down on the floor.

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“She’s one of them!” January yelled, pointing to Jessica who was trying to act like a fellow hostage. An agent cut the zip ties that secured January to a chair. “She was going to inject me with whatever’s in that syringe,” January said, unable to stop the tears of relief that streamed down her face. “She said that—that stuff would make me tell them whatever they wanted to know. That they’d drop me in Manhattan. That I’d never remember any of it.

I didn’t believe her. I know she wanted to kill me.”

“Let’s get you out of here,” the agent said, getting a firm grip on her shoulder. She patted her pocket and laughed hysterically at the pulsing icon that was still active. Before shutting it off, she phoned Barrett. *** Barrett arrived on the midnight train and hopped the shuttle to January’s hotel. The agents escorted her to her room, having debriefed her en route from New Jersey. When and where they’d conduct an in-depth interview could wait. She steadfastly refused to be checked at a hospital, imploring Barrett to pick up graband-go at Penn Station.

She waited in the very chair one Russian had occupied ages ago and leaped to her feet when a harried accountant burst through the door. Neither cared about the audience that circled them as they smothered each other with hugs and kisses. “I’d say there’s a cold bottle in the micro-fridge, but it’s evidence. Room service will have to suffice,” she said, pulling him by the arm to the elevator.

An agent preceded them into her room and cleared it before letting them enter. “He didn’t touch anything except the bottle in the fridge, which he brought, and the doorknob. And he wasn’t wearing gloves. Please! Get it outta here.” It was bagged, tagged, and removed.

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The hotel manager appeared in the open doorway. “Ma’am, I apologize for your terrible experience at our hotel. We’d like to offer an executive suite to compensate you for—I don’t know what to call it. I’m so sorry.”

Barrett said, “It’s up to her. Hon?” “I don’t know about you, but it’s three in the morning, and I have no desire to find something else. If I can just gather my stuff, let’s accept his gracious offer.”

“I’ve summoned a porter to collect your belongings.”

“That’s all right. I’d prefer to do it myself.”

“Very well,” the manager said. “And we’d be pleased to offer the suite an additional night if you’d like to stay in New York another day.”

“Thank you.”

Their suite was sufficiently luxurious for visiting dignitaries or sheiks. “It’s the honeymoon suite,” she said of its grandeur.

“I could get lost in the bathroom or swim laps in the jacuzzi.

And the linens! Wish I could smuggle them home.” She stopped inspecting the amenities, reality returning, and sank into a chaise in the living room. “I must be dreaming that all of this happened on the same day.” Somebody knocked.

“Room service, compliments of…” January peeked, then opened the door for the uniformed staff member, rolling a tray covered with a white linen cloth. He lifted the edge for her inspection, revealing elegant hors d’oeuvres, croissants, and an ice bucket chilling a bottle of New York State’s premier wine. He said that they should ring room service for anything else they would enjoy, including breakfast in the morning.

Barrett gazed at the spread and laughed at their surroundings.

“Our honeymoon tent, upstate in the woods—would you ever have believed we’d be here just five years later?”

She handed him the corkscrew, spread the linen cloth on the table by the window, awed by the expansive view of the city far below. She chuckled. “Guess we’re destined to have adventures.

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At least here it isn’t pouring, and we don’t have to hang our food in a tree where animals can’t get it.”

“I didn’t take time to shower; I just ran for the train. I probably smell like the barn.”

“I have just the solution for that,” she said, giving him a coy smile. “Let’s enjoy our feast, then the Jacuzzi, and then...” *** The Lamonts spent the following day being debriefed by police, detailing her kidnapping, identifying the perpetrators, and linking their connection to the Peter Vaughn case. Barrett insisted it was Peter, not he, who had unraveled the corruption at their accounting firm and nearly got killed in the process. He hoped the DA was on board. Peter had suffered enough.

That night the Lamonts took the last train home. At first, January couldn’t stop chattering, repeating the loop. “When those thugs had me at their mercy, I tried to act tough, but I was terrified that they’d kill me. I kept flashing on all I’d be missing if my life ended right then. You. Our marriage. Maybe children. All those kind country people who accepted me and extended their friendship whom I couldn’t thank. Good people who matter.

Projects promised but unfinished. But especially Charlene.

I promised we’d always be friends. I’ve got to be there to help nurture her dreams. And maybe I’ll learn how to knit. I’ve never had time for a hobby. And Barrett? I didn’t congratulate you; I brushed it off angrily. Imagine—your own firm! I am so proud of you. But if a client ever suggests some creative accounting, fire the client!”

As the miles passed and the cities gave way to sleepy towns and farms, January unwound as the rhythm of the train’s clicking wheels took her home. Home—what a precious concept. The roiling events of the previous months crystallized. She nudged him. “I’ve had an epiphany.” Barrett opened one eye, letting his 314

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head slip in her direction to give her an indulgent smile.

“There’s a line in my life—what came before and now after. I had been consumed, hell-bent, all the way back to grade school, on being the best. Before our lives were upended, my goal was to win all those prestigious awards before I was thirty. A big enough salary to buy the best without checking my credit card balance and to say yes to charity events and fundraisers, knowing my checks wouldn’t bounce. A bigger apartment, to travel the world.

Where were my childhood values? How ashamed my parents would be.

“But, as my life was passing before my eyes, I realized that, except for you and Gretchen, the ‘before’ me had no time for friends. Or for being a friend. Now I’m accepted by genuine people who care about me. Folks committed to good causes rather than self-aggrandizement. And Charlene, who’s so inspirational.

I didn’t know people like them existed.”

“So—you and I—we’re good? And you’ll keep an open mind about the country?”

“I’m committing to investing my time and talent beyond my petty self. Oh, I’m not giving up my career. I’ll pursue working for Richard and Marvin, but from home if they’ll let me with periodic trips to the city. I’ll make it happen. But I will not sacrifice our worthy community where I can contribute.”

“You could be riding a temporary euphoria having bested evil and survived. Escaping high drama—the contrast. Like standing beside a deafening noise that suddenly stops. Give yourself time to adjust rather than making sweeping promises while you’re on a high.”

She shook her head. “It’s not that. I see Charlene’s metaphor clearly—a patch of blue. More than the sky at its glorious best, but everything that’s beautiful has meaning and is worth pursuing. Tomorrow, we have a special invitation to visit our alpaca benefactor’s farm. I simply cannot wait to see Charlene’s 315

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reaction. First thing, I’ll collect her and her mom.” She squeezed his hand and sighed. “Now—go back to sleep.”

He grinned. “Not a chance. I’m wide awake now.”

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Epilogue After the Lamonts left Manhattan, a multi-prong investigation grew legs, connecting their home invasion to international trafficking in stolen jewelry, artwork, and antiquities. Bit players, like the middleman from the Oyster Bar and the operatives, were eager to trade information for deals. A forensic accounting team is scrubbing the firm’s records, following the electronic breadcrumbs left by the late Stanley Ballinski, managing partner Nevin Novak, and others.

The thieves, who placed stolen treasures with greedy collectors, were identified, having been under surveillance for some time by Interpol and customs officials. The collectors would lose their precious treasures, including their investment, having been ‘surprised’ to have bought stolen property. Foreign operatives, trapped in the net, were anxious to deal rather than be deported to unfriendly governments. If they eventually realized they’d be deported anyway, that wasn’t the INS, DA, or the FBI’s problem.

January lost no time educating herself in the work of the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, their research, and volunteer opportunities. And she urges others to learn about the nonprofit foundation’s goal: to provide means to cure cystic fibrosis and ensure that those living with CF live long and productive lives.

One loose end haunted the Lamonts—who was Peter’s mysterious E? In response to the question, they met for lunch.

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Peter walked in with a beautiful lady, whom January judged to be half Peter’s age.

The lady began the conversation herself. “I wanted to thank you personally for saving my father’s life.” She smiled at Peter, who grinned back.

“Elizabeth and I found each other two years ago. She’s the daughter of my late high school sweetheart, I know nothing of my daughter’s existence until recently.”

She said, “My grandparents were in international business.

The day following my mother’s graduation, without any warning, her parents moved the family to Germany, where I was born seven months later. When I was old enough to ask questions, my grandmother said my father was a soldier who died in action and was the last of his family.

“When I was five, my mother married a wonderful older man who adopted me. He was there in the front row for every concert, play, and soccer game. My friends assumed he was my grandfather—he was a generation older than my mom. My childhood was wonderful.

“When I was eighteen, and he’d turned sixty-five, he dropped dead on the golf course. And, true to his nature, he had provided generously for Mom and a trust fund for me. But at forty-two, Mom died of ovarian cancer. She left me a letter disclosing my birth father’s identity, imploring me not to disrupt his life unless I needed his family’s medical history.

Peter picked up the narrative. “Elizabeth got in touch, emphasizing that she lacked for nothing but would like to meet me. The minute I saw her, even without genetic testing, I knew— she was the very image of her mother. Wanting to make money off the family books, I turned to gambling. And you know how that turned out.”

“And you kept your relationship a secret?” Barrett asked Peter.

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“I insisted,” Elizabeth said. “And that worked until Mrs. Vaughn suspected my dad was having an affair and confronted me. So, I told her the story. At first, she was relieved, shocked, dumbfounded as you would expect, and then became excited about the possibility of having a daughter. The three of us are in family counseling and couldn’t be happier.”

Peter concluded, adding his gratitude for the Lamonts’ intervention, without which everything could have ended badly.

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Acknowledgments Thank you, readers and fellow authors, who encouraged me when Covid derailed in-person events. And special thanks to the thousands of volunteers who donate precious time and talent to sustain Pennwriters, MWA, ITW, SinC, and locally, to BOLD and Pagoda Writers. And my appreciation to our bookstores, whose efforts support our being a nation of readers.

My heartfelt appreciation for the dedicated researchers and medical professionals whose discoveries into Cystic Fibrosis are enabling patients to live longer, healthier lives. For details, please contact The Cystic Fibrosis Foundation.

Take2 Alpacas owners Len Smith and Jo Griffith treated me to a tour of their farm and shared their in-depth knowledge and experience. Thank you for letting me into your world and reviewing my copy of January’s fictitious visit.

The 4-H supports children, not only farm kids, but with opportunities that don’t require large animals. The Rabbit and Cavy Club is delightful and real. For information, contact the Penn State Cooperative Extension Service.

I’m grateful to those who shared technical, geographical, and logistical details during Covid’s travel limitations. Jeff Markowitz saved me from locating my villains’ hideout in the middle of Fort Dix/McGuire Air Force Base. And P. D. Halt gave me a crash course on apartment and advertising agency locations in NYC. I take full responsibility for any errors I made.

By Rook and by Crook would not have been published without Headline Books publisher, Cathy Teets, and her diligent staff.

Thank you for your faith and perseverance.

My novels would not have been written without the love and encouragement of my family—my best friend and husband, Bill; our son Dan and daughter Lora. You are the wind in my sails.

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The future is limitless for young advertising professional January Lamont and her CPA husband, Barrett, until they are unknowingly sucked into two different crimes. Forced to flee New York City, they hide and re-event themselves in rural Pennsylvania.

Believed to have absconded with priceless antiquities stolen by international thieves, the Lamonts face the battle of their lives. While the perpetrators inch closer, they invest their time and talent in good work and better causes than their former existence.

“Nancy Hughes masterfully crafts another crime novel that not only provides chilling thrills to the reader but also highlights the strength of its very human protagonists to recover from one setback after another thrown at them by a series of evil players. Through one plot twist after another, Ms. Hughes’s strong writing keeps the reader wondering to the very end whether January and Barrett Lamont will prevail…”

—Geza Tatrallyay, acclaimed author of sixteen books

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M Y S T E RY

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NANCY A. HUGHES

Award-winning author Nancy A. Hughes writes character-driven crime-solving mysteries. She followed her dream from journalistic business writing to a life of crime. She is the author of the Trust Mystery Series and The Dying Hour. When Nancy isn’t writing, she is devoted to shade gardening and to volunteering at the Veteran’s Hospital. She is a member of MWA, ITW, Sisters in Crime, and PennWriters. For more information visit hughescribe.com.

By Rook or By Crook

“The author’s intimate knowledge of rural Pennsylvania life and her mystery-writing acumen make for a unique and thoroughly enjoyable read. And did I mention alpacas?”

—J.L. Delozier, award-winning mystery author of The Photo Thief

NA NC Y A . H U G H E S