shouldn’t worry about those guys in armor. Miss Thackery explained how they’re actually careful not to hurt each other, that they just like to make a lot of noise.”
“No, Inez,” I said, “I can promise I’m not worried about them. I have a headache, that’s all.”
Caron was not about to be upstaged, even if it required feigning compassion. “Do you want one of us to go with you in case you get dizzy?”
“I’ll just have to risk it on my own,” I said. “There’s a stack of books on the counter. Arrange them in the window and put the ones currently there back on the racks. I’ll see you later.”
“We were going to have dinner at Inez’s and then get her mother to help us with our costumes, but if you’re getting sick or something, I can stay home.”
I held up my hand. “No, you go work on your costumes. I’ll see you much later.” I went out the back door, paused to listen to the uproar—much ado about nothing—and then walked along the railroad tracks to the bridge. There was a well-worn path that led up to the sidewalk across from the Azalea Inn, a charming mansion that predates the Civil War and is rumored to have been a stop on the Underground Railroad. Despite its picturesque façade, it had housed more than one murderer in recent times. Lieutenant Peter Rosen had failed to appreciate my investigative prowess in the matter, as always, and I’d solemnly promised to mind my own business in the future. Which I had, for at least a month. I wondered if FBI camp might teach him to be a tad more skeptical. He was much too young for ulcers and premature wrinkles.
As I trudged up the side street toward the campus, I heard music from inside one of the rental houses. For the most part, these were inhabited by those students without the funds to live in dorms, sorority and fraternity houses, or even the bland apartment complexes. This music, rather than the raucous dissonance that was more common, was light and melodic. Curiosity slowed me down briefly, but I thought of the cold drink awaiting me and turned at the alley behind the duplex. I went up the back steps and into the kitchen. The sound of ice clinking in my glass was equally melodic, as was the splashing of scotch.
Carrying the glass, I continued to the bathroom, and within a few minutes was immersed in steamy water and bubbles. Willing myself not to entertain troublesome thoughts, I imagined myself curled up next to Peter in a variety of exotic locales, all of them uninhabited except for faceless waiters delivering cocktails made with freshly squeezed fruit juices.
We were heading for reckless passion when the phone rang. I opened my eyes and realized the bubbles had long since dissipated and the bathwater was chilly. The jarring rings were not coming from a cozy cabana, but from the living room. I hastily wrapped a towel around myself, grabbed my watery drink, and dashed for the phone.
“Hello?” I gasped, trying to keep the towel from slipping.
“Is something wrong?” asked Peter. “You sound upset.”
“Nothing’s wrong, but you owe me big-time.” I put down the drink, tucked in the towel, and sat down on the sofa. “Tracked down any terrorists lately?”
“Are you sure nothing’s wrong? I called the store, but there was no answer. I was ready to catch the next flight home.”
He could be so adorable when he dithered over me, I thought with a small smile. “Nothing’s wrong.” I told him where I’d been and what I’d been envisioning, which led to a most satisfying conversation that included some scandalous details and promises. I then told him about the upcoming Renaissance Fair and my reluctant involvement, omitting any reference to Edward Cobbinwood’s paternal dilemma. He found the wrestling match in the bookstore much funnier than I did, but I tried to keep any tinge of annoyance out of my voice and admitted that, in retrospect, it had been an inimitable experience.
“So when do you graduate?” I
“No, Inez,” I said, “I can promise I’m not worried about them. I have a headache, that’s all.”
Caron was not about to be upstaged, even if it required feigning compassion. “Do you want one of us to go with you in case you get dizzy?”
“I’ll just have to risk it on my own,” I said. “There’s a stack of books on the counter. Arrange them in the window and put the ones currently there back on the racks. I’ll see you later.”
“We were going to have dinner at Inez’s and then get her mother to help us with our costumes, but if you’re getting sick or something, I can stay home.”
I held up my hand. “No, you go work on your costumes. I’ll see you much later.” I went out the back door, paused to listen to the uproar—much ado about nothing—and then walked along the railroad tracks to the bridge. There was a well-worn path that led up to the sidewalk across from the Azalea Inn, a charming mansion that predates the Civil War and is rumored to have been a stop on the Underground Railroad. Despite its picturesque façade, it had housed more than one murderer in recent times. Lieutenant Peter Rosen had failed to appreciate my investigative prowess in the matter, as always, and I’d solemnly promised to mind my own business in the future. Which I had, for at least a month. I wondered if FBI camp might teach him to be a tad more skeptical. He was much too young for ulcers and premature wrinkles.
As I trudged up the side street toward the campus, I heard music from inside one of the rental houses. For the most part, these were inhabited by those students without the funds to live in dorms, sorority and fraternity houses, or even the bland apartment complexes. This music, rather than the raucous dissonance that was more common, was light and melodic. Curiosity slowed me down briefly, but I thought of the cold drink awaiting me and turned at the alley behind the duplex. I went up the back steps and into the kitchen. The sound of ice clinking in my glass was equally melodic, as was the splashing of scotch.
Carrying the glass, I continued to the bathroom, and within a few minutes was immersed in steamy water and bubbles. Willing myself not to entertain troublesome thoughts, I imagined myself curled up next to Peter in a variety of exotic locales, all of them uninhabited except for faceless waiters delivering cocktails made with freshly squeezed fruit juices.
We were heading for reckless passion when the phone rang. I opened my eyes and realized the bubbles had long since dissipated and the bathwater was chilly. The jarring rings were not coming from a cozy cabana, but from the living room. I hastily wrapped a towel around myself, grabbed my watery drink, and dashed for the phone.
“Hello?” I gasped, trying to keep the towel from slipping.
“Is something wrong?” asked Peter. “You sound upset.”
“Nothing’s wrong, but you owe me big-time.” I put down the drink, tucked in the towel, and sat down on the sofa. “Tracked down any terrorists lately?”
“Are you sure nothing’s wrong? I called the store, but there was no answer. I was ready to catch the next flight home.”
He could be so adorable when he dithered over me, I thought with a small smile. “Nothing’s wrong.” I told him where I’d been and what I’d been envisioning, which led to a most satisfying conversation that included some scandalous details and promises. I then told him about the upcoming Renaissance Fair and my reluctant involvement, omitting any reference to Edward Cobbinwood’s paternal dilemma. He found the wrestling match in the bookstore much funnier than I did, but I tried to keep any tinge of annoyance out of my voice and admitted that, in retrospect, it had been an inimitable experience.
“So when do you graduate?” I
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