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themselves, “Who does she remind me of?” I turned and leaned on the fence. “You call your pony any name you want, Jack,” I called.
    I’ve got to get inside, I thought. Sergeant Earley, Marcella Williams—how soon will it be before they see something familiar about me?
    One of the moving men, a burly-shouldered, baby-faced guy in his early twenties, was hurrying across the lawn. “Mr. Nolan,” he said, “the media is out front taking pictures of the vandalism. One of them is a reporter from a television station, and he wants you and Mrs. Nolan to make a statement on camera.”
    â€œNo!” I looked at Alex imploringly. “Absolutely not.”
    â€œI have a key to the back door,” Georgette Grove said quickly.
    But it was too late. As I tried to escape, the reporters came hurrying around the corner of the house. I felt light bulbs flashing, and as I raised my hands to cover my face, I felt my knees crumble and a rush of darkness envelop me.

6

    D ru Perry had been on Route 24 on her way to the courthouse in Morris County when she got the call to cover the story of the vandalism of “Little Lizzie’s Place” for her newspaper, the Star-Ledger. Sixty-three years old, a seasoned veteran of forty years as a reporter, Dru was a big-boned woman with iron-gray, shoulder-length hair that always looked somewhat unkempt. Wide glasses exaggerated her penetrating brown eyes.
    In the summer, her normal attire was a short-sleeved cotton shirt, khaki slacks, and tennis shoes. Today, because the air-conditioned courtroom was likely to be chilly, she had taken the precaution of stuffing a light sweater in the shoulder bag that held her purse, notebook, water bottle, and the digital camera she carried to help her recall specific details of a breaking story.
    â€œDru, forget the courthouse. Keep going to Mendham,” her editor ordered when he reached her on her car phone. “There’s been more vandalismat that house they call ‘Little Lizzie’s Place’ on Old Mill Lane. I’ve got Chris on his way to get pictures.”
    Little Lizzie’s Place, Dru thought as she drove through Morristown. She had covered the story last Halloween when the kids had left a doll with a toy gun on the porch of that house, and painted the sign on the lawn. The cops had been tough on them then; they had ended up in juvenile court. It was surprising that they’d be bold enough to try it again.
    Dru reached for the bottle of water that was her constant traveling companion and sipped thoughtfully. This was August, not Halloween. What would make kids suddenly decide to stir up mischief again?
    The answer became obvious when she drove up Old Mill Lane and saw the moving vans and the workers carrying furniture into the house. Whoever did this wanted to rattle the new owners, she thought. Then she caught her breath as the full impact of the vandalism registered.
    This is serious damage, Dru thought. I don’t think you can just cover those shingles. They’ll all have to be repainted, and the limestone will have to be professionally treated, to say nothing of the destruction to the lawn.
    She parked on the road, behind the truck from the local television station. As she opened the door of her car, she heard the sound of a helicopter overhead.
    She saw two reporters and a cameraman starting to run around the side of the house. Running herself, Dru caught up with them. She got her camera out just in time to snap Celia toppling over in a faint.
    Then, with the gathering media, she waited until an ambulance pulled up and Marcella Williams came out of the house. The reporters pounced on her, peppering her with questions.
    She’s in her glory, Dru thought as Mrs. Williams explained that Mrs. Nolan had revived and seemed to be shaken but otherwise was fine. Then, as she posed for pictures and spoke into the television microphone, she went into detail of the history of the