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the coroner would be arriving soon in his van. As my eyes skimmed the row of big, beautifully maintained houses, I wondered helplessly about Arch. I still had to go get him. I needed to stand up and put one foot in front of the other and tell Tom I was leaving. But exactly how would I say that?
I’ve got to go tell my son that his father has been arrested for murder?
I stayed put.
    Tom, meanwhile, gently took a stiff John Richard by the elbow and guided him up the driveway toward the house. Reluctantly, I stood and followed. The buzzing in my ears was not from the sprinklers.
Get Arch, get out of the club, and get back home.
But who would take care of my son at home, comfort him and talk to him? I had a party tonight. Could Macguire help, even though he was bedridden with mono? Not likely. I would think of something. For now, I had to get away from here. The bystanders, perched like friendly watchdogs on this street full of posh houses and lush green lawns, watched my journey up the driveway with undisguised interest.
    “I need to leave,” I announced to Tom. I darted a sideways glance at John Richard. Tom had directed him to the far end of Suz’s porch, where he perched stiffly on the edge of a white wicker couch. I flinched at the sight of his scathing stare and his silent, enraged face. I cleared my throat. “I need to get Arch.”
    “You do that!” John Richard exploded, but not, I noticed, loudly enough for the nosy neighbors tohear. I looked at him curiously. His outburst contained no sadness. No grief. “Go get Arch!” he yelled, his face shaking. “Tell him
why
we can’t go hiking! And be sure to let him know what you and your buddy have cooked up here! Arch is bound to just love it!”
    My temper snapped. “Listen!” I yelled back, “I was just driving up—”
    “Save it!” John Richard hissed. The cords in his neck strained. “No more child support if I’m in jail! Think about it!”
    “Look, you.” I tried to stop the angry shaking of my voice but could not. “I haven’t gotten any child support since—”
    “Goldy.” Tom’s passionless tone mercifully stilled the exchange. He waited until he had my complete attention. “Don’t get Arch yet. You need to stay here, make a statement.” His face was calm. “And you should see a victim advocate.”
    “Victim advocate?” John Richard bellowed. “What does she need an advocate for?
I’m
the damn victim here!”
    I gaped at Tom, dumbfounded. Of course. I had discovered the body. The police had to question me. And the psychologists’ recommendation for a person discovering a body was that that person was traumatized and needed comfort. But this wasn’t the first murder victim I’d found. I’d managed before without an advocate. Still, what was the psychologists’ recommendation if your
ex-husband
was charged with the murder you’d stumbled upon? I couldn’t think. I swayed as I stood between the overturned geranium pot and the wicker furniture. What had I been doing just a moment ago? Oh, yes.I’d been having an argument with my ex-husband about money. Now I was having a conversation with my current husband about an advocate.
    You must get Arch
, my inner voice urged.
You must tell him what’s happened before someone else does.
Trauma? You bet. Undreamed-of trauma. But like most women, I couldn’t take time out from the other crises of my life to be taken care of. “I don’t want an advocate,” I told Tom. “I’m okay.”
    Even as I spoke Tom was pulling the phone off his belt. “What’s Marla’s number?”
    “Oh, right!” John Richard raged. “Let’s get old
Marla
over here. One big happy family. Hey! I have an idea! Ask that fat dumb broad how she planted my ID bracelet in that ditch.”
    Tom ignored him as I recited Marla’s number. Should Marla really come, though? I didn’t want this situation to aggravate her cardiac condition. She should not come here, I muttered. When Tom asked, I gave him the address of