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Death on Demand #13
Avon
February 2003
Featuring: Annie Darling; Max Darling
336 pages
ISBN: 038080722X
EAN: 9780380807222
Paperback (reprint)
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Chapter One
The early-morning sun slanted through the pines, throwing
huge shadows across the dusty gray road. Bob Tower's face
was flushed, his heartbeat elevated. He was suffused with
runner's euphoria, his arms swinging easily, his stride
long, his shoes thudding rhythmically on the soft dirt. He
smiled, at peace with the world. When his run was over,
Jessie waited for him, eager and loving. The kids would be
off to school. God, what a wonderful--
He was thinking of Jessie, already loving Jessie in his
mind, when the Jeep careened around the curve. Suddenly
the roar of the motor was upon him, louder and louder and
louder, enveloping him. His head jerked. For an instant,
he looked into the eyes of the driver. Pain was sudden and
absolute, overwhelming, unendurable.
Crumpled in the ditch, too hurt to moan, eyes clouding,
throat closing, the last thing Bob heard was the dwindling
of sound as the Jeep raced away.
Tulips bloomed in red glory in a circular bed in front of
the high school. Teresa Caldwell was chair of the moms'
committee that had planted the flowers, kept the weeds
pulled. She'd been presented a plaque at the recent
Mothers-Daughters Banquet: “To Teresa Caldwell, Who Always
Puts Her Family First.” Teresa bit her lip. Why had she
looked at the damn flowers? She didn't want to think,
didn't want...
“Mom! Stop. We're here.” Lily's voice sullen.
Teresa was accustomed to Lily's exasperated tone when
confronted with what she judged to be yet another example
of parental stupidity. Teresa had struggled with
irritation at being viewed as only marginally competent.
But oh, how she wished Lily would say, “Oh, Mom!” and flip
her ponytail in mock disgust. Instead Lily, avoiding her
mother's quick glance, yanked open the door of the Range
Rover and lurched onto the sidewalk, a slightly built girl
with frizzy brown hair and uncertain blue eyes, burdened
by a backpack big enough to carry provisions for a jaunt
to the Himalayas.
Teresa opened her mouth, closed it. Lily wouldn't listen.
She wouldn't listen about the weight of the backpack and
Teresa could not bear to ask Lily why she was cold and
withdrawn.
Without a word of farewell, Lily moved slowly up the
sidewalk, tilting to the left from the burden of the pack.
Her head was down, her gait plodding.
Teresa stared after her daughter and then, at the sound of
an impatient horn, pulled out from the curb. She drove
sedately around the curving drive, her lips stretched into
a determined smile, nodding, waving. She knew what other
mothers saw: a superbly groomed, Lesley Stahl–pretty
suburban mother ina bright blue Range Rover with momscar
plates. They couldn't see, would never see, must never
know about the fever that raged within, the fever that
might yet cost her everything. No one knew, of course. But
Lily had looked at her oddly in recent weeks. What if
someone had told Lily about the Range Rover parked on that
dirt road? What if Lily had overheard one of those late-
night calls? Oh, God, would Lily tell anyone? Would Lily
tell her father?
Teresa drove automatically, slowing as she reached Sand
Dollar Road. All right, she'd turn left. Go home. Clean
out the garage. Bake brownies, Ralph's favorite dessert.
He was getting in tonight on a flight from New York. He'd
had a hard week. When they talked last night, after Lily
was in bed, she'd heard the weariness, even a touch of
fear, in his voice. The corporate world was always
uncertain, and never more so than now. He loved brownies,
a nice way to welcome him home. The car eased to a stop.
Her hands clenched on the wheel. She heard the rumble of
an SUV behind her. She checked the mirror. Cherry Sue
Richards. She had to make up her mind. Now. This instant.
If she turned right, if she drove a mile and a half,
turned onto a rutted gray road that jolted the car,
streaked the gleaming blue paint with so much dust that
Ralph kidded her, asked whether she'd been plowing the
fields, if she drove as fast as she dared up that narrow
road to the cabin nestled among a grove of willows, Paul
would be waiting. She knew how he would look'thick, curly
black hair, dark eyes, sensuous lips. He'd probably not
shaved yet, he'd be bare-chested, his old, paper-thin
Levi's hung on slim hips. Paul. Damn him.
As the SUV stopped behind her, Teresa gunned the motor,
turned to the right, the fever raging within her.
Frank Saulter moved stiffly in the mornings. He welcomed
the late-March sun, a cheerful precursor to spring. Only a
few more days and it would be April. In summer the heat
from the Low Country sun rolled against his skin hot as
oil and just as soothing; yet he loved the crisp sunny
days of spring. He smiled. He might be stiff, but
arthritis never kept a man from fishing. He had his day
planned. The lagoon off Belted Kingfisher Road was full of
crappie, bass and bream, and he was just the man to land
himself a mess of good eating. He took his time as he
walked down the crushed-oyster-shell walk to the mailbox
by the side of the road. He didn't expect anything much.
Too late in the month for bills. Maybe a note from his
daughter, but Sue liked e-mail better than writing letters
and every week sent a cheerful message catching him up on
the kids: Megan off at school in Australia, if that didn't
beat the band; and Tom, who'd decided hanggliding off
mountains in Montana had a lot more pizzazz than college.
Frank shook his head as he pulled open the mailbox. Kids
today... He grabbed...