sure was the postman. I wondered if everyone in town who wore a uniform had shown up for the occasion.
I pushed the note deeper into my pocket. I'd washed my hands twice, but my fingertips were still black with the police department's ink. Stan, meanwhile, was mumbling on the telephone. The receptionist set down her pencil and slid a mirror and a tube of mascara out of her desk drawer. She tilted the mirror, pretending to fix her eyes, while staring at the action in the corner. Finally, Stan hung up the phone, had a quick word with the crossing guard, nodded at the mailman, hitched his pants up under his belly, and sauntered over to my desk.
"Do you know Evan McKenna?"
My heart froze. Oh God. They knew. Somehow they knew I'd taken the note with Evan's number on it. In about five seconds Stan's friendly smile would vanish, and he'd pull out the handcuffs. I'd be arrested. Thrown in jail. I'd never see my kids again. My husband would divorce me and eventually remarry, someone tasteful and appropriate, a slender blonde with a decent backhand who'd fit right in to this town he'd chosen, and my brother-in-law would spend the rest of his life saying, "Told you so."
I rubbed my hands along my thighs. "Why do you ask?"
"His name came up on her caller ID."
I felt myself relax incrementally. "I knew someone with that name in New York. We were..." I twisted my inky fingers. "We haven't been in touch in years."
Stan nodded, dropped his bulk into a chair, and wrote something down.
"So he's not a suspect?" I blurted, before an even worse thought occurred. "He's not...he isn't..." Interesting. All the years I'd been wishing grievous bodily harm upon Evan, all the fantasies I'd had about him expiring in a manner both excruciatingly painful and humiliating enough to ensure that his passing would appear in "News of the Weird," and now that he might actually be in danger, I couldn't stop shaking.
Stan ignored both of my questions. "What does Mr. McKenna do?"
"Models," I said.
Stan didn't crack a smile. "His occupation?"
"He was an investigator, when I knew him. He did freelance work for insurance companies, workmen's comp claims, and..." My voice trailed off. "Divorce cases. Surveillance. Cheating husbands...oh!" So maybe I was a little slow. You'd be too, if you hadn't gotten a full night's sleep in four years. I jumped to my feet so quickly that one of the barrettes flew out of my hair. "Maybe Kitty hired him because her husband was cheating on her! And her husband found out and killed her!"
Stan stared at me. So did the postman, and the young patrol officer I recognized from the elementary school crosswalk. In my fantasy, the handcuffs and the smug brother-in-law were gone, and Stan was clapping me heartily on the back, saying, Brilliant, Kate, you solved the case! Instead, he merely flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. "Do you know Philip Cavanaugh?"
I shook my head and picked my barrette up off the floor.
Stan scribbled something. "Let's back up. When Kitty called she said she wanted to talk to you about something. Do you know what?"
I shook my head again. "I have no idea. I'm sorry. I wish I could be more helpful, but really, I didn't know her well at all."
"You don't know what she wanted to discuss."
"No. Have you talked to her husband yet?"
Stan licked his thumb and flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. "Why do you ask?"
"Isn't it always the husband?"
He rubbed his cheek. "Always?"
"Well, in my experience as a journalist, it's always the husband."
Stan was now staring at me with his mild brown eyes like a second head had sprouted out of my neck.
"On Lifetime Television for Women too. Husband. Always. Unless it's the boyfriend."
He started writing again. "Did Kitty have a boyfriend?"
"I have no idea." I shrugged. "If she did, she must've had amazing time management skills. You know, with two kids..."
The front door swung open, and a police officer walked in, holding tightly to the elbow of a tall,
I pushed the note deeper into my pocket. I'd washed my hands twice, but my fingertips were still black with the police department's ink. Stan, meanwhile, was mumbling on the telephone. The receptionist set down her pencil and slid a mirror and a tube of mascara out of her desk drawer. She tilted the mirror, pretending to fix her eyes, while staring at the action in the corner. Finally, Stan hung up the phone, had a quick word with the crossing guard, nodded at the mailman, hitched his pants up under his belly, and sauntered over to my desk.
"Do you know Evan McKenna?"
My heart froze. Oh God. They knew. Somehow they knew I'd taken the note with Evan's number on it. In about five seconds Stan's friendly smile would vanish, and he'd pull out the handcuffs. I'd be arrested. Thrown in jail. I'd never see my kids again. My husband would divorce me and eventually remarry, someone tasteful and appropriate, a slender blonde with a decent backhand who'd fit right in to this town he'd chosen, and my brother-in-law would spend the rest of his life saying, "Told you so."
I rubbed my hands along my thighs. "Why do you ask?"
"His name came up on her caller ID."
I felt myself relax incrementally. "I knew someone with that name in New York. We were..." I twisted my inky fingers. "We haven't been in touch in years."
Stan nodded, dropped his bulk into a chair, and wrote something down.
"So he's not a suspect?" I blurted, before an even worse thought occurred. "He's not...he isn't..." Interesting. All the years I'd been wishing grievous bodily harm upon Evan, all the fantasies I'd had about him expiring in a manner both excruciatingly painful and humiliating enough to ensure that his passing would appear in "News of the Weird," and now that he might actually be in danger, I couldn't stop shaking.
Stan ignored both of my questions. "What does Mr. McKenna do?"
"Models," I said.
Stan didn't crack a smile. "His occupation?"
"He was an investigator, when I knew him. He did freelance work for insurance companies, workmen's comp claims, and..." My voice trailed off. "Divorce cases. Surveillance. Cheating husbands...oh!" So maybe I was a little slow. You'd be too, if you hadn't gotten a full night's sleep in four years. I jumped to my feet so quickly that one of the barrettes flew out of my hair. "Maybe Kitty hired him because her husband was cheating on her! And her husband found out and killed her!"
Stan stared at me. So did the postman, and the young patrol officer I recognized from the elementary school crosswalk. In my fantasy, the handcuffs and the smug brother-in-law were gone, and Stan was clapping me heartily on the back, saying, Brilliant, Kate, you solved the case! Instead, he merely flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. "Do you know Philip Cavanaugh?"
I shook my head and picked my barrette up off the floor.
Stan scribbled something. "Let's back up. When Kitty called she said she wanted to talk to you about something. Do you know what?"
I shook my head again. "I have no idea. I'm sorry. I wish I could be more helpful, but really, I didn't know her well at all."
"You don't know what she wanted to discuss."
"No. Have you talked to her husband yet?"
Stan licked his thumb and flipped to a fresh page in his notebook. "Why do you ask?"
"Isn't it always the husband?"
He rubbed his cheek. "Always?"
"Well, in my experience as a journalist, it's always the husband."
Stan was now staring at me with his mild brown eyes like a second head had sprouted out of my neck.
"On Lifetime Television for Women too. Husband. Always. Unless it's the boyfriend."
He started writing again. "Did Kitty have a boyfriend?"
"I have no idea." I shrugged. "If she did, she must've had amazing time management skills. You know, with two kids..."
The front door swung open, and a police officer walked in, holding tightly to the elbow of a tall,
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