FIVE

Blake slumped down the stairs at a quarter until two. He stopped on the last rung. Whiffs of lemon oil hit his nostrils. Every surface in the foyer gleamed in the afternoon sun as it filtered through the beveled glass panel in the front door. He tiptoed into the living room, freshened with vacuum cleaner tracks. A pitcher of iced tea sat on a tray on the coffee table along with a bowl of bite-sized crackers, another of mixed nuts, and a plate of butterscotch brownies—his wife’s recipe, which always caused a crowd to gather at church events. While he had been elbow-deep in his pity party, she’d been bustling. Now he felt lower than a horned toad lizard’s belly on a flat rock.

He found his wife in the kitchen washing out the brownie pan. He slipped his arms around her waist from behind and pecked the nape of her neck. His voice cracked with emotion. “I don’t deserve you.”

Melody whipped around and grabbed him by the shoulders. She gave him a sharp shake. “Get a grip, Blake. If you appear weak, they’ll eat you instead of my brownies.”

He set his shoulder blades. “You’re right. As always.”

She laughed. “Will you put that in writing?”

He swatted her comment away and drew her into a bear hug. “Thanks for being the best wife ever.”

She kissed his cheek as she pulled out of the embrace. She brushed off his shirt and ran her fingers over his hairline. “There. Now go get ’em. You are the most amazing chief detective this town ever had and you make me proud. Remind them of that. This is just a tiny blemish on your otherwise exemplary record.”

Another tear threatened to escape. Blake backed a few steps and coughed into his fist.

Melody filled a glass of water from the tap and handed it to him. “Here. Wet your whistle.”

He drank half of it down in one swallow. With a wink, he answered, “Got anything stronger?”

She bopped him on the scalp. “You are fully aware all we keep is cooking sherry. Besides, I don’t think alcohol on your breath will impress them.”

He chuckled. The Johnson family rarely indulged. A year ago, after the neighborhood barbecue, Ellie borrowed the Smythe’s cooler to fill with sports drinks after Jamie’s soccer practice. Inside, she found an old beer can. It had obviously been in there a while. She asked if she could use it to wash her hair, stating she’d read on social media flat beer brought out the luster. Blake looked it up to verify the claims before he agreed. Of course, that was after he tried a third of it on his own locks as he draped his head over the kitchen sink, which made her laugh until she cried.

Now, the memory flooded in on him. When had the job begun to outweigh time spent with his kids? Janie had been correct. He was overworked. Perhaps after his partner, Mitch Hornsby, returned from medical leave next week, things would change. One thing for sure, whether or not he survived this modern version of the Spanish Inquisition in his living room today, he’d make sure it happened.

Blake blinked to find Melody’s gaze on him. “Sorry. Just recalling the time Ellie used beer as shampoo. Not sure why it surfaced.”

Their eyes locked for a moment. Then the doorbell rang.

Blake’s heart plummeted into his stomach.

Melody smiled and touched his cheek. “You’ll do fine, dear.”

~*~

Janie planned to stroll through the side streets, noticing the house numbers. After an hour, the summer heat penetrated her backbone. By the time she passed the post office, she still had half a mile to go before she reached her air-conditioned condo on Sunny Ridge. She took a long swig of the bottled water and quickened her pace, cutting across the back parking lot and the grassy area leading to the alley between her block and Rosy Skies Trail. It occurred to her the country atmosphere of Sunset Acres might be perfect for would-be thieves. The condos’ back stoops faced the carports in the alleyways, offering no security. The garden homes had privacy fenced patios, but those were easy to break into.

The whole property was secured by four-foot high, barbed wired fencing on the other side of Westwood Creek, which looped around the golf course and meandered into the woods. What good did it do? The six-foot, wrought iron fence flanking the gated entry appeared more decorative to passersby, though she imagined any able-bodied person could scale it in no time.

Bottom line, they were all sitting ducks, preferring their grassy views so deer and bunnies could wander, and wild turkeys could gobble as they waddled to the pond on the fourth hole. “It’s a wonder we haven’t been robbed before,” she addressed a squirrel perched on it haunches chewing on an acorn dropped from a sprawling oak. “What with the neighborhoods closing in and the strip centers along the highway building up, we may as well erect a neon arrow pointing in our direction: ‘Come rob us.’”

The fluffy creature flicked its bushy tail and scurried up the trunk.

“Run and hide. Can’t blame you.” Janie dug out her keys. There appeared to be only one solution to their common dilemma. The new-fangled alarm system the ladies mentioned.

Janie clapped her hands together, which caused the squirrel to leap onto the roof and skitter away. “I’ve got it. We’ll do a door-to-door petition drive to beef up security and canvass our neighbors for clues about the burglaries at the same time.” She did a quick two-step. “Ah-ha. Janie, my girl, your gray cells are back in gear.”

She opened her back entrance and dumped some cat food into Mrs. Fluffy’s bowl. Watching the lovable menace crunch her kibbles, she imagined the fur ball stepping on the alarm pendant in the middle of the night as she settled on Janie’s chest. Every police car, ambulance, and fire truck in a twenty-mile radius would descend upon her condo, lights flashing and siren blaring—again. It happened last month when a peeping tom threatened her at knife point so she’d stop investigating Edwin’s murder. Her neighbors would only take so much before they petitioned for her to be evicted.

“Oh, well. Can’t be helped. We still need them.” She headed to her computer to design the forms. Fifteen minutes later, with twelve pages printed—one for each Bunco Biddy—in a folder under her arm, she knocked on Ethel’s front door.