Ned crossed the lawn to the porch, where he and April had a brief conversation, both of them staring at me. From his raincoat pocket, he pulled a small spiral-bound notebook, jotting down what I imagined was the color, make, and model of my car, as well as my license plate number in case I ever showed up again. April’s next-door neighbor appeared on her porch, so I was now the object of her curiosity as well.
The deputy took his time on the return. So far, he hadn’t said a word about my vehicular sins. That’s because I hadn’t committed any. He didn’t even have grounds to cite me for a faulty brake light or an expired license tag. Even so, there was something embarrassing about the whole episode, which must have suited Ned Lowe to a T. Now that I thought about it, April had probably called him and he was the one who’d called the sheriff’s department.
The deputy leaned forward and returned my license. His name tag read M. FITZMORRIS. No hint of his first name. Surely he wasn’t Morris Fitzmorris, though I’ve heard of parents who do that sort of thing. He looked more like a Michael; big guy, dark-haired, good posture, his back ramrod straight. “You have business in the neighborhood, Ms. Millhone?”
“Not now,” I said.
Ned beckoned from the porch. “Officer? Could I have a word with you?”
Fitzmorris turned and moved up the walk in his direction while Ned approached from the porch. The two met at the midpoint and conferred. This consisted of Ned doing all the talking while the deputy nodded now and then. I had no choice but to wait. Throughout their exchange, Ned’s gaze was fixed on me, and I was conscious of his scrutiny. I didn’t look at him directly, but I was acutely aware of him in my peripheral vision. I knew he wanted me to make eye contact so he could establish his superior position. One glimpse was all it would have taken. In a sixth-grade staring contest, the point is to hold your opponent’s gaze without faltering. The first person who breaks eye contact loses. Here, the point was just the opposite. He willed me to look at him. I kept my eyes averted, suppressing the urge.
Deputy Fitzmorris returned to my car and reported Ned’s comments. “Mr. Lowe is concerned about a possible shakedown. His word, not mine.”
“A shakedown?”
“His daughter says you wanted to deliver gifts her mother ordered before she died. It was her impression you expected cash on delivery.”
“I never said anything of the sort. What gifts? I’m not delivering anything. You can search my trunk if you don’t want to take my word for it.” I was hoping it wouldn’t occur to him to ask why I’d called her in the first place.
He kept his tone neutral. “Mr. Lowe wants your assurance you won’t approach the house or initiate contact with Mrs. Staehlings.”
“What is he talking about? I haven’t stepped out of my car and I haven’t exchanged a word with either one of them. Could you make a note of that in your report?”
“I will do that,” he said. “I can see there was a miscommunication. I’m not sure how you two got crosswise with each other, but people sometimes jump to conclusions and the situation escalates. I think cooler heads will prevail. I’m sure Mr. Lowe and his daughter will be good with this.”
“I hope so,” I said. “May I go now?”
He backed up a step and gestured that I could pull away, saying, “I appreciate your patience.”
“And I appreciate your courtesy,” I replied.
I rolled up the car window, started the engine, and pulled into the street, my attention riveted on the road in front of me. It wasn’t until I turned the corner that I let out a deep breath and then shivered as the tension drained away. I could feel a cold damp patch under each arm and I knew the flop sweat would be scented with anxiety.
I reached the office, ready for some peace and quiet so I could compose myself. As I pulled into the drive, I saw Detective Nash sitting in his parked car. He spotted me, and by the time I emerged from my car, he was getting out of his.
I paused. “Didn’t I just talk to you?”
“Something’s come up.”
“I’m having a hard day. I don’t suppose it can wait.”
“Could, but I was in the neighborhood.”
I unlocked the office door and left it ajar, resigned to his following. No need to invite him in when he was intent on tagging after me. I dropped my shoulder bag on the floor behind my desk and settled in my swivel chair. He took a seat in the same guest chair he’d occupied before.
“Fire away,” I said.
“I had a conversation with Ari Xanakis.”
