Motherly Love
by Brian Lawrence

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The phone startled Tom Petrosky awake.  He rolled onto his back and listened to the beating of the rain on the roof.  It hadn’t been raining when he’d crawled into bed around one.

The phone rang again.  His gut tightened.  No phone call at -- he glanced at the digital clock -- three-fourteen in the morning could be good.  One more ring.  Marble Hill’s police chief sat up, rubbed his eyes, heard a groan from his mother in the adjacent room, then picked up the receiver.

“Oh, thank God you’re there.  Oh, God, Tommy.  Oh, God.  She’s dead.  My God, she’s dead.”

“Calm down.” He failed to recognize the hysterical voice.  “Who is this?  Who’s dead?”

“It’s...it’s Cheryl Rinehart.  My baby daughter.  My darling baby daughter.  She’s dead.”

“I’ll be right there, Mrs. Rinehart.”  He hung up.  Oh, God was exactly right.  A death at three-something in the morning, and a call from a woman he’d put out of his mind for many years.  He lowered his head into his hands.

The hinges on his bedroom door squeaked, then he heard a muffled scraping noise as his mother wheeled her chair across the hardwood floor until her knees touched his.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Cheryl McCaffery.”

“You mean Rinehart?”

Tom lifted his head from his hands.  “Right.  Mrs. Rinehart.  Something’s happened to her daughter.”

His mother drew a sharp intake of breath.  A blue fuzzy robe was draped over her shoulders and hung behind the wheelchair.  Her veined, pale feet peaked from under a cotton nightgown.  Gray hair stuck out at all angles.

“That darling little Brittany?”

“That’s the only daughter they have.”

His mother scrutinized him, but said nothing about the bitterness in his tone.

He pulled on a pair of jeans, slipped into his cowboy boots, and grabbed a Depaul University sweatshirt from the closet on his way out of his room.

“Don’t wait breakfast for me.  I’ll grab something at Shirley’s Diner.”

His mother didn’t answer.

Tom dashed from the front porch of the old farm house toward his Jeep Cherokee parked outside the larger of the two garages, the one that used to hold the tractors.  They were sold off after his dad died two years ago.  The two-hundred acres his parents had farmed was now leased to three neighboring farmers.  Only a few pigs remained.  And those, Tom had convinced his mother to start selling or butchering.

By the time he reached the Jeep, he was soaked.  Inside, he rubbed his hand over his bald crown, removing most of the moisture, then retrieved the cell phone from the glove compartment.

Before dialing the police station, an image of Cheryl McCaffery -- check that, Rinehart -- forced itself into his mind.  Sophomore prom at Marble Hill High.  She’d been his date, their last one after half a school year’s worth.  She’d been radiant in her light pink dress, black hair parted slightly on the side, shoulder-length, curled out on the ends, Mary Tyler Moore style.  Elton John’s “Crocodile Rock” played as they danced.

He shook himself and dialed, before the rest of that god-awful night pulled him down a nightmare lane he’d rather not travel.

Officer Allen Compton answered.

“Allen, what the hell are you doing there?”

“Morning, Chief.  I switched with Midnight Joe.  He had something going this morning, wondered if I’d take his shift and he--”

“Fine.  Meet me at the Rinehart’s.”

“What’s up, Chief?”

“Little girl may be dead.”

“Damn.”

“Exactly.  And, Allen?”

“Yeah, Chief?”

“Stay outside until I get there.”

Tom clicked the phone off and threw it on the passenger seat.

The streets of Marble Hill, Iowa were deserted at three-thirty in the morning.  Not even the two town drunks braved the torrential downpour.  He flew down county road G13, or Main Street as it was known in town, past the two gas stations, two banks, two professional buildings, and the two diners, each on opposite sides of the street.  Downtown had been built so no one ever had to make a left turn.

At the east end of town, he turned onto Basalt Drive, the main entrance into the oldest of Marble Hill’s neighborhoods, where once the mining barons of past had built their palatial estates.  Now, only two of the old houses remained, both unoccupied, one a museum maintained by the Iowa Historical Society, the other belonged to a descendent of one of the old mining barons who lived in Omaha.  In the sixties and seventies new homes had replaced most of the turn of the century homes.

At the end of Basalt Drive, Tom turned into Granite Court, where the Rineharts had built their substantial Tudor style house 22 years ago, right after marrying, compliments of daddy Rinehart, a small wedding gift.

He stopped in front of the Rinehart’s mailbox.  The town’s only police cruiser was parked in the driveway.  Tom opened his glove compartment and pulled four latex gloves from a dispenser box.  He stepped from the Jeep and ran to the gabled porch of the brick house.  Allen climbed out of the cruiser, pulled the hood of his army-green rain slicker over his head, and trotted toward the porch.

While Tom waited for his officer, he thought of the many times as a Chicago homicide detective, he’d dashed through the rain to a front porch, where inside someone lay dead.  Seldom had the victim been a child, though.  They were usually found in trash bins, in fields, or washed up on the shores of Lake Michigan.  Usually, the victim, when he had made a house call, was the wife.  The last murder in Marble Hill, eight months ago, had been the wife.

Murder.  Why was he thinking murder?  Brittany may have had an accident.  But his cop’s cynicism refused to believe that one.

“Morning, Chief.  Do you know the situation?”

“Not sure, Allen.  Shine your flashlight on the door knob.”

Before Allen could comply, an ambulance, blue and red lights flashing, arrived.  It parked in the driveway behind the cruiser.

Tom asked, “You called them?”

Allen nodded.

“Good job.”  He patted Allen on the shoulder, and the tall blond kid beamed.  He was coming around.  He’d be a decent cop yet.

“Here, put these on.”  Tom handed Allen a pair of latex gloves.  He started to tell Allen not to touch anything anyway, but decided to give the kid a chance.

Two paramedics joined them on the porch, and then an old two-toned station wagon pulled to the curb behind Tom’s Cherokee.  Out of it lumbered Dr. Bruce Brunts.  As the rotund county coroner of more years than Tom had been alive trotted to the stairs, the rain plastered his thinning white hair to his round head.

Tom asked, “Did you call Brunts as well?”

Allen again nodded.

“I’ll be damned.”  Allen’s smile widened.  “Shine the light on the door.”

Allen did and Tom kneeled to inspect the brass plate with the brass handle.  He looked closely at the round deadbolt lock.  Nothing but the normal key marks.

“Awful damned wet out here.”  Brunts joined the party.  “Morning, Allen.  Tommy.”

Tom nodded to Brunts and wondered if all of Marble Hill would ever stop calling him “Tommy”.

The front door opened.  Tom stood.

“He came in the back.  Oh God, Tommy.”  Cheryl Rinehart threw her arms around him.  “I’m so glad you came,” she whispered, her head on his chest.

He felt the warmth of her cheek through his cold, wet sweatshirt and smelled the faint scent of roses, still her favorite perfume.  Right then could have been twenty-six years earlier and they could have been swaying gently under colored lights while The Eagles crooned, “Desperado”.

Allen cleared his throat.  “Should we let the EMT’s in?”

Reluctantly, Tom pried Cheryl away.  “Where’s Brittany?”

New tears formed in Cheryl’s blue eyes.  He found he could easily ignore the deep bags under those lustrous eyes, the wan and weathered skin, the creases in her forehead, the stripes of gray in her tousled hair, and still see the creamy complexion, the tiny, perfectly straight nose, the high rosy cheeks of the sixteen year old girl he’d fallen so heavily for so long ago.

“She’s...she’s in her room.”  Cheryl turned away, and the illusion burst like a soap bubble.  Now, standing in front of him, was an aggrieved mother of two children -- one probably dead -- a woman his age, who’d married a man two years older, a man Tom detested.

He stepped inside and out of the way of the EMT’s.  Brunts followed on their heels, with Allen a few steps behind.

“Show me the back,” Tom said to Cheryl.

She nodded, then walked away.  Tom followed her through the tastefully decorated living room done in browns and creams, the furniture a mix of modern traditional and antique.  They reached the half-circular staircase leading to the balconied second floor.  He glanced up.  Squatting behind the slats of the balcony rail was Stuart Rinehart, a stout boy with straight brown hair and a round face.

“Hello, Stuart,” Tom said.  He attempted a smile for the eight-year-old’s sake.

Stuart stood and ran down the hall without a word.  Tom heard a door slam.

At the foot of the staircase were two entrances, the back one led to what appeared to be a parlor, the front one to the kitchen.  Cheryl went through the latter, her silk night gown swishing on the ceramic tile, like flowers waving in the breeze.  A sweet and sour odor drifted down from upstairs.  It took him only a moment to realize it was the smell of vomit.  He wondered whose.

Cheryl plodded through the kitchen, staying close to one side, past the stainless steel refrigerator and matching oven, and past the large pantry with a folding door.  She stopped and tilted her head toward the floor.

Tom looked down, then knelt and examined the muddy footprints leading from the back door.

He looked over his shoulder at her.  “Do you know who it was?”

She shook her head and looked away from him.

He narrowed his eyes and kept his gaze on her for nearly a minute.  She did not look at him.  He turned away and further studied the footprints.  They led all the way through the kitchen.  Jesus, he’d missed them coming in because he’d been staring at her.  They faded as they went, disappearing completely at the foot of the staircase.

The squared pattern indicated boots.  He figured about size eleven.  The mud indicated the perp had entered after one, because up until it rained, they’d had a two week dry spell.

“Excuse me, Chief?” Allen asked from behind.

Tom stood and faced his officer.  “Yeah.”

“Dr. Brunts says,” Allen glanced at Cheryl, then motioned for Tom to come closer.

Tom sighed and joined Allen at the foot of the stairs.  Cheryl remained in the kitchen.

Quietly, Allen said, “Dr. Brunts says the little girl was strangled to death.”

“Damn.”  Tom looked back into the kitchen.  Cheryl was watching them, her eyes glistening.  “Go get my cell phone.  It’s on the front seat.”

“Will do, Chief.”

One of the EMT’s leaned over the balcony rail and called, “What should we do with the body?”  Again, Tom glanced at Cheryl.  She covered her face with her hands.  He glared back at the EMT, but the young man didn’t realize what he’d done.

“Leave her.  I want the state forensics unit to look at her first.”

“Will do.  We’ll wait in the truck.”

Tom returned to the kitchen.  He softly grasped Cheryl’s shoulders.  She dropped her hands from her face and looked at him.  They embraced.  His chest tightened as he felt her sobbing.

“I’m so sorry about Brittany.”  He stroked her hair.  “So sorry.”

After a short time, she pulled away, leaned against the counter, and wiped the tears from her eyes with the backs of her hands.

“Did you see or hear anything?” he asked.

He watched the muscles of her delicate throat as she swallowed.

“I heard...I heard a door slam around...”  She paused for a good ten seconds.  “Around two-thirty.”

“And?”

“I...I came downstairs to see if Jeremy was home.  He’s not expected until tomorrow, but he could have finished early, you know, and decided to drive back tonight.”

Jeremy Rinehart.  How could he not be here when his wife needed him most?  Tom hated the man even more.

Allen entered the kitchen, but stopped just inside the door.  He waved the phone at Tom, who just nodded.

“Go on,” he said to Cheryl.

“There was nobody here.  I saw the footprints and then, I don’t know, motherly instinct I guess, but I knew something was terribly wrong.  I...I ran upstairs and checked first on Stuart.  He, too, was awake, had heard something.  Then I ran into Brittany’s room.”

She started crying again.

He stepped toward her.  She hugged him.

“Oh, Tommy, she was so, so blue, lying there half naked.  Oh, God, Tommy, what am I going to tell Jeremy?”

Feeling utterly helpless, blinking back moisture in his own eyes, he let her cry, leaning against his chest, until Brunts appeared in the kitchen behind Allen.  Tom eased Cheryl into one of the dining chairs, then went and took his phone from Allen.  He moved into the living room, away from everyone else.

A wave of guilt washed over him.  The feelings he’d had, the thoughts about Cheryl McCaffery, and now he was calling his girlfriend.  He took a deep breath, then dialed.  It rang eight times, but was finally answered by Patricia Johnson, state forensics officer.

“Hey, it’s me,” he said.

“Yes, it is.  And it’s,” Patricia paused, then said, “three-fifty-two in the morning.  Tom, why are you calling me?”

“I wish I could say it’s because I missed you so much I couldn’t make it through the night.”

“Oh?  And why can’t you say that?”

He felt the heat on his cheeks and neck.

“Well, I could, but that’s not the only reason I called.  There’s been a murder.  Of a little girl.  I need you and Lowenstein out at the Rinehart residence, on Granite Court.”

“Jesus.  What happened?”

“I’m hoping you’ll tell me.  How long?”

“Thirty minutes.  Granite Court?  That off of Basalt?  Those big houses?”

“Yup.  See you in half an hour.”

Tom clicked the phone off and sighed.  The guilt remained.  He hoped to God, Patricia had not sensed it in his voice.

He returned to the kitchen.  A quick examination of the back door indicated there had been no forced entry.

*****

Brittany’s room was a little girl’s dream.  Canopied bed, dolls from around the world on three shelves, even one that looked remarkably like Brittany herself.  Tom had heard of those, “My Twin” or something like that.  She had a large collection of Barbies, and tons of accessories, a house, a Corvette -- he wished he had a Corvette --  a beach scene, all neatly arranged in one corner.  On a white, four-drawer dresser were several rows of perfume bottles, all of them nearly full, and a basketball trophy.

Where the dream ended and the nightmare began was on the bed.  Ten year old Brittany lay on her back, all the covers drawn to the foot of the bed.  Her pallid, thin body was exposed.  Her flannel nightgown had been pulled up to her shoulders, her underpants flung to the floor.  Her legs were spread, her arms were above her head.  He stepped close to the bed, fighting his revulsion and his fury.  She wore a collar of deep red and bluish black around her throat.  Her eyes bulged.  He resisted the urge to shut the lids.  He had to leave her as she was until Patricia finished with her.

He wandered the room for another twenty minutes, every once in a while his eyes irresistibly drawn to the small, violated child.  Each time he looked, he ground his teeth, balled his hands into fists, and fought to control his anger.  He found nothing more in the room with his cursory search.

Voices downstairs attracted his attention.  He turned away from Brittany intending to leave the bedroom, but stopped.

“Well, hello again, Stuart.”  Tom moved in front of the door to block the boy’s view of his sister, then walked toward the boy.  “Can we go in your room and talk?”

Stuart’s expression was bland.  Tom approached.  When he was within reaching distance, the boy bolted, ran down the hall, and again, Tom heard a door slam.  He started toward the boy’s room, but stopped when he heard Patricia downstairs asking where he was.

At the foot of the stairs he met Patricia and Eric Lowenstein, a well-built man about Tom’s height, six feet, with coal-black hair and a soft face.

Tom stopped himself from kissing Patricia’s cheek.  While it was no secret the two had been dating for some time, still, he felt the act would have been unprofessional and probably embarrassing for Patricia.

Or was that the reason?

“Patricia.”  He nodded to her.  She said nothing, but smiled.  He extended his hand to Lowenstein.  “Eric, it’s been a while.  How are you?”

“Fine, sir.  And you?”

Tom shrugged.  A foreboding sense of deja-vu descended over him as he said, “Upstairs.  Do your thing and let me know what you find.”  Eight months ago a woman had been murdered in her home, in her bedroom.  In that case, the husband had been the killer.  Was the father the killer in this case?  He almost hoped so.  Jesus, where had that come from?  What a terrible thought.

Patricia’s round face softened as she passed Tom.  She brushed his arm with her fingers, giving a little squeeze.  He smiled, and the forensics’ dynamic duo ascended the staircase.

Tom walked into the parlor and poked around.  A large, glass and cherrywood trophy case proudly displayed six shelves of basketball trophies, pictures, and medals, many with the tarnish of years.  Jeremy Rinehart, basketball star.  Tom grimaced.

He squatted to examine the shelf second from the bottom.  On it were two trophies, a ribbon, and three team pictures.  In each photo he was able to pick out Brittany.  He stood and swept his gaze once more over the trophy case.  No where in it did he find anything to do with Stuart.

Scratching his stubbled chin, he walked to the kitchen where Cheryl still sat at the table, her elbows resting on the polished oak surface, her head in her hands.  Tom pulled one of the matching chairs close to her and sat.  She lifted her head and looked at him, the circles deep under her eyes, the whites a road map of red.

“Where is--”  The name stuck in Tom’s throat.  He had the crazy notion that if he didn’t speak Jeremy’s name, then he wouldn’t exist and the past would have happened differently.  But was that really what he wanted?  He thought about Patricia, her Dutch-boy haircut, her muscular thighs, her full lips, her soft brown eyes, the woman he had loved the past eight months.

He looked at Cheryl.  Was he still in love with her?  Or was he pissed off about losing to Jeremy?

Just losing to the captain of the basketball team he could have accepted.  But losing on prom night?

He shook his bad thoughts away, he had to concentrate on the job.  A little girl had been murdered.

“Cheryl, where’s Jeremy?”

“He’s...he’s in Des Moines.”

“When did he leave?”

“This morning.  I mean yesterday morning.”

“When’s he expected back?”

“Later this morning.”

“Did he call you last night?”

“No.  He never calls me when he’s gone.”

Tom let the silence linger for a good thirty seconds, studying Cheryl’s hands, now splayed flat on the table.  The diamonds in her wedding band glittered mockingly.

“Are you and Jeremy having troubles?”

Cheryl shrugged.

“How does he treat the children?”

Again, Cheryl shrugged.  “He treated Brittany very well.”

Tom noticed the bitterness on the word “very”.  Terrible thoughts assaulted his mind.  The image of Brittany on her bed, nightgown hiked up, panties gone, a tall lean man on top of her, strangling her.  The possibility repulsed him, yet nagged at him.  He glanced back at the footprints.

“Does Jeremy...”  Jesus, could he ask her what he needed to?

Cheryl raised her head and looked at him, her brows scrunched in concentration.

“God, I’m sorry about this, Cheryl, but I have to ask.  Does Jeremy have any odd sexual tendencies?”

Cheryl’s eyes widened, but then narrowed again, her look of concentration returning.  She looked away.

In a barely audible whisper, she said, “I’m not enough for him.”

Tom heard footsteps behind him.

“You mean an affair?”

Cheryl nodded.  A single tear dropped onto the green cloth place mat forming a tiny dark stain.

“And when...and when we do, you know, when he’s actually here, he’s, well he can get pretty rough.”

The rage within him swelled to a dangerous level.  Had Jeremy been there at that moment, Tom would have torn him apart.  For several seconds he battled his anger, finally shoving it aside.  Dammit, he had a job to do.  Softly, he asked, “Are you saying Jeremy abused you?”

Cheryl shrugged, then started crying softly.

Tom sighed.  “What about the children?  Did he ever get rough with them?”

Cheryl’s sobs intensified.

“Jesus, I’m so sorry.”  He pushed his rage aside and put his arm around her.  She flung her arms around him and sobbed into his chest.

About half a minute later, he gently pried her arms away from him and stood.  When he turned, he came face to face with Patricia, her lips pursed, her eyes intense.

“What did you find?”  He couldn’t look her in the eyes.

Patricia said nothing.  He felt like a suspect under a hot light.  But what was he guilty of?

Finally, to Tom’s relief, Patricia spoke, but in an emotionless whisper.  “We collected some fibers from the little girl’s neck.  We should be able to identify what was used to kill her.  Whatever it was, it was red.”

He nodded.

“On first glance, it appears she was sodomized.  But it doesn’t look like she resisted.  No other bruising apparent, no tears in her clothing.”

“She knew the attacker?”

“Maybe.”

Again, Tom nodded.

“Nothing else of note in the room.  We’ll know more after the autopsy.  We released the body.  Brunts said he’d get to her first thing in the morning.”

Tom nodded one more time, wondering why Patricia’s voice was so cold.

Patricia continued.  “We collected prints.  Eric’s doing the doors now.”  She pointed, and he realized that while he’d been consoling Cheryl, the forensic specialist had walked right past him, and he’d not known it.

“I found it odd the way the footprints ended at the stairs,” she continued.  “Did you notice that?”

He nodded.  He had also wondered about that.  Almost as if the perp had removed his shoes before going upstairs.

Patricia’s expression remained blank as she pushed past him.  He turned and noticed the rapt attention Cheryl was giving them.  Her tears had stopped.  She looked away when he caught her gaze.

“Mrs. Rinehart,” Patricia began, “I’m terribly sorry for your loss.  I’m also sorry for eavesdropping, but I heard you mention your husband was having an affair.  Do you know who the woman is?”

Cheryl lowered her head and nodded.  New tears dropped onto the place mat.

*****

The slam of a car door startled Tom awake.  He shielded his eyes from the glare of the morning sun.  The dashboard clock read 9:30.  Jesus, he’d been asleep for three hours.

Jeremy Rinehart was walking toward his house.  He stopped when Tom climbed out of the Cherokee.

“Tommy, what brings you here?”

Tom cringed and remained mute.  The two men met in the middle of the lawn, Jeremy’s hand out in greeting, Tom’s hand at his side.

The front door flew open and Cheryl ran onto the porch, still wearing her nightgown.

“It about time you got home, you bastard.  Your daughter’s dead.”

Jeremy looked at Cheryl then at Tom, then at Cheryl again.

“What?”

“Your darling little daughter is dead.”  Cheryl whirled, stomped into the house, and slammed the door.

Jeremy collapsed to his knees in the wet grass.  He covered his face, shook his head, and moaned, “No, no, no.”

Tom stared at the bottom of Jeremy’s wingtips.  The shoes looked about size eleven.

“Let’s go to the station.”

“What?”  Jeremy looked over his shoulder.  His eyes were moist, confused.  “What do you mean?  Why?  I need to see my wife.  I--”

“We have to talk.  And I’d prefer to do it in my office, out of earshot of Cheryl and Stuart.”

“But I don’t understand.  I--”

“Come on.”  Tom grabbed Jeremy under the arm.  He hoisted the grieving man to his feet, then dragged him to the Cherokee.

*****

Tom parked in his reserved spot in front of the Marble Hill Police Station and got out.  The town bustled.  He counted four people walking down the sidewalk, and that was on his side of the street.

Jeremy slumped in his seat, glazed eyes staring straight ahead.  On the way to the station, Tom had explained what had happened to Brittany.  Now, Tom opened the door and coaxed Jeremy out, then led him into the station.

Marla O’Connor, the new dispatcher, a stark red-head covered in a spilled jigsaw puzzle of freckles dropped her romance novel and greeted them.

“Good morning, Chief Petrosky, Mr. Rinehart.”  She flashed her infectious smile, but both men were immune that morning.

“Morning, Marla.  Did Dr. Brunts drop off an autopsy report?”

“No, sir.  But Officer Johnson did.”

“May I have it?”

“No, sir.”

He stared at her for a moment, and when she did not elaborate, he shrugged and led Jeremy back to his office, sat him in one of the vinyl chairs fronting his desk, then returned to the dispatcher.

“Marla, where’s the autopsy report?”

“Well.”  She laid her hands flat on the desk, one on top of the other.  “Ms. Johnson came in around 8:30.  She wanted to drop it off -- God, that’s just awful about poor Brittany -- anyway, you weren’t here, but Allen.”  She blushed.  “I mean Officer Compton.  Well, anyway, Officer Compton said he was eventually going to see you, so Ms. Johnson gave him the report.”

“And where’s Allen?”

“Oh, he went to Oskaloosa.”

“Why?”

“To talk to that,” she glanced around the desk at Tom’s office and pointed, then lowered her voice, “to talk to his lover.”

“And the autopsy report?”

“Officer Compton still has it.”

“Thanks, Marla.”

“Sure thing, Chief.  Anything else?”

Tom shook his head and returned to his office.  He quietly closed the door.

“Jeremy, where you were yesterday?”

In a soft, monotone voice, Cheryl’s husband answered, “In Des Moines, at a client’s.”

“Which client?”

He told Tom.

“And after the client?”

“The Holiday Inn.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t remember.”

Tom crouched in front of Jeremy and gripped the metal chair arms.  “I can easily check everything you tell me.  Where did you spend the night?”

Jeremy made brief eye contact, then lowered his head.  A single tear fell, leaving a stain in Jeremy’s dress pants, a tiny accompaniment to the large wet spots on his knees.

“I stayed...there’s this woman.  Cheryl and I, well, we’re not...Oh, Christ, I stayed with a woman in Oskaloosa.”

“Stephanie Forsyth?”

Jeremy raised his head.  “How did you know?”

“Cheryl told me.”

Jeremy’s eyes widened, his mouth twisted in a bitter smile.  “I guess I should have known.  Can’t keep secrets in a small town, can you?”

“Nope.  Got any other secrets you want to share?”

Jeremy stared blankly through Tom.

His thighs started to ache, so Tom straightened, then sat in his chair behind the desk.  For fifteen minutes, he questioned his rival from years ago.  He forced Jeremy to go over in excruciating detail his activities of the night before.

“And you didn’t leave Ms. Forsyth’s house until eight this morning?”  Through the window on his door, Tom watched Allen enter the station carrying two large envelopes.

“That’s right.  Eight.  I was there from seven last night until eight this morning.  Ask her, she’ll tell you.”

“I plan on it.”

Allen motioned for Tom.

“Don’t go anywhere.”  Tom left the office and followed Allen into the small conference room.

He asked, “Is that the autopsy report?”

Allen nodded and handed one of the envelopes to Tom.

“And that?”

Allen grinned and opened the envelope.  Tom looked in.  A red scarf was stuffed inside.

“If that’s what I think it is, where the hell did you get it?” Tom asked.

“Out of Mr. Rinehart’s car.”

“Oh, Christ.”  All the progress the kid had shown was suddenly shattered.  Trying to keep his tone level, Tom said, “Allen, you need a search warrant.  It won’t be admissible in court.”  He thought about telling his young officer to put it back, but Allen kept grinning at him.

“What?” Tom asked.

“I got Mrs. Rinehart’s permission.”

Tom stared at the blond officer.  He had to tilt his neck a little, as Allen was a couple inches taller.

Allen extracted a folded piece of paper from his uniform shirt pocket.  He shook it open.  “I knew Mrs. Rinehart couldn’t be forced to testify against her husband, so I had her sign this piece of paper giving me permission to search the house and car.”  Allen waved his hand in an expansive gesture.  “I threw in the house to make it look like I hadn’t just seen the scarf in the car as I was walking past it.  But I had.”

When Tom still didn’t say anything, Allen said, “I went out there to find you.  As I was walking to the house, I glanced in Mr. Rinehart’s car and saw the scarf.  Well, I remembered overhearing Ms. Johnson and that Lowenstein fellow say that poor little Brittany...” he stumbled over his tongue for a few seconds, then recovered and continued, “the poor little girl had been strangled with something red.”  He stopped talking and stared at his feet.

Tom laid his hand on Allen’s shoulder.  “Officer Compton, you’ve done a damn fine job this morning.”

Allen beamed brighter than a spotlight and handed Tom the envelope.

Before Tom left the conference room, he asked, “What did Stephanie Forsyth have to say?”

“She says Mr. Rinehart was at her place last night from seven until one in the morning.  Then he left.”

“Are you sure?” Tom asked, barely able to keep from shaking, the adrenaline rush was so intense.  “She says Jeremy left her place at one?”

“Yes, sir.  That’s what she said.”

Tom flung the door open and rushed back to his office.  He tossed the envelopes onto his desk and stared at the top of Jeremy’s head.  The man had a bald spot similar to his own.  Good.  He’d probably lose the rest in prison.

Jeremy tilted back and looked at Tom.

Through clenched teeth, Tom said, “I’ll give you one more chance to change your story.”  It took all his willpower not to beat Jeremy Rinehart to a pulp.

“But I told you the truth.”  Jeremy must have seen something in Tom’s look, for he scooted the chair back and stammered, “I...I’m telling the truth.  I...I was there all night.”

“Your girlfriend says you left her place at one.  Where did you go?”

“Nowhere.  I mean I didn’t leave at one.  Why the hell would she say that?”

A convincing performance, but then Jeremy had been the president of their high school drama club.

“Do you own a pair of hiking boots?”

Jeremy stared at Tom as if the police chief had lost his mind.  “What?”

“Do you own a pair of hiking boots?”

“Yes, why?”

“Let’s go.”  Tom hoisted Jeremy out of the chair.

Jeremy jerked his arm free of Tom’s grip and asked, “Where are we going?”

“Your house.”  Tom shoved Jeremy toward the office door.

“All right, I’m going.”

Jeremy led and Tom followed through the station.  He shouted at Allen to follow him.

They made it to the Rinehart’s in half the usual time, Allen right on their tail.  Tom parked in the driveway and followed Jeremy to the front door, resisting the urge to shove him forward.

Once inside, Tom steered them toward the stairs.

Cheryl ran in from the kitchen.  “Tommy, Jeremy, what’s going on?”

Tom ignored Cheryl and said to Jeremy, “Upstairs.”

Jeremy, Tom, then Allen marched up the stairs.  As they passed Stuart’s room, the boy opened his door.

“Daddy?”  He ran to his father and hugged his leg.

“Not now, Stuart.”  Without looking at his son, Jeremy pried the boy loose and gently shoved him away.  Stuart backed against the hallway wall as the men entered the master bedroom.

The odor of vomit penetrated the smell of carpet cleaner, but otherwise the room was immaculate.  An antique canopy bed dominated center stage.  A mahogany dressing table was against one wall, and a matching dresser against the other.  In the full-length mirror hanging on the closet, Tom saw Stuart peek around Allen, who stood in the doorway, the boy’s eyes wide, intent on his father.

“The boots,” Tom said.  “Where are they?”

Jeremy opened the closet.  “They’re right...”  He bent and rummaged through shoes, then leaned far into the closet.  When he re-emerged he was pale.  “They should be right here.”

“Then where the hell are they?”

“Daddy?” Stuart called.

“Not now, Stuart!  I don’t know where the damn boots are.  They were here last time I checked.”

Tom detected a note of desperation in Jeremy’s voice.  He almost smiled.

“Did you take them to Des Moines with you?”

“No.  Why would I do that?  I went to a client’s, not hiking.”

“Daddy?” Stuart asked more insistently.  “Mommy--”

“Dammit, Stuart, not now.”

“But, Mommy--”

Allen bent down and said something to Stuart.  The boy quieted.

“Here’s what I think,” Tom said.  “You took them with you, wore them back here last night.  And when you left, you disposed of them.  Am I getting warm yet?”

“I wasn’t here last night.”

“Cuff him, Allen.”

Allen did so while Tom read Jeremy his Miranda rights.  Stuart stood mutely by the door.

Jeremy’s face turned various shades of red.  For some minutes he remained silent, but finally his anger burst forth.

“What the hell are you charging me with?”

“The murder of your daughter, Brittany.”

“What!  Why would I kill my daughter?  She was my whole life.”

“Jeremy, Tommy?”

Tom turned.  Cheryl stood in the bedroom doorway, now wearing a long white terry-cloth robe over her nightgown, Stuart clutched to her hip.

Jeremy screamed, “Just ask her.  All I had was my daughter.  Why would I kill the most important person in my life?”

“Maybe things got out of hand,” Tom replied.  “You went too far.”

Complete silence.  Jeremy’s mouth open and closed slowly, but no words came out.

“Take him away,” Tom said.

When Allen and Jeremy reached the bedroom door, Cheryl sidestepped to let them pass, but Jeremy stopped.

In a pleading, desperate voice, he said, “What did you tell him?”

Cheryl looked away and said nothing.

Tom drew even with Cheryl and Stuart.  The boy shouted, “Daddy?”  He reached his arms for Jeremy, but Cheryl held him back.

Tom squatted.  “Stuart, what were you trying to tell your father?”

Cheryl jerked her son away, and pushed him to his room.  “Stay in there until I say,” she told him, and closed the bedroom door.

“I’d like to ask him some questions,” Tom said.

“No.”  After a lengthy pause, she added, “Not now.”

She opened Stuart’s door and went in his room, then softly closed the door behind her.

Tom stared at the closed door for a few minutes, listening to the voices inside, too soft to understand.  Finally, he gave up and left the Rinehart’s.  He still had questions for Jeremy.

*****

Allen guided Jeremy through the station door and Tom followed.  At the dispatcher’s desk Patricia Johnson was talking to Marla.  A sudden warmth spread through Tom when he looked at Patricia, a welcome change from the cold hate he’d felt during the drive from the Rinehart’s.

“Put him through the booking procedure, Allen.  Let him call his lawyer.”  Tom then smiled at Patricia.  “Good morning, Officer Johnson, you look fine today.”

She wore a white wool blazer with matching slacks over a gold silk blouse.  She’d changed from her sweatshirt and jeans of earlier.

“Care to join me in my office?”

Without a word, she turned away from Marla and walked ahead of him.  In her wake he smelled lilac, but shivered at the cool breeze coming from her.  He wondered what was bothering her.

As soon as Tom closed his door, Patricia asked in a sharp, penetrating voice, “Did you read the autopsy report?”

“Not yet.”

“Then on what evidence are you arresting Jeremy Rinehart?”

Tom enlightened Patricia, telling her about Jeremy’s girlfriend’s statement, the red scarf, and the missing boots.

The frown remained on her face.  He liked the way she had her hair pinned back behind her ears and started to tell her so, but she caused the words to lodge in his throat.

“Let Rinehart go, he didn’t do it.”

“What do you mean, he didn’t do it?  He had motive, he had opportunity, and we have evidence.”

Patricia put her fists on her hips and glared at him.  “If you’d read the autopsy report, you’d know that the time of death was between nine and eleven.”

“So?”  But instantly he realized the implications.  Still, he refused to believe anything other than his first inclination.  “The girlfriend’s lying.  He left earlier.”

Patricia shook her head, sighed and sat in one of the vinyl chairs.  Tom sat in the other.

“What kind of scarf?” she asked.

“The kind a woman wears on her head.”

“No, I mean what was it made of?”

Tom winced at the edge in her voice.

“Nylon or polyester, I think.  Here.”  He reached across his desk and grabbed the envelope, then gave it to her.

She retrieved a pair of surgical gloves from a box in her purse, slipped them on, then extracted the scarf.

After a short examination, she blurted, “Look.”

He leaned closer, tempted to kiss her to try and lighten the tension between them, but instead read the tag on the scarf.

Fifty percent nylon, fifty percent polyester.  He’d been right.  Score one for the good guys.

“Like I said--”

“The fibers we found on Brittany Rinehart’s throat indicated she was strangled with something made of silk, probably a tie.  Not this scarf.”

Point reversed.  He stared at her.  The clock on the wall ticked methodically.  She drummed her fingers on arm of the chair.

He wasn’t ready to give up.  “But what about the boots?”

“Duh?  Think, Tom.  Or don’t you want to think about your precious friend being responsible?”

Friend?  Had he missed something here?  “Okay, pretend I’m an idiot and explain it to me.”

“Pretend?  Hah!”

“Dammit, Patricia, why are you attacking me?”

“I’m not.”

They both stood and glared at each other.

“The footprints were planted,” she said.  “The boots are probably in the garbage.”

When Tom said nothing, she continued.  “Apparently, your friend couldn’t stand to get dirt on her precious Berber carpet.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember, we discussed the footprints?  How they ended at the steps?”

He nodded.

“Well, if you’d looked close enough, you’d seen that the area around the steps was too clean.  The footprints ended abruptly, and all the footprints were perfect, no smudges.  Not worn on someone’s feet, but planted by holding the boots in her hands.”

Her hands?  The meaning of “friend” hit him square in the jaw.

“You can’t possibly think Cheryl McCaff--, I mean Rinehart, is responsible?”

“Yes, I can.  But obviously you can’t.”

He shouted, “And what does that mean?”

In a frigid voice, Patricia answered, “I saw the way you two were so touchy-feely.  I think it’s time you told me what you and Mrs. Rinehart are up to.”

“Up to?”  He lowered his voice.  “Last night was the first time I’d seen her in twenty-six years.”

“Oh, and I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, pretend I’m an idiot and explain it to me.”

He bit off the similar retort she’d given him only minutes earlier and instead sat back down -- she did likewise -- and calmly told her about his past relationship with Cheryl.

When he finished, the scowl remained on her face.

They both stared into space for a few minutes.  Tom wrestled with guilt and anger.  Anger that Jeremy Rinehart was probably not the killer and guilt because he felt angry about that.

Finally, Patricia said, “You’re letting your emotions cloud this case.  It’s obvious you still have feelings for this woman.  I think you should step away.  Let Officer Compton and I handle it.”

“I don’t have feelings for her.”

“Don’t lie to me, Tom.  Please.”

“I’m not.”

She shook her head, her frown deepened.  “Give up the case.”

“No.”

“Why not?”  Her voice rose and her posture stiffened.

“A small child was killed in my town.  Ain’t no damn way I’m stepping back.”

Patricia stood and glared down at him.  “And your ex-girlfriend, or is she your current girlfriend, is the prime suspect.”

Tom stood and glared down at her.  “There is no way in hell Cheryl murdered her daughter.  I’ll stake my career on that!”

“And will you stake our relationship on it?”

Before Tom could reply, Patricia stalked out of his office and slammed the door behind her.  The glass rattled, but held.  He watched her leave the station, then sighed and thought about giving up women for good.

*****

At home that evening, Tom read the autopsy report for the fifth time.  He’d let Jeremy go, but hadn’t apologized, instead had told him not to leave town until the matter was resolved.  Jeremy had muttered that Tom would be hearing from his lawyer and left in a huff.

His mother wheeled to the kitchen table and placed a cup of coffee in front of him.

“Thanks, Ma.”

He’d been such an idiot.  Had acted too swiftly.  If only he’d read the autopsy report, and Patricia’s forensic report.

The stride on the footprints had been far too wide unless Jeremy had been running.  Brittany was not sexually assaulted, she’d been posed.  Patricia’s report indicated the bed was too neat for an attack to have occurred on it, thus Brittany was killed elsewhere and placed on the bed.  He knew her report was accurate.  Patricia, fighting through the emotions she had to be feeling, had shown the professionalism he’d failed to show.

He shook his head.  Still, he couldn’t believe it.  He refused to believe it.  Cheryl McCaffery was one of the kindest girls he’d ever known.  No way.

As if sensing his thoughts, his mother laid a hand on his arm.  “Dear, that was a long time ago.  You’ve both moved on, changed.  Don’t destroy what you have because of a past jealousy.”

He started to say something, changed his mind, and instead said, “As usual, Ma, you’re right.”

But why was Jeremy’s girlfriend lying?

*****

When Tom pulled alongside Jeremy’s car in the Rinehart’s driveway, he swore silently.  He’d hoped if he waited until ten, Jeremy would be at work.  No such luck.

He climbed out of his truck and resisted the impulse to slam his door into Jeremy’s Cadillac Seville.  He remembered doing that once not long after prom night.

On the front porch, his finger hesitated before pushing the doorbell.  He thought about Patricia, about how she’d not called last night, nor answered when he’d called.  Damn Caller ID.

He rang the doorbell.  Immediately, Cheryl opened the door.

“Tommy.  How nice to see you.”  She called over her shoulder.  “Jeremy, it’s Tommy.”  Then she turned back to him and said, “Please, come in.  We’re getting ready to go to the funeral home.”  She quickly looked away, her fist at her mouth, head bent.  After composing herself, she asked, “Did you want to talk to Jeremy?”

“Actually, I’d like to talk with Stuart.”

“No!”

After a few seconds of staring, Tom closed his mouth.

“I mean, we’re in a hurry,” Cheryl said.  “We’re going to be late and I don’t want Stuart any more upset than he already is.  You understand, right?”

Tom nodded.  “Then, I’d like to look around.”

Cheryl started to say something, but was interrupted by Jeremy coming down the stairs, Stuart in tow, both dressed in dark suits with white shirts.  Jeremy scowled at Tom, but Stuart waved and smiled a little.  Tom smiled back.

Jeremy stopped just beyond the last stair.  Stuart hugged his father, who did not return the embrace, then scooted past and trotted to his mother.  He wrapped both arms around her waist.  She put a hand gently on his back and pressed him to her.  He stared wide-eyed at Tom.

“What do you want, Chief Petrosky?” Jeremy asked.

But Tom was looking at the boy.  Except for the pudginess, lighter hair color, and the brown eyes, he could see Cheryl in Stuart’s facial features.  Tom crouched to get to the boy’s level.

“How are you today, Stuart?”

“Fine.”

“Can I--”

“We’ve got to get going,” Cheryl said.  “Stuart, go wait in the car.”

Tom sighed.  Stuart ran out the front door.  To Jeremy, Tom said, “I’d like to look around some more.  If that’s okay with you.”

Cheryl said, “But we’re on our way out.  Maybe you could come back?”

Tom watched Jeremy while Cheryl spoke.  His scowl deepened and his brows furrowed when he looked at his wife.  Tom thought the man looked confused and could almost read his mind.  Why wasn’t Cheryl cooperating?

Jeremy said, “Go ahead.  Lock up when you leave.  We’ll be awhile.”  He moved toward the front door.  Again, Cheryl started to say something, but Jeremy grabbed her by the upper arm and pulled her toward the door.  “Come on, dear, we’re going to be late.”

Tom watched the door for a couple minutes after it closed.  Finally, he shook himself out of his daze and poked around the house.

Ninety minutes later, he’d found nothing upstairs, in the kitchen, in the basement, or in the back yard.  No missing boots, no wrinkled red tie.  He now stood in the living room staring at the pictures on the mantle.  Typical family pictures, mostly dominated by the children, except all the pictures of Brittany had only her father in them and all the pictures of Stuart had only his mother in them.  None of the pictures showed both Brittany and Stuart together.

He glanced down.  Beside the brick fireplace was a box with two drawers.  Tom bent and opened one of the drawers.  Video tapes, all neatly marked with the date and event.  Family movies.  He collected the ones with the most recent dates, four in all, scribbled a note that he’d taken them and left the Rinehart’s.

*****

“Supper will be ready in about fifteen minutes,” Tom’s mother called from the kitchen.

Tom grunted, his eyes glued to the television, watching the family life of the Rinehart’s unfold before him.  He was watching the most recent tape.  He’d been planted on his sofa since early afternoon.  After leaving the Rinehart’s he’d made some phone calls inquiring about Stephanie Forsyth and then had come home to view the tapes.  Since then, he’d only moved once to go to the bathroom.  By now, he was able to ignore the burning in his gut, had pushed aside all the what-ifs, especially the what if he’d kicked Jeremy’s butt in high school instead of passively standing by while the star jock stole his girlfriend at sophomore prom.  Finally, after five hours of watching a screwed up family, he was back to being a cop.

The pounding at the door barely registered with him.  As did the squeak of his mother’s wheels as she rolled from the kitchen through the entry way.  Only when he felt eyes watching him, did he pull his attention from the screen.

Patricia glared at him, her hands on her hips.

Before she could speak, Tom said, “Hello, beautiful.  Have a seat.”

“Don’t you sweet talk me, mister.  You’re lucky I’m even here.  The way you’ve been--”

“Please, be quiet and sit down.  I want to show you something.”

She did, though didn’t look happy about it.

Tom rewound the tape and replayed a scene he’d watched at least twenty times.  Stuart was in the Rinehart’s driveway, basketball clutched between his hands.  He stood about six feet from the basket, bent his knees, brought the ball to his chest, and heaved.  He missed.  The ball bounced off the garage door.  A little girl’s laughter echoed close to the camera.

A man’s voice said, “Now, now, Brittany, just because you can make them from there, you shouldn’t laugh at your brother.  He’s trying his best.”

Stuart pivoted and faced toward the camera, but not quite at it.  Tom froze the frame.

“My God,” Patricia said.  “That look.  Such hatred.”

“Three guesses who he’s looking at, and the first two don’t count.”

“Brittany.”

Tom stood.  “You win the grand prize.  Dinner.  Have mine.  Wait here.”

“Where are you going?”

“To the Rinehart’s to test my theory.”

“I’m coming, too.”  Patricia stood.

“No.  Stay and keep my mother company.”  He kissed her on the cheek and walked out of the house, not giving her a chance to reply.

*****

Cheryl opened the door.  “Tommy, twice in one day.  What a pleasant surprise.”  Jeremy stood just behind her, his scowl still there.  Tom figured he brought out the best in Jeremy.

He pushed past both of them and walked into the kitchen.  No sign of Stuart, he must have been upstairs.

Tom waited by the kitchen table, and when the Rineharts joined him, he motioned them to sit.

“What is it, Tommy?”

“What gives you the right to push your way in here?” Jeremy asked.

Tom ignored him and said to Cheryl, “I’d like to ask Stuart some questions.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Yeah, Cheryl,” Jeremy said, “Why not?  He might have seen or heard something.  Little boys have--”

“I said, no!  Stuart’s a sensitive child.  He’s...he’s just getting over this.  I’ll not let you subject him to any more.”

“I can get a court order.”

“Then get one!  He’s not talking to you.”

Tom sighed and sat in one of the dining table chairs close to Cheryl.  Jeremy crossed his arms and leaned against the refrigerator, a look of confusion replaced his earlier scowl.

Tom watched Cheryl for a minute or so.  She would not meet his gaze.  She fidgeted with the place mat, folding the corner over, then unfolding it.

Tom said, “Okay.  I have a theory.  Want to hear it?”

“Of course we do,” Jeremy answered.  Cheryl said nothing and still did not meet his gaze.

“First, let me lay out some facts you might not know.”  He flicked a glance toward Jeremy.  “Some things your wife probably already knows.”

No reaction from Cheryl.  Jeremy’s scowl returned.

“Brittany was strangled with a red silk tie.  She was not sexually molested, but was posed on the bed to appear so.  Dr. Brunts estimates the time of death to be between nine and eleven.  The footprints in the kitchen were made after one.”

Cheryl’s attention stayed on the place mat.  He glanced at Jeremy.  He had all of his attention.

“Your girlfriend lied, Jeremy.  You were there all night.  There was a phone call from this house to hers around midnight.  You remember hearing the phone ring?”

“Yes.  Stephanie said it was her sister.”

“It was your wife.”

“What?  Cheryl?”

She said nothing.  Tom continued.

“Did you know Stephanie is having financial troubles?”

“Yes,” Jeremy replied.  “I try to help her out, but she doesn’t like to take money from me.”

Cheryl shot a lethal glance at Jeremy and muttered, “God forbid she should feel like the whore she is.”  She returned her attention to the place mat.

Tom agreed with Cheryl’s assessment, but instead asked Jeremy, “Do you know how far in debt she is?”

Jeremy shook his head.  “I’m not sure.”

“She’s three months late on her house payment.  Six months late on the car.  Over thirty-thousand in credit card debt.”

“What does this have to do with anything?”

“The twenty-five thousand dollars she deposited yesterday.”

“I never gave her that much,” Jeremy said.  “She wouldn’t let me even if I wanted to.”

“It came from your bank account.”

“Just wait one minute.  I never--”

“No, but Cheryl did.”

“What?”

Cheryl looked up.  Her eyes were moist.

“Here’s my theory,” Tom said.  “Two nights ago, Stuart and Brittany were playing in your room.  Maybe playing dress up, which is why he had a tie.”

Cheryl’s gaze was locked with his.

“Somehow the tie ended up around Brittany’s neck.  Years of rage came out of the boy, and he strangled her, easily, given the size difference.”

“Oh, God,” Jeremy said.

“You walked in on them.  Saw what had happened, threw up on the carpet.  But, you pulled yourself together enough to try and frame Jeremy.  No way were you going to lose Stuart.”

Cheryl started shaking her head, slowly at first, then more violently.

“Do I need to continue?” Tom asked.

“No,” she said softly.  Then louder, “No, no, no.”

She shot out of her chair, took two long strides toward Jeremy, and slapped him on the face.

“You bastard.  I killed her because of you.  When you were home, which wasn’t much, all your attention was on Brittany.  Your precious little Brittany.  She was following in Daddy’s footsteps.  Going to be a star someday.”  She slapped him again.  “You never paid any attention to me.”  Another slap.  “Or Stuart.”  Slap.  “I thought if she was gone, then maybe things would change.”  A harder slap.

Jeremy seemed oblivious to the blows, but Tom felt every one of them.

He stood.

Cheryl whirled.

“I killed the little bitch.  That’s Stuart’s vomit on the carpet.”

Tom stared at her, unable to say anything.

Cheryl’s voice rose to hysterical levels.  “You want me to put it in writing?”  She ran out of the kitchen, then back a minute later, paper and pen in hand.  She slammed the paper on the table and scrawled across it, then thrust the paper into Tom’s chest.

He took the sheet and looked at it.  In large, frantic print were the words, “I killed the little bitch.”  Her signature was below.

Tom slumped into the chair and stared at the floor.

Another convincing performance at the Rinehart’s, this time by the star female lead of the Marble Hill High School drama club.

*****

“You missed quite a show.”  Patricia walked into Tom’s office.  “Cheryl Rinehart’s attorney tried to enter a not guilty plea, but Cheryl slapped him and said she was guilty.  Started screaming about how her husband never paid her or Stuart any attention.  I think she’s going for an insanity plea.”

“The script hasn’t changed.  She didn’t do it.”  He studied his fingernails.  “Amazing that she’ll take the wrap for Stuart.  She’ll go to jail.  He would just get counseling for a few years.”

“Motherly love.”

Tom nodded.  “You’re okay with all this, now?”

“I’m hurt and angry, but I’ll survive.”

“And what about us?” Tom asked.

He studied her.  She wore her hair straight, over her ears.  She had on crisp jeans and a tan corduroy jacket over a faded denim shirt.  All she lacked was the cowboy hat.  He loved women in cowboy hats.

“With Cheryl Rinehart in prison, there’s no one around to steal you away.”  She smiled impishly.

Tom replied, “There never was.”
 

Copyright 2001, Brian Lawrence