I got out of the Buick, then headed up the walk.

  “What’s up, girlfriend?” Tina asked. Her voice was perky, but she tried a little too hard. She looked younger than her early thirties, cute in her white cut-off jeans and floral cami, her feet bare, toes painted a sparkly pink.

  “Everything okay?” Kevin chimed in. He was a handsome devil in khaki shorts and a plain white T, his somewhat unruly sandy hair lightened by the summer sun.

  What hung in the air was the unspoken “… with the baby?”

  I said, “I’m feeling great and the baby is fine,” as I headed for one of the rockers to sit down. “I just wanted to share some news with you two, before it got around town.”

  “What is your Mother spreading now?” Tina asked, taking the other rocker.

  Kevin stretched out on the top step, his back against the railing post, head turned toward me.

  “This is one slice of gossip Mother isn’t likely to serve up,” I said.

  “Nothing terrible, I hope,” Tina said.

  I took a moment to settle into the rocker. “Kind of hard to qualify it, actually. Really … pretty bad, I guess.”

  Tina’s smiled faded as she sat forward. “What is it, honey?”

  Suddenly I had a crushing sensation in my chest and couldn’t breathe.

  I started making horrible, gasping sounds, and Kevin jumped up and grabbed me as I fell onto my knees, fighting for air.

  “Call 911!” he shouted to Tina.

  But a self-composed Tina said, “No. This isn’t the baby. Brandy’s having a panic attack—she’s had them before. I know what to do.”

  My friend knelt beside me, one arm around my shoulders, and as I continued to gasp, she commanded, “Breathe slower … not so fast … that’s right … slower still … now deeper.” Then, soothingly, “You’re not going to die, sweetie … you’ll be all right … nothing’s going to happen.”

  As quickly as the attack came, it went, leaving me exhausted.

  And frightened.

  Would it happen again? And what if I was alone? Who would talk me down from the ledge? And what if I was behind the wheel of my car?

  Tina helped me back into the rocker while Kevin hurried off to fetch some water.

  “I’m all right,” I managed.

  Tina held out her arms and smiled goofily. “Will you look at my hands—I’m shaking!”

  “Me, too.”

  We both started to laugh. Our laughter was relieved and had just the tiniest hint of hysteria.

  Frowning, Kevin returned with a glass of water. “I didn’t realize it was funny,” he said with a tentative smile, handing me the drink. He looked a little shook up himself.

  I took a sip, then said, “Haven’t had one of those for a long time. The Prozac must have kept ‘em at bay.”

  Tina settled at my feet, crossing her legs, Indian-style. “Maybe you should go back on the Prozac,” she suggested gently.

  I shook my head. “I don’t want anything to hurt your baby.”

  Kevin, having settled back on the porch step, said softly, “Maybe it would be best for the baby….”

  I waved a dismissive hand. “I had a panic attack because of this damn hot weather.”

  They were both looking at me suspiciously.

  “And, well … there could be another reason. I suppose it could be because of what I came here to tell you.”

  Tina and Kevin waited patiently, their eyes clouded with concern, while I collected my thoughts.

  “About nine months ago,” I began, “I received an anonymous letter in the mail….”

  I went over the poison-pen soap opera of the past six months, including the content of the letters right down to my parentage, and ending with that morning’s episode—Mother’s scuffle with Connie in the clock shop.

  My friends looked stunned.

  Teen said, “I can hardly believe it! All this time, and Peggy Sue never told you?”

  “And what about Senator Clark?” Kevin put in, spitting the name out like it was something foul. “You can’t tell me he didn’t know—and here I voted for that bum!”

  I let them go on for a while, watching their shock turn to indignation and then came the inevitable hurt from Tina.

  “Brandy,” my best friend asked plaintively, “why didn’t you tell me sooner? Why didn’t you trust me with this? You must have been suffering.”

  It was a valid question; we never kept anything from each other.

  I locked eyes with her. “I don’t know, Teen. I guess I just hoped the whole thing would go away like a bad dream.” I gave her a chagrined smirk. “Anyway, I didn’t suffer that much—remember, I was on Prozac through most of it.”

  Tina nodded, her expression forgiving. “I understand. Coming here tonight? That had to be difficult.”

  Kevin asked, “Who all knows about this?”

  “Peggy Sue, Mother, Senator Clark I’m pretty sure, and now you two…. And the instigator, of course—Connie Grimes herself. Wicked Witch of the … which one had the house fall on her again?”

  Teen touched my knee. “You’re sure the letters came from her?”

  I nodded. “She as much as admitted it.”

  Kevin looked out across the lawn, where darkness had crept in. “There must be a way to stop her.”

  I slapped at a mosquito. “I don’t think there is one—that woman is hell-bent for leather to ruin us.”

  Tina was getting to her feet. “What does that mean, anyway … ‘hell-bent for leather’?”

  I stood with a sigh. “Don’t know … but it fits her to a T.” Another expression I didn’t understand. “I should go.”

  Kevin rose, kissed me on the cheek, then retreated inside, giving us girls some privacy.

  “Why don’t you let me drive you home?” Tina asked as we made our way down the porch steps. “Kev can follow in his car.”

  “No, honey. I’ll be fine. Honestly.”

  Our conversation was accompanied by a chorus of cicadas and crickets.

  Tina said, “Brandy, I am worried about you having another panic attack. Won’t you please consider going back on—”

  “Look, we’ve been over that. Nothing but aspirin.” We were at my car now. “But I will go see my therapist, and talk to her about this latest attack.”

  “Promise?”

  I smiled. “Girl Scout’s honor.”

  She gave me a hug, then held me by my forearms, her eyes painfully earnest. “You know there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for you. Kevin, too. We both love you.”

  I touched her cheek. “I know. Please don’t worry. As somebody much smarter than me once said, ‘This too shall pass.’ “I opened the car door. “And after all, I’m not the real victim in this—it’s Peggy Sue and Mother who will have to face what’s to come.”

  Tina shuddered. “And your sister so values the opinions of others.”

  “Tell me about it. And Mother hates being on the wrong end of gossip….”

  That got a little laugh out of Teen, and I got in my car, backed out of the drive. I watched her in my rearview mirror, still standing in the driveway, smaller and smaller until the darkness swallowed her.

  What was to come?

  Mother ridiculed.

  Sis ostracized.

  And me caught in the middle.

  The next morning I slept in later than usual, and when I finally made it downstairs there was a note from Mother taped to the coffee machine (I would not give that up for any baby) saying she had taken the gas-driven trolley downtown to do some personal business (i.e., snooping).

  This gave me the privacy I needed to get Connie Grimes on the phone. The conversation was fairly brief.

  “I’d like to come and talk to you,” I said.

  “Talk to my lawyer. Violate that restraining order at your own risk.”

  “I’ll only stop by if you give me permission.”

  “Why should I? I can tell you right now what my plans are—I’m going to have your mother arrested, and that little dog of yours put down. For attacking me.”

  Getting Mother arrested was one thing, but threatening to have Sushi put to sleep? I felt my face flush and I had to tell myself this was just Connie blustering—after all, a day had passed, and neither the police nor animal control had shown up at our door….

  So I took a deep breath, let it out, and replaced my fear and anger with a gently ribbing tone.

  “Ah, come on, Con—imagine the fun you’ll have … me, groveling at your feet? You really want your attorney to be the one who hears me beg for mercy?”

  Long pause. “All right. Come at noon…. I’ll be at bridge club until then.”

  After tending to Sushi—breakfast followed by a shot of insulin and the obligatory payoff of a treat—I decided to forgo my shower, and put on a pair of sloppy maternity shorts and an oversized gray T-shirt. Figured I might as well look really pathetic, as I pleaded with Connie to undeclare her war against us.

  By now Soosh had figured out I was heading somewhere, and was dancing at my feet, unaware that Connie Grimes wanted to see her take a very long doggie nap.

  So I scooped her up, saying, “You have an apology to make, girl, and are going to be on your bestest, and cutest, behavior!”

  She cocked her head in “huh” fashion, but willingly allowed herself to be stuffed into my front carry-on.

  Full disclosure: I entertained only the slightest hope of Connie backing off. What seemed more likely was that my hostess would verbally reveal herself in all her vengeful glory …

  … in which case, I would capture her misbehavior on a small tape recorder hidden in a pocket of my spacious shorts.

  The Borne girls weren’t the only ones in Serenity who could have their reputations ruined.

  Would you think less of me (or is that even less?) if I were to type the following: Heh heh heh….

  At eleven-thirty, under a sunny sky for such dark skulduggery, I headed out to my Buick. For the ride over, I had move Sushi from my baby pouch to the rider’s seat, where she stood at the window and, paws just reaching the glass, stared out fascinated at a world gliding by that she could probably only discern as the vaguest blur.

  This was a little early to be leaving for my noon appointment, but I thought Sushi and I would sit in Connie’s drive and devise our strategy—come up with things I could say that would really set my reluctant hostess off. (I was not counting on much strategic input from Soosh.)

  The witch (with a b) lived across town in a subdivision designated Hidden Pines, despite the developer having chopped down all the pine trees to make way for the houses. Those pines were really hidden. For much of the 1980s, Hidden Pines had been the place to live for the well-heeled of Serenity; but time marches on, and so do subdivisions, one new one coming after the other, each making the former seem less fashionable.

  Not that HP wasn’t still nice. But it was filled with split-level homes that had long since gone out of style, and with good reason: who wants to walk up a bunch of steps to their house, then be confronted with more steps inside? Especially if you’re loaded down with groceries.

  Connie’s home was at the end of a cul-de-sac, white with gray shutters and a green-tiled roof. The manicured lawn was tastefully studded with fruit trees and a couple of colorful flower beds. But a stone bubbling fountain to one side of the front entrance seemed too grand for the mid-price-range home, a tip-off to Connie’s higher aspirations.

  I frankly didn’t know much about the woman’s family. Just that Connie’s husband, Fred, worked at a luxury car dealership, and that her two married boys lived at opposite ends of the country, as far away from her as they could get, without falling in an ocean.

  We were sitting in the car only a few minutes before it became too hot for a pregnant woman and a blind dog to remain there, even with the windows powered down, so I got out. Anyway, Sushi aside, you’re not supposed to leave a baby in a closed car, and a baby inside of me inside a closed car qualified.

  An unclaimed package on the front porch meant Connie wasn’t home yet, so I walked around the side of the house, hoping to find a back patio where I could park myself—preferably in the nice cool shade of a tree. I let Sushi down—she would not stray far from me in this foreign land, not without bumping her little noggin, anyway.

  On hand was a large cement area with mismatched patio furniture, overcrowded planters, clinking wind chimes, and whirling miniature windmills—all being watched over by hordes of ceramic gnomes.

  So this wonderland of questionable taste was the real Connie Grimes.

  Still, Sushi somehow navigated her way to a sliding patio door that stood slightly ajar. She stuck her little head inside, the rest of her not able to squeeze through, her bushy little tail twitching at me.

  What the heck. I went over and slid the door open just enough to give Sushi a little more relief from the heat.

  But before I could even say, “Stay,” she dashed inside. Instead, I stayed—framed in the doorway—heat on my back, air-conditioning on my front, an oddly pleasant sensation—then finally followed Sushi in.

  I couldn’t even be mad at her.

  Hadn’t Mother always said that an unlocked door was an open invitation? And who were Sushi and I to doubt her wisdom? (Those are rhetorical questions. No answering required.)

  I stepped into the kitchen, which opened onto an entertainment room at my left—comfy couch and recliner, smallish flat-screen TV, and brick fireplace. Sushi had deposited herself on the kitchen’s cool tile floor, her legs spread out like a collapsed card table, her little face ecstatic with the coolness of the flooring on her tummy.

  “Guess I don’t have to tell you to stay,” I said.

  The kitchen was tiny by current standards, but had nice appliances, and was clean and neat. Some of the kitsch on the patio, however, had crept inside, like mold—starting with the collection of small frogs arranged on the sill of the sink window, and a display of Elvis plates on one wall.

  Still, there was something familiar about the rooms, and then it came to me: they were similar to Peggy Sue’s—color schemes, furnishings, even wallpaper. Except this was a less expensive version, on a smaller scale.

  Good grief, I thought, and why I was suddenly talking like a Peanuts character I couldn’t tell you. But … was Connie obsessed with my sister? If so, why would she want to destroy the object of her obsession?

  I sat on a bar stool at the kitchen counter to wait like a good girl for my hostess. But after a moment, I got bored—and hungry (preggers gals do that)—and slid off. Soon I was poking my head in the fridge.

  And here’s where, admittedly, I may have, yes, crossed the line—I made myself a turkey sandwich, then washed it down with a glass of milk.

  Followed by a couple of Twinkies.

  Of course, Sushi was off the tile floor and dancing at my feet throughout, the lure of food trumping cool comfort. I slipped her some of the turkey, but said, through a mouthful of Twinkie, “Not good for dogs!”

  Like it was good for me?

  Finally she slunk off.

  Now noon was here and still no sign of Connie, so I continued to snoop in the kitchen. I found mismatched glasses, chipped everyday dishes, an incomplete cutlery set, and pans with flaking Teflon.

  In a walk-in pantry, I discovered a laptop computer, and was about to turn it on for a look when Sushi appeared in the open doorway, whining to get my attention.

  “I said, not good for dogs.”

  But that wasn’t it—her whine was something different, almost a wail.

  How odd.

  I exited the pantry to follow Soosh, who had (whoops!) left a trail of muddy paw prints down the hallway.

  The prints ended at the mouth of the living room, but upon closer inspection, the prints had a reddish tinge, not like mud, not even red clay.

  More like blood.

  Was Sushi hurt?

  Alarm spiked through me, as the animal had disappeared into the living room. Any concern of the mess she might make (beyond those bloody paws, she was house-broken) (sort of) was blotted out by her continued whining, which was working itself into a little shih tzu howl.

  Then I spotted the doggie’s tail making like a windshield wiper, between the floral couch and glass coffee table.

  “Here, Soosh, here, Soosh,” I said, moving forward. “Are you okay, baby?”

  Then a bare foot—not a paw, a human foot—came into view, followed by a blue dress, and I found Sushi, staring sightlessly into the equally sightless eyes of Connie Grimes.

  Who looked upset.

  You would be, too, with a knife in your chest.

  A Trash ‘n’ Treasures Tip

  Before spending a substantial amount on an antique, make sure you have a money-back guarantee of its authenticity. A reputable dealer should be willing to comply. Otherwise, bye-bye buy.

  Chapter Three

  Knock-worst

  I waited on the stoop of Connie’s split-level home for the paramedics to arrive. After calling 911, I had washed off Sushi’s bloody little paws in the sink, wondering if I was destroying evidence or something, then tied her up with her leash to a well-shaded wrought-iron patio table, providing her with a dish of water. Tampering with a crime scene? I was in so deep, it could hardly matter.

  Finally the ambulance arrived, with no siren. No need. A Mutt and Jeff team emerged, one man tall and slender, the other short and stocky (reverse that: isn’t Mutt the little one?).

  “The dead woman’s in the living room,” I told them. “And it’s a crime scene, so please take whatever precautions you need to.”

  They both gave me a funny look, clearly taken aback, receiving policelike instructions from a pregnant woman in a gray T-shirt and sloppy shorts.

  Maybe it sounded funny to them. But the last thing I needed was the area compromised any more than I already had, and make me even more the prime suspect.