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  “Temptation was my first hardback release,” I said as Alistair opened the book and turned it toward the camera. “He’s tearing the dust jacket.”

  “What’s all that yellow?” Karen asked.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of highlighting all the pornographic parts.” Alistair answered and flipped through the pages.

  “That’s a lot of yellow,” Karen said.

  Alistair began reading one particularly well-conceived passage as someone off-camera handed Jimmy a stack of my paperbacks. This third invisible person handled the microphone. And one-by-one, Jimmy held up each book for the camera, displaying each cover—each pair of semi-nude lovers in various stages of impassioned ecstasy.

  “Your covers look nice,” Candy said.

  “That’s a lot of yellow,” Karen added as Jimmy flipped through the pages.

  Meanwhile Alistair continued reading from Temptation at Twilight. But right as he came to the most inspired segment of Rolfe Vanderhorn and Alexis Wynsome’s most glorious romantic encounter, we were back to watching commercials.

  “Darn!” Candy said. “He was just getting to the good part.”

  ***

  “That was a lot of yellow.” Karen remained on topic even after Candy switched off the TV. “When did Alistair find time for all that highlighting? He’s been demonstrating all day.”

  I suggested Channel 15 likely had a staff for that sort of thing. “They probably call themselves researchers.”

  “That was a lot of research.”

  “It’s ironic, isn’t it?” Candy said. “Them calling you the Queen of Smut even though you can’t write sex scenes anymore?”

  “Temporary,” I said.

  “What’s temporary?” Karen asked. “Your sex scene slump, or Alistair Pritt giving you a hard time.”

  “Can I hope for both?”

  “Maybe one problem will solve the other,” Candy said as she refilled our glasses. “As long as Alistair keeps you inside, you can concentrate on A Singular Seduction.”

  I asked if she’d been speaking to Wilson and insisted Adelé Nightingale did not like being trapped.

  “Well Adelé Nightingale better get used to it,” Karen said. “It doesn’t look like Alistair’s going to let up anytime soon.”

  “Tough.” I took a defiant sip of my beverage and told my friends I refused to be intimidated any longer. “I’m venturing out tomorrow. I plan to solve this murder.”

  Karen’s Oreo-bearing right hand hovered in midair. “Say what?”

  I explained the logic. “Alistair only came up with this silly idea because of all the publicity Jimmy’s been giving me and my car. Once I solve the murder, Alistair will go away.”

  “Try again, Jess.” Karen waved her Oreo at the TV. “They didn’t even mention the murder. And you already told us Jimmy isn’t allowed to blame you.”

  I pursed my lips. “Nevertheless.”

  “Won’t Wilson find the murderer?” Candy asked.

  “I’ll help him.” I ignored the disapproving frowns and explained my vow to help Frankie, and my deal with Lizzie’s mother.

  “Frankie’s depending on me,” I said. “And I definitely got the better end of the bargain with Rita. She’ll stop her accusations of police brutality and let Lizzie see Frankie. Meanwhile all I have to do is solve a murder.”

  “Gosh,” Candy said. “You get in trouble just sitting around your house.”

  “Wilson’s gonna kill you,” Karen agreed. She took a gulp of her champagne. “He’s gonna kill me, too.”

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “You have no car, girlfriend. The murder happened at the high school, right? So won’t you need a ride out there?”

  Okay, good point. I hadn’t actually developed a sleuthing strategy, but luckily Karen was way ahead of me.

  “Kiddo here has to work tomorrow,” she said. “It’s up to me to taxi you around.”

  I reached out to hug her, but she pushed me away. “You’ll want to hug me again when you hear what else I have to say.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I have a hall pass.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “A permanent hall pass for all Clarence schools.”

  “Gosh.” Candy was clearly impressed, but I was still confused.

  “Earth to Jessie Hewitt.” Karen waved an Oreo at me. “This is the Twenty-First Century. You can’t just waltz into a school and start harassing people.”

  “I won’t harass anyone. I’ll just ask a few questions.”

  “But schools have rules now,” Candy said. She turned to Karen. “Why do you get a hall pass?”

  “Maintenance.” Karen explained how she helped the custodial staff whenever something needed fixing at any of the public schools. In case I haven’t mentioned it, Karen Sembler is the all-around handy woman of Clarence, North Carolina. She builds custom furniture for a living. But she’s also the person to call when anything, anywhere, breaks.

  “People will probably recognize you,” Karen told me. “But we’ll say we’re friends, which we are, and that I need an extra pair of hands.” She groaned at her own cleverness. “I even have an extra tool belt to loan you.”

  Candy bounced a little. “You’ll look all handy, too, Jessie!”

  “This will work?” I was skeptical.

  “The high school always needs an extra pair of hands with their plumbing,” Karen said. “The situation in the boys bathroom is even worse than at Wilson’s cottage.”

  “Shack.”

  “Jack will be glad to see me,” she continued. “Jack MacAdoo’s in charge of the custodial staff.”

  “And the janitor is a great place to start sleuthing! And you were right.” I reached out. “You do deserve another hug.”

  She again pushed me away. “I was right about something else, too,” she said. “Wilson’s gonna kill us.”

  Chapter 9

  “I’m headed right back out,” I told Snowflake when I arrived home. “It’s time for a walk.”

  Indeed, the evening was lovely, it was still light out, and Sullivan Street was blessedly free of Jimmy Beak and Alistair Pritt. But the intercom buzzed while I was lacing up my left sneaker. So much for being rid of Jimmy.

  I clicked on the intercom. “Don’t you ever take a night off?” I asked. “Go away, Jimmy.”

  “Jimmy?” an indignant female voice answered.

  I blinked twice. “You’re not Jimmy Beak.”

  “I most assuredly am not.”

  I tried to place the voice. “Superintendent Yik—I mean, Superintendent Yates? Is that you?”

  “Dr. Gabriella Yates, yes. I need to speak to you. Allow me entrance, please.”

  “Umm.” I glanced forlornly at my sneakers. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “Company-schmompany! This is important, Ms. Hewitt. And I am not accustomed to waiting.”

  “Heavens, no,” I mumbled and buzzed her in.

  ***

  “Gabriella Yates.” Dr. Yates had her hand extended as I opened my door.

  “Jessica Hewitt.” I shook her hand. “Won’t you please—” my guest swept into the room—“come in.”

  “Your shoelace is untied,” she informed me.

  I thanked her for noticing and gestured her toward the couch. “Would you like some tea?” “This is not a social call, Ms. Hewitt. Now sit down.” She patted the seat beside her, and I had to work to remember we were in my home.

  Feeling rather defiant, I took the easy chair opposite.

  “I need your help,” she said as she reached for a copy of Sensual and Scintillating.

  “Doesn’t everyone,” I mumbled and leaned over to tie my shoe.

  “Look at me when I’m speaking to you, Ms. Hewitt.”

  Excuse me?

  I took my sweet time with the sneaker. Then I looked up and told Dr. Yates I was not accustomed to being treated like a recalcitrant teenager. “Especially by someone who barges into my home on a Sunday evening.” I pointe
d to the manual she was holding. “Return the book and change the attitude.”

  She skipped a beat. “What is wrong with me?” she asked. “I am so sorry! I know it is no excuse for my rude behavior, but I have just endured the most harrowing twenty-four hours of my life, Jessica. May I call you Jessica?”

  “Jessie.”

  “And I’m Gabby.” She tilted her head. “Forgive me?”

  I pointed to the book she still held. “Be nice to me, and I’ll let you keep that.”

  Was that a giggle?

  “I’m married to Gordon.” Dr. Yates—I mean Gabby Yates—returned the book from whence it came. “Trust me. It’s hopeless.”

  “Well then, at least let me get you that tea.”

  “Tea would be lovely.” She hesitated. “But a bourbon on the rocks would be even lovelier.”

  It was my turn to laugh. I informed the superintendent I don’t keep hard liquor in stock and suggested champagne instead. She told me she didn’t feel much like celebrating, I told her to trust me, and soon we were sipping some bubbly.

  “Now then,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can solve this murder.”

  I raised an eyebrow at Snowflake, who stood on the back of the couch, hovering over the superintendent’s left shoulder.

  Gabby reached up and stroked the cat under her chin. “You don’t seem very shocked at my request,” she said.

  “Believe it or not, you’re not the first person to ask.”

  “Oh, I believe it. Everyone knows you have a knack for these things.”

  “Everyone except Captain Wilson Rye.”

  “Don’t be modest,” she said. “Your fiancé knows you’re talented, and this murder is right up your alley.”

  I raised my other eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Many petty intrigues and jealousies. Ms. Jilton was an excellent educator, but.” Gabby paused. “But I’m fairly certain she was having an affair.”

  “With someone at the school?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t get a clear answer from my principal out there, and I doubt he’ll open up for your fiancé, either. That’s where you come in.”

  “Oh?”

  “You can talk to him, Jessie! His name’s Richard Dempsey. And while you’re at it, you can talk to the other faculty and staff. People will trust you.”

  “Are you kidding? People will not trust me, Gabby.” I pointed toward Sullivan Street. “You do know about the demonstration today?”

  “Which is exactly why people will talk to you. Educators disapprove of book banning. And no one likes the way you’re being bullied.”

  “Oh great. So people will talk to me because they feel sorry for me?”

  “What difference does it make why?” she asked. “Won’t you at least try?”

  I watched Gabby sip her champagne, and for the first time noticed she was in quite a disarray. Like my first guest of the day, my latest visitor wore a business suit. But while Roslynn Mayweather had been clean, crisp, and pressed, Gabby Yates was anything but. Somewhere along the line she had slipped off her pumps, her hose had a run, and her hair looked something like Karen’s does on an average day.

  “You’ve had a rough day,” I said.

  “An understatement. And you?”

  I offered a brief summary of my trials and tribulations, and Gabby did the same.

  “First an emergency session with the school board,” she said. “Then the Clarence Courier called, then the mayor. Then I had a three-hour meeting with the state education commissioner. I barely had time to watch Jimmy Beak’s report this evening.”

  She gave me a sideways look. “At least the book-banning demonstration kept him out of my hair. Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I mumbled.

  “I thought I was home free for the evening, but then our Congressman caught me on my cell phone on my way over here.”

  “Wow,” I said. “You really do need some bourbon.”

  Gabby held up her champagne glass. “This is quite nice,” she said. “And please don’t get me wrong, Jessie. I love my job—I embrace my responsibilities. But I can’t concentrate on education until this useless tragedy gets cleared up.”

  “You care a lot,” I said.

  “I didn’t earn my nickname for nothing.”

  “The nickname doesn’t bother you?”

  “The Dr. Yikes label means I’m doing my job. Just like the Queen of Smut label means you’re doing yours.”

  I harkened back to something I had read in the paper, and congratulated Gabby on the latest SAT scores for the county.

  She smiled broadly. “I am so proud of our high-schoolers! And our grade-schoolers. Our fourth-grade reading levels are among the highest in the state this year!”

  “Thank you, Dr. Yikes.”

  “You’re very welcome. But if you really want to thank me, you’ll solve this murder.”

  She rummaged around in her purse and pulled out an ID badge. My heart skipped a beat when I saw the photograph.

  “Where did you get that?” I asked.

  “From the back of My South Pacific Paramour.” Gabby rummaged some more and whipped out a lanyard in Clarence High School’s purple and orange colors. She attached my ID and dangled it in front of me. “Here you go. Your hall pass!”

  I grabbed it just as Snowflake got interested. I jiggled it in front of the cat and spoke to Gabby. “You didn’t actually read My South Pacific Paramour?”

  “Of course I did. But Windswept Whispers is your true masterpiece.”

  I pointed to Sensual and Scintillating. “That one got high marks from Ms. Carlisle also.”

  “Please don’t tell anyone I read romance, Jessie. It could ruin my reputation.”

  My face fell. “Oh no,” I said. “That kind of attitude is the problem.”

  To her credit, Gabby understood immediately. “I’m being a hypocrite, aren’t I?”

  “Sorry, but yes. Many intelligent people read romances. But as long as they do so behind closed doors—”

  “—people like Alistair Pritt get away with their insults,” Gabby finished for me. “Let’s make a deal, Jessie. I’ll proclaim to the whole wide world, or at least to Jimmy Beak, that I read your books and am proud of it. And you’ll solve this murder.” She smiled slyly. “Deal?”

  I smiled slyly. “Deal,” I said and retrieved my hall pass from the cat.

  ***

  The intercom buzzed, and I jumped about ten feet.

  “Who’s that?” Gabby looked alarmed.

  “Jimmy Beak.” I winced, scowled, and made other unhappy faces, but my guest seemed relieved.

  “There’s no time like the present,” she said. “Invite him up, and we’ll discuss my reading habits.”

  I glanced at Snowflake. “Jimmy will be much less scary with Dr. Yikes on our side.”

  “Scary-schmary.” Gabby pointed to the intercom as she put her shoes back on. “Answer that.”

  I buzzed in my next guest. “Come on up, Jimmy!” I said brightly.

  “I’m not Jimmy, but thanks,” a female voice answered. “I’m on my way.”

  I squinted at Gabby. “Who’s that?”

  She shrugged and shook her head, and insisted she should be going. “I’ll track down Jimmy Beak tomorrow,” she said as she stood up. “I know where to find him.” She winked and was gone.

  I listened in my open doorway as Gabby made her way down the stairs, and my next visitor made her way up the stairs. They exchanged a greeting on the second story landing, and soon my mystery guest stood before me.

  She held out her hand and identified herself. “Dianne Calloway,” she said.

  And I fainted.

  Chapter 10

  A bit melodramatic, you’re thinking?

  Well, let me fill you in. Dianne Calloway is Wilson Rye’s former fiancée. Dianne Calloway is a convicted killer. Dianne Calloway bludgeoned her ex-husband to death with a broomstick. So yes, I fainted. I mean really.

&nb
sp; In addition, the woman standing before me—make that, standing over me—had fingered Wilson for the murder. Wilson proved his innocence and sent Dianne to prison.

  My eyes fluttered open. “You’re out of prison.”

  “Duh.”

  Snowflake sniffed around my nose and mouth, but the other figure hovering above me had my full attention.

  No visible weapons. No purse, even. And definitely no broomstick.

  “Are you, or are you not, going to let me in?”

  Okay, so clearly “not” would have been the better choice. But I was exceedingly flustered. And by the time I thought of responding, Dianne had already stepped over me.

  She found her way to the couch, I struggled to my feet and took an easy chair, and Snowflake sat on my lap. Bless her heart, I appreciated the moral support, but I almost wished she had positioned herself at her safety spot on the refrigerator.

  I kept my eyes on Dianne, ready for any sudden movement.

  She reached out, I jumped ten feet in the air, and Snowflake flew to the refrigerator.

  “Geeeez!” She sat back, a copy of S and S in hand. “I’m not going to hurt you. I didn’t even bring my broomstick.”

  “What do you want?” I snapped.

  Dianne pretended to be engrossed in Sensual and Scintillating. “I could use a bourbon on the rocks,” she said without so much as looking up.

  Trust me. I wasn’t that flustered.

  I did, however, get up and move to the kitchen. An excellent place, in close proximity to the phone, and the knives.

  “What’s that number?” I asked Snowflake as I grabbed the phone. “Nine.” I made a production of hitting the nine. “One.” Another production. “One.” I glanced over, my finger poised to push.

  “Okay, okay.” Dianne dropped the book. “I’ll talk to you.”

  “Gee thanks.” I put the phone down.

  She pointed to the easy chair, but I assured her I was quite content in the kitchen. “I keep my knives over here.”

  “Oh, and you’re really prepared to protect yourself with a paring knife?”

  I frowned at my knife block. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe you need to come up with a better threat.”