Peggy Sue Got Murdered

"Anything important?"

"Miss Calderwood phoned to ask if you were still on for the afternoon with the Wyatts. And if so, where were you?"

Adam groaned. "Good Lord, I forgot all about Isabel!" He reached for the hall telephone. "She's going to be furious."

"She did seem rather put out."

Adam dialed Isabel's number and stood waiting while it rang. "Who else called?"

"A Dr. Herbert Esterhaus. About two hours ago."

"Esterhaus?" Adam glanced up sharply. "Why?"

"He wouldn't say. Something about the laboratory, I assume. He did imply it was somewhat urgent."

"Where is he?"

"That's his number there, on the notepad."

Adam hung up and dialed the number Thomas had written down. It kept ringing.

"He said he'd be home all day," said Thomas. "Perhaps he stepped out for a moment."

Adam glanced at M. J. It was a look, nothing more, but she saw in his eyes a flicker of apprehension. Something's happened. He feels it too.

Adam hung up. "Let's drive by his house."

"But you've only just arrived," said Thomas.

"It doesn't feel right. Herb wouldn't call me at home unless it was important."

Resignedly, Thomas reached back into the closet for their jackets. "Really, Mr. Q. All this rushing around."

Adam smiled and patted him on the shoulder. "At least you won't have us underfoot, hm?"

Thomas merely sighed and walked them to the door.

Just as they climbed into Adam's car, a Mercedes pulled into the driveway, its tires spitting gravel. Isabel stuck her head out the window. "Adam!" she called. "Have you forgotten about the Wyatts?"

"Give them my regrets!"

"I thought we were on for this afternoon-"

"Something's come up. I can't make it. Look, I'll call you later, Isabel, all right?"

"But Adam, you-"

Her words were cut off by the roar of the Volvo as Adam and M. J. drove off. She was left behind in the driveway, staring in disbelief.

Adam glanced in his mirror at the receding Mercedes. "Damn. How am I going to explain this away?"

"Just tell her what happened," said M. J. "She already knows what's going on, doesn't she?"

"Isabel?" He snorted. "First, Isabel is not equipped to deal with unpleasantness of any sort. It's not in her sphere of knowledge. Second, she's not good at keeping secrets. By the time the gossip got down the street and back again, I'd be a major drug dealer, and Maeve would have three heads and be practicing voodoo."

"You mean… she doesn't know about Maeve?"

"She knows I have a stepdaughter. But she never asks about her. And I don't fill her in on the gory details."

"Isn't a problem kid something you'd want to sort of mention to your girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend?" He laughed.

"Well, what do you call her then?"

"A social companion. Suitable for all occasions."

"Oh." She looked out the window. "I guess that covers everything."

To her surprise, he reached over and squeezed her thigh. "Not quite everything."

She frowned at his laughing eyes. "What does it leave out?"

"Oh, street fights, exploding houses, the sort of occasions she wouldn't appreciate."

"I'm not sure I appreciate them."

He turned his gaze back to the road. "I've never slept with her, you know," he said.

That statement was so unexpected, M. J. was struck silent for a moment. She stared at his unruffled profile. "Why did you tell me that?"

"I thought you should know."

"Well, thank you for satisfying my burning curiosity-"

"You're very welcome."

"And what am I supposed to do with this knowledge?"

He winked. "File it away in that amazing brain of yours."

She shook her head and laughed. "I don't know what to make of you, Quantrell. Sometimes I think you're flirting with me. Other times, I think it's all in my head."

"Why wouldn't I? You know I'm attracted to you."

"Why?"

He sighed. "You're not supposed to say, 'Why?' You're supposed to say, 'And I'm attracted to you.'"

"Nevertheless, why?"

He glanced at her in surprise. "Is it so difficult to believe? That I'd find you attractive?"

"I think it's because I'm a novelty," she said. "Because I'm not like your other… companions."

"True."

"Which means it'd never work."

"Such a pessimist," he sighed. He gave her thigh another squeeze, flashed her another grin, and looked back at the road.

It's as easy as that for him , she thought. He favors me with a smile, makes my heart do flip-flops, and then he gets on with the business of driving.

This is not healthy, Novak. Not healthy at all.

And you're already in over your head…

Rockbrook was one of those anonymous suburbs that lie on the outskirts of any large city. It was a white-bread world of trim lawns, two cars in every garage, yards strewn with kids' bicycles. The house where Herbert Esterhaus lived had no bicycles in the yard, and only one vehicle in the carport, but in every other way it was typical of the neighborhood-a tract home, neatly kept, with a brick walkway in front and azaleas huddled on either side of the door.

No one seemed to be home. They rang the bell, knocked, but there was no answer, and the front door was locked.

"Now what?" said M. J. She glanced up the street. A block away, two boys tossed a basketball against their garage door. The buzz of a lawnmower echoed from some unseen backyard.

They circled around to the carport. "His car's here," Adam noted. "And that looks like today's paper on the front seat. So he's driven it today."

"Then where is he?" said M. J.

Adam went to the side door of the house. It was unlocked. He poked his head inside and called out: "Herb? Are you home?"

There was no answer.

"Maybe we should check inside," suggested M. J.

They stepped into the kitchen. Again, Adam called out: "Herb?" A silence seemed to hang over the house. And the sense of dead air, as though no window, no door, had been opened for a very long time.

M. J. spotted a set of keys on the kitchen counter. That struck her as odd, that a man would leave the house without his keys.

"Maybe you should call Thomas," she said. "Esterhaus might have left you another message."

"It's a thought." Adam glanced around for a phone; there was none in sight. "I'll check the living room," he said and headed out of the kitchen.

Seconds later, M. J. heard him say, "Dear God."

"Adam?" she called. She left the kitchen and crossed the dining room. Through the living room doorway, she spotted Adam, standing by the couch. He seemed frozen in place, unable to move a muscle. "Adam?"

Slowly he turned to look at her. "It's… him."

"What?" She moved across the living room. Only as she rounded the couch did she see the crimson stain soaking the carpet, like some psychiatrist's nightmare inkblot. Stretched across the blood was an arm, its hand white and clawed.

The hand of Herbert Esterhaus.