High Noon

She would not feel guilty because she was doing something outside the house and family on a Sunday evening. She would not feel guilty. It was a litany Phoebe repeated off and on through the day, starting when Carly bounced into her bed for Sunday Morning Snuggles.



Snuggle they did so Phoebe snuck kisses and sniffs of her daughter's soft curly hair, deliciously shampooed the night before. Cuddled up, she got the lowdown on Sherrilynn's brother Tear-so named because he always seemed to be on one-sawing off the heads of two of Sherrilynn's Barbies with his daddy's penknife before he was caught and suitably punished.



Heads on the same pillow, nose to nose, they expressed their mutual horror over the crime.



What had she ever done to earn such a perfect, precious child?



Phoebe wondered. How could she not spend every free moment of every day with this incredible little girl?



Of course, later that morning when she and Carly bumped heads over Carly's desperate need for the purple butterfly sandals she'd seen in one of her grandmother's catalogues, Phoebe wondered how she could dare risk letting this pint-sized shoe hog out of her sight for ten minutes.



She would not feel guilty.



And wasn't Carly going off to a backyard picnic birthday party at her current best friend in the entire world Poppy's house? And wasn't Ava already set to drop her off, then pick her up, bookending her own trip to a flower show?



And Mama? Well, Mama was so busy designing new patterns, organizing her threads and yarns, she'd barely notice if Phoebe jetted off for a weekend trip to Antigua.



There was nothing to feel guilty about.



But she suffered twinges of it nonetheless as she brushed Carly's lovely bright hair, helped pick out the absolutely perfect hair clips. She fought against those twinges while she approved Carly's choice-after numerous rejections-ofjust the right outfit.



They tugged again while she stood on the front veranda, waving to Ava and her fashionable little girl as they drove off for their Sunday outings.



Inside, she hunted up her mother, only to find Essie on her sittingroom computer, laughing away as she clattered on the keyboard.



Chat room, Phoebe thought. The agoraphobic's constant friend.



Still, Phoebe leaned against the doorjamb, watching as her mother's fingers flew and her eyes sparkled with humor.



This was one of her safe conduits to the outside world, after all. Neighbors still dropped by, or old friends paid calls. Now and then



Essie would have a group of women over for tea, and God knew she always enjoyed it if she or Ava planned a cocktail or dinner party.



People came. Of course they came. The South loved their eccentrics, and to many in Savannah who knew the MacNamaras, Essie's condition was no more than a charming little eccentricity.



Essie MacNamara? they might say. She was Essie Carter before she married Benedict MacNamara. Married up, too, and only to be widowed before she was thirty. Just a tragedy! She hasn't stepped one foot outside ofMacNamara House on Jones in ten years or more, bless her heart. She comes out on the veranda sometimes, and she's still as pretty as a picture. And so slim.



Of course, they'd never weathered one of Mama's panic attacks, or watched her struggle just to find the courage to step out on that veranda. They hadn't seen her weep with gratitude when her future daughter-inlaw asked if she and Carter could have the wedding at the house.



God bless Josie, Phoebe thought. And hell, God bless the Internet while she was at it. If her mother couldn't go out into the world, at least the world could come to her through her computer.



"Hey, sweetie pie." Essie's fingers stilled as she spotted Phoebe. "You need something?"



"No. No, I was just poking in to let you know I'm going up to work out, then I'm going to get ready to go out."



Essie's dimples deepened with her smile. "With Duncan."



"To a barbecue at one of his friend's."



"You have a good time, and don't forget the flowers you put in the spare fridge now."



"I won't."



"And wear the green sundress," Essie called out as Phoebe turned. "Show off those nice shoulders. God knows you work hard enough on them."



Phoebe glanced back. "Should I wear more blush, too, so I can catch me a husband?"



"What's that?"



"Nothing. I'll check back with you before I go."



She escaped to her little gym, and a solid sweaty hour.



Later in the shower, she wondered if she'd been using exercise over the past months as a substitute for sex. She'd definitely kicked it up a few notches in the past six months.



Eight months, she corrected, rinsing shampoo out of her hair. Or was it ten?



"Well,Jesus, had it actually been a year since she'd had sex? Shoving at her dripping hair, she began to obsessively backtrack and count. Ava's son's friend's neighbor Wilson-Ava had arranged the date, pushed for it until Phoebe caved. He'd turned out to be very nice, Phoebe remembered. Kind of sweet with his shy smile and little goatee. He liked country music and football, and had been on the tail end of a divorce. They'd enjoyed each other's company enough to date a few times, and she'd slept with him twice. It had been, she recalled, nice. The same way he'd been nice.



And then he'd reconciled with his wife. That was nice, too, really. She'd heard they'd had a baby since...



Wait a minute, wait one damn minute. She snapped off the shower, grabbed a towel. Wrapping it around her, she put the congenial, wishyouall-the-best breakup with the very nice Wilson into the context of time, of season, of date.



Shortly after New Year's, she remembered. She'd slept with him on New Year's Eve, then again a few nights later. New Year's of last year, she realized with a jolt.



"My God! I haven't had sex in fifteen months." She stepped over to the mirror, wiped the fog away so she could stare at her own face. "I'm thirty-three years old and I haven't had sex in fifteen months. What's wrong with me?"



She pressed a hand on her belly. What if everything was rusted in there? It didn't matter if she knew better, intellectually, it was still a horrible and scary thought.



And what if she had sex with Duncan, and it was so good she started skipping the workouts (which surely were a substitute for sex)? She'd get out of shape, become flabby and lazy.



Then he probably wouldn't be attracted to her anymore. Hadn't he commented on her body? Hadn't he? So when her body went soft and flabby, he wouldn't want to have sex with her, which would send her back to Pilates with a vengeance.



It would cycle over and over, until she died with rusted plumbing and six-pack abs.



Jesus, she needed therapy.



Amused at herself, she wrapped her hair in a towel before she deliberately reached for her best, special-occasion-only body cream. Cycle or not, it was time to break the fifteen-month deadlock.



Not just with anyone, she reminded herself. She wasn't a slut-all too obviously. She avoided giving or receiving any signals from other cops, from criminalists, from prosecutors. Date or sleep with someone associated with the job, everyone on the job knew about it. That severely limited the field of play for her.



And it was true she'd been the one to make the first move toward bed with nice Wilson. But she'd liked him, enjoyed going out with him. Besides, before that New Year's Eve she hadn't been with a man for...



No, no, no. She wasn't going to count back again and make herself crazy.



She was picky, that's all-and good for her, right? She was picky about whom she dated, and a whole lot pickier about whom she slept with. She had pride, she had her values, and most important, she had a daughter to consider.



Yet here she was obsessing about sex while getting ready for a simple Sunday barbecue. Pitiful.



She took another long, searching look at herself in the mirror. Pitiful or not, she was going to use a little extra blush. And wear the damn green dress.



She took longer than usual to put herself together. Not as long as it took Carly, the Fashion Princess, to primp for a backyard picnic, but longer than her usual routine. Her first reward for the effort was the beaming smile her mother sent her when Phoebe stopped by Essie's sitting room.



Essie had switched from chat room to sketching, but stopped when Phoebe did a flourishing turn in the doorway. "Well?"



"Oh, Phoebe, you look a picture!"



"Not too much?"



"Honey, it's a simple dress, and just perfect for a Sunday barbecue. It's how it looks on you that snaps. You look all fresh and sexy at the same time."



"Exactly the combination I was shooting for. Duncan's going to be here in a few minutes, I expect. I'm going down to get those flowers. Anything you need before I leave?"



"Not a thing. You have a good time, now."



"I will. I'll be back before Carly's bedtime, but-"



"If you're not, I think Ava and I know how to tuck her up. I don't want you watching the clock."



She wouldn't, Phoebe promised herself. She'd just let it all unfold at its own time and pace. She'd enjoy herself, and enjoy knowing she looked fresh and sexy in a green sundress that showed off her arms and back. She'd worked hard enough on them.



She went down, and out to the summer kitchen. In Cousin Bess's day it had been used routinely. For the lavish parties she enjoyed throwing, for canning, for preparation of simple meals on hot nights. They used it more sporadically now, but the second refrigerator was handy for storing extra cold drinks. Phoebe took out the butter-yellow daisies she'd picked up as a hostess gift.



It was going to be a pretty evening, she decided, and turned to admire the flowers of the courtyard Ava had labored over.



"Well, my God!" She stared, openmouthed, at the dead rat at the bottom of the steps.



She had to bury revulsion to step down for a closer look. No doubt it was dead, but it didn't look mauled, as she'd expected. As she imagined it would if some cat had caught it, then gotten bored enough to dump it in the courtyard like some nasty neighbor's gift.



If she'd had to guess at cause of death, she'd have voted for the sharp spring of a trap, right across the neck. The idea made her shudder as she stepped back again.



Some kids, she thought, playing a particularly unpleasant prank, tossing a dead rat over the wall.



She went back inside, dug up a shoe box, got the broom. And, stomach rolling with disgust, managed to sweep and nudge the corpse inside. She wasn't ashamed to look away with her eyes half-closed as she put on the lid, or to hold the box at arm's length to carry it to the trash can.



Shuddering, shuddering, she backpedaled from the trash can, then turned to dash inside. She scrubbed her hands like a surgeon before an operation, all the while telling herself not to be an idiot. She hadn't touched the awful thing.



She had herself nearly settled down when the doorbell rang. The quick, appreciative grin on Duncan's face did the rest of the job. "Hello, gorgeous."



"Hello back."



"Those for me?"



She tucked the flowers in the crook of her arm as she closed the door behind her. "They certainly are not. They're for our hostess. Or host. You never said which it was."



"Hostess. How's that shoulder?"



"It's coming right along, thank you." She sent him a knowing look. "I'm about ready to start arm wrestling again."



"I knew this guy when I was tending bar. Russian guy, arms looked like toothpicks. Nobody could take him down. I don't think he ever paid for a drink." He opened the car door for her. "You smell great, by the way."



"I really do." She laughed, slid in. When he got in, she shifted toward him. "Now tell me about this friend of yours who's going to be feeding me."



"Best person I know. She's great. You'll like her. Actually, she's the mother of my best friend, who also happens to be my lawyer."



"You're best friends with your lawyer? That's refreshing."



"I met Phin when I was driving a cab. Nobody hails a cab in Savannah, which you'd know since you live here. It was just one of those things. I was heading back to the line at the Hilton, just dropped off a fare. Raining cats that day. He spotted me, I spotted him. He waved me down. Heading to the courthouse, big hurry. Later, I found out he was this struggling young associate, and they'd called him to bring some papers down. Anyway, I get him there, and he pulls out his wallet. Which is empty."



"Uh-oh."



"He's mortified. Sometimes fares try to scam you that way, pull some sob story, whatever. But I've got a good gauge and this guy is seriously embarrassed. He's apologizing all over himself, scribbling down my name and the cab number from the license, swearing on his mother's life he's going to come down to the cab company with the fare and a big tip. Yeah, yeah, yeah."



"A likely story," Phoebe commented, enjoying herself.



"I spring him, figure I'll never see him again. No way is this guy going to haul down to the cab company over an eight-dollar fare."



"But?"



"Yeah, but. I'm clocking out that night, and he comes in. Gives me twenty. First, I'm floored he'd bother to come in, and second, twenty for an eight-dollar run's over the top. And I tell him, dude, ten's enough, thanks. But he won't back off the twenty. So I say fine, let's go have a couple of beers on the other ten. And we did."



"And you've been friends ever since."



"Yeah."



"I'd say that story shows a bit of what you're both made of." She glanced around as he began to drive through the pretty, residential streets of Midtown. "I grew up down this way-well, started growing up down this way. We had a nice little house on the other side of Columbus Drive."



"Good memories or bad?"



"Oh, both. But I've always liked the area, the mix of styles in the houses, kids everywhere."



He pulled into the already crowded drive of a lovely craftsman-style home, with its big front yard tidily mowed and edged with flower beds. "Me, too," he said.



He came around the car to take her hand. She heard the shouts and shrieks of children, the motorized thunder of a lawn mower. She smelled peonies, and meat cooking on someone's backyard grill. She'd grown up like this, she thought, for the first little while. Then everything, everything had changed.



The screen door opened with a happy slam. The woman who stepped out onto the big front porch was hugely pregnant, with skin the color of semisweet chocolate and hair in a glossy profusion of dreads. A boy dashed out behind her, scabs riding both knees. "Dune,



Dune, Dune!" He shouted it as he streaked like a little bullet down the walk. "Catch!" And flew.



Obviously an old hand at the game, Duncan caught the boy in midair, then flipped him upside down. "The strange creature you see below is Ellis."



"How do you do, Ellis?"



"Hi! Do it again, Dune."



"Ellis Tyler, you let Duncan get in the house before you start jumping all over him."



The boy might've been upside down, but he managed a dramatic eye-roll. "Yes'm." When Duncan flipped him to his feet, he grinned.



"We got cherry pie. Come on in, Dune. Come on! You can come, too, ma'am." With that he made his dash back into the house.



"My son likes to be the welcoming committee. You must be



Phoebe. I'm Celia. I hope you came hungry." She tipped her face up for Duncan's kiss. "I know you did."



"How many cherry pies?" Duncan asked.



"Just you wait. Duncan's here!" she shouted as she scooted them inside.



There was an army of them, Phoebe realized, in all shapes and sizes. Babies, toddlers, gangly teens, and an ancient old man they called Uncle Walter, men, women, and all the noise that went with them.



Most were congregated in the backyard, sprawled in chairs, on the grass, chasing kids, pushing them on the bright red swing set. A couple of men stood by the grill, watching it smoke with all the pleasure and delight they might have shown were it a centerfold.



By Phoebe's estimate five generations were represented here, but the center of power, the magnetic north, was obviously the woman who stood supervising as younger family members hauled two picnic tables together to form one long space.



She was comfortably round in the way that made Phoebe imagine every child would want to crawl into her lap, would want to rest their head on her breast for comfort. Her handsome face with its deep-set eyes, strong nose and mouth, was capped off by a puffball of ebony curls. Both hands fisted on her generous hips, and when a big yellow dog streaked by after the blur of a gray-striped cat, she threw back her head and laughed so her whole body shook with it.



Then she turned toward the ancient old man, her hands moving. It took Phoebe a moment to realize she wasn't merely gesturing but signing. The old man wheezed out a laugh, signed back.



Duncan's arm draped around Phoebe's shoulder, and when she glanced up to smile at him, she saw he was looking over at the laughing woman. On his face, deep in those soft blue eyes of his, was absolute and unconditional love.



It struck her suddenly, and with a little curl of terror, that this was a moment. Not just a backyard barbecue.



She had to fight the urge to streak away like the cat when Duncan led her forward. "Ma Bee."



Bee took hold of him first, her big arms going around him, pulling him into a hard, full hug. When she pulled him back, she patted his face with both hands. "You're still skinny, and you're still white."



"You're still the love of my life."



She gave that full-body laugh, but her eyes were tender on his face. Then they shifted, turning speculative, to Phoebe.



"Ma Bee, this is Phoebe MacNamara. Phoebe, Beatrice Hector."



"It's wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Hector. Thank you for having me today."



"Somebody's ma raised her right." She winked at Duncan. "You're welcome here," she told Phoebe. "You brought me daisies? I've got a fondness for daisies, thank you." She took them, cradled them. "They've got such happy faces. Tisha? You take these daisies in for me, and get that blue glass vase Arnette gave me last Mother's Day. It's in the rightside cupboard under the big server. That blue vase is just what these daisies want."



Bee made introductions as one of the teenage girls came over for the flowers. Phoebe got a polite if measuring look-Duncan a wistful one. "Uncle Walter here's been deaf since he got hurt in the Korean



War," Bee explained, and signed Phoebe's name for him. And snickered when he signed back. "Says you're prettier than the last one this skinny white boy brought by."



With a smile, Phoebe gave the sign for thanks. "It's one of the few I know," she said as Bee pursed her lips. "Hello, goodbye, thanks."



"You decide you need to converse with him, he can read lips if you talk straight to him, and slow. Mostly, he's going to sleep anyway. And this here's my daughter-in-law, my second boy Phin's wife. Loo-"



"I know you," Phoebe and Loo said together. "Lieutenant MacNamara."



"Louise Hector, for the defense. Small world."



"Seems like, and previously we've been on opposite sides of it. Welcome to Ma's."



"Since you're acquainted, you get Phoebe what she drinks, and in troduce her round the rest of the way." Bee lifted her chin toward the picnic tables. "We've got to get food out on the tables here." Excellent, Phoebe thought, busywork. Just the thing to ease herself into the social. "Is there something I can do to help?"



"Guests don't haul out the dishes. That's for family. Duncan, we need some more chairs."



"Yes, ma'am. Get you ladies a drink first?"



"We'll take care of it," Loo told him, and led Phoebe away. "What do you drink?"



All right, alcohol, another way to ease into the social. "What's handy?"



Phoebe ended up with a plastic cup of chilled chardonnay, and so many names in her head she tried to alphabetize them to keep them straight.



"I didn't put the Phoebe Duncan talked about together with the lieutenant from the Hostage and Crisis Unit." Loo glanced over as they crossed the lawn edged with cheery flower beds and chunky shrubs. "I'm sorry to hear you were hurt a couple weeks ago."



"I'm doing fine now."



"Well, you look fine. Love the dress. Let me introduce you to the grill masters. Phoebe MacNamara, my brother-in-law Zachary, and my husband, Phineas. Phoebe's a cop, so watch yourselves."



"Off duty." Phoebe lifted the wine cup as she shifted to avoid the smoke billowing from the grill.



"Can you fix speeding tickets?" Zachary asked, and had Phin punching him in the arm.



"Pay him no mind."



"I'm not kidding. Tisha's had two since the first of the year."



Zachary sent Phoebe a wide grin. "After you eat my chicken, we'll talk about it. You'll be softened up."



"Your chicken?"



"Boy, you couldn't boil the egg this chicken started out as. That right, Loo?"



"I take the Fifth."



"Couple a city lawyers," Zachary said to Phoebe, wagging his thumb between them.



"The lawyer with the empty wallet," Phoebe said.



"You will never live that down." Loo belted out a laugh, did a shoulder and hip wiggle as she wagged a finger at her husband. "Deadbeat."



"I thought the story illustrated his innate sense of honor," Phoebe put in, and had Phin flashing his teeth.



"I like her. Leave her here. You"-he pointed at his wife-"can go."



"Mom!" A girl sprinted over. Curly tails sprung out over both ears. "Hero won't come down out of the tree! Make him come down."



"He'll come down when he's ready. Say how do you do to Miz MacNamara, Livvy."



"How do you do."



"Just fine, and how about you?"



"The cat won't come down."



"They like being up high," Phoebe told her. "Why?"



"So they can feel superior to the rest of us."



"But Willy said he was going to fall and break his neck."



"Oh now, Livvy, you know he just said that to get a rise out of you." Loo gave her daughter's pigtail a tug. "You wait till this chicken's on the table. That cat'll come down quick enough. You go on and wash up, 'cause it's almost time to eat."



"Are you sure he likes it up there?" the child asked Phoebe. "Absolutely." She watched Livvy run off. "How old is she?"



"She'll be seven next June."



"I have a little girl, just seven."



"Boy!" Ma Bee's voice boomed over the yard. "You going to finish up that chicken anytime today?"



"It's coming, Ma," the men called back together, and began to heap it onto a platter.



There was potato salad and black-eyed peas, collards and red beans, corn bread and cole slaw. She lost track of the platters and bowls, and how many were passed to her. Arguments-mostly good-natured-and jokes jumped and jostled around the table as frequently as the food. Many went over her head-family history, which appeared in several cases to include Duncan. Kids whined or complained, mostly about one another. Babies were passed like the bowls and platters, from hand to hand.



Nothing like her family, Phoebe thought, the tidy number of them, the overwhelming female tone of even the most casual meal in MacNamara House. Poor Carter, she thought, forever unnumbered. There'd never been an old man at one of their courtyard picnics to be fussed over until he dozed in his chair, or a couple of sparking-eyed little boys dueling with ears of corn.



A bit out of her depth, Phoebe chatted with Celia about her children-she already had two-and the one yet to come. She shared a smile with Livvy as the high-climbing feline inched his way down the tree to come beg at the table.



At one point Duncan and Phin debated heatedly about basketball, the sort that involved the jabbing of forks for emphasis and the slinging around of uncomplimentary names. As they insulted each other's brains, manhood, everyone else ignored them.



Not just friends, Phoebe realized as the insults reached the point of absurd. Brothers. Whatever their backgrounds, upbringings, skin color, they were brothers. Nobody ragged on each other that way unless they were siblings-of the blood, or of the heart.



She was having a Sunday barbecue with Duncan's family. Not just a moment, Phoebe realized. A monumental moment.



"Are you kin to Miss Elizabeth MacNamara, lived on Jones Street?" Phoebe jolted out of her thoughts to meet Bee's steady eyes. "Yes. She was my father's cousin. Did you know her?"



"I knew who she was."



Because the tone translated Bee's unfavorable opinion of Bess MacNamara, Phoebe's shoulders tensed. There were any number of people in Savannah who enjoyed painting all family members with the same sticky brush.



"I used to clean for Miz Tidebar on Jones," Bee continued, "until she passed, about, oh, a dozen years ago now."



"I didn't know Mrs. Tidebar, except by name."



"I wouldn't think. She and Miz MacNamara Did Not Speak." The phrase came out in capital letters.



"Yes, I recall a feud. Something about a garden club committee." Which was an old rift before she'd come to MacNamara House. As age had only ripened it, no one who lived under Cousin Bess's roof was permitted to speak or associate with the Tidebars.



"Miz Tiffany? She had her own people to clean, but I did for her now and then when she had a party or just needed another hand. She still living?"



"She is." And Phoebe relaxed again. The odd and delightful Mrs. Tiffany was much safer ground. "And as colorfully as ever."



"Was on her fourth husband when I did for her."



"She's had one more since, and I believe is currently on the prowl for number six."



"She always kept her name, didn't she? Tiffany, no matter how many she hooked down the aisle."



"Her second husband's name," Phoebe explained. "She stuck with that, however many came after, as she likes the sparkle of it. Or so she says." Bee's lips twitched. "Your cousin, as I recall, didn't have much truck with Miz Tiffany."



"Cousin Bess didn't have much truck with anyone. She was a... difficult woman."



"We are what we are. I'd see your mama now and again, enough to say how do you do, when I did for Miz Tidebar. You favor her."



"Some. My daughter more. Carly's the image of her grandmother."



"She must be a pretty girl. You tell your mama Bee Hector sends her best."



"I will. I think she'll enjoy the connection. She's very fond of Duncan."



"We're fond of him around here, too." Bee leaned in a little while the men continued to argue. "What're you going to do with that boy?"



"Duncan?" Maybe it was the wine, the steady beam from Bee's eyes, but Phoebe said what first came to mind. "I'm still deciding what I'm going to let him do with me."



Bee's laugh was an explosion of mirth. Her thick finger tapped Phoebe's shoulder. "He's brought other pretty girls around here."



"I expect he has."



"But he hasn't brought any of them around for my approval before today."



"Oh." Phoebe decided she could use another sip of wine. "Did I pass the audition?"



Bee smiled easily, then she thumped her hands on the table. "Y'all want pie and ice cream, we have to clear this table." Under the general scramble, Bee looked back at Phoebe. "Why don't you grab some of these dishes, haul them into the kitchen."



And that, Phoebe decided, made her by way of family.



She ended the evening necking with Duncan at her own front door. "I can't ask you in." More brain cells fried when he changed the angle of the kiss, spun it out. "Which, mmm, is a euphemism for not being able to go up to my room and get each other naked."



"When?" His hands glided up her, torturing them both. "Where?"



" I... I don't know. I'm not being difficult or coy. I hate that word.



Carly. My mother." She waved a hand toward the house. "It's all so complicated." "Have dinner with me. My place."



Her bones turned to mush as his lips trailed down her neck. Dinner at his place, now that was definitely code for sex.



Thank God.



"You're going to cook?"



"No, I want you to live. I'm going to order pizza."



"I like pizza fine."



"When?"



" I... I can't tomorrow. I have to-" She should think it through, of course. Be practical, be cautious. "Tuesday. Tuesday night. I'll drive over after shift. As long as-"



"There isn't somebody on a ledge, or holding hostages. I get it. Tuesday." He leaned back. "What do you like on your pizza?"



"Surprise me."



"Planning to. Night, Phoebe."



"Okay. Wait." She threw her arms around his neck again, dove headlong into the kiss until the need inside her edged toward actual pain. "Okay."



She went straight inside before she did something insane like pull his clothes off, then almost dreamily wound her way upstairs. The man could kiss her into a steamy puddle of lust. And, she had to admit, though she was eager for Tuesday night, this anticipation, this notquiteyet bumped up the pulse and warmed the belly.



If she'd felt this damn near giddy before over a man, she couldn't remember it-or him. That was saying something.



She heard the TV in the family room, and Carly's laughter. Not quite bedtime, she thought. And she wanted a moment, just a moment or two by herself before she took what must have been a dopey smile into the family room.



Because it was a pretty night, she opened her window. Soon enough, she thought, every window and door would be shut tight to hold in the air-conditioning and block out the steamy heat of Savannah in summer. She decided to change out of the sundress into her sleep clothes before joining her girls.



She was stripped down to her underwear when she heard the whistling. It drifted through the open window, brought a quick chill to her skin.



That tune. That same tune. The man with the camera.



It came to her, the memory, the image of the man standing alone on River Street. But it couldn't be the same man, could it? Compelled, she grabbed her robe, pulled it on. By the time she got to the terrace doors, wrenched them open to go out to look, the whistling had stopped.



No one strolled down the wide white sidewalk of Jones Street.