Heartbreaker

Chapter 17

Wesson was a prick. He was also crass, obnoxious, rude, and arrogant, and his people skills sucked. Worse, he lacked compassion.

The agent’s response to hearing that a farmer had stumbled upon the mutilated body of eighteen-year-old Tiffany Tara Tyler had been grossly inappropriate. Wesson had been downright jubilant. Shouting with glee, the man had all but broken out in song, and what made his unbridled enthusiasm all the more obscene was that Laurant, a civilian, was there watching him.

Nick wanted to get her out of the cabin before she saw or heard anything more, and deal with Wesson later, but when he took hold of Laurant’s arm to lead her outside, she pulled away. What she did next not only surprised him, but raised his admiration a notch.

She made Wesson squirm. She got right in his face so he couldn’t ignore her, and then she gave him hell. She reminded him that a young girl had been murdered, and if he couldn’t feel any remorse or pity for poor Tiffany, then perhaps he should consider another line of work.

When Wesson began to argue, Nick took over, but his language was much cruder than hers.

"That’s going in my report," Wesson threatened.

"See that it does," Nick countered.

Wesson decided to end the conversation. He resented that an outsider would offer an opinion about his behavior, and he wasn’t about to waste any of his valuable time trying to placate her. That fell under Nick’s job description.

"Just do what I tell you to do, and we’ll catch him," he said.

She didn’t back down. "And keep my opinions to myself?"

He didn’t see any need to answer. Turning back to the computer, he ignored her.

Laurant swung around. "Nick, may I use your phone?" He handed it to her. "What’s Dr. Morganstern’s private number?"

Wesson did a one-eighty in the swivel office chair and sprang to his feet. "If you have any problems, you bring them to me."

"I don’t think so."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, I don’t think so."

Wesson looked at Nick for help in dealing with the difficult woman. Nick simply stared back at him as he rattled off Morganstern’s phone number. "Just hit thirty-two. It will speed dial the number for you."

"Look, ma’am, I know I sounded…"

She paused in dialing. "Callous, Mr. Wesson. You sounded cold-hearted, cruel, and callous."

Wesson tightened his jaw and narrowed his eyes at her. "It doesn’t do any of us any good to get personally involved. We’re trying to catch this pervert so that there won’t be any more dead bodies."

"Her name was Tiffany," Nick reminded.

"I’d like you to say her name," Laurant told him.

Shaking his head resignedly, as though he’d say or do anything just to get her off his back, he said, "Tiffany. Her name was Tiffany Tara Tyler."

She handed the phone back to Nick and marched out of the cabin. She was inside the car before Nick could open the door for her.

"What an obnoxious man," she said.

"Yes, he is," he agreed. "You made him sweat, and I didn’t think that was possible."

"I don’t understand why Pete would put someone like him in charge."

"He didn’t. Pete is consulting on this case. O’Leary’s the one in charge, and Wesson works under him."

Nick headed the car back toward town. The sun was just beginning to disappear behind the trees, creating a luminous glow on the lake’s surface.

Laurant’s thoughts were on Tiffany. "Wesson actually cheered when he heard about that poor girl."

Nick felt compelled to set the record straight. "No, he didn’t cheer because a woman was murdered. He was excited because we now have a crime scene, and hopefully, that’s going to change things. I’m not excusing Wesson’s behavior," he added. "I’m just trying to explain it. He’s supposed to be a good agent. I’ve only worked with him once in the past, but that was a long time ago, and we were both new and inexperienced. Pete says he’s good. But Wesson’s going to have to prove it to me."

"You said that now that you have a crime scene, things will change. How?"

"Every killer leaves what the profilers call his personal signature at his crime scene. It’s an expression of his sick and violent fantasies, and it will tell us a lot about him."

"He’s careful, you said so yourself. What if there aren’t any clues at the crime scene?"

"There will be," he assured her. "Whenever one person comes into contact with another, he leaves something behind, no matter how careful he is. A hair follicle, a scale of skin, a bit of a fingernail, tread marks from the bottom of his shoes, or maybe a thread from his pants or shirt… there’s always something left behind. The trick won’t be finding the evidence. It’s the analyzing what they find that’s more difficult. It will take time and care. And while the criminologists are doing their job, the photos of the scene will be sent to the profiler and he’ll tell us what fantasies the unsub’s acting out."

He glanced over at her before continuing. "A killer’s signature " he explained, "is his psychological calling card. He can change the methods he uses and the where and the when and the how, but he never changes his signature."

"You mean there’s always a pattern."

"Yes," he agreed. "Like the marks on the body or the way the body is positioned. The profiler looks at that and figures out what the killer is really after. I can already tell you that, with this man, it’s all about control."

Nick stopped the car at the corner of Oak and Main. A young woman pushing a baby stroller crossed the street in front of them. She paused to give Nick the once-over and to wave at Laurant before continuing on.

"My house is on the next block, second from the corner. But I don’t want to go there. I wish we could just check into a motel."

"You’ve got to go home and act like nothing’s wrong, remember?"

"I know, but I still don’t want to," she said. "I don’t ever want to go back into that house again."

"I can understand that."

They drove down the street, which was lined with trees older than any of the residents. The light of dusk, filtered by low branches, dappled the yards, but heavy storm clouds were just beginning to loom up on the horizon. Laurant saw her house and remembered how charming she’d thought it was the first time she’d driven up to it. It was old and worn, and she loved it. After she had moved in, the first thing she did was purchase a porch swing at the garden shop. Every morning she’d take her cup of tea and sit on the swing while she read the paper. In the evenings, she’d chat with the neighbors tending their yards.

The tranquility she’d felt, the sense of belonging, was gone now, and she didn’t know if she would ever get it back.

"Is the camera still there, or did they take it away?" she asked.

"It’s still there."

"Is it on?"

"Yes. We don’t want him to know we found it."

"Then he didn’t see the agents when they went into my bedroom?"

"No, they found it in the hall closet," he reminded her. "They kept out of the camera’s eye."

He pulled into the driveway and turned the motor off. She was staring at the house when she asked, "Where would he get something like that? Do they sell transmitters in the stores?"

Before he could answer her, she blurted, "Every time I go into the bedroom, he could be watching."

He put his hand on her knee. "We want him to be watching. This is a great opportunity to push him. You and I are going to be getting hot and heavy in front of the camera."

"Yes, I know what the plan is."

She wasn’t getting cold feet, but she could feel her resolve slipping away. Her life had turned into one of those surreal movies where nothing was as it appeared, where everything that looked benign and innocent was only a mask hiding something sinister. Her charming little house looked inviting, but he had been inside, and there was a camera focused on her bed. "Are you ready to go in?" Her nod was brisk.

Nick could see her anxiety and decided to try to take her mind off the moment. As he opened his door, he said, "Holy Oaks is a pretty town, but I’d still go crazy living here. Where’s the traffic? Where’s the noise?"

She knew what he was doing. He was helping her cope. He could tell when she was getting overloaded, she realized, and that was when he lightened the conversation.

She opened her door and got out. "You like traffic and noise?"

"It’s what I’m used to," he replied. They were looking at each other over the top of the car. "You don’t get a lot of road rage here, do you?"

"Sure we do. When the sheriff’s son, Lonnie, goes joyriding with his friends, a lot of people would love to ram his car into a gully. He’s a menace, and his father isn’t going to do anything about it."

"The local thug, huh?"

"Yes."

She reached back into the car to get her purse while Nick surveyed the neighborhood. There was a big oak in the front yard almost identical in size to the oak in the neighbor’s yard on the corner. On the other side of the white, two-story house was an empty lot. At the end of the long drive was an unattached garage, which meant that when she put her car away, she had to walk to the back door. The two houses were close together, and there were trees and overgrown shrubs all along the sides-too many places for a man to hide. He also noticed there weren’t any outside lights on the house or the garage.

"A burglar’s paradise," he remarked. "Too many concealed areas."

"I’ve got a porch light."

"That’s not enough."

"There are a lot of people here who don’t ever lock their doors, even when they go to bed at night. It’s a small town and everyone feels safe."

"Yeah, well, you’re locking your doors."

"Yoo-hoo, Laurant. You’re home."

Nick turned as a white-haired old lady wearing a bright purple dress with a wide lace collar opened her screen door and stepped out onto her porch. She was clutching a white lace handkerchief in her hand. She appeared to be around eighty years old and was as thin as a lightning rod.

"We had some excitement while you were away."

"You did?" Laurant called back. She went to her neighbor’s picket fence and waited to hear what happened.

"Don’t make me shout, dear," Bessie Jean gently chided. "Come over here and bring that young man with you."

"Yes, ma’am."

"She wants to know who you are," she whispered.

Nick grabbed Laurant’s hand and whispered back, "Show time."

"Lovey-dovey stuff?"

"You got that right, babe." And with that, he leaned down and lightly kissed her.

Bessie Jean Vanderman stood on her porch, taking it all in. Her eyes were as wide as saucers as she watched the smiling couple.

The picket fence ran the perimeter of the front yard. Nick let go of Laurant’s hand to open the gate. As he followed her down the cement walk and up the stairs to the porch, he noticed another elderly woman peeking out at him through the screen. It was dark inside the house and the woman’s face was cast in shadows.

"What was the excitement?" Laurant asked.

"A hooligan broke into your house." Bessie Jean lowered her voice, as if sharing a confidence, and leaned toward Laurant. "I called the sheriff and demanded that he come right over and investigate. I don’t believe there were any arrests made. The sheriff left the hooligan inside and went running to his car. That was certainly a sight to see. He didn’t have the good manners to come and tell me what was happening. You’d best see if anything’s missing." She straightened up and backed away to get a full view of Nick. "Now who is this handsome man standing so close to you? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him in Holy Oaks before."

Laurant quickly made the introductions, but Bessie Jean Vanderman took her time sizing him up. This one doesn’t miss a thing, he thought, spotting the shrewdness in her clear green eyes.

"And what is it you do, Mr. Buchanan?"

"I’m with the FBI, ma’am."

Bessie Jean’s hand flew to her throat. She appeared startled for about two seconds, then recovered. "Why didn’t you say so in the first place? I’d like to see your badge, young man."

Nick produced his identification and handed it to her. She gave the badge only a cursory glance before handing it back.

"You took your sweet time."

"Excuse me?"

The criticism was there in her brisk tone when she responded "Sister and I don’t like to be kept waiting."

Nick didn’t have the faintest idea what she was talking about, and he could tell from Laurant’s puzzled expression that she didn’t have a clue either.

Bessie Jean pulled the screen door open. "I don’t see any reason to waste any more time. Come on inside and you can get started investigating."

"What exactly is it that you want me to investigate?" he asked as he followed Laurant.

Bessie Jean’s sister was waiting for them. Laurant again made the introductions. Viola took off her glasses and tucked them in the pocket of her apron as she came forward to shake his hand. She was shorter, rounder, and a much softer version of her sister.

"We waited and waited," she said. She patted Nick’s hand before she let go. "I’d almost given up on you, but Bessie Jean never lost faith. She was just certain her letter was misplaced, and that’s why she wrote another one."

"It’s not like the FBI to drag their feet," Bessie Jean said. "That’s why I knew my letter must have been lost in the mail. I wrote a second letter then, and when I still didn’t hear-"

"She wrote to the director himself," Viola explained.

Bessie Jean led the way into the living room. It was cool and dark and smelled of cinnamon and vanilla. One of them had been doing some baking, and his stomach rumbled in response. He was hungrier than he’d realized.

Dinner would have to wait. It took his eyes a second to adjust to the darkness, then Viola opened the front window curtains, and he was squinting again. The room was cluttered with antiques. Directly ahead of him was the fireplace. The mantel was lined with candles, and above was a huge oil painting of a gray-haired dog sitting on a burgundy cushion. The animal appeared to be cross-eyed.

Bessie Jean ushered Nick and Laurant to the Victorian sofa, then removed the needlepoint pillow from the wicker rocker and sat down, crossing one ankle over the other as she’d been trained to do by her mother. Her posture was so stiff, she could have balanced a couple of encyclopedias on her head.

"Get your pad out, dear," she ordered.

Nick barely heard her. His attention had been arrested by all the photos cluttering the tables and the walls. The subject was the same in every one of the silver frames-the dog-a schnauzer he guessed, or maybe a mixed breed.

Laurant touched his arm to get his attention and said, "Bessie Jean and Viola wrote to the FBI for help in solving a mystery."

"Not a mystery, dear," Viola corrected. "We know exactly what happened." She was sitting in a big floral print easy chair and was busy repinning the doily on one of the arms.

"Yes, we know what happened," Bessie Jean agreed with a nod.

"Why don’t you give him the particulars, Sister."

"He doesn’t have his pad and pen out yet."

Viola got up and went into the dining room while Nick patted his pockets, looking for a pad he knew he didn’t have. It was in the car with his folders.

The sister came back with a pink notebook about the size of a pocket calculator and a pink pen with a purple feather sticking out from the end.

"You may use this," she said.

"Thank you. Now tell me what this is all about?"

"The director was remiss in not telling you what your assignment was," Bessie Jean said. "You’re here to investigate a murder."

"Excuse me?"

Bessie Jean patiently repeated her announcement. Viola nodded. "Someone murdered Daddy."

"Daddy was a family pet," Laurant explained with a nod toward the oil painting looming over them.

"Daddy was named after our daddy, the colonel," Viola added.

To his credit, Nick didn’t smile. "I see."

"We demand justice," Viola told him

Bessie Jean was frowning at Nick. "Young man, I don’t mean to criticize…"

"Yes, ma’am?"

"I’ve just never heard of a law officer not having a pad and pen. That gun clipped to your belt is loaded, isn’t it?"

"Yes, ma’am, it is."

Bessie Jean was satisfied. Having a gun was important in her opinion because, once he caught the culprit, he might very well have to shoot him.

"Have the local authorities looked into the matter?" Nick asked.

"Not a matter, dear. It was murder," Viola corrected.

"We called Sheriff L.A. right away, but he won’t do anything to help us find the criminal," Bessie Jean explained.

Viola, wishing to be helpful, interjected, "That’s Lard Ass, dear. Now write it down."

Nick couldn’t decide which was more jarring-a pet named Daddy or a sweet old lady using the words lard ass.

"Why don’t you tell me exactly what happened."

Bessie Jean gave her sister a relieved glance and then began. "We believe Daddy was poisoned, but we can’t be absolutely certain. We kept him chained to the big oak in the front yard off and on during the day and sometimes into the evening on bingo night so he could take in the fresh air."

"We have a fence, but Daddy could jump it, so we had to use the chain," Viola explained. "Are you writing that down, dear?"

"Yes, ma’am."

"Daddy was in the best of health," Bessie Jean told him.

"He was only ten and in his prime," Viola supplied.

"His water bowl was completely turned over," Bessie Jean said as she rocked back and forth, fanning herself with her handkerchief.

"And Daddy could never have managed to turn that bowl over, because it was weighted down so he couldn’t."

Bessie Jean nodded again. "That’s right. Daddy was clever, but he couldn’t get his nose under that bowl."

"Someone had to have turned the bowl over," Viola said emphatically.

"We think poison was added to his water, and then after poor Daddy took a big drink, the culprit got rid of the evidence."

"We know how he got rid of it too," Viola announced. "He threw the poisoned water into my impatiens," Viola said. "He killed my beautiful flowers. They were in glorious bloom one day and shriveled up and brown the next. They looked like someone had poured acid on them."

A bell started ringing in the back of the house. Viola struggled to get out of the chair. "If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get my buns out of the oven. Could I get you anything while I’m up?"

"No, thank you," Laurant said.

Nick was busy writing on his pad. He looked up and said, "I could use a glass of water."

"We often take a gin and tonic in an evening," Viola said. "It’s quite refreshing on such hot humid days. Would you like one?"

"Water will do," he answered.

"He’s on duty, Sister. He can’t drink."

Nick didn’t contradict her. He finished making a note to himself and then asked, "Did the dog bark at strangers?"

"Oh my, yes," Bessie Jean answered. "He was a wonderful watchdog. He was quite persnickety about letting strangers get near the house. He barked at everyone. Why, he took exception to anyone who walked down the street."

The topic of the dog was obviously still distressing to Bessie Jean. As she talked about him, she gradually increased the pace of her rocking. Nick half expected her to fling herself out of the chair.

"There are some strangers in town now, working up at the abbey. Three men moved into the old Morrison house across the street and are renting it while they’re here," she said. "And two more moved in with the Nicholsons at the other end of the block."

"Daddy wasn’t partial to any of them," Viola interjected from the dining room. She carried a glass of ice water across the room to the coffee table and set it on a napkin she pulled from her pocket.

Nick was rapidly getting the idea that Daddy wasn’t partial to anyone.

"Those Catholics are always in such a rush," Bessie Jean remarked. She had obviously forgotten that Laurant was Catholic and that her brother was a priest. "They’re an impatient lot if you ask me. They want to get the renovations completed on the abbey so it will be ready for the open house during the July Fourth celebration."

"It’s the abbey’s anniversary celebration as well," Viola said.

Bessie Jean realized they were getting away from the investigation. "We had the doctor put Daddy in the freezer so you could oversee the autopsy. Are you getting all this down on your pad?"

"Yes, ma’am, I am," Nick assured her. "Please go on."

"Just yesterday I received a bill from the doctor for cremation services. I was thunderstruck, and I called him up right away. I was certain there had been a mistake."

"The dog was cremated?"

Bessie Jean dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief and then began to fan herself again. "Yes, he was. The doctor told me that my nephew had called him and told him we’d changed our minds and to go ahead and cremate poor Daddy."

The rocking chair was really moving now, the floor creaking beneath it.

"And the vet followed those instructions without consulting you?"

"Yes, he did," Viola said. "It just never occurred to him to check with us first."

"Your nephew-"

"But that’s just it," Bessie Jean cried out. "We don’t have any nephews."

"If you ask me, the culprit wanted to get rid of the evidence," Viola said. "Isn’t that right?"

"It would seem so," he agreed. "I’d like to look at those flowers."

"Oh, you can’t do that, dear," Viola said. "Justin helped me dig out the roots and plant new flowers. He saw me out there, down on my knees, struggling so, and even after the hard day he’d put in doing carpentry work up at the abbey, he was kind enough to come over and help me. I simply can’t keep up with the yard anymore."

"And who is Justin?"

"Justin Brady," Bessie Jean answered, impatiently. "I do believe I already mentioned him."

"No, you didn’t," Viola said. "You told Nicholas that three workmen moved into the Morrison house and two others lived with the Nicholsons. You didn’t say their names. I heard every word you said as clear as a bell."

"Well, I meant to," Bessie Jean replied. "I’ve only met the three across the street. There’s Justin Brady. He’s the only one we like."

"Because he helped me," Viola said. "And then there’s Mark Hanover and Willie Lakeman. They were all sitting on the porch steps together drinking beer, and all of them saw me struggling, but Justin’s the only one who crossed the street to help me. The other two kept on drinking."

"Well, young man, do you believe Daddy was murdered, or do you think we’re just a couple of dotty old ladies making up stories?"

"Based on what you’ve told me, and assuming that it’s accurate, I agree that your dog was killed," Nick said.

Laurant’s eyes widened. "You do?"

"Yes," he answered.

Bessie Jean clasped her hands together. She was elated. "I knew the FBI wouldn’t fail me. Now tell me, Nicholas, what are you prepared to do about it?"

"I’m going to look into this myself. Some samples of the soil where those flowers were planted would help. And the water bowl… you do still have it, don’t you?"

"Yes, we do," Viola said. "It’s packed away in the garage with all of Daddy’s favorite toys."

"Will you keep us apprised of developments?" Bessie Jean asked.

"I most certainly will. You didn’t happen to wash that water bowl, did you?"

"I don’t believe we did," Viola said. "We were so upset, we just put it away so we wouldn’t be… reminded."

"Viola wanted to take the painting down and pack up the pictures, but I wouldn’t let her do it. It’s a comfort having Daddy smiling down at us."

In unison, everyone paused to look up at the oil painting. While Nick was wondering how the women could tell that the dog was smiling, Laurant was pondering how the sisters could feel such affection for the nasty-tempered animal that snapped at everyone who came into the yard. He’d bitten so many people, the vet kept his shot record posted on the waiting room bulletin board.

"We do hope the culprit turns out to be someone from outside our peaceful valley. We don’t like to think that one of our own could do such a terrible thing," Viola said.

"I wouldn’t put such cruelty past the sheriff’s boy. Lonnie’s always been trouble. The boy’s got a real mean streak inside him that runs deep. He gets it from his father, of course."

"He’s a sneaky one all right. His mother passed on several years ago. I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but she was a mousy woman. She didn’t have any backbone at all, not even when she was a young girl. She was a whiner too, wasn’t she, Bessie Jean?"

"My yes, she was."

"You said there were a lot of strangers in town," Nick said. "Have you noticed anyone hanging around your house or Laurant’s?"

"I spend a good deal of my time sitting on my porch and I will occasionally look out the windows at night, just to make certain things are as right as they should be. Except for the man I saw going into Laurant’s house yesterday, I haven’t noticed anyone in the yard or lurking about. Like I said before, most of the strangers are workmen helping out at the abbey. Some of them come from as far away as Nebraska and Kansas."

She planted both feet on the floor and brought the rocker to an abrupt stop. Leaning toward Nick and Laurant expectantly, she asked, "You’ll stay to supper?"

"It’s macaroni night," Viola announced as she pushed against the cushions with both hands to raise herself out of the low chair and then headed for the kitchen. "Macaroni and brisket and homemade cinnamon rolls, and I’ll make company salad."

"We don’t want to put you to any trouble," Laurant protested.

"We’d love to join you," Nick said at the same time.

"Laurant, why don’t you help Sister, and I’ll keep Nicholas company," Bessie Jean suggested.

"Come and set the table, dear," Viola said. "We’ll eat in the kitchen, but we’ll use the Spode."

Bessie Jean didn’t waste any time. As soon as Laurant disappeared, she leaned even farther out of the rocker and demanded to know how Nick and Laurant had become so friendly.

He’d been waiting for the opportunity. In the barest of details, he told her about his friendship with Tommy and how he had been called in to help when a man came into the confessional and threatened to harm Laurant.

"The unfortunate incident brought us together," he explained. "Our experts are all in agreement that the man was just a blowhard out to get some kicks. You know the kind. He wants to scare people, to stir up things and cause trouble. He wants attention, that’s all. They figure he’s not real bright. He probably has a low IQ," he added, "and is most likely impotent."

Bessie Jean blushed. "Impotent, you say?"

"Yes, ma’am. That’s what they figure he is."

"Then you didn’t come here to investigate Daddy’s murder?"

He’d wondered how long it would take her to figure that out. "No, but I’m going to look into it all the same," he promised.

She sat back in the rocker. "Tell me a bit about your background, Nicholas."

She wouldn’t let him skim over it. She drilled him with the experrise of a master interrogator. She wanted to know everything about his family too.

Laurant saved him by appearing in the doorway and calling them to dinner. Nick followed Bessie Jean into the kitchen. The delicate flowered china rested on a white linen tablecloth that almost completely covered the chrome legs of the kitchen table. Nick charmed the ladies with his gentlemanly manners by rushing to pull out their chairs for them. They beamed with pleasure.

Company salad turned out to be a square of lime Jell-O nestled on a bed of iceberg lettuce with a dab of mayonnaise on top. He hated Jell-O, but he ate it anyway so he wouldn’t hurt their feelings, and while he was gulping it down, Bessie Jean filled Viola in on the incident that occurred in Kansas City.

"The things people will do for attention these days. Terrible, just terrible. Father Tom must have been very upset."

"Oh, he was," Laurant said. "He wasn’t sure what to do, so he called Nick for help."

"Something good came out of it," Nick said. He winked at Laurant across the table and added, "I finally met Tommy’s sister."

"And you were taken with her, weren’t you?" Bessie Jean nodded, as though stating a foregone conclusion.

"Of course he was," Viola said. "She’s the prettiest girl in Holy Oaks."

"It was love at first sight," he told them, casting an adoring look at Laurant. "I didn’t believe in that stuff until it happened to me."

"And you, Laurant?" Viola asked. "Was it love at first sight for you as well?"

"Yes, it was," she answered breathlessly.

"How romantic," Viola said. "Don’t you think it’s romantic, Bessie Jean?"

"Of course it’s romantic," Bessie Jean said. "But sometimes fires that start fast burn out fast. I wouldn’t want our Laurant to get her heart broken. Do you understand what I’m saying, Nicholas?"

"Yes, ma’am, I do, but it isn’t like that."

"Then tell me, what are your intentions?"

"I’m going to marry her."

Viola and Bessie Jean looked at each other and then burst into laughter.

"Are you thinking what I’m thinking, Sister?" Bessie Jean chuckled.

"I’m just sure I am." Viola gave her sister a knowing smile.

"This is thrilling news," Bessie Jean announced. "I assume Father Tom has given his blessing?"

"Yes, he has," Laurant replied. "He’s very happy for us." Laurant and Nick looked at each other, puzzled by the ladies’ laughter.

"Nicholas, we weren’t laughing over your wonderful news. It’s just…" Viola began.

"Steve Brenner," Bessie Jean supplied. "He’s going to have a tantrum when he finds out about you two. Oh my, yes, and I do so hope Sister and I are there to see it happen. Mr. Brenner has grand plans for you, Laurant."

"I’ve never even gone out with the man, and I don’t believe I did anything to encourage his attention."

"He’s infatuated, dear," Viola explained.

"No, he’s obsessed," Bessie Jean corrected. "You’re the prettiest girl in Holy Oaks, so he’s got to have you. He thinks that having the best of everything will make him the best man in town. That’s why he bought the big old house over on Sycamore. If you ask me, Mr. Brenner’s nothing but a big old rooster, strutting around town." She turned to Nick. "He thinks he can take anything he wants, including your Laurant."

"Then he’s in for a surprise, isn’t he?" Nick asked.

Bessie Jean smiled. "My, yes, he is," she agreed. "You may have noticed that Sister and I don’t have a high opinion of the man."

Nick laughed. "I noticed."

"Everyone else likes him just fine," Viola said. "We know why too. Mr. Brenner donates money to all the local charities, and that makes people appreciative. He isn’t a bad-looking fellow either. He has a nice head of hair."

Bessie Jean scowled disdainfully. "I’m not so easily impressed. I don’t care for showy people, and Mr. Brenner throws money around like it’s grass seed. I’m going to lose my appetite if we keep talking about him. Now, Laurant, is your engagement official, or do you want us to keep quiet about it? We can keep a secret when we have to," she assured her.

"You may tell anyone you want to tell. Nick and I are going to be looking for an engagement ring tomorrow or the day after." She was brimming with excitement as she put her hand out and wiggled her fingers. "I don’t want anything too big."

"Don’t forget to put the announcement in the paper. I could help you with that," Bessie Jean suggested.

From the eagerness in Bessie Jean’s voice and the glint in her eyes, Laurant knew she was dying to give the news to her friend’s daughter, Lorna Hamburg, who just happened to be the editor of the society page.

"I could ring Lorna up right after supper."

"That would be very helpful," Laurant agreed.

"Should I mention the problem in Kansas City?"

Laurant wasn’t sure and looked at Nick who quickly answered. "Of course you should mention it. The editor will probably want to know all the details of how we met. Right, sweetheart?"

The endearment wasn’t planned. It just slipped out, and he was more surprised than she appeared to be.

"Yes, darling. I think Bessie Jean should also tell Little Lorna that the FBI experts have concluded that they’re dealing with a man who’s obviously disturbed… and inferior."

"Oh, she’ll be sure to tell Little Lorna everything," Viola said. She passed the platter of brisket to Nick, insisting that he take a second helping. Nick pushed his chair back, patted his full stomach, and told her that he couldn’t eat another bite.

"There are so many disturbed people in the world today," Bessie Jean remarked with a shake of her head. "It will be a comfort to know an FBI agent is close by."

"Where exactly will you be staying?" Viola asked.

"With Laurant," he answered. "She’s a strong woman, and she can take care of herself, but I want to be there to help make sure she’s safe from men like Steve Brenner and anyone else who thinks he’s going to bother her."

The sisters both raised their eyebrows and shared a look that Nick couldn’t interpret. He’d said something they didn’t like, but he didn’t know what it was.

Bessie Jean put her fork down, pushed her plate back, then folded her hands on the table and collected her thoughts for a moment before turning to look directly at Laurant.

"Dear, I’m going to be blunt. I know a thing or two about raging hormones in young bodies. I may be old and set in my ways, but I keep up with the changing times by watching my stories on the television. Now, you don’t have a mother or a father to guide you. Oh, I know you’re an adult, but you still need someone who’s older and wiser to counsel you every now and then. Every young woman does. Sister and I have grown quite fond of you, and with that fondness conies worry. Now, I’m going to ask you straight out. While Nicholas is busy protecting you from other men, how do you propose to protect yourself from him?"

"She’s talking about your virtue, dear," Viola said.

"We’ve made a commitment to one another," Nick began. "I won’t do anything… dishonorable… and neither will Laurant."

"People will talk, but they’ll do it behind your backs," Viola told him.

"They’ll talk anyway," Bessie Jean said. "The best intentions sometimes get pushed to the side of the road in the heat of the moment. Do you understand what I’m saying?"

Laurant opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She shot Nick a pleading look.

"Get to the point, Bessie Jean," Viola urged as she folded her napkin neatly on the table and stood.

"All right then, I will," she said, delicately dabbing at the corners of her mouth with her napkin. "Safe sex, Nicholas."

"Yes, dear," Viola agreed. She circled the table, collecting the plates. "We want you to practice safe sex… shall we have dessert?"