Love Can Be Murder

toward the back entrance.
    "Okay?" he asked, on her heels. "That's all you have to say?"
    "Okay, Detective. "
    "That's better," he said, lowering another kiss on her mouth. At the sound of a throat being cleared, they pulled apart.
    Mr. Nealy stood on his front porch, broom at the ready. "Nice day," he said, but his mouth was pulled down in a disapproving frown.
    "Hi, Mr. Nealy—you remember Joe Capistrano?"
    "Yes," he chirped. "Hello, young man."
    "Hello, sir." He leaned close to her ear. "He hates me."
    "Shut up," she whispered. "Mr. Nealy, I have a table that I'd like to give to you—can I bring it over?"
    "Sure," he said, a bit more cheerfully.
    Inside her kitchen, boxes were stacked on the floor, packed with the few clothes, dishes, and other belongings she owned. She walked over to a wooden telephone stand with claw-and-ball feet. "I found it in an antique shop," she said. "I think Mr. Nealy will like it."
    "Want me to carry it over?"
    "No, I got it."
    Her neighbor was holding open the back door of his duplex when she went out. She held up the table. "What do you think?"
    He finally smiled. "I'm sure I can find some use for it in here. Thank you, Roxann."
    She stepped inside, immediately assailed with the smell of cedar and mothballs and loneliness. His belongings were meager, but neat.
    "Just set it down over there by the bookcase."
    She did and complimented his book collection. "My dad is a bit of a collector, too," she said, then stopped when a familiar spine caught her eye.
    Anger sparked in her stomach. She slid out a copy of Mac Tomlin, Gumshoe and gave Mr. Nealy a pointed look. She turned to page 124 and read, " 'I've got your number, you fake.' " Then she closed the book with a thud and looked up. "Sound familiar, Mr. Nealy?"
    "N-no," he stammered, red-faced.
    She planted her hands on her hips. "You broke into my place and left that message?"
    He held up his hands. "I didn't break in—I used the key you gave me for emergencies. I did not break in."
    "You ransacked my stuff!"
    "I only moved things around a little, and I was careful not to break anything."
    "I was frightened to death!"
    He looked long-faced and apologetic. "I just wanted to scare you a teensy bit, just so you might come over and..."
    " Ask you for help?"
    "Well, yes."
    She shook her head. "I don't believe this."
    "Please don't tell the police," he begged. "I was just so lonely, Roxann."
    "And you're going to stay lonely if you don't stop manipulating people—what you did was a terrible thing." She stuck out her hand. "Give me back my key."
    He removed it from his front shirt pocket and placed it in her palm. She poked her tongue into her cheek, not even wanting to think about how often he'd been over there when she wasn't.
    "I'm sorry," he said. "I just wanted a friend."
    She sighed. "Mr. Nealy, you need a friend who's a little closer to your age."
    "I don't know anyone."
    She drew mightily on her patience. "Go down to Rigby's Diner and ask to sit in Helen's section. And be nice. If you're lucky, she might go out with you." She shook her finger. "But don't you ever do anything like this again."
    "I won't," he said.
    She slowly walked back to her duplex, marveling that the antics of one old man could have unleashed such pandemonium in her life. Proof, she realized, of the power her deep-seated guilt had had over her life.
    Capistrano was leaning over the counter when she walked in. "You're not going to believe—" She stopped when she saw he was marking through something on a piece of yellow legal paper. "What are you doing?"
    He grinned and held up the life list she'd once crumpled. It had been ironed flat. "I found this in the items the police returned and thought you should keep it."
    He had discreetly crossed through number thirty-three with a black marker. She smiled. "Thank you." Then she stopped. "Hey, wait, someone crossed off number one—backpack across Europe."
    "Sounds like a great honeymoon to me."
    She vaulted into his arms and checked her watch. "Right now, it's seven p.m. in London."
    "Wait a minute," he said with a frown. "You did agree to marry me, didn't you?"
    She pulled away and rummaged in one of the boxes until she came up with her Magic 8 Ball. She closed her eyes and held the toy reverently. "Should I marry the great Detective Joe Capistrano and live as his sex slave for the next forty—"
    "Fifty."
    "—fifty years?" She opened her eyes and turned over the toy.
    Yes, definitely.

    The End

Book 4: Bump in the