Invitation to a Murder: State of the Murder Mystery, #1

By Esther Luttrell

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Esther Luttrell crafts a chilling tale of murder and suspense in this Missouri State of the Murder mystery.

Dena Brooke receives a frantic call from Doug Stafford, her best friend's husband, begging her to fly halfway across the country to be with him and his wife, Ginny, in their darkest hour—their son has been brutally murdered. Doug has no way of knowing that by accepting, Dena has put her own life in danger. A deranged killer is suddenly stalking Dena, but why? And why was the son's apartment ransacked if he was killed in a random drive-by shooting as police say? With Ginny spiraling into an emotional breakdown, Dena is in a life-or-death situation with no one to turn to. This State of the Murder mystery grabs you up and whirls you into a breathtakingly twisted and heart-stopping finale.

"Action, suspense, romance, and a lot of raw human emotion. The author did an amazing job of portraying the grief mother of the murdered boy, an anguish that bordered on madness. The behind-the-scenes look into the making of a movie was an added bonus. I'd recommend this to anyone who enjoys a multi-layered murder whodunit that keeps the reader guessing till the very end." - Laurie Hananton, 4-star review. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Esther Luttrell
• Release date: Feb 28, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386862895

Esther Luttrell

Esther Luttrell began her career writing educational films for Ivy League college psychology departments. She later participated in a PhD grant at the UMKC-Columbia as campus filmmaker. When the grant ended, she moved to the west coast where she became executive assistant to the VP of MGM-TV. She also wrote and produced television programs and feature films. A move to Topeka, Kansas in 2003 began a new career as the writer of mystery novels. However, it was her spiritual journey following the death of her son that inspired her to write "Between Heaven & Earth, Proof Beyond Doubt that Life and Love are Eternal". Her latest book of inspiration, "Evidence of God", is intended for those who feels their prayers have gone unanswered or are on the verge of losing faith. She lives in Topeka, Kansas with way too many cats.

Book preview

1

I live in Ft. Meyers, Florida, in a white frame bungalow on the beach and there isn’t much that can lure me away. Except maybe a nearly hysterical call from my best friend’s husband who had no way of knowing he was putting my life in jeopardy by asking me to fly halfway across the country. I sometimes wonder if I would have jumped on the next plane headed toward Topeka, Kansas if I’d had any idea of the danger that lay ahead. The answer is always the same. Sure I would.

2

Jordan Lamar Stafford was murdered in the wee hours of the morning after his mother’s forty-fifth birthday party. According to his father, he’d been alone, walking along his neighborhood street, only a block or so from his apartment, when a shot rang out, finding its mark in Jordan’s temple. Later, the question of what he was doing on a deserted street at that hour would come up. But not yet. The loss was too abrupt, the pain too intense, for the family to be troubled by those kinds of details.

Jordan was twenty-three years old, co-owner of a thriving Kansas City landscape business, and a darn likeable kid. I know. I met his parents when we worked together on a terrible movie out in Los Angeles two years before. Jordan’s mom, Ginny, was the film’s production designer. His dad, Doug, was location manager. Me? I wrote the silly story. Not the screenplay, the novel it was taken from. But that’s another tale for another time.

Ginny and Doug made good on their promise, or their threat, depending on your point of view about today’s film industry, to retire and return to their Topeka, Kansas roots. Right now, racing cross-country to be at Ginny’s side, my mind was on what I might be able to offer when I got there Doug was in the waiting area at the Kansas City International Airport when I arrived. The face I remembered as round and jovial, was dragged down by trenches that looked freshly dug. When I cleared the security ropes, he grabbed me in a fierce bear hug. Thank God you’re here, he said. When he finally let go, he met my eyes with a look I read as more embarrassed than grateful. Here, he said, grabbing my carry-on bag. Let me get that.

I handed over the luggage and tucked my arm through his as we weaved through the crowded lobby, toward an exit. I didn’t remember Doug being particularly demonstrative, so it surprised me when he patted my hand with his free one, and gave it a squeeze.

Streetlamps were clicking on by the time Doug paid the parking lot attendant and pulled his Jeep Cherokee onto a road that finally put us on I-70 West. I half expected him to pour out the story of what had been going on since word of Jordan’s death, but he was grimly silent. During the flight, I’d thought of a few hundred questions I wanted to ask, but I decided to hold them and let Doug talk first. Whenever he was ready.

It was one of those awkward times in life when it feels as if it’s all a part of some staged play. It was too dramatic, too unreal, to know what to say or how to say it. I felt awkward, even tongue-tied. I don’t think Doug noticed, lost as he was in his own troubled thoughts.

If the situation had been other than what it was, I would have taken in the landscape with a different eye. I’d have noticed green, rolling pastures and silhouettes of cattle on distant hills, images I’d only seen in movies and magazine photographs. Now I couldn’t get past what was in my mind’s eye—Jordan on a foggy, pre-dawn, street getting his brain shot out. I tried to shake away the mental image, but couldn’t quite manage.

Doug frowned into the gathering darkness, concentrating on a freeway nearly empty of traffic. I glanced at him, looked away again. My questions were still on hold. The silence was agonizing until he finally said, I ‘preciate you doing this, Dena.

I couldn’t think of a response, so I said, How is she? He knew I was talking about Ginny.

Doug’s massive shoulders hunched up then dropped down. Like I said on the phone, she won’t talk to anybody. She just lays in bed staring at the ceiling. Not even sleeping. Just staring. I don’t know what to do. Mom doesn’t know what to do. Nobody knows what the hell to do.

I looked out the window without seeing what was out there. My husband died in a boating accident, four years earlier. I had to wonder if that pain was similar to what a parent feels when they lose a child. Especially a son doctors told Ginny she could never have.

How do we get past this, Dena? How’d you do it?

I could have told him that I didn’t get past it. I could have said that the gaping hole in their life would eventually be filled by time. But the ache would never completely go away.

I didn’t say that. What I said was, We just live through it, like they say, one day at a time. Nothing like a good ‘ol cliché when you don’t have a clue how to offer anything of substance. Is Lillian holding up? Jordan’s death couldn’t be easy for his teen sister.

That kid’s been a rock. Did Ginny tell you she started working with me a couple of weeks ago?

No. That’s good.

Got her on as production assistant.

Doug had been hired as location manager on a movie being filmed in the nearby town of Paxico, wherever that might be. I would like to have heard how the picture was coming along, but it didn’t seem like the right time to go into it, so we fell into another uncomfortable silence. I couldn’t even venture a guess as to what Doug was thinking. Probably about Jordan. Or Ginny. Or maybe he was just trying to grit his way through the pain, with his thoughts in a free-fall.

It wasn’t until we passed a Topeka 28 miles sign that he finally said, Jordan had everything going for him, you know? His new business turned a profit the first year. Now, that’s damn impressive. Landscaping’s a tough game. Lots of competition. But he didn’t let that slow him down. No sir. Doug tried to smile, but it didn’t stay put. Independent little cuss. He glanced at me. Like his dad.

I nodded an inane nod. The questions I wanted to ask vanished. I couldn’t recall a single one of them. To fill the void, I mentally tallied up what I knew about the situation to this point.

Jordan was killed early Monday morning. Yesterday morning. The family wasn’t informed, though, until around four in the afternoon. Doug said on the phone the police were convinced it was a random thing, a drive-by shooting without motive or purpose. There were no suspects and no eyewitnesses. I wasn’t sure how authorities could be certain there were no suspects when the murder happened less than forty-eight hours ago, but then I don’t know a lot about police procedure. Surely there would be an investigation. Who knew what would turn up eventually? The fact the shooting happened predawn didn’t preclude someone from having gotten out of bed for a drink of water and hearing something outside their window. Maybe that person glanced out and saw something.

There was nothing anyone could do now, though, but wait.

3

Topeka streets were pretty much empty. They reminded me of an untouched page in a children’s coloring book. I wondered if it was bleak because of the hour, or if it was always like that.

If the clock on the dashboard was right, it was five of eight. I stifled a yawn and rested my head on the back of the seat. The sun had disappeared, leaving purple islands in an orange sky. Mountains of cloud pulled fingers of lavender over a city that seemed oddly hushed. I stared at a sickle of moon, feeling lost and out of place. I was used to surf at my back door and a scent of salt in the air. Doug had put the windows down during the drive. I thought I detected a hint of earth, the smell that comes from freshly tilled ground. Sure. Like I know the scent of freshly tilled ground. Till the ground in Florida and you get a canal.

Doug was still lost in a world of his own. I scratched around in my brain for something to say, but it seemed like it would be a terrible intrusion to force him into conversation, so I kept quiet. In the hour and ten minutes we’d been on the road, we had exchanged only a couple dozen words.

Too bad you couldn’t have seen it the way it was in the sixties, Doug said, breaking the silence. I was just a kid. Rode my bike all over the place. Town was friendly, shoppers out day and night. His nod indicated dark buildings as we moved along downtown Sixth Street. Not much different from what’s happening all over the country. Movie houses are gone, family-run hardware stores, cafes. Everything’s out on the highway now.

I didn’t remind him that we just came from the highway and I hadn’t seen any businesses there either. As if reading my thoughts, he added, Over on the west side. Walmart, chain restaurants. You know the story.

I knew the sad story of a declining, mini-mart mentality America all too well. I saw it in California while I was working on the movie, and I watched it swallow up Florida. The mangroves I’d loved as a kid were pumped out now and filled with enough substance to support the weight of gaudy pink condo’s and cookie-cutter houses. I wondered how snowbirds would feel if they knew just a few feet under their plush Florida digs, alligators swam and mated and continued to thrive despite land developer’s best efforts to extinguish them.

Doug lapsed back into silence. An imposing structure, with a lime green dome, dominated the horizon to my right. I recognized the State Capitol building from pictures. I craned my neck to glimpse the famous statue of an Indian at its upper point, bathed in light and aiming an arrow toward the sky. Doug said, without taking his eyes from the road, "Ad Astra Per Aspera. Latin. It means to the stars through difficulty. The state motto."

I wondered how the stars were going to help this Topeka family through their difficulty.

When we reached Lane Avenue Doug crossed a creek, passed a row of businesses—all but one of them boarded over—across from a lovely old church. The kind no one attends anymore. Then we drove through a neighborhood filled with tiny frame houses set on plots of ground more weeds and dirt than lawn. A couple of blocks later, he turned onto Woodlawn Avenue.

Flowering shrubs, towering trees and a rainbow of blossoms filled the interior of a traffic circle visible by the light from two old-fashioned lampposts at its center. Victorian houses lined both sides of the red-brick street. It was hard to believe this pocket of charm was jammed next to urban blight, practically in the shadow of the Capital building.

Potwin, Doug said, reading my expression. A railroad man by that name bought up this parcel when the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe lines were at their peak. It was a rich little town back then. Being from the east, he never even set foot in Kansas, so far as I know. To him it was just a good investment. He had these places built for the railroad elite. You should see it at Christmas time. Jordan and I spend from Thanksgiving till about second week in December getting our place— His voice broke. He had referred to Jordan in present tense. It must have hit him mid-sentence there would be no more Thanksgivings spent getting the place ready for Christmas. I wanted to reach out and put my hand on his, but I held back.

Finally, he pulled into the driveway of a powder-blue, three-story Victorian trimmed in white gingerbread, and came to a stop beside a bay window on the south side of the house. A sliver of kitchen was visible between white crisscross curtains.

Almost every window in the place glowed invitingly, like a Thomas Kincaid painting.

He turned off the ignition and opened the door on the driver’s side, I’ll get your suitcase.

I’ve got it. I was already on my feet and hoisting my one piece of luggage from the backseat. I hitched up my shoulder bag and followed him along a walk that led to a wrap-around porch. When we reached the side door, Doug fished around in his pocket until he found his key ring.

I tried not to gawk when we stepped inside, but it was the first time I’d ever seen a mudroom with a stained-glass window and a chandelier. Mine in Florida took itself much less seriously. It was almost always filled with mud. And sand fleas. And wet beach towels.

He led us along a hallway that ended where a wide staircase swept up to a second floor. The kitchen was to our right. As we passed, I glimpsed a black-and-white tiled floor and a red leather booth under a window that probably overlooked the back yard. The scent of coffee was delicious.

Lillian? Doug called. To me, he said, Just set your bag down here for now. Lillian will show you to your room in a bit.

Dena!

Doug and Ginny’s daughter was one of those teenagers who can look twelve with no make-up and twenty-five when she’s all dolled up. Tonight she looked like what she was—a heartbroken nineteen-year-old. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. Her hair—dark brown streaked with strands of midnight blue—probably hadn’t seen a comb since morning.

Oh my goodness, she said, giving me a hug. Daddy and I are so glad you’re here.

Anything new? Doug glanced toward the stairs to the second floor.

Lillian shook her head. She told me to go away, but she still won’t open the door.

Well, Doug grunted, at least she’s talking to you.

A broad-shouldered fellow, with blonde hair cut into a ducktail, appeared in an archway that separated the hall from a huge living room. Despite the 50’s hairstyle, he had the kind of clean-cut, all-American face young men don’t much have anymore.

Lillian reached for his hand, pulling him toward us. Dena, this is Patrick.

His grip was surprisingly strong. I’ve heard a lot about you.

Doug picked up my luggage. I’ll set this upstairs.

Hungry? Lillian asked.

I shook my head, Do you think I can see Ginny?

Not right now, Dena. If you aren’t too tired, we can talk in the living room. Patrick, would you bring us some coffee?

I followed her into a room that looked more like an elaborate movie set than someone’s living room. Lillian indicated a long white sofa. I sat down. She settled in on the far end, falling back into a pile of white throw pillows. It’s been a nightmare. None of us can believe it’s happening. I guess it hasn’t hit home yet. I keep thinking Jordan’s going to walk through the door any minute, laughing at the whole thing. Like its some big joke we all fell for. Her voice tightened and she swallowed hard, moving her gaze to the hardwood floor.

Your dad said it was a drive-by.

Lillian raised her eyes to meet mine and nodded. He was here for mom’s birthday Sunday afternoon. She pulled a pillow to her and hugged it tightly. Mom wanted him to stay the night, but he said he had an important meeting early Monday morning and couldn’t.

I invited him out to my place for a few beers with buddies from the film crew, Patrick said, coming into the room with a tray. He set it on a coffee table, handed one cup to Lillian, another to me, took the third one for himself and settled onto a footstool.

Lillian gave him a grateful glance. Jordan and Cody had tickets for some kind of jazz festival Sunday night.

Cody?

His partner in the landscape business, Patrick replied.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. If Jordan had spent the night in the family home, he wouldn’t have been murdered on a Kansas City street a few hours later. Even without spending the night, if he’d gone to Patrick’s get-together after Ginny’s party, the time frame would have been altogether different.

Doug said Ginny was at the gallery when she got the news. I knew Ginny had opened an art studio within the first few months of their move from California.

Lillian nodded. I guess you heard my grandmother, Dad’s mom, manages the place for her.

She told me.

Ordinarily Grandma would be there at that time of day, but she was at a meeting. They’re working on an important exhibit; she’s in charge of raising the funds. She speaks to women’s clubs here and over in Lawrence, trying to get their support That’s where she was when the police went to the studio.

You and your dad were at work?

Lillian started to answer, but moved her head up and down instead.

Patrick put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. We were out on location. Filming in somebody’s barn, miles from nowhere. Our cell phones had to be turned off, so we didn’t know anything about what had happened until almost an hour later.

Thank God Grandmother got back to the gallery a few minutes after the police left. She called a doctor friend and somehow managed to get Momma home. He met them here and gave Mom a sedative. The police finally got through to us, but you know how it is, Dena. No matter what’s happening, you can’t just walk away from filming. It was nearly two hours before we could get here.

It’s been pretty rough, Patrick said.

Don’t you think I should go up and see her now?

Lillian and Patrick exchanged glances. Daddy told her you were coming, but I’m not sure she understood, or that he got through to her.

You mean there’s a chance she doesn’t even know I’m here?

She keeps the bedroom door locked and won’t let anyone in. We’re not sure what she hears and what she doesn’t. She won’t talk to us.

Patrick half-smiled. Except to tell you to go away.

Lillian nodded. Well, yeah. That. She got to her feet, pressing the heel of one hand against her back, arching it. Come on. Let’s see what’s going on.

Doug was in the upstairs hallway, sitting on a tall stool, in front of a closed door. She still won’t answer, he said when he saw us.

I rapped on the door. Ginny. It’s Dena. There was no answer. Are you sure she’s all right?

She must have fallen asleep, Lillian said, turning to me. She’d answer if she realized it’s you. I know she would.

I decided to give it another shot. Ginny? Can you open the door, honey?

Patrick put his arm around Lillian, but it was obvious he felt as helpless as the rest of us.

Poor kid, Doug said. I heard her in there walking around half the night. If she’s nodded off, she’s dead to the world.

Let’s let her rest, I said.

Lillian tucked her arm through her dad’s. Dena’s right. It’s getting late and you need to eat something. I’ll make sandwiches. How’s that sound?

Following them down the steps, I wondered about Jordan’s funeral arrangements. Film companies shooting on a distance location answer to a corporate office in Hollywood, a group of fat cats with huge egos and no interest in local problems, no matter how tragic. I put off asking until Lillian had pulled sandwich makings from the refrigerator and I’d put together a fresh pot of coffee.

Marty—that’s our director—is an old friend, Doug said. He worked around us today, but, well, tomorrow’s a different story. He opened a drawer and took out flatware for everyone. Then we scooted into the red leather booth, Doug and me on one side, Patrick and Lillian across from us. Mom’s snowed, with the exhibit coming up and all. My cousin lives in town, but she’s got a houseful of guests with more on the way. I’m sorry to drag you into this, Dena, but I honest-to-God didn’t know anybody else to turn to.

Production’s way behind, Lillian said, slathering mustard across a slice of bread.

Patrick added, A couple of days of bad weather threw the crew into a tailspin, and now this... His face flushed and he let the sentence go unfinished. He took a bit of his sandwich, washed it down with coffee. We don’t really have a choice. We have to be at work in the morning.

Doug stared at the food in front of him without interest. Like we keep telling each other, we’ll get through this. He sighed. We’ll get through this.

Oh. Did I mention Reverend Ketterman called? Lillian asked her father. Said he’d drop by to see Mom sometime tomorrow. She turned to me. He’s our minister.

Doug pressed his palms against his eyes. When he finally looked up, he said to Lillian, You know what I keep seeing in my mind? I keep seeing Jordan handing your mom those yellow roses on her birthday. You remember what he said? He said, ‘Here, Mom. A dozen roses.’ She kind of buried her face in them, then she laughed and said, ‘You silly goose. I knew we should’ve popped for a math tutor. There are only eleven roses here.’ And he said— Doug paused to draw in a deep breath. You remember what he said?

I remember, Daddy, Lillian whispered.

Doug looked at Patrick. You remember? You were there.

Without waiting for Patrick to respond, Doug struggled with the words he directed at me. He said, ‘You’re the twelfth rose, Mom.’ Now isn’t that the sappiest damn thing you’ve ever heard in your life? You’re the twelfth rose, Mom...

He put his elbows on the table and his hands to his face without bothering to check the flow of tears.

4

It was after midnight when Lillian finally hugged Patrick goodnight and told him she would see him on the set in the morning. Then she turned out lights and bolted the front and back doors while I wiped down the counter in the kitchen. She slipped her arm around my waist as we went up the stairs. I had no idea where Doug got off to, but the house was big and I figured he found himself a place where he could be alone.

On the second floor, there were four doors on either side of a hallway lit by brass sconces. Lillian’s room was across the hall from the master suite where I saw the door was still closed. The door down the hall from the master bedroom was also closed. The one across from that, the last door to our left, was open. Lillian stopped and reached around to click on a wall switch. Then she stepped aside to let me enter.

It was a room for romance with its white wicker furniture and vases filled with dozens of pink roses. Have your folks ever thought about making this into a B and B?

My aunt has an edge on that market. She turned on a bedside lamp and snapped off the overhead. She’s got a great place just a few blocks from here. Lillian went to a window where she pulled a chord that brought floor-to-ceiling, blue velvet drapes together, then pointed to a pitcher on a stand. Want me to bring up some ice water?

No, thanks. I put my purse on a vintage dresser.

She read your book, Lillian said from the door. Aunt Lois. I think I heard Mom say she read your novel.

Did she see my movie? I was kidding of course. Nobody saw my movie.

I’m not sure about that, but I know she wants to meet you. She ran out of small talk and stood there for an awkward moment, like she didn’t know how to make a graceful exit.

I sat on the edge of the bed and held out my hand to her. When she sat beside me, I put my arm around her shoulders. Like your dad said, you’ll get through this. Your mom’s in shock right now, but she’ll pull herself together. She’s strong. Like you.

Dad needs her so much.

She’ll be back.

Lillian pulled away. We’re all so damn gloomy. Jordan hated gloom. She looked at me for a long moment. Do you believe in heaven, Dena?

The question caught me off-guard. I wasn’t prepared to get into a philosophical discussion. My ideas of heaven, hell, and the hereafter changed when Alan died. I could have told Lillian about the things that happened in the weeks and months following, things that convinced me we are more than ashes after this life ends. But I wasn’t ready to talk about it and I was pretty sure Lillian wouldn’t want a lecture. So, I said, I believe that life and love don’t end with death, if that’s what you mean.

She seemed to mull that over for a moment, but I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Suddenly, she got to her feet. I’m just glad you’re here. Mom will be, too, when she comes to her senses. Will you be all right tomorrow? Alone with her, I mean.

We’ll be fine. I hoped I wasn’t lying.

I’m not sure what time our minister’s coming by, but if you need to talk to anyone, Grandmother will be at the gallery. I left the phone number on the kitchen counter. Right now the exhibit is on her shoulders, and it’s a huge event. It couldn’t come at a worse time.

Don’t worry about us.

All right then. She leaned down to kiss me on the cheek. Goodnight. At the door, she turned back to me. Our cell phone numbers are on the counter, too, just in case you need us. She walked out of the room. A second or so later, I heard her door shut.

I sat there feeling even more lost than I’d felt in the car. I’d come half way across the country to offer to help, but I couldn’t think of a thing I could do.

I got up, slipped out of my shoes and sat in a rocker beside the four-poster bed. I’d arrived feeling like Superwoman about to save the day, but now, only a few hours later, I felt like an intruder. If Ginny wouldn’t talk to her husband or to her daughter why did I think she’d talk to me? I rocked and thought about how, if I had any sense, I’d hightail it back to my little beachfront cottage. Then I gave myself a mental kick in the butt. How could I think about abandoning Ginny at a time like that?

I was tired, but it was that kind of tired where you know you’ll never get to sleep. My mind was churning with thoughts and images that were too unsettling to shut down. I kept remembering Jordan as he was in Hollywood. A neat kid. Smart. Funny. Good looking.

All of that blown away in a single, senseless second. Ended by a bullet fired by a stranger.

He was reduced to no more than a beer can on a fence post.

A target.

I got up out of the rocking chair and padded across the room. I was curious about the closed door across the way. If the master suite was down the hall to my right, and Lillian’s room was beside this guest room, then the room across the hall was no doubt Jordan’s before he moved to Kansas City.

I crossed the hall and opened the door enough to see it was a masculine bedroom, but not obnoxiously so. There were no elk heads on the wall. It was tastefully decorated in maroon and a creamy tan, with a roll-top desk under a window defined by maroon and tan stripped curtains. A vintage humpback trunk was at the foot of a bed topped by a maroon coverlet.

She’s kept it the way he had it, Doug said. In case he ever decided to move back home.

I jumped, startled. I hadn’t heard him come up behind me. For some reason, I was hit by a wave of guilt. Not that I’d planned to snitch anything from the room, but I knew instinctively I had stepped onto hallowed ground.

S’okay, he said, I stand in the doorway every now and then myself. His glance swept over the bureau, the desk, the bed, the humpback trunk. Then he gently closed the door again. He took my elbow and turned me around. It was done subtly, but I got the message. Well, he said, rubbing a weary hand along the side of his face, I’ll see you tomorrow night. We might be late getting back. You gonna be okay here with Ginny?

I assured him we would be fine.

I’m glad she won’t be alone... He seemed to want to say more, but couldn’t finish the thought.

I didn’t know how to respond, so I came up with something really clever. I said goodnight.

5

A couple of hours went by before I finally fell asleep. I managed to stay unconscious until something in the hall woke me. A one-eyed peek at the digital clock on the night table told me it was 6:22. I heard Doug’s muffled voice and realized he and Lillian were making their way down the staircase. I snuggled deeper into the cloud of a white down comforter. The next time I was aware of life on the planet was when a low-rider thundered along the street in front of the house. This time the digital informed me it was three minutes until eight. With a start, I remembered Ginny.

I jumped up, threw open the door, raced into the hall and stopped at the master bedroom. The door was still closed. I tried the handle, but it was locked. I rapped softly.

Ginny?

No reply. I debated about knocking more loudly, but decided against it. If she’d had a rough night, it would be thoughtless of me to wake her. I went back to the guest room to dress with a clear conscience. She’d surely surface when she got hungry.

Decked out in white jeans and a blue striped tee, I went to the kitchen to fix myself a pot of coffee and see what I could find for breakfast. That’s when I noticed a TV screen built into the fridge door. I stepped back and stared at the thing. I’d seen something like that once on Oprah’s old show, but I never dreamed people actually purchase such a monstrosity. Like a curious pup, I took a step closer and pushed a button on a panel of buttons, levers, and doodads I couldn’t identify. The screen came to life and there was Lester Holt smiling beside the icemaker. It didn’t seem natural. I clicked off the set and pulled on what I hoped was the refrigerator handle. Nothing looked appetizing, not the pot of anchovies or the jar of caviar. Who ate that stuff?

At home, I’d be popping two slices of wheat bread into a toaster and unscrewing the lid on a jar of creamy peanut butter. I’d take it, with my cup of coffee, to the top step outside my back door, to watch gulls cartwheel over a mostly empty beach. My neighbor to the south would probably be heading toward a rickety pier where his equally rickety fishing boat was tied-to. He’d wave at me. I’d lick peanut butter off my hand and wave back. Then I’d get up and go inside, wondering what I was going to do with the rest of the day.

Like I was wondering right that moment.

I spotted a dish of salmon covered with clear plastic, and a jar of dill pickles.