Vicarious: Crime After Time Collection

By Anne McAneny

An unnerving suspense tale that ensnares a missing girl, a mad artist, and an unreliable witness, culminating in a double-whammy of a surprise!

After witnessing the possible kidnapping of a neighborhood girl, quiet transcriptionist Willa Neville reports the crime. Unfortunately, she sports a reputation as a nosy tale-teller who exists in her own distorted world, but as her recollections and revelations become vital catalysts in the investigation, Detective Jeremy Upton must learn to trust her.

When Willa experiences heightened tensions with mean-spirited neighbors, she turns to Jeremy for support. But the more he learns about the kidnapper's warped intentions, the greater his urgency to dismiss Willa's claims and save the girl now... before she becomes someone or something unrecognizable. Soon, dire crimes of the past make an unwelcome appearance, and these two disparate forces—logical detective and irrational spinster—must work together to rescue the victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Farrington Press
• Release date: Jun 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201909987

Anne McAneny

Anne McAneny worked in marketing and advertising before penning screenplays and eventually turning to writing fiction. She is the author of the mystery Raveled and the paranormal thriller Foreteller, as well as two books of women’s fiction. She lives in Virginia with her family, her adopted puggle, and her chubby cat. Currently at work on her next mystery, she loves to hear from readers. Connect with her on her Facebook fan page, Books by Anne McAneny, or on Twitter @AnneMcAneny.

Book preview

Chapter 1

WILLA NEVILLE STOOD stock still. Given her pale skin and frozen expression, a passerby might mistake her for a statue as she observed her friend, Bud Henry. Solid, dependable, grumpy Bud who walked the way she imagined Humpty Dumpty would if turned into a human. But for now, Bud remained as motionless as Willa—at least the parts of him visible through his bathroom window.

Near Willa’s feet, Poser sniffed frantically before plunging his wet nose into a patch of clover, probably in search of a mouse. Only occasionally did the determined schnauzer, not much bigger than a rodent himself, come up the winner in these battles.

Willa shifted her head right, hoping to glean the details of Bud’s expression, but the distance made it impossible. Bud and Nan’s two-story Colonial put Willa at least twenty-five feet below and fifteen yards out from the second-story bathroom. She sighed, lamenting the window’s small size and unsightly smudges—it hadn’t been cleaned in two months—but at least the moon had disappeared behind a thick layer of clouds; its absence made the illuminated scene more vivid.

Willa smiled at Bud’s staunch efforts. He rarely moved during these meditating sessions, except for a full-body tremble toward the end, and his enhanced concentration tonight would surely result in a hard-won victory over the demon alcohol.

Willa knew the tragedies and triumphs of all her neighbors on Overlook Lane, and she rooted for positive outcomes daily. Of all the streets in the Faberly neighborhood, Overlook offered the highest concentration of windows per square foot. A cul-de-sac off a cul-de-sac, it consisted of twelve homes: six on the circular tip, all fronted by triangular patches of grass, and six on the straightaway. She observed the six on the straightaway as she accessed and exited the short road, and in less than a minute, she could walk Poser along the circumference of the turnabout and observe the happenings in all six tip homes.

As she waited for Bud to finish, she shifted her weight but didn’t break her gaze; she couldn’t chance missing his triumphant moment. Poor Bud, cursed with weakness, but at least he returned every night to fight. Twenty-eight cans of Natural Light beer filled his trash bin on Monday evenings. Four cans per night. Last week, the quantity had risen to an alarming thirty-five, signifying an additional can per night, or perhaps a party. But Willa would have known about a party. Not from her receipt of an invitation, but from observing it. While the residents of Overlook Lane showed her all the common courtesies—Missy Spano had even invited her for punch once—none had ever extended a formal invitation. No one in the entirety of Faberly had, but did anyone do formal anymore? After the sixties sexual revolution and the general angst of the seventies, the eighties seemed to be kicking off as a spontaneous era of discovery, where pop-ins and drop-bys were more the norm.

Just as it began to sprinkle, a long sedan pulled into the cul-de-sac, diverting Willa’s attention. It wasn’t one of the usual cars that traversed the street.

Willa’s breath caught in her throat as momentary panic engulfed her, but she felt safe with Poser at her side. Still, she didn’t like strangers in strange cars. Perhaps the driver wouldn’t notice her between Bud’s garbage can and forsythia bush.

The sedan passed her where the tip of the road began, and then it circled around until its nose pointed to Overlook Lane’s exit. It stopped between #42 and #44. Those two houses sat close to one another because the Walkers in #42 had built their driveway on the right side of the house, forcing their Colonial closer to the Maloneys’ A-Frame. It had worked out because the Walkers and Maloneys were thick as thieves, with gossip aplenty to share.

The car inched forward a bit, and then bucked to a stop as the driver shifted into park. He kept the engine running.

Despite an aura of foreboding, Willa stepped closer to the forsythia and gleaned what she could.

The driver turned his head toward the Walkers. Due to the glare of the brake lights, Willa could only make out a silhouette. Definitely a man’s. Could he be picking up one of the Walker girls for a date? They were by far the prettiest in the neighborhood, but still, a social outing on a school night? Maybe that was the in thing now, but honestly, the teen girls on Overlook Lane mystified Willa. They were so provocative, and, in her opinion, given far too much freedom. Almost nightly, Lily and Emma Walker stayed up past their bedtimes, and on three evenings last year—February 20th, March 13th, and May 1st—they’d climbed out of their bedroom window and down the pine tree to meet the Maloney girls. But those were Fridays, not school nights. Still... could another second-story escape be in the works—one that ended with a ride in the mysterious sedan?

With a start, Willa remembered Bud’s journey to victory. She jerked her head toward his house, hoping she hadn’t missed his release from alcohol’s grip. Given the trifling size of the window, she could only see his neck, right shoulder, and bulbous profile, but he was staring more intensely now, his mouth slightly agape. Suddenly, he tore his gaze away, trembled, and gave himself a good overall shake, as if to cast away the dark spirit that had inhabited him. He looked beaten down, but Willa felt sure he hadn’t been defeated.

As usual, he leaned forward on the sink, inhaling and exhaling hard enough to make his shoulders rise and fall. Then he pulled himself up to full height, extended a flabby arm, and lifted a can of Natural Light to his lips.

Willa sighed, her own shoulders slumping in sympathy. Better luck tomorrow, Bud. Nan and I are rooting for you.

Poser squatted down to relieve himself, as if to express disappointment with Bud, so Willa reached into her pocket and pulled out a plastic bag. Some people, like Lori Goldsmith, snickered at her for scooping the poop, but Willa would never disrespect her neighbors by exposing them to so many germs.

The door of the sedan creaked open, riveting her attention while she blindly patted the ground. A moment later, just as the sprinkles escalated to a drizzle, the driver stepped from the car. Willa felt ill, even dizzy. Her vision blurred and her thoughts spun wildly. She reached to the ground to steady herself and pressed her eyelids closed until the feeling passed. When she opened them, she was surprised to see everything more clearly.

The mysterious man wore a raincoat that stretched nearly to the ground. His hands were plunged deep into his pockets, and his wide shoulders hunched forward, perhaps to ward off the increasing rain. His head jerked periodically in a spastic motion, but in every other way, he moved with a certain grace. Even from this distance, Willa could tell he was far too old to be a proper date for either Walker girl. Lily was only fifteen, and Emma just a year older.

He strode to the rear of the car. Intentionally avoiding the glare of the headlights, perhaps? Despite her legs cramping up, Willa would make short work of that deception. She blinked to clear the water droplets from her eyelashes, and when she regained focus, the scene had changed again.

The trunk door was now wide open like the gaping jaws of a dragon, and the man stood there waving, as if to say, Come on over.

But to whom? Had he lost a dog? Lost his mind?

Willa’s breaths grew stilted, and her heart struggled to do its tedious job, but she remained on her haunches and fought against the blinding sensation threatening to veil her vision. What was going on? Why would her body betray her at a moment like this?

Suddenly, one of the Walker girls appeared from the narrow strip of darkness between the two houses. Hard to tell which one because they were so close in age and only an inch apart in height. Both had long, chestnut hair, a delicate nose, fair skin, wide-set eyes, and willowy bodies. Whichever girl it was, she waved to the man, and as she stole across the lawn, she seemed to regress in age, to grow smaller and more helpless.

Had she been waiting in the darkness the whole time? Had she been watching Willa watch Bud?

Oh, if only Willa didn’t feel as though she were viewing the scene through a sheet of gauze and a distance of miles.

She opened her mouth to call out, to tell the girl to go back inside, but no words came. Her lips and tongue locked in place while a hot flush rose within her. Thank goodness she knew what to do when she got like this: squeeze every muscle, hold, and then release.

Squeeze.

Hold.

Nothing.

Her body wouldn’t let go and her voice wouldn’t come. But at least her mind cranked at full throttle.

The weather changed again, and Willa’s view grew distorted by the heavy raindrops playing against the lights of the car. As the girl reached the street, Willa tried to call out one more time, to lift her arms and draw attention to herself, but she remained paralyzed in place, of no more use than the statue she’d resembled earlier.

The man took a wide step back. With a grand gesture, he swept his arm toward the car, motioned for the girl to climb in, and bowed down—a coachman offering a ride in a deceptive pumpkin carriage. But when he bowed, his coat flailed back to reveal the illuminated license plate of the car.

And Willa could read it.

Chapter 2

JEREMY UPTON TURNED into Faberly, a neighborhood named for the farmer who’d sold the land to the home builder. Three of Jeremy’s friends had graduated from quarter-acres to half-acres within Faberly, and one had even made it to a two-acre, but no one of his acquaintance had yet risen to the stratospheric level of the three-acre lots in front. At least all of them had moved on from their squalid bachelor pads in the center of town. But not Jeremy. Why bother until he moved on from the bachelor category, a prospect that grew dimmer with the appearance of each new gray hair?

He waved to the poor sot in the cramped guard booth who only protected the three-acres off to the left, but the guard, enjoying a cigarette, turned his head away. He’d probably been instructed to give the cold shoulder to the nobodies proceeding to the lesser homes.

After several turns and some struggles to read house numbers through the sheets of rain, Jeremy pulled up to 14 Galveston Way, a well-kept, white house on a quarter-acre. Only when he turned off his wipers did he realize how hard they’d been working.

He pulled out his notebook, made note of the time—10:22 p.m.— and then tucked it back into his suit jacket pocket. As he reached for the shiny handle of his new 1981 Chevy Impala, he almost cursed the weather and its prospects for his leather loafers, but an Englishman complaining about rain proved too ironic even for him.

He ducked his head as he dashed across the yard and up the front steps, pulling his trench coat tightly around his hips. Then he pushed the illuminated doorbell and suppressed a scowl when a yappy bark rang out. He’d never been a fan of dogs and especially didn’t care for small ones that emitted high-pitched yelps. Still, he pasted on an agreeable smile as an attractive woman answered the door.

You’ll have to excuse Poser, she said, holding a shifty-looking schnauzer in her arms. He’s not accustomed to strangers calling.

Nor was she, Jeremy guessed about the slim, pale creature in front of him. She looked to be in her early thirties, about 5’4" and 110 pounds. She presented with a shy manner—blinking, downcast eyes, and a chin that wanted to disappear into her neck, not for its lack of fine structure, but for the inhibited way in which she held herself. Pretty, though, with a small, pert nose, deep red lips, and a heart-shaped face. Wouldn’t make a magazine cover—at least not the kind his partner looked at—but nothing to be ashamed of either.

Willa Neville? he said. I’m Detective Jeremy Upton.

With her dark hair pulled into a bun, she peeked out at Jeremy with curious eyes that looked like they rarely relaxed. From what he could see, she sported no jewelry or adornments to liven up her bland outfit—black trousers, brown cardigan, yellow blouse. It was a color combination he found unappealing, but then, his closet consisted of three suits, a dozen shirts, and a pair of Levi’s that had taken two years to break in.

Please, she said. Come in.

He entered the foyer as she set her snarling beast on the floor. It immediately nipped at his ankle.

Poser, no, she said without a shred of resolve. Sorry about that.

No problem, Jeremy lied.

Remarkably, Poser lost all interest in Jeremy and pranced across the room, his furry hips displaying more attitude than the sassy hookers Vice rounded up in Hapsford Park once a month.

May I take your coat?

Jeremy removed the saturated garment, and Willa hung it on an empty rack in the corner. As she did, he noted the conservative rug and dated wallpaper. He would have guessed the home belonged to an elderly widow rather than a single woman several years his junior, but the error in his presumption stood directly in front of him.

It’s really coming down out there, he said.

Is that a British accent I detect? she said. Perhaps from the Gloucestershire region?

Jeremy pulled his head back in surprise. Well done, you. Born and raised in Cheltenham, though I’m rather Americanized now. These days, if I order fish and chips, I’m not surprised to get Lays.

When Willa’s eyes went wide, Jeremy wondered if she’d misheard Lays as laid, which would prove an awkward start to the conversation. Potato chips, he explained, causing only more confusion. He took a breath and started anew. Have you been to England, then, Miss Neville?

Oh no. Too far for me. Anything beyond the tristate area gives me the shivers, but I’m a transcriptionist, and the work has given me a good ear for accents.

Jeremy cleared his throat and pulled out his notebook. You called about a possible kidnapping.

It was terrible. Have you checked on the Walker girls?

Yes. After your call, we dispatched a patrolman to Lou and Frannie Walker’s home, but both daughters are home asleep. In fact, we have no reports of a missing child anywhere in the area.

Willa’s shy demeanor gave way to confident self-defense. Did your patrolman physically check on the girls? Because Lily and Emma sneak out, you know.

Jeremy glanced at his notes. The officer verified the presence of both girls, yes. He said the entire Walker family seemed baffled and more than a little put out.

Willa frowned, her eyes shifting about. "Hmp. Perhaps the man dropped her back off before I got a chance to make the call, but it didn’t strike me as that type of ride."

"What type of ride did it strike you as?"

A permanent one, Detective. A very permanent one. The type that separates mother and child.

Jeremy cocked his head, finding it an odd characterization, but he preferred to judge people slowly, in small waves, to give them the benefit of the doubt. In his ten years on the force, he’d learned that no two people approached a situation from the same perspective or with the same biases.

He gestured to the living room. Perhaps we could sit a moment.

Willa’s eyes darted about, as if seeing her home for the first time and assessing it anew. Where, do you think?

Jeremy hid his surprise at the question. The living room, possibly? Or maybe the kitchen.

Willa took a tentative step toward the dining room but then changed her mind. She twisted on the ball of one foot and led Jeremy to the kitchen, glancing back three times along the way. Aside from a lamp in the foyer and an overhead fixture in the kitchen, there was only one light on—a dim lamp in the corner of the living room. Jeremy noticed piles of books and videotapes on the coffee table, a television in the corner, and a beige sofa and chair, each partially covered with a crocheted blanket. Poser, curled on a pillow at the far end of the sofa, supplied Jeremy with a quick, teeth-baring grimace. Meanwhile, watercolors and oil paintings, mostly of rural scenes, adorned the walls. Despite the poor lighting, they struck Jeremy as rather high-quality originals. Do you collect art, Miss Neville?

Pardon? She turned to see him looking at the framed works in the living room. Oh, they’re mine. I mean, I painted them.

Very impressive, he said.

Thank you. They feel like memories, but they’re not. I just paint whatever comes to me.

She pulled out a kitchen chair, scraping it against the floor and drawing his attention away from the artwork. The kitchen was neat and spare, reminding him of his own. It contained enough of everything to satisfy one person, plus a guest in a pinch.

You live alone, Miss Neville?

I do, she said, and Jeremy felt the weight of the two words that had never been said by either of them in the more significant way—unless Willa Neville turned out to be a widow, of course.

Please, she continued, call me Willa. I rather like my name, and I don’t hear it often enough. She smiled shyly before glancing at the floor.

Jeremy made a mental note, in bold, capital letters: LONELY. The word that he kept in reserve during all investigations, usually in italics and at the bottom of his list, was strange. He made that note about most everyone he encountered lately and hoped he wouldn’t need to apply it here. It had gotten so bad that he’d begun to wonder if strange was the new normal because he met so few of the latter.

He took the seat nearest the refrigerator while Willa sat to his right. Then he pulled out his notebook and pen. Okay, Willa, tell me everything you saw.

Certainly. She sat up arrow-straight. I was walking Poser, as I always do, and I saw a man pull up to Number 42 Overlook Lane at 9:42 p.m.

9:42. That’s rather precise.

My life is rather precise. I leave my house at 9:15. It takes me seven minutes to reach Overlook Lane, where I spend ten minutes observing.

Observing?

Oh, yes. Quite the happenings on Overlook Lane. From the desperate longings of Missy Spano in Number 43 to Bud Henry’s quest in Number 45—a look of disappointment flashed across her face—to old Charlie Forsythe in Number 47. She leaned forward confidentially. He gives out stale Halloween candy lifted from his doctor’s waiting room, and all the children know it. Then there’s Sheila Stein, the piano teacher who practices late into the night, and Zeke and Alyssa Farrell next to her. They make the most ridiculous excuses whenever there’s a neighborhood function, and everyone knows they’ve got their eyes on a two-acre already.

I see. I’d love to hear more about the neighbors—

Would you? Really? Her eyes brightened and her lips assumed a pleasant bow shape as she smiled.

Jeremy hadn’t expected the enthusiasm but realized he should have. Poser was probably Willa’s only avid listener.

LONELY screamed at him again, but nosey was making a quick ascent to second place.

Of course, he said, but right now, I need to hear about the kidnapping. Time is of the essence.

Jeremy had learned early in his career to use words like need or tell me to rein in passionate witnesses. It had spared him hours of mundane and useless tales.

I understand, Willa said, adopting a near-militaristic air. All stories have their time and place. Earlier tonight, I broke my strict routine and stared into Bud Henry’s window longer than usual because I’d been rooting for his breakthrough.

Jeremy nodded. He dared not interrupt, but he did wonder why she usually stared into Bud Henry’s window.

As I waited, a car—a long, ungainly one like yours—pulled up and stopped between the Walkers and Maloneys. After a minute or so, the driver exited the car wearing a trench coat and opened the trunk. Next thing I knew, he was waving to someone I couldn’t see—she imitated the motion—telling them to come along.

"Telling them? Did you hear him speak?"

No. It was only a wave.

I see. Go on.

Well, from out of the darkness between the two houses, one of the Walker girls emerged. I couldn’t tell which one, and I got distracted by Poser’s business, but the girl climbed right into the man’s trunk. Can you believe that? Why didn’t her mother warn her? Isn’t that a mother’s job?

Willa seemed agitated, so Jeremy redirected. Did you get a look at the man’s face?

No, not really. The rain had picked up, and there was very little light.

Understood, but if you had to describe him, what would you say?

If I had to? She took a meditative moment, then recited a description almost robotically. Thick-featured, round nose, wide lips, protruding brow bone, bushy hair, unusually large ears. At least six feet tall. Oh, and a slumped posture, as if he spent most of his time hunched over, smoking a cigar in a chair that was too small for him.

Jeremy pulled a curious face. That last bit—that’s rather a vivid image. Was he smoking a cigar when you saw him?

No, but didn’t I mention the smell?

You did not. Jeremy was not only troubled by the detail of a cigar that didn’t exist, but by all of Willa’s details. For a woman who complained of an obscured, weather-compromised view of the assailant, she’d provided a better description than most women could of their husbands. But if I could just stop you there, Willa, I thought you said you didn’t get a good look at him.

Yes, but you asked what I would say if forced.

In that case, did you actually see the things you’re describing, or are you creating them because I forced your hand?

A smile flashed on and off her face so quickly that Jeremy wondered if he’d imagined it. You know, I’m... I’m honestly not sure. Is it possible I’m recalling it now without realizing I noticed it then?

Delusional flashed on and off Jeremy’s list as quickly as Willa’s smile had come and gone. Certainly, he lied. Witnesses often remember new details later. The truth was, witnesses usually fabricated new details later, but he didn’t want to put her on the defensive. You mentioned a cigar odor.

Yes, cigar and fish.

Jeremy suppressed a sigh. Now fish were swimming around Overlook Lane?

Just to clarify, he said. You were far enough away that you couldn’t make out which Walker girl it was, but close enough to smell the interior of a car and notice the size of the man’s ears?

Willa gazed at him with seeming disappointment. Smells travel, Detective, especially with rain stirring the air. Plus, he passed me when he drove to the end of the cul-de-sac and turned around. I must have picked up the odor then.

Jeremy began to regret raising his index finger when Captain Verillo emerged from his office earlier and said: We got a possible juvenile kidnapping. Who wants it?

When the man passed you, Jeremy said, is that when you got such a good look at him?

I can’t say when I noticed which detail, but the ones I’ve shared are as accurate as I can make them.

Excellent, Jeremy said. Adamant floated to third on his list, while DEFENSIVE searched for its place. Anything else?

Well, yes. The most important thing. The license plate.

Yes, we’ve got it. IVK-914.

Not a very fun one, is it?

Jeremy ignored the comment. Dispatcher radioed me on the way here. Those plates belong to a wheelchair-bound woman in Cape May, and her car hasn’t moved in years. The son who lives with her ran out to make sure it hadn’t been stolen, and there it was, in the garage.

With the plates still attached?

Front and back, Jeremy said.

Did you send someone to verify?

Jeremy began to wonder who was interrogating who. Cape May police are on their way now as a courtesy. How sure are you about the accuracy of the plate?

Willa leaned forward again. I’m excellent with license plates.

I see. Still, your vision must be amazing, given the rain and the poor lighting. How far from the car would you say you were?

She sat back, crossed her arms and smirked, clearly sensing his skepticism. Thirty yards. I know exactly where I was because Poser had just done his business and I was scooping it up. We can walk there now and measure, if you’d like.

No need for that, Jeremy said. He had no intention of pulling out a measuring tape in this torrent to determine the distance of Poser’s number two from the alleged car.

Well, I’m certain about the license plate, Willa repeated. I can see it now, clear as day, in my mind.

Could it have been from another state?

I don’t think so. It was that horrid blue and yellow the DMV has been issuing. Does another state have something similar?

I’ll look into it. The thing is, we’re not certain at this point who you saw being kidnapped. Jeremy reflexively put finger quotes around the last word. We have no reports, and from your description, it sounds like the girl got into the trunk willingly.

Willa uncrossed her arms and pressed a palm against the table. Girls don’t always know what they’re doing, Detective. What if this girl now regrets her decision and is begging to be released? Did you check the house next door? The Maloneys? Perhaps it was one of their daughters, though they’re a good fifteen pounds heavier than the Walker girls, and they keep their hair shorter.

As a matter of fact, we did check with them, at the suggestion of Mrs. Walker.

Willa harrumphed. Not sure I’d trust anything Mrs. Walker has to say. She’s compromised by 4 p.m. most days, by something stronger than Natural Lights. Except on Thursdays, of course, when she picks up the girls from acrobatics.

Observant fought it out with Nosey for the top spot on Jeremy’s list. Either way, the Maloney girls were fast asleep. He put up a hand to ward off her next question. Yes, we verified.

Very strange, Willa murmured. Very strange, indeed.

Jeremy nodded, agreeing more than she knew. Did you hear anything that might help? A name exchanged? A snippet of conversation between the man and girl?

No, nothing.

She didn’t say anything before climbing into the trunk?

No, but the rain would have drowned it out, and it all happened so fast.

Sound waves don’t travel as well as smells, then?

Willa huffed just enough for Jeremy to pick up on it. I suppose not.

Did the girl embrace or... kiss the man? He felt uncomfortable asking the question, sensing that Willa didn’t have much experience in either area.

Definitely not.

Jeremy proceeded to ask about the make and model of the car, any distinguishing dents or marks, what the girl was wearing—anything at all to lend legitimacy to her story. He took down the details, but mostly, he came up as empty as the night’s log of missing children.

Thank you, Willa, he said, rising from his seat. I’ll make inquiries in the morning to find out if other residents saw anything.

She stood and led him to the door. Most of the men won’t be home in the morning, nor will Nan or Alyssa or Patty. And certainly not Bob and Suze. They’re always away.

Jeremy glanced in the direction of Overlook Lane, which was up Willa’s street and then two left turns away. You seem to know the residents of Overlook Lane quite well. Do you have a lot of friends there?

She side-eyed Jeremy as if he were daft. I told you, Detective, I walk Poser there every night, as well as at morning and midday.

And you chat with the residents then?

With the children, and I do small favors for the adults. Sheila and Alyssa wave, and Missy Spano and I speak when she’s pulling out of her driveway. Lori Goldsmith even found Poser once when he ran away. Kept him safe in her backyard and everything. But most of them—the husbands in particular—work during the day and are tucked inside their homes by evening.

Which is when you spy on them, Jeremy thought, leading him to a follow-up question. By the way, you mentioned a breakthrough for Bud Henry earlier. What did you mean?

She pulled a sad face. It didn’t happen, I’m afraid. I thought it was Bud’s night of triumph over alcohol, but I had it all wrong. She sighed. Nan will be so disappointed.

Nan being Bud’s wife?

Yes, but she’s proud of him for trying. I’m sure of it.

Jeremy cocked his head.