Love Can Be Murder

might have been. Other men had come and gone, men who on the surface appeared to be concerned with the state of the world but, when it came right down to it, were unwilling to do more than write a letter or don a T-shirt for the cause.
    Her former lover Richard Funderburk fit that category—he made the bar circuit with his guitar and his backpack, singing about the indulgences of man, then took his pay in Canadian beer. She would lie in bed after cryptic sex and wonder if she would ever again meet someone who moved her as much as Carl had without even touching her.
    She closed the newsletter, then blinked her eyes wider at an old photo of herself on the back page under a caption that read "We Remember." In the dated photo, her mouth was open, delivering a yell, and she hefted an unreadable protest sign. In 1994 political-science student Roxann Beadleman led a protest against modesty discrimination in the art department that resulted in policy change.
    Roxann smiled wryly, remembering the rally. The art department had sponsored a show of nudes drawn from live models, but the drawings of the male models had featured little flaps of canvas over their privates that observers had to lift for a peek. The drawings of the female models, on the other hand, were free of the "modesty flaps." Roxann had been outraged at the discrepancy and led a march to have the flaps removed.
    When political cartoons in national papers began to parody the issue, school officials caved. But her newly won notoriety made it difficult to see Carl on the sly. Then the allegations against him had ensued and she'd left South Bend to embark on what now seemed a fairly aimless path.
    Roxann drove toward her apartment wrapped in a swirl of bittersweet memories, trying to ignore the clench of yearning in her stomach. The road not taken taunted her—marriage, family, a permanent address, Sunday pot roast. Maybe she hadn't fought hard enough for Carl. She'd told him countless times that she didn't believe in marriage. No wonder he hadn't put his career and church appointment on the line...
    She hadn't given him reason to believe she was commitment material.
    And how could she be? Then or now. Between her parents' fiasco of a marriage and her exposure to the underbelly of relationships through Rescue, she was much more familiar, perhaps even more comfortable, with dysfunction.
    Feeling prickly, Roxann parked in a multilevel garage, then walked two blocks before slipping between two houses. After veering right, she tramped through high grass to get to the backyard of her duplex. With one last look over her shoulder, and Capistrano's threat running through her head, she climbed the small stoop and removed her door key from her bag.
    "Hi, Roxann!"
    She nearly swallowed her tongue before she realized that Mr. Nealy was standing at the rear entrance of his side of the duplex, leaning on a broom. "Hello, Mr. Nealy."
    He doffed his plaid flop hat—which might have matched his pants if they'd been the same color. Or the same plaid. "You're home early."
    She nodded and smiled, loath to engage in a drawn-out conversation.
    "Has your roommate come back?"
    She shook her head—another land-mine subject.
    "Never liked her myself," he said.
    Not sure how to respond without encouraging more trashing of Elise, she said nothing.
    "I was thinking that since you're alone now, er, perhaps you'd like to join me for dinner tonight?"
    At the jaunty set of his chin, she realized incredulously that the old man was hitting on her. The people who had shown a love interest in her lately were a lesbian and a senior citizen.
    "Thank you, Mr. Nealy, but I can't." Even though she was hungry enough to eat his hat.
    "You know, Roxann, if you ever need anything, anything at all, you can call on me." His voice was spookily wistful. His wife had died in the flower bed a year ago, before Roxann had moved in.
    "Th-thank you, Mr. Nealy. Have a nice evening."
    He winked and disappeared into his unit. Sighing in relief, she inserted her key into the lock, surprised when the door swung open with no resistance.
    Somebody had been there.
    Objects overturned, drawers upended. She froze, her ears pricked for any sound that would indicate the intruder was still inside, but only silence greeted her. As a precaution, she reached into her gym bag and withdrew a can of pepper spray. For a split second, she considered yelling for Mr. Nealy, but then thought better—she might have to save them both. With