Love Can Be Murder

were in disarray, but it was policy not to keep Rescue records at home—she even shredded names and phone numbers scribbled on scratch sheets of paper. The contents of her shredder had been strewn, which led her to believe that either the intruder hadn't been searching for anything in particular, or had simply given up. Somebody had wanted to scare her, to send her a message.
    A quick check of the windows showed no signs of forced entry, and the door hadn't been jimmied. Someone with a key, or a good lock-pick. She yanked out a duffel bag and stuffed in clothes as she found them, along with a few personal items. On the way to the back door, she noticed her land-line phone-message light was flashing—a rarity.
    Holding her breath, she pressed the button. Two hang-ups, then some heavy wheezing that sent a chill up her spine, then another hang-up. She erased the messages, then nearly lost the contents of her bladder when the phone rang. It took her three rings to find the cordless receiver. She hit the talk button, heart leaping in her chest. "Hello?"
    "Last chance—I'm thawing a rump roast."
    She closed her eyes and asked herself why she'd given the man her phone number. "Thanks, Mr. Nealy. Really." She winced at the rhyme. "But I'm going out of town for a few days."
    "Is something wrong, dear? You don't sound like yourself."
    "No, nothing's wrong. Mr. Nealy, you didn't happen to see anyone outside today, did you?"
    "No. Why?"
    "I've been expecting a package, that's all."
    "Oh. Shall I water your plants while you're gone?"
    "No, that's not necessary." She had no plants.
    "Well, I'll keep an eye out for your package."
    "Thanks. But don't open your door to a stranger."
    "Oh...kay."
    No need to take chances if the culprit was some kind of neighborhood gang. She promised to join him for dinner when she returned, and he seemed satisfied.
    She slung the duffel over her shoulder and headed for the door, her mind spinning. She'd pick up Goldie, alert the home office that she was being harassed, and hit the road while she considered whether she needed to find a new place to live.
    Her mail was scattered across the kitchen floor where she'd dropped it in her haste to arm herself. She scooped up the envelopes, stopping at the sight of the wedding invitation on top. An idea bloomed.
    The nuptials were to take place tomorrow afternoon in the showiest cathedral in Baton Rouge. She could get a hotel room tonight, be in her hometown by noon tomorrow, catch the highlights of the wedding, then swing by to argue with her old man for a while. It might even be fun to see Angora again, and to check out her doctor man. Heck, it would be worth it to drop in without an RSVP just to piss off Aunt Dee.
    And, in truth, it would be nice to take a break from reality, to peek in on her cousin's charmed life until she could clear the cobwebs in her own head.
    Minutely cheered, Roxann slipped out the door and locked it behind her.

Chapter Four

    "ON THREE, LADIES . One...two... three."
    Angora Ryder strained not to blink, but from the photographer's post-click frown, she suspected she had. Her first childhood memory was of being posed and photographed, but today she couldn't stop blinking for some reason. A nervous tic?
    "Let's try it again," he intoned. "On three."
    Her mother stood beside the camera pointing to her own cheeks and mouthing, "Watch the laugh lines."
    Watch the laugh lines. Dee's mantra. After thirty-two years, Angora realized it was the closest thing to motherly advice she was going to get. Well, today was her wedding day, darn it, so she was going to smile. Some. If only she could keep from blinking.
    "Let's try it again," the photographer bellowed, eyeing her.
    October thirteenth, at last. She was minutes away from marrying an intelligent, handsome doctor. Then she would embark on a three-week honeymoon to Hawaii, and upon return, Dr. and Mrs. Trenton Robert Coughlin (she loved the way that sounded) were moving to Chicago. Trenton had landed a spot with a prestigious podiatry practice, and she had snagged a position with the number one art agency in the Windy City. So what if the owner's passion for Notre Dame and its progeny had cinched the offer?—she would prove her worth when she discovered the next Kandinsky. She just needed a chance. And maybe a brilliant secretary.
    Goodbye, cataloging exhibits at the Baton Rouge River Walk Museum. Goodbye, overbearing mother. Goodbye, Angora Michele Ryder. Hello, Life.
    "I think I got