Love Can Be Murder

after two grunting attempts, slid open the van door.
    "Who's there?" an elderly voice called.
    She looked out to see her father's neighbor standing in the weedy driveway, his neck craned.
    "It's me, Mr. Sherwood. Roxann Beadleman."
    The man's face rearranged into a smile. "Roxann! Child, it's good to see you."
    "Good to see you, too, Mr. Sherwood. Do you know where my father is?"
    He nodded. "Him and Archie Cann drove to Gramercy for a fishing tournament. Going to be gone all weekend long."
    "I should have called," she said, harboring mixed feelings. Although she felt an obligation to see her father, it was never a wholly pleasant experience. And with Angora in tow, the visit would have been doubly awkward.
    "You going to be staying a while?"
    "I'm not sure," she hedged. "If I have to leave, I'll write Dad a note."
    "He'll be sorry he missed you."
    She managed a smile as she hauled out the bulging duffel bag. "Thanks, Mr. Sherwood. You take care."
    She slid the van door closed and waved, then reentered the house. Angora stood at the sink that was piled high with dirty dishes, running water into a dented teapot. "I thought we could use some tea," she told Roxann primly.
    The incongruity of a bride in full regalia making tea in her father's dilapidated house was almost incomprehensible. Personally, Roxann was craving a beer, and she was almost certain her father didn't have any teabags, but she said, "Sounds good," then nodded toward her duffel. "Dry clothes."
    "You'll have to help me get out of this dress." Then Angora proceeded to scare the crap out of Roxann by trying to light the ancient gas stove. The flash melted the sequins on Angora's bodice and left Roxann's eyebrows feeling crackly.
    "Let's see if we can find my old bedroom," she urged, then crossed the kitchen into the shabby living room, a throwback to the Harvest Gold and Burnt Orange decorating era. Books and magazines occupied every vertical and horizontal surface, including the floor. The faded carpet was footworn, and the familiar cabinet-model television squatted under the window, taking up too much room. A naked bulb in the center of the ceiling cast a garish glow that blinded while leaving the corners dark. More or less, everything was the sa—
    Roxann came up short at the sight of her college diploma hanging over the couch like a prized piece of artwork. Professionally matted in Fighting Irish Green and framed in satiny cherrywood, the piece was fantastically out of place against the peeling wallpaper. Getting a degree was the only thing she'd ever done that had pleased her father, but the precious piece of paper had led to an even bigger rift between them when she'd "thrown away her education" to become involved with Rescue. Her father had had his heart set on her attending law school—
    "Are you okay?" Angora asked.
    "Sure." She made her feet move and picked a path across the living room. "I'm sorry—Dad's a slob."
    "He's a lonely bachelor."
    Her cousin had always had a soft spot for Roxann's father. Probably because she only saw him at his best once a year at Dee's Christmas shindig.
    "When was the last time you were home?" Angora asked.
    "Dad and I communicate best over the phone." Besides, she couldn't recall.
    She led the way down a narrow hallway and pushed open the door to the bedroom that used to be hers. She blinked. The room hadn't been changed since she'd last slept there. Though the yellow comforter was faded, it was neatly made, topped with two denim pillows that she'd made in sophomore home ec. True to the Craftsman bungalow style of the house, the ceiling was low, and the room compact, large enough to hold only the bed, a bureau, and an upholstered chair. A small green braided rug lay at the foot of her bed. She used to leap out of bed and hit that rug, then jump to a fuzzy mat in the bathroom so her feet wouldn't touch the cold wood floors.
    Step on a crack, you'll break your mother's back. And the wood floors had had so many cracks to avoid.
    On top of the dark judges paneling that encompassed the walls, she'd hung panels of corkboard, which were still dotted with curled, yellowed clippings and snapshots of long-forgotten acquaintances. An eight-by-ten of her high school senior portrait sat on the headboard in a dated frame. She hadn't been smiling. Roxann glanced at Angora—the Spartan little room was a far cry from her cousin's wonderland boudoir, with a walk-in closet and sitting room with phone and TV.
    "Looks like your