Love Can Be Murder

real. She changed her mind and swallowed the rest of her drink, closing her eyes to ward off the bitter sting at the back of her throat.
    Angora, who seemed to have acquired a taste for the mixed drink, refilled Roxann's glass under protest. By the time they were nearing the end of their lists, they were both feeling the effects of the alcohol—and from the items rounding out their lists, Roxann realized they must have been feeling the effects of that joint years ago.
    "Number thirty-one," Angora slurred, "is 'Get a tattoo.' "
    "Mine is 'Become a prosecuting attorney'—ha. The legal system is a joke."
    "Thirty-two is 'Enter an amateur strip contest.' "
    "Which explains why my number thirty-two says, 'Watch Angora make a fool out of herself in an amateur strip contest.' " They laughed hysterically, but Roxann sobered when she saw the next item on her list.
    "What is it?"
    "Well...remember Dr. Carl Seger?"
    "Do I ever."
    "I had a wild crush on him." An understatement.
    "And?"
    "And number thirty-three on my list is...well..."
    " 'Sleep with Dr. Carl,' " Angora finished.
    Roxann frowned. "How did you know?"
    Angora held up her list. "Ditto. I had a wild crush on him, too. And so did every female on campus."
    "I suppose you're right." Roxann stewed in the juices of old memories—the first time Carl had kissed her, the nights they'd stayed up late putting together research for his presentation, the special looks he reserved for her during his lectures. She'd adored him, all right.
    "He's still single, you know." Angora wagged her eyebrows. "The newsletter I got a couple of months ago said he was going to auction himself off for a fund-raiser during Homecoming."
    "I saw that issue."
    Angora sighed. "Wonder what a man like that would go for?"
    Roxann opted for silence again, but computed the amount in her IRA.
    Angora yawned. "The rest of my list makes no sense—what's a 'spebanker'?"
    "I have no idea."
    "Well, I wanted to own one."
    "You wanted to own one of everything."
    "What are your last two?"
    Roxann looked at her list, then swallowed hard. Have a daughter. Be a good mother. "Uh...mine are unreadable, too. I guess we fell asleep."
    Angora laughed. "Or passed out. You know what we should do, Roxann?"
    "I'm afraid to ask."
    Her cousin's jaw seemed a little loose, and her eyes were bleary. "We should take a vacation and mark off some of the items on our list."
    Roxann laughed—go on vacation with Angora? "You're nuts."
    "Why not? I'm supposed to be on my honeymoon for three weeks." Her face lit up. "Hey—we could go back to South Bend for Homecoming!"
    Her heart thumped faster. "I don't think that's such a good idea."
    "Oh, come on, wouldn't you like to see Dr. Carl again and see how he turned out?"
    More than anything. "I still don't think—"
    Angora's snore cut her off. Her cousin had fallen asleep sitting up, holding her glass and wearing her crown.
    Roxann nudged herself up slowly to prevent a head rush. She retrieved Angora's drink, then made her stretch out on the bed. Angora emitted little sounds of protest and refused to relinquish her crown. Roxann gathered up the remains of their meal and tiptoed from the room—although she was sure her cousin wouldn't have heard a plane land on the roof.
    She walked to the old phone mounted on the kitchen wall and, after consulting directory assistance, dialed Angora's parents' home. Of course, Dee answered.
    "Hello?"
    "Dee, this is Roxann."
    "Where is my daughter?"
    "She's with me, at my dad's."
    "You kidnapped her."
    "She's an adult."
    "You always were a bad influence on her."
    "Angora's fine, thanks for asking."
    "Why, you—"
    "I'll bring her home in the morning, but don't worry, I won't come in. Bye, now." She hung up the phone, wondering why people had kids at all if they didn't give a damn about them.
    Nine thirty-five p.m .—what a day. She stuffed the pizza box into the trash. Fatigue pulled at her limbs, but her mind raced, refusing to shut down. Yesterday's events in Biloxi...today's events at the church...being home where the memories were relentless. The alcohol should have numbed her, but instead, seemed to have keened her senses, magnifying the panic, the anxiety, the sadness.
    An alien sound sent fear bolting through her, until she recognized the ring of her father's phone. It was probably Dee calling back, so she wasn't about to answer it. After three rings, though, an answering machine kicked on in the bedroom. She had sent the machine to her father