A car passed by, then its brake lights flashed on and the driver backed up.
“Lauren!” Frank said, pulling himself out of his tiny sports car. “What happened?”
“I’m not sure.”
He quickly strode toward me.
“As I was coming around the bend, something hit my windshield. I shied away from it and ended up here.”
“Something like what?” Frank asked. “A stone, a bird, fruit off a truck?”
“I didn’t see.”
Frank walked around to the front of my car surveying it with a grim face and sharp eyes. He examined the windshield, then whistled softly. “I don’t like telling you this, Lauren, but that was no pebble that ricocheted against your windshield. It was something heavy and I suspect it was thrown.”
I gazed at the big chip in the glass and the splintered lines radiating from it. “I figured something had been hurled at me.”
“Did you now?” he replied, studying me curiously. “Did you see someone by the side of the road?”
“No, but I was on automatic pilot,” I admitted, “thinking about a lot of stuff.” I retrieved my purse from the car floor.
“I’d better call the police to report this and find out whose fence I’ve ruined.”
Frank slipped his own phone from his pocket. “Don’t bother,” he said. “The sheriff’s a busybody. I can track down the owner and help you if your insurance doesn’t cover the damages. Who do you want to tow your car? Pete? He still has the Crown station on Jib Street.”
“That’s fine.”
While Frank made the call I examined the front of my car.
By sheer luck it had run between two trees, plowing into the fence. The trees were planted in even intervals along the stretch of road, about a car width apart. If I had steered a little to the left or right, I would have hit a tree head on.
Before braking I had been going the standard speed for country roads, 50 mph. The accident could have been a lot more serious.
Frank clicked off his phone. “Someone will be here in about fifteen minutes. Let’s see if we can find what hit you.”
It wasn’t hard. Rocks don’t abound on the Eastern Shore, and bricks aren’t part of the natural landscape. The only thing on the road and its sandy shoulder was a half a brick.
Frank picked it up and showed it to me, his face thoughtful, then placed it on my car’s hood.
We transferred the party food to his car. Fortunately the cold cuts and bread had not been made into sandwiches and could be rearranged at home. We had just finished when a sheriff’s car put on its flashers and pulled over. A small man with a round, sunburned face climbed out and ambled toward us.
“Frank,” he said, nodding his head.
“Tom,” Frank replied coolly, his tone indicating that this was the man he didn’t like.
The sheriff introduced himself simply as “McManus.”
“Now let’s see,” he said, “Blue Honda, D.C. tag. I don’t have any report of this, and I just checked in.”
“It just happened,” Frank replied.
The sheriff asked to see my license and began to question me. It was routine stuff, but the last question caught me by surprise: “Is there anyone you’re not getting along with these days?”
“Uh, no,” I told him, “not really.”
“And who would be in your not-really category?”
Nora, Jason. “No one,” I said.
He studied me for a moment. I gazed back at him as steadily as possible.
“Kids,” McManus said at last. “One day after school’s out and they don’t know what to do with themselves. I’m sorry about this, Miss Brandt. It doesn’t make our town look good.”
“It can happen anywhere,” I replied.
“Hope your insurance covers most of it. Well, here comes Pete’s boy.” The sheriff gestured toward the tow truck as he walked back to his car.
Pete’s “boy” looked about thirty and seemed pleased to be towing my Honda. “She’s real pretty,” he said, “even with barbed wire wrapped around her.”
Frank winked at me, then helped the mechanic disentangle the car. I filled out a form and was told to check in with Pete after talking to my insurance company.
When Frank and I finally headed home in his car, I thanked him for helping me out.
“No problem,” he said. “That’s what neighbors are for.”
We rumbled over the creek bridge. “So, how’s Nora?”
I could guess why he was asking. “She’s not that good at Softball, Frank.”
He laughed. “Well put. I didn’t think she had that kind of aim. Of course, she could get lucky.” Then his face grew serious. “Does she have any friends nowadays? Could she have gotten someone else to throw the brick for her?”
“As far as I know she doesn’t trust anyone but Holly and Nick.”
“Are there any other candidates for Wisteria’s Hoodlum of the Year? I know the sheriff already asked, but it didn’t sound like you were saying anything more than you had to.”
“I had nothing concrete to tell him,” I explained. “It’s possible my date for the prom decided to get back at me. I kind of landed him on the floor with the punch bowl.”
“So I heard,” Frank said, grinning. “Of course, Jason would have a good throwing arm,” he pointed out.
I nodded, unconvinced Jason had done it.
We were silent the last few blocks home, then Frank suddenly swore and swerved, narrowly avoiding the deep mud of Aunt Jule’s driveway. “You need a sled around here,” he said as he parked the car on the street. “Why doesn’t she pave the thing? Oh, I know. She can’t afford it.”
As we got out to unload the food Aunt Jule emerged from the house.
“Jule, come here a sec,” Frank hollered.
I could tell from the stiffness in her back that she didn’t like being summoned by him. Before she said something unfriendly, I interjected, “I had an accident, Aunt Jule, and Frank stopped to help me.”
She hurried down the path in her bare feet, not caring about the mud. “Are you all right? What kind of accident?”
I explained what happened.
“It was a near miss,” Frank told her.
My godmother reached for me and hugged me tightly.
“Jule,” Frank said, “is there anyone you know out to get Lauren?”
She let go of me abruptly. “What a ridiculous thing to ask!”
“Maybe, maybe not,” he replied. “The last time Lauren was here her mother met with a fatal accident. At least we called it an accident. The sheriff isn’t calling this one anything other than deliberate. The only question is whether it was random or not.”
Aunt Jule’s eyes flashed. “No one who knows Lauren would want to hurt her. And I resent what you’re implying about Sondra’s death. It was an accident — just like Margaret’s,” she added slyly.
I figured the reference to his wife was meant to sting, but Frank responded mildly. “I guess that’s why it’s got me concerned. This was awfully similar to Marge’s accident, and she was killed instantly.”
The color drained from Aunt Jule’s face.
The porch door banged back, and Holly stepped outside.
“Hey, Lauren, did you get everything?”
“Yes, I’ll bring it in.”
“Nick, we need help,” I heard Holly say. He followed her out of the house and down the path. “Where’s your car?”
