Courting Trouble

see her. She reached the top of her block and proceeded onto it, remembering when she’d walked it in the Uncle Sam stovepipe. Was that only two days ago? It hardly seemed possible. When she was five houses from her own, then four, she could see the yellow crime-scene tape still flapping in the breeze. People passed by on the sidewalk, stopping curiously, then moving on, not letting the ugly notion ruin their holiday.

She double-parked in front of her door, blocking traffic. How better to get some attention? She hoped all her neighbors would look out their windows and see her. Kevin could be in the area, betting she’d come back to the house. She had to get inside. She flung open her door and jumped out of the truck, causing a man in a white TransAm behind her to lean on his horn.

Anne gave him a happy wave. “Be just a minute!” she called out, and she fumbled in her purse for her keys and bounded to her stoop. It still had a few bouquets, withering in their cellophane. She didn’t linger to look at any of them. She tore off the crime-scene tape, slid her key in the lock, then steeled herself to go inside.

The front door swung open, permitting the acrid stench of dried blood to greet her, but Anne ignored it and closed and latched the door behind her. He is going to pay, Willa. She hurried through the entrance hall without looking around, then darted upstairs and ran to her bedroom. She rushed to her closet, listening to the blare of angry honking outside her bedroom windows, from the backed-up traffic.

Anne opened the louvered door, reached for the top shelf, shoved aside a stack of winter sweaters, and fumbled around for the Prada shoebox. She found it with her fingertips, scraped to get it down but ended up batting it to the ground, the lid coming off. She knelt down and moved the white tissue-paper aside, and there it was, nestled safe and sound.

Her little black semi-auto, the Beretta Tomcat. It was a sleek little gun of Italian design, the Armani of handguns. She lifted it from the box, feeling its heavy, deadly heft in her palm. She pushed the grooved button in the handle and slid out the magazine. It smelled of gun cleaner and was fully loaded. She pressed the mag back, clicked the safety into place, and slipped the tiny gun into her purse. She was about to run downstairs when she thought of something. She couldn’t run in Blahniks and she’d need to run. Why not think ahead, for once? She rooted in the bottom of her closet, found a pair of red canvas espadrilles, and slid into them. Then her eye fell on her summer dresses, hanging in the closet.

Why not? She’d be more recognizable in her own clothes, and for the first time in her life, she knew just what to wear. She tore through her clothes, sliding each work dress and suit along the hanger with a screech. There it was, way in the back. The dress she’d worn on her first and only date with Kevin. She hadn’t worn it since, but something had prevented her from throwing it out. It was a part of her history. Now it would be a part of her future. She stripped, slipped the white picot dress from the hanger, and shimmied into it. The sleeveless skimmer felt cool, and she suppressed the bad memory it carried. She dropped the Beretta into its front pocket, because she’d be freer to move without her messenger bag. She went to her dresser, grabbed some cash in case she needed it, and headed out.

Honk! Honk! It was a hornfest out there, and Anne hurried downstairs. She hated going through the entrance hall again, and flung open the front door so fast that she startled an old man on the sidewalk. He looked vaguely familiar in his gray shorts, white T-shirt, and black socks-and-sandals combo, and he was walking a fawn pug, tugging mightily for such a tiny dog.

The old man’s eyes widened, his cataracts ringing them with a cloudy circle. “Miss Murphy! You’re alive?”

Anne came down the steps and steadied him by his arm, its bicep slack with advanced age. “I am, sir. Did you see the newspaper? It was an awful mistake. I was just out of town.”

“Well, how remarkable! You know, I live next door to you, in 2259. My name is Mort Berman.” Mr. Berman’s head shook slightly. “I was so sorry to hear that you had been killed! You were such a nice, quiet neighbor. We felt funny holding the block party, but we thought we’d do a sort of memorial to you. And now you’re alive! Will you come?”

“Thank you, Mr. Berman, I will.” Horns blared from the line of traffic, and the man in the white TransAm was flipping Anne a very aggressive bird, moving his middle finger up and down. She hoped Mr. Berman couldn’t see. “I’m sorry, I really have to go now. Happy Fourth!”

“See ya at the block party!” he called back, as Anne jumped inside the VW and shifted it into gear.

Her thoughts moved a lot faster than the traffic. She checked the Beetle’s purple-and-red clock. 9:48. It was early. Good. She was one step ahead of Bennie, and Kevin, too. The newspapers wouldn’t have published her photo so soon after she’d left the Roundhouse, but there was still a lot she could do in the meantime. She sensed Kevin wouldn’t make his move until dark, because it would be safer for him, but she could let him get a bead on her before then. Anything could happen once she put herself in harm’s way. At least now she had the Beretta for protection. And the gold charm necklace Mrs. DiNunzio had given her. She’d be ready for him and any other hobgoblin.

Come out, come out, wherever you are.

Anne hit the gas and took a left, heading west. She knew where to look for Kevin, so that he could find her. Twenty blocks later she was there. Powelton Village was a city neighborhood that lay between Drexel University and the University of Pennsylvania. The architecture was decidedly different from Center City; instead of the brick rowhouses that marked Philly’s downtown, there were large, detached Victorian houses made of stone, with slate- shingled turrets, funky gothic parapets, and arched porches. Their gingerbread trim had been painted in whimsical Cape May colors. Some of the large houses bore signs with Greek letters, and Anne assumed they were frat houses from nearby Drexel University and Penn. She took a left past the row of frats and then a right onto the street.

3845 Moore. She had remembered the address from the answers to interrogatories. It was where Beth and Bill Dietz lived. Anne had never visited the home of a plaintiff before, but Kevin had never started stalking anyone else. There was a chance that he’d be here, watching Beth’s house, and if he was, Anne wanted him to see her. Maybe she could do some good, too. She had thought about calling ahead, to see if it was okay for her to come, but there’d be too much ‘splainin’ to do, and she didn’t want to ask for permission she wouldn’t get.

The Beetle cruised up the street, and she inched up in the driver’s seat with anticipation. Tall, narrow houses lined the street like books on a shelf. American flags hung from the arch on the porches, and the smell of barbecued hamburgers blew from the backyards, but the streets were less busy than downtown. If Kevin was stalking Beth Dietz, he’d have a harder time finding places to hide. And so would Anne.

She found a space near the Dietzes’ and parked legally, taking it as a good omen. Maybe she’d have some luck and draw fire. She got out of the car, walked down the street slowly in case Kevin was watching, and found the right house. It was made of large, dark stone and stood three-stories high, apparently only one-room wide, and had a green-painted porch with no flag. The porch’s gray floorboards had warped, and its plank edges were crooked as bad teeth. She walked to the front door and knocked under its four-paned window.

It was opened after the second knock by Beth Dietz. She wore jean shorts, an embroidered peasant blouse, and a shocked expression on her pretty face. “I read you were alive, but seeing you—” she stopped in midsentence, her blue eyes astonished. “Well, I mean, what are you doing here? You represent Gil Martin. You have no business being here, and my husband will be home any minute.” She glanced worriedly up the street, tossing back long blond hair, and Anne formed the instant impression that she was nervous.

“I know this seems inappropriate, but I came to talk to you about Kevin Satorno, not the case.”

“Please. You have to go. My husband is on his way.” Beth started to close the door, but Anne stopped her.

“Did the police tell you that Kevin Satorno is stalking you? Did Matt?”

“No one’s stalking me. I would know if someone was stalking me.”

It struck a chord. Anne had felt that way, too. “No, he is, and you have to take him seriously. He believes you’re in love with him, and the cops don’t understand how to deal with him. I’m worried—”

“Oh, please.” Beth scoffed. “You’re worried about me? You’ve spent the last year making my life miserable.” She tried to close the door again, but Anne shoved her espadrille in it.

“Have you had a lot of hang-ups on your phone? Don’t change the number, it takes away his outlet. Get a second phone line and leave an answering machine on the first. And save the tape, for evidence.” Anne could see Beth hesitate for just a second, and was surprised to find herself softening inside. She and Beth were both women in the same predicament, even though they were at odds in the lawsuit. And she didn’t judge Beth for having an affair; Bill Dietz would have driven any wife away. “I know it seems weird, but we have a lot in common. It’s very possible that Kevin’s watching us both, right now.”