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After rearranging the window seat as best I could, I looked at my watch. It was ten o’clock, and ~ 67 ~
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Carey Osland should be at work. I’d seen Torrance Rideout leaving, but, according to what he’d told me the day before, his wife should be at home unless she was running errands.
I peeked through the blinds. The house across from Torrance Rideout’s was as still as it had been the day before. The one across from Carey Osland’s had two small children playing in the side yard next to Faith Street, a good distance away. All clear. But, even as I watched, a you-do-it moving van pulled up in front of the house across the street.
“Oh, great,” I muttered. “Just great.” After a mo- ment, though, I decided that the moving van would be far more interesting than my departure if anyone was watching. So, before I could worry about it, I grabbed up my purse and my two paper bags and went out the kitchen door into the carport.
“Aurora?” called a voice incredulously. With a strong feeling that fate was dealing harshly with me, I turned to the people climbing out of the moving van, to see that my former lover, burglary de- tective Arthur Smith, and his bride, homicide detec- tive Lynn Liggett, were moving in across the street. ~ 68 ~
    Chapter Four
A
From being bizarre and upsetting, my day had moved into surrealistic. I walked on legs that didn’t feel like my own toward two police detectives, my purse slung on my shoulder, a can of coffee in the bag in my right hand, a perforated skull in the bag in my left. My hands began sweating. I tried to force a pleasant expression on my face, but had no idea what I had achieved.
Next they’re going to say, I thought, they’re going to say— What’s in the bag?
The only plus to meeting up with the very preg- nant Mrs. Smith at this moment was that I was so worried about the skull I was not concerned about the awkward personal situation I’d landed in. But I was ~ 69 ~
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aware—acutely—that I had on no makeup and my hair was restrained with a rubber band. Arthur’s fair skin flushed red, which it did when he was embarrassed, or angry, or—well, no, don’t think about that. Arthur was too tough to embarrass easily, but he was embarrassed now.
“Are you visiting here?” Lynn asked hopefully. “Jane Engle died,” I began to explain. “Arthur, you remember Jane?”
He nodded. “The Madeleine Smith expert.” “Jane left me her house,” I said, and a childish part of me wanted to add, “and lots and lots of money.” But a more mature part of my mind vetoed it, not only because I was carrying a skull in a bag and didn’t want to prolong this encounter, but because money was not a legitimate score over Lynn acquiring Arthur. My modern brain told me that a married woman had no edge over an unmarried woman, but my primitive heart knew I would never be “even” with Lynn until I married, myself.
It was a fragmented day in Chez Teagarden. The Smiths looked dismayed, as well they might. Moving into their little dream home, baby on the way—baby very much on the way—and then the Old Girlfriend appears right across the street. “I’m not sure whether or not I’ll live here,” I said ~ 70 ~
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before they could ask me. “But I’ll be in and out the next week or two getting things straightened out.” Could I ever possibly straighten this out? Lynn sighed. I looked up at her, really seeing her for the first time. Lynn’s short brown hair looked life- less, and, far from glowing with pregnancy, as I’d heard women did, Lynn’s skin looked blotchy. But when she turned and looked back at the house, she looked very happy.
“How are you feeling, Lynn?” I asked politely. “Pretty good. The ultrasound showed the baby is a lot further along than we thought, maybe by seven weeks, so we kind of rushed through buying the house to be sure we got in here and got everything set- tled before the baby