morning, and since foot traffic into the bank was very light and she hadn’t been sleeping well, she went to her boss and asked if she could take a sick day.
Bank manager Gary Martelle was immediately sympathetic. “Of course you can go home, Melanie. I told you yesterday you could take the rest of the week, if you needed it. I know you and Scott had your problems, but it had to be a horrible shock for you, his murder.”
She couldn’t tell if he was fishing for information or genuinely sympathetic, but neither interested her, given her present mood. So she merely smiled and thanked him.
Cathy appeared in the doorway of her office as Melanie was gathering her things, her usual sweet expression disturbed by worry. “Hey, are you going to be okay? I mean, do you really want to be at home alone?”
Melanie didn’t really want to go into long explanations or protest what she knew would be Cathy’s offer to accompany her, so she said what she knew would most likely reassure her friend.
“My brother’s going to be visiting for a couple of weeks, so I won’t be alone. I’ll be fine, Cathy.”
Visibly relieved, her friend nevertheless said, “We’ll go to the funeral together, okay? And . . . visitation is tonight. Are you going to go?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I guess the rest of The Group is going?”
“Far as I know. I’m not sure about Trinity; it probably depends on how her investigation is going. And when the feds get here.”
Involuntarily, Melanie said, “Man, news travels fast.”
“Well, federal agents in Sociable? Just a couple days after the first murder in these parts for a decade?” Cathy smiled wryly. “You should be glad of them coming, you know. It’s at least taking some folks’ minds off whether Scott killed himself because you broke his heart.”
“Seriously?”
“Afraid so.”
Melanie’s strongest reaction to that news was the realization that Scott would have
hated
anyone believing that a woman had dumped him, driving him to suicide.
Cathy’s smile widened. “I know I shouldn’t be amused, but . . .”
“Yeah.” Even as she said it, Melanie shook her head. “I bet gossip has it both ways. He dumped me, so I killed him—somehow; I dumped him, and he killed himself. I really come out on the lousy end of things no matter which they believe.”
“Well, if it helps, most of The Group I’ve talked to have every intention of spreading the word that you two broke up—and that you were both fine with it. End of story.”
Except it wouldn’t be, Melanie knew. Not with Scott dead.
Murdered.
“I’m going home and taking a nap,” she announced.
“I’ll call you in the afternoon to check on whether you want to go to the funeral home tonight.”
“Okay.”
Melanie lived close enough to work that she only bothered to take her car if she knew she’d be leaving the bank to go out of town for some reason. Shopping out by the highway. The multiplex out by the highway.
Even the funeral home was out near the highway.
For some reason, that really depressed Melanie. But the chill in the air served as a handy excuse for her to avoid pausing to talk to anyone on her way home, walking briskly down one block and then back just one street to her apartment building. Rather than external apartment entrances like Scott’s building had, Melanie’s boasted a lobby with a manned security desk and an elevator.
She waved to the security guard but didn’t pause to talk to him, either, going straight to the elevator and up to her apartment.
It was a nice place, and she had furnished and decorated it with a lot more care—and more taste—than she had put into the tiny apartment in Atlanta where she’d lived during and after college. This was her home, a place she intended to live in and enjoy for a long time. Maybe for a very long time.
She was reasonably sure she had already dated all the men who interested her in Sociable. The men who had attracted her. Of course,
Bank manager Gary Martelle was immediately sympathetic. “Of course you can go home, Melanie. I told you yesterday you could take the rest of the week, if you needed it. I know you and Scott had your problems, but it had to be a horrible shock for you, his murder.”
She couldn’t tell if he was fishing for information or genuinely sympathetic, but neither interested her, given her present mood. So she merely smiled and thanked him.
Cathy appeared in the doorway of her office as Melanie was gathering her things, her usual sweet expression disturbed by worry. “Hey, are you going to be okay? I mean, do you really want to be at home alone?”
Melanie didn’t really want to go into long explanations or protest what she knew would be Cathy’s offer to accompany her, so she said what she knew would most likely reassure her friend.
“My brother’s going to be visiting for a couple of weeks, so I won’t be alone. I’ll be fine, Cathy.”
Visibly relieved, her friend nevertheless said, “We’ll go to the funeral together, okay? And . . . visitation is tonight. Are you going to go?”
“I haven’t decided yet. I guess the rest of The Group is going?”
“Far as I know. I’m not sure about Trinity; it probably depends on how her investigation is going. And when the feds get here.”
Involuntarily, Melanie said, “Man, news travels fast.”
“Well, federal agents in Sociable? Just a couple days after the first murder in these parts for a decade?” Cathy smiled wryly. “You should be glad of them coming, you know. It’s at least taking some folks’ minds off whether Scott killed himself because you broke his heart.”
“Seriously?”
“Afraid so.”
Melanie’s strongest reaction to that news was the realization that Scott would have
hated
anyone believing that a woman had dumped him, driving him to suicide.
Cathy’s smile widened. “I know I shouldn’t be amused, but . . .”
“Yeah.” Even as she said it, Melanie shook her head. “I bet gossip has it both ways. He dumped me, so I killed him—somehow; I dumped him, and he killed himself. I really come out on the lousy end of things no matter which they believe.”
“Well, if it helps, most of The Group I’ve talked to have every intention of spreading the word that you two broke up—and that you were both fine with it. End of story.”
Except it wouldn’t be, Melanie knew. Not with Scott dead.
Murdered.
“I’m going home and taking a nap,” she announced.
“I’ll call you in the afternoon to check on whether you want to go to the funeral home tonight.”
“Okay.”
Melanie lived close enough to work that she only bothered to take her car if she knew she’d be leaving the bank to go out of town for some reason. Shopping out by the highway. The multiplex out by the highway.
Even the funeral home was out near the highway.
For some reason, that really depressed Melanie. But the chill in the air served as a handy excuse for her to avoid pausing to talk to anyone on her way home, walking briskly down one block and then back just one street to her apartment building. Rather than external apartment entrances like Scott’s building had, Melanie’s boasted a lobby with a manned security desk and an elevator.
She waved to the security guard but didn’t pause to talk to him, either, going straight to the elevator and up to her apartment.
It was a nice place, and she had furnished and decorated it with a lot more care—and more taste—than she had put into the tiny apartment in Atlanta where she’d lived during and after college. This was her home, a place she intended to live in and enjoy for a long time. Maybe for a very long time.
She was reasonably sure she had already dated all the men who interested her in Sociable. The men who had attracted her. Of course,
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