the Salem Police Departmentâs evidence room. Not too many months ago Iâd had to use that sharp, slim little device to save myself from a killer. I looked away from that sad reminder and picked up the paper-covered books Mr. Pennington had indicated.
âIâll take these up to my new, um, office and get started.â
âExcellent, my dear. Youâll find paper, pens, etcetera in your desk, and feel free to ask for anything else you might need, and hereâs the key to your truck.â He handed me a Ford key on a key chain with a yellow plastic smiley face attached. âItâs down in the warehouse. I started it myself this morning, so I know itâs in good running condition.â
âIâm sure itâll be fine,â I said, with more confidence than I felt.
Minutes later I sat at my new/vintage desk. I placed the three plays on the scarred surface, then reached into my handbag, pulled out the dream book, and put it on top of the pile. After a tiny hesitation I pulled my phone from the handbag, too, and punched in Peteâs number.
He answered on the first ring. âLee? You okay? Iâve been worried about you.â
âIâm fine, and sorry about all the drama,â I said. âHow about a do-over tonight? Iâll send out for pizza, and we can tear into that bureau.â
Long pause.
âWell, babe. Iâm sorry. Canât do it tonight. Something, um, came up. Maybe another time. Okay?â
Another long pause. This time on my end.
âUh, all right . . . okay. Talk to you later.â
âSure. And look, I know youâre dying to see whatâs in the secret compartments. Why donât you just go ahead and open them without me?â
âIâll think about it,â I said, my tone a little too frosty. âMaybe I will. Bye.â
I hung up, then stared at the phone in my hand for a long moment before I put it back in the handbag. I moved the dream book to one side and picked up the first play, Hobsonâs Choice. I honestly had never even heard of this play, so I checked Wikipedia for information. I began to read.
Hobsonâs Choice is a play by Harold Brighouse, the title taken from a popular expression, Hobsonâs choiceâmeaning no choice at all . . .
CHAPTER 12
By noontime I had read the entire script of Hobsonâs Choice and had unveiled the sheet-covered blob in the corner of my so-called office. The action of the play, as Mr. Pennington had explained, takes place in a 1930s-era shoemakerâs shop A dozen or so of the Thonet chairs from the shoe department had been carefully stacked in the corner, and Buster Brown, the Poll-Parrot macaw, and the giant patent-leather pump, each one tissue paperâwrapped, had been arranged atop one of Trumbullâs old wooden counters. It seemed that Mr. Pennington had done a good job so far, but Iâd need to find some old-fashioned shoes and boots and maybe an iron shoe last and cobblersâ tools. The costume department might have 1930s dresses and suits. I made a note to check on that and tossed the sheets back over the blob. I started a list and then moved on to the second play in the pile.
My phone buzzed, and I reached for it eagerly, hoping it was Pete calling to explain his strange behavior. Caller ID revealed River Northâs name.
âHi, River,â I said. âI was going to call you later.â
âYou were? Any new visions? Advances in the romance department?â
âNo visions, and the romance department might be moving in reverse. I had a weird dream, though. Want to hear about it?â
âSure I do. But first, whatâs up with you and Pete? Is he coming back to open the secret compartments?â
âGuess not. He says he has something else to do tonight.â
âNothing odd about that. Heâs a cop. He always has stuff to do. How come you sound so down about it?â
âIâm not sure,â I
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