Look Both Ways by Carol J. Perry

the Salem Police Department’s evidence room. Not too many months ago I’d 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.
    â€œI’ll take these up to my new, um, office and get started.”
    â€œExcellent, my dear. You’ll find paper, pens, etcetera in your desk, and feel free to ask for anything else you might need, and here’s the key to your truck.” He handed me a Ford key on a key chain with a yellow plastic smiley face attached. “It’s down in the warehouse. I started it myself this morning, so I know it’s in good running condition.”
    â€œI’m sure it’ll be fine,” 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 Pete’s number.
    He answered on the first ring. “Lee? You okay? I’ve been worried about you.”
    â€œI’m fine, and sorry about all the drama,” I said. “How about a do-over tonight? I’ll send out for pizza, and we can tear into that bureau.”
    Long pause.
    â€œWell, babe. I’m sorry. Can’t do it tonight. Something, um, came up. Maybe another time. Okay?”
    Another long pause. This time on my end.
    â€œUh, all right . . . okay. Talk to you later.”
    â€œSure. And look, I know you’re dying to see what’s in the secret compartments. Why don’t you just go ahead and open them without me?”
    â€œI’ll think about it,” I said, my tone a little too frosty. “Maybe I will. Bye.”
    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, Hobson’s Choice. I honestly had never even heard of this play, so I checked Wikipedia for information. I began to read.
    Hobson’s Choice is a play by Harold Brighouse, the title taken from a popular expression, Hobson’s choice—meaning no choice at all . . .

CHAPTER 12
    By noontime I had read the entire script of Hobson’s 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 shoemaker’s 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 paper–wrapped, had been arranged atop one of Trumbull’s old wooden counters. It seemed that Mr. Pennington had done a good job so far, but I’d need to find some old-fashioned shoes and boots and maybe an iron shoe last and cobblers’ 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 North’s name.
    â€œHi, River,” I said. “I was going to call you later.”
    â€œYou were? Any new visions? Advances in the romance department?”
    â€œNo visions, and the romance department might be moving in reverse. I had a weird dream, though. Want to hear about it?”
    â€œSure I do. But first, what’s up with you and Pete? Is he coming back to open the secret compartments?”
    â€œGuess not. He says he has something else to do tonight.”
    â€œNothing odd about that. He’s a cop. He always has stuff to do. How come you sound so down about it?”
    â€œI’m not sure,” I