Look Both Ways by Carol J. Perry Page A

admitted. “It was more the way he said it, not what he said. Know what I mean?”
    â€œNot really. I’ll read your cards. Now, what about the dream?”
    â€œI have an idea,” I said. “Why don’t you come over to my place around five o’clock? I’ll send out for pizza, and we can analyze my dream and open all the secret compartments.”
    â€œMe? Really? I’d love to. And while I’m there, I can help you figure out your bagua. ”
    â€œMy what?”
    â€œYour bagua. It’s a feng shui thing. To help you relate the areas in your house to the aspects of your life.”
    I had to laugh. “Isn’t my life complicated enough already? Let’s stick with the cards for now.”
    â€œYou need all the help you can get, girlfriend. I’ll see you at five. Bye.”
    The second play in the pile, Our Town, was, as Mr. Pennington had said, the easiest one to stage. The Thornton Wilder classic required only the simplest of props, and we already had a lot of those on hand.
    My tummy, rather than the clock, told me it was lunchtime. After tucking the Born Yesterday script, along with my props list, into my handbag, I headed downstairs to the diner, which had become one of Salem’s favorite eateries for both students and the public alike.
    I pushed open the chrome-trimmed glass door that led directly from the Tabby’s main floor into the diner. A quick glance told me that all the high-backed, red vinyl–upholstered booths, with their tabletop jukeboxes, were occupied, but there were a few chrome bar stools available at the counter. I hurried across the center aisle and claimed one. I looked around the long room, fully expecting to see some familiar faces. After all, I’d been teaching at the Tabby since the first of the year. I was surprised to find that, other than a couple of instructors I knew only by sight, I’d be lunching among strangers. I shrugged, realizing that summer students and teachers were likely to be an altogether new group, propped Born Yesterday against a napkin dispenser, ordered an egg salad sandwich on whole wheat and a Dr Pepper, and began to read.

    This happens in the sitting room of Suite 67D, a large part of the best hotel in Washington, D. C. It is a masterpiece of offensive good taste, colorful, lush and rich . . .

    What the heck is “offensive good taste”?
    I read on and decided that I’d be on the hunt for ornate furnishings, with plenty of satin, velvet, and gilt. That pretty much crossed Aunt Ibby’s house off the list, but there’d surely be some likely prospects in Salem’s many thrift stores.
    I thought of my bureau. With its simple lines and smooth patina of age, it was far from opulent. What was the rest of Helena Trent’s home like? Would a ten-carat diamond be considered “offensive good taste”? Maybe Helena thought so. Maybe that was why she treated it so casually after her first husband’s death. The diamond reminded me of my recent dream, so I snapped the play shut and tried to think about something else.
    But the only something else that came to mind immediately was a handsome Salem detective. Why had I been so snippy on the phone? River was right. Pete is a cop. He always has cop stuff to do—stuff he can’t discuss with me.
    I’m probably just on edge because of discovering Shea’s body. I should call him and apologize.
    I reached for my phone, and it buzzed just as I took it from my handbag.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œMs. Barrett? This is Bob, from Bob’s delivery service. I have your table and chairs and dishes from Jenny’s on the truck, and I can deliver them to your house at around four o’clock, if that’s convenient.”
    I told him I could be there at four, put the play and the phone back into the handbag, paid for my lunch, and returned to the school. I still had a couple of hours before I needed to leave to meet