why was someone after my ex-boyfriends? If I looked at it that way, Mary-Kate Darling looked a lot less guilty and more like someone pissed off at the world for taking her fiancé.
Fact A: Tom Greer broke up with me via e-mail. The next day he was pushed in front of a truck.
Fact B: Riley Witherspoon broke up with me via telephone. Two days later a pit bull snacked on his leg.
Fact C: Ted Puck broke up with me—Hey, wait a minute. Ted hadn’t broken up with me; he’d cheated on me and had gotten caught. He’d said he was going to “tell me anyway,” but would he have? If he’d strung along me and Twinkle and Ariella, maybe he would have strung along me, them and Mary-Kate. Maybe he’d figured kinky wouldn’t last past a month.
Interesting. Ted hadn’t broken up with me. Not the way Riley and Tom had. What Ted had done was pull a Charlie Heath—he’d gone the passive-aggressive route and let his actions engineer the breakup for him.
And Charlie Heath was (a) still alive and (b) apparently not the victim of foul play, or I would have heard about it.
But I’d been crazy about Ted and Charlie and only in serious like with Riley and Tom. Why wait six months, till Ted was engaged, to go after him? Hopefully Charlie wasn’t planning on proposing to anyone.
I practically stopped short, which wasn’t a problem because there was no one behind me and hadn’t been for thirty miles. I pulled over to think. Would the killer go after Charlie if he got engaged? Was Henry Fiddler saved because he’d pulled a Charlie/Ted and let his actions do the dumping? Actually, I had to amend that. Henry hadn’t broken up with me so much as he’d ditched me and taken off so he wouldn’t have to go to the bris. I hadn’t called him to tell him he was a wussy superjerk and that we were through; he hadn’t called me to tell me that since I probably hated his guts anyway, we might as well call it quits. We just both assumed correctly.
I rolled my eyes at myself and pulled back onto the road. As if the killer was thinking this hard? Analyzing my breakups down to the boring details? Doubtful.
Which led me back to who. And why. If I could figure out the why, maybe it would lead me to the who. Or maybe if I figured out the who, I could just ask him or her the why and call it a day.
I would have liked to call it a day right now. Welcome To Moose City greeted me via a green sign on the side of the road. There was nothing but road. And trees. I wouldn’t mind seeing a moose. Not in front of my car, of course.
Ah. There—up ahead was another sign. Moose City Center. I turned off the highway and followed a curve for a mile and came upon a village square, which looked very quaint. Moose City Boulevard, make left, said Marcella’s directions to my bed-and-breakfast, which was called Fowler’s Inn. Marcella had chosen well ( of course she had). The inn was a gorgeous antique farmhouse in the middle of the village, which was as quaint as New England villages came. There was a clapboard general store and several eateries, which catered to skiers and snowmobilers. (Moose City was well-known for its miles of trails, both beginner and advanced.)
I pulled into the parking area next to the big red barn and lugged my suitcase up the porch steps. I was so looking forward to my cozy room, my heavy-down-comforter-covered king-size bed, a hot bubble bath and a good night’s sleep—not that I expected that.
A jangling bell overhead announced my arrival, and I was immediately welcomed to the inn and Moose City by the proprietors, a fiftyish couple who introduced themselves as the Fowlers, Ed and Mary-Jane. Ed took my suitcase, and they led me to a good-sized room with wide plank floors, quilts on the walls, a thick down comforter on the bed and a private bathroom with radiant-heat floors. No need for the Winnie the Pooh slippers. On the bedside table was a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a mug, with a selection of teas and a
Fact A: Tom Greer broke up with me via e-mail. The next day he was pushed in front of a truck.
Fact B: Riley Witherspoon broke up with me via telephone. Two days later a pit bull snacked on his leg.
Fact C: Ted Puck broke up with me—Hey, wait a minute. Ted hadn’t broken up with me; he’d cheated on me and had gotten caught. He’d said he was going to “tell me anyway,” but would he have? If he’d strung along me and Twinkle and Ariella, maybe he would have strung along me, them and Mary-Kate. Maybe he’d figured kinky wouldn’t last past a month.
Interesting. Ted hadn’t broken up with me. Not the way Riley and Tom had. What Ted had done was pull a Charlie Heath—he’d gone the passive-aggressive route and let his actions engineer the breakup for him.
And Charlie Heath was (a) still alive and (b) apparently not the victim of foul play, or I would have heard about it.
But I’d been crazy about Ted and Charlie and only in serious like with Riley and Tom. Why wait six months, till Ted was engaged, to go after him? Hopefully Charlie wasn’t planning on proposing to anyone.
I practically stopped short, which wasn’t a problem because there was no one behind me and hadn’t been for thirty miles. I pulled over to think. Would the killer go after Charlie if he got engaged? Was Henry Fiddler saved because he’d pulled a Charlie/Ted and let his actions do the dumping? Actually, I had to amend that. Henry hadn’t broken up with me so much as he’d ditched me and taken off so he wouldn’t have to go to the bris. I hadn’t called him to tell him he was a wussy superjerk and that we were through; he hadn’t called me to tell me that since I probably hated his guts anyway, we might as well call it quits. We just both assumed correctly.
I rolled my eyes at myself and pulled back onto the road. As if the killer was thinking this hard? Analyzing my breakups down to the boring details? Doubtful.
Which led me back to who. And why. If I could figure out the why, maybe it would lead me to the who. Or maybe if I figured out the who, I could just ask him or her the why and call it a day.
I would have liked to call it a day right now. Welcome To Moose City greeted me via a green sign on the side of the road. There was nothing but road. And trees. I wouldn’t mind seeing a moose. Not in front of my car, of course.
Ah. There—up ahead was another sign. Moose City Center. I turned off the highway and followed a curve for a mile and came upon a village square, which looked very quaint. Moose City Boulevard, make left, said Marcella’s directions to my bed-and-breakfast, which was called Fowler’s Inn. Marcella had chosen well ( of course she had). The inn was a gorgeous antique farmhouse in the middle of the village, which was as quaint as New England villages came. There was a clapboard general store and several eateries, which catered to skiers and snowmobilers. (Moose City was well-known for its miles of trails, both beginner and advanced.)
I pulled into the parking area next to the big red barn and lugged my suitcase up the porch steps. I was so looking forward to my cozy room, my heavy-down-comforter-covered king-size bed, a hot bubble bath and a good night’s sleep—not that I expected that.
A jangling bell overhead announced my arrival, and I was immediately welcomed to the inn and Moose City by the proprietors, a fiftyish couple who introduced themselves as the Fowlers, Ed and Mary-Jane. Ed took my suitcase, and they led me to a good-sized room with wide plank floors, quilts on the walls, a thick down comforter on the bed and a private bathroom with radiant-heat floors. No need for the Winnie the Pooh slippers. On the bedside table was a plate of chocolate chip cookies and a mug, with a selection of teas and a
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