LITMIR.BIZ

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law and husbands,” Jim said. Davey Ahearn glanced down the bar, not saying a word, but Jim knew his friend’s suspicions were on full alert.

      “No, sir, I don’t believe that’s the case at all.” Audrey Melbourne slid off her stool, looking even smaller. “Mostly we run from ourselves.”

      She walked over to the coatrack and put on her new parka, hat and gloves as if they might have been a space suit. She left without looking back.

      Davey breathed out a long sigh. “Sure. I hope she comes back real soon. That pretty little number is trouble.”

      One of the firefighters snorted. “All women are trouble.”

      Two female Tufts graduate students took exception to this comment, and the argument was on. Jim didn’t intervene. The Bruins and the Celtics were having a lousy year, the Patriots hadn’t made the playoffs, and pitchers and catchers didn’t report for weeks yet. People needed something to do. Maybe he needed to wonder about a redheaded Texan coming into his bar. It happened now and again, a stranger popping in for a drink. He doubted Audrey Melbourne would be back.

      * * *

      An icy gust bit at Alice Parker’s face as she climbed over a blackened, frozen, eighteen-inch snowbank to get to her car. The Texas tags were a dead giveaway, but what the hell—so was her Texas accent. She’d arrived in Boston in the middle of a damn blizzard, and now it was so cold her cheeks ached and her eyeballs felt as if they were frozen in their sockets. Her chest hurt from breathing in the dry, frigid air.

      “I should have bought the damn Everest parka,” she muttered, picking her way over an ice patch. Even sanded, it was slippery. She supposed she’d need new boots if she ended up staying more than a few days. Damned if she’d move up here on a permanent basis. She’d rather sit in prison.

      She did not understand why Susanna Galway was living here on an old, crowded street in a working-class neighborhood, with the salt and sand and soot making everything even uglier. She had a nice house in San Antonio. A Texas Ranger husband. What the hell was wrong with her?

      Alice tried fishing her keys out of her pocket with a gloved hand, decided that wouldn’t work and peeled off the glove. Winter was complicated. She couldn’t believe she’d driven a couple thousand miles in her crappy car to track down Susanna, just so Beau could think she still had the tape. Not that he was biting—he kept telling her she could go to hell and threatening to turn her in for blackmail and extortion. She was calling his bluff. He’d pay her to steal the tape and hush up about it. She knew he would. Things worked on his nerves. He was paranoid and dramatic. She’d made that one little remark about Rachel smothering him in his sleep, and less than a day later, her friend was dead.

      Alice was confident he’d come around. He deserved to pay for something.

      Of course, he could decide to shoot her in the back and go after the tape himself, but that was extreme. Even Beau couldn’t think he’d get away with two murders. He’d let her do his dirty work for him. And pay her.

      If he did end up shooting her, Jack Galway and Sam Temple could catch him. At least he’d go to prison for her murder, if not Rachel’s.

      An old woman pushed open the porch door to the stucco house just up the street. She had on pants stuffed into fur-trimmed ankle boots, a dark wool car coat, a red scarf, a red knit hat and red knit gloves.

      It had to be Iris Dunning. Susanna’s grandmother.

      Alice had found out from Beau that Susanna Galway was living up north with her daughters and grandmother. He’d obviously expected this information would make Alice give up on her plan. She’d thought about it. It was kind of nuts, traveling two thousand miles, taking the risk of breaking into Susanna’s house to steal something that wasn’t there.

      But what else was she supposed to do? She had the tape. Beau would not be pleased if he found out she’d had it all along—for one, he’d never pay her the fifty grand. For another, he’d probably shoot her. He was balking as it was. If this was going to work, Alice knew she had to go through the motions.

      She climbed back over the snowbank. “Mrs. Dunning?” Alice stepped carefully onto the sidewalk, not wanting to slip. “Excuse me, ma’am, I didn’t mean to startle you. My name’s Audrey Melbourne—I’m new in town. Someone mentioned you might have a room for rent.” No one had, but Alice decided it was a good way to launch a conversation.

      The old woman’s clear green eyes cinched it for Alice. They were just like Susanna’s. She had to be Iris Dunning. “I’m sorry, I’m not renting rooms at the moment. Are you a student?”

      Alice shook her head. “No, I’m in the process of moving to Boston. This seems like a nice neighborhood.”

      “It is,” Iris said. “I’ve lived here for years and have never been robbed.”

      That would probably change, Alice thought, if she had to stage a robbery to convince Beau she’d gotten the tape off Susanna. “Well, ma’am, I don’t want to keep you out in the cold—”

      “Have you had supper yet? Jimmy Haviland makes good, hearty food. His clam chowder’s the best in the city, but tonight’s not chowder night.”

      Alice hated even the thought of clams. They had to be slimy. “I know—I was just in there. I think he’s serving beef stew tonight.”

      “Come on, then, I’ll buy you a bowl.” Iris Dunning seemed ready to take Alice by the arm and walk her into the pub. “I was new in town and all alone once. My granddaughter and daughters are out for the evening. I’d like the company.”

      “Ma’am, I don’t want to impose—”

      “You’re not imposing, and you can stop calling me ‘ma’am.’ Iris will be fine.”

      Alice was taken aback. No wonder Susanna had ended up here—her grandmother was a good soul who’d take in anyone. “I’d love a bowl of stew, Iris, but I’ll pay my way.”

      They entered the bar together, and Alice immediately noticed the obvious suspicion of the owner and his friend with the handlebar mustache. If Iris noticed, she didn’t care. She headed to a back table. Alice smiled self-consciously at the two men, who continued to frown at her. Well, that was a good sign. At least Iris Dunning had people who looked after her. She was the sort of person people could easily take advantage of.

      “Now, Jimmy,” she said when the owner came over to take their order, “don’t start lecturing me about strangers. I can have stew with anyone I want. Miss Melbourne is new in town.”

      “Audrey,” Alice corrected with a smile.

      “I’d never lecture you, Iris,” Jimmy said. “What are you drinking with your stew?”

      “I think I’ll have merlot tonight. I haven’t had wine in ages. Alice, what about you?”

      “Oh, no, ma’am, I don’t drink. I’ll just have a Coke.”

      “And don’t skimp on the beef when you dip up my stew, Jimmy. I had a low-fat lunch.”

      He still didn’t seem too happy.

      Iris sighed at him, her green eyes vibrant. “Jimmy, I know about women on their own. They’re either widowed, divorced, broke, on the run or ex-cons.” She turned her bright gaze to her new friend. “Am I right, Audrey?”

      Alice laughed. “One or more of the above.”

      “There. I knew it. I guess that’s better than ‘all of the above.’”

      * * *

      Tess Haviland sank into the soft leather couch that Susanna had bought when Tess had moved out of their shared office space the summer before. She still had the remnants of her tan from her holiday in Disney World with Andrew Thorne, her architect husband, and seven-year-old Dolly. Harley Beckett, Dolly’s reclusive babysitter, had stayed home and worked on Tess’s nineteenth-century

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