"Sure," she said, sounding relieved. "Should be about an hour, maybe a little longer."

"Fine." And I closed the door behind her, leaned against it, and wondered what she hadn't told me.

At the end of a morning spent moving heavy objects, I knew a little more about Angel. She and Shelby had been married for seven years. They had worked together on their previous job. What that job was, was vague. I am southern enough to have trouble asking direct questions; I'd used up my quota for the day that morning in the kitchen. And Angel, whether deliberately or not, did not respond to anything but flat-out bald-faced directness. I still had no clear fix on her character.

Martin had a lunch meeting that day, and Mother was taking some clients out, so I sat down at the kitchen table and worked out a meal plan for the week, which was one of the things I'd heard good housewives did, and shopped at the grocery accordingly. I'd cooked for Martin before, of course, and he'd grilled meat for us many times, but this would be the first meal I'd cooked for him as his wife in our new home, and I thought it should be fancy, but not so fancy that he got inflated ideas about what our daily cuisine would be: and also not so difficult that I ruined it. We'd gotten at least five cookbooks as wedding presents, and I mildly looked forward to our eating our way through them. I sat in our little family room and watched the news, reading through our backlog of magazines during the ads. Then I wrote some more thank-you's, managing to acknowledge over half the gifts that had arrived in our absence. When I walked to the end of the drive to put the notes in the mailbox, I noticed for the first time that the Youngbloods had put up their own mailbox. That made sense, since we had the same address; it was a problem I hadn't thought of before, and here it was already solved. I ambled back up the drive, looking idly through the load of bills and occupant notices and free samples I'd found in the box. As we'd decided in our premarital counseling, I would be responsible for paying the month-to-month bills from our joint account, into which Martin and I each deposited a predetermined amount from our separate incomes. So I pulled out our brand-new joint checkbook, paid the bills, and signed the checks "Aurora Teagarden."

Okay, okay. I'd kept my name, that absurd and ridiculous name that had been my bane my whole life. When it got right down to it, I just couldn't become anyone else. Martin had had a hard time about that, but I had a gut feeling I was right. When I feel like that, I am fairly immovable. And I can't tell you how much better it made me feel. I had my own money, I had my own friends and family, I had my own name. I was one lucky woman, I told myself as I sliced strawberries.

Martin opened the front door and yelled gleefully, "Hi, honey! I'm home!"

I started laughing.

I was actually able to turn from the sink and say, "Hello, dear. How did your day go?" just like a sitcom mom.

I was one lucky, uneasy woman.

THE NEXT MORNING, on a whim, I went to Peachtree Leisure Apartments, a sort of independent old folks' home, as Neecy Dawson had so cheerfully pointed out. I'd been there before to visit various people, but not in a long time. There'd been a few changes. Before, there'd been a directory in the large lobby, and you could just walk in and take the elevator to the floor you needed. Now, there was a very large black man with a narrow mustache seated at a desk, and the directory was gone. There was a television camera pointed from one corner that embraced almost the whole lobby area.

"They was getting robbed," the man explained when I asked about the change. "People was coming in here, reading a name and apartment number, and just wandering through the building till they found who they wanted. They'd sell them magazines the old people didn't need, if they thought the old person was senile enough, or they'd just rob them if the old folks were feeble. So now I am here. And at night, from five until eleven, there's another man. Now, who did you come to see?"

Somewhat shaken at this picture he painted of wolves roaming the halls in Peachtree Leisure Apartments, I told him I'd come to see Mrs. Melba Totino. "She expecting you, Miss?"

"Mrs. No, Ms." What was I going to call myself? He was eyeing me warily. "No, Mrs. Totino isn't expecting me. I just came to thank her for the wedding present."

"She gave you something?" The brown eyes widened in a burlesque of surprise.

"You must be a friend."

"I take it this is unusual?"

But after his little joke, he wasn't going to say anything else.

"I'll call her, if you just wait a minute," he said. He picked up the phone, dialed, and told Melba Totino about my presence in the lobby. She would see me.

"Go on up," he said. "She don't get too many visitors." The elevator smelled like a doctor's office, like rubbing alcohol and disinfectant and cold steel. The guard had told me there was a physician's assistant actually in residence; and of course a doctor on call. There was a cafeteria in the building for those who "enrolled" for that service, and groceries could be delivered from one of the local stores. Everything was very clean, and the lobby had been dotted with old people who at least looked alert and comfortable, if not exactly happy. I supposed, if you couldn't live entirely on your own, this would be a good place to live. Mrs. Totino's apartment was on the third floor. I could tell by the spacing of the doors that some apartments were larger than others. Hers was one of the small ones. I knocked, and the door swung open almost before I could remove my hand.

I could look her straight in the eyes, so she wasn't more then five feet tall. Her eyes were dark brown, sunk in wrinkles that were themselves blotched with age spots. She had a large nose and a small mouth. Her wispy white hair was escaping from a small bun on the back of her head. She wore no glasses, which surprised me. Her ludicrously cheerful yellow and orange striped dress was covered with a gray sweater and the air that rushed out smelled strongly of air freshener, talcum powder, and cooking.

"Yes?" Her voice was deep and pleasant, not shaky as I'd expected.

"I'm Aurora Teagarden, Mrs. Totino."

"That's what Duncan said. Now, what kind of name is Duncan for a black man? I ask you." And she backed into her apartment to indicate I should enter. "I asked him that, too," she said with great amusement at her own daring. "I said, ‘I never knew no black man called Duncan before.' He said, ‘What you think I should be called, Miz Totino? LeRoy?' That Duncan! I laughed and laughed." Who-wee, what a knee-slapper. I bet Duncan had thought so, too.

"Have a seat, have a seat."

I looked around me nervously. There were seats to be had, but everything was so busy I wasn't sure if they were occupied or not. The sofa and matching chair were violently flowered in orange and brown and cream. The table between the chair and the sofa contained a TV Guide, the ugliest lamp in the universe, a red-and-white glass dish containing hard candy, a pair of reading glasses, a box of Kleenex, and a stunningly sentimental figurine of a little girl with big eyes petting a cuddly puppy with the legend across the base, "My Best Friend." I finally decided one of the couch cushions was empty and lowered myself gingerly down.

"This apartment building is very nice," I offered. "Oh, yes, the new security makes all the difference in the world! Can I get you a cup of coffee? I'm afraid I only have instant decaffeinated." Then why have coffee at all? "No, thank you."