"I'm not much of a drinker," she said, taking out four bottles. " But this is an occasion, isn't it?" She turned to him. "What do you recommend?"

There was a bottle of gin, a bottle of blended whiskey, a bottle of Southern Comfort, and, surprisingly, an unopened bottle of Martel cognac.

"The cognac, if that would be all right," Matt said.

"I've even got the glasses for it," she said. "They're probably a little dusty."

She went farther into the house and returned with two snifters that were, in fact, dusty. She wiped them with a paper towel and set them on the kitchen counter.

"Do you need a corkscrew?"

"No, I don't think so," he said, and twisted the metal foil off the neck. The bottle was closed with a cork, but the kind that can be pulled loose.

He poured cognac in both glasses, and handed her one.

"You don't mix it with anything?"

"My father says it's a sin to do that," Matt said. "But my mother drinks hers with soda water."

"I've got ginger ale. Would that be all right?"

"That would be a sin," he said.

"I think I'll be a sinner," she said, and went into the refrigerator and took out a bottle of ginger ale, and poured some into her glass. Then she held the glass out to touch his.

"I'm glad you were there, Matt," she said. "This whole experience has been horrible. I would have hated to have had to go through it alone."

He smiled and took a sip from his glass. She took a tentative sip of hers. She smiled. "That's not so bad."

He took another swallow and felt the warmth course through his body.

"Funny," Mrs. Glover said, "you don't look like a detective."

"Probably because I've only been a detective a couple of weeks."

"Or a policeman," she said. "I thought you were one of those who was going in the Marines?"

He was surprised that she had paid enough attention to him to have known that.

"I flunked the physical," he said.

"Oh," she said. "And do you like being a policeman?"

"Most of the time," he said. "Not tonight."

She hugged herself, which caused the material of her blouse to draw taut over her bosom.

"That warms you, doesn't it?" she said.

"Yes, it does."

"My husband's father gave him that when he was promoted."

"Oh."

"I was tempted to throw it out when he left, but I decided that would be a waste, that sooner or later, I'd need it. For an occasion. I didn't have something like this in mind."

"Well, it's over," Matt said. "Put it out of your mind."

"I'm not letting you get on with whatever you were about to do when this happened."

"Don't worry about it."

"Where do you live?"

"In Center City. I was driving past the Acme, saw the parking lot was pretty empty, and thought it would be a good time to get a dozen eggs and a loaf of bread."

"Me too," she said, and upended her brandy snifter and drained it. "I went there to get something for my supper. Have you eaten?"

He shook his head, no.

"The least I can do is feed you," she said. "There should be something in the freezer."

She found two Swanson Frozen Turkey Breast Dinners and put them in the oven.

"It'll take thirty-five minutes," she said. "Is that going to make you terribly late where you were going?"

"I just won't go," he said. "It wasn't important."

She made herself another cognac and ginger ale and extended the bottle to him.

"Well, we'll eat the leathery turkey, and then you can drive me back there."

"Fine."

"I'm now going to do something else I rarely do," Mrs. Glover said. "I'm going to smoke a cigarette."

"I'm sorry, I don't have any."

"I've got some somewhere," she said, and went farther into the house again. She immediately returned. "I'm sorry. Why are we in the kitchen? Come on in the living room."

An hour later, they drove back to the Acme Supermarket. Her car was gone, and so had just about everybody else. There was a uniformed cop by the shattered plate-glass window.

Matt showed him his badge.

"Where's the car, the victim's car the doer ran into?"

The uniformed cop shrugged. "I guess they took it to an impound area. Maybe at the district."

Matt returned to the Bug and told Mrs. Glover that the authority they had to reclaim her car was useless. It was somewhat in limbo, and there was nothing that could be done until the morning.

"What do I do now?" Mrs. Glover asked. "Can you take me home again?"

"Of course."

She wanted an explanation of where in "limbo" her car actually was, so it seemed perfectly natural that he follow her into the house again and have another cognac.

"I was thinking," Mrs. Glover said an hour later, dipping her index finger into her cognac snifter to stir the ginger ale into the cognac, "I mean it's just an idea. But if you stayed here, there's a guest room, you could drive me down to the Roundhouse in the morning."

She is not making a pass at me. She is at least thirty years old, maybe thirty-five, and…

"And the truth of the matter seems to be that we've both had more of this cognac than is good for us," she added.

"Well, if it wouldn't inconvenience you."

"Don't be silly," she said. "I'll just get sheets and make up the spare bed."

"I'm sorry I don't have any pajamas to offer you," Mrs. Glover said at the door to the spare bedroom.

"I don't wear them anyway. I'll be all right."

"If you need anything, just ask," she said, and gave him her hand. "And thank you for everything."

"I didn't do anything," he said.

She smiled at him and pulled the door closed.

He looked around the room, and then went and sat on the bed and took his clothing off. He rummaged in the bedside table and came up with a year-old copy ofScientific American. He propped the pillows up and flipped through it.

He could hear the sound of a shower running, and had an interesting mental image of Mrs. Glover at her ablutions.

"Shit," he said aloud, turned the light off, and rearranged the pillow.

He had a profound thought: No good deed goes unpunished.

The sound of the shower stopped after a couple of minutes. He had an interesting mental image of Mrs. Glover toweling her bosom.

A moment later he heard the bedroom door open.

"Matt, are you asleep?"

"No."

He sensed rather than heard her approach the bed. When she sat on it, he could smell soap and perfume.

Maybe perfumed soap?

She found his face with her hand.

"I've been separated from my husband for eleven months," Mrs. Glover said. "I haven't been near a man in all that time. Not until now."

He reached up and touched her hand. She caught his hand, locked fingers with him, and then moved his hand to the opening of her robe, directed it inside, and then let go.

His fingers found her breast and her nipple, which was erect. She put her hand to the back of his head and pulled his face to her breast.

When he tried to pull her down onto the bed, she resisted, then stood up.

"Not here," Mrs. Glover said throatily. "In my bed."

At quarter to seven the next morning, Detective Matt Payne drove into the garage beneath the Delaware Valley Cancer Society Building, and turned to look at Mrs. Glover, whose Christian name, he had learned two hours before, was Evelyn.

"What is this?" she asked.

"This is where I live. Where I have to change clothes."

"The signs says this is the Cancer Society."