That stopped her momentarily. She hadn’t bargained on this. The last thing she wanted to do was sell the program to Anderson. If he used it, he would soon discover that it didn’t work very well on its own. No telling how many mistakes he might make before he realized that it was not magic.

“No,” she said. “I told you, it’s flawed.”

“You mean there are bugs in the program?”

“Not technical bugs,” she said, trying to keep things vague. “It just doesn’t work very well.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure that I have the professional background necessary to fix any small problems that might come up. I’ll make you a fair offer. We can work out mutually satisfactory terms. Perhaps a licensing agreement?”

“The Private Arrangements program is not for sale.”

“Lillian, be reasonable.”

“I’m sorry, but I’ve made my decision.”

He frowned. “Obviously that confrontation with Witley was traumatic. Your state of generalized anxiety is extremely high. But I think that when you have a chance to calm down you’ll see that you’re overreacting.”

She straightened away from the desk, walked to the door and yanked it open. “If you don’t mind, I have a lot of things to do here today, Anderson. I want to leave town the day after tomorrow. That means I don’t have time for this conversation.”

He hesitated and then apparently decided that further argument would get him nowhere. “Very well. We’ll discuss this later.”

Don’t hold your breath,she thought. But she managed what she hoped was a civil smile.

He hesitated and then took the hint and walked out into the hall. He paused.

“Lillian, perhaps-”

“Goodbye, Anderson.” She shut the door very firmly in his face.

It felt good.

Probably overreacting, but what the heck. She had a right to overreact. Between Gabe, Witley, and Anderson, she’d had a very difficult week.

She went back to the desk, picked up the phone and called a familiar number.

Nella Townsend answered on the second ring.

“Townsend Investigations.”

“Nella, its me.”

“Hi, Lil. What can I do for you? Got a new client you want me to check out?”

“Not exactly. I want you to get some background on a man named Campbell Witley.”

“Not a client?”

“No. Ex-boyfriend of one.”

There was a short, distinct pause on the other end of the line.

“A problem?” Nella asked.

“I don’t know. That’s what I want you to find out for me.”

“Okay, what have you got?”

“Not much. All I know is that until sometime last fall he was seeing Heather Summers, a client, on a regular basis. You did a check on her when she signed up with Private Arrangements.”

“Got it. This shouldn’t take long. He’ll probably pop up in her file. I should have a preliminary report ready for you by the end of the day.”

“Great. I’ll pick it up on my way home. Thanks, Nella. I really appreciate this.”

“No problem. Got any plans for tonight?”

“I’ll be packing.”

“Packing takes energy. You need to eat. Why don’t you have dinner with Charles and me?”

“I’ll bring the wine.”

At five-thirty that afternoon, Lillian sank into a deeply cushioned chair in the living room of Nella’s apartment and kicked off her shoes.

“I’m exhausted. It took an entire day to pack up that office. I thought I’d be finished by two o’clock. How can a person accumulate so much stuff in an office?”

“One of the great mysteries of life.”

Nella picked up the blue folder lying on the table and carried it across the room. She wore jeans and a deep yellow blouse with a spread collar. The gold necklace at her throat gleamed against her dark brown skin. She wore her black hair cut close to her head in a style that showed off her excellent bone structure.

She took the chair that faced Lillian’s, curled one leg under her and opened the folder.

“I thought you told me all of your files were stored on the hard drive of your computer,” she said.

“The client files are on the computer along with the program, but that still leaves a lot of paper. Receipts, correspondence, notes to the janitorial staff, messages from the company that leased me the space, you name it. I had to go through every single item and make a decision about whether to keep it or toss it.” Lillian exhaled deeply. “But it’s done and Private Arrangements is no longer in business.”

“Congratulations,” Nella said. “Feel good?”

“Yes, but I’ll feel even better after you assure me that Campbell Witley is not a serial killer.”

“He looks squeaky clean to me.” Nella glanced at some of her notes. “Witley was in the military at one time, as you guessed. He received an honorable discharge. After leaving the service he took over his father’s construction business and has been very successful. He was married for six years. Divorced. No children. No record of arrests, no outstanding warrants, no history of violence or abuse.”

“Just what I wanted to hear,” Lillian said.

“I also managed to get hold of his ex-wife. She said Witley was the domineering type and inclined to get a little loud at times, but she sounded shocked at the suggestion that he might turn violent. She said he was, and I quote, ‘harmless.’ ”

“Excellent.”

Nella closed the file and looked seriously at Lillian. “None of this means that he might not be dangerous under certain circumstances, you understand.”

“I know. But I suppose you could say that about any man.”

“True.” Nella pursed her lips. “This was a fairly superficial check. I didn’t have time to go deep. Want me to continue looking in the morning?”

“No, I don’t think it’s necessary. If his ex-wife vouched for him, I’m satisfied. Thanks, Nella. I really appreciate it. I’ll sleep better tonight.”

The sound of a key in the lock interrupted her.

Nella uncoiled from the chair. “That’ll be Charles. Time to pour the wine.”

Lillian twisted in the chair to give Nella’s husband a welcoming wave. Charles came through the door, a long paper sack with a loaf of bread peeking out of the top in one arm, a briefcase in his hand.

He was a slender black man with serious dark eyes framed by gold-rimmed glasses and the air of an academic. He kissed his wife and released the bread to her custody. She disappeared into the kitchen.

Charles turned his slow smile on Lillian while he removed his jacket. “I hear we’re celebrating the closure of Private Arrangements tonight.”

“Yep. I finally took the big step. I am now officially a full-time painter. Or officially unemployed, depending on your point of view.”

He nodded gravely. “This is going to put a dent in Nella’s business, but I’ve told you all along, that matchmaking business of yours was nothing but a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

Nella walked out of the kitchen with a tray of wine and cheese. She wrinkled her nose. “You’re a lawyer, Charles. To you, just walking down the street is a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“Dangerous places, streets.” Charles took one of the wineglasses off the tray and lifted it in a toast. “Here’s to art.”