Peter left me with the cart while he went looking for hats. He caught up with me in the hair dye aisle.

“No,” he said, taking the box of Clairol Nice ’n Easy Natural Light Champagne Blonde I’d been examining and replacing it on the shelf.

“No what?”

“No, you are not dying your hair.”

“Now you really do sound like a possessive caveman.”

“I like your hair the way it is.”

“But the way it is is sort of noticeable. Here,” I said, pulling another box from a shelf. “This one’s a rinse. It only lasts through three shampoos.”

“Do you sincerely believe that this will be less noticeable than your natural color?”

“Not really. But if I’m going to dye my hair, I might as well try something really different.”

“Looking like a Smurf would be different,” he acknowledged.

“I never rebelled as a teenager.” The prospect of changing my look completely was enough to make me forget why I wanted to change it in the first place.

After some debate, we compromised. I got the hair dye, but only the most temporary variety and in a shade called “caramel brown.” “They might as well call it mouse brown,” I grumbled.

“The objective here is to help you blend in,” Peter reminded me, propelling the cart forward with one hand and me with the other.

“Blend, shmend.”

He managed to get us safely back to the car without succumbing to the many valid arguments I put forth as to why the forty-eight-roll package of toilet paper was a steal at any price and how it would be tragedy to pass it up.

“You must be getting tired,” he said. “Why don’t you let me drive for a bit?”

“Did Luisa say that you could drive?”

“She encouraged me to. Everybody knows New Yorkers can’t drive. None of them even have cars. In fact, I was supposed to make you switch places as soon as I could. I’ve been remarkably restrained for the last couple of hours.”

“I’m a good driver,” I insisted. “And that’s very sexist of Luisa to assume that you’re a better driver than I am.” But I was tired, so I handed over the keys.

I dozed off immediately, waking up only when Peter brought the car to a stop. I sat up and looked around. We were in the parking lot of a motel.

“Where are we?”

“State College, Pennsylvania.”

“There’s really a place called State College? That’s its name?”

“I guess there must be a state college around somewhere.”

“I hope so. Otherwise it’s just strange.”

“Wait here. I’m going to check us in.”

I managed to doze off again before he returned. The next thing I knew, he was opening the passenger-side door and nudging me awake. “Forty-nine dollars a night,” he announced, holding up a key.

I was eager to get to bed, but forty-nine dollars seemed too cheap to be safe. A decent hotel room in New York couldn’t be had for four times that much. “Was there a more expensive one?” I asked as we gathered our things from the trunk and made our way along the line of numbered doors.

“This is the most expensive one. In fact, it’s the honeymoon suite.”

“People honeymoon at motels in State College, Pennsylvania?”

“If you play your cards right, we could honeymoon here.”

“What happens if I play my cards wrong?”

“You won’t get the honeymoon suite.”

“But we’d still be honeymooning in State College, Pennsylvania?”

“It’s a win-win.”

That made no sense at all, but he opened the door with a flourish, confident in his logic.

I t turned out that State College was named State College because it was the home of Penn State University, and it also turned out that the honeymoon suite featured a heart-shaped bed. In addition to being heart-shaped, it vibrated. And as if that weren’t enough, there was a Jacuzzi, too. Not in the bathroom, but right there in the bedroom, across from the heart-shaped bed. And it came stocked with a nice big bottle of Mr.Bubble. A honeymoon in State College, Pennsylvania, might not be so bad.

We ended up not getting as much sleep as we’d intended, but I felt remarkably well-rested in the morning. I was still a murder suspect at large, but being back on a sure footing with Peter made that seem inconsequential in the larger scheme of things.

We checked out around nine, I with newly brown hair and Peter wearing a trucker’s cap that he’d purchased without my authorization at Sav-Mart.

“You look like Ashton Kutcher, circa 2003,” I told him.

“Who’s Ashton Kutcher?”

I didn’t know where to start. Besides, if Peter was really that culturally illiterate, he was probably beyond help.

The first item on our agenda was to find a gas station as the needle on the fuel gage was hovering near the perilously empty mark. We found one on a broad street named, appropriately enough, College Avenue and opted for full-serve since it seemed like what Luisa would have wanted. The attendant complimented the car and our selection of premium unleaded, squeegeed the dead bugs off the windshield with aplomb, and pocketed our healthy tip with a big smile. People were friendly in the Keystone State.

Next we went in search of pay phones and Internet access. If we hadn’t yet realized that State College was a college town, the presence of a Kinko’s or Kinko’s-equivalent on every other block would have tipped us off. We found one with a pay phone right outside its door and an empty parking space beckoning from across the street. I’d insisted on taking the wheel and was pleased to have the opportunity to combat the malicious rumors about my driving with a demonstration of parallel parking expertise. Peter, to his credit, offered only the occasional pointer, although his patience did seem to be wearing thin on my third, ultimately successful attempt to maneuver the car into the designated space.

He ducked into a nearby café to get a Diet Coke for me and a coffee for himself while I went directly to the pay phone. The New York office of Luisa’s law firm was sufficiently large and well-equipped to have a 1-800 line, which was particularly convenient in my present circumstances, although I was starting to get used to hoarding quarters. I didn’t even have to talk to a real operator but could instead punch in Luisa’s extension once I reached the main switchboard.

“How’s my car?” she asked by way of greeting.

“Peter and I are fine, thank you for asking.”

“Seriously.”

“The car is fine. And we just fed it gallons of premium unleaded and had the windshield squeegeed. All by a trained professional.”

“And you’re letting Peter do the driving?” Normally, this question would have inspired a self-righteous lecture in which I challenged Luisa’s assumption that Peter was a better driver than I. Today, it seemed wiser to opt for the harmless lie.

“Absolutely.”

“You’re lying, aren’t you? I can hear it in your voice.” I could almost hear Luisa raising one eyebrow-her preferred method of expressing skepticism-over the phone.

I’d thought it would be safe enough long distance but clearly not. I tried to change the subject. “What’s going on back there? What’s the update?”

“I’ll give you the update if you promise to let Peter drive from now on.”

I crossed my fingers behind my back. “All right, Peter will be the designated driver. So what’s the news? Anything good?”

“Not really, but since we’re talking about news, you should probably know that you’re it.”

“What do you mean, I’m it?”

“The police went public with your name, and you’re in every paper this morning, and on TV, too.”

For once I was glad to be without my phone. I could only imagine the messages my parents were leaving on it.

“Don’t worry,” Luisa said, as if she knew what I was thinking. “Emma already called your parents and told them not to panic. And Jane had a long talk with your grandmother about how many children you should have. They agreed on five.”