“Yes.”

“Do you usually see movies alone, Ms. Parker?”

She sat just looking up at him for a minute.  What the hell was that supposed to mean?  That she didn’t have any friends.  That she couldn’t get a date even if her life depended on it.  Well, she thought, I do have friends and I can get a date … well … I do have friends.

“Actually, most of the time, I see movies with a friend who’s currently out of town.”  Her head hurt, and she thought this guy was a bit of a jerk.  A jerk doing his job maybe, but a jerk nonetheless.  “Look, Detective McGuire, I see at least two movies a weekend, sometimes more.  I usually sit in the top row.  I have a small bag of popcorn and a large Diet Coke.  Sometimes, I splurge and have Milk Duds.”

Her outburst didn’t faze him. “I see.  Do you always sit through the credits?”

She wondered what on earth her movie going habits had to do with the dead guy.  “Yes, as a matter of fact I do.”  She was pinching her nose again.

“That’s rather unusual, isn’t it?  Sitting through the credits I mean.”

Lane closed her pale blue eyes.  Suddenly it was the year she turned thirteen, the year her life changed forever. Funny that it was still the way she thought about it, the year her life changed forever.  It was the year Lane had fallen down the steps at the capitol building in Lincoln, Nebraska and had broken both of her legs. The year Aunt Marta married the man who had been Lane’s orthopedic surgeon and then moved them to Omaha, Nebraska.  Her Aunt Marta started both habits; sitting in the last row of the theater and staying to watch the credits.  Since both of Lane’s legs had been broken in the accident, it was a long recovery and when she was finally out of the wheel chair, she was on crutches.  After the crutches came the walker and then the cane.  She and Aunt Marta would get to the theater early so that Lane could maneuver through the seats before any one else was there and they’d stay until everyone left.

She opened one eye at a time and peered at him.  “I suppose it is.  I was on crutches for a prolonged period as a teenager; it was easier for me just to sit still until everyone else left the theater then.  It became a habit.”  While it was a habit that she’d never broken; she’d have stayed for the credits for this movie anyway.

Detective McGuire sat in the seat next to her.  “I see.  So you must have thought it was odd that the man was still sitting when you got up to leave.”

“I guess you could say that.  At first, I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep, although I didn’t know how anyone could have fallen asleep in there considering the volume level, so I bent over and tapped him on the shoulder.  I couldn’t get him to stir, so I shook him a bit.  He slumped forward, and I saw the blood on the back of his neck.  I took out my cell phone, dialed 9-1-1, and told the kid who was cleaning to get the manager.”

“I see, well that’s all I need for now.”  Detective McGuire stood up.  “Did you give all of your information to the uniformed officer, your name, address, and phone numbers?”

“Yes,” she said, thinking that she’d given them everything but her shoe size.  She a made a mental note: never find another dead body.  She followed the detective into the lobby area and stopped at the concession stand. She squinted to look at her watch.  It had been an hour since she’d taken the sinus pills and they hadn’t even dulled the pain.  She asked for another bottle of water as she reached into her purse, pulled out an envelope, and opened a cellophane sleeve.  She tilted her head back slightly and poured white powder on her tongue.

The detective was more than a bit curious. Surely, the woman wasn’t taking a hit of a controlled substance right in front of him.  “What is that you’re taking,” he asked.

She handed him the red, white, and blue envelope. Inscribed on the front were the words, “BC Fast Pain Relief.”  He turned it over and read the active ingredients.  Aspirin, caffeine, and what on earth is salicylamide?    

“Give me your keys.  I’ll drive your car home and have one of the uniformed officers follow us.”

She reached into her purse and handed him the keys to her SUV.   Just what I need, she thought, a dead guy, Stomp, and Detective McGuire.

Lane was a fairly religious person.  Meaning she attend church on Sundays (well usually Saturday nights), and did nightly devotional Bible reading.  She also carried on completely one-sided conversations with God frequently.  Not the “Oh, woe is me, Why me God” kind of conversation.  More in the vein of “I know you have a reason for all of this and I know you’re in charge of this situation and I trust that you have a plan. And I’d like to do your will if you’d just give me a sign even I can recognize.” Which was pretty much the conversation she had with God as Detective McGuire drove her home, but this time she added the question “… but why does this guy have to be part of it?”  Luckily, she lived less than 10 minutes from the theater complex.

Detective McGuire made no effort to talk during the drive.  He pulled her SUV into the driveway and asked if she parked in the garage.  Lane told him yes and reached up to push the button on the automatic opener at the same time he did.  Their hands touched and for just an instant, they hovered in that awkward position.  Lane pulled her hand back.  Detective McGuire pushed the button and pulled her Cadillac Escalade into the garage.

“Would you like me to go in with you,” he asked as he handed her the keys.

She shook her head slightly and thanked him.  He told her they’d be in touch if they needed anything else.  He went out the open garage and got into the waiting car. Lane pushed the button to close the garage door and made it all the way to the powder room before she threw up again.

She washed her face and brushed her teeth slowly and in the dark.  She took two more Sudafed, two acetaminophen tablets, and two Flexeril.  Then she went to bed.  Lane could still hear the voice of her ex-husband telling her if she took all these pills that some day she wouldn’t wake up.  She mumbled aloud the same thing she’d told him nearly 20 years ago.  “At least my head won’t hurt.”  She went to bed and prayed that she was right as she thanked God for the forethought of going to Mass on Saturday evening because it would enable her to sleep in on Sunday morning.

It was a short night.  A fitful sleep filled with dreams about dead people and Detective McGuire.  The detective was an attractive, man with blue eyes and dark wavy hair, just beginning to go white at the temples.  In the dreams he wore the same dark slacks, black silk T-shirt and sport coat that he’d worn the night before with one small change – no one had thrown up on him.  In the dreams, the detective drove her SUV through streets she’d never seen before, questioning her about skipping school when she was a high school Senior, headaches, her real hair color, why she couldn’t get a date, and dead guys.  Lane wondered what Freud or Meninger would have to say about the dreams.

Chapter 2

Sunday morning

Lane had a routine on Sundays.  She got up around 8:00 a.m., brushed her teeth, washed her face, showered, and got dressed.  She did a few things around the house and then she usually met friends on the Country Club Plaza for brunch.  They’d do a little eating, a little shopping, a bit of gossiping, and around five o’clock in the evening, they’d stop for desert. She had some time to kill before she needed to leave.  She thought about her friends, mostly coffee drinkers, who would have put their feet up, read the paper, and sipped coffee for a couple of hours.  Since coffee was a habit that she’d never acquired, and because she was stressed, she cleaned.  Lane thought about her sister-in-law who believed that the world is made up of two kinds of people, Felix and Oscar from the Odd Couple.  Her family had taken a vote and decided that she fell into the Felix category.  Maybe they were right.  When she felt stressed, or worried, or just had a little time on her hands, she cleaned.