Free Sweet and Deadly by Charlaine Harris

her as her own home, and it felt strange being a guest in it.
    She sat down in the caved-in chair and leaned forward to see what magazines Tom bought. A photography glossy, Playboy, Time . The phone placed so neatly by the stack was a princess type. On the smooth back of the receiver Tom had pasted a list of phone numbers. It was not an extensive list. Tom was not integrated into the town’s life yet, since he had been gone on weekends for the past months. Catherine noted that her own number topped the list. He really doesn’t know any girls, she thought wryly.
    But Tom was attractive in a long dark way, and Leila, the Gazette secretary-receptionist, had been giving him the eye ever since he started work. With the fiancée out of the picture, maybe Tom would wake up to Leila’s adoring brown eyes.
    â€œHow did your dad stand having his office and house so close?” he asked as he handed Catherine her can of beer.
    â€œThe house I live in now was my grandparents’,” she explained. “When my dad finished medical school and moved back in with them, they were already getting old. They had him late, and he was an only child. So he wanted to be close to them in case of an emergency, and my mother didn’t mind living with them. This house was up for sale. So it was convenient to him.” She sighed. “Things were different then. People would come at night—” and Catherine stopped dead.
    She rose abruptly and walked straight to the door leading to the hall. She examined the door frame.
    â€œTermites?” Tom asked silkily.
    â€œSmartass,” Catherine said with irritation. “No, look at this.”
    He joined her.
    â€œIt’s a buzzer, like a doorbell, and it rings in the master bedroom in my house. Dad had it put in so that if emergencies came at night, people could come into this waiting room and buzz him. I told you things were different then. He left the front door unlocked, only locked this door opening into the hall. I had completely forgotten about it.”
    â€œMy God, you mean I could ring for you?” Tom leered theatrically.
    â€œYes, but you’d better not!”
    â€œIt still works?”
    â€œI guess so,” said Catherine, dismayed. “Now don’t go playing jokes on me, you hear?”
    For a moment Tom looked as mischievous as an eight-year-old with a frog in his pocket. Then his thin lips settled into an unusual line of sobriety.
    â€œNo, I promise, Catherine,” he said. “You’ve had enough shocks.”
    â€œThank you,” Catherine said with feeling. She sat back down.
    Tom lit a joint. “Sure you don’t want some? Make you feel better,” he advised her.
    She shook her head. “Did you buy that here?” she asked curiously.
    â€œYes,” he answered, after he expelled the smoke he had been holding deep in his lungs. “The other night. My first Lowfield dope run.”
    â€œNot from Leona, surely?” Catherine asked impulsively.
    â€œChrist, no!” Tom stared at her. “What the hell made you think that?”
    But Catherine didn’t want to tell him that the sheriff had hinted that Leona had had something from her father’s office—presumably medical equipment. She felt foolish for even thinking of Leona as a marijuana processor. Did you need medical things to prepare it to smoke? She could see Tom worrying over her rash question like a dog with an especially meaty bone.
    â€œCome on, honey, you know something,” Tom coaxed.
    He’s sure not short on charm when he wants something, Catherine told herself. Tom had a convincing way of fixing his heavily lashed brown eyes on a potential source of information with melting effect; but Catherine had seen the trick too many times to be swayed.
    â€œSave that for Leila,” she said callously.
    â€œLeila?” Tom asked. “What is this about Leila?”
    His vanity, so badly bruised by his