Free Stalking Susan by Julie Kramer Page B

photographer in the U.S. Army shooting propaganda films for the military. His wife and their two kids waited for him each night after the news. Suppertime. Bath time. Bedtime. Ratings months played havoc with their suburban bliss, but Missy swapped whatever overtime he racked up for a new household appliance. This month, he explained, she had her eye on a new clothes dryer. Let the long hours begin.
    “Hey, I ran into Noreen after our shoot yesterday,” he told me. “She wanted to know what I was out on. Hope that didn’t create trouble.”
    “No more than I should have expected. My contract’s coming up and she’s playing wicked witch.”
    “She’ll fold once she gets a chance to see you in action. Unfortunately, she came on board the station just before you were going under. But I have a feeling about this story. Let’s not settle for the hack version. Let’s break some real news.”
    So that’s what we toasted to. Breaking news.

    M ALIK PULLED INTO the driveway next to my house, a small English tudor in the Tangletown neighborhood of south Minneapolis. Stately, well-maintained houses set on curvy streets lined with mature oak trees. A harvest moon shone overhead. A perfect autumn night.
    “Ever think of selling?” he asked. Mine was the smallest house on the block, one street over from a bus stop, and would likely net multiple offers the first day of listing. I bought it four years ago when I signed my last contract. Since then the housing market had skyrocketed, and I already had six figures of equity. Cashing out would be simple, and starting fresh might be smart.
    “Can’t leave. Too many memories.”
    “Must be bad memories. Keeping you up at night. You look like crap.”
    “The good ones make the bad ones worth it.”
    As Malik drove off I allowed myself the indulgence of reliving a good one as I walked toward the door, fallen leaves crunching under my feet. I’d always considered carrying the bride over the threshold a corny tradition. “The neighbors will laugh,” I had told Boyer. I pivoted away, keeping the pile of suitcases on the sidewalk between us. “Just carry the luggage.”
    “Why? You afraid they might think we’re married?”
    A fairly traditional guy, Boyer didn’t realize he was marrying a fairly untraditional gal, until moments before we said “I do.”
    “What do you mean there’s not going to be any Mrs. Boyer?” He had noticed me writing “Riley Spartz” on the marriage license. “It’s who I am.” I gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “It doesn’t mean I won’t love, honor, and cherish you.”
    “Aren’t you supposed to obey me?”
    “That’s not part of the vows anymore.”
    “Well, I better never catch you using the name Mrs. Hugh Boyer undercover to sting anyone.”
    Definitely a marriage mismatch, so why did we do it? How does that song go? Something about getting married in a fever…
    “Maybe I can’t make you call yourself Mrs. Boyer, but you’re not going over that threshold without me.”
    He chased me around the yard, scooped me up in his arms, and proceeded up the porch steps in triumph. He planted a deep kiss on my mouth before waving to Mrs. Fredericks who was watching from her window.

CHAPTER 11
    “ L ast night I dreamt I went to Manderley again.”
    Just kidding, but I did dream incredibly vivid dreams of my years with Boyer, complete with color, touch, and sound. When my alarm woke me at seven, I opened my eyes and thought, “What would Daphne du Maurier do?”
    If she had written
Susan
instead of
Rebecca,
the tale would hinge on a terrible secret.
    If Agatha Christie had told the story, red herrings would distract the reader from the truth.
    As I lay in bed I fantasized being Sherlock Holmes in a silk smoking jacket, without the silly pipe. Whether I possessed the intellectual heft and deductive reasoning of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s legendary detective remained questionable, but a girl can dream.
    “Elementary, my dear Noreen.”