Free Caveat Emptor and Other Stories by Joan Hess

up and started a load of laundry, but the window in the front room was a magnet. Why had Sarah befriended Gerald, of all people? Even odder, why had Wafford agreed to buy back the house? He’d always circled like a vulture, waiting to foreclose on hapless widows and families whose breadwinners had been fired or become disabled.
    I hadn’t received any great insights by three o’clock, when it was time to walk to the bus stop. I was almost there when Mr. Perniski came outside, dressed in his customary cardigan sweater and khaki pants.
    â€œWhat’s going on at the end of the road?” he said. “That young woman was acting mighty peculiar last night.”
    â€œSarah?”
    â€œYou betcha. She pulled into the driveway over there”—he pointed at our neighborhood drug dealer’s establishment—“and gave that one with the beard what looked like a key. Long about midnight, he went sneaking down the road toward her house. The last thing we need out here is another criminal. My grandson found a hypodermic needle in the ditch last summer. We have—”
    â€œSarah and Cody moved out last night,” I said, cutting him off. “Are you sure she gave him a key?”
    â€œHell, I ain’t sure about nothing,” Perniski muttered, then wandered away.
    I thought about all this while I waited for the school bus, and I hadn’t made much progress by the time Amy was occupied with a bag of cookies and old sitcoms on television. I finally slipped out and went across the street to what had been Sarah’s house. The doors were locked, so all I could do was peer through windows at unoccupied rooms.
    The police did not arrive for more than two days, and my instinctive response was to tell them nothing. After a moment, though, churchgoing woman that I am, I murmured something about the basement door, its shiny new bolt, and the possibility that Wafford’s Cadillac was in a chop shop in the next county. As for Sarah Benston, I’ve never heard from her. I’m not real worried; as she said, she learned a lot about real estate during her brief stay across the street.
    She can take care of herself.

A Little More Research
    Bart Bellicose realized time was running out. In the distance, he could hear the whine of sirens, and he knew the police cars were closing in on him like a swarm of killer bees. He stepped back, then threw his two hundred forty pounds of bulk against the flimsy door. It gave way with a shriek of pain, and Bellicose stumbled into the apartment .
    There on the carpet lay the mortal remains of his client. Even in death, the semi-nude body was as undulating as the ocean, as smooth as the inner petals of a rose. He could see that his client was as dead as the proverbial doornail, one of which had ripped his arms in an angry slash of
    â€œTerry, honey, when are you gonna be finished? I’m getting hungry, and it’s almost too late to make reservations.”
    â€œI’ve asked you not to interrupt me. The deadline’s tomorrow morning at nine o’clock, for pete’s sake, and my editor’s about to have an apoplectic fit. I can’t concentrate when you come in here every five minutes.”
    â€œI’m sorry. It’s just that I get all lonesome out there by myself. Maybe it would help if I rubbed your neck …”
    â€œIt would not. I’m on the last chapter and I need to get it done tonight. Please don’t interrupt me any more.”
    â€œOkay, I’ll be a good little guest and wait in the living room. All by myself.”
    â€œThank you so very much. And shut the door, will you?”
    grinning blood. It was obvious to anyone who’d ever eyed a fresh corpse that the
    â€œDon’t let me disturb you, but how about if I make reservations for later just in case you get done with your story?”
    â€œI’m not going to get done if you don’t leave me alone. I told you when you insisted