Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 148, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 900 & 901, September/October 2016

Small Chances by Charlaine Harris

New York Times best-selling author Charlaine Harris writes in several fields, from mystery to urban fantasy and horror. Since 2008 her work has been under nearly continuous adaptation for TV, starting with the series True Blood, based on her Sookie Stackhouse novels, and continuing in 2015 and 2016 with four two-hour TV movies for the Hallmark Channel based on her Aurora Teagarden series. Fans can look forward, later in 2016, to NBC’s adaptation of her Midnight, Texas books. Meanwhile here is a new case for a Harris character who has appeared only in EQMM!

The campaign against Anne DeWitt began on a spring morning. Anne was used to surprises of the unpleasant variety: She hadn’t been a high-school principal forever. The people of Colleton County would have been aghast if they could have seen Anne in her previous incarnation.

But she looked eminently respectable that day, in some very expensive knit pants and a tank under a light sweater. Her fingernails were perfect ovals and her hair was well cut and colored. She was ready to smile at her secretary, who was usually in place by this time.

But Christy Strunk was not at her desk. She was somewhere in the school building; her coffeepot was perking, and the usual pile of messages was centered on Anne’s desk. Anne did not like chatty messages. When Christy had become Anne’s secretary following the death of the previous principal, she’d been prone to give some color commentary. Anne had quickly retrained her.

The top message in the little stack was dated late the previous day, just before Christy left the office. It read, “Your first husband called. Tom Wilson. He says he will come by tomorrow, 10 A.M.”

Anne found this curious, since she had never been married.

Anne was not prone to panic. She took a deep breath and considered various scenarios. While she thought, she spun in her chair to look at the framed pictures on the credenza behind her. The central photograph showed a younger Anne (with a different hairstyle and wearing blue jeans) and a pleasant-looking man with thick dark hair. Anne and “Clark” were standing in the woods. He was holding the leash of a golden retriever. The young couple were holding hands and beaming at the camera. Even Waffle, the dog, looked happy.

Tragically, Anne’s husband Clark had been killed in a skiing accident before Anne had come to take the job of assistant principal at Travis High. After two years of learning the business, she’d been promoted to principal following the (also tragic) suicide of Delia Snyder.

Along with the “happy family” picture, there were three others: one of Anne’s younger sister Teresa, who lived in San Diego, and two photographs of their (now deceased) parents: one a studio picture in their Sunday clothes, and another taken at Anne’s mother’s birthday party, with many candles on the cake.

Anne had never met any of the people in the photos — or, in fact, her actual biological parents. For all Anne knew, they might be the handsome couple in the picture. Though she seriously doubted it.

Anne had invented her husband Clark. Now, her created background had acquired a new layer.

Anne felt the muscles in her face tighten as she glanced down at the message once more. This was a threat. She had to ascertain its source.

But at the moment, Anne had to put this mysterious problem aside and take care of her ordinary business. That was what a blameless person would do, Anne imagined.

The other messages were more mundane. One was from the parents of a student who might not qualify to graduate in May. Another was from the school nurse, who needed to talk to Anne about the extensive time she was having to spend with one student. Anne had also received an invitation to speak at the Newcomers Club, and a request to use the school auditorium for a fund-raiser. Anne had to talk to the parents and the nurse, and she noted that. She decided to accept the speaking invitation. She’d approach the school board about the use of the auditorium.

After disposing of those matters, Anne gave herself permission to look again at the message from her “first husband.” She found she was quite angry. She turned again to look at “Clark.” Over the years, she’d worked out what he’d been like. It had been fun.

“Good morning,” said Christy from the doorway.

Of course, Christy had noticed that Anne had been looking at the picture of her deceased husband. “I’m sorry about the phone call,” Christy said somberly. She clearly mistook Anne’s barely controlled rage for deep grief. “I didn’t know you’d been married more than once?”

Anne considered, briefly and rapidly. She could make up a back story for this first husband — really young, didn’t know what I was doing, never think about it now — and Christy would believe her.

Or she could stick to the legend and hope for the best.

Anne made a quick decision. When in doubt, stick to the legend.

“Clark was my first and only husband, Christy,” Anne said. “I have no idea who Tom Wilson is or why he wants to see me. Or why he’s claiming we were married. But I guess I have to lay eyes on him to find out who he is and what he wants.”

Christy gasped dramatically. “Shouldn’t you call the police?” Carried away by the exciting situation, Christy offered advice to her boss.

Yes, if I were a real person with no secrets, Anne thought. “I hate to draw that much attention to it,” she said, sounding anxious. Anne was sure Christy would enjoy seeing her boss show vulnerability. (Anne was right. Christy was clearly eating this up.)

“Maybe this is someone who’s made an honest mistake,” Anne continued earnestly. “That’s hard to figure out, but I guess it’s possible. After he sees me, he’ll realize he’s got the wrong woman and exit with an apology. Quiet end of a minor problem.”

Very tentatively, Christy said, “You don’t think... maybe we should have the security guard around?”

Delicately put. “I think that’s a great idea,” Anne said. “Paul is on today. He should be outside in the hall.” It would be a cold day in hell before Anne relied on Paul, retired patrolman, to defend her.

“I’ll talk to Paul now. I won’t leave the office until this Wilson guy is out of the building,” Christy said stoutly.

“Thanks, Christy. I guess I’d better get some work done before he gets here.” She nodded at Christy in dismissal.

Christy closed the door behind her. Anne heard the distinctive groan of Christy’s office chair as the secretary settled into it.

Anne speed-dialed a number on her cell phone. “Hey,” said Coach Holt Halsey. “Anne.”

From the outer office, with the door shut, Christy could hear well enough to know Anne was talking, but she couldn’t pick out specific words. Anne knew this from experimentation. Nonetheless, she was careful.

“Coach Halsey,” she said, “you’ll call me a silly bird. But a man who says he was my first husband is going to drop into the school at ten. He left a message with Christy yesterday.”

“That’s very interesting,” Holt said, after a moment’s silence.

“Um-hum.”

“He tell Christy his name?”

“Apparently, I was married to a Tom Wilson.”

“I don’t have a class then. I’ll be waiting.”

“Good.” Anne returned to her work, no longer anxious. Holt would position himself to watch the arrival of this mysterious player. He was the only person on the eastern seaboard who knew about Anne’s past.

Anne DeWitt (originally Twyla Burnside) had been forced into retirement because of a fatal incident at the training course she’d run, which taught intensive survival training for the best and brightest... which could translate as “toughest and most lethal.” She’d been given a new name, a new past, and a job at Travis High School because there were strings her agency could pull in Colleton County. Plus, the probability was low that anyone would recognize Anne in North Carolina. She had a new nose, a new set of diplomas, a new haircut and hair color, a family, and a very different wardrobe.

After a month in her new job, Anne had loved the challenge, to her surprise. She began laying out her personal program to make Travis High School shine. Her high school was going to be the best public high school in the whole damn state.

There was one obstacle: Principal Delia Snyder. Snyder had not shared Anne’s vision. Furthermore, Snyder was involved with a married teacher, and that was bad for Travis High. So Delia Snyder had a carefully engineered tragic suicide.

Anne had many skills.

With her customary discipline, Anne kept her mind occupied until ten minutes before ten. Then she opened the locked drawer in her credenza, removed her purse, took out a Glock and put it in her top right drawer, and returned the purse to its accustomed place.

At 9:55 A.M., Anne switched on a recorder in a drawer in her desk, leaving the drawer partially open.

Promptly at ten, Christy appeared in the doorway. “Tom Wilson to see you,” she said, doing a creditable job of sounding calm. She stood aside to let Anne’s alleged ex-husband enter.

Anne had been curious to see what her first husband looked like. She found herself disappointed. Wilson was about Anne’s height (five foot eight), with sandy hair, black-rimmed glasses, and a slight build. Anne had never seen this man before. Not in this life, or in her previous one.

If Tom Wilson had proved to be a graduate of her training school, she would have had to kill him as soon as possible.

Now she had options.

Christy pulled Anne’s office door almost shut behind her with a last, lingering look and a vehement nod, meant to reassure Anne that the security guard was on hand. The man calling himself Tom Wilson sat in one of the chairs in front of her desk. “No kiss for your husband?” he said. “Anne, you haven’t changed at all.”

Anne said, “I was only married once, and you’re not him.”

“You’re going for total denial,” he said. “Too bad.”

“Why claim to have been married to me?”

“That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Maybe I just wanted to see if you’d aged.” The smile faded from his face. “You have. I was lying when I said you hadn’t changed.”

Anne shook her head, thinking about how to handle this.

“You’re thinking, How ungallant he is!” Tom Wilson said. “And you’re right, Anne.”

Anne had been wondering if she could break his neck and cram his body into her personal bathroom. With some regret, Anne discarded this idea. “Tom Wilson” needed to leave here in plain sight, visibly intact and healthy. The security cameras had recorded his entrance.

She said, “Who told you to come here?”

“You’ll find out,” Wilson said. “I’ve made friends, see? They know who you are.”

This was his real face: This small man with his bad James Cagney imitation was mentally disturbed.

While she debated her next course of action, Wilson got up and left without another word.

“I got some clear pictures,” Holt said as they walked around the track together. At least once a week, weather permitting, the baseball coach and the principal walked together around the school track at lunchtime.

“Did you recognize him?” she asked, without much hope.

Holt shook his head. “Sorry. But his car was a rental. He’s not a local.”

Anne assumed that this whole incident had something to do with her former life. She’d had trouble before with a relative of one of her former students. He’d surprised Anne as she was getting ready for work one day.

No one had ever happened across the body.

But that incident had confirmed what she already knew: It was possible to uncover her new identity if you were very determined and had connections within their community.

“You still in touch with David Angola?” she asked Holt. Angola, who’d come through the ranks with Anne, had been Holt’s instructor in the West Coast version of Anne’s Michigan training school. He’d sent Holt to keep an eye on Anne after Holt had gotten drummed out of his service for his own mistakes.

Holt nodded. “I’ll ask him if he knows the guy.”

Anne looked up at Holt, a boulder of a man, her hands in her sweater pockets to make her stance look calm. The spring buds had popped up on just about everything. A cool breeze blew her hair around her face. She propped her arms on top of the perimeter fence, and Holt stood beside her, as relaxed as she was. They scanned their kingdom together.

The cheerleaders, having switched from football to basketball, were working on a new routine by the practice-field bleachers. Anne spotted a familiar red head. “Madison Bead,” Anne said. “Her grade-point average is eighty-nine. She could bring it up.”

“She’s not ambitious,” Holt said, dismissing Madison and her grades. “Listen, do you want me to take care of this Wilson guy?”

“So much,” she said, with an intensity that almost surprised her. “I just can’t figure out his goal. He didn’t ask me for anything — sex, money, a confession. He’s clearly unbalanced. And he only called me Anne. Who could have sent him?”

They resumed their walk in silence.

“He seems to have only wanted to shake me up,” Anne said.

“He’s done a better job than I would have believed,” Holt said. “You’ve got to stand up to him better than this.”

Anne might have enjoyed being angry at Holt, but she understood the sense of what he was saying.

“You’re right,” Anne said. She noticed Holt’s shoulders relax. “I wonder if he’s actually staying in town?”

“I’ll ask a private eye I know from Raleigh to check all the motels. I’d do it myself, but until we know more about this asshole, I don’t want to be on his radar.” If they’d been alone, Anne would have kissed him, but the two were absolutely discreet in public. Anne had never thought of Holt as her lover. They had sex and they had a common goal.

At Anne’s conference with the school nurse that afternoon, she began to lay some groundwork for the future. After they’d talked about the Lanny Wells situation (Lanny had emotional problems and he had decided visiting the school nurse every day was a good way to deal with them), Anne said tentatively, “Lois, there’s something I wondered if you could advise me on. Offer me some insights.” The door between the offices was open because Anne wanted to be sure Christy overheard this.

“Of course,” Lois Krueger responded, astonished and flattered. Up until now, the nurse’s opinion of Anne had been neutral, which had been easy for Anne to read. But Lois sometimes felt that the teachers didn’t give her credit for her knowledge; Anne had seen that too.

“This man I’ve never seen before showed up here yesterday claiming to be my first husband,” Anne confided. Lois’s eyes widened. Amazingly, Christy had kept mum.

“That’s so strange,” Lois said slowly. “You hadn’t... you didn’t know him?”

“I’ve only been married once,” Anne said. “After Clark died, I felt that I would never marry again.” She looked down, her face sad. “But time has helped,” Anne admitted, looking back up with a brave smile. Lois nodded, since the whole school knew that Coach Halsey and Anne DeWitt were going out together.

“Now this man has shown up, making this weird claim, and his conversation is irrational,” Anne continued. “Could he be harmless? I hate to call the police on someone who’s so... disoriented.”

“You poor thing,” Lois said indignantly. “I’m so sorry. You really need to talk to a psychologist, not me, I’m just a school nurse.”

“To heck with just,” Anne said. “I’ve noticed how good you are with distraught students.”

Lois tried to hide her rush of pride. “Thanks,” she said. “But really, this man sounds as though he might need to be hospitalized. What a strange fixation! You’d never seen him before?”

“Never. Is that not weird? I have no idea where he came from or who he is. Maybe I’ll never hear from him again.”

“I hope that’s the case,” Lois said promptly, “but I wouldn’t count on it.”

“I’m just glad I’ve got a good security system at home,” Anne said.

The nurse patted Anne’s shoulder. Anne suppressed her snarl. Instead, she looked brave and worried.

The rest of the day passed quietly.

That evening, Hoyt stopped by Anne’s house to tell her he’d heard from David Angola. No one from David’s staff had recognized the photograph Holt had taken. “But my P.I. tells me that Tom Wilson is staying at a Best Western close to the interstate. And he got into the room when Wilson went out for dinner. He took pictures of everything in the room.”

Hoyt and Anne pored over them. Holt had a second laptop and a second account under another name for just such transactions; he didn’t want them on his work laptop.

Just in case.

The sequence of pictures started with a shot of Wilson’s rental car. Then the private detective had moved into Wilson’s room and photographed an open suitcase, a cheap black rollerbag.

Wilson’s clothes were absolutely average: khakis, plaid shirts, boxers, loafers, all national brands and easily purchased at any shopping center in America. Nevertheless, Holt and Anne examined each picture with a magnifying glass, just to be sure.

The first interesting discovery was that Wilson had more cash than Anne would have expected. Of course, there was no way to tell how he’d come by it. He could have withdrawn it from his own ATM. But there was no transaction slip with it, so maybe the cash had been a payment.

The only other subject of the private eye’s camera was the inside of Wilson’s shaving kit. Disposable razors, shaving cream, comb, Tylenol, toothbrush, and toothpaste. But also, a prescription: pills in the usual golden-brown plastic cylinder. “Why didn’t he turn the pills over so we could read the label?” Hoyt muttered. When they looked at the next picture, they found the private eye had done just that.

The prescription was for Risperidone.

“That’s for treating schizophrenia.” Holt was grim. “If Wilson is sick enough to be taking it, he’s unpredictable. I assumed we were dealing with a person who could appreciate consequences. We’re not.”

They found out just how unpredictable Tom Wilson was the next day.

Anne was standing in the hall outside her office during the senior lunch period, which tended to be the noisiest. The bell rang, and the oldest kids swarmed out of their classrooms to go down the central hall that ran the length of the school, culminating in the cafeteria. The ninth, tenth, and eleventh grades had all eaten and returned to their classrooms. Getting the seniors to be reasonably quiet as they passed the crossing halls that housed each grade was nearly impossible, but Anne’s presence had an effect, especially since she could greet most of the kids by name.

Two of Holt Halsey’s baseball players went by. “Chuck, Marty,” Anne said. “I’ll be at the game this afternoon.”

“We’ll win,” Chuck said confidently. He and Marty paused to talk. Anne was popular with the baseball players, due to her status as Coach Halsey’s girlfriend.

Anne’s back was to the front doors as she listened to Marty’s analysis of the Panthers’ pitching roster. So she missed Tom Wilson’s entrance through the main doors, his passage through the metal detector without a beep. The startled faces of the boys warned her. Anne swung around, alerted by her survival sense.

Wilson was smiling, his teeth gleaming in the overhead lights.

He decked her. Anne could have taken the blow easily, and it took every scrap of her self-control to keep from leaping on the man and dislocating his shoulders or breaking his arms. But she had to go down, because Principal Anne DeWitt would not know how to deflect a punch.

Anne landed on her back on the linoleum. It was in character for Anne DeWitt to lie there, breathless and stunned. To her immense gratification, Chuck and Marty landed on Tom Wilson like a ton of bricks.

It was all Anne could do not to smile, though she was bleeding from a bitten lip.

The whole school thought it was romantic that Anne had been saved by her own students, and Anne’s popularity soared. It was also delightful that Coach Halsey had dashed out of the teachers’ lounge and plowed through the crowd of students like an ice-breaker. Coach had checked that the police had been called (they had, by multiple cell phones), that Anne was conscious and wanted to stand (no, she had to wait on the paramedics, Lois Krueger insisted), and that Wilson was being restrained by the students until the police arrived (there might have been some unnecessary roughness involved).

Tom Wilson smiled through the whole episode.

Holt told Anne that night, “I had wondered if the Risperidone might be a cover, or a plant. But he needs it.”

Anne’s face was bruised, and her lip swollen, but since Wilson didn’t know how to hit, nothing was broken or fractured. She glanced in the mirror and away. No one likes to look battered, she told herself. “It took everything I had to just lie there. It was demeaning.”

“But way smart,” Holt said practically. “You’re certainly the darling of the school now.”

“That’s great, but I guarantee the school board is going to have questions about this,” Anne said. “They’re going to wonder why this first husband — one I completely deny having married — is stalking me. They’re going to think I did something to spark this incident. They’re going to wonder if he’s — by some weird chance — telling the truth.”

It was true. Rumors were flying fast and furious through Colleton County. People who’d never heard Anne’s name before were talking about her now. In a very short time, Anne realized she was in peril. Sympathy had swung to curiosity, and then to gossip.

A story like this was not what the people of Colleton County wanted to hear about their high-school principal.

“Who would want such a thing?” Anne said to Holt, as she pulled lasagna out of her oven. “Who wouldn’t know my original name, and yet want me disgraced or dead? Because if Wilson had brought a gun, I would have been bleeding all over the Travis High floor. He didn’t even slow down at the metal detector. He could have shot me from there.”

“Someone that crazy... if he knew your real name... he would have said it by now,” Holt agreed. “He doesn’t know. But who have you scared or angered that much, as Anne DeWitt?”

“Well, Delia was a ‘suicide,’ ” Anne said. “And no one has ever hinted any different. I think that’s out. We adjusted Sarah Toth’s situation. We fine-tuned a couple of others. What about your ball-player?”

Holt was getting plates out of the cabinet, and he turned with them in his hand. “The last time I saw Clay’s parents they couldn’t stop talking about what a success Clay is having at U of A. He’s not the starting pitcher, but he’s gotten on the mound several times. They’re in hog heaven.”

“So Clay’s out. Besides, he never knew it was us.” They’d motivated Clay to straighten up his act, so his pitching would lead to glory for the school.

“And Sarah seems to be doing fine at Davidson, according to her mother — who just got engaged, by the way, to Coach Redding.” Sarah Toth and her mother had endured a lot from JimBee Toth, until he’d fallen down the stairs in their home while he was drunk. And alone. The football coach would be a much better spouse.

“I heard. What happened to her brother?”

“He went into the military.”

“So that’s all the Toths accounted for. Let’s see what the police say about Tom Wilson.”

Later that evening, two detectives came to Anne’s house. They had called ahead. “I’ve seen you at the games,” Nedra Crosby said. “We still go sometimes. My husband played football and I played softball at Travis High, back in the dark ages.”

Since Crosby was in her mid forties, that was a slight exaggeration, but Anne and Holt smiled obligingly. The other detective, Leland Stroud, a very dark man with hair cut close to his scalp, was the strong, silent type. So far.

Anne offered the two Coca-Cola or tea, but they both refused. “Can you tell me who this Tom Wilson is?” Anne asked.

“Yes,” Crosby said. “His prints were on record. His mental problems have landed him in trouble before now. Wilson has just gotten out of a mental-health facility in South Carolina. His family reported him missing a week ago. He had a legal driver’s license, so he was able to rent a car and check in at the motel here with no problem. He had quite a bit of cash, and a prepaid Visa gift card. We don’t know where he got it. His family members all deny giving him money.”

“So why did he come here?” Anne asked. “Why did he target me?”

Crosby said, “We wonder that too. You’re sure you’ve never seen this Tom Wilson before?” There came the shadowing of doubt.

“I’m sure,” Anne said. Holt nodded in agreement.

“He had some documents in his car,” Crosby began. Anne had an ominous feeling. “Including some personal letters signed by you.”

Anne didn’t have to feign her astonishment. “No, they’re not,” she said. Anne didn’t write letters for that very reason: People could keep them.

Crosby looked thoughtful. “We’ll show you facsimiles, and you can give us your opinion,” she said. “Can we have some samples of your handwriting?”

Anne nodded. “I’ll find some.”

Crosby glanced at Stroud, who took up the torch.

“I know it seems silly to ask you this, Ms. DeWitt, but you can’t think of an enemy you have...?” He leaned forward, his hands on his knees, looking as sincere as a judge.

Anne laughed. “I wish it were silly to ask. Principals do have enemies, Detective. Parents used to back the school administration, but now they back their kid, no matter how stupid or vicious the child is. That seems to be the new idea of showing love. So — yes, there are parents who don’t like me at all. But they’d be more likely to slash my tires or file a lawsuit than do something as elaborate as this.”

“No one else with a more personal motive?” Stroud asked. “Someone you might have rebuffed?”

Anne shook her head. “If there is, I don’t know who it might be.”

“This whole situation is so puzzling, especially since you can’t think of any reason someone would do this to you,” Detective Crosby said. “But please, look through your memory book and let me know if anything comes to your mind.”

“My memory book,” Anne repeated. She and Holt looked at each other. “I hope you brought these letters with you.” She went to the kitchen and got a grocery list and a to-do list. She handed them to Stroud.

Crosby opened a folder to show Anne the letters, obviously copies of the originals. Anne and Holt read them at the same time. The first one began, “Tom, I have been thinking of you every day. I really regret our separation. Please come see me to discuss it? I may have changed my mind by the time you get here, but I beg you to come.”

Each of the three letters had a similar message; they all contained the same contradiction.

“No wonder he slugged me,” Anne said. “These all say, ‘Come here and maybe I’ll take you back or maybe I’ll reject you.’” She shook her head. “Poor guy. But at least you can see that this handwriting is nothing like mine.”

The next day, Anne received a bouquet of black flowers. When the florist carried them into the office and put them down on Christy’s desk, she used the intercom to call Anne, who came out to see them. All the flowers had been dyed black, and a black ribbon encircled the black vase.

“Who sent these?” Anne asked the delivery woman, who’d already turned to leave.

“It was an Internet order, and they paid with PayPal,” the woman said. “You’d have to get a warrant or something to try to track that.”

“Is there a card?” Christy asked, taking the words right out of Anne’s mouth.

“No. We asked, but she didn’t want any kind of acknowledgment.”

“She?”

“Well, something she said in the live chat made me think it was a woman,” The florist clearly wanted to go.

Anne said, “Thanks,” and the woman sped off. Anne took the vase into her office.

An hour later, she knew there wasn’t a bug in the bouquet. There was not a secret message either.

The next day, a young man in a policeman’s uniform arrived at Anne’s office and asked to talk to her. Though Christy noticed he was carrying a CD player, she didn’t think it through, and called Anne out of her office. The “policeman” turned on his music (“Bad Boys”) and began his routine. He’d gotten down to his pants when Anne stopped him with a few well-chosen words that really shocked Christy. Anne told him to sit still until the real police got there.

Detective Crosby arrived in fifteen minutes. In the interim, Anne learned that the young man’s stage name was Randy Rodman, he had a Web site, and he’d never had a problem like this before.

Even Crosby had to smother a snigger.

“We can get a warrant to search his apartment, maybe,” Crosby said. “Though I don’t know why a judge would grant it. After all, sending a stripper to your office isn’t a terrible crime. Mr. Rodman says he was left an envelope with a cash tip in it, in his mailbox. A note in the envelope told him the time and place and recipient, if that’s what you call it, of the... performance. He figured it was for your birthday. I’ll check to see if his apartment complex has any security cameras that might have caught the individual who left the envelope, but Pine Grove is low-end. By the way, Tom Wilson is back in the mental hospital in South Carolina. His mother had him admitted again for observation.”

In the next couple of days, Anne became aware that there were laughs and giggles when she passed students in the hall. It was all too clear that this series of events was doing what it had been designed to do: make her a figure of fun.

Anne didn’t mind being disliked, or even hated. But being an object of ridicule was not only galling, it also threatened Anne’s job. She was furious, especially after she got a call from her superintendent. He asked, in the mildest possible terms, if there was anything he should know? Be concerned about?

It took all of Anne’s formidable self-control to reply calmly that she herself did not understand what was happening, and that she sincerely hoped that these pranks were at an end.

But they weren’t. When Anne got to school the next morning, there was a banner hanging over the front door. It read, “Anne, I love you. Your Booboo.”

Anne called the janitor. He was very lucky he had clocked in on time. Ten minutes later, he had removed the sign and was burning it in the school incinerator. But not before a few early students had taken pictures and sent them to forty of their best friends.

Anne immediately reviewed the security footage from the night before. It showed a figure in sweatpants and a hoodie hanging the banner with the help of a stepladder. There was a knit balaclava further obscuring the person’s head and face. “It’s not even possible to tell if it’s a man or a woman,” she said disgustedly.

Holt watched the few minutes of footage again. “I think it’s a woman,” he said. “There’s something about the way she goes up the ladder that makes me think so.”

“This has to come to an end,” Anne said.

“You’re right.” Holt was as serious as Anne. “We have to figure out who wants to discredit you.”

Anne nodded somberly.

But life didn’t stand still so they could concentrate on the problem. It was baseball season, and Holt was busy until late every afternoon and on some weekends.

Anne used her free time to do some spring cleaning (including her weapons safe: the school board would have been very surprised if they could see inside that) and finally turned her efforts to culling her wardrobe. That didn’t require intensive focus, so her mind ranged free while she sorted and tossed.

This campaign of ridicule was clearly personal. Anne tried to think of anyone local who could have taken offense at something she’d done; someone so angry they would resort to spending money, time, and thought to playing these elaborate pranks.

She couldn’t imagine what she could have done to bring this sly retribution down on herself. If she enlarged the circle to include people who hated her because of incidents in her life as Twyla Burnside, there were any number of people who qualified as candidates. But it was clear that this campaign was against Anne DeWitt.

Then Anne caught at an elusive thought, a shining fish in the water. She stood absolutely still until she grasped the fish and looked at it. She stared into the middle distance, a peach silk blouse clutched in her hands.

What if it’s not me?

What if... “What if it’s for Holt?” she said out loud. She was not just a principal. She was Holt Halsey’s “girlfriend.” Though that bashful word hardly covered their relationship... which was very adult.

“Him, not me,” Anne said, the revelation striking her, giving off the ring of truth. She sat on the edge of the bed, the blouse forgotten in her hands, and examined this new idea. After looking at it from all sides, Anne felt certain she was right.

Holt had come to work at the high school a year after Anne, but he’d only revealed that he knew who she was much later. Holt could have done a lot of things before they’d become lovers. Something stirred in Anne, an alien feeling. She’d never thought about Holt’s previous amours.

She was going to have to pry.

Holt would be tired after the long afternoon practice, and the Panthers had a game the next day. She could tell he was surprised when she insisted that he stop by before he went home. But she told him she’d cook dinner, and a balanced meal during the season was irresistible.

Anne had prepared lemon chicken, rice, and asparagus. Holt was tired, hungry, and preoccupied with his best catcher’s bad knee, so they ate in near silence. Anne didn’t mind: She understood being absorbed in a job.

Holt roused himself after he’d cleaned his plate. “What’s the occasion?” he said. He was rough hewn and large, but he was also clever and ruthless. Abruptly, Anne realized she was fond of him.

“Holt,” Anne said. “I had an idea today about this... series of ludicrous events.”

“What was it?” he said, looking more interested.

“Who would be angry that you were unavailable?” Anne said, her eyes intent on his face.

Anne had seldom taken Holt by surprise. She had this time.

“Ohhh,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “You mean, because I’m seeing you? Someone I had a relationship with before you?” He had to think about it.

“Carrie Ambrose,” he said after a long moment. Carrie was a divorced biology teacher. “And Lois, the nurse.”

Anne held herself still with an effort. She wouldn’t have thought Carrie would appeal to Holt, since she was what Anne thought of as “fluffy.” But she’d been wrong, obviously. And Lois... that was really unexpected. “Anyone else?” she said quite calmly.

“Melayna Tate,” he said. An emotion passed over his face quickly, too quickly for Anne to read it.

“You had some kind of relationship with these three women?”

“No,” he said. “We had sex.”

Anne knew Lois best of the three. And she felt that if Lois was dreaming up this elaborate plan against her, Lois was deeper than she’d ever given her credit for being. But the nurse was an intelligent woman. It was possible. Carrie Ambrose had been dating a man in Travis for a while, at least as long as Anne could remember. Melayna Tate was the girls’ basketball coach. Anne did not know her very well: Melayna’s team won often enough, the parents seemed content, so Anne had had no reason to observe the coach closely.

“The person in the security footage could be Melayna or Lois,” Anne said. “I think they’re more likely than Carrie. Whoever hung the sign, she swarmed up that ladder. Carrie isn’t muscular, and she’s heavier. Tell me about Melayna and Lois.” She waited, her hands folded.

“You’re too smart to be sensitive about Melayna or Lois.” Holt sounded doubtful.

Anne said, “Yes, I am.” She smiled reassuringly. “I’m assuming there’s a reason you quit having sex with them.”

Holt tried smiling back. “Lois is smart, and she has a good sense of humor, but I was not what she was looking for. I think she knew that too. She quit calling. Melayna was wild. And emotional. I had the feeling she was thinking of names for our children. She mentioned moving in with me after two dates.”

Anne didn’t comment. “So Lois and Melayna seem possible, but I should check out Carrie Ambrose,” she said. “Whoever it is, she wants to discredit me. Apparently, she feels I took you away from her.”

Holt looked embarrassed. “They should know better,” he said.

“Whoever. We need to shut her down,” Anne said. “Because the superintendent is asking pointed questions. The teachers and the kids are laughing at me. It’s going to take me a long time to rebuild my standing.”

“If we expose her,” Holt said, “that would clarify the blame.”

“Principal, coach, and another school employee, caught in a love triangle? Not good.”

“This has to stop, and it should be explained somehow. What if... what if you weren’t the only person she was trying to smear?”

“That would dilute the situation,” Anne said slowly. “And take the spotlight away from me.”

“So, who’s our choice?”

“Let’s make it a man.” Anne smiled. “What about Ross Montgomery? The middle-school principal? He’s a douche.”

“Ross? Perfect.” Holt looked happier by the second. “How can I help? My game and practice schedule right now...”

“I understand,” Anne said calmly. “You can leave it to me.”

Ross Montgomery had a hell of a week. He’d been the middle-school principal in Travis for fifteen years, and he planned to die in harness there. He’d gotten things just the way he liked them, as he told everyone who would listen. His assistant did most of the work, Ross could bully his secretary (which made him feel important), and the kids weren’t too bad since most of them were small enough to be cowed.

Ross drove into the staff parking lot just before the first bell on a Wednesday. He saw no point in getting there any earlier. As he strode up the sidewalk to the front door, he noticed a clump of students pointing and looking up. Naturally, he looked up too. The banner (which had started life as a white sheet) hanging between the U.S. flagpole and the state flagpole had blue painted writing; it looked the same as the pictures of the one left for Anne DeWitt, Ross remembered. ROSS DATES DONKEYS, this one read.

Ross had had a few belly laughs about Anne DeWitt’s problem, along with a lot of other people. Now the shoe was definitely on the other foot.

Though the damn kids weren’t supposed to have cell phones, of course some did. Before Ross could confiscate the phones, at least three children had taken pictures and sent them. There was never any way to hide anything now!

In the ensuing week, Ross Montgomery received ten fifty-pound bags of manure, dumped in the schoolyard despite his protests. Ross loathed the Clemson Tigers with a mighty passion, which was no secret. He found stuffed tigers of all descriptions hanging from the trees in his front yard when he got up on Monday morning. One was glued to his front door.

Ross called Anne DeWitt later that day. She was the one person uniquely qualified to sympathize with him, he figured. Ross forgot all the sly remarks he’d made about Anne’s “first husband,” her black bouquet, and the sign over the high-school entrance... and of course, the stripper. If he expected Anne to exhibit some collegial feeling, Ross was sorely disappointed.

Not only did Anne DeWitt offer no sympathy, she barely responded to his complaints. “Sorry, Ross. I’m really snowed under today,” she said. “It won’t last forever.” Ross didn’t know if she meant the work or the persecution.

The same police detectives visited Ross, Nedra Crosby and Leland Stroud. They reviewed security footage of the middle school and only discerned a slim person about five foot eight, swaddled in sweat pants, a ski mask, and a hoodie. The person arrived with a stepstool and all the other materials needed to hang the banner, and that was that. Quick in and out, no shot of the face. During the tiger-hanging incident, Ross’s neighbors had seen nothing. And the individual who’d paid for the manure had left a note and cash to book the delivery. The note had been signed in a good imitation of Ross’s signature.

The smart-ass remarks and the derision switched from Anne to Ross Montgomery. As all the other school principals in the area realized they could be targeted next, the laughter died down and the worry started up.

After four days, Anne judged the right effect had been achieved.

She’d been gathering information about Lois Krueger, Carrie Ambrose, and Melayna Tate, of course, including a look at their employment records. She laid her plans. She would set them in motion the next day, after she attended the funeral of the husband of one of the bus drivers.

Anne was definitely in the mood to tackle a problem. The funeral-home director had caught Anne in a corner to urge her to make “pre-need” arrangements.

So Anne requested that Carrie come in to Anne’s office to talk about the lab equipment, which Carrie had complained was inadequate.

Their discussion was short and to the point. Though Carrie was not the brightest teacher at Travis High, she knew her math. Carrie could prove that there wasn’t enough basic equipment to go around, and knew the percentage of breakage every year. Anne agreed to find enough money in the budget to bring the lab up to par. It was a cordial meeting. Anne carefully maneuvered the conversation to cover first husbands, dating, and Carrie’s hometown.

“Bowling Green,” Carrie said. “My former husband got a job here, so off we went.” She shrugged. “But I’m not sorry. It’s nice in Travis.”

“You’ve taught in Bowling Green and Travis, nowhere else?” Anne said casually.

“No,” Carrie said. “Seven years altogether, though.”

As Carrie got up to leave, Anne said, “Didn’t you date Holt Halsey?”

Of course Carrie knew that Anne was seeing Holt now; everyone at the school knew that. But Carrie’s expression stayed uninterested. “Oh, for about five minutes,” she said. “I’ve been seeing Mack McCormick for a year now. You know him? The manager at Chili’s?”

Anne was convinced she could strike Carrie Ambrose off the very short list, unless Carrie turned out to be a superlative actor.

That left Lois Krueger or Melayna Tate. Anne had read every word of Lois’s record, and the nurse’s office was close to Anne’s. It was easy to find a chance to talk to Lois, and Anne felt the time was right when Lois came into the office to report a student who’d developed symptoms of what looked horribly like measles. Lois had called the boy’s mother, who’d come to get him to take him straight to the doctor. They’d find out later.

“Good call, Lois,” Anne said.

Lois looked at her doubtfully. “Anne, what else was I going to do? Tell him to go back to class?”

Anne had hit a false note. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m so used to cheering on the kids that it’s leaking over into my conversation with adults.”

Lois relaxed. In a moment, they were laughing together over Ross Montgomery’s takedown.

Anne just couldn’t picture Lois doing everything her persecutor had had to do. For one thing, Lois had a child, a ten-year-old girl. That would make it hard (though not impossible) for Lois to sneak around with secret payments or a stepladder.

If the persecutor wasn’t Carrie or Lois, barring the discovery of some secret, ardent Holt fanatic, Anne was reasonably sure that Melayna Tate was the woman she was after. Anne could think of no justification for calling Melayna to her office. The basketball coach was popular with her talented team, and she was a competent teacher; more than Anne could say for most coaches.

To make absolutely sure she had treed the right raccoon, Anne arranged for her path to cross Melayna’s when they were on outside duty during the senior lunch period. The weather was beautiful, so most of the kids went to the covered picnic-table area in the few minutes they had after eating in the cafeteria. Anne wandered over to the coach, who was staring into space.

When Melayna woke from her daydreaming to find Anne was standing beside her, her whole posture altered. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Melayna snapped. Obviously, she thought better of her words the minute they left her mouth. She looked away, her jaw hard because her teeth were clenched. Anne knew that body language.

It was something of a revelation to Anne, all the feelings that welled up inside her at that moment of clarity.

“I believe I can go where I like in this school,” Anne said calmly.

After a visible struggle, Melayna regained control. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was off in the clouds somewhere. You startled me.”

“Yes,” Anne said, and moved away at a calculated angle. Anne could see Melayna’s face reflected in a classroom window. It was tense and taut with strong emotion. One of Anne’s instructors had called such an open display of feeling “showing your ass.”

Anne strolled away, suppressing her smile. Objective acquired.

Anne called Melayna Tate’s previous school at a tiny town in South Carolina. She talked to the principal, a cordial man who knew Melayna’s whole extended family. “Melayna’s volunteered to be on the staff counseling service,” Anne said. She’d just made that service up. “We just wondered if she were strong enough?” Anne let the question trail off. “Since she was in therapy herself, she told me,” Anne said, following a hunch.

“Well, yes,” Mr. Sherman said unhappily. “Melayna was a student here before she became a teacher. She had a problem with her mother’s remarriage. It took her a long time to adjust to Jay Tate as her father. But she got over that! Then, after her senior year, she had trouble with her boyfriend. He transferred to another college, and she, ah, took it wrong. But getting help is a sign of health. I hope she’s feeling well now? I haven’t said too much?”

“She’s got a solid record here,” Anne said reassuringly. “Her name before she adopted the Tate name was Wilson?”

“Yes,” Sherman said, relieved. “The Wilsons are all... well, they’re, ah, interesting people. Very nice!”

That hadn’t been the first comment that had popped into Mr. Sherman’s mind. Anne would bet good money that Sherman had been about to say, “The Wilsons are all high-strung,” or “The Wilsons have had their share of nuts on the family tree.”

Of course, Wilson was a common name, and there was a small chance that Melayna Tate had no connection with Tom Wilson, the mentally ill man who had claimed to be Anne’s first husband. But Anne did not believe in small chances.

Anne worked out her course of action. She was smiling. That night, in the dark, Anne left her house.

The Travis Panthers had a home game the next afternoon. Anne was in the stands, as usual. Melayna was there too, perhaps because she could sit and watch Holt Halsey for a long time without anyone noticing.

Anne watched Melayna, perfecting her plan as she did so.

That night, around one A.M., Anne again crept into Melayna’s yard. She’d parked a mile away. She was wearing dark clothes, but not all black, just in case she was stopped. She didn’t want to look like a secret creeping ninja. She had prepared a backup story involving a broken-down car, a lost cell phone, and her need to find the nearest person she knew for help. She could sell it, but she didn’t want to be obliged to do that.

Much better to be unseen.

Anne was uniquely qualified to do that. She enjoyed employing the craft she’d once taught others. She hadn’t realized how confined she’d felt, being in the public sight all the time, being Anne. She paused beneath a large magnolia, safe from observation. She allowed herself to relax and revel in being Twyla again. But then she thought of how Melayna had made a fool of Anne. And how she had coveted Holt.

I’ll kill her, Anne thought. To hell with the plan. The reckless joy she felt was as pure an emotion as she possessed.

Anne had told Holt that she was not jealous, and she had thought she meant it.

She’d been lying.

It wasn’t that Holt had had sex with Melayna Tate. That was immaterial. It was that Melayna presumed to think she had a prior claim on Anne’s man.

Anne closed her eyes and breathed deep. This was no time to go off track. She recognized her conflict, dealt with it, controlled it. She would stick to the plan. When Anne was sure she’d regained her control, she proceeded.

Melayna had no security system. She lived in a home built around 1950. Though the windows were stiff and noisy, the back door was easy to finagle, for someone with Anne’s skills. Anne swept through the small house like a dark wind. She knew the floor plan well. She’d scouted the house the previous night. She moved silently into Melayna’s bedroom.

After checking to make sure Melayna was soundly asleep, Anne propped something up against the alarm clock on the night table.

The next day, Melayna Tate was late for her first class. When she arrived at the school, she was not only disheveled, but distracted. She jumped at any sudden noise, and she couldn’t seem to concentrate on her players at practice. Melayna asked Coach Jennifer Lee if she could spend the night at Lee’s house.

After a couple of days, the basketball coach was a little better. She resumed sleeping at home, but she got new locks and a security system.

After a month, rumors circulated that Miss Tate had applied for two jobs elsewhere in the state, one at Travis’s chief rival, Powell High.

A week later, when Melayna caught Holt alone in his small office, she said, “You haven’t even congratulated me on my move for next year.”

“You took a job somewhere else?”

“Yeah, at Powell. This is my last semester here.”

“Best of luck,” Holt said, with a polite smile, and went back to his computer.

Melayna made a noise like a sob when she walked away. But Holt did not look up.

“She felt pretty bad,” Holt concluded, when he was telling the story to Anne. They were eating dinner at Holt’s townhouse condo. He’d volunteered to grill.

“She should have,” Anne said. “She thought it out and hit me where it hurt.”

“You haven’t told me what you did to scare her so badly.” Holt turned to Anne with a platter of barbequed chicken and grilled corn.

“I left a picture of her sleeping in her bed that I’d taken the night before,” Anne said. “And a pre-need contract from First Memorial Funeral Home.” Anne smiled, the smile of a shark. “I filled it out with her name, and included her date of death. Which was this coming May on the last day of school.”

Holt shook his head and laughed. “Good call.”

“I figured there was no chance she wouldn’t understand that,” Anne said serenely. “Not even a small one.”