And she got plenty of jokes and comments about being a ballbuster.

It helped put her back on track so she could spend the morning hanging trim.

“Hey, Cill.” One of the laborers stuck his head in the living room as she stood on the stepladder nailing crown molding. “There’s a lady out here, says she knows you. Name’s Lori. Want me to send her in or what?”

“Yeah, tell her to come in.” Cilla shot in the last nails, started down the ladder.

“If I’d been through what you went through yesterday, I’d be lying in bed, not climbing up ladders.”

“It’s just another kind of therapy.” Cilla set the gun aside and turned to her Good Samaritan. “I was going to come by later today or tomorrow, thank you again.”

“You thanked me yesterday.”

“Not to diminish what you did, but I’m always going to have this image of you running down the road with a portable phone in one hand, and a garden stake in the other.”

With a laugh, Lori shook her head. “My husband and I took this week off, short holiday week, to putter around the house and yard. He was off with our two boys buying peat moss and deer repellant while I restaked the tomatoes. I can tell you, if he’d been home, he’d likely’ve beat that idiot over the head with the stake, even as he went down.”

With a sympathetic smile, she studied the bruise on Cilla’s temple. “That looks painful yet. How are you doing?”

“Not too bad. I think it looks worse than it feels now.”

“I hope so.” She looked around the room. “I confess, while I did want to see you, I’ve always wanted a look inside this place.”

“It’s in major transition, but I’ll give you a tour if you want.”

“I’d love a rain check on that. This room’s very nice. I love the color. Well, let me just wind my way around to the point. Of course I know who you are, and who your grandmother was. We moved here about twelve years ago, but Janet Hardy’s legend looms large, so we knew this had been hers. It’s good to see somebody finally tending to it, which is not the point I’m winding to.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I don’t know, because while I know who you are, and feel a particular interest in you now, I don’t know you. I’ve had two reporters call me this morning, wanting quotes and information and my account of what happened yesterday.”

“Oh. Of course.”

“I told them I gave my account to the police. In both cases, they got pretty insistent, and that put my back up.”

“I’m sorry you’re being bothered by this.”

Lori tossed up a hand, waved that aside. “I stopped by to let you know that someone’s been talking to reporters. For all I know you might’ve talked to them yourself, though I can see now that’s not the case.”

“No, but I’ll have to. I appreciate you letting me know.”

“We’re neighbors. I’m going to let you get back to work.” She glanced around. “I think it’s time to go nag my husband about painting the living room.”

Cilla walked Lori to the door, then went back and sat on the stepladder. She considered the cleanest, most direct way to get out a statement. She still had contacts, and even if tapping any of them was dicey, the Hardy name would ring the bell. She needed something brief and concise, carefully written. She’d been taught not to duck a story but to confront it, spin it and ride it out with class.

She pulled her phone off her belt when it rang, then closed her eyes as she answered. “Hello, Mom.”

“Cilla, for God’s sake, what’s going on out there?”

“I had some trouble. I’m handling it. Listen, could you contact your publicist? You’re still using Kim Cohen?”

“Yes, but-”

“Please, contact her and give her this number. Ask her to call me as soon as she can.”

“I don’t see why I should do you any favors after the way you treated-”

“Mom. Please. I could use some help.”

There was a beat of silence. “All right. I’ll call her right now. Were you in an accident? Are you in the hospital? Are you hurt? I heard some crazy man thought you were Mama’s ghost and tried to run you over with his car. I heard-”

“No, it’s not like that. I’m not hurt. I need Kim to help me straighten it out, get out a statement.”

“I don’t want you to be hurt. I’m still mad at you,” Dilly said with a sniff that made Cilla smile. “But I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“I know, and I’m not. Thanks for calling Kim.”

“At least I know how to do a favor,” Dilly said, and hung up.

Cilla couldn’t deny it as the publicist called within twenty minutes. In another twenty, they’d refined a statement between them. By the time Cilla hung up, she knew she’d done the best she could.

“I’M NOT MAJOR JUICE,” Cilla said to Ford as they drove from the doctor’s office to the appointment with the realtor. “But there’s always some ripples when there’s any sort of violence or scandal. And the Hardy connection may give it a little more play. But the statement should cover most of it. There won’t be much interest.”

“There will be locally. It’ll be big news around here, at least for a few days. And if it goes to trial. Did you get in touch with the cops?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t-and yes. I know Wilson thought I was the crazy one for asking if they’d consider Hennessy’s emotional and mental state.”

“What did he say?”

“Psych evals are already in the works. One from the defense, one from the prosecution.”

“Dueling shrinks.”

“It sounds like it.”

“I’d say it’s going to be pretty clear to both that Hennessy downed a big bowl of crazy.”

“Yeah. I guess the upshot depends on what the prosecution’s guy has to say as to whether or not the DA holds on the charges, makes a deal or recommends a psychiatric facility and treatment. The house is coming up on the left. The little Cape Cod there.”

“Huh?”

“Red compact out front. She’s already here. Vicky Fowley. It’s a rental-empty-the owner wants to unload. And Vicky’s anxious to get it off her list.”

Ford looked at the overgrown, weedy front yard and the small brown box of a house sitting on it. “I can’t imagine why. Could it be the extreme uglies?”

“Perfect attitude. Keep that up, seriously.” She gave his hand a bolstering pat. “And let me do the talking.”

TWENTY-TWO

Ford knew he had a strong imagination. He considered himself to be a man of some vision. As far as Cilla’s "little Cape Cod” went, he couldn’t imagine how anyone could define it, however loosely, as a house, and could only visualize it being mercifully razed.

Stains of a suspicious and undoubtedly unpleasant nature stamped and streaked the carpet in the pint-sized living room. He could only be grateful he’d let Spock play job dog again, otherwise Spock would’ve been honor bound to re-mark all the previously marked areas.

Either an animal or an army of rodents had gnawed on the baseboard. The ceiling, also unpleasantly stained in one corner, was bumpy with what Cilla called popcorn.

The kitchen was a truly ugly hodgepodge of mismatched appliances, torn linoleum and a rusted sink. The stingy counters carried the round burn marks of pans carelessly set on blue-speckled white Formica. Grime, and God knew what else, lived in the corners.

In his mind’s eye he imagined cockroaches flooding out of that rusted sink, armed with automatic weapons, driving tanks and armored vehicles to wage war against spiders in combat gear firing bazookas.

He found it easy to let Cilla do the talking. He was speechless.

The second floor consisted of two bedrooms scattered with the debris of former tenants and a bathroom he wouldn’t have entered while wearing a hazmat suit.

“As you can see, there’s work to be done!” Vicky showed white, white teeth in what could only be a pained, somewhat desperate smile. “But with some elbow grease and sweat equity, it could be a little dollhouse! Such a cute starter home for a young couple like yourselves.”