"Are you safe, do you think?" she asked anxiously. "Do you want to come stay with me until this is all over? I can't believe this is happening to you! You're so nice!"

"Well, nice or not," I retorted grimly, "it's happening. Thanks for asking me, Amina, and I will come to see you soon. But I have to stay here for now. I don't think I'm in any more danger. This was my turn to be targeted, I guess, and I came out okay." I skipped my speculation with Arthur that maybe the killer would go on killing, and Jane Engle's conjecture that maybe we would all be drawn in, and cut right to Amina's area of expertise.

"I have a situation here," I began, and at once had her undivided attention. The nuances and dosey-does between the sexes were Amina's bread and butter. I hadn't had anything like this to tell Amina since we were in high school. It was hard to credit that grown people still engaged in all this—foreplay. "So," Amina said when I'd finished. "Arthur is a little resentful that this Robin spent the afternoon at your place, and Robin's trying to decide whether he likes you well enough to keep up the beginning of your relationship in view of Arthur's slight proprietary air. Though Arthur is not the proprietor of anything yet, right?"

"Right."

"And you haven't actually had a date with either of these bozos, right?"

"Right."

"But Robin has asked you to lunch in the city for Monday."

"Uh-huh."

"And you're supposed to meet him at the classroom."

"Yep."

"And Lizanne has definitely discarded this Robin." Amina and Lizanne had always had a curious relationship.

Amina operated on personality and Lizanne on looks, but they'd both run through the male population of Lawrence-ton and surrounding towns at an amazing rate. "Lizanne formally bequeathed him to me," I told Amina. "She's not greedy," Amina conceded. "If she doesn't want ‘em, she lets 'em know, and she lets ‘em go. Now, if you're going to meet him at the university, you realize he's going to be sitting in a classroom full of little chickies just panting to hop in bed with a famous writer. He's not ugly, right?" "He's not conventionally handsome," I said. "He has charm." "Well, don't wear one of those blouse and skirt combinations you're always wearing to work!"

"What do you suggest I wear?" I inquired coldly. "Listen, you called me for advice," Amina reminded me. "Okay, I'm giving it to you. You've had an awful time. Nothing makes you feel better than a few new clothes, and you can afford it. So go to my mom's shop tomorrow when it opens, and get something new. Maybe a classic town ‘n country type dress. Stick to little earrings, since you're so short, and maybe a few gold chains." (A few? I was lucky to have one my mother had given me for Christmas. Amina's boyfriends gave her gold chains for every occasion, in whatever length or thickness they could afford. She probably had twenty.) "That should be fine for a casual lunch in the city," Amina concluded.

"You think he'll notice me as a woman, not just a fellow murder buff?"

"If you want him to notice you as a woman, just lust after him."

"Huh?"

"I don't mean lick your lips or pant. Keep conversation normal. Don't do anything obvious. You have to keep it so you don't lose anything if he decides he's not interested." Amina was as interested in saving face as any Japanese. "So what do I do?"

"Just lust. Keep everything going like normal, but sort of concentrate on the area below your waist and above your knees, right? And send out waves. You can do it. It's like the Kegel exercise. You can't show anyone how to do it, but if you describe it to a woman, she can pick it up." "I'll try," I said doubtfully.

"Don't worry, it'll come naturally," Amina told me. "I have to hang up, the doorbell is ringing. Call me again and tell me how it goes, okay? The only thing wrong with Houston is that you aren't here."

"I miss you," I said.

"Yeah, and I miss you, but you needed me to leave," Amina said, and then she did hang up.

And after a moment's disbelief, I knew she was right. Her departure had freed me from the role of the most popular woman's best friend, a role that required I not attempt to make the most of myself because even the best of me could not compete with Amina. I almost had to be the intellectual drab one. I was sitting thinking about what Amina had said when the phone rang while my hand was still resting on it. I jumped a mile.

"It's me again," Amina said rapidly. "Listen, Franklin is waiting for me in the living room, but I ran back here to my other phone to tell you this. You said Perry Allison was in that club with you? You watch out for Perry. When he was in college with me, he and I took a lot of the same courses our freshman year. But he would have these mood swings. He'd be hyper-excited and follow me around just jabbering, then he'd be all quiet and sullen and just stare at me. Finally the college called his mother."

"Poor Sally," I said involuntarily.

"She came and got him and I think committed him, not just because of me but because he was skipping classes and no one would room with him because his habits got so strange."

"I think he's beginning to repeat that pattern, Amina. He's still holding together at the library, but I see Sally looking worried these days." "You just watch out for him. He never hurt anyone that I know of, though he made a bunch of people nervous. But if he's involved in this murder thing, you watch out!"

"Thanks, Amina."

"Sure, ‘bye now."

And she was gone, again to enjoy herself with Franklin.

Chapter 7

Sunday dawned warm and rainy. A breeze swooped over the fence and rustled my rose trees. It was not a morning to eat breakfast on the patio. I fried bacon and ate my bakery sweet roll while listening to a local radio broadcast. The mayoral candidates were answering questions on this morning's talk show. The election promised more interest than the usual Democratic shoo-in, since not only was there a Republican candidate who actually had a slim chance, there was a candidate from the—gasp—Communist Party! Of course, this was the candidate whose campaign Benjamin Greer was managing. Poor miserable Benjamin, hoping that the Communist Party and politics would be his salvation. Of course the Communist, Morrison Pettigrue, was one of the New People, one of those who'd fled the city but wanted to stay close to it.

At least this would be a unifying election for Lawrenceton. None of the candidates was black, which always made for a tense campaign and a divisive one. The Republican and Democrat were having the time of their political lives, giving sane, sober answers to banal questions, and thoroughly enjoying Pettigrue's fiery responses that sometimes bordered on the irrational. Bless his heart, I thought sadly, not only is he a Communist but he's also very unappealing. I'd made a point of looking for Pettigrue's campaign posters on the way back from the grocery store the day before. They said nothing about the Communist Party (just "Elect Morrison Pettigrue, the People's Choice, for Mayor") and they showed him to be a grim-featured swarthy man who had obviously suffered badly from acne.

I listened while I ate breakfast, but then I switched to some country and western music for my dishwashing. Domestic chores always went faster when you could sing about drinkin‘ and cheatin'.

It was such a nice little morning I decided to go to church. I often did. I sometimes enjoyed it and felt better for going, but I felt no spiritual compulsion. I went because I hoped I'd "catch it," like deliberately exposing myself to the chicken pox. Sometimes I even wore a hat and gloves, though that was bordering on parody and gloves were not so easy to find anymore. It wasn't a hat-and-gloves day, today, too dark and rainy, and I wasn't in a role-playing mood, anyway.