Normally I didn’t hit the sack until several hours later, but I figured a good night’s sleep would help recharge my batteries after everything that had happened, and with a little luck a marathon writing session might ensue in the days to come. I hoped so, anyway. Time was running out. As I moved through the foyer, approaching my screen door, I smelled the distant aroma of someone grilling hot dogs down the street. My mouth watered. Maybe I should do that for Sam when she comes over next Wednesday, I thought, fix burgers and dogs in the backyard. Yeah. It would be fun. She always did love a good cookout. Norman would undoubtedly enjoy it, too… I had almost closed the front door, with my hand on the deadbolt, when something outside caught my eye. Frowning, I eased open the door again, and peered out into the gathering dusk. To my right, cattycorner across the street from me at 214 Poinsettia Lane, sat Floyd and Francine Beecham’s three-story Cape Cod. The house was dark, but beyond their teal Lincoln Town Car and the enormous Winnebago in their driveway I spotted the Beechams sitting on their front porch, chatting with another couple in the blue-gray twilight.
