She waited, tapping her foot, as the young officer exited his patrol car and approached her front steps. “Good evening, ma’am.” Officer Paul Treble tipped his hat gravely. “What seems to be the trouble?” He stood at polite attention on Carmen’s porch. Carmen groaned inwardly. She’d known Paul ever since she’d moved to Charade. As a pimple-faced teen, he’d helped out at Bushel and a Peck during high school, bagging bunches of kale and rhubarb for customers, before going to college and to the police academy. “Come on in, Paul,” she answered. “I caught a trespasser in my bedroom and I’ve got him trapped in my closet.” Paul placed his hand on the grip of his pistol. “Is he armed, Ma’am?” “Sheesh, Paul, just call me Carmen, okay?” Carmen insisted. “And, uh, he’s not armed. He’s not even dressed,” she added, blushing. Paul gave Carmen a sideways glance. She coloured slightly and led him to her bedroom. The tall oak set of drawers stood in front of her closet door, massive and unmoving.
