Janet Evanovich - Full Scoop

"Hey, at least she let you play poker. I wish you guys could clear the air."

"Don't you get it?" Mel said, leaning forward. "She called Travis and lectured him. Like he forced me to meet him," she added. "Like I'm three years old and don't know how to make my own decisions."

"If that were true you wouldn't be spending most of your time in this room reading Gulliver's Travels," he said. "She's holding you accountable."

"It figures you'd take her side."

"No way," he said. "I'm sort of playing devil's advocate."

"Like I'm supposed to know what you're talking about?" she said.

"It's where you oppose someone's argument, even though you don't really oppose it; you're just looking at it from different angles. To test its, um, accuracy," he added. "To see if it's a valid argument."

"Why?"

"I have no idea. Maybe because my stepdad used to drive me crazy doing it to me," he said. Zack leaned against one of her beds, propped his elbows on his knees and linked his fingers.

"Maybe you should be testing this out on my mom," Mel said, examining one of the chips. "Find out why she expects me to be the perfect daughter. She wasn't so perfect. It's like a major sin that I stood outside the movies talking to a boy. Look what mom did." Her eyes misted. "Look what she did!"

"I'm looking," he said.

* * * * *

Lydia Green was clearly annoyed as she quickly tossed aside the grimy blouse and slacks she'd worn helping Ben put up the clothesline, and then pulling weeds from the flower beds and putting out fresh pine straw as he'd mowed the grass. Without taking time to shower first, she slipped into a clean outfit.

In the den, Ben snored in his recliner. She looked past him, through the window, where a truck from Southland Phone Company was parked in front of her neighbor's house. She hurried into the kitchen and scribbled a note. Her hands shook.

Ben:

Gone to pick up your insulin at Bi-Lo pharmacy. I'll grab your juice while I'm there.

Back soon. L.

She taped the note on a cabinet door in plain view and went for her purse. She dug for her keys and started for the door. She opened it and as she stepped outside a man in a blue uniform approached the back of her house. He stared down at a clipboard he held and whistled the Johnny Cash song "I Walk the Line." He wore the Southland Phone Company insignia on his uniform, and beneath it, the name Joe.

"May I help you," Lydia said as he neared her steps.

He jumped, obviously startled. He covered his heart and rolled his eyes. "Lady, you just scared the meanness right out of me," he said loudly. "I didn't see you standing there."

Lydia put one finger to her lips. "My husband is resting."

"Oh, sorry," he said, lowering his voice as he put a finger to the bill of his cap in a polite gesture. His teeth were pronounced, even more so when he smiled.

"I didn't mean to scare you," Lydia said, fitting her key in the lock and jiggling it several times before it finally turned and locked. "I'm in a hurry. What can I do for you?"

"I'll be lickety-quick," he said, still smiling as he shoved his glasses higher on his nose and blinked several times through the thick lenses. "Some of your neighbors are having problems with their phones. Just checking to see if you've still got service," he added.

Lydia's brow puckered. "You look familiar. Do I know you?"

"Been living here all my life," he said. "Do you know Joe and Doris Frazier? They're my parents. I was named after my dad, of course," he added, pointing to the patch where his name had been sewn. "They attend the big Baptist church in town. I go with them now and then when they shame me into it."

Lydia shook her head. "I'm Methodist." She checked her wristwatch. "My telephone is fine. The pharmacy called not more than twenty minutes ago.

I need to get there before they close. My husband is diabetic and insulin-dependent."

"Then I will just mark your name off of my list and be on my way," he said, pretending to draw a great big X on the page. "You have any problems you call and ask for Joe." Once again, he touched his cap, then turned to leave.

"Hold on a sec," Lydia said with a loud sigh before he reached the steps. "You've got me all worried now."

"Sorry."

She put her key in the lock, hands still shaking. She struggled with the key. "This thing is so hateful."

"Let me have a shot at it," the man said, taking the key from her. He paused. "What happens if he forgets his injection?"

"He gets sick," she said flatly.

"Could he die?"

"Yes!" She covered her mouth because she had spoken too loud. "Yes, he could," she said quietly.

"What would you do if that happened? I mean, if he died? Maybe even died at home?"

Lydia just looked at the man. "Well, I—" She frowned. "Oh, good grief!" she said, waving off the remark. "That's a terrible thing to ask someone. I have to go. Are you going to open my door or do I have to ring the bell and wake my husband?"

"Sorry," he said, putting the key into the lock and turning it slowly. He jiggled it like she had. "I was just thinking how terrible it would be if somebody I loved died right in front of me." The lock finally clicked. He opened the door, stood back, and grinned. "There you go."

Lydia didn't return his smile. She looked deeply troubled, anxious. She took her keys from him, crossed the room, and lifted the receiver from the wall phone. She waited a few seconds and tapped the receiver. "I'm not getting a dial tone. The line is dead. What do you suppose—" A hand covered her mouth before she could finish her sentence. She looked up, straight into the barrel of a gun.

He leaned close. "Tell me, Lydia," he whispered as softly as the breath that fell against her cheek. "What are you willing to do to keep your husband alive?"

Maggie opened her eyes and found the living room dark and herself half sprawled on the living room sofa. She blinked several times. She was groggy and disoriented and still tired, even though it felt as though she'd slept a long time. Someone had covered her with a blanket. She touched the tiny button on her wristwatch, and the face lit up so she could read it. It was after eight p.m.! She had slept for three hours! She quickly threw off the blanket and bolted from the sofa.

Anxiety spurred her into the kitchen. Dark and empty. She stepped into the hallway. She heard Mel's voice coming from her room and felt dizzy with relief. She followed the soft light and found Zack leaning against Mel's bed studying one of her sketches with the help of a fat candle. Mel sat nearby, pointing to something on the drawing. They glanced up. Maggie's eyes lingered on Zack's face. She realized she had already memorized it.

He smiled. "Welcome back." The smiled faded slightly. "What's wrong?"

"I just—" Maggie paused. She had been on the verge of blurting out how much she hated that her daughter was forced to sit in the near-dark. She wanted to rant and rave and maybe kick something; she wanted to yell from her rooftop how unfair it was. She wanted an answer as to why Carl Lee had not been found and how many more days they would have to sit around and wonder when he'd show up. She wanted to turn on all the lights, yank the drapes off their rods, peel the tacky aluminum foil off the kitchen window, and do something really immature and totally stupid like yell out to Carl Lee and dare him to do something about it. It would almost be worth getting shot. Only problem, it wouldn't be worth leaving Mel orphaned. The expression in Zack's eyes told her he knew what she was feeling.

"I didn't mean to sleep so long," she said. "I didn't know I was so tired. You guys are probably starved."

"We made a sandwich," he said, "and napping isn't a bad thing. It's not even illegal in most states now. By the way, Queenie called, mostly to check in, but she didn't want me to wake you. She said she hasn't had a chance to come by to see if her hen laid an egg yet because she's been bogged down with appointments."