The Listener -- Chapters 1 - 10

Prologue – The First Meeting

Downtown Peterborough, NH

Late October wind whipped oak leaves into swirling eddies along Pine Street, chasing Catherine Primrose from her door. She tugged the brim of a Peterborough Food Pantry cap low, blonde wisps slipping free at her ears, and scanned quiet sidewalks for answers in the stillness. Noon bells tolled somewhere up the street.

Crossing Pine to Main, Catherine quickened her pace over the bridge, the river’s muted roar underfoot. Outside Toadstool Bookshop, a lunch crowd spilled from the diner. Faces blurred as she searched for lingering glances, hints of unusual attention. Once inside, warm paper-and-coffee air enveloped her, the comforting fragrance of home turf.

A man was waiting at a corner table in Aesop’s coffee shop—two cups, two forks, one slice of coffee cake. Phil. Sixties, horn-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses, navy windbreaker with a faint stain on the collar. His smile was easy; Catherine’s, a bit too quick and forced.

“Thanks for meeting me,” she murmured, leaning in. “Do you think you were followed?”

Phil took a slow sip of his coffee. “Can’t say,” he replied evenly. “Why the cloak and dagger, Catherine?”

She pulled a book from her satchel—Good Dirt, its cover showing a vivid orange cracked antique jar. “I can’t make the next book club meeting,” she said, her voice lightening. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d lead the discussion. We’re expecting a dozen or more, and I hate to cancel. Everyone’s looking forward to it.” She laid a printed discussion sheet on the table, her hand clearly visible.

Below the table, their knees brushed. As her hand pointed to a line on the sheet, her fingers trembled, pressing a folded paper into his palm. Quick, but not quite steady. His hand, resting on his thigh, moved with practiced ease. He accepted the note and, in the same motion, passed something back—a small object that had been pressed to the chair beneath his leg. A subtle exchange, a quiet, practiced dance.

Above the table, Catherine threw her head back and laughed, the sound a shade too loud for the bookshop. Phil smiled along, his expression composed but slightly stiff, biting his lower lip as a way to refocus his nervous energy. They discussed the weather, skimmed the talking points, and traded casual pleasantries. He didn’t press her for details. She didn’t offer any.

They shared the coffee cake and lingered for twenty minutes. When she stood to leave, Catherine offered a warm, grateful smile. “Thank you again, Phil.” Her sad eyes lingered on his as if passing one last message.

He nodded, watching her exit. Then he picked up the copy of Good Dirt she’d left behind and began to flip through the pages, a yellow tab peeking from the fore-edge: “Arabella—disb.?” scrawled in blue ink, expression unreadable.

In Peterborough, somebody always noticed.

Chapter 1 – The Listener

Tuesday, late October – Peterborough Town Library

The wind from the bridge still rattled the streetlamps when Arnie Price settled into his corner chair at the library. He came here for the quiet. For the neat rows of books that reminded him of order. For a seat where the afternoon sun could warm his knees and his scruffy terrier, Digby, could nap without judgment.

Listening was something he’d fallen into, not planned. Sit still in a public space long enough, and people decide you’re the one who ought to hear their troubles.

Today’s 3:40 p.m. slot was Ronnie, halfway through a rant before the sand in the hourglass was even turned.“The Patriots don’t deserve to be in the NFL next year,” Ronnie said.

Arnie didn’t argue. Arms folded, he stared past the man to the far wall of reference books. Ronnie was a regular. Arnie tolerated him. His posted job here—the one he’d invented—was simple: not to talk, not to fix. Just to listen.

Before Ronnie arrived, Arnie had been reading the Monadnock Ledger’s Tuesday police log, scanning for anything that didn’t fit. Mostly it was barking dogs, dented bumpers, the occasional “suspicious activity.” A far cry from the Boston underworld he’d once combed through for stories at The Beacon. But the old instincts lingered—to read between the lines, to parse what wasn’t being said.

On the table sat a small sign:

Arnie Price – Listener – You’ve Got 20 Minutes – Appointments Only

Beside it: a clipboard with sign‑ups, a legal pad, half‑finished crossword, a pitcher of water, and the sand‑filled hourglass—twenty minutes exactly.

Ronnie kept talking. “The coaching staff’s useless, management’s cheap, and the players? Don’t give a crap — uh, crap’s okay, right?”

Arnie gave him a nod. Rule #7 (You swear, you walk) violation averted. The laminated list of the 10 Rules of Arnie and Digby’s Listening Service rested in the corner for all to see—Arnie needed boundaries, but had acquiesced at the insistence of Connie, who believed people needed permission to connect with something.

Three minutes to go. Ronnie leaned forward as if sharing state secrets. “They’re all mercenaries now. And you need to take out a mortgage to see a game in person.”

Arnie glanced at his Timex. Worn brown leather band, reliable as an atomic clock. Claire had given it to him when they were dating — back when her father called him unreliable. He’d worn the watch for fifty years. Kept the watch; not the vow.

Final minute.

“Oh, how I miss Tom Brady.”

The last grain of sand dropped. “That concludes our session,” Arnie said, standing.

He packed his things into the brown box, clipped Digby’s leash, and carried it to the desk. Flipping open the clipboard, he scanned the day’s list. Ronnie, predictably early. Two canceled slots. One woman who cried silently the entire time.

And Catherine Primrose—first appointment that morning—absent. No call. No note. Not like her.

Arnie’s brows knit before he could smooth them. Earlier on Main Street, a flash of purple —an umbrella held low. Catherine’s? He closed his eyes to remember.

Outside, the air had a bite to it, the wind carrying more leaves than it left behind. He crossed the stone bridge with Digby trotting beside him. Halfway over, the dog’s ears flicked toward something behind them.

Arnie glanced back, Digby’s ears pricked. Just the wind, just the sound of acorns skittering on the sidewalk. Why did he feel he was back on the streets of Boston?  He pulled his coat a little tighter, the memory of the purple umbrella tugging at him. Something about it didn’t sit right.

Chapter 2 – Bridge Night

Tuesday Night – Stonegate Rec Room

Stonegate’s rec room always smelled faintly of furniture polish and coffee, with Sinatra crooning overhead like he owned the lease. Four square tables filled the center, bidding boxes and score pads ready, snacks lined up on the counter.

At 6:30 sharp, Arnie Price walked in—not because bridge required punctuality, but because Evelyn March did. Digby padded in beside him, heading straight for his dog bed in the corner where a chewed rope toy lay in wait.

Evelyn was already at Table One, smoothing her custom blue corduroy cloth until every ripple vanished. The bidding boxes were in perfect alignment, the scorepad squared to the edge. No clutter, no deviation—the Evelyn way. Retired librarian, order in her blood, and an uncanny talent for recalling Dewey Decimal numbers for any subject you could name.

“Evening, Evelyn,” Arnie said, lowering himself into the North seat.

“Cards are shuffled. We’ll draw for who deals when the others arrive.”

Arnie had always liked her steady presence—and the fact she was the one who had helped Claire land her library job all those years ago.

Royce Bennett strolled in next, whistling off-key and smelling faintly of aftershave.

“Evening, Arnie. I’m feeling lucky tonight—thinking aggressive bidding, full attack mode.”

Arnie gave him a dry look. “Let’s not get reckless.”

Royce grinned, sliding into the South seat. Retired mail carrier, bachelor, human Rolodex of every back road and front porch in southern New Hampshire—plus every food joint worth knowing, especially those offering meals you could drive with.

Then Connie Clark arrived like a gust of color, dropping her oversized tote with a thud. “Did you all miss me terribly? I bring good luck and contraband cookies.”

“No snacks on the table,” Evelyn said without looking up.

“It’s not a snack, it’s an incentive,” Connie countered, placing a cookie beside Arnie’s bidding box. “If you win a hand.”

Connie, the queen of impromptu celebration—she could turn a Tuesday night bridge game into a birthday, anniversary, or bake sale at the drop of a hat.

Evelyn feathered out the cards in a rainbow arc across the table. Connie flipped the highest card—Queen of Hearts. “Perfect. I’ll take heart over reckless abandon any day.”

“You are feisty tonight,” Royce said. “We’ll see what the cards have to say.”

With the cards dealt, Evelyn didn’t hesitate—she reached for the bid box and set down 2 Clubs with crisp authority, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. Royce reacted as if cold water had been splashed in his face.

“Are you kidding me?” he groaned. “What are the odds? Two percent? These cards were shuffled, right?”

“With reckless abandon,” Connie quipped.

As play started, Arnie stared at his cards. Spades, hearts, diamonds – none of them registered. Catherine Primrose’s name kept swirling in his head like a leaf in a whirlpool.

“Arnie?” Connie prompted. “Your bid. Everything okay?”

He blinked. “Just thinking…” He gathered his cards tightly, as though keeping his hand—and his thoughts—close to the vest. Frozen by a vision of that purple umbrella.  “Pass.”

The women pushed the bidding to six spades. Royce’s eyes flared—he was intent to bring it down. Evelyn played with clinical precision, Royce played his Ace, Evelyn was void and trumped him. Royce slumped back, defeated. The ladies had pulled off a small slam – rare, risky and perfectly executed.

“Please,” Connie said as she laid down dummy on the next hand. Evelyn was on a roll. “Tell us what’s on your mind.”

“You know Catherine Primrose, right?”

“Of course,” Evelyn said as she plotted her play. “Pine Street. Pantry volunteer. Choir. Book club. She’s everywhere—and she’s early for everything.”

“She was a no‑show for her slot today.”

“That’s not like her,” Evelyn said, frowning and in an unusual display of distraction lowered her cards. “If she’s involved, she’s already there before I am.”

“Probably nothing,” Arnie said, though he didn’t believe it.

“I don’t like it,” Connie said firmly. “I’m checking on her tomorrow.”

“I’ll come,” Royce added. “Know the building.”

Arnie nodded. “Let’s see what’s what.”

By 8:30, Evelyn called time. Chairs scraped, cards stacked, cookies vanished. Royce was muttering about missed finesses, and Evelyn tidied the table like it was a crime scene being preserved.

“You two go ahead,” she told Connie and Arnie. “Chair Yoga’s here tomorrow, and I’m not hearing about crumbs for a week.”

“Come on, Listener,” Connie said, swinging her tote as Digby bounded ahead. “Tomorrow we’ll get answers.”

Arnie trailed a step behind, eyes on the shadows beyond the door. He wasn’t so sure the answers were ones they’d want.

Chapter 3: “The Search”

Tuesday evening / Wednesday Morning – Stonegate / Walk through Peterborough

The night air carried that late-autumn bite—sharp enough to remind them colder days were on the doorstep and snow would soon be flying. The lawns of Stonegate were edged with brittle leaves, and the lamplight turned each patch of frost into tiny shards of glass. The community’s walking paths wound neatly between stands of oak and maple, giving residents a sense of nature while keeping them within a few hundred steps of warmth, light, and bathrooms. Arnie liked that about Stonegate—convenience blended with the illusion of wildness. He paused at the doggie bag dispenser and tucked a green bag into his coat pocket. No one should have to dodge landmines on a morning walk.

Connie slipped her arm into his as they crossed the small wooden footbridge under the big oak.  The overhead path light reflected off the tree, revealing a rough carving of a heart with initials. Arnie looked over and slowed. Connie followed his gaze.

“You miss her, don’t you,” Connie said as she tightened her grip with her elbow through his.

“Only every minute of every day.” Connie squeezed his arm in affirmation, and they continued on. The planks of wood creaked under their shoes as they arched over the rippling water of the stream. A full moon’s glow tracking them like a theatre spotlight.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, Connie giving Arnie his time. When she felt the release in Arnie’s arms and knew the time was right, she asked “Do you remember anything else about Catherine? Something she might have hinted at—anything unusual she wanted to discuss?”

Arnie shook his head slowly. “All she wrote was ‘personal matter’ in the comments field. Most folks leave it blank. They don’t know what they’re going to say until they sit down and open their mouths. Catherine was different—usually came in focused, ready to get right to it. That’s why this nags at me. It’s not like her to skip without a word. She only lives across the way on Pine Street. Even if she couldn’t stay, she’d have popped in just to say so.”

Connie squeezed his arm. “We’ll check in tomorrow. If she’s fine, I’ll drop it. But if not, you’ll need to think back on what she’s told you in past sessions. Remember your own rule—nothing confidential.”

Arnie allowed the smallest smile. “Deal.”

They walked on in comfortable silence, aware they were stepping into something uncertain.

By 8:45 the next morning, Connie and Royce were waiting outside Shattuck Hall, ready for the short walk into town. The sun was bright, the temperature a crisp forty-five, and the day had that clear, sharp quality that made the last leaves look painted on.

Connie was dressed for both style and efficiency: a forest-green wool sweater, fitted jeans, a gray scarf, and a brand-new pair of Hoka Bondis that still carried a showroom gleam. Royce, by contrast, was decked out in his retro mailman attire. Together, they were a sight: Jane Fonda marching alongside Cliff Clavin.

One thing Royce could do, though, was keep up. Connie walked with intent, hand weights swinging at her sides, pace clipped and unrelenting. Royce matched her stride without complaint. They were hunters, both of them—focused, heads down, moving straight for Pine Street. No wasted motion, no chatter. Find Catherine, get answers.

They reached Catherine Primrose’s apartment building at nine sharp. Connie pressed the buzzer. It emitted a tired electric wheeze, then silence. She knocked next, firmly but not threatening.

“Catherine? It’s Connie—from Stonegate. Just checking in, hon. You all right?”

No response. No footsteps, no muffled voice behind the door. Connie tilted her head, listening harder than she wanted to admit. Behind her, Royce scanned the building, hands deep in his windbreaker pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill.

“No curtains open,” he said finally. “Mailbox stuffed. No sign of a dog or cat.” He lifted his nose like Digby, sniffing in short bursts. “Smell that? Staleness. No answers here. Want me to flag the manager?”

Connie bit her lip, then shook her head. “Not yet. Let’s try her regular places first. She might be out running errands or visiting. We don’t want to get ahead of ourselves.”

Royce shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

They set off toward Pine Street Community Church, a quarter mile up Concord. Connie took a quick pull from her water bottle, resettled the scarf around her neck, and struck out with renewed speed. Royce caught her stride by the time they reached the walkway to the sanctuary.

Inside, the church smelled faintly of polish and candle wax. A young woman was kneeling between pews, straightening hymnals. Connie didn’t waste time.“Excuse me—do you happen to know if Catherine Primrose has been in this week?”

The woman stood, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Catherine? Haven’t seen her since Sunday service. Actually…” She frowned, thinking. “She missed choir rehearsal last night. That’s unusual—she has a solo this Sunday.”

“She’s reliable?” Connie asked.

“Oh, yes. I’m Kendra, by the way.” She gave a quick smile. “Catherine’s usually the first one here to set out the music and the last to leave, making sure everything’s squared away.”

Royce muttered, “Sounds like an Evelyn doppelganger.”

“Did she mention a trip? Or being out this week?” Connie pressed.

Kendra shook her head, then hesitated. “Not exactly, but… she’s been carrying a lot lately. Seemed drained. Off, for Catherine. Mentioned her brother once. Didn’t sound good.”

Next stop was the Food Pantry. Jason, the volunteer coordinator, looked up from wiping counters and broke into an automatic grin when he heard Catherine’s name. “She’s solid. Told me once the pantry gave her purpose again after she lost her teaching job. She shows up even when she’s tired.”

“Any chance she’s just taking a few days?” Royce asked.

“Maybe. But she always calls. Catherine runs on routine.”

“Got a number for her?” Connie asked.

Jason scrolled his phone. “Only her landline.” He read it out. Royce jotted it down and tried calling—straight to silence.

Just then, Royce’s watch beeped. He grinned. “That’s our cue for the Diner. My stomach knew it before the alarm.”

The Peterborough Diner smelled of fried potatoes, coffee, and butter on the griddle. The bell over the door jingled as they stepped inside. Royce closed his eyes, inhaled with exaggerated joy, and spread his hands like he was blessing the room. Connie wrinkled her nose.

Arnie was already in a booth by the window, Digby curled beneath the table, head resting on Arnie’s foot, a quiet reminder of their loyal connection. Arnie looked up, slid the napkin dispenser aside to make space, and studied their faces before speaking.

“Well?”

Connie slid into the seat opposite. “We tried her place. No answer. Checked the church and the pantry—no one’s seen her since Sunday.”

“No trip planned, no calls, no mobile,” Royce added.

Arnie exhaled, slow and heavy. “And the apartment manager?”

“Not yet,” Connie said. “Didn’t want to seem like we were snooping.”

“We are snooping,” Royce said. “Just politely.”

The waitress appeared with a coffeepot. “Menus, or do you already know? Breakfast runs all day.”

“Breakfast,” Connie and Arnie said together.

“Meatloaf sandwich,” Royce grunted.

Connie shot him an exasperated look. “That was last night’s Stonegate special. Didn’t you get enough?”

“I’m a connoisseur,” Royce replied, deadpan.

Connie rolled her eyes. Arnie, though, was somewhere else—his mind turning, gathering threads.

Beneath the table, Digby lifted his head at the word meatloaf, eyes bright. He, at least, knew exactly what he wanted.

Chapter 4: “Black Suburban”

 

Wednesday Midday – Peterborough Diner / Pine Street Apartments / Connie’s Apartment

As the waitress walked off, Connie leaned forward. “Something’s wrong, Arnie. You sensed it. Everything points to her disappearing.”

"And not by choice,” Royce said between bites.

“Fancy stretching your legs one more time?" she said to Royce, giving his thigh a light slap. Connie was already halfway to the door, hand weights on the move. Royce wiped his mouth, checking for lingering meatloaf. He grabbed his windbreaker and patted his pockets in a halfhearted attempt to find money. Arnie waved him out, “I got this, you go catch up” as if there’d ever been any doubt who was paying.

Arnie handed the waitress his card. While waiting for her return he glanced down at Digby, and offered a quiet smile. “Folks think you get answers by talking nonstop, boy. I've learned people will tell you more if you don’t fill the silence. If you wait too long, however, good chance you’ll get stuck with the check.” Digby thumped his tail, content to wait.

Twenty minutes later, they tracked down the Pine Street apartment manager, Jimmy Collins, in the basement laundry room, folding towels with military precision. The air was musty with an overpowering smell of bleach and Old Spice. A trim man in his sixties with a pencil mustache and a permanent scowl, he looked like someone who took little joy in tenants, towels, or visitors. A dusty wooden framed photo of Jimmy and some fishing buddies on a boat with the name Marvin Gardens barely visible was propped on a shelf above the dryer.

"Catherine Primrose?" he said without looking up. "Haven’t seen her in a few days. Last I remember, she asked about a package being held. Never came by for it."

"What kind of package?" Connie asked.

"Brown box. About yay big." He dropped a folded towel into a basket and held out his grease-stained hands to indicate shoebox size.  He paused a bit too long. “Amazon maybe,” he said, but his tone was flat—like he’d rehearsed it.

"Is it still around?" Royce asked.

"Nah. Post office took it back after three days. Protocol." He finally glanced up. "She missed rent too.” He looked over at the large Bar Harbor Bank wall calendar nailed into the yellowed wall as if for reference. “That’s not like her."

"Did she mention going anywhere?" Connie asked.

Jimmy resumed his folding grabbing another dingy brown towel off the stack. "Nope. She’s the leave-a-note type. Nothing this time. Place is locked up, curtains drawn, but I haven’t had cause to enter."

Connie exchanged a look with Royce. "Would you be willing to do a wellness check? Official-like."

Collins hesitated. "I'd need someone present. Building policy. Liability and all that."

"How about we get the police?" Royce offered.

Collins shot a nervous look, his hands busily refolding the same towel as if formulating an exit plan.

"Let’s not jump there yet," Connie said. "Arnie might have a better idea."

She reached into her fanny pack and handed over a card: “Connie Clark – Search and Find Services,” with phone and email. "If you hear anything, let us know."

"Will do," Jimmy said as they turned to leave. "Oh—one thing” he said as if back on script. “Not sure if it’s important, but she had some odd visitors a couple weeks ago. Two guys in a black Suburban—Mass plates, tinted windows, parked outside her unit for a couple of hours. Suits, dark shades, stone faces. I noticed because they were blocking the dumpster. Probably nothing. Just struck me as odd."

Royce started to follow up, but Connie tugged at his sleeve and he got the message.

"Thanks again," Royce said. "Hopefully Catherine turns up and we don’t have to bother you again."

As they walked away, Connie’s thoughts raced. “Hitmen? Kidnappers? Enforcers?” she muttered. “This is getting serious.” She shuddered as a draft from a slamming door swept through the darkened hallway.

Royce caught up and steadied her. “Whoa. Slow down. Just because he has a pencil thin mustache doesn’t mean he’s sinister. Think Clarke Gable.”

"I trust my senses. We should loop Evelyn in," Connie said. "If anyone knows where Catherine would go, Evelyn will."

Connie pulled out her phone and sent a group text asking them to meet at her place that evening for cocktails and shortbread. In Royce’s case, that meant beer and chips—understood but unspoken. Arnie, who resisted modern tech, carried only a flip phone. He preferred voices and faces, but recognized the value of group texts during an investigation, and his phone accommodated them.

By 7 p.m., they gathered. Digby trotted in and curled up on the blanket Connie always set out for him. Royce arrived with a six-pack. Evelyn came last, delayed by cleanup from the day’s painting workshop in the rec room.

Connie claimed home court control and recapped the day, finishing with the unsettling story of the black Suburban. Arnie perked up, listening intently.

"I remember a traffic stop near Pine Street in the police log last week—out-of-state plates. Might be connected," Arnie inserted, but didn’t expand the thought. He was content to listen, absorb and let others turn the wheel. At least for now.

"Did Jimmy get the plate numbers?" Evelyn asked. "I can ask Gwen at Town Hall to pull a favor with the Mass DMV. Pretty sure she knows someone."

"We didn’t ask," Connie said. "He was giving me the creeps and I wanted to get out of there and talk with you all first."

Royce followed with "we can swing by tomorrow; he seemed harmless to me. I doubt he wrote down the plates, but worth a shot."

"What about a wellness check?" Evelyn suggested. She’d settled into one of Connie’s arm chairs, knitting needles at the ready. "I bet Chief Petersen would do me a favor."

"Feels like we need to act," Connie said. "Can we agree that if we don’t get answers by tomorrow afternoon, we file a missing person report?"

The soft click of Evelyn’s needles was the only sound as the room weighed the next step

With eye contact all around, everyone nodded.

Arnie surveyed the room while Connie passed around the shortbread. Royce made sure the platter started and ended with him. No takers on the Cognac. Royce had one beer to wash down the crumbs and left the rest cooling in Connie’s fridge—unspoken currency for whatever came next.

Chapter 5: “Watching Eyes”

 

Thursday morning - Stonegate

Back in her apartment, Evelyn made one last call to the Pine Street Church. If anyone could put themselves in Catherine’s shoes it was Evelyn. Catherine missing rehearsal was very worrisome and off-key.

She left a message with the choir director, then clicked off her reading lamp.

Outside her second-floor window, an out of place car idled just beyond the glow of a streetlamp. Inside, Evelyn’s lamp clicked off, knitting tucked away and water in the kettle waiting for a new day to begin. But across the hall, Digby lifted his head in Arnie’s room and gave a low, warning growl. Arnie rolled over and wrapped the pillow around his head to ward off the distractions of the world and listen to the sounds of silence.

By 7:45 a.m., the Stonegate cafeteria was already in full swing. Eggs were overcooked, oatmeal scooped without ceremony, and someone in the kitchen was butchering a Barry Manilow playlist. “I Write the Songs” was barely recognizable. In short: a typical Thursday.

Connie had snagged a four-top by the window and was halfway through her bran muffin when Evelyn arrived, cardigan buttoned to the neck, floral thermos in hand.

“Assam this morning,” Evelyn said, steeping her teabag at the hot water station. “I need something brisk to keep up with the pace you’re all setting.”

“Good choice,” said Royce, already seated with his oversized mug of English Breakfast. He tapped a finger to his temple. “It’s going to be a thinking morning. I’ve got to get my brain moving first” then spotting the cheese Danish on Connie’s plate said “can I have that?”

She pushed it over and said “go ahead. I picked up the wrong one, I wanted strawberry.”

The Danish was gone in three bites and all that was left behind was a big smile plastered on Royce’s face. “Brain food!”

Arnie arrived last, Digby trotting beside him, and slid into the seat next to Evelyn. A black coffee and sesame bagel in hand, he nodded silently—his version of “good morning.”

Connie didn’t waste time.

“Catherine hasn’t been seen since Sunday. Her rent’s overdue. Mailbox full. No word, no note. Nothing.” She ticked off the facts on her fingers. “The church and pantry haven’t seen her. Her apartment manager, whom I think is creepy by the way, mentioned an odd visit from two men in a black Suburban—Mass plates, tinted windows.”

Arnie leaned back. “That’s what tipped it for me. I had a contact go missing in East Boston after a visit like that. Guys weren’t the chatty type.”

“Do we think she’s in danger?” Evelyn asked, stirring her tea.

“She’s missing,” Royce said flatly. “And from what you and others have said, this isn’t like her.”

“I checked the police log again,” Arnie said. “Still nothing. But I don’t like the feel of it. Too many loose pieces.”

Royce chimed in “We need to pay a return visit to Jimmy Collins to follow up on the Suburban. Connie you game?”

Connie nodded and gave a wry smile. “Sure, I’ll load up on lip balm. That Old Spice smell got me nauseous.”

Evelyn gave a knowing look. “Nothing worse than the rec room after a Men with Dumbbells session. I keep a can of Febreze by the door just so I can survive the first five steps.”

Connie followed up with “should we contact the police?”

“It’s a myth that you have to wait twenty-four hours.” Royce said. “Part of mailman training was to spot suspicious appearances. Turned over flowerpots, busted in front doors, that kind of thing. No obvious signs here, but I think we should report it.”

“They may not take it seriously,” Evelyn said. “Adults are allowed to disappear. But if we frame it as a wellness check, they can legally enter the apartment. Maybe there’s a pet inside. Something to justify it.”

“And if she just left on her own?” Royce asked.

“Then no harm done,” Arnie said. “But if she didn’t…”

They let the sentence hang.

Evelyn tapped her phone. “I’ll stop by the station. Ask Chief Petersen for a favor. No drama—just that we haven’t been able to reach her.”

“Discreet,” Connie agreed. “We don’t want to spook anyone. Not yet.”

Around them, breakfast sounds clattered on—silverware, trays, and the faint hum of Barry’s next ballad. This time it was “Weekend in New England,” sung with senior-off-key enthusiasm.

Outside the window, long morning shadows stretched across the frost-glazed courtyard.

Somewhere out there, Catherine Primrose was either fine… or she wasn’t.

And if she wasn’t, Arnie knew they were already in deeper than they realized and that eyes were watching.

In a secluded corner of the Stonegate parking lot, a silver Ford Fusion idled between a landscaping van and a Subaru with a faded Bernie sticker.

Inside, a man adjusted the rearview mirror, eyes locked on the cafeteria windows. He knew the group’s routines. He’d seen them gather here more than once—Price, Clark, the mailman, the librarian. Too curious.

He tapped the burner phone screen. Still no response from the handler.

Last time he saw this much nosing around, a laptop got wiped and someone pulled a fire alarm.

Price wasn’t a rookie. And that dog? Always staring right at him.

Digby, half-dozing by the window, suddenly raised his head and stared out again—directly toward the parked car—then settled back down.

“Coincidence,” the man muttered.

He opened a manila folder. On top: a photo of Catherine Primrose, smiling beside a food pantry banner. Clipped underneath, a page labeled:

PHIL BURTON – DOSSIER

Two recent photos. Very little bio. One image captured Phil and Catherine during their meeting at the bookstore.

Nothing dated earlier than three years ago.

Another page, thin but telling, was marked in pen:

Arabella Trust – 2021 Grant Disbursement Logs

He closed the folder and cracked the window—cold air stung his face. The storm was old news. The leak wasn’t. And now, he knew they had a new problem: he needed to connect inside.

Chapter 6: Evelyn Lights a Fire

 

Thursday afternoon – Peterborough Police Station

The Peterborough Police Station had a smell Evelyn always noticed—disinfectant, scorched coffee, and a tired stuffiness that clung to the walls. She knew the place well. Some might say too well. She had rehearsed her lines on the walk over. Not because she doubted herself—but because she knew how easily concern could be dismissed as fuss. Connie had sent along a charm package to use to break down defenses.

"Morning, Miss March," said Officer Langdon from behind the front desk, barely looking up. He wore the expression of a man who had already dealt with too many small problems that morning.

Evelyn was prepared. “How are you this morning, Officer Langdon?” She set a Tupperware of Connie’s fresh-from-the-oven chocolate chip cookies on the counter. The swoosh of the lid filled the air with the warm smell of chocolate, and Langdon’s head snapped up. His hand darted forward for two cookies. Evelyn slid over a napkin. Always prepared.

"Is the Chief in?" she asked, placing her handbag on the counter like it held classified documents. "I have a matter to raise. A wellness check—not just a hunch."

"Still overseas," Langdon replied, trying to sound upbeat. "On that exchange program, remember from your last visit?"

"Of course I remember. Careful, Officer Langdon—that sounded suspiciously like ageism." She waved a hand, mock-scolding.

He scratched his neck, noncommittal. "We’ve got a visiting officer from Peterborough, UK—DCI Richards. He’s helping out, triaging walk-ins, observing how we do things here in small-town America."

"Triage," Evelyn repeated with a sniff. "Sounds clinical. I assure you I’m not in need of ER services."

Langdon considered a retort, then looked down at his cookie and thought better of it. After another bite, he relented. “Mmm, you’ve got a way about you, Ms. March. Let me see if Richards will meet with you. He’s still learning names and faces."

"Oh, he’ll learn mine soon enough."

“No doubt.” Langdon led her to a cramped interview room—more coat closet than office. No windows, just two mismatched chairs wedged beside a tiny desk under a humming ceiling light that cast a sickly yellow glow. A tall, lean man in his thirties stood as they entered. His brown suit was rumpled, hair tousled, and his Britishness worn like a badge he hadn’t asked for.

Evelyn tipped the Tupperware his way. “Cookie?”

Langdon rattled off the introductions, grabbed one more for himself, then sauntered back to his desk.

"Miss March," said the newcomer with a polite nod. "It’s a pleasure. How can I be of service?"

"No need for titles. Just Evelyn will do," she said. "You have a first name?"

He studied her, weighing friend or foe. “Alastair. Alastair Richards.”

“You’re not in charge, I’m told? Pinch-hitting?”

He gave her a puzzled look.

“Substitute? Stand-in?”

“Ah. Hardly. I’m here to observe. Ask questions. Get acquainted with American investigative techniques. My first case is cracking the mystery of the station coffee machine and the missing tea."

She allowed a tight smile, reached into her purse, and pulled out three wrapped packets of ginger-turmeric tea. “You’ll need to head over to Shadow and Soul Emporium in Keene if you want anything decent around here.”

He gestured for her to sit. "Thanks for the advice. What brings you in?"

"I’m concerned about a resident—Catherine Primrose. No one’s seen her in a week. Her rent’s unpaid, mailbox overflowing, and she missed an appointment she never would have skipped."

He jotted in a small notebook, neat looping script. "And what is your relationship to…?"

"An acquaintance. Fellow volunteer. Long-time observer of patterns. And this, Inspector, is a break in one."

"I see." He tapped his pen. "Would you like to file a missing person’s report?"

"Not yet. I’d like a wellness check. Quietly. No lights, no sirens. Just someone confirming she’s alright. Time is of the essence."

"I’ll pass it along. A uniformed officer can stop by within the hour."

"Good. Here’s her address. One more thing." She leaned in. "Ask them to look for signs of a pet. She may have had a cat."

"I’ll note it." He looked up. "May I ask—why the urgency?"

"She’s elderly. Lives alone. No close family. Takes medications. Could be lying on the floor right now, unable to call for help. You don’t want that headline, Inspector. Not in a town like this." She tapped a manicured finger against the desk, each click sharp in the cramped room.

Evelyn stood, buttoned her coat with crisp authority, and offered one more cookie. "Thank you, Inspector. I hope this is nothing. But nothing has a way of turning into something."

"Indeed," he said, rising with her and raising the cookie in a small salute. "And if it is something?"

She offered a thin smile. "Then I imagine we’ll be seeing more of each other."

After she left, Richards returned to his notes. Reported by: Evelyn March. Missing: Catherine Primrose – Pine Street Apartments. Tea: Keene – Shadow and Soul. Something in her certainty lingered, as if she had already ruled out the possibility of nothing. He walked down the hall to make the wellness check request.

Back at his desk, he checked the wall clock—3:30 p.m. If he called now, he could reach her before bedtime.

He sat on the edge of his desk, pulled out his phone, and tapped Willow’s name in his contacts. Within seconds, the FaceTime screen filled with his nine-year-old daughter, cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by an army of plush owls lined up like jury members.

"Hey, kiddo—how are you?"

"Hi, Dad! I’m good. Are you chasing bad guys?"

"Chasing them with pen and paper. It’s boring, like you said. They’ve got me doing what nobody else wants. How about you—what’s new?"

"Boring stuff too. School. Yuck. You’re still taking me to Matilda the Musical at Christmas, right? It feels like forever away."

"Of course. How are your mom and Mr. McTavish?"

"Mom’s busy. Aunt Hattie’s here, making me eat disgusting things. Mr. McTavish is kinda sad.

I think he misses you as much as I do."

Langdon poked his head in. "You’ve got a walk-in. Stolen iPad."

Richards signaled to send them in. "Gotta go. More pencils to push. Hang in there. Love you, Willow. Sweet dreams."

"Night, Dad!"

Her face vanished, replaced by an acne-faced teenager already mid-rant about his missing device.

Chapter 7: The Listener Returns

Friday – Peterborough Library

Friday morning at the Peterborough Library was brisk but calm. Arnie Price, wrapped in his waxed jacket and accompanied by Digby, pushed through the front doors at precisely 9:58 a.m. He nodded to Margie, the front desk clerk, who smiled warmly and pointed toward the Listening Table—already arranged in its usual spot by the front window.

He appreciated the consistency: the table, the chair, the sign, the yellow legal pad. All waiting.

“Morning, Mr. Price,” Margie called.

“Thank you, Margie,” he replied, flipping the clipboard as he moved toward his table.

“Oh—almost forgot. Someone left this at the desk with your name on it.” She held up a copy of Good Dirt. “Do you want me to check it out for you?”

Arnie took the book, scanning the cover, the spine, then the inside flap. “Was there a note?”

“No, just your name on a label.”

He nodded, slipping it beside his folio. “I’ll keep it with me for now.”

And with that he began his setup process. Looking through the schedule sheet he saw a couple of familiar names. First slot wasn’t until 11 a.m.—he had some time, Good Dirt could wait. He unzipped a leather folio and pulled out his notes from previous sessions, sorted by date.

They were cryptic, even to him. A holdover from his days as an investigative reporter: arrows, abbreviations, shorthand. To anyone else, it was chicken scratch. To Arnie, it told stories.

He scanned a few pages. A possible repeat mention of Catherine Primrose. Two patrons had referenced “the lady who used to help at the hospital” and “that soft-spoken volunteer from the blood drives.” Innocent enough—but the timing nagged at him.

He flipped the hourglass and leaned back. Still quiet. Just the way he liked it.

At 11:02, Calvin Reed arrived, hair wild as ever, always on the verge of explaining the universe.

"They’re snapping up properties," Calvin said without preamble. "Out-of-towners. LLC names that go nowhere. My buddy tried to trace one—dead end."

"Why buy in the shadows?" Arnie asked, jotting notes.

"Exactly. This town’s got more ghosts than streetlights."

They wrapped at 11:25. Arnie made a few quick marks and underlined something twice. His next appointment arrived early: Mildred Dobson, petite and precise, with opinions about literature and a need to share them.

She’d missed the most recent book club meeting. "Good Dirt," she said, placing the paperback on the table. "Powerful stuff. About how the past shapes the future."

Arnie nodded, jotting: Past vs. Present. Trauma. Actions.

"Who’s in your group?" he asked casually.

"Pine Street Book Club. Meet here Mondays. Catherine Primrose picked the last book."

That clicked. "Why do you ask about Catherine?" she added.

“Questions only go one way here,” Arnie said, tapping the Listening Rules with his pencil.

“Tell me more about the book. Why do you think she picked it?”

Mildred tented her fingers, thumbs pressed beneath her chin, elbows rooted like granite on the table. She leaned in, her voice low and deliberate, as though she were passing along state secrets.

“She was very excited about it when she told us,” Mildred said. “Something about families, trauma, and healing. That it opened her eyes to her own life.”

Arnie made a small note. Catherine, book connection to her life? He let the silence linger. Mildred adjusted her scarf, eyes blinking as if clearing out an emotion before steadying and returning back to him.

Then, with a sudden change in tone, she straightened and softened, her voice taking on the forced warmth of a concerned friend. “We’re all so worried about her. She didn’t show for the discussion. So unlike her.”

The shift was sharp enough that Digby’s head shot up, alert as a sensor tripped. Arnie kept his gaze steady, his fingers whitening on the pencil. Mildred’s eyes held his a beat too long—measuring, deciding whether to finesse or play the card straight.

Arnie jotted on the notepad in his shorthand, boldly underlined: MD - Performance or Misdirection?.

Just then, a shadow moved past the front window. Arnie turned, catching a glimpse of a large black vehicle disappearing north. Tinted windows. Couldn’t make out the plate.

He stood abruptly.

"I do apologize, Mildred," he said gently. "But I’ll have to cut this session short."

She blinked. "Oh dear. I hope everything’s alright?"

"Just an old instinct tugging at my sleeve."

Digby was already alert.

At the front desk, Arnie leaned toward Margie. "Would you mind packing up the table for me today? Something’s come up."

She gave him a knowing smile. "Of course, Mr. Price. Give Digby a scratch from me."

"Will do," he said, already moving for the door.

Digby trotted after him, tail high, ears twitching, ready for action.

Chapter 8: Tea with Evelyn

 

Friday – Stonegate: Evelyn March’s Apartment

By 4 p.m. Friday, the breeze had picked up and the light had turned golden with sunset fast approaching. Arnie stood outside Evelyn March’s door, Digby by his side, tail sweeping the porch in slow, expectant arcs.

Evelyn answered with a dish towel slung over one shoulder and reading glasses perched halfway down her nose.

"Unexpected," she said. "That usually means interesting."

"Or troubling," Arnie replied. "Could be both." He held up a manilla folder as if a ticket needed for entry.

She stepped aside. "Better come in. Your timing is excellent, scones fresh out of the oven"

The sharp scent of lemon filled the room from the scones cooling on a wire rack. Digby paused by the table to satisfy his sensory curiosity and then headed over to the braided rug where a traveling chew toy beckoned.  Arnie eased into his usual armchair and set down the folder in preparation for sharing.

Evelyn poured tea without asking, placed a plate of scones on the coffee table, and sat opposite him with a legal pad in hand. “What has you on edge?”

"I saw the black Suburban again," Arnie said. "Outside the library. Couldn’t catch the plates."

She didn’t flinch. "Same one Connie saw outside Catherine’s?"

He nodded. "Checked with her. Likely a match. And two Listening Table visitors mentioned Catherine. Volunteer work, blood drives, book club. Here’s the kicker—she picked the latest read for the Pine Street Book Club. Not only that, but a copy of the book was waiting for me at the front desk"

“What was the book?” she asked, blowing across the top of her tea cup to cool it down.

“Good Dirt. I asked who set it aside for me.” Arnie replied.

“They’ll never tell you. That’s protected information. A librarian worth their salt will never reveal that.” Evelyn shot back.

“Here’s what I have so far.” He opened the folder, flipping through assorted notes, sketches, and clippings. Pulling out his most recent page, he added, “Listening session notes are proving informative. Mildred stopped by for twenty-minutes today. She confirmed that Catherine headed up the book club group and made the Good Dirt selection, but didn’t show. Are you familiar with the book club?”

Evelyn perked up. "I keep tabs on local groups." She pulled a small spiral notebook from a nearby shelf, perched the readers on her nose, searched through until she found the entry she was looking for. "Pine Street Book Club. Catherine Primrose, organizer. Last fall they co-hosted a fundraiser with the Arabella Trust."

Arnie pulled out his pencil and jotted down the Arabella information. “What else do you have about the book club, and the event?”

Evelyn glanced back down and then thought a moment. "I know a couple of other book club members. Gretchen — always joined at the hip with Mildred. And Phil Burton, yes. Quiet sort, but I’ve noticed he and Catherine had grown close."

"Great. Can you reach out to Gretchen and Phil? See if they know what was on Catherine’s mind recently. Any travel plans, unusual behavior."

"Happy to," Evelyn said, jotting notes into her pad.

"Thanks. I need to dig deeper into past session notes, but the Arabella Trust name is something that tugs at me. Something I’ve heard before. If her club partnered with them, it could be a link."

Evelyn tapped her pen. "If the Trust is compromised, and Catherine stumbled onto something..."

"Let’s not jump ahead," Arnie said. "But yes. It’s worth following."

Before he could finish, Evelyn’s phone buzzed. She checked the screen and frowned.

Unknown number: ‘Seems it’s not nothing. -R’

She turned the screen toward Arnie.

"DCI Richards?"

Evelyn nodded. "British for 'You were right to worry.'"

Arnie leaned back, watching her smile. The air had shifted—from quiet concern to careful resolve.

"Text him this: 'Fancy a pint at Post & Beam? 7 p.m. to share info.'"

"I doubt he knows our customs."

"He’ll learn. That’s what he's here for."

A beat passed. Then her phone buzzed again.

Thumbs-up emoji.

Evelyn smiled. "Time for senior night at the Post & Beam. BYO Scones … and sharper questions.

Arnie gathered the papers back into the folder, pausing at the top page with Performance or Misdirection underlined. He closed the cover. “Yes—questions we need answers to. And I’m worried time is not on Catherine’s side right now."

Chapter 9: Grave Concerns

Friday – Historical Society / Pine Hill Cemetery

While Arnie was decoding breadcrumbs with Evelyn, Connie sat at her desk in the historical society’s back office, squinting at her inbox. A new genealogy inquiry had come through—no subject line, just a vague message:

"Trying to find out more about a possible relative. Found this headstone in a family album with reference to Peterborough, but it’s hard to make out. Any info greatly appreciated."

The sender’s email address gave her pause: nora_mizzaralo@email.com. Odd name.

Attached was a single, grainy photo: a moss-covered gravestone reading "Edmund Primrose – Beloved Brother." No dates. No epitaph. Just the name, and a sense of old New England.

"Primrose again," Connie murmured, tapping her chin. First Catherine, now Edmund?

She quickly ran a search in the historical society’s digital archives. The database wheezed, but Connie was quicker. Within moments, a faded 1970 newspaper clipping blinked onto her screen. Edmund Primrose, a prominent local businessman, had died under "unexplained circumstances." His considerable estate had been funneled into a newly established entity: the Granite Hill Trust.

The name sent a chill through her. Granite Hill. It sounded familiar—like a precursor.

She grabbed her phone.

"Royce speaking."

"It’s Connie. You busy?"

"I’m staring at a laundry basket and Wheel of Fortune just started. What’s up?"

"Need your eyes on a grave. Edmund Primrose. Died 1970. His estate went to something called the Granite Hill Trust. Ring a bell?"

There was a pause. Then dryly: "You know cemeteries aren’t part of my route, right? No one forwards mail from the afterlife."

"You used to eat lunch at Pine Hill Cemetery. Said it was peaceful."

"That I did," Royce admitted. "You get to know the residents in a... permanent sort of way. Pine Hill’s the biggest, where most of the old families are buried. Granite Hill Trust, huh? Old money. Old trouble."

Connie sent the photo. "Recognize the spot? Think we can find it?"

A second passed. "I just might. That looks like the northwest section. Up by the old maple. Older part. If it’s the one I’m thinking of, there’s more there than just Edmund."

"Can you go check?"

"Sure. Let me fold this laundry first or I’ll be living out of the basket all weekend."

By late afternoon, Royce parked just outside the gates of Pine Hill Cemetery. The clouds were low and heavy, pressing the light into a silver dullness. A cool wind threaded through the trees, rattling the last of the brown leaves clinging to their branches. Pine needles crunched underfoot as he made his way up the hill, passing stone after stone etched with names he knew from town road signs and street names.

The northwest corner of the cemetery had always felt different—older, quieter. The stones leaned slightly, as if wearied by time, their inscriptions softened by decades of moss and lichen. The old sugar maple stood like a sentinel, its bare limbs clawing at the overcast sky.

Royce spotted the headstone almost immediately. The photo hadn’t done it justice. "Edmund Primrose – Beloved Brother" was carved deep into the granite, the lettering stark against the weathered gray. Beside it, a newer headstone stood upright and pristine, with fresh-cut grass around its base.

"Arabella," he read aloud. "Born September 7, 1954." No death date. Just a dash. Royce frowned. Stones told stories. This one felt like a sentence half-written.

A gust of wind swept through the cemetery, and Royce shivered despite his jacket. The place felt charged now—not haunted, exactly, but watching.

He took a few photos with his phone, then typed a message to Connie.

Royce: "Found it—photo on its way. And Connie... you were right. There's more to that plot. Something about the arrangement—it’s deliberate."

Connie read the message just as she was shutting down her office computer. The images came through seconds later: Edmund’s stone weathered and subdued, Arabella’s stark and unfinished.

She stared at the screen. The dash wasn’t just an absence. It was a placeholder.

Primrose. Arabella. A name tied to a trust. And now this gravestone.

She leaned back, breath shallow. This wasn’t just another clue. It was a knot.

And Nora Mizzaralo? She wouldn’t be replying to that email.

Not yet.

This one needed the team.

Chapter 10: Stirring the Pot

Friday Evening – Stonegate Cafeteria

The cafeteria at Stonegate at Shattuck Hall was unusually quiet for a Friday evening. A late-afternoon drizzle had tamped down the usual shuffle of walkers and conversation, and the buffet was already half-cleared by the time Arnie, Evelyn, Connie, and Royce claimed a corner table.

Digby curled beneath Arnie’s chair with a sigh that suggested he, too, was weary from a day of tangled leads.

Royce plopped his tray down. “Nothing like limp broccoli to inspire sharp thinking.”

Evelyn arched a brow. “You weren’t required to take the vegetables.”

“I live dangerously,” Royce replied, stabbing one with mock bravery.

Arnie cut through the banter. “We’ve got threads. But nothing knits them together yet—Catherine, the Arabella Trust, the Suburban, those gravestones Connie found.”

Royce leaned in. “Especially the Arabella stone with no death date. We may have someone else to track down. Not a forwarding address, but maybe a clue someone still needs to be found.”

“And don’t forget Granite Hill Trust,” Evelyn added, methodically flipping her knitting—neat rows for tangled thoughts.

Arnie nodded. “Any of it could mean something. Or nothing. We need to stay focused on finding Catherine.”

“Amen to that,” said Royce. “So where do we go from here?”

“Let’s prioritize. Evelyn, you’re meeting with Gretchen and Phil tomorrow at breakfast?”

“All set. I’ll follow up with Mildred too, just in case she remembered anything else.”

“Good. Connie?”

Connie pulled out a slim folder. “The gravestone’s real. Edmund Primrose died in 1970, and the Granite Hill Trust was created right after. I found his name in an old tax ledger too. Still nothing solid on Arabella—aside from that marker. No obituary, no record. The dash on her stone feels... intentional.”

“Catherine never married, right?” Royce asked. “So Edmund might’ve been her brother. Same last name.”

“Exactly. I’ll keep digging.”

“Red herring or slow-cooked clue?” Royce asked. “Either way, pass the salt. This broccoli needs help.”

Arnie chuckled. “It might just be keeping us looking. That could be the point.”

Evelyn jotted something in her notebook. “And Catherine helped organize that Pine Street Book Club fundraiser for the Arabella Trust. That ties her directly to the group’s financial orbit.”

“I’ll dig into Granite Hill Trust’s filings tomorrow,” Connie said.

Royce frowned. “What bothers me is that no one’s raised the alarm. No police report. No concerned neighbor. She just... disappeared.”

Arnie's face darkened. “That silence is what makes this feel wrong.” He didn’t say it loud, but the quiet around him seemed to agree.

Connie leaned forward. “Maybe Richards can help. We could ask him to check Catherine’s recent bank activity. Credit cards. Withdrawals. There are only a couple banks in town.”

“I like it,” Royce said. “If only we had CCTV. That’s always their move in British shows. We should make a crime board—really draw him in.”

Arnie stared off, lost in thought. Evelyn was humming along to Tony Bennett’s "I Left My Heart in San Francisco," and Digby was already asleep again.

“Focus, people!” Connie clapped once. “There’s a lot in play.”

She continued, “One more thing: the Arabella Trust’s website is suspicious. Dead links. Events that haven’t updated in over a year. Looks like a ghost ship.”

Evelyn nodded. “We’ll ask Richards tonight. See what he can dig up on shell charities and financial trails.”

Royce checked his watch. “Speaking of which, we should head out. I stand by the crime board idea. Helps us keep track.”

“I have an old pegboard we can use,” Evelyn offered. “Shattuck Hall basement. Quiet. Private.”

“9 a.m. tomorrow then,” Arnie confirmed. “Let’s pull it together.”

“I’m in,” said Connie. “But do we have to meet in the basement? I need Vitamin D.”

Royce stood. “I didn’t finish my broccoli, but a pint of lager might balance things out.”

They gathered their coats and trays. Digby stretched, then followed as they stepped into the misty twilight. Rain pattered steadily on the walkways, umbrellas bobbing in rhythm.

As they passed the alley behind the drugstore, Digby paused, ears up, nose twitching.

“Come on, boy,” Arnie said softly.

Behind a dumpster, a figure stood still. Face shadowed beneath a rain hood. Binoculars glinted briefly.

The figure didn’t move. Didn’t follow.

Just watched.

And made a silent note.