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father’s complaining, making her reply with the remote control by turning up the volume. The station was local, the field reporters fresh out of junior college, the news anchor a failed Betty Ford Clinic alum. The lead story was the body in the park.
    The reporter’s glasses were crooked, and his sport coat was too big for him, as if he had borrowed it from a larger relative. He stood near the Oakwoods Park sign, squinting against the glare of ill-positioned lights. Without a doubt, this would be the biggest story to date for a kid who usually covered town council and school board meetings.
    “The corpse of a dead woman was discovered this afternoon by children playing in Oakwoods Park.”
    Anne’s father, a retired English professor, cried out as if he had been wounded.
    “Moron!” he shouted. “Could they have found the corpse of a living woman? Idiot!”
    “Be quiet!” Anne snapped. “A murder trumps bad grammar.”
    “No one said anything about a murder.”
    “It was a murder.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I just know.” She hit the volume button again.
    “The victim has not been identified. The cause of death is not known yet.”
    “Not yet known
.
”
    “I’m going to kill you,” Anne said.
    “Fine,” her father said. “Then this jackass can report that my dead corpse has been found killed.”
    “We should all be so lucky that he have the opportunity,” Anne muttered under her breath. She hit the volume button again as Sheriff Cal Dixon stepped up to speak with the reporter.
    Dixon stated the basic facts. The victim was a woman who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. No identification had been found with or near the body. He could not pinpoint how long she had been dead. An autopsy would be performed, and he would have more to say as to the cause of death when the results came back.
    Yes, it appeared she had been murdered.
    The sheriff stepped away to confer with Frank Farman and a handsome Hispanic man dressed in slacks and sport coat. A detective, Anne assumed.
    The news coverage broke for a commercial and an ad for mattresses came on, the salesman screaming at the top of his lungs. If the telephone hadn’t been on the end table directly beside her, Anne would never have heard it ringing. She picked up the receiver and cringed as a woman’s voice shouted out of it.
    “Your television is too loud! People are trying to sleep!”
    Anne hit the mute button. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Iver. My father is so hard of hearing, you know.”
    Her father glared at her even as he called across the room from his recliner. “Sorry, Judith! We were watching the news of that murder. You should keep your windows closed and locked. Would you like me to come over and check around your property for you?”
    He would no more have gone out in the night dragging his oxygen tank along to see to the safety of Judith Iver than he would have flown to the moon. Anne held the receiver out away from her.
    “Thank you, Dick! You’re so good to me!” Judith Iver shouted. “But I’ve got my nephew staying with me.”
    “All right,” her father called out. “Good night, Judith!
    “Her nephew,” he said with disgust as Anne hung up the phone. “That rotten hoodlum. He’ll slit her throat one night while she’s dreaming about him amounting to something, the stupid cow.”
    The yin and yang of Dick Navarre: charming, handsome old gentleman on the outside; nasty old bastard on the inside. Professor Navarre and Mr. Hyde. And if Anne had described him that way to his casual acquaintances, they would have thought she was mentally disturbed.
    She handed the remote to him as she got up.
    “I’m going to bed,” she said as she closed the living room window against the night chill and Mrs. Iver. “Did you take your pills?”
    He didn’t look at her. “I took them earlier.”
    “Oh, really? Even the ones that say ‘take at bedtime’?”
    “The human body doesn’t know what time it