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window.
    â€œThere are reporters already gathering,” Tolliver said, aftera minute. “It’s only a matter of time before they come up to the room and knock on the door.”
    I should have thought of that already. “This will generate a lot of publicity,” I said, and the ambivalence was clear in Tolliver’s face, as I’m sure it was in mine.
    â€œYou think we need to call Art?” Art Barfield was our attorney, and his firm was based in Atlanta.
    â€œThat might be a good idea,” I said. “Would you talk to him?”
    â€œSure.” Tolliver pulled out his cell phone and dialed, while I went to the sink to wash my face. After I turned off the water, I could hear him talking. I was combing my hair in the mirror—my hair was almost as dark as Tolliver’s—when he hung up.
    â€œHis secretary says he’s with a client, but he’ll call soonest possible. Of course, he’ll charge an arm and a leg if we ask him to come. That is, if he can get away.”
    â€œHe’ll come, or he’ll recommend someone local. We’ve only asked him once before, and we’re his most…lurid clients,” I said practically. “If he doesn’t come, we’ll be swamped.”
    Art called us back about an hour later. From Tolliver’s end of the conversation, you could tell Art was not too excited about the prospect of leaving home—Art was not young, and he liked his home comforts—but when Tolliver told Art about the reporters gathered at the police station, the lawyer allowed himself to be persuaded to get on a plane right away.
    â€œCorinne’ll call you with my plane information,” Artsaid to Tolliver, but I could hear him clearly. Art has one of those carrying voices, which is really useful if you’re a trial lawyer.
    Art likes publicity almost as much as he loves his remote control and his wife’s cooking. He’s had a taste of it since he became our lawyer, and his practice has increased exponentially. His secretary, the middle-aged Corinne, called us within minutes to give us Art’s flight number and his ETA.
    â€œI don’t think we’d better meet Art at the airport,” I told Corinne. I watched another news van enter the parking lot. “I think we’re going to have to go to a hotel, one with more security than this.”
    â€œYou’d better make the change now, and I’ll book Mr. Barfield a room at the same place,” Corinne said practically. “I’ll call him on his cell when he lands. In fact, I’ll make a phone call or two, find the right place, and book the reservation for all of you. One room or two, for you and Mr. Lang?”
    The hotel was sure to be very expensive. Normally I’d be inclined to share one room with Tolliver, as we were doing now. But if the newspapers were checking, better to err on the side of the Goddess of Rightness.
    â€œTwo,” I said. “Adjacent. Or if we can get a suite, that would be good.”
    â€œI’ll do some quick research, and then I’ll confirm with you,” the efficient Corinne said.
    She called back to tell us we were booked into the Cleveland. It was, as I’d feared, way too expensive for my taste, but I’d pay the money to ensure the privacy. I didn’t like beingon television. Publicity was good for business, but only the right kind of publicity.
    We left our motel, as disguised as we could be without looking ludicrous. Before strolling out one of the side doors and making a beeline to our car, we had bundled to the teeth. Because we looked so humble, Tolliver lugging the ice chest and me carrying our overnight bags, we managed to escape the attention of the news crew until we were pulling out of the parking lot. The newswoman, whose lips were so shiny they looked polyurethaned, made a flying leap to land right beside the driver’s window. Tolliver couldn’t see to turn left into