Saturday Night Cleaver (A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery #4) Read Online Free PDF Page B

Callie didn’t join us for story time anymore, and while I understood, it still made me a little sad. The times, they were a changin’.
    It was almost ten o’clock on a Friday night by the time I found Howard propped up against the headboard of our bed, clicking away at his laptop. Boy, weren’t we the party animals?
    Falling into place beside him, I fluffed a pillow and released a hefty, life-is-crummy sigh, fully expecting Howard to respond the way a good, caring, and attentive husband should: with sympathy. A simple, “What’s wrong, honey? Are you sad?” or “It’s okay, your friends are scum, but I still love you. Let me show you the ways ...” would do. I don’t ask for much. Usually.
    He continued to click away on the keyboard, eyes focused on the bright video screen.
    “Hmm...” he finally murmured.
    It was the hope of conversation. I jumped on it. “I know. It’s been a terrible day.”
    “I thought I’d heard of this,” he said, still glued to the screen. “Supposedly an urban myth, but there’s some truth behind it.”
    “Friends breaking promises? No myth. I live the sad reality,” I said, knowing full well that we were on two entirely different topics. I wasn’t even sure Howard knew I was sitting next to him. He might have been talking to himself.
    “White landscaping rocks and suburban swinger clubs.”
    Suddenly, my woe-is-me discourse seemed a lot less interesting. “Suburban what-er whats?” I heard him just fine, I just wanted to hear those words again all in a row. They were so juicy and thrill-provoking.
    “Suburban swinger clubs. White landscaping rocks are supposedly their signature—tells other swingers they’re in the neighborhood.”
    “You mean, like wife swapping? Didn’t that go out with disco and dangerously flammable polyester shirts?”
    He shook his head and finally smiled at me. Oh, those deep brown eyes. I get lost in them. Some fires were beginning to ignite and I’m not talking about chimneys or Mount Doom. Yes, I was feeling some Howie lust.
    “I remember some talk about this at work after a Texas agent worked on a case down there,” he said, completely and utterly without romance. “Some pro-family and morality-concerned groups want the FBI to get involved and shut them down as prostitution rings, but it really doesn’t apply and it’s not our-” he stopped himself, then corrected, “not their jurisdiction.”
    I wanted to cry at the sadness in his voice. Without the FBI he didn’t have a job and he felt he didn’t have a purpose. A place to go and a place to be needed every day. I wanted to shout at him, pound his thick skull and remind him that his job and purpose was to be a father, husband, and son. We needed him and he was exactly where he needed to be. But the moment didn’t call for another lecture. We’d had that discussion too many times before. Instead, I concentrated on where this research all began. “So, you think there are swingers’ clubs in Rustic Woods, Colt is investigating them, and he thinks our neighbors are involved? Yikes.”
    “I didn’t say that.”
    Outside, a leaf blower revved into action.
    “Speaking of neighbors,” I said, getting up to look out the window, why I don’t know since it was pitch black and street lights were banned in Rustic Woods. “That’s the second night I’ve heard that noise. I think it’s coming from the Penobscotts’ backyard. Why would they blow leaves around in the middle of the night?”
    Howard cocked an ear and listened for a minute. “I don’t think that’s a leaf blower.”
    “Lawn mower?”
    He shook his head. “No way. Chain saw maybe.”
    I looked at the digital display on our bedside alarm clock and plopped back into bed. Ten after ten. “Who saws something this late?”
    “Do they both work? Maybe this is the only time for him to get stuff done around the house. Fixing his deck maybe?”
    This comment burned the feminist in me. “What? You’re so sure it’s him