The Alibi

The band had called it a night. Music was now being provided by a DJ who had been playing a variety ranging from Creedence Clearwater to Streisand. Because it was growing late and the mood of the dancers had turned more mellow, he was playing slower songs.

Hammond recognized the tune, but couldn’t name the singer or the song currently coming from the pavilion. It didn’t matter. The ballad was slow and sweet and romantic. At first he tried to get his feet to execute the sequence of steps that he had learned as a youth reluctantly attending cotillions his mother roped him into. But the longer he held her, the more impossible it became to concentrate on anything except her.

One song segued into another, but they never missed a beat, despite her agreeing to only one dance. In fact, neither noticed when the music changed. Their eyes and minds were locked on each other.

He brought their clasped hands up to his chest and pressed hers palm down, then covered it with his. She tipped her head forward and down until her forehead was resting on his collarbone. He rubbed his cheek against her hair. He felt rather than actually heard the small sound of want that vibrated in her throat. His own desire echoed it.

Their feet shuffled to a decreasing tempo until eventually they stopped moving altogether. They were still except for the strands of her hair that the breeze brushed against his face. The heat emanating from every point of contact seemed to forge them together. Hammond dipped his head for the kiss that he believed was inevitable.

“I must go.” She broke away and turned abruptly toward the bench where she’d left her handbag and cardigan.

For several seconds he was too stunned to react. After taking up her things, she made to move past him with a rushed, “Thanks for everything. It was lovely. Truly.”

“Wait a minute.”

She eluded his touch and quickly went up the steps, tripping once in her haste. “I have to go.”

“Why now?”

“I can’t… can’t do this.”

She tossed the words over her shoulder as she hurriedly made her way toward the parking area. She followed the string of pennants, avoiding the midway, the pavilion, and the waning activity in the booths. Some of the attractions already had closed. Exhibitioners were tearing down their booths and packing up their arts and crafts. Families loaded down with souvenirs and prizes trudged toward their vans. The noises weren’t so joyful or so loud as earlier. The music in the pavilion now sounded more forlorn than romantic.

Hammond stayed even with her. “I don’t understand.”

“What’s not to understand? I’ve told you I must go. That’s all there is to it.”

“I don’t believe that.” Desperate to detain her, he reached for her arm. She stopped, took several deep breaths, and turned to face him, although she didn’t look at him directly.

“I had a lovely time.” She spoke in a flat voice with little inflection, as though these were lines she had memorized. “But now the evening is over and I have to leave.”

“But—”

“I don’t owe you an explanation. I don’t owe you anything.” Her eyes made brief contact with his before skittering away again. “Now please, don’t try and stop me again.”

Hammond released her arm and stepped back, raising his hands as though in surrender.

“Goodbye,” was all she said before turning away from him and picking her way over the rough ground toward the designated parking area.

* * *

Stefanie Mundell tossed Smilow the keys to her Acura. “You drive while I change.” They had left the hotel by the East Bay Street entrance and were moving briskly down the sidewalk, which was congested not only with the usual Saturday night crowd, but with curiosity-seekers drawn to the new complex by the emergency vehicles parked along the street.

They moved through the curious onlookers without drawing notice because neither’s appearance denoted “public official.” Smilow’s suit was still unwrinkled, his French cuffs unsoiled. Despite the hullabaloo surrounding Pettijohn’s murder, he hadn’t broken a sweat.

No one would suspect Steffi of being an assistant county solicitor, either. She was dressed in running shorts and sports bra, both still damp with perspiration that even the hotel’s air-conditioning system couldn’t dry. Her stiff nipples, along with her lean and muscled legs, attracted several male passersby, but she wasn’t even aware of their appreciative glances as she motioned Smilow toward her car, which was illegally parked in a tow-away zone.

He depressed the keyless entry button but didn’t go around to open the passenger door for her. She would have rebuffed the gesture if he had. She climbed into the back seat. Smilow got behind the wheel. As he started the car and waited to pull into traffic, Steffi asked, “Was that the truth? What you told those cops as we came out?”

“Which part?”

“Ah, so some of it was bullshit?”

“Not the part about us having no apparent motive, no weapon, and no suspect at this time.” He had told them to keep their mouths shut when reporters started showing up asking questions. Already he had called a press conference for eleven o’clock. By scheduling it at that time, he ensured the local stations going live with it during their late newscasts and consequently maximizing his TV exposure.

Impatient with the endless line of cars crawling down the thoroughfare, he poked Steffi’s car into the narrow lane and earned a loud horn blast from an oncoming vehicle.

Showing the same level of impatience that Smilow exhibited with his driving, Steffi whipped the sports bra over her head. “Okay, Smilow, no one can overhear you now. Talk. This is me.”