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maybe. Carson and I went to watch the local b-ball team, the Fortuna Flying Fish, do abysmally on the gym floor and then ate pie. Or doughnuts. Details get fuzzy sometimes.
    When Carson offers, “Do you think maybe she just wandered off?” I realize there’s been dead space between us while I relived the glorious and not-so-glorious moments when we were Clark Kent and Lois Lane. I mean, except he didn’t skinny down to a cape and tights, and I most certainly have better journalist instincts than Lois ever possessed.
    Since I’m sure he means Miz Waddy and not Miss Priss, who is licking her paws after polishing off my dinner, I hasten to explain. “Dwaine thinks she’s been kidnapped.”
    Another long pause ensues, this time on Carson’s end. Finally he says, “Do you think there’s really someone who thinks this town would pay to get her back?”
    Now I really want to know what occurred between my beloved and the latest in the line of Peytona shopkeepers to piss off both Miss Priss and Miz Waddy. But I feel that it may be prudent to apprise him of the other goings-on here in beautiful downtown Fortuna.
    “Maybe,” I say. “But the main reason Luther thinks you need to come is not only because of the probable crossing state lines thing, but because Florine Forrester has gone off the deep end.”
    “And Florine Forrester is…?”
    “Eugene’s mom.”
    “Oh.”
    Carson’s “Oh” is not an “I see” but more of a “maybe I should just go along with this.” I’d attempt to fill him in on Eugene, Florine, and Annalee but I don’t think my cell phone’s battery will last long enough. So I change the subject, coo a little, and hang up the phone happy to know that my honey will be here in Fortuna by ten, tomorrow morning.
    And maybe, if I let her out for a little fresh air at the crack of dawn, Miss Priss might wander away before he arrives and I have to explain why, once again, it looks like we’ll be including a critter in our investigating team.

Chapter Two
     
     
    I don’t even attempt to tell the boss why I’m leaving right after the AM news broadcast. The beauty of modern radio is that recordings can replace a warm body in the DJ chair, so I taped the noon and afternoon segments before I went on air at eight a.m. After the farm report and the three obituaries provided to the station by air time, I managed to finish that one live session without mentioning the incident at the church or the disappearance of Miz Waddy. The official explanation for the closed sign on her building, the chief informed me at 6:42 this morning, is that she was called out of town on a family emergency.
    That’s his story and I’m sticking to it. I manage to get along pretty well with Dwaine, but that doesn’t mean he won’t slap an arrest warrant on me if he gets ticked off. He has this quaint notion that there are moments when an active investigation is none of my business, a notion I have yet to disabuse him of.
    The reason for my rush down the well-worn steps is that Carson texted to let me know he was running ahead of schedule. And since it’s been over two weeks since his lips last touched mine, I don’t intend to waste hello again time sifting through news releases on the farm club’s upcoming potluck and the date for a planning meeting on the Thanksgiving parade.
    The aroma of coffee fills my little house by the time Carson’s car stops in my driveway. He proves the extent of his affection toward me by showing up with a box of my favorite glazed doughnuts. The big box, which means he picked up a full dozen. It barely gets to the kitchen before I’m in his arms, greeting him with enough ardor that if we’d been in a public place somebody would have already yelled, “Get a room!”
    “Missed you,” Carson whispers when that magnificent kiss finally ends.
    “I know,” I whisper back because I can feel how much he missed me pressing against my leg. I would like nothing more than to lead him to my bedroom