A/N: Thank you, Miss Jayne, for your assistance regarding forensic evidence. As with the other research, any errors are mine and mine alone!


Chapter Seven: I Always Take Life With A Grain Of Salt… Plus A Slice Of Lemon And A Shot Of Tequila


For an old lady, Victoria Mallard can sure move fast when she wants to.

Charlie had promised Victoria an email at least once a day and she was ready to go at dawn's early light. But… there was a problem

"Donald!"

The door to our bedroom flew open and Victoria stood there, surrounded by her canine retinue. Ducky yelped, "Mother!" while I shrieked in surprise and slipped out of bed. (We were both awake when the ajar door became a wide-open one. Good thing she arrived right then and not ten or fifteen minutes later, shall we say? We were discussing, um, ideas. Ahem.)

I gathered my wits enough to say, "What's wrong?" Foot slithered past the crowd in the doorway, jumped silently up and promptly went to sleep at the foot of the bed.

"My computer! My beautiful, purple computer!" Her face crumpled. "It's broken!" she sobbed. "It won't start!"

Ducky gave me a guilty look; mine was probably, 'I told you so.' He was in the habit of removing the power cord to keep Victoria offline during the night; he still had visions of her going somewhere she shouldn't and doing something she really shouldn't. Until now, it hadn't been a problem; he just replaced it before she woke up.

But today she had a reason to be up before he was. Disaster.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" I asked. I was 99% sure she hadn't.

She had to think about it. "No."

"Well, you need to have breakfast, first." I gave her a stern look. "Suzy says she's had to drag you away from the computer for lunch sometimes and that's not good."

She pouted slightly. "But I want to read Charlotte's email!"

Please. Lily took Charlie to camp on the train and got back just in time for pizza leftovers at the store. It was just barely 0610 on Monday morning. How many emails could be waiting? "You will. After breakfast."

"Well, then?" She looked at me expectantly.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," I sighed, dragging myself up from the floor.

"No, but I had hopes," Ducky muttered. I swatted his hand. Victoria didn't hear him; she turned around and we could hear her cane thudding quickly down the hall. "Ohhhhh… oh… my…" It was a sigh verging on a groan.

"What?"

"I just had a vision of being, ah, interrupted. By a toddler…"

"We'll lock the door," I suggested, stumbling off in Victoria's wake.

God, she was like a kid Christmas morning. I had to threaten to take her dressing gown belt and tie her to the chair to make her behave. At that, she was eating so fast I swear I saw sparks fly between her knife and fork.

"Slow down!" I felt like Mammy scolding Scarlett. "You won't be able to read your emails if you choke to death, will you?"

I managed to get her to eat some scrambled eggs with ham and cheese, a quarter of a cantaloupe, some toast fingers and a glass of cranberry juice; she kept trying to leave after every bite. I was ready to sit on her when Ducky joined us. "It's working again." (He wasn't stupid enough to admit he'd sabotaged the computer.)

"Oh! Oh, thank you, Donald!" She gave him a big kiss on the cheek and started to rise. "Excuse me," she said almost formally, and hurried from the room.

"Oh, dear," I teased. "She's slithered down the road to hell—sitting in front of the computer in her robe and slippers. Next step, eating Cheetos and chugging Mountain Dew while she plays Ninjaquest all night."

He groaned faintly. "You deal with the children when they become teenagers."

(Children? Ren?) "Chicken."

"No, just a highly developed sense of self-preservation."

There was a squeal and the sound of clapping hands from the living room. "I'll be danged. I guess 'she's got mail.'"

"Donald! Cassandra! Oh, do come!"

I made my way from the kitchen, Ducky shambling behind me. (I wonder if I'll ever find his rumpled hair, cockeyed glasses and off-kilter-tied robe not endearing. I hope not.) "What is it, Mother?" I asked.

"Look!"

Charlie's email was a ton of pictures from her first night at camp. My cabin-mates: Julia, Solange, Tiffany, Carole, Ladonna, Renee and Z. (Z? Maybe short for Zoe?) Z and I are bunkmates—I have the top bunk, as she is quite the acrophobiac. The dining hall—dinner was actually very good. Mommy Evelyn had filled me with such horror stories, I was prepared to live on peanut butter and jelly crackers for the fortnight! (Fortnight. God, I love this kid.) The computer lab—my fingers fairly twitch to get in and work! But never fear that I shall become a recluse. Just look at this lake! Doesn't it just invite you to dive in?

It looked like the camp of my youth—except for the room full of computers that could pass for Kennedy Space Center. ("What did you do at camp?" "Launched a satellite into geo-synch orbit." "Oh… no birdcage made of Popsicle sticks?") Charlie's roommates looked like a repeat of her party—8 to 12 year olds, and a poster for diversity. Remembering my own white bread camp days, I couldn't help but approve.

Ducky leaned over and put his lips next to my ear. "Maybe we could go back upstairs, pick up where we left off…?"

The front door opened and Suzy's cheerful face peeped around the corner. "Good morning!"

"Or not," he sighed.

"There's always later," I comforted him.

"You're all up early."

"Mother wanted to get an early start on her email," I said with a laugh. Suzy gave me an expectant look. "Yep. Chock full of photos, too."

"Oh, good. I know she's going to miss Charlie dreadfully the next weeks. So will I," she admitted. "Coffee?"

"Thanks, yes."

"Should you be drinking coffee?" Ducky murmured as Suzy headed toward the kitchen. "Especially Suzy's?"

"Did you catch Gibbs' face Saturday night? I think he's in love. Bet he asks you for Suzy's number."

"He does love good coffee. But back to the point. Should you?"

"I've cut way back. Switched to juice and zero-caffeine sodas. This will be my first cup of coffee in a week, and I'll stop with one small mug. I'm even drinking decaf tea. That will be my first question to Dr. Lester."

Two more days. "Fair enough." He kissed my forehead and held me in a loose hug.

"Ducky?"

"Mmh?"

"When we were in the kitchen—well, we never—it wasn't a—you said, 'you deal with the children.'"

"Oh, my dear. I was just teasing, I fully intend—"

"No, no, I meant—children. Children. How—how many children do you want to have?" I asked hesitantly. I held my breath.

He thought for a very short moment. "Why… however many we have. That's how many I want."

I gave him a skeptical look. "So—if I have, oh, six kids—" (Fat chance.)

"Then I shall expect to become quite proficient at putting together wagons and bicycles at Christmas," he said with a smile.

I bumped my forehead against his. "Have I ever mentioned how much I love you?"

He grinned the slightly lopsided smile that I love so much. "Occasionally."

/ / /

About the time I was debating over leftover pizza, forage in the break room freezer or call and see if Ducky was busy for lunch (the last one was clearly ahead of the pack), my cell phone rang. Mulder. "Hey. What's up?"

There was a heavy sigh. "I was wondering if you felt like visiting Neoma Keithley again."

"Sure, I guess. What's up?"

Another sigh. "I know she's probably going to blame me anyway. I just feel like I owe her the courtesy of telling her in person instead of seeing it tomorrow morning in the paper."

"Telling her what? That you suspect her granddaughter of impersonating her other granddaughter? And a zillion dollars' worth of mail fraud? You think she won't tell Shelly?"

"No. I think she would. Which is why I plan to visit her later this afternoon."

"Could you pretend I can't read your mind, and fill in the blanks? Because I can't."

"Sorry. I just got off the phone from a long conversation with Owen. He asked me if I was using a crystal ball."

Light dawned. "They already knew about Shelly."

"And how. They've been investigating for quite a while. I've got the exclusive story. In one hour, they're executing joint warrants at the Romeros' home and the facility. Since he's director of the tri-state area, they're seizing computers at all fifteen facilities, but they only have arrest warrants out for the two of them. Owen got the okay for me to be there at the bust—don't think Marty-baby will be thrilled to see me—but there's room in the car if you want to join Scully and me."

I almost said yes—then I remembered Friday afternoon. If Ducky want bananas over that trip… "I think I'll sit out the Untouchables part. But if you want me along when you visit Mrs. Keithley, sure. I feel sorry for her."

"I don't have to tell you, keep this to yourself."

"Ducky! Oh, Ducky was going to call his—Gibbs'—friend at the FBI—"

"Okay. Ducky, you can tell. No further. I'll call when I head over."

"Thanks." I rang off and dialed Ducky's number. "Hey, honey, have you called that friend of Gibbs' yet?"

"Yes—I was just about to call you. It was most surprising—Agent Fornell already knew about the mail fraud—"

"Because they're arresting Shelly and Martin in about an hour," I finished.

I could almost hear his shocked look over the phone. "Yes! How did you—"

I laughed. "Mulder's friend, Owen, told him. He asked if I wanted to go along on the bust. I said no," I added quickly, before he could begin having a heart attack. "But he wants to go see Neoma Keithley again. He says he'd feel better telling her in person instead of having her see it under his byline."

"Hearing that her granddaughter has been using her sister's credentials… and the criminal charges…" He tsk'd. "Poor woman."

"Yeah—I'm not exactly looking forward to it—but I was there when we first found out about how Shelly was able to pull this off. So I feel I should be there, too."

"Please—be careful?" I know it killed him to give tacit approval to more PI work.

"I will, I will," I vowed.

"After all, we have plans tonight." He was trying for a teasing tone, but I could hear the concern underneath the words.

I grinned, thinking about our plans. "Honey, Ma Barker wouldn't be able to stop me."

/ / /

Like last time, I let Mulder take the lead.

He confessed his duplicity; she started to get leery.

He told her about the mail fraud; she was stunned into silence.

He explained that Shelly was misusing her sister's credentials—

Ho.

Lee.

Shit.

As a nurse, Suzy had been pissed about the scam. Mrs. Keithley was beyond pissed. She cursed. She yelled. She raged. She threw the picture with Martin and Shelly against the wall, shattering the glass. The most used words were "that bastard." Over and over. She clearly thought Mister had conned Missus into criminal activities. Maybe she was right.

"And he'll probably blame her for everything! And wives can't testify against their husbands!"

Mulder held up a finger. "Not precisely. They can't be compelled to testify. Something tells me if he rolls on her, she'll sing the aria from Madam Butterfly."

"Good," she snapped. "And then I can beat some sense into that girl. Good God, when Nee finds out—" She shook with inarticulate rage. (If the government wants to save the cost of a trial, just let her in the cage with Martin. Five minutes, tops. And she could probably make it look like an accident.)

"Mrs. Keithley?" I asked cautiously. "Is—is there someone you want us to call?"

The fire drained out of her and she sagged slightly. "This is going to kill Eric and Tina." Son and daughter-in-law, I presumed.

"Um—would you like us to call them? Have them come over?"

After thinking about it, she shook her head. "No. He'll be home in an hour, they just live a mile or so away. I'll… drive over." She slowly sank down onto the couch.

I reached over and timidly patted her hand. "I'm… so sorry."

She managed a flicker of a smile. "It's not your fault. Or mine." Her glance included Mulder. "Or yours." He smile quivered a little. "You know… if this weren't so… personal… it would have been interesting to tell people how I was part of your investigation…" She squeezed her eyes shut.

She looked so… broken. I moved closer and put my arms around her; her head fell on my shoulder and she began to cry. Mulder's look was clearly a mix of 'sorry' and 'boy, I'm glad you came along.'

Her tears slowed and ceased and she sat up. The look on her face was absolutely heartbreaking. "What will happen to Marie?" she finally asked.

Oh, yeah. Michelle Marie; to the rest of the world, Shelly. "I don't know," I said honestly. On the way over, I had listened to Mulder dictate notes to his message machine at the paper. Shelly, an accountant by training, had kept detailed books about their "income," even doing a weekly printout. Each charity had its own ledger. Her neat freak, attention-to-detail habits were going to be their undoing. "She's… in a lot of trouble." Queen of Understatements strikes again.

She sighed. There was a little quiver at the end. "I just knew he was no good."

I kept my mouth shut. I was hoping it wasn't the reverse—that Shelly saw the untapped potential of the clientele and set up the operation.

Mrs. Keithley decided to drive over now, even though her son wasn't due home for another hour. I offered for us to follow her over, but she politely declined. I had horrible visions of her having a stress-induced heart attack on the way over, dying at the wheel—maybe taking out a school bus on the way. So I offered again, with slightly different wording. She kept demurring and gently rebuffing until I hit the right combination of words and she finally agreed. I wasn't going to take 'no' for an answer; I've been on the receiving end of Ducky convincing me to agree to something (for my own good, in his eyes), so I've picked up the rewording talent from the master. (I'm ready. Bring on the kid trying to 'why?' me to death.)

We followed her to a nice, if nondescript, brick house and waited, engine idling, until we saw someone open the door and Mrs. Keithley slip inside.

"Thanksgiving is gonna be no fun at their house this year," I said with a sigh.

"We're trained to be objective. Neutral. Removed. It's the only way you can ask questions of a parent whose four kids just died in a house fire." I looked at him, appalled. "Well… I haven't been in that scenario, personally, but—" He shrugged. "I dunno, this one got to me."

"It's because you made friends with her. It was more personal." I could never be a reporter. I'm nosy enough, sure—but if someone came up to me with a microphone and asked, 'How does it feel to watch the plane with your entire family aboard crash on the runway?' they'd need a team of proctologists, asap. I could never be on the giving end of questions like that.

"Plus, it's really disturbing. Shelly was able to walk into at least one home care staffing office and bullshit them into believing she was a nurse. Now, granted, it sounds like she was very careful not to take any positions that were real nursing spots. But how many people are out there without that tiny bit of scruples? People passing themselves off as nurses? Doctors? Surgeons?"

"Talk to Frank Abagnale," I said tiredly.

I could see wheels turning. This article on the Romeros might send him off into a whole new investigation and story.

/ / /

"Papyrus, Cassandra speaking, how may I help you?"

"Sandy! Hi!"

The voice was familiar… It took me a moment, then: "Fran! Oh, Fran, how are you! We haven't heard a thing since your email saying you'd be arriving Wednesday morning, I figured you'd need a day or two to settle back in, but—well, we were worried!"

"Oh, Sandy, I am so sorry… I just got so caught up in everything, it's just—" She whooshed out a breath. "Kind of crazy."

By silent agreement, Ducky and I had been avoiding the entertainment shows. "How bad has it been?"

"It… could be worse. They figured out I'd given them the slip. Dad said they started camping out on the lawn Tuesday morning. Cameron held a press conference—" I rolled my eyes. "And… he really chewed them out. He said if they had a shred of decency they'd leave me alone. He didn't come out and say it—but it was hinted strongly that if a reporter were caught bothering me, they'd never get information on anything attached to him ever again. Given that he's a big draw and has a couple of films out every year plus the trial—they backed off."

"Huh!" He gets points.

"Yeah. For the most part. Some are being persistent. Cal said they've been calling like crazy—the receptionist has been told just to take a message. So at least they're leaving me alone, even though it's not because they're leaving me alone." She paused. "That didn't sound right."

I laughed. "I know what you mean, though. I'm just glad you're doing okay."

"So what's been going on around there?"

I sat with my mouth hanging open for a moment. Where to start? What to tell? (One thing not to tell—yet.) "Let's see. We still haven't set a date, but I settled on a gown. I'm in the process of moving a lot of my crap into Ducky's house—which is going the break the laws of physics—because I have a real estate management company taking care of my place and they already have a tenant, ready to go, I've got until the first of September. Um… let's see, Neoma was gone by the time you set foot in the house, right?"

"Who?"

"Neoma Keithley. Actually, not neoma Keithley, it turns out. The nurse-companion who was staying with Mother during the day turned out to be a fake—"

Fran gasped. "Oh, my god!"

"She was using her sister's credentials to get nurse-companion gigs where she could hunt down rich patrons for a local retirement home. Her husband is the general manager; they were scamming the clientele, hooking them up with fake charities. I, uh, snuck in dressed as an old lady—"

"Oh, my god!" Now she was laughing.

"Yeah, Ducky wasn't real thrilled. But they got busted—today, actually, they got arrested today. Um… oh, a former employee moved back to town. Her grandfather died under sorta strange circumstances about 30 years ago, leaving behind a locked safe with a briefcase full of old computer disks. Agent McGee is trying to decipher the data on the disks. Um… hm… Charlie's camp started early, we had a going away party for her Saturday. Oh, Chanda—she's the former employee—took over her grandmother's house, I bought most of the books that were left in the house. Lots of books." I racked my brain. "Oh! Abby is dating Geoff."

"Oh, I knew that," she said.

"You did?" Was I the last to know?

"Yeah, he called while she and Misty were taking my latex off. Nothing dirty was said, but you can say a lot without saying anything." She sighed. "Boy, I'm not making a lot of sense today, am I?"

"I getcha, I getcha."

"Boy. You've had a crazy month."

And you don't know the cherry on top of the sundae, cupcake. I grinned. I had a feeling that Ducky's almost-daughter would be thrilled to find out she was going to have an almost-sibling. "How are you? Cal? Your dad? Your mom?"

"Oh—oh, Sandy…" She started to cry and I panicked. "She's coming home!"

I goggled. "Home? Home? Really—home? Not—not to be—but—that fast? That soon?"

"She'll be seeing her doctor as an outpatient, but—when Dad went to see her on Monday—" Now she was really crying, weeping, but it was still happy tears. "She was waiting for him. She had gotten up, gotten herself ready, dressed herself—and she sat on her bed, waiting for Dad… looked up at him and said, 'I want to go home.'"

"Oh—oh, Fran—" I was bawling like a baby. "I'm so happy!" I sobbed.

She laughed, still sniffling and gulping. "Yeah—we both sound so happy," she managed.

I laughed—and we both fell into new tears. Life was looking up.

/ / /

"Madeline…"

I quirked an eyebrow. Neither Ducky nor I had ever slipped up and called the other by a former lover's name. "Madeline?" I repeated innocently.

The arm about me tightened slightly, and Ducky pulled me back against his chest. "Just thinking about names."

"Hmm. The Madeline books by Ludwig Bemelmans… Madeleine L'Engle, those wonderful Time books… Madeline Brandeis… Madeleine Albright…"

There was a soft chuckle in my ear. "I was thinking of names… as in… Madeline Mallard…"

Ah. Baby names. "Pretty. Alliterative, too."

"Perhaps we should avoid 'M' names. Maybe… Caitlin?" he said wistfully.

Hmm. He had never struck me as a trendy name person. Brittany, Tiffany, Caitlin… But the tiny sigh made me think there was a Caitlin in his past that he wanted to remember or honor. "Also a pretty name."

He was quiet for a moment. "I suppose anything but Daisy would be fine," he said with a small laugh. "I wouldn't want the poor child tormented in school."

Touchy subject. "Honey, with the last name of 'Mallard,' we could name the kid 'John' or 'Sue' and they'll still be teased," I said as gently as I could.

"You don't have to tell me," he said with a deep sigh. He had once told me he loathed the nickname 'Ducky' as child—but came to prefer it, finding 'Donald' too stuffy. That didn't erase the 'fun' of childhood, though.

"Granted, I've heard the little monsters turn 'Jacqueline' into 'Jack-o-lantern,' 'Martin' into 'Martian,' 'Elspeth' into 'Elephant Breath'—" Bullying isn't something that started in the 21st century.

"Let's take the baby and run away to a deserted island."

"Nah. I don't want to miss the next season of Eureka." I turned around in the circle of his arms and kissed the tip of his nose. "We'll just raise a kid who's secure in his or her skin, who's able to laugh it off."

"Children certainly seem much crueler than when I was a child."

"Well, I did okay until high school. Greek and Roman mythology in Freshman Lit—"

"Ah, yes. Cassandra—she with the gift of foretelling the future… and the curse that no one would believe her."

"Yeah, remember that the next time I warn you about something."

"Perhaps we should join forces, as it were. Talmadge-hyphen-Mallard."

"Is the hyphen silent?"

He threw back his head and laughed. "Yes. It's silent."

"Hmm… Lawrence Talmadge-Mallard."

"Elizabeth Talmadge-Mallard."

"Patrick Talmadge-Mallard."

"Marian Talmadge-Mallard."

I cocked my head. "Interesting. You're only coming up with girls' names."

"And you're only coming up with boys'."

"Either way, Talmadge-Mallard is a helluva mouthful. Let's not do what Mrs. Pritchard did."

He looked at me in askance. "Dare I ask?"

"Neighbor down the way. Jane Pritchard. Husband is John Pritchard. She figured they had such plain names, her one and only kid deserved 'more.' She's a Shakespeare fan—problem was she couldn't decide. So she saddled the kid with Katharina Victoria—she's big on the British Monarchy, too—Katharina Victoria Eugenia Titania Hermione—A Winter's Tale, not Harry Potter—Portia Mayer-hyphen-Pritchard."

"You're making that up."

"Nope. How could I make up a string like that? She goes by KV, though her boyfriend calls her Katie Vic."

"Could we keep it to one or two names? Especially if we go for Talmadge-Mallard for a last name. I have visions of the poor child repeating first grade because she—or he—can't learn to write his or her own name."

"We could throw both our names in a hat and pick our five or six letters and all three of us take that name," I suggested.

"With our luck, we'd pull out M-L-D-T-G."

"Or A-A-A-A-E."

"We are rather lacking in vowels."

"Between us, we only have eight different letters out of fifteen total. Not much to work with."

"At this point, I suggest Scarlett O'Hara."

"I am not naming our kid Scarlett O'Hara!"

"No…" He wriggled us around until we were spooned together again. "I was thinking more along the lines of, 'let's think about this tomorrow.'"

I grinned into the semi-darkness of our room and hugged his arm against myself. "Excellent idea."

/ / / / /

"Are you busy for lunch?" Ducky's voice had a mysterious quality to it.

"Lunch with you? I can be un-busy," I grinned.

"It's not quite like last Friday—we'll probably just opt for sandwiches. But the, ah, floor show may prove entertaining."

"Floor show?"

"Agent McGee has extracted all of the information from the computer disks." There was a mumble I couldn't understand. "Pardon me. Correction—all of the data that was recoverable has been extracted. Gibbs' team is working cold cases today—if you happened to be in the building and we happened to be having lunch in Abby's lab—visiting, you understand—and Timothy happened to stop in—"

I reached for my keys. "I can be there in ten."

/ / /

I made it in eight. (There was no line at the guard shack.) Ducky was waiting in the lobby. "Hello, my dear. Abigail is fetching lunch as we speak." He very carefully clipped my badge to the button placket of my blouse, giving me a wink as he did so.

McGee was alone in Abby's lab; Chanda was on the phone, her voice coming through the speaker on the computer. "—everywhere! It's a good thing we were remodeling the kitchen anyway."

"Miss Talmadge and Dr. Mallard just joined us."

"Hi, Sandy!" she said cheerily. "Fancy a dip in the pool?"

"You're putting in a pool?"

"No—a pipe in the kitchen started leaking. Badly. In the middle of the night. We had over a foot and a half of water on the floor when we woke up." I winced. "Good thing the kitchen is a step-down from the rest of the house or we'd be really screwed. I wanted to replace this ugly linoleum anyway!" she laughed. "Thank heavens for homeowners' insurance!"

"Boy, you've got your hands full," I sympathized.

"Yeah—so could I get a hand?" Abby's voice came from behind us.

Ducky beat McGee (and me) to her side. He took the top box and set it on the lab table, pulling off the lid. "Heavens, Abby, how hungry do you think we all are?"

"Well, I really like their chicken salad—they put chopped grapes in there—"

I burst out laughing and Abby stared at me. "Sorry, sorry," I finally managed. "It's just—that's one of Mother's favorite sandwiches because I put chopped grapes in the salad, too."

"Oh. Well, it's good that way," she said reasonably. "So I got a second one to take home for dinner. Or snack. Or breakfast. And I told Tony and Ziva what we're doing, and both of them want to play hooky from cold cases, and both of them are starvin' like Lee Marvin, so they each got two sandwiches—I got chips and stuff in the other box and Tony has the drinks," she added. "Poor Gibbs," she sighed. "He and the Director are up in MTAC—" she caught sight of me and stammered. "Uh, working. They're… working. For quite a while."

Good. Even though Gibbs has at least slightly warmed to me, there's a difference between breaking garlic bread at Ducky's and stumbling over me yet again in Labby. And, hey—I understand high security. I don't need to be privy to anything.

It was like being in a really weird artsy movie house. By the time Ziva and DiNozzo arrived with the drinks (thank heavens one of them was a root beer—no caffeine, and nobody minded that I snagged it), McGee had the jump drive loaded on a computer with a huge screen and we had assembled chairs and lab stools from all corners of the lab in front of it. McGee narrated, Chanda tried to visualize what he was showing us (while dealing with assorted repairmen and what sounded like ten children) and we tried to keep the chomping and chewing noises to a minimum.

"Okay. As I explained to you and Miss—Cassandra—this weekend, the information Mr. Fairchild was going through was financial data. Invoices, order history, things like that. He was attacking the data from two directions. Quartermaster would compile stats and use it for target marketing, 'we see you regularly order—oh, a case of floor stripper every month, we have a new product, a floor sealer, which promises to cut your cleaning by two-thirds.'"

Ziva nodded. "'You recently purchased Natasha's Dance, A Cultural History of Russia. You might enjoy Russia, The Once and Future Empire.'" At DiNozzo's look, she said, "Amazon dot com," almost defensively. I stifled a giggle.

"Exactly," McGee said, earning a smile from Ziva. "But he was approaching it from the consumer's side as well. People over-order and mis-order supplies all the time, even nowadays. Back then, only huge companies had computers, so unless you had only one person in control of your supplies—"

"That case of 'retro rocket red' photocopy paper has been in the copy room since before I started here," Tony interjected.

McGee nodded. "Mr. Fairchild was pulling raw data and writing a program so customers could get a report with what had been ordered, how much, when and by whom and so forth. They could control costs, prevent double ordering, free up money for ordering other supplies— He was using the companies that did the largest amount of ordering: the military and TRW Aeronautics." He clicked on a file. "These are scans of his journal pages. Unfortunately, his notes are in shorthand—and I don't mean the secretarial kind, I mean the little notes people make that only make sense to them."

I looked at the screen as McGee rattled off what he could interpret for Chanda. The notes were random; some neatly printed on a line, some off at a 45-degree angle and circled, some in a neat list, boxed-in… but they made little sense. There were also doodly-curly-q's, the things people scribble while their mind floats off.

FF?

USN USMC USAF USARMY

ACENG?

WV

NO PH

PO

The next page:

2/10 NET 30

MARK?

C/B AM, TOM

4-5-74

"Okay, I recognize that from business accounting." I pointed to the 2/10 NET 30 line. "If you pay your full invoice within ten days, you get a two percent discount. Otherwise, it's all due in 30 days. The other number—it looks like a date."

"What was it?" Chanda asked.

"Four-five-seventy-four," I answered.

She drew in an unsteady breath. "Grandfather—grandfather died on April fourth."

"Hinky coincidence?" Abby suggested.

"Coincidence? I doubt it," McGee said.

"USMC—US Marine Corps, USN, US Navy," Tony said around a mouthful of roast beef sandwich.

"ACENG—Army Corps of Engineers?" Abby suggested.

Tony saluted her. "NO PH. North Penthouse?" he questioned in a doubtful voice.

"No phone," Ziva said decisively.

"PO—Purchase Order? PO Box?" Abby cocked her head.

"Paul O'Neill? Personnel Office?" I sighed. We had no frame of reference.

Chanda had been listening without comment, but there were some quiet rustle-thump noises from her end. "Okay. My grandfather took pictures like he was doing a documentary, every time he did a project. I hunted through the attic the other day, I've got all of his photo albums—and that's a lot, let me tell you. Annnnnnd, I have the one for Quartermaster. Okay. Pages and pages of people. Shipping department, accounting, order processing and customer service, managers… so far I don't see anyone with the name Paul O'Neill. Most of them are just first names, though."

McGee had been looking at a different screen and put that data up on the larger screen, six invoices neatly arranged in two columns. "Okay. TRW… Same person ordering each time. Almost the same orders. First order had the largest amount of toilet paper… third order has the biggest order of magic markers…"

He clicked and another screen of invoices pulled up. "USMC. Parris Island… Quantico… Camp Pendleton… China Lake… Fort Gordon… Camp Lejune…"

"But the bill to address is the same," I pointed out.

"Only one person cutting the check. This way, it ships directly to the base, they don't have to pay to move it from point A to point B. That's not how they do it nowadays, it's all internal, straight from the supplier, no middleman." He put up another screen of invoices: six more, all billing—

"That invoice is different." Ziva saw it just as I did. She pointed to the screen. "One, two, three, five and six all bill to she same address as was on the first set of invoices. Number four is billing to a post office box in Virginia."

"Maybe they had one office handling bills for the eastern half of the country, one for the west?" Tony suggested.

She shook her head. "The first page had bases in South Carolina, Virginia, California—twice, Georgia, and North Carolina. All of those bills went to Washington, D.C.—as do five of the bills on this page." She reached up and tapped the screen. "This is an anomaly."

McGee made a 'hmm' noise. "Hang on…" He started tapping keys. "Since we converted the data to a format more compatible—"

Tony and Ziva exchanged bemused looks. Abby reached over and patted McGee's arm. "Before you geek out completely, remember the audience, Timmy." There was a faint giggle from Chanda.

"Okay," he said with a fairly patient sigh. "Have you ever used 'search' in a document? Maybe looking for a word you misspell regularly?" The right half of the screen on the computer began flipping through invoices, occasionally stopping to fling one on the other side.

Ziva nodded. "I frequently miss the 'i.' 'Said' becomes 'sad' in my report."

"I'm having it search for any orders with the PO Box as the bill to address."

"And it's finding them," Abby said in admiration.

"Twenty-one so far," Ducky said, looking at the bar that was counting secondary windows.

It only took a couple of minutes. "One hundred and eight, about eleven, twelve percent of the invoices. And there may be some that belong on that list that didn't pull up because of corrupted data."

"Odd. We have an invoice for the Marine Corps… the Navy… Army Corps of Engineers… National Guard… Coast Guard…?" Ziva said skeptically. "All billing to the same PO Box—"

"And all shipping to the same address in West Virginia," Ducky pointed out.

"Perhaps… they were trying an experiment with centralized shipping?" Ziva suggested.

"West Virginia ain't central to anything but West Virginia," Tony said with a laugh. "Great geography skills." She smacked his shoulder.

"It could still be a centralized location if the price is right," Ducky said mildly. "But it's odd to have multiple branches of service using the same address…"

"Maybe someone in the supply chain was running a scam. Order a bunch of stuff, not pay—like what we thought at dinner Saturday night about the retirement home?" Abby suggested. "Who called in the orders?"

"Not called in," McGee corrected. He pointed to a corner of one order. The box next to "mail" had an X in it. "Ordered by… John James." Next order. "Mary Anderson." Next order. "Bob Smith… Tom Jones…"

I couldn't help but giggle. Tom Jones? Yeah. Right.

"Is it me, or do those sound like really bad aliases?" Tony laughed.

"All that's missing are John and Jane Doe," Ducky said. He neatly folded his sandwich paper and put it in the trash.

"Thank you, Ducky," Abby said with extreme politeness. She pointedly handed DiNozzo a handful of paper napkins.

"What?" he protested. She cocked her head and stared. "What? What?"

She grabbed a napkin and roughly scrubbed his cheek. "Eat mustard. Don't wear it!"

There was a snicker from the speaker. "Sounds like our house… So. Back to the topic. It looks like someone was scamming the government, stealing supplies, and my grandfather discovered it?"

"Well—yes. And no," McGee said slowly. "The invoices are all marked closed/paid. And a different person did the accounts receivable notation, so it wasn't someone embezzling at Quartermaster. I've seen, huh, six… seven… eight names…"

"And there are no…" Ziva frowned. "Big-ticket items?" McGee nodded. "Office supplies. Cleaning supplies. I don't see jeeps or rockets listed. You don't get rich embezzling thirty-two dollars' worth of toilet paper."

"And there's no pattern," McGee said. "Unless they had fifty people involved in this. Orders were picked by different people, packed by different people, signed off by different people."

"It has to be in there somewhere. It's just too—hinky," Ziva said. Abby beamed.

"Nine to five," Tony mused.

Ziva snorted derisively. "When have we ever worked nine to five?"

"No, no. The movie." (Of course.) "Dabney Coleman, Dolly Parton, Jane Fonda, Lily Tomlin? Middle-aged chick bonding flick."

The only middle-aged chick gave him a quirked eyebrow.

"Ah, yes." Ducky nodded. "Dabney Coleman's character was embezzling from his company, correct?" Tony nodded.

"And… the women thought they had killed him—" Ziva said thoughtfully. She was clearly thinking of parallels: Dabney Coleman embezzled from his company; someone at Quartermaster apparently embezzled stuff. Lily, Dolly and Jane thought they had killed their boss; someone actually did kill Mr. Fairchild.

"And they fantasized about how they'd kill their boss," Abby burbled. "Dolly Parton turned him into a pig on a spit, Jane Fonda went hunting—in the office—"

"Lily Tomlin poisoned him—" Tony added.

"And how do you plan to bump off the boss, DiNozzo?" Gibbs' voice from the door made everyone freeze.

"Gibbs! Not you, Gibbs!" Abby squealed. "Dabney Coleman!"

"Sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot," DiNozzo rattled off. Gibbs gave him an, 'oh, really?" look and DiNozzo flinched.

From where he stood, I was already half-hidden by a huge box with a zillion lights and readout screens; I scrunched down and tried to melt into the background.

"Not you, Boss. That was Dabney Coleman. His character, I mean." He gave himself a headslap. "Shutting up, Boss."

Gibbs slowly looked over the group. "Why… the hell… is everyone in Abby's lab?"

There was a tiny squeak from the speaker on the computer and he glared at it.

McGee exchanged nervous glances with Ziva and stepped up to the plate. "It—it's kind of a cold case, Boss. M—Mrs. Davis—s-she's on the phone, Boss—"

He launched into a long, descriptive tale about the hidden disks, Chanda's grandfather, the data he extracted… Gibbs listened very carefully. Way too carefully. McGee emphasized that the military might have been ripped off for months, maybe years.

"How… long… ago?" Gibbs pinned him in his gaze and I wished valiantly that the flask on the counter behind me held an invisibility potion. Yeah, good luck with that.

"Uh—nineteen—seventy—four?" McGee said, the last word a bit of a squeak.

"Don't we have a case even slightly more recent?" he asked with gentle astonishment. Chains were being yanked. "Maybe an actual case?"

I had a feeling Chanda was trying to hide as much as I was.

"The accountant who was compiling the data was killed. A Marine, Gibbs," Ziva pointed out. "That puts it in our jurisdiction."

"And when was this reported to NCIS?" he asked patiently.

They all looked at one another and then the computer. "Um—Mrs. Davis?" McGee prompted.

"I—I don't think it was," she said. Her voice was hesitant; a lot of people sound that way around Gibbs.

"So… we never even had a case even if we wanted to call it a cold case."

Hmm. Sounded like his interest was piqued. His eyes roamed over the computer screen while his subordinates exchanged glances. Hey! He hasn't killed us yet! Cool!

"None of the bases ordered the supplies?"

"Probably not," McGee answered.

"They never received the supplies?"

"Unknown. Went to a location in West Virginia," Tony pointed out the 'ship to' on the invoices.

"But someone paid the invoices."

"Yes." Ziva pointed out the 'paid' flags.

"So… they're out of the loop. They didn't order the supplies—so it's not like they were 'out' something they were expecting. Everything is paid for, so they don't have unpaid invoices against them."

"We've eliminated the supply end—who picked the order, who signed off, it's all different. If this were 2004, not 1974, we could trace the footprints, cross-search for logins—"

Tony and Ziva exchanged amused looks. Tony held up his hand, fingers splayed, and mouthed, 'Five bucks.'

Ziva didn't respond. Something had caught her eye on the screen. "Is there a way to show more of the invoices, McGee?" she asked, interrupting his second geek-rant. She had her head cocked and was staring intently.

"Sure. How many?"

"All of them linked to this address."

"All one hundred and eight?"

"Can you pile them so they're—" She fluttered her hand in frustration.

"Tiled." A couple of clicks and there was a stack of invoices with the top one showing and a top line from the preceding invoices showing like it does when you play solitaire, stretching off into the horizon.

"Entered by… MXE." She pointed to one line on the top invoice. "Next." McGee clicked the invoice; it winked away and we saw the next one in line. "MXE." Click; wink. "MXE."

Gibbs shrugged. "The grandfather's initials."

"No." Chanda's voice was quiet. "Thomas Jerome Fairchild."

McGee was still clicking on invoices. MXE, MXE, MXE… "If they have twelve people pulling items to ship… and five or six supervisors to sign off on the shipments… and some ten people processing payments… do you really think there's only one person processing orders?" Ziva said reasonably.

"Considering the thousands of orders they processed… easy enough to slip in a phony invoice here and there, especially where they'll see orders for some base, somewhere, every day," McGee mused.

"And if it was paid, the company wouldn't care," Gibbs said. Hey—he was interested. He tapped the screen. "There's your starting point. Track down MXE."

Tony snorted. "You think he's still with the company? Thirty-five years later?"

Gibbs gave him a look of pure innocence. "Hey. You're the ones who 'opened' this case. Don't bitch to me when it gets tough." He turned and headed for the door and I sagged slightly in relief. "Afternoon, Miss Talmadge," floated back. Ducky and I exchanged a glance and he chuckled softly.

"Oh, jeez, guys, I'm so sorry," Chanda almost groaned. "I never meant for anyone to get in trouble!"

Ziva laughed. "We are not in trouble."

"Not even close. Of course, we're looking for a needle in an old haystack—" Tony said.

"Maybe not. Hang on." We could hear the sound of heavy pages being turned along with a mutter from Chanda. "Milton… Martha… Marcia… Matt… Mike… Marcus… Max…"

Ducky's head snapped up. "Marcus?"

"Yeah. In—" She sucked in a small breath. "Data entry."

The copies of Mr. Fairchild's notes were minimized up at the top of the screen. Ducky tapped one and McGee expanded it. Ducky pointed to MARK?, heavily circled. "Mark. A common nickname for Marcus."

"H-hold on." Chanda's voice was shaking. We could hear the ft-t-t-t-t of the plastic cover on the page peeling back. "He put all the names on the backs of his pictures… oh, this is stuck but good…"

"Careful, careful," I cautioned.

"I… am… being…care… ful… Okay, there it goes… What were the initials?"

"MXE," we all chorused.

"Marcus. X. Everstead," she said. There was a quiver at the end.

"Okay. So it didn't take that that long," Tony said defensively.

Abby pushed her foot on the floor, sending her wheeled stool spinning. "Google is my friend," she chirped. She skidded to a stop in front of a second computer. "Marcus. X. E-V-E-R-S-T-E-D?"

"E-A-D," Chanda corrected.

"Not a common name either way," Abby mused. "Let's see. Marcus Xavier Everstead. Article from Our Lady of Fatima, Knights of Columbus newsletter, he was the chairman of the food events for the Fall Bazaar last year… on the roster for the Lions Club… Board of Trustees for Our Lady of Fatima Prep… Owner and CEO of Atoz Supply House…"

"Stop. Hold up," I ordered. "Atoz?"

"Yeah." Abby clicked her mouse. "They're located in—"

"D.C.," I supplied. "Over on D Street."

She looked at me in surprise. "Yeah."

I stared at the screen. The MXE looked huge, the rest of the room tunnel visioning out of focus. "Atoz. Everything from A to Z. They have stuff nobody else can get." I turned and stared at Ducky; just past him, McGee looked at me and I could see a glimmer of recognition of our conversation from Saturday afternoon. "I order from them… all the time," I said slowly.

/ / /

"It is very disappointing when a suspect gives up so readily."

I had offered to drive Ziva over to Chanda's. She and Tony had returned in short order with Mr. Everstead; now she was going to meet the flatbed and supervise the removal of Mr. Fairchild's T-bird. "Oh?"

"Yes. Tony said, 'We'd like to talk to you about 1974, Tom Fairchild and Quartermaster?' he turned as white as a sheep and said, 'You can't prove I killed him.'"

"Oh, jeez."

"We reminded him that forensic evidence can stay viable for quite some time—and the vehicle was covered and sealed for all this time. He began to cry—" She looked faintly amused. "—and told us the whole story. I'm sure his attorney will try to get it thrown out, despite the fact that we read him his rights several times."

"So—what happened?"

"He was ordering supplies under the military account because Quartermaster gave them the largest discount. Essentially cost plus ten to twenty percent. He paid the discounted rate, then sold the items to other companies—selling them above the military discount, but undercutting even the Quartermaster rate, and keeping the profit."

"I can get it for you wholesale!" I sang and she laughed.

"Not a large amount on each order, but it mounted up. Had been doing it for years, stockpiling the money and researching the companies Quartermaster purchased from, planning to open his own company in competition—Atoz." She sobered. "The sad thing is, what he was doing was a minor crime. The company did not suffer—much—the military did not suffer, his customers did not suffer—his 'crime' was unauthorized use of the military discount. The penalty would have been relatively small, perhaps just a fine. But when Mr. Fairchild gave him a ride home and confronted him—"

"He fell apart and killed him?" I filled in. She nodded. "Wow."

Chanda's looked like she was hosting a repairmen's convention. There was a plumber's truck, an electrician's van, one from Nurit and Sons Appliance Repairs, a fourth from Disaster Recovery ("Fire? Flood? Storm? We'll get you back to normal!") (This house, normal? Forget it.), and a last one with the gas company logo on the door. The other end of the circular drive had a lone vehicle, a sleek black sedan.

"Insurance agent," Ziva said knowingly.

The girls were playing on the lawn with two more children who looked way too much like the girls to not be related. Ellie spied me and waved enthusiastically. "Hi! Aunt Sandy! Can we come to the store later?"

Resisting the urge to correct can vs. may, I called back, "Ask your mom!" Ha. 'Aunt Sandy.' I'd met the kid three times—she was a bookaholic, and smart enough to make nice to her supplier. (I would have done it at her age, too.)

"This is my cousin, Linda, and my cousin, Don. They like to read, too!" she added with a hopeful look.

"Bring 'em along! The more, the merrier!"

Leaving Ellie to plot with the others, we entered the open door. Chanda was deep in conversation with a middle-aged woman in a dark blue skirt and jacket set ("Insurance agent," Ziva murmured again.). From the kitchen came assorted clangs, bangs, whumps, unintelligible loud voices and the high whine of a super sucker vacuum. Chanda spied us, wound up her conversation with a handshake and hurried over as the woman picked up her briefcase and left.

"Hey! This is actually going to be a good thing, as Martha Stewart would say."

Ziva laughed. "A good thing? How so?"

"We were going to replace the appliances and upgrade the plumbing and wiring and call it good for a couple of years. We were working around the old cabinets and the floor because the budget would just not stretch that far. The wood is old and dry, and the flood caused it to warp and crack. Cheaper for the insurance company to replace it. Same for the floor. Two walls are brick; they're okay. The other two swelled up like my legs did when I was pregnant." (Why, oh, why did she have to choose that as a simile? I could feel my ankles puff in response.) "So the insurance is going to cover a lot of work we wanted to do but couldn't afford." She looked thoughtful. "I wonder if I could get the pipes to burst in the upstairs bath…"

"I wouldn't chance it. With your luck, that big bathtub could end up on your dining room table," I cautioned.

"Point." She motioned for us to follow her out the side door. "Okay. The plumber was kind enough to cut off the lock and chain on the chain link gate—it's the far path of the roundabout that led to the garage, the original carriage path. It's not paved, but the dirt is really hard packed. We got the gates open, it should be okay to drive in…"

She kept up a line of chatter as we followed her to the far side of the property. The fence and double gate (which I had somehow missed on my first visit) were covered by ivy a couple of feet thick. Perfect house for bugs and spiders and lizards and mice and—euuuu!

Finally we ended up inside the old garage. Chanda stared at the swirls of dirty shrouding. "Is there—really—evidence in there?" she asked hesitantly.

"Possibly. Our forensic specialist is the best there is. If there is anything to be found—Abby will find it." Ziva radiated confidence.

How good would thirty-plus year old evidence be? Probably not that good. But since Mr. Everstead had been falling over himself to confess, it was probably more as a backup. But what do I know? I used to think CSI was marginally real, that you can get a DNA match in 15 minutes. (Boy did Abby teach me otherwise.)

Chanda nodded absently, still staring at the car. Ziva's phone chirped; she read the screen and chuckled. "'How the hell do I get in?'" she read. She trotted back toward the street.

Chanda shook her head. "It's weird. It hurt less, thinking it was a random stranger… Agent DiNozzo said my grandfather had confronted Mr. Everstead, that he panicked and killed him?" I nodded. "I just… don't… understand. I mean, if your life is in danger… but… I mean, he probably wouldn't have even gotten jail time."

What Ziva had been saying about ten minutes before. "Yeah. But from his warped point of view, his life would have been ruined. You know—'reason for leaving position?' 'Fraudulently used military discount to divert company product which I then sold at a profit. But I was never tardy or absent.'" That made her laugh. A little, anyway.

It took some back-and-fill moves, but they managed to get the flatbed lined up with the far side doors. (I was impressed. I probably couldn't have pulled it off with my van, and it isn't even half the length.) Ziva and the driver—who wasn't some clown from the local lube-and-tune joint, he wore an NCIS jumpsuit—conferred quietly off to the side; from what I could overhear, there was concern about the dirt on the tarps. She pulled out her phone; all I could hear was, "Abby?" then the rest was a mumble. She nodded frequently, either in affirmation or understanding, then shut her phone. From the bag on her shoulder she pulled out a nifty digital camera and walked around the car, taking a couple of dozen photos.

"I—I'd better check on the kids, they've been quiet too long…" Chanda edged away, eyes locked on the car, backing away through the set of doors closer to the house. I wouldn't say she was fleeing—but it was obvious she was becoming uncomfortable with the scene and wanted to be anywhere but there. Couldn't blame her. It was one thing to know the vehicle in which your grandfather was killed is sitting in your back garage. It's another thing to hear people talk about preserving evidence, blood soaking the upholstery and so on.

I'm a nosy bitch. I stayed. After Ziva finished her photographs, she and the driver put brand-new tarps over the dirty ones and cinched them down, then basically wrapped the whole thing in plastic wrap. Time consuming, but easier than the last stage—winching the car onto the flatbed. Normally not a difficult maneuver, it was made so by the lack of tires. More tarps padded the ground up to the flatbed; they moved it inch by inch, trying to keep the dirt from the ground transferring to the rims.

"Didn't think it would be this hard," I said. Ziva was keeping pace with the slowly moving car, ready to yell to the driver to stop if it needed tweaking; I followed her path, just a few feet behind her.

"Normally we would simply cover the vehicle, put it on the flatbed and leave. But the dirt on the tarps and the dirt on the ground complicate things slightly. The ground is easily enough dealt with, as you see. We had to seal the car as is without removing the tarps."

"To keep the dirt from falling in? Why not take them off?"

She shook her head. "The tarps may have kept evidence trapped inside. It is better to transport as is, remove them at NCIS."

"Ah."

I stayed until the car was loaded and they had chugged through the ivy-laden fence. I wandered slowly back to the house; this had been even more surreal than when David died and I was the #1 suspect. The first half of my life had been so boring; in less than one year, I had been a suspect in one death, friends with two people who had almost been murdered (by the same person, no less), and stumbled over two con jobs—one which had ended in murder. If this year has been karma making up for things being so boring up to now—I'm done! Enough! I would like the next year crime-free, thank you. The next fifty, for that matter.

Chanda was in the kitchen, squatting on the floor and conferring with the plumber who was pointing to something under the sink.

"They're gone," I said.

She nodded, sighing heavily. "What a day, what a day, what a—"

"M-o-o-o-o-o-o-mmm…"

Chanda rolled her eyes and looked past me. "Ellie, honey, I'm sorry. The kitchen is still out of commission."

"We're bored."

"You have a branch of Toys R Us upstairs. There are probably thirty 'outside' games, alone. Not to mention, books. And books. And books."

"But we've read them all!"

"Fat chance," Chanda muttered. "I'm sure Linda and Don haven't read all of your books," she said with amused patience.

I turned my head slightly and glanced out of the corner of my eyes. Ellie was giving her mother puppy dog eyes. The kid has huge brown eyes and she knows how to use 'em.

"Honey. Please. Not today." Mom was wavering.

"But I've earned twenty dollars in credits!"

I was pretty sure what she was angling for. "I could take the kids off your hands for a while," I offered, even as my saner side tried to clamp a hand over my mouth. Hey—she was still fielding a disaster; she needed a break.

"Jerry won't be home until at least six. We wouldn't be able to pick them up before then." But she looked like she was considering it. "I'm betting you don't have car seats and boosters in the van."

Not since Ray's kids grew up. Over ten years. "Uh—no."

"You took them out of the minivan before it went to the shop," Ellie whispered.

Which is how I ended up with two kids in the back seat of my van. (Chanda's sister-in-law showed up to collect her sprogs—Chanda had been sitting while mom went to a doctor's appointment—and caved to the 'please, please, we wanna go to the store!' cries. So at least I had backup.)

Valerie did a double take when I walked in with a kid hanging on each hand. "You come back from lunch with interesting leftovers."

"Har, har." I gave her the short version of Chanda's disasters—and a very edited version of what had been discovered with regard to the computer disks. "Chanda and Jerry will be by six or seven-ish to pick up the kids and the car seats."

Valerie cracked up and almost fell off her chair. "You put in car seats?"

"I have many talents." (Chanda did it.)

She waited until the girls had disappeared around the corner to the kids' section. "You are babysitting," she said in a similar tone.

"I have many talents," I repeated. (I need the practice.)

She chortled. Evilly, I might add. "I'll watch the counter. You are going to be busy."

I was. I was hyper-alert; any stranger even glanced at one of the girls and I was poised to spring into action and take them out. Terry, on the other hand, was perched in the chair at the end of the mystery section, nose buried in Inner Sanctum Mysteries: Behind the Creaking Door. But she wasn't missing a thing—when Don and Linda started a silent tug-o-war with a hardback of The Lives of Christopher Chant, her eyes never left the page. She snapped her fingers, amazingly loudly; the kids froze. One finger went up. Two fingers. As the third finger went up, Don gave up his hold on the book and grabbed the paperback of The Chronicles of Chrestomanci, Volume 1. It wasn't a hardback, but, hey, it contained The Lives of Christopher Chant. Good enough. (I have to wonder if this ESP is a talent you get in the delivery room, when they hand you the kid and the instruction manual. (You do get a manual, right? Right?))

An hour or two later, the six of us ended up on the floor in the middle of the kids' section playing Upwords as teams. Terry and Lee-Lee (with Don, the eldest, to balance out) versus yours truly and five-and-a-half Ellie and seven-year-old Linda. I dragged out two fat children's dictionaries and set up the plastic playing grid on a low table.

Lee-Lee actually pointed out the first word for her team (it probably helped that the tiles were in word order on the rack): R-O-B-E. Ellie changed one letter, making it R-O-L-E. Terry changed it to T-O-L-E, giving the kids a quick definition of the word that wasn't in either dictionary. Ellie changed one letter and added four more; her "Woo-hoo!" dance around the far end of the store was justified by T-A-L-E-N-T-E-D, in my opinion. Just as Don was warranted in a slightly smug look when he turned it into R-E-L-E-N-T-L-E-S-S.

"Having fun?"

I looked up; Ducky stood at the edge of the YA section, cell phone in hand. I was pretty she he'd just snapped a picture of us. "Yes, we are. And some of the customers have seen how much fun we've been having, we've sold three more game sets, so there, smarty-pants." Ellie giggled. "Casual introductions. You know Ellie and Lee-Lee—"

He leaned over and shook hands solemnly. "Ladies. Lovely to see you again."

"Terry—" I looked at her questioningly.

"Sullivan," she supplied, holding out a hand.

"Chanda's sister-in-law. And her children Linda, and Don. Everyone—this is my fiancé, Dr. Donald Mallard."

"Yes, another Don," he said with a smile, shaking hands with the lone male in our group. "But everyone calls me Ducky."

"Would you like to join us, Dr. Mallard?" Terry asked.

He shook his head. "I'd hate to disrupt the balance. I'll enjoy the game from the sidelines."

"You could play both sides," I suggested. I got a tiny flash of a look that told me he was turning it into something mildly dirty. At least, I hoped so.

We had just wrapped up the game when Jerry and Chanda arrived to collect the kids. Ellie cashed in her "credit" (she grabbed the entire Madeleine L'Engle Time series; discovering she still had two-fifty, she went back for The Velvet Room by Zilpha Keatley Snyder and a second copy of The Chronicles of Chrestomanci, Volume 1 for her 'spend $20, get a free paperback' choice), Lee-Lee was reminded she had credit from chores performed at home, too (Chanda helped her choose a stack of Dr. Seuss books—how she was still missing any after her last trip was beyond me) and Terry took the Upwords we had been playing for her crew.

Valerie cocked her head. "So. You won't be in tomorrow." It was a statement, not a question.

"Nope." I hadn't told her about the appointment at Dr. Lester's; she just knew I wasn't coming in.

"You're just bailing to get out of reading for Story Time."

I sighed heavily and sagged dramatically. "Damn. She found out." I smiled brightly. "Have fun!"

"We're low on Story Time snacks!" she called after me.

"No, we're not!" I yelled back. "Went shopping this morning, check the storeroom!"

Ducky's Morgan was parked next to my van. "Suzy called. Mother got a flier in the mail from that dreadful Mexican restaurant she loves, begged Suzy to go. So—" He stepped closer and dropped his voice (even though nobody was around to overhear). "We… are on our own… for dinner."

I reached up and straightened his slightly off kilter tie. "And dessert?"

He grinned. "Absolutely."

/ / /

"Oh!"

Ducky looked up from the side of the bed, where he was turning down the covers. "What?"

"Falling star!"

He walked over to stand next to me, looking at the sky. The burning meteorite was already gone. "Make a wish?"

I smiled up at him. "Already got my wish."

He slipped his arms around me. "So have I." We stood for a while, a congenial twosome. "Cassandra…?"

"Mmh?" I was too comfy, arms draped around his waist and head snuggled against his chest, to move much.

"I just… after this afternoon… well, you needn't worry."

Worry? I frowned. Worry? I tipped my head back slightly. "Worry?"

He touched his fingertip to my chin and smiled. His eyes were glistening just a bit. "You… are going to be… a fabulous mother."

I snuggled back against his chest, smiling happily. Okay—maybe there was a second wish on the list.


7