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Tess doubted that the gratitude would last much longer than a day or two, and she already had a speaking engagement lined up for October (Literary Cavalcade Week in the Hamptons), but I-84 would take her to I-90, and from 90, Chicopee was a straight shot. Easy in, easy out; Fritzy would hardly know she was gone.

Ramona Norville had of course included her email address, and Tess wrote her immediately, accepting the date and the honorarium amount. She also specified-as was her wont-that she would sign autographs for no more than an hour. I have a cat who bullies me if Im not home to feed him his supper personally, she wrote. She asked for any further details, although she already knew most of what would be expected of her; she had been doing similar events since she was thirty. Still, organizational types like Ramona Norville expected to be asked, and if you didnt, they got nervous and started to wonder if that days hired writer was going to show up braless and tipsy.

It crossed Tesss mind to suggest that perhaps two thousand dollars would be more appropriate for what was, in effect, a triage mission, but she dismissed the idea. It would be taking advantage. Also, she doubted if all the Knitting Society books put together (there were an even dozen) had sold as many copies as any one of Stephanie Plums adventures. Like it or not-and in truth, Tess didnt mind much one way or the other-she was Ramona Norvilles Plan B. A surcharge would be close to blackmail. Fifteen hundred was more than fair. Of course when she was lying in a culvert, coughing out blood from her swollen mouth and nose, it didnt seem fair at all. But would two thousand have been any fairer? Or two million?

Whether or not you could put a price tag on pain, rape, and terror was a question the Knitting Society ladies had never taken up. The crimes they solved were really not much more than the ideas of crimes. But when Tess was forced to consider it, she thought the answer was no. It seemed to her that only one thing could possibly constitute payback for such a crime. Both Tom and Fritzy agreed. 3 -

Ramona Norville turned out to be a broad-shouldered, heavy-breasted, jovial woman of sixty or so with flushed cheeks, a Marine haircut, and a take-no-prisoners handshake. She was waiting for Tess outside the library, in the middle of the parking space reserved for Todays Author of Note. Instead of wishing Tess a very good morning (it was quarter to eleven), or complimenting her on her earrings (diamond drops, an extravagance reserved for her few dinners out and engagements like this), she asked a mans question: had Tess come by the 84?

When Tess said she had, Ms. Norville widened her eyes and blew out her cheeks. Glad you got here safe. 84s the worst highway in America, in my humble opinion. Also the long way around. We can improve the situation going back, if the Internets right and you live in Stoke Village.

Tess agreed that she did, although she wasnt sure she liked strangers-even a pleasant librarian-knowing where she went to lay down her weary head. But it did no good to complain; everything was on the Internet these days.

I can save you ten miles, Ms. Norville said as they mounted the library steps. Have you got a GPS? That makes things easier than directions written on the back of an envelope. Wonderful gadgets.

Tess, who had indeed added a GPS to her Expeditions dashboard array (it was called a Tomtom and plugged into the cigarette lighter), said that ten miles off her return journey would be very nice.

Better a straight shot through Robin Hoods barn than all the way around it, Ms. Norville said, and clapped Tess lightly on the back. Am I right or am I right?

Absolutely, Tess agreed, and her fate was decided as simply as that. She had always been a sucker for a shortcut. 4 -

Les affaires du livre usually had four well-defined acts, and Tesss appearance at the monthly convocation of Books amp; Brown Baggers could have been a template for the general case. The only diversion from the norm was Ramona Norvilles introduction, which was succinct to the point of terseness. She carried no disheartening pile of file cards to the podium, felt no need to rehash Tesss Nebraska farmgirl childhood, and did not bother producing bouquets of critical praise for the Willow Grove Knitting Society books. (This was good, because they were rarely reviewed, and when they were, the name of Miss Marple was usually invoked, not always in a good way.) Ms. Norville simply said that the books were hugely popular (a forgivable overstatement), and that the author had been extremely generous in donating her time on short notice (although, at fifteen hundred dollars, it was hardly a donation). Then she yielded the podium, to the enthusiastic applause of the four hundred or so in the librarys small but adequate auditorium. Most were ladies of the sort who do not attend public occasions without first donning hats.

But the introduction was more of an entracte. Act One was the eleven oclock reception, where the higher rollers got to meet Tess in person over cheese, crackers, and cups of lousy coffee (evening events featured plastic glasses of lousy wine). Some asked for autographs; many more requested pictures, which they usually took with their cell phones. She was asked where she got her ideas and made the usual polite and humorous noises in response. Half a dozen people asked her how you got an agent, the glint in their eyes suggesting they had paid the extra twenty dollars just to ask this question. Tess said you kept writing letters until one of the hungrier ones agreed to look at your stuff. It wasnt the whole truth-when it came to agents, there was no whole truth-but it was close.

Act Two was the speech itself, which lasted about forty-five minutes. This consisted chiefly of anecdotes (none too personal) and a description of how she worked out her stories (back to front). It was important to insert at least three mentions of the current books title, which that fall happened to be The Willow Grove Knitting Society Goes Spelunking (she explained what that was for those who didnt already know).

Act Three was Question Time, during which she was asked where she got her ideas (humorous, vague response), if she drew her characters from real life (my aunts), and how one got an agent to look at oness work. Today she was also asked where she got her scrunchie (JCPenney, an answer which brought inexplicable applause).

The last act was Autograph Time, during which she dutifully fulfilled requests to inscribe happy birthday wishes, happy anniversary wishes, To Janet, a fan of all my books, and To Leah-Hope to see you at Lake Toxaway again this summer! (a slightly odd request, since Tess had never been there, but presumably the autograph-seeker had).

When all the books had been signed and the last few lingerers had been satisfied with more cell-phone pictures, Ramona Norville escorted Tess into her office for a cup of real coffee. Ms. Norville took hers black, which didnt surprise Tess at all. Her hostess was a black-coffee type of chick if one had ever strode the surface of the earth (probably in Doc Martens on her day off). The only surprising thing in the office was the framed signed picture on the wall. The face was familiar, and after a moment, Tess was able to retrieve the name from the junkheap of memory that is every writers most valuable asset.

Richard Widmark?

Ms. Norville laughed in an embarrassed but pleased sort of way. My favorite actor. Had sort of a crush on him when I was a girl, if you want the whole truth. I got him to sign that for me ten years before he died. He was very old, even then, but its a real signature, not a stamp. This is yours. For one crazed moment, Tess thought Ms. Norville meant the signed photo. Then she saw the envelope in those blunt fingers. The kind of envelope with a window, so you could peek at the check inside.

Thank you, Tess said, taking it.

No thanks necessary. You earned every penny.

Tess did not demur.

Now. About that shortcut.

Tess leaned forward attentively. In one of the Knitting Society books, Doreen Marquis had said, The two best things in life are warm croissants and a quick way home. This was a case of the writer using her own dearly held beliefs to enliven her fiction.

Can you program intersections in your GPS?

Yes, Toms very canny.

Ms. Norville smiled. Input Stagg Road and US 47, then. Stagg Road is very little used in this modern age-almost forgotten since that damn 84-but its scenic. Youll ramble along it for, oh, sixteen miles or so. Patched asphalt, but not too bumpy, or wasnt the last time I took it, and that was in the spring, when the worst bumps show up. At least thats my experience.

Mine, too, Tess said.

When you get to 47, youll see a sign pointing you to I-84, but youll only need to take the turnpike for twelve miles or so, thats the beauty part. And youll save tons of time and aggravation.

Thats also the beauty part, Tess said, and they laughed together, two women of the same mind watched over by a smiling Richard Widmark. The abandoned store with the ticking sign was then still ninety minutes away, tucked snugly into the future like a snake in its hole. And the culvert, of course. 5 -

Tess not only had a GPS; she had spent extra for a customized one. She liked toys. After she had input the intersection (Ramona Norville leaned in the window as she did it, watching with manly interest), the gadget thought for a moment or two, then said, Tess, I am calculating your route.

Whoa-ho, how about that! Norville said, and laughed the way that people do at some amiable peculiarity.

Tess smiled, although she privately thought programming your GPS to call you by name was no more peculiar than keeping a fan foto of a dead actor on your office wall. Thank you for everything, Ramona. It was all very professional.

We do our best at Three Bs. Now off you go. With my thanks.

Off I go, Tess agreed. And youre very welcome. I enjoyed it. This was true; she usually did enjoy such occasions, in an all-right-lets-get-this-taken-care-of fashion. And her retirement fund would certainly enjoy the unexpected infusion of cash.

Have a safe trip home, Norville said, and Tess gave her a thumbs-up.

When she pulled away, the GPS said, Hello, Tess. I see were taking a trip.

Yes indeed, she said. And a good day for it, wouldnt you say?

Unlike the computers in science fiction movies, Tom was poorly equipped for light conversation, although Tess sometimes helped him. He told her to make a right turn four hundred yards ahead, then take her first left. The map on the Tomtoms screen displayed green arrows and street names, sucking the information down from some whirling metal ball of technology high above.

She was soon on the outskirts of Chicopee, but Tom sent her past the turn for I-84 without comment and into countryside that was flaming with October color and smoky with the scent of burning leaves. After ten miles or so on something called Old County Road, and just as she was wondering if her GPS had made a mistake (as if), Tom spoke up again.

In one mile, right turn.

Sure enough, she soon saw a green Stagg Road sign so pocked with shotgun pellets it was almost unreadable. But of course, Tom didnt need signs; in the words of the sociologists (Tess had been a major before discovering her talent for writing about old lady detectives), he was other-directed.

Youll ramble along for sixteen miles or so, Ramona Norville had said, but Tess rambled for only a dozen. She came around a curve, spied an old dilapidated building ahead on her left (the faded sign over the pumpless service island still read ESSO), and then saw-too late-several large, splintered pieces of wood scattered across the road. There were rusty nails jutting from many of them. She jounced across the pothole that had probably dislodged them from some country bumpkins carelessly packed load, then veered for the soft shoulder in an effort to get around the litter, knowing she probably wasnt going to make it; why else would she hear herself saying Oh-oh?

There was a clack-thump-thud beneath her as chunks of wood flew up against the undercarriage, and then her trusty Expedition began pogoing up and down and pulling to the left, like a horse thats gone lame. She wrestled it into the weedy yard of the deserted store, wanting to get it off the road so someone who happened to come tearing around that last curve wouldnt rear-end her. She hadnt seen much traffic on Stagg Road, but thered been some, including a couple of large trucks.

Goddam you, Ramona, she said. She knew it wasnt really the librarians fault; the head (and probably only member) of The Richard Widmark Fan Appreciation Society, Chicopee Branch, had only been trying to be helpful, but Tess didnt know the name of the dummocks who had dropped his nail-studded shit on the road and then gone gaily on his way, so Ramona had to do.

Would you like me to recalculate your route, Tess? Tom asked, making her jump.

She turned the GPS off, then killed the engine, as well. She wasnt going anywhere for awhile. It was very quiet out here. She heard birdsong, a metallic ticking sound like an old wind-up clock, and nothing else. The good news was that the Expedition seemed to be leaning to the left front instead of just leaning. Perhaps it was only the one tire. She wouldnt need a tow, if that was the case; just a little help from Triple-A.

When she got out and looked at the left front tire, she saw a splintered piece of wood impaled on it by a large, rusty spike. Tess uttered a one-syllable expletive that had never crossed the lips of a Knitting Society member, and got her cell phone out of the little storage compartment between the bucket seats. She would now be lucky to get home before dark, and Fritzy would have to be content with his bowl of dry food in the pantry. So much for Ramona Norvilles shortcut although to be fair, Tess supposed the same thing could have happened to her on the interstate; certainly she had avoided her share of potentially car-crippling crap on many thruways, not just I-84.

The conventions of horror tales and mysteries-even mysteries of the bloodless, one-corpse variety enjoyed by her fans-were surprisingly similar, and as she flipped open her phone she thought, In a story, it wouldnt work. This was a case of life imitating art, because when she powered up her Nokia, the words NO SERVICE appeared in the window. Of course. Being able to use her phone would be too simple.