Kate fought the air bag back, heard multiple crashes occurring behind her and saw the reflection of red-and-blue lights flashing everywhere. Before she could gather her wits, Dave’s arms were around her, unbuckling the seat belt, lifting her from the car, holding her close against his chest. She could feel her heart pounding, then realized it wasn’t her heart that was pounding, it was Dave’s heart she felt.

Uniformed police officers had the gunman in custody. Howie ran forward from one of the cars in the rear and went to the man, making sure his rights were read to him.

“I’m okay,” Kate said. “You can put me down.”

Dave’s voice was thick. “I don’t think I can. I don’t think my arms will let go!”

They both laughed nervously when he set her on her feet, and she grabbed his sleeve for support. “I couldn’t believe it when it turned out to be Elsie in the Cadillac.”

Dave kept his arm tight around her waist. “Gus has a police scanner in that boat. They heard the call go out for police and fire and lit out for home. Apparently Gus wasn’t driving fast enough to suit Elsie, so she took over behind the wheel.” He shook his head. “I think this was the first time she’s ever driven a car. She crashed into you because her heel got caught in Gus’s floor mat.”

Kate hobbled along the sidewalk and surveyed the destruction. Anatole’s car looked like an accordion. Four police cruisers were in various stages of smashed disarray behind the Cadillac. And the Cadillac didn’t have a dent.

Gus polished a fender with his sleeve. “She’s classic,” he said proudly.

Howie ambled over to Dave and Kate. “Who the devil was driving this Cadillac?”

Elsie stepped forward. “I was,” she said, her mouth clamped tight, her eyes glittery little steel orbs.

Howie shook his head. “How did I know that?” He looked up to the heavens. “Why me? Why me?”

“Don’t you want to know if I have a license?” Elsie asked.

Howie chewed on his lower lip. “No,” he said. “I definitely don’t want to know if you have a license.”

“I have a license,” Dave said.

Gus raised his hand. “So do I.”

“Good enough for me,” Howie told them. “I’m not Traffic anyway.”

When they finally got back to the house, Anatole was sprawled on the couch, working his way through the fruit basket, watching TV. Dave stared at him in amazement. His shirt didn’t have a wrinkle in it, his hair was perfectly in place, his tie not even a millimeter askew. “He doesn’t grow whiskers, does he?” Dave whispered to Kate.

“Of course not. Whiskers are messy. They wouldn’t dare grow on Anatole’s face.”

Anatole was on his feet. “My car?”

Dave smiled at Kate. “Let me tell him.”