She looked to the movers. “She’s a stalker. That’s a crime.” Her helpless look implored them to come to her defense. I watched them consider it, exchanging wary looks between them, coming to a nonverbal consensus. Finally they inched a bit closer to me, ready to make a play.

“Uh-uh.” I slid my PI license out of my bag, holding it up for them to see. “Back it up, and stand down. This doesn’t have to get any more unpleasant than it already is.”

They backed away. Anne Spada was on her own. She had a curious audience, nothing more, and the boxes weren’t going anywhere fast for a while.

“That’s it. I’m having you arrested.” She plucked a slim cell phone from her pocket, dialed, then held on the line. I figured she was calling her husband, but I had a feeling she wasn’t going to get anywhere with that. Nick Spada didn’t strike me as being the chivalrous sort. He was running for his life and he’d left his wife behind to fret about it, only she didn’t know that yet. She still thought she mattered to him.

He didn’t answer, so she left a pleading message. “Nick, she’s here. What should I do? Call me, please. It’s urgent.” She hung up, her hands gripping the phone tightly as though it might jump out of her hands and race out the front door. Maybe a part of her knew.

“He’s not answering your calls. He’s left you behind. Where would he go? Who would help him?”

Her back stiffened. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. He’s at the office. He has meetings there all day.” She dialed again, turned to face me, defiant, but appearing less sure of it as the moments ticked on. She held on the line, biting her lower lip nervously, anxious for someone to pick up.

“Your husband’s a murderer. He can’t get away.”

Her frightened eyes fired. “How dare you. He’s no such thing. You’re crazy. Nick said so.”

The movers didn’t make even the pretense of working now. “Maybe there’s someplace private we could talk?”