“Thank you, Miss Navarre,” Wendy said, beaming. Detective Mendez reached out his hand to her again. “Thanks, Wendy. If you remember anything else, you can have your mother or Miss Navarre call me.”

Wendy had never felt quite so important. This was just like being in a Nancy Drew mystery. Maybe she would write this story herself and become famous. Maybe Tommy would want to be in on it with her. Now that the idea had come to her, she couldn’t wait to ask him.

Miss Navarre led the way out the side door to the dark, quiet hall, a place that called for whispers.

“I’m still not sure what we’re going to do about counseling,” her mother whispered to Miss Navarre.

Wendy intervened. “Mom, I’m fine. I saw a dead person. I’m not warped for life.”

“No, I am,” her mother said. “Maybe I’m the one that needs counseling.”

“Everyone is shaken up,” Miss Navarre said. “But if Wendy feels all right to come back to class, then that’s probably what she should do.”

“Yeah, Mom, don’t make such a big deal.”

Miss Navarre turned to her then. “It is a big deal, Wendy. So if you’re in class and find yourself suddenly feeling scared or upset, you have to promise you’ll tell me right away.”

“I will. I promise,” Wendy said and looked up eagerly at her mother, who was clearly not convinced.

“I’ll keep a close eye on her,” Miss Navarre promised.

“All right,” Wendy’s mother said grudgingly. She looked down at Wendy, worried. “But you do exactly what Miss Navarre just told you, and under no circumstances are you to walk home. I will be here to pick you up.”

So much for revisiting the scene of the crime so she could make notes about the setting for her story, Wendy thought. Oh well. It wasn’t like she was ever going to forget what had happened.

That was for sure.

She couldn’t wait to talk to Tommy.

Chapter 10

10

Jane Thomas always began her day in the garden. This was her quiet time to think and reflect. Working in the garden was her version of meditation and the closest she would ever come to actually stilling her always-busy mind.

Even though she had gotten in late, driving up from LA after a long day of meetings, she had still managed to rise before most of Oak Knoll. The sky was that perfect electric blue of fall, the temperature comfortably in the low seventies. She made her way along the row, deadheading roses while Violet, her black pug, patrolled for mice among the overgrown patch of purple cone flowers.