I blew on the whistle again, a sustained blast, and was relieved when I heard the whoop of a police car and the scoop of blue lights as a single officer approached in one of the little sport utilities they drive now. He made a motion for me to roll down the window, and I did, but just a couple of inches.

“You’re the one with the whistle?” the man said. I nodded. “Can you step out of the vehicle, ma’am?”

“No,” I told him.

“I need you to step out of the vehicle, ma’am.”

“I’m afraid to,” I said. “If you’ll escort me to the parking lot of the B&B where I’m staying tonight, I’ll get out of the car. Someone was just following me, and he came right up to my car. And he could still be here somewhere.”

“Can I see your license and registration, please.”

I put down the whistle and gathered them and pushed them through the narrow opening in the window.

“Do you know Detective Sunday? Pete Sunday?” I said.

The police officer looked up. He nodded. “I’m here in town for an appointment with him tomorrow. I’m here to get some documents...about a murder.”

“A murder.”

I gave him the short version of the story, but not my married name, and thus not Stefan’s last name. I didn’t want to see that particular lock click into place. He left and after an interminable time in his squad car, the officer came back and agreed to follow me to the bed-and-breakfast, which was called Connell’s Glory Be Inn. There, I stood awkwardly in the gravel parking lot while the cop shined his flashlight into my car and under my car as the innkeeper watched from the porch, occasionally lifting her hand to flutter a wave.

“Do you mind if I look in the trunk, ma’am?”

“Actually, I do.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I don’t have to have a reason. I know that much. All I did was blow a whistle because I was scared. I don’t have anything in the car except my overnight bag and my laptop.”

“No firearms?”

“Firearms?”

“You said you were here about a murder.”

“I’m looking into a murder. I’m not planning to commit one.” I sighed then. “Go ahead and look in the trunk if you want to.”

“Is everything okay?” the innkeeper called.

“It’s fine, Sherri!” the police officer called back. “Just a mix-up!” To me he said, “You don’t need to open the trunk, ma’am. You’re good.”