Dressed in a calf-length wool coat, and with a scarf tied loosely around her head, Rhonda slipped out the front door and strolled leisurely down the lane. The short jaunt from her house to the gallery rejuvenated her tired body. She hadn’t slept well since Randolph died. She rounded the corner at Camino del Monte, crossed the parking lot that served Geronimo Restaurant, and walked down the hill, wondering if the new owners of the Cantfield properties would finally do something about their vacant lot with the dilapidated garage. She wished they would sell the land or at least mow the knee-high weeds, which were a fire hazard in the summer.
A white limo braked in front of the gallery. Rhonda’s good mood faded. With the arrival of her adversary, she could kiss peace goodbye. The vehicle’s door opened, and out stepped Al decked from head to toe in . . . white? It had been years since she’d worn any color except black. The change raised Rhonda’s suspicions. Everything about her sister-in-law shouted ulterior motive. She pushed the concern to the back of her mind.
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