My employer regarded him. "This will not help you get back together with your wife," she observed.

"It will if I kill you," he said, waving the knife around. "Both of you. Who's going to solve the crime if you're dead?"

She shook her head. "Not possible. There are two of us, standing far apart from each other, and you have a knife, not a gun." We had searched the room before he'd arrived, to make sure there wasn't a gun. The search had been easy, since he was living out of a single suitcase. It seemed pretty clear that, at least in his mind, this was a very temporary living situation.

"Okay," he said, "you're right." He moved closer to her, holding the knife out in front of him, but he was looking at me. "Get away from that door." I complied, moving farther away from where my employer stood. "All I need to do is to get over the bridge and you can't touch me. Any objections?"

I spread my arms wide. "None at all," I said. I said. "But was it really necessary to kill her?"

"She was a stupid girl," he said, "and she wouldn't listen to reason."

"Her family–" my employer began.

"Fuck her family," he said. "She was going to ruin my family, screw up my kids, too." He gestured with the knife. "Get out of my way."

He backed toward the door, opening it with one hand and stepping out backwards without taking his eyes off me.

Christy grabbed his wrist, twisted it until he dropped the knife, yanked him around, and knocked his feet out from under him. He fell on his stomach and she landed on top of him straddling his waist.

"Down, motherfucker!" she snarled. "Face on the floor! Jinx, motherfucker, and I will ventilate your skull if you twitch!"

He tried to look at her, and she brought the butt of her gun down on the back of his head, hard. After that he didn't move, though I could tell he was still conscious.

Christy looked up at me and smiled. If the situation hadn't been so serious, I think she would have winked. With her free hand, she tugged her skirt down so that her thighs were decently covered.

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Donald Trainor's shift at the hotel ended at midnight. His wife had thrown him out two weeks earlier, so he was staying in a room at the hotel (that's the "hotel" where we lived, which was sort of u-town's White House and Capitol, combined with a dorm, a cafeteria, a flop house, and sometimes a den of iniquity – pretty much the opposite of the hotel where Trainor worked).

He took his time getting home, arriving around two-thirty in the morning, having stopped for a couple of drinks along the way.

As he stepped into his room, he flipped the light switch, but the overhead light didn't go on. I stepped behind him and slammed the door shut as my employer switched on the floor lamp next to the easy chair where she was sitting. He glanced at me as I took another step so I was blocking the door, then he looked at my employer.

"Mr. Trainor," she said, indicating the kitchen knife on the side table next to her chair, "we need to talk about the murder of Tracy Davis." She lit a cigarette "This knife was found buried in her body, and your fingerprints are on it." I was noticing the aroma of the beer he'd been drinking. Which was all to the good, from our point of view.

"Who's Tracy Davis?" he asked, trying to sound defiant. "I never heard of her."

She levered herself to her feet and stepped toward the wall. "She was staying only a few doors down the hall." She gestured. "How convenient for you. Your wife told us why she threw you out, but you protested that you'd changed. You wanted to get back to your wife and children, but now this girl showed up. An underage girlfriend, who you seduced on your job, who came to town to be with you, probably thinking that she would become your wife. This could have permanently ruined your marriage, it could have cost you your job, and it could have got you arrested. It's no wonder–"

She had moved a few steps away from the chair and the table, and Trainor lunged forward and grabbed the knife.

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While we were waiting for Ron, Jan was about to light a cigarette when I motioned that this activity was probably more appropriate out on the sidewalk. We weren't in U-town, after all. So, she and Christy went outside as I paid the bill.

When I got out to the street, Jan said, "Christy has just made a good point. I do let you do most of the work with Ron, but she and I need to have a talk." She smiled. "You know many things, I realize, but you are not female. Ron is never going to come to us with–"

Ron joined us and Jan said, "Ron, I'd like to talk to you when we get home. Would you like to go get a milkshake together?"

And Jan was not oblivious to the fact that Ron's reaction was to look around uneasily, wondering what she had done wrong and why she was in trouble. Jan leaned over and they had a short whispered conversation, then she straightened up and looked around. "And where is the car?" she asked, raising one eyebrow.

I smiled. "We are in no hurry. It's a pleasant evening, with pleasant company. I thought we might take a stroll, in the direction of the bridge. Whenever we get tired, we can take a taxi the rest of the way."

"Oh, what an excellent idea." She circled her arm around mine. "Christy, you aren't in a rush, I hope?"

She shook her head. "Not at all. When I'm traveling with you folks, I never make definite plans."

It was a cool evening, with a nice breeze. The sky was clear, and the moon was nearly full. There were a lot of people out on the street, and occasionally someone recognized my employer. A couple of people even asked for autographs, which she signed. One man wanted to take a photograph, but Christy discouraged him.

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"I met with Mr. Bailey, the hotel detective," my employer said as she sipped her soup. "He has some fancy title because it's a fancy place, but he's the house dick. He was eager to help, it turned out. This is not the first time there's been an intimation of an impropriety by Trainor – his first name is Donald – but he's related to the manager and is therefore difficult to fire. And, of course, scandal is the worst option, but until now Mr. Bailey has been thinking that scandal was inevitable sooner or later.

"But I gave him another option, which he was eager to seize. We will arrest Trainor, on our side of the river, and from the point of view of the hotel he will simply stop coming to work one day. The scandal would be averted. This made Mr. Bailey quite happy."

So, we ate and we discussed the details of dealing with Donald Trainor, and the only possibly awkward moment was narrowly averted.

Ron would periodically start squirming, shifting her shoulders around, then she'd realize she was doing it and force herself to stop. Christy observed this and at one point she smiled and was about to say something to Ron, but I caught her eye and emphatically shook my head. I had no idea what she'd been about to say, but I knew it was a bad idea.

Jan observed this, of course, but she didn't comment. Fortunately, Ron was absorbed in seeing how much butter she could slather on a warm piece of corn bread and she didn't notice any of this.

At the end of the dinner, Ron excused herself and went off towards the bathrooms. When she returned, her posture and expression told me that the offending undergarment had been disposed of.

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Seeing my employer and Christy coming down the wide front steps of the hotel, I opened the car door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. This was ostensibly to hold the door for my employer, but in reality it was so I could catch her as she swooned. I had recognized the uncertainty in her step as she'd limped down the stairs.

It had been too many hours on too little food. I'd tried to get her to take at least half of the one sandwich we'd managed to rescue from Ron and Bea, but she had insisted that it go to Stu. Also, I could tell she'd been successful in the hotel. When a case was unsolved she could keep going on nerves and excitement, but then when she had the answers it would sometimes all catch up with her. Which it did, and I took her arm.

"Oh," she said in surprise, leaning on me. "When we get home–"

"Not when we get home," I said. "We're going to have dinner now. I've paid off the driver. Let's go."

She started to protest, but Ron was with us by then and the car was pulling away, so she nodded.

"There's a good place around that corner," Ron said, pointing. We all looked at her in surprise. "We went there, my family, when we were staying here," she explained.

I smiled. This just showed how completely I saw Ron as part of our family. I had forgotten for a moment that she had been part of the Davis family when they'd been staying at this hotel. That had been when Ron had run away, and when her sister had been seduced (I assumed) by a hotel employee named Trainor. Who had probably killed her.

So, Ron took charge. She led us to the restaurant, directed us to her preferred booth, and recommended the franks and beans. I was the only one who took her up on this suggestion.

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"Dad," Ron said as we waited, "do I have to start dressing different?" To my surprise, it sounded like she would do it if we wanted her to.

"Of course not," I said. "Mrs. Anson is right about some things, which I'll get to in a minute, but she's not right about you, or about us. You can dress how you want, just as you have. You can sleep in our room, or in your room, or we can find you another room if you'd prefer. But here's the thing she is right about. When you need something, especially something as basic as clothes, you can come to us. You should come to us. We're responsible for you, for taking care of you and making sure you have the things you need." She looked like this was a new concept to her. "Didn't your birth parents buy you clothes?"

"Sometimes. Mostly I got Tracy's old stuff. It was awful, all flowers and lace and shit. And then I had to fix them if they ripped or something." She had been squirming off and on as we drove from Stu's office to the hotel, and now she started again, working her shoulders up and down. "Do I really have to wear this fucking thing?" she demanded.

"I think you'll recall, 'young lady,' that I said, just a moment or two ago, that you can wear whatever you want."

Frustrated, mostly at herself for being such an easy target, she made a fist and punched me in the arm. Then her expression went blank as she wondered if she'd gone too far. I made a fist and punched her, lightly, in the arm.

She smiled. "I hope that fucking Fifteen didn't screw up the mail delivery," she said happily. "I may have to beat him up."

"Of course," I said earnestly, "it was very nice of him to volunteer to fill in for you."

She shook her head, unwilling to dignify this with a response.

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"When we get there," my employer said, "Christy and I will go in. Ron, you will wait in the car with your father."

"Why?" she demanded. "Are you going to arrest him?"

My employer laughed. "We're not in u-town now. I can't arrest anybody. No, I need to find out his work hours and where he lives, so we can catch him on our side of the river. I have no authority here, so my only way of getting information is to intimidate them because I'm a public figure."

Ron frowned, not completely understanding that my employer's ability to bamboozle people as a noted reporter and amateur detective was going to be somewhat diminished if her daughter was there also.

The car pulled up in front of the hotel and I got out to go around and open the door for my employer, steadying her as she climbed out onto the sidewalk.

Christy came around, and my employer straightened her tie and said, "Let's go."

I got back into the car and sat next to Ron, who was still looking vexed. I thought this was because she had been left out of the excitement, but she had other things on her mind.

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