Eventually the house on Beechnut Street would feel like home to me. I knew this and realized that it would take time. Already I loved my airy second-story bedroom with its skylight and small balcony where I intended to end each summer day.

I sat here now, high above the ground, as close to the sky as I could get, waiting for the stars to appear. On my right, lilac bushes heavy with pale lavender flowers grew up to the rooftop. They brushed against the white wood railing, filling the air with their light fragrance, conjuring images of another spring in my grandmother’s garden when I was a child and everything I desired seemed attainable.

I wasn’t the only one enjoying the outdoors this evening. Libby Dorset was sitting in her yard reading a book. For some reason she had left the strawberry tortes on the table instead of refrigerating them. She still had on her floral print dress, but after long hours of wear, it seemed limp and shapeless. Viewed from the balcony, she looked as deflated as the balloons flapping in the breeze.

As I listened to the splashing water, I let my thoughts drift back to my broken dream of traveling in space. All I had left was a diamond star on a silver chain, a handful of keepsakes, and a lost romance with a man named Jase Clayborne whose face was fading from my memory as rapidly as the last of the daylight.

How could that be when I’d fallen for him so completely?

Jase was a dashing, dark-haired engineer from Fort Worth with handsome, rugged features and a rough-and-ready charm. Over the years, our connection had deepened and flourished. We might have had a future together, but that wouldn’t happen now.

He lives in your past, I told myself. Leave him there. Look to the present.

First, I needed to give myself another pep talk.

Earlier today, I’d been optimistic about my prospects. Teaching astronomy or even general science could be rewarding. Possibly. I’d know more tomorrow after my interview at Maple Creek High School. Whatever job I chose, in time, I might find new friends, possibly a new love, and I’d always have the stars.

The nostalgic scent of lilacs wrapped around me, invoking memories of Jase and driving home to Michigan, pondering my next career move all the way. Over a thousand miles from the Gulf of Mexico to Marble Lake. Finally breathing fresh, sweet air again. One quick decision, and I was a homeowner with a yard to maintain, a porch in pieces, and a construction loan. And all the time in the world to second-guess that decision.

I knew that I’d never return to Texas. Working with Jase on the Starfall Project had been the highlight of my life. Unfortunately, in the end, it wasn’t my project.

I could still find another one; I would. Maple Creek had its own attractions. I decided to think of my future as a blank book. On its pages, I’d write a grand adventure, a red-hot romance—whatever I wished.

So everything really would be all right. Lulled by the evening warmth and lilacs, I leaned back in my wicker chair, closed my eyes and let my thoughts slip into slow motion. Before long, I drifted into a dream. Alone, amid strange constellations and eerie lights, I floated in space, which should be vast and cold and, above all, silent.

This version of the void crackled with raised voices, distant thunder, and a dog’s incessant barking. Like the ice cream truck’s music, the sounds came closer and grew louder with every passing minute. The slosh and splash of water increased in intensity, and the ceiling fan in the bedroom beyond the French doors shrieked like an alarm bell.

I struggled to find an exit from this mad, discordant world and woke up abruptly. Something or someone had cried out. Or was the cry part of the dream?

I didn’t know. The only sounds were the chirping of crickets and the wind. While I’d dosed, the gentle breeze had strengthened into a full-fledged gale. It tossed lilac branches against the balcony and threatened to send my geranium pots tumbling to the ground.

I’d missed the sunset. The stars, usually glittering in a pitch black sky like the stones in my pendant, were somewhere beyond the encroaching storm clouds. At Libby’s Victorian, all of the lights were out with the exception of one in a third-floor room. And something was different.

Of course, something was different. It was nighttime now, and I was sitting alone in the dark.

No. Something else. A quiver of fear borne on the air, blowing with the wind and mixing with the lilacs’ perfume.

For heaven’s sake!

Since I’d moved back to Michigan, my imagination had been running amok. First a lascivious statue and now a vague feeling. I must have left my rational, scientific side behind in Texas.

Find Venus or Jupiter. Make a wish. Then go to bed.

As I scanned the sky, searching for the one special star powerful enough to restore a dream, a loud snapping sound drew my attention down to the ground.

Relax, I told myself. It’s an animal stepping on a fallen branch; a night-roving cat or dog.

I had scarcely completed the thought when a thin figure in a long dark cloak emerged from the darkness beyond the fountain. A voluminous hood concealed its face. Like a shadow come to life or a wraith, it shambled across Libby’s yard. As the sensory motion lamp at the back of the white Victorian flashed on, the figure turned away from the beam of light.

I stood up and leaned over the railing, hoping for a better view of the intruder, but whoever it was entered the overgrown section between the houses and melted into the night. Thunder rolled across the sky, directly overhead.

The incident was all very melodramatic and Gothic, like a scene from a nightmare and over in a heartbeat, but it didn’t necessarily have to be mysterious. Maybe somebody was taking a shortcut through Libby’s yard to the street. But anyone passing this way would have to come through the woods. Who would do that at night? Some young person returning from a romantic tryst? The gypsy woman?

That was pure speculation. Whatever the answer, I couldn’t puzzle over it now. Large, cool raindrops began to fall; then a sudden cloudburst, whipped along by the wind gusts.

I had waited too long to find my wishing star. Quickly, I moved the geraniums away from the balcony’s edge and went inside, locking the French doors. Trying to ignore the feeling that I had left an important task undone, I switched on my bedside lamp. The blades of the ceiling fan turned, circulating warm air through the room. Now their shriek reminded me of a sob.

* * * *
The black jersey dress was a good choice for an interview with a school superintendent. Simple, classy, and memorable. That was the impression I wanted to convey, and my star pendant was the perfect accessory as well as a good luck charm.

My physical assets were few: dark auburn hair, green eyes accentuated with taupe shadow, and a slender, toned figure. I applied lip gloss and stepped back from the dresser mirror, satisfied with my appearance. As soon as I had a light breakfast, I’d be ready for anything, even a dreary Monday morning.

In the kitchen, the tulip bouquet added welcome color to the depressing, outdated décor. I filled the tea kettle with water, pausing to glance out the window at the unpromising view. Last night’s rain had left a waterlogged landscape and light mist in its wake. In Libby’s yard, the balloons were gone, but the strawberry tortes were still on the table.

That was strange. Most people wouldn’t leave food outside during a thunderstorm. Libby must have intended to give the leftover cakes to the birds, but maybe she’d been too tired to finish taking her party apart. I should have offered to help her. I could still do it.

My gaze shifted to the back of the yard where the statue gleamed in the mist, its tall, lean form wreathed in gauzy shreds. Flowers skimmed the surface of the water below. Like the tulips, they provided a splash of color in a dull monochromatic scene. Orange, yellow; and red; purple, blue, and violet on a green background.

There was something familiar about that combination, and here was another strange element. When had I ever seen flowers in the fountain? I must be looking at the balloons, cut loose from the branches. Or . . . I pushed the curtain aside, trying to see clearly into Libby’s backyard. A horrible suspicion closed in on me; another possibility. From here it looked as if something substantial was in the fountain.

The rainbow melt on the water resembled the dress Libby had worn yesterday. That meant . . . Leaving the teakettle on the counter, I rushed through the back porch out to the yard. That might mean . . .

Drops of moisture dripped down from the trees as I plowed through the high wet grass, following the sound of water. I broke into a run, hoping that when I reached the fountain, I’d find a tangle of flat, soggy party balloons after all.

But the colors were the floral pattern on a dress, and the dress covered a body.

“Oh, Libby—no . . .”

She lay face down in the fountain, completely submerged. The water crashed into the cement basin, pelting her body in an endless cascade.

I stared at the grim sight, willing it to turn into balloons or blossoms. Anything but my neighbor. Then instinct propelled me into motion. Libby might still be alive, if this had just happened. She might live—if I acted quickly.

I knelt on the rocky ledge that bordered the fountain and pulled her hand out of the water. It was cold and slick. She had no pulse, and her hair streamed down her back in seaweed strands. Her right arm lay at an awkward angle as if she had been trying to reach the statue’s outstretched arm.

To hold onto it as she lifted herself out of the water?

For the first time since discovering Libby’s body I looked up at the satyr. His hand with the long, curving fingers seemed to be beckoning to her. Or to me?

Dear God, lose that thought.

Nausea washed over me. Why was I still holding Libby’s wrist? I lowered her hand gently into the water and moved away, taking deep breaths. My sleeve was wet and, for a moment, I couldn’t remember why that mattered.

I had only made physical contact with Libby once before, shaking her hand when she welcomed me to the neighborhood. Now I had touched Death, and I felt its presence—peering out from the woods, prowling through the rooms of the old Victorian, and lurking among the boards and tools on my unfinished back porch. Everywhere.

Shivering in the damp air, I corralled my runaway thoughts. Wet clothes and minor discomforts were insignificant. Libby lay dead in her fountain, and all I could do for her now was call the police.