“I was so astonished I think I hung up without saying another word. I headed for my office. I stepped into my boots, pulled on my ski jacket, and walked past Aunt Nettie, Gail Hess, and Olivia VanHorn without speaking. I went out the street door, leaving them gaping after me. Or Aunt Nettie and Gail gaped; Olivia merely raised a well-bred eyebrow. I drove off in my van, which had been Michiganized with the proper license plates and three fifty-pound bags of kitty litter, carried as ballast and f...or emergency traction. The day was sunny and the streets fairly clear, either covered with hard-packed snow and ice or melted through to the pavement. Snow several feet deep covered the lawns and fields I passed on the way to Aunt Nettie’s house on the outskirts of Warner Pier. I drove cautiously, like a Texan in snowy weather, but I didn’t really pay a lot of attention to the road. I was too upset at the thought of my “son.” My son the burglar. I’d figured out who it must be. I was glad I’d stopped for my boots as soon as I pulled into the driveway, a sand lane about a hundred yards long that connects Aunt Nettie’s two-story white farmhouse—built in 1904—with Lake Shore Drive.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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