EPILOGUE

Lydia from Snapdragon called me Monday morning, and told me the editors all liked what I’d written, which was a relief. The next issue of the magazine had a picture of Legs on its cover, with a detachable toupee, and a line indicating the International Symbol for “no” through his face. The headline read: “Louis Gibson Isn’t Dead, But He Is An A**hole.” There’s nothing like the discretion of the American free press.

Of course, all the daily papers and the broadcast media got the story first. I talked to Mason Abrams on Sunday, thanked him for his help, and filled him in on what I’d discovered. I duped a copy of the cassette with Legs and Stephanie’s confession, and FedEx’ed it to him on Monday, for Tuesday delivery.

By Wednesday, Fax McCloskey’s daily bulletin was announcing the good news/bad news scenario Fax had to report: “We know who killed Louis Gibson—nobody. We know who killed Lester Gibson, but, um, they kind of got away.”

Naturally, the press coverage was tremendous, but Fax had failed to mention that Snapdragon Magazine had broken the story, so nobody reported on it until Lydia started calling the major news outlets and telling them her reporter had done the reporting. My phone started ringing Wednesday night, and didn’t stop again until Saturday.

Once things started to calm down, I attended a special ceremony at the convenience store. It had taken almost two weeks, but a new, red, blue and yellow sign proclaiming “Quick And Easy” was being hoisted above the front door. Mr. Rebinow, thrilled that he’d gotten off so cheap, beamed at me and offered me a free cup of coffee, which I declined. I did, however, accept a free Diet Coke.

Barry Dutton asked me once or twice about the window, but I told him we were better off forgetting about such things, since the damage had been repaired, and the threatening phone calls, amazingly enough, had stopped. Barry sounded a bit skeptical on the phone, but he had enough to worry about, and turned his mind to other matters, like how to keep Detective Westbrook in his office and away from the lunchtime buffet at All-You-Can-Eat.

Confronted by her mother after the Board of Education meeting, Susan Mystroft was forced to admit her crimes publicly and face the music. Among the punishments discussed was a one-week suspension from school, but Anne Mignano quite logically noted that time off from school was what Susan had been aiming for to begin with, so that would be considered a reward, rather than a punishment.

It was decided, at Anne’s suggestion, that Susan be made to show up for school a half-hour earlier than everyone else, and stay for a half-hour detention every day for two weeks. This Solomon-like decision was praised far and wide, by everyone except Susan, who wasn’t the least bit pleased, and Faith Feldstein, who still didn’t believe a girl had thrown a stink bomb, so a conspiracy surely was afoot. She resigned from the Board of Education in protest, but virtually no one noticed. Oliver Stone was reportedly interested in the movie rights briefly, but moved on to something else.

Punishment for Stephanie and Legs was not so easy to enforce. There were rumors they were domiciled in the Cayman Islands, but an investigation by the FBI turned up nothing. Later, whispers surfaced that Stephanie had gotten fed up with Legs and thrown him off a yacht in shark-infested waters, but those could-n’t be substantiated, either.

Louise Gibson died three months later after a blood vessel burst in her nose. Medical science couldn’t explain it, but there were numerous explanations for the two million dollars found in seventeen different certificates of deposit in Louise’s name after she died. They were, eventually, confiscated by the Federal Government, which will probably use them to pay for bribes that will cover up the next scandal. The world’s not perfect, you know.

Jason Gibson continued at the Pringley School, his tuition paid by a blind trust, until graduation. He was accepted at Harvard, but chose to go to Rutgers instead. There was definite potential in that boy.

Louis Junior graduated from Georgetown and took a job working for People for American Values. Strangely, that organization folded its tents six months later, citing diminished donations, and as of this writing, Louis Gibson Jr. is looking for work in government or finance.

Life at my house slowly settled back into a routine. Ethan continued to walk Warren first thing every morning, even when the weather turned colder. Leah never failed to take the dog out after school, and Abby always gave him a long walk after dinner. Our routine was unalterably adjusted to accommodate Warren.

To cut down on the number of odiferous incidents that occurred during the night, I fell into the habit of giving him a walk just before bed. But Warren continued to favor my carpet over the curb, and the smell in my office became unbearable.

So, on an unusually warm November afternoon, I was moving all my office furniture so I could pull up the rug. Preston Burke had offered to do the work, but he was busy repairing the water damage in the kitchen ceiling, and I didn’t want him to be distracted. So I took an afternoon off to get down to hardwood floors in my office.

I was pulling up the rug in the corner just to the left of my desk, where the bookcase generally stands, and thinking that in retrospect, it all began with the lizard, when the phone rang. The caller ID provided no return number, but it did note that the call was coming from California, so I gave up the opportunity to pull up tackless installation strips for a moment or two, and answered it.

“Hello?”

“I’m trying to reach Aaron Tucker.”

“You’ve succeeded.”

“Aaron. This is Glenn Waterman of Beverly Hills Films. We read your script, The Minivan Rolls for Thee, and we really liked it.”

“Who is this, really?”

Waterman laughed. “That’s the kind of humor we found so wonderful in the script,” he said. “We’d like you to come out here for a few days so we can discuss it, with an eye toward an option.”

“You’re paying for my airfare, car, and hotel?” I asked.

“Yes,” chuckled Waterman. “We’re very excited about the script. We’ll happily pick up the tab.”

My mind reeled. The kids get home at two-thirty every day. Ethan is starting wrestling practice on Monday night, and Leah has basketball on Thursdays, gymnastics on Tuesdays, and Junior Girl Scouts every other Sunday. Who the hell would cover for me during my absence? There was no way I could just up and leave. It wouldn’t do to pursue my long-shot career goal and mess up my family life in the pursuit.

I told Waterman I’d get back to him (he probably thought I was holding out for money) and walked into the kitchen, where Abby was trying to stay out of Preston’s way while making chicken fajitas.

“Who was that?” asked Abby. Burke came down off the ladder and wandered out the front door, probably to get something out of his truck.

“A production company in L.A. They want me to go out there and discuss an option.”

Abby, her face at once astounded and elated, turned to look at me, and gave me one of the hugs that keep one coming back for more. “Aaron!”

“Wait a second,” I said. “There’s no guarantee anything will happen, even if I go. I’d have to be out there for four days, at least. There’d be nobody here when the kids got home. You’d have to get them out in the morning, which means you’d get into your office late. There are after-school activities and schedules, and you know how Ethan is about changes in his routine. . .”

My wife, paragon that she is, laughed at me. She put a finger to my lips and gave me a look that would cause Will and Grace to reconsider their respective lifestyles.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll help you pack.”

We went upstairs.

Three weeks later, she helped me pack.