Chocolate Quake by NANCY FAIRBANKS

explained the situation. “I can’t believe she’s in jail again. What’s the charge?”
    “She’s accused of killing someone at the women’s center with a big knife.”
    “Why do they think Vera did it?”
    “She had an argument with the woman and—”
    “The victim was a woman? Christ! Vera wouldn’t stab a woman. They must be hard up for a suspect.”
    “Carolyn talked to them, and they’re sure they’ve got the right person.”
    “You believe your mother killed someone?”
    “Of course not, Dad, but Carolyn has decided she has to save Mother by finding the real murderer. She walked out when I told her to stay out of it.”
    “Well, that’s good. She’s gone home?”
    “No, she’s moved to Mother’s sublet and plans to start asking questions at the center tomorrow. Dad, she could get herself killed.”
    “Right,” my father agreed crisply. “As soon as I can get a flight, I’ll fly in and hire a private detective.”
    “Funny, that’s evidently what Mother’s lawyer suggested. Of course, Mother said no.”
    “Well, Vera’s safely in jail, and she can’t tell me what to do, anyway.”
    “How would we find one?”
    “My people do a lot of lab work for a company in San Francisco. They’ll have a security outfit that can recommend someone. Meanwhile, you get on the line and tell your wife we’ll take care of it.”
    I tried the number again and got the answering machine. No doubt my wife was fast asleep in my mother’s bed while I stayed up worrying about the two of them, not to mention all the problems I could see developing out of my father’s appearance on the scene. Mother would be furious if anyone told her about it, and when she did get out of jail, he’d have gone home, and I’d get jumped for interfering in her business.
    Well, hell! Hard to believe how much I’d looked forward to this meeting, how cheerful I’d felt at 5:30, and how tired I was now. If I didn’t get to sleep, I’d have to skip my morning run.

9
    The Duty to Detect
    Carolyn
     
    I woke to find myself in a strange bed without my husband. After a moment of panic, I remembered: Vera’s sublet, the violent murder, the quarrel with Jason. In all our years together, I’d never walked out on him. What had gotten into me? Well, I had been very tired when I got back to the hotel—all the stress, the walking and riding in taxis, not to mention three cups of coffee. Jason can do that, but I’m definitely a one-cup woman, and not near bedtime. No wonder I was awake in the middle of the night.
    Then I had to admit how much I resented feeling responsible for the exoneration of Jason’s mother. Both of them had told me to stay out of it. Yet someone had to do something, and I was the only someone with sense enough to realize it. I had a perfectly good reason to be angry with Jason. She was his mother.
    And what about Gwen and Chris? They’d be horribly embarrassed to have their grandmother on trial for murder, and even more so if she were convicted. Innocent people got convicted; I’d seen it in the newspapers and on TV. Having a grandmother imprisoned for a violent murder could ruin their lives. People would whisper behind their backs. People they wanted to date would shy away. They would be denied fellowships and jobs for reasons that were never mentioned.
    And Jason—didn’t he realize his career could be affected? Or mine? I could see the headline: Food writer related to feminist knife-murderer. Who would want to follow my recipes? On the other hand, my agent, Loretta Blum, would probably say that any publicity is better than no publicity. She’d say the notoriety would help the sales of my book, Eating Out in the Big Easy , when it came out.
    I had to have it in by early fall. How was I supposed to concentrate with my mother-in-law accused of murder? And I had to prove her innocence before our family was destroyed.
    I’d go straight to that women’s center tomorrow morning and ask questions. It was my