Your Chariot Awaits by Lorena McCourtney Page B

and saluted my image in the mirror.
    â€œRight this way, sir,” I told an imaginary client as I made a grand sweep of the arm . “Your chariot awaits.”
    Joella applauded.
    I told her about Fitz’s call and asked, “Should I wear this on Tuesday when I go to Sea-Tac?”
    â€œOh, yes. You’ll probably get a fifty-dollar tip.”
    â€œLimousine drivers get tips?”
    â€œMy father always tipped the driver when he rented one.”
    This was looking better all the time.
    â€œHey, is my birthday celebration still on for tomorrow?” I was suddenly feeling more upbeat about a birthday too.
    â€œThe cake is in the oven. I just came over to see what time would be good. Anyone you want to invite?”
    Oddly, the face that popped into my head was Fitz’s. But he was off sailing. Not that I’d invite Mr. Nosy anyway.
    â€œNo, I don’t think so . . . Hey, I know what let’s do. Let’s make it a picnic out at that park on the other side of Hornsby Inlet. We’ll go in the limousine!”
    Joella clapped her hands. “We can build a fire and roast limo-dogs!”
    We decided to leave about noon the next day. My first-ever birthday celebration with a limousine. Maybe sixty really was prime time!
    I WOKE SOMETIME in the night. No, closer to morning, I realized as I peered at the red numbers on my clock radio. I had the feeling something had wakened me.
    Moose, the Sheersons’ Dalmatian, was barking, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary. The early-morning garbagecollection guys always set him off, as did anyone taking a stroll too early or late for his strict time standards.
    But the thing was, Moose usually barked at something. He also sometimes got out of his yard, and what he especially liked to do when he got out was rush over and dig in my flower beds.
    I listened another minute. No, he wasn’t in my yard now. His bark was too far away. So what had set him off? Crime certainly wasn’t rampant on Secret View Lane, and traffic wasn’t heavy because it was a dead-end street. But last fall someone had managed to dig up and steal an expensive Japanese lace maple JoAnne Metzger had newly planted in her yard.
    The limo. What if teenagers were hot-wiring it for a joyride? Or getting their kicks vandalizing it! Slashed seats, obnoxious graffiti, key-scratched paint, flattened tires—
    I jumped out of bed and raced to the kitchen window. A heavy fog blanketed everything, blocking out stars above and turning the houses across the street into mist-shrouded blobs. No streetlights on our little lane, though JoAnne was nagging the powers-that-be about it.
    But I could make out the long, sleek shape of the limo and my little Corolla, which I’d parked behind the limo when I got home from work. Nothing going on there. Moose was still barking, but sometimes he got excited about a stray cat wandering by.
    Then I glanced at the hook by the back door. No limo keys! And now I realized with even more dismay that I couldn’t remember locking the limo after I brought the uniforms in last night. Had I left the keys sitting right out there, readily available to any thief or vandal?
    I flicked on the outside light, released the chain across the front door, and stepped outside. The cool, misty air hit me, and an unexpected prickle of apprehension stopped me on the top step. If I really had heard something . . . if Moose was barking at something more than a stray cat . . . was rushing out there in my bare feet and pajamas really a smart thing to do?
    I peered at the dark shapes of the limo and the Corolla in the driveway. With the light over the front steps on, the night seemed darker, the mist more ghostly, the tinted limo windows more mysterious. Was that a movement? A flicker of something on the far side of the hood?
    I watched for a long, breath-held minute. No, no movement, just my imagination doing a 4 AM tango with nerves. But still, I decided,