Waiting For Michael. Kathy Sr. Sampson

the house checking locks and latches, and even went so far as to pluck some hairs from her head, licked them, then stuck them across the gaps between all of the outside doors and their frames. Maybe it would work, maybe not, but they did it in the movies.

      During the next half hour, a continuous routine was established - checking rooms, windows, doors, locks, and hairs, paying special attention to this last device. Far from easing tension, the frequent patrols exacerbated it. A slight detour to the cocktail bar seemed a desirable cure. Taking the glass into the kitchen, the next intended port of call, she drowned the splash of vodka with orange juice. A sip or two later, she was padding along the hall to examine the security of the front door when the phone rang - right behind her!

      Estelle gasped. Her heart stopped. She jolted. A third of the drink slopped out of the glass. Some splashed the wallpaper, but most of it ended up on the carpet. Unaware of this, she stood trembling, mildly alcoholic juice dripping from her hand, eyes wide and staring at the phone which continued to herald an incoming call, daring her to answer.

      It's a phone, she told herself. What harm can a phone do you? It can blow up, was the condescending reply. It happens all the time. Maybe the phantom intruder planted a bomb!

      The imagined threat was terrifying - ridiculous, but terrifying. Despite the self-reassurance, she bent to peer under the resonating instrument, not really knowing what to look for, expecting there might be some sign of tampering. It appeared quite innocuous, just like any other phone. Finally, the warbling stopped.

      Estelle caught her breath. She listened, hoping to hear nothing, praying there would be no ticking. Then it dawned that some bombs were designed to stop ticking just before they went off! A nervous glance in the direction of the front door confirmed it was probably too far to reach in time. Plus, it was latched, dead-locked, and haired!

      The phone started up again. After two warbles and when no explosion had rocked the house, she reproached herself for being stupid. The third and fourth warbles provided the opportunity for a determined swig of the drink, then her hand was swooping for the receiver and had gathered it up before the fifth had finished.

      No bang. No blinding flash.

      "Yes?" she hissed testily, and waited.

      "Estelle," said a man’s voice. "What's wrong? It's me - Jason."

      She let out a huge, relieved sigh. "Oh, Jason__!" It almost came out - Darling - but she managed to stifle herself just in time. "__It's you.” Had that expressed too much relief? Another quick sip of the drink and she tried again. “Nothing's wrong."

      "It doesn't sound that way. I knew I shouldn't have let you go home alone. I'm coming over."

      "No!" Calm down, Estelle. "Honestly, Jason, there's nothing the matter. It was a nice surprise. I wasn't expecting to hear from you until tomorrow."

      "I wanted to catch you before you went to bed," he explained. "I don't suppose you'd consider changing your mind about leaving now before Michael gets back?"

      It might be too late for that, she thought. He could already be here. "I can't, Jason. I told you why. I want this over with. A couple of days and it will be. I realise it must be hard for you, having to take a back seat, but it will be worth it. I promise you." Oh, no! That sounded like a promiscuous come-on and brought an embarrassed flush to her face.

      Jason hadn’t picked the double-meaning and the assurance brought no comfort. "Okay, if you're sure. But it's going to be a hell-of-a wait."

      "Just think of all those chipped teacups," she said, adding a chuckle.

      "I'm thinking," he said. There was a long pause. "I had an idea after I left you tonight. It's about the field trip. Is there any reason that you know of why you shouldn't pack for it now?"

      "My clothes and stuff, you mean?"

      "Clothes and whatever else ladies cart around with them when they go on holiday."

      "You're beginning to sound like a chauvinist."

      "I'm serious, Estelle," he insisted. "If you packed now, tonight, would that be a problem?"

      "No, but I don't see why__"

      "Will you do it, then? Please. For me? Maybe I'm being an old woman, but if your bags are packed and you have to leave quickly for any reason..."

      "I can't see why I'd need to," she lied, glancing towards the front door, trying to see if the hair was still attached or whether it had fallen off, "But I'll do it - for you. And I'll put it in the car, ready."

      "What about Michael's luggage when you collect him from the airport? Won't he get suspicious if he sees your case in the car?"

      "No way," Estelle retorted with certainty. "Lord and Mighty Emilio Michael Ventura wouldn't dream of putting his custom-made, genuine Italian leather suitcase in the boot - might scratch the rolled-gold monogram!"

      "Did you say Emilio?"

      "Michael's first name. He doesn't particularly like it - says it sounds too ethnic - so he only uses it when officialdom dictates."

      Jason snorted derisively. "Except when he goes under the name of George Truscott."

      "Yes," said Estelle quietly as the thought brought her back down to earth, "Except then."

      There was a voice in the background, female, then the phone went quiet as the mouthpiece was muffled. In a second or two, he was back. "Sorry, Estelle - visitors. Fran says it's someone wanting to join the field trip."

      "Fran?" Estelle's jealousy stirred unpleasantly.

      "My Sister."

      "Oh, yes, of course." Kicking herself inwardly, she relaxed again.

      "I'm sorry, Estelle," he repeated apologetically, "But I'll have to go. You're sure you'll be alright?"

      "I'm going straight off to pack," she assured him, "Then I'll put the case in the boot of the car, and after that I'll probably go to bed." Alone, she thought dismally. Still, at least it wouldn't be with Michael.

      "I'll talk to you tomorrow, then." The disappointment was plainly obvious.

      "Look forward to it. 'Bye, Jason." She waited for his farewell and for the line to click before adding softly: "Darling." Then she hung up.

      One last circuit confirmed that there was not a hair out of place which, in turn, suggested that defences had not been breached, not since she'd locked up, anyway. This was cold comfort since the mystery intruder had a key, maybe even a set of them, and could come and go as he pleased.

      It could be a she, Estelle reminded herself. It seemed unlikely, probably because she was still convinced that Michael had, for some reason, returned home early from Bangkok. But until this could be confirmed absolutely, and to preserve a sense of fairness which the bastard in no way deserved, she decided to think of him, or her, as the spectre.

      If it existed at all, it had been very careful. Nothing in the place, with the exception of the front door lock, had been disturbed. Not that could be seen, anyway, and this posed another problem - what had it been doing there? The burning question was finally answered in the bedroom.

      She went there to pack. Her case was in the back of the walk-in robe where it usually was - where it had been since their honeymoon two years previously, because that was the last time she'd been further than Serpentine Falls where Michael had taken her on their first wedding anniversary in a moment of weakness. The valise was tan, Italian leather like his, but had no monogram, presumably for the same reason that it was smaller - a spouse ought not to be encouraged to have ideas above her station. There was just a chance that he might have been considerate of the weight-factor, but it was unlikely. Not that it mattered at that point in time because it was empty.

      Having taken it out, the back of the wardrobe looked conspicuously bare. It took a moment or two of puzzled gazing to realise why. Then she remembered Michael's second case. He'd bought it six months previously and his explanation that he wanted it so that he could save having to use his good one all the time seemed logical. Since that day, however,