Disorderly Conduct. Mary Feliz

      My blood pressure must have skyrocketed. I could hear my pulse pounding. I took a beat or two to get my temper under control before answering.

      “Mom?”

      “Draw up a petition? Of course, she can. Close Rancho San Antonio? I doubt it. It’s too busy a park. Too cherished by the entire community. Could she develop it? She’s wanted to for years. Her daddy owns the biggest home-and-office-building construction company on the Peninsula. I expect it’s greed that’s driving her, rather than a desire for increased safety. My guess is that if she goes public with her petition, she’ll be hit with an enormous backlash from all the folks who value it as a nature preserve and recreational area.”

      David, biting his lip, still seemed troubled, so I continued to reassure him.

      “And those hundreds of signatures she mentioned...she probably doesn’t have any yet. Maybe she hasn’t even drawn up a petition. I’ve only worked with her a few times, but she’s one of those people who talks a good game, but has trouble completing her vision.”

      David snuggled closer to my side of the bed, and I patted his back. “It will be okay, hon. I promise.”

      “But murder? She’s saying it was murder. Who would hurt Teddy’s dad?”

      Unsaid, but as audible as if the words had been spoken aloud, was David’s fear that anything that happened to Patrick could just as easily bring harm to Max.

      “I can’t think of anyone who would want to hurt him, can you?” I said softly. “He was too nice.” Earlier in the day, when I’d heard the description of Patrick’s injuries and Teddy’s protests that his father would never have fallen, my thoughts had shifted immediately to homicide. But now, upon reflection, it seemed impossible. Patrick was beloved in all his circles of influence, including coaching, work, his athletic clubs, and around the neighborhood. If there was a contest for Least Likely to be Violently Attacked, Patrick would have won it, every time.

      “But...there’s something else, Mom.” David scrambled out of his sleeping bag and rummaged through the pile of our belongings that oozed outward from the front wall. He came back with his laptop, stepping over Belle and Brian, who both snorted and rolled over without waking. He fired up the computer and clicked open a website. Holmes peered over David’s left shoulder while tickling my son’s ear with his tail. David pulled Holmes into his lap and handed me the computer. “There,” he said.

      I gasped. Someone, with obvious malicious intent, had created a web page that appeared disturbingly official. Titled “On the Trail of a Murderer” with an entry that screamed in giant font: “It’s Always the Wife.”

      Photos followed that must have been lifted from Internet obscurity. They showed bunny-suited CSI teams scouring wooded hillsides. Hiking-boot-clad legs were buried in leaf litter unlike anything you’d see in the Bay Area’s dry oak chaparral and grassland. Unflattering and overexposed photographs of Tess, Patrick, and Teddy resembled mug shots, and were missing only the blank stares found in FBI Wanted posters.

      The page was fake, but convincing. It would deliver its messages in a blink: Patrick was murdered; Tess had killed him, brutally; and she’d left his body to be consumed by fire on a burning hillside. I dropped the laptop on the bed and scooted away from it, as if that would allow me to escape its malicious message.

      I took a deep breath. “Well, I can see why that would upset you, David. It bothers me. We need to let Jason and Paolo know about this right away.” I searched the side table for my backpack before giving up. “Do you have your phone?”

      David reached under his sleeping bag. I should have known. Both boys had long ago given up their attachment to stuffed animals, but now they slept with their electronic devices close by, ready to check their texts upon waking. We had a charging station at home on the first floor, where phones were supposed to be put to bed for the night. It was a rule most often observed in the breach, and we probably needed to revisit it before school started. But right now I was grateful David had his at hand.

      Every member of our family had long ago put Jason, Stephen, and Paolo’s numbers into their phones. Following our disastrous introduction to Orchard View nearly a year earlier, all three men had become as close as family. Along with Tess, they served as emergency contacts for both boys on school forms.

      While we waited for the line to connect and for Jason to answer, Belle nudged my hand, offering reassurance. Watson and Holmes perched on the back of the couch, tails twitching in response to our growing tension. I reached out a hand and gripped David’s.

      The call went directly to voice mail, with instructions for reaching an emergency contact. I decided the problem could wait until morning, and left a message. “Jason. It’s Maggie. Give me a call as soon as you’re awake. David’s shown me a web page you should take a look at. It’s probably as illegal as it is disturbing. It’s called ‘On the Trail of a Murderer,’ and it’s ghastly.” I paused, thinking there was surely more I could say to bring home the brutal and scurrilous message. I decided to let the page speak for itself. “I’ll text you the link. I’m sure it’s breaking all sorts of laws. I’ll leave a message for Forrest Doucett too.”

      I ended the call and glanced at David. I hunted through the phone’s contact list for Forrest Doucett’s number before remembering that I held David’s cell, not mine, and there was no reason for him to have the lawyer’s number. David retrieved my phone from where it had fallen between the sofa and the side table and handed it to me. I unlocked the screen and dialed the number.

      All of my electronic devices had numerous ways to reach Forrest, who’d been Max’s college roommate. In addition to our long-standing relationship as close friends, in recent months, we’d consulted him as a lawyer, asking for help unsnarling several dicey situations.

      Using some electronic magic, my call had been routed to Forrest’s direct line. He answered in a sleepy voice.

      “’Lo?”

      “It’s Maggie. We’re in trouble.”

      “You personally, or a friend? Let me get a pad and pencil.” Forrest seldom indulged in chitchat, particularly if there was a legal knot that needed to be untangled.

      “It’s Tess. And a horrid web page accusing her of murder.”

      “The URL? Web address?”

      I gave it to him and waited while he pulled it up.

      “What are you doing answering your phone at this time of night, anyway?” I asked. “I’d planned to leave a message.”

      “I can hang up now so you can do that, if you’d like.”

      “No, no. I prefer the real you.”

      Forrest sucked in a breath, which told me he’d reached the site. “Whoa. This is nasty. Is any of it true? Is Patrick dead?”

      “I’m afraid so. But we haven’t heard anything from the medical examiner about the cause or manner of death. And Tess is certainly not responsible. Even if anyone seriously suspected her, I’m sure she has an alibi. Can we get that trash taken down? Right away? The last thing Tess or Teddy needs is to see something that hateful right now. It’s a personal attack, and they’re really vulnerable at the moment.”

      David batted at my leg with his hand. He frowned and shook his head. “Teddy’s already seen it. That’s what I was trying to tell you.”

      “It seems the kids have already shared it widely,” I said. “Teddy’s seen it.”

      “Unfortunate,” Forrest said with a tsk. “But probably unavoidable. I swear kids find this stuff as if they’ve got an army of bots hunting it down and they had social media feeds hard-wired into their elbows. I’ll have to hire middle school students to keep up.”

      Max rolled over in bed, grunted, then sat bolt upright with questions etched in his sleep-wrinkled skin. “Wha—”

      I shifted in bed and mouthed the words,