Nothing but Trouble | Chapter 14 of 32

Author: Susan May Warren | Submitted by: Maria Garcia | 1188 Views | Add a Review

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CHAPTER EIGHT

PJ slammed the door to her Bug outside Ovations Salon and Spa, a sleek, silver and pink building where once stood a row of pastel bungalows —one the former residence of one of Boone’s football teammates —now bulldozed and revitalized into commercial zoning a block behind Main Street. PJ well remembered throwing toilet paper into a tall oak, now replaced by the shiny black sign advertising an escape for the body, mind, and soul.

She just hoped to escape with all three intact. Especially soul. She wasn’t really stealing, though —she had Trudi’s permission. And everyone who went into a spa hoped to come out someone different, right? Except PJ was going in as someone different, thanks to her sister’s swank Vittadini shades, her cherry red lipstick, and a creamy two-piece Ann Taylor suit she probably wore when she was pregnant.

Surely Connie would have donated it all for the cause of truth.

“May I help you?” A receptionist the size of a cotton swab, with gleaming gold hair and nails imprinted with pink flowers, smiled at PJ as she entered the cool, perfumed air. Piano music ran its hushed river of calm over the hum of hair dryers and low gossip.

“I have a ten o’clock therapeutic massage with Jack,” PJ said, not removing her sunglasses, noting the name, Tami, on the girl’s name tag.

Beyond the reception counter a gallery of hairdressers and manicurists groomed the royalty of Kellogg. Beyond that, through an arched doorway, PJ guessed she’d find the therapy rooms. To her left, a nook off the reception counter housed aromatic oils, lotions, shampoos, hydrotherapy salts for sale.

She wondered if they were hiring.

“Jack isn’t here,” Tami said. “Can I reschedule?”

“He told me his assistant would see me.” PJ pulled her glasses down her nose. “I’ll wait, thanks.”

Tami frowned. “Just a moment.” Taking her portable telephone, she unwound herself from her seat and clip-clopped on pink sandals through the gallery, toward the back.

PJ ducked into the supply room off the nook, yanked off the glasses, and affixed a black hair extension she’d picked up at a drugstore that morning. With her hair pulled back in a scarf, the extension snaking down her back, every hint of her red hair vanished. She wiped off her lipstick and pulled on a pair of pink scrubs she’d found at a uniform supply store, yanking them up under her skirt. Securing the skirt into her waistband, she pulled a smock over her jacket and tugged on a sanitary mask —another convenient purchase from the drugstore —clipping it behind her ears and concealing her mouth.

Perhaps Matthew was right —her bag was a suitcase.

Stowing her bag behind a carton of conditioner, she grabbed a bottle of massage oil from the shelf and slipped out of the storage room.

PJ brushed past Tami as she headed toward the back. She spied her scanning the reception area with a frown and hid a grin as she slipped into the inner sanctum beyond the arch.

The musical river flowed louder in the back. Three women paged through magazines, having made it past the castle guard and into advanced reception. Well-groomed and prim, one of the ladies looked up at her, and PJ ducked her head as she beelined for Jack’s office, right where Trudi said it would be.

PJ dug the key from her pocket. Yes, she had learned to pick a lock when she worked as a locksmith apprentice, but perhaps that would attract some attention.

The key turned. PJ resisted the urge to look over her shoulder as she slid into the office. Furtive looking only created suspicion should someone else be watching, right?

She turned on the light and warmed up the computer as she paged through the Day-Timer on Jack’s desk. There, neatly penned in tight handwriting, were his Tuesday appointments. PJ scribbled them all down just to be thorough but circled the telephone and address of his 10 a.m. appointment —Carol Billings.

The computer had just begun to hum when a knock at the door nearly shot her out of her scrubs.

She didn’t move, didn’t even breathe as she stared at the humming computer. Hurry, hurry. According to Trudi, Jack also kept a journal of his daily activities on his computer. Wouldn’t that be worth sticking around to find? Especially if he had something about a missing appointment with Carol Billings?

Another knock.

PJ glanced at the door don’t look! —and then, of course, it opened. She froze.

Tami blinked. “I . . . uh . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Jack had sent a replacement today. We canceled all his appointments.”

PJ waited for her to point a finger you, you, the missing redhead! —but Tami only stared at her, waiting for a response.

God bless her face mask. “Oh. Okay. I guess I’ll go home.”

“No.” Tami looked so apprehensive, PJ squelched the guilty urge to tell her not to worry about the ten o’clock customer who had disappeared in the lobby. “Can you take Denise Hoffman? She has a ten o’clock herbal wrap scheduled, and Marianne is running late.”

Denise Hoffman. That name rang alarms in her head, but she couldn’t place it. The computer continued to whir.

“I’ll put her in the Arizona room.”

Swell.

Tami closed the door with a soft click, but PJ’s pulse ratcheted up to high.

A wrap?

Would that, by any chance, require her to touch people?

Especially their skin?

Maybe she didn’t need the computer files. As she stepped out into the hall, the side exit light, the one with the red fire escape handle, neoned.

Right then, Boone’s voice kicked in: “Denise, his son Tucker’s wife, found him on his massage table at his home.”

Denise Hoffman? Daughter-in-law of the deceased?

PJ found the Arizona room and cracked open the door. There, standing with a towel wrapped around her caramel-colored birthday suit, was her patient.

Recognition hit her like a line drive to the cheap seats. Denise Franklin, homecoming queen and girlfriend to Tucker Hoffman.

Tucker Hoffman, son of Ernie.

And reaching even further back, PJ pinpointed a shady memory of Tucker getting arrested. For assault? Had he done time in juvie hall? Because he’d been two years younger than she was, it was a gauzy memory at best.

Denise shivered. “Could you close the door?”

“Oh, of course.” PJ closed the door with a soft click, sealing her fate. Thankfully the stainless steel shelf next to her held a clipboard with the treatment listed. PJ grabbed it, pretending to read, but questions streamed through her mind. When did Denise find Hoffman? Where was the massage table? Where was Tucker when his father was killed? Were he and Denise the sole beneficiaries of the estate?

“I’ll be right back,” she said, exiting to find the correct body spread. Five minutes later she returned, armed with lemon and sage cream, cellophane, and rubber gloves. Getting a wrap was like having your body buttered, then wrapped tight and left to cook, the herbs seeping into your skin to rejuvenate it.

PJ knelt before Denise, held her breath, scooped out a handful of spread, and began to apply it to her long legs.

Jack had better be innocent.

“Are you related to Ernie Hoffman?” PJ asked, the rest of her body treatment dependent upon Denise’s answer.

Denise nodded, her hands still over her upper carriage. PJ noticed a fresh manicure as she glanced up at her, catching her answer.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” She finished one leg and moved on to the next. The fragrance of lemon and dusky grass lifted off the cream, and it had the texture of cooked oatmeal. PJ tried not to think about it.

“Thank you,” Denise said.

“What a horrible thing to happen.”

Denise nodded, then, as if catching herself, said, “Actually, we all knew he was in over his head. Probably a couple of loan sharks after him.” She shifted her weight. “I just can’t believe he’d get himself in so far.”

“Loan sharks? I thought they caught the guy.” PJ kept her voice easy.

“I don’t know. He had a broken neck, and I found him on his massage table. But the house had been ransacked. I know Jack. I recommended him to my father-in-law.” She shook her head. “He’s not a killer, and the way Ernie was spending Tucker’s inheritance, I have to wonder what really happened.”

PJ said nothing.

“He probably lost it gambling. He was always online. I have to admit, I wondered if he had an addiction. I had to beg him to come over on Sundays for dinner. You’d think a widower in his twilight years would want to spend time with his son and grandchildren.”

PJ rolled out the cellophane, starting at Denise’s ankle and winding her way up her legs. “Was anything stolen?” she asked as she wrapped Denise’s thighs together, averting her eyes as much as possible. Perhaps she’d leave the backside for . . . later.

“Who knows? He had a desk safe, and it had been smashed open, but what did he have to steal? He knew the names of all the Roman Caesars and their descendants, but he didn’t give a second thought to his own offspring. Or his future.” She made a sound that PJ labeled as disgust. “If it wasn’t for Tucker bailing him out over and over, he’d have lost his house.”

PJ buttered Denise’s stomach, which she didn’t have to suck in. PJ tried not to hate her for that. Denise had the stomach of a surfer while PJ had been born with a little poochy thing. Still, she had to respect her a little too, because PJ would never stand in the near nude letting someone butter her body just so her skin could be supple.

“Didn’t he have a pension from the school?” PJ stood to butter and wrap her upper body.

“Should have. He kept telling Tucker that he had a nest egg.” She glanced at PJ, her expression hard. “Yeah, that’s right, his nest egg was me and Tucker.”

The bitterness in her tone stung PJ, and she frowned.

Denise caught her look. “I’m sorry,” she said as she lifted one arm. “It’s just that the last time he and Tucker talked, they had a fight. Tucker is so grief-stricken, he hasn’t gone out of the house since Monday.”

“They had a fight?” PJ wrapped her torso tight, then handed her a Kleenex as tears began to stream down her face. She looked like she needed a hug but, well, she was naked, even if wrapped in cellophane.

“Just that morning. It was horrible. Tucker went over, stood on the front porch as they argued. The entire neighborhood probably heard them. Tucker is horrified that this is his last memory —his dad slamming the door in his face.”

“What did they argue about?”

To PJ’s surprise, Denise’s eyes turned glassy. “We asked him to move in with us. To sell the house and not worry about finances. He refused. It’s not like we’re made of money —Tucker is a math teacher and a football coach. We barely make ends meet. But with the recession, we were hoping we could pool our resources.”

Which begged the question, how did she have the extra cash to get buttered?

PJ eased her onto the table, more questions spinning in her head —or perhaps that was simply the redolence of lemon. Still, if Ernie was bankrupt, why had she seen him hanging out at the golf course? Did Jack suspect him of misinvesting his money? or losing it?

The memory of Ernie’s smile and Davy’s slurp of an ice-cream cone made PJ’s chest tighten. She placed a heated mask over Denise’s eyes and turned down the lights. “Someone will be in to check on you in thirty minutes.”

PJ slipped out of the room and caught a glance from yet another needy client. Dumping the empty butter dish and cellophane box in the sink, she whipped off the gloves and strode for Jack’s office. She printed his journal for last week and tucked it under her shirt. She’d call in a half hour and ask for Denise . . . and someone would find her.

PJ snuck back to the supply room, shucked off the scrubs, grabbed her bag, and exited the spa.

Was Tucker big enough to put his dad in a headlock, maybe accidentally . . . kill him? Could their argument be a motive for murder?

And would Denise Hoffman leave a tip?

* * *

“What’s wrong with you?”

So many options . . . where to start? She was out of macaroni and cheese. Vera was chopping up what looked like a squid on Connie’s countertop. Davy was starting to look like a sausage in his Spider-Man jammies, now covered with chocolate ice cream. And she had yet to find the runaway library book from Fellows.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.” PJ crossed her arms and leaned against the front door, staring at Boone. He couldn’t intimidate her.

Not after she’d spent the morning smearing goo on another woman’s body.

“You know what I mean.” Boone didn’t smile, and the fact that he’d arrived in his street clothes, smelling freshly showered like this was an off-duty and personal visit, didn’t escape PJ despite his police intimidation tactics —bracing one arm on the doorframe and angling a pair of shades down his nose as he stared at PJ with his cool blue eyes.

“You don’t scare me.” PJ put a hand to his shirt and pushed against his hard stomach —she well remembered that. “So stop crowding me.”

“I’m just getting started if you don’t back off.”

She wiped her hands on her towel and flipped it over her shoulder. In the background, Davy slurped a Fudgsicle, his reward for finishing his hot dogs and Tater Tots. He’d smiled at her today when she picked him up from Trudi’s, although when she went to hug him, he wiggled out of her arms. They’d spent the rest of the afternoon swinging, making sand castles, and playing hide-and-seek. She knew she’d figure out a way to use that play set.

Across the street, a neighbor mowed his lawn in the early evening, the buzzing hum keen accompaniment to the way her pulse seemed to come to life whenever Boone entered her atmosphere.

PJ stepped back from the doorframe. “Let’s start over. Hi, Boone. What are you doing here?” She slid him a smile meant to diffuse his dark mood, but she’d obviously lost her powers, because he ignored her and muscled his way into the house. “Come in, please.”

“Why do you always have to go looking for trouble?”

Now that wasn’t fair. He, in fact, was the one who’d started all this. “I’m not looking for trouble. I’m just trying to be the friend I should have been . . . would like to be.”

No, if she were honest, there was more to it. Like proving that Trudi’s husband wasn’t a murderer and that she wasn’t an abysmal judge of character by putting Davy in Trudi’s care. Or that she wasn’t a giant failure as an aunt for getting him kicked out of Fellows.

Well, there wasn’t much hope of changing that. “Besides, is there trouble?” She said it sweetly, batting her eyelashes.

His face was stone. “Trudi seems to think that Ernie Hoffman was killed by his son, Tucker.”

“Really? I wonder how she got that idea.”

Boone shook his head like he wasn’t buying her bluff.

“Okay, okay, so I might have suggested something to that effect this afternoon when I dropped by Peppermint Fence to pick up Davy. But, Boone, the poor woman had been on the telephone for most of the day, trying to scrape up 10 percent of the one-hundred-thousand-dollar minimum bond —hello, what kind of judge sets that? —for murder. Now Jack’s stuck there at least for the entire weekend, if not longer.”

“He’s a flight risk. We placed him at the scene around the time of death. He had means —a guy who’s a physical therapist could certainly break a man’s neck. And he had motive —Ernie took his money. We traced a wire transfer from Jack’s account to Ernie’s the day of the murder that Jack finally admitted knowing about. Which was why he attacked Ernie at the country club. At best, Ernie lost Jack’s money. At worst, he stole it.”

“I don’t think old Mr. H. was a thief. And I can’t believe Jack is a killer.”

“Why? Because you feel sorry for him?” Boone took off his glasses and shoved them into his pocket. “I’m not the bad guy here.”

“Turning over a new leaf?”

“Sometimes, PJ —”

“What, can’t take the truth?”

Boone’s eyes flashed. “You might not know the entire story; did you ever think of that?”

“I know enough. And unless the bank gives Trudi a second mortgage, Jack’s in for a long stay at Kellogg Sing Sing. I hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“You act as if I’m a vigilante posse. For pete’s sake, PJ, I’m a cop. We arrest people.”

“That seems to be what you Buckams do best.”

Boone gave a quick intake of breath. PJ looked away, running her hands up her arms, now blistered with a chill.

“The thing is, we haven’t had a murder in Kellogg since I was in seventh grade.”

PJ glanced at his cold expression.

“Until you came to town.”

“You don’t think I’m responsi —”

“I think you’re sticking your nose in where you shouldn’t.” He leaned close and PJ tried to dismiss the fact that summer air clung to him like sweet cologne. “Guess what, PJ —I actually went to school to become a cop, and I just might know what I’m doing.”

He slid a step closer to her, and PJ felt the doorframe needle up her spine. His look softened as he scanned her face. She’d forgotten how handsome he . . . was . . . no, she hadn’t forgotten, not at all. He still started a smile with a slow curve on one side and had dark lashes that framed those pale blue eyes. PJ drew in a long breath and realized that was a mistake.

“We found our killer. You should be cheering.”

“Boone, I just think you should look at Tucker Hoffman. And did you ever get ahold of Carol Billings?” Her voice, however, ended with a tremor that belied her frustration. “I gave the list of Jack’s appointments and his journal to Trudi, but —”

Oops. She might have given too much away there. She wanted to slap her forehead, but that would really convict her.

Boone narrowed his eyes slightly, then looked at her lips. “Carol Billings is out of town and has been for two weeks. And, yes, I checked Tucker’s alibi. He was teaching summer school all day.”

Not all day. After all, he’d had time to stop by and fight with his father. PJ’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t you think it’s weird that Carol would make an appointment during the time she’s out of town?”

“She claims she never made the appointment. She was at a funeral when Jack says he went to her house.” Boone touched her face gently with two fingers. “What are you doing back here, anyway?” His voice held the tone that had chased her for a decade, the one that found her in that naive place between asleep and awake. “You shouldn’t be here. Not now. Don’t you know that when you’re around I can’t think straight?”

Oh.

When he leaned close, PJ lifted her face, caught in the sweet danger of being in the hot circle of his embrace, churning up unfinished business.

“Aunt PJ!”

Boone jerked away as if he’d been slapped.

“Davy!” She ducked under Boone’s arm, her heart nearly cutting off her air, and almost ran to her four-year-old savior. She turned Davy toward the kitchen to wipe the chocolate from his face.

“PJ, listen to me.” Boone came up behind her. She caught warning in his voice, even if it still held a tremor of desire. “Just let me do my job. If Jack is innocent, justice will be served.”

PJ whirled hard, the emotions in her throat swift and fresh. “Oh yeah, I know all about justice. Like the fact that the man I thought I . . . the man I almost . . . well, the guy who told me that he loved me let the entire town think I burned down the country club, and he didn’t say a word to defend me —”

“That’s not exactly how —”

“Why didn’t you tell them the truth, Boone?” Her voice cracked. “That you were the one who was smoking, not me? That I was waiting for you, like you asked me to while you went and bragged to your football buddies about me and about what we were going to do.”

“I wasn’t bragging —”

“I don’t want to know what you were doing. But you should have stood up for me, told them it wasn’t my fault.”

“I had my scholarship —”

“You lied to save your own skin.”

He flinched. Oh, how she wanted to slap him. And perhaps in a different life, a different time, she would have. Only she wasn’t that person anymore. Or was trying not to be.

She schooled her voice, glancing at Davy. “I hope you did well at the university. I never did make it to college.”

“That wasn’t my fault —”

“Do you seriously think I could have gone to the same school —seen you on campus every day? You were my whole life, Boone. I didn’t even apply at any other colleges. And then it was too late.”

“You were my life too. You and football. Only you were gone, and I broke my ankle in preseason practice. I never got to play. Ever. I lost my scholarship and joined the army.”

That snapped the wind out of her sails. Just long enough for Boone to gather his feet under him.

“You don’t know the mess you left behind.”

I left behind —”

“Me, Peej. You left me. I wasn’t ready to lose you.” His voice sounded as if he’d torn it from someplace inside. “Do you have any idea what life was like after you left town? You weren’t the only one whose life derailed that night. And I had more to prove than you —I still do.”

He took a step toward her, but she held up her hand. “Don’t —”

His face quivered, emotion flashing across it, but he kept his voice tight. “I felt sick. I even drove down to your aunt’s place in South Dakota once I got the address from your sister, but you’d already left.”

“I couldn’t stay there.”

“But you didn’t come back to me either. Sheesh, PJ, I thought . . . yeah, okay, I loved you. And I thought you loved me back. What about this?” He yanked up his shirtsleeve, and the name PJ on his shoulder, small and defined, matched the Boone on hers. PJ felt the urge to put her hand over it, hide it, or even trace it back into her heart. But she couldn’t move. Because everything she’d hoped for —too much, probably —shone right there in his eyes, crisp and brilliant.

He let his shirtsleeve fall. “That meant something to me —everything to me. I was ready to marry you.” He shook his head, turning away from her.

She saw herself going up to him, touching his back, calming the fury she saw between his tense shoulder blades.

But she couldn’t go back there, not without tripping over all the baggage she’d dragged behind her —and after ten years, she needed a virtual trailer. Most of all, she wasn’t the girl he’d chased to South Dakota. And she needed a man who believed in her now.

“I didn’t know you did that.”

“What, loved you?” His voice hovered just above a whisper.

“Came to South Dakota.”

He let a beat pass. “I went to California too. Connie told me you were living on the beach there, and I took one summer . . . and tried to find you.”

He turned, his blue eyes in hers.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes, PJ, I did. But you were gone. Again.” A muscle pulled in his jaw. “You have no idea how sorry I am. How many nights I tossed away, wishing I could take back that night, wishing you could hear me call, see me looking for you. The best day of my life was when I pulled into the country club on Sunday and saw you standing there, as if you’d never left.” He took a step closer to her, and she didn’t stop him. “I want you back.”

PJ closed her eyes, the words rushing over her like an ocean wave. The floor tilted under her.

“But you and I have nothing to do with Jack. Stay away from my investigation.” His breath touched her face.

She opened her eyes. “He’s innocent, Boone.” But her voice lacked muscle.

“Everything I’ve uncovered points to Jack.”

“But —”

“Hey, I’m a cop. You can trust me.”

Oh, how she longed to trust him —especially now, with his heart wide open for her to see his regrets. But something inside tightened down, her scars hardening to close over the tender flesh of her own heart.

He must have seen the doubt in her eyes. “Okay, maybe I should rephrase. What if I say, if you don’t trust me, I’ll make sure you get more than a suspended sentence this time?”

She tried for a nasty look, but he reached out and ran his hand behind her neck, and it felt so warm and familiar and safe . . .

“Boone, stop,” PJ whispered, but it came out against the soft smile curling his lips as he leaned close. Too close. And of course, her heartbeat slammed against the thumb caressing her neck to betray her. “Jack is innocent; I know it.”

He gave her a one-eyed wince. “Peej —”

“What if I can prove it?”

“I don’t want you to prove it.” His lips moved against her neck, a shiver of dormant feelings brushing through her. “Don’t you get that part?”

She sighed, put her hands on his chest, and pushed with everything she had inside her, which at the moment, seemed feeble. In fact, she couldn’t be sure if she didn’t just hang on.

He took a half step back. “All right. I’ll dig a little. If you promise to behave. And if Jack Wilkes is innocent . . . I’ll . . .” He took her face in his wide, warm hands. “I’ll . . . take out an ad and tell Kellogg that you didn’t set fire to the country club.”

Oh no, he’d made her laugh. In the back of her brain she knew he was just trying to charm her . . . but his eyes were on fire as he drew her to him, angled his head . . .

“What on earth is going on in here?”

This time PJ was the one who jumped. Her mother stood at the front door, her hazel eyes cold as she stared at Boone.

What was her mother doing here? PJ needed some sort of early warning system if her mother was going to suddenly start popping into her life.

Boone took one look at Elizabeth Sugar and let go of PJ as if she might be made of fire. Amazing how fast a nearly thirty-year-old man could morph into a teenager with a look of sheepishness. “Mrs. Sugar —”

“Get out, Boone. Now.”

PJ opened her mouth to defend Boone, but her mother’s tone touched something inside her. It sounded just a little like . . . panic.

Boone clenched his jaw tight as he strode out without a word.

Elizabeth’s icy look nearly sent PJ racing out behind him. “I can’t believe you let him in the house after . . . after . . . Haven’t you learned anything?”

“Calm down, Mom. He was just filling me in on Mr. Hoffman’s murder. They have Trudi’s husband in custody, but I know he’s innocent.”

“And you’re the town crier?”

“What brings you by?” PJ gave her a little hug, still feeling Boone’s hands in her hair.

“I don’t like that Boone coming around here. He’s just going to get you in trouble again.”

PJ stared at her mother as she unwrapped her head scarf, pulled off her driving gloves. Get her in trouble? And here she’d always figured her mother believed Boone’s side of the story. “I know. So, what’s up?”

“I brought another box by that I thought you could go through.”

PJ peered past her to the driveway. The Mercedes backseat looked piled high with the file boxes from her closet. “I would have come by tomorrow.”

“I’m sure you would have,” her mom said, not sounding sure at all. She brushed past PJ, into the house. “David? Come give Grandma a hug.”

Davy ran to her from the far side of the kitchen, still chocolated.

“So nice that you’re remaking friends in town,” Elizabeth said, glancing at PJ. “Although . . . are you sure you want to run around with Trudi again?”

She made it sound like Trudi was stationed on the nearest street corner. “She’s married with two kids. And Trudi is about the only friend I have in town.”

“What about Kristi Farr? She liked you.”

“No, she liked Boone.” In fact, ten years clear of Boone’s whirlpool of power, she wondered who had been groupies and who had been true friends.

Friends. Friends told each other secrets, their deepest fears. Especially lifelong friends.

Friends like Ben Murphy and Ernie Hoffman, golfing buddies.

“Mom, do you still have Dad’s golf clubs in the garage?”

Elizabeth wrung out a washcloth in the sink, then advanced on Davy. “Sure, honey. Why would I give those away?”

Why indeed? PJ didn’t answer, just wandered out to the car for the boxes, her mind still trying to wrestle free from Boone’s embrace. Across the street, a pizza deliveryman pulled out of a driveway. The sprinkler in the front yard switched on and sprayed the yard.

“He’s just going to get you in trouble again.”

She had a dark feeling that her mother was, as usual, painfully right.

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Alice
Great book, nicely written and thank you BooksVooks for uploading

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