Just Like a Man by Elizabeth Bevarly Page A

mention her mythical Nana Frost, and her fictitious Cousin Chloe. And of course Patsy, her fabricated best friend from first grade, always sent some kind of joke gift that made Hannah smile. Oh, boy, she couldn't wait to tear into the brightly colored paper and stick the bows on her shoulders like epaulets, the way she would have done had she ever had a birthday party as a child.
    But first things first. First, the
piece de resistance.
First, she had to have some ballerina cake. And some music. Couldn't forget to sing herself the birthday song. It was, after all, a tradition. So Hannah carefully inserted ten candles onto the cake, then lit them and carried the cake out to the dining room, where she had stacked her presents into a dappled pyramid. And then, as she placed the cake on the table, she began to sing.
     
    Out in his nondescript van, still wearing his navy blue coveralls, Michael Sawyer wondered just what the hell was going on inside Hannah Frost's house.
    Oh, the evening had been uneventful enough for the most part. In fact, it had been so uneventful, he'd dozed off a couple of times. At this rate, he'd be home in time to put Alex to bed himself and send the sitter home early. All he'd heard coming from Hannah's house had been a call to Pizzarama—and man, his mouth had started to water when he heard her order the garbage pizza, with anchovies, since all he had to eat himself was a bag of Fritos—and soft, muffled sounds of movement, and what he was pretty sure had been a cork coming out of a bottle of wine. His mouth had watered at the sound of that, too, since all he had to enjoy with his Fritos was a Chateau Cafe Froid, vintage two hours ago, which although full-bodied and robust—oh, man, was it full-bodied and robust—just wasn't as smooth as he might have liked. And behind all those sounds had been the faint strains of classical piano—Debussy, if Michael wasn't mistaken—which, now that he thought about it, could account for why he'd dozed off a couple of times.
    But then the weirdest thing had happened. A different kind of music had suddenly started up. But it wasn't Debussy, not by a long shot. In fact, it had sounded sort of like the birthday song, except that it was being sung in the key of… well, it seemed to be an extremely minor key that Michael was fairly certain must be undetectable to anyone but feral, frothing-at-the-mouth mongrels who could appreciate sounds like that. Though maybe
appreciate
wasn't quite the right word to use… On the upside, having heard it, he probably wouldn't have any trouble staying awake for the rest of the evening. On the downside, he might never sleep again.
    Just what the hell was going on in there? Hannah was home alone. Wasn't she? But why would she be singing the birthday song—in any key—if she was there all by herself? He thought for a moment that the singing might have come from the television or radio. But then he decided there had to be some kind of FCC regulation forbidding broadcasting that might potentially turn the population into rabid dogs. No, it was definitely Hannah singing—or something. But who was she singing—or something—to?
    Immediately Michael thought of a way he might find out the answer to that question. Unfortunately, it involved committing another felony. But being a Peeping Tom couldn't be more than a class D felony, could it? Then he recalled the purloined panties which were still in the pocket of his coveralls, and he realized he might be convicted of a few other crimes, as well. Unable to help himself, he retrieved the pan-ties, holding them up to his nose to inhale their sweet lavender scent again, growing dizzy just remembering the madness that had overtaken him that morning, when he'd snatched them from Hannah's lingerie drawer.
    Great. He was OD-ing on underwear. This was just what he needed—a lingerie addiction. He was becoming a panty junkie. He was going to wind up one of those vacant-eyed, slobbering guys who