Never Hug a Mugger on Quadra Island by Sandy Frances Duncan, George Szanto Page A

see if either is in.” Jason found his cell phone and pressed in a pre-set number. Constable Bryan could see them.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    Linda drove through an evergreen forest, trees speckled with slanting sun. Alana was not used to trees this towering, and this green. San Diego was more brown, and pastel-colored houses and palm trees. This road was narrow; at home there’d be an eight lane freeway cutting through the trees.
    After many curves Linda turned onto a narrow graveled driveway and pulled up in a carport beside a two-storey log house. They all got out. Shane stalked to the door, opened it and disappeared. Linda, watching, frowned.
    Alana set her purse-strap over her shoulder. A large vegetable garden lay to the right of the house. Clematis entwined a trellis to the roof. “What a pretty place!”
    â€œThanks,” said Tim. “It’s okay.” His hat was on backwards again.
    â€œCome in, Alana.” Linda led the few steps to the door. The back door, Alana realized.
    Linda and Tim kicked off their shoes onto a pile of others. So Alana did too.
    Another door opened into the kitchen, a large room with an ell-shaped counter, stools at one side, walls with pictures and posters tacked up. There were dishes in the sink, on the drainboard, stuff on the counters haphazardly tidied into piles. A comfy house, Alana felt.
    Linda shucked her knapsack onto a chair by a TV and rummaged out two food containers. “Tim, take off your hat and show Alana the house.”
    Tim whizzed his hat at the rack and it caught. “Hat trick! Come on,” he said to Alana.
    He whirled her through the living room—another comfortable mess—a den with another TV and a computer, bookshelves, out the window a slanting sun, trees, vines, upstairs to bathroom, “Shane’s room,” the door tightly closed, “Derek’s room,” door also closed. Tim put his hand on the knob, breathed in and bit his lip. He turned away. “My room.” The door was open and Alana saw a jumble of bedclothes. “Parents’ room,” he pointed. A stained glass window at the end of the hall refracted the sun’s rays.
    â€œIs Shane in a bad mood? Or is he always so silent?”
    â€œJust another grumpy teen.” Tim smirked. So Alana did too. A conspiracy.
    Back in the kitchen, Linda was poking about in the freezer. “Would you like a pop or something?” he asked Alana. “Or a beer?” He raised his eyebrows.
    He was a cute kid. About as tall as Shane, fuzz on his upper lip, a few blackheads he’d likely tried to squeeze this morning. The sophomore look. “If you have some juice—”
    Linda shouldered the freezer shut and backed away. Tim dove into the fridge. Alana said to Linda, “May I help you?”
    Linda plopped containers on the counter. “We can have pasta with clam alfredo, have to nuke these and boil the noodles. Tim, please go pick salad stuff.”
    Tim handed Alana a glass. “Blueberry cranberry.” He took a bowl and headed outside.
    â€œWhen he comes back, you can wash the greens,” Linda said. “I’ll make some dressing and get the pasta started.”
    â€œIs Shane always this quiet?” Alana asked.
    Linda lifted a container lid and looked inside. She’d have been really pretty when young, Alana thought, dark hair, curvy figure. She wasn’t bad even now, probably forty, a few wrinkles, streak of grey. “Oh well, teenagers have phases,” Linda said, “I don’t suppose I have to tell you.”
    â€œYeah, I guess.”
    A few minutes later Tim banged back in with a bowl dripping greens—lettuces, arugula, cilantro, mustard. Mostly leaves Alana didn’t recognize.
    She started washing. “Did you say someone’s helping Shane’s career? Or does he get grants and things?” She’d heard Canadian athletes got government grants. “Is there a