She rose abruptly and walked straight to the door leading to the hall. She examined the door frame.

“Termites?” Tom asked silkily.

“Smartass,” Catherine said with irritation. “No, look at this.”

He joined her.

“It’s a buzzer, like a doorbell, and it rings in the master bedroom in my house. Dad had it put in so that if emergencies came at night, people could come into this waiting room and buzz him. I told you things were different then. He left the front door unlocked, only locked this door opening into the hall. I had completely forgotten about it.”

“My God, you mean I could ring for you?” Tom leered theatrically.

“Yes, but you’d better not!”

“It still works?”

“I guess so,” said Catherine, dismayed. “Now don’t go playing jokes on me, you hear?”

For a moment Tom looked as mischievous as an eight-year-old with a frog in his pocket. Then his thin lips settled into an unusual line of sobriety.

“No, I promise, Catherine,” he said. “You’ve had enough shocks.”

“Thank you,” Catherine said with feeling. She sat back down.

Tom lit a joint. “Sure you don’t want some? Make you feel better,” he advised her.

She shook her head. “Did you buy that here?” she asked curiously.

“Yes,” he answered, after he expelled the smoke he had been holding deep in his lungs. “The other night. My first Lowfield dope run.”

“Not from Leona, surely?” Catherine asked impulsively.

“Christ, no!” Tom stared at her. “What the hell made you think that?”

But Catherine didn’t want to tell him that the sheriff had hinted that Leona had had something from her father’s office-presumably medical equipment. She felt foolish for even thinking of Leona as a marijuana processor. Did you need medical things to prepare it to smoke? She could see Tom worrying over her rash question like a dog with an especially meaty bone.