Chapter One
Thirty four year old Pam DePalma strode through the
ground floor of her beautifully decorated, almost palatial
home on Maple Court and smiled. Good. The cleaning crew
had been through and everything looked perfect. The silver
gleamed, oak and cherrywood had been polished to a high
shine, windows sparkled, carpets were free of any trace of
tread marks, and furniture pillows had been plumped to the
correct softness. Wonderful.
The following morning the caterers would arrive and take
over, prepare the hors d'oeuvres she'd selected, then carefully
arrange them on silver and crystal trays and plates. She'd listened
to the reports on the radio and knew that the mid July
weather would cooperate, as it always did for Chase's parties.
She wondered whether it would dare do otherwise, although,
as always, she had a huge tent on standby just in case.
At three that Saturday afternoon t ...
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