Ten minutes later a black-and-white cruiser pulled up to the house and two policemen met Lizabeth at the door. The taller of the two men looked Lizabeth over. "You the lady who saw the flasher? Can you give us a description?"
"He was pretty ordinary. Not too fat. Not too thin. Average height. I didn't get to see his face, but I'd guess he was in his twenties or early thirties. No chest hair…"
Elsie stomped down the stairs in her robe and nightgown. "What's going on here?"
"I thought I was hearing sleet," Lizabeth said, "but it was actually a flasher throwing stones at my window."
Elsie's eyes got wide. "You mean he stood there with no clothes on? Buck naked?"
"He was wearing a tie," Lizabeth said. "And shoes."
"Shoot. I always miss the good stuff," Elsie said. "It isn't fair. I never get to see any naked men."
"This is my Aunt Elsie," Lizabeth explained to the policemen. "She's spending the summer with me."
"Maybe he'll come back," the cop said to Elsie. "You might get another crack at it."
The possibility of that happening made Lizabeth uncomfortable. She didn't like having a naked man skulking around in her yard. "You don't really think hell come back, do you? Maybe you should stake out my house."
"We don't usually stake out for flashers. If he threatened you, or if there was indication of violence…"
Lizabeth shook her head. "No. He just stood there."
Matt rang the doorbell again and looked at his watch. Seven-thirty. The curtains were still drawn and there was no sign of life in Lizabeth's house. It was hard to believe they weren't up yet. Seven-thirty seemed like the middle of the afternoon when you were used to getting up at five every day. He set the bag of doughnuts and the gallon of paint on the porch and walked around the house. Lizabeth's bedroom was in the back. "Lizabeth!" he called in an exaggerated whisper. He cupped his hands to his mouth and called again. There was no response. Her curtain remained closed. He gathered a few stones and tossed them one by one at her window.
Lizabeth woke up with a start. A stone pinged against her windowpane, and her heart jumped to her throat. He was back! She reached for the phone beside her bed and dialed the police, then waited, like a frightened fugitive, while the stones continued to tap on the glass. Five minutes passed on her digital clock. It seemed like five hours. Someone was forcefully knocking on her front door. Lizabeth crept to the stairs and saw the flashing red light of the cruiser pulsing behind her living room curtains.
Jason shuffled from his room, rubbing his eyes. "There's a police car in front of our house."
Elsie flung her bedroom door open. "Did he come back? Did I miss him again?"
Everyone trooped downstairs and stood behind Lizabeth as she opened the door.
It was Officer Dooley. "We caught your flasher," he said. "We were just going off duty when the call came in. My partner has him cuffed in the cruiser."
"I want to see him," Elsie said. "I want to see what a real pervert looks like."
"Me too," Jason said, following after Elsie. "What's a pervert?"
Lizabeth grabbed a raincoat from the hall closet and ran after Jason. "Jason Kane! You come back here," she yelled, struggling into the raincoat. "You stay away from the pervert! Don't you dare go near that police car!"
Elsie pressed her nose against the cruiser window. "That isn't a pervert," she said disgustedly. "That's Matt."
Lizabeth looked through the window at Matt. "What are you doing in there?"
"I've been arrested."
"Omigod."
"We caught him red-handed," Dooley said. "He was throwing stones at your window."
"I was supposed to come over first thing in the morning to work on her bathroom," Matt said. "She wouldn't answer her door, so I went around back and tried to wake her up by throwing stones at her window."
Lizabeth groaned. "I thought you were a flasher."
Matt grinned at her. "Wishful thinking."
"No. Last night some man showed up in my backyard, and he was only wearing his tie and his shoes. Guess I panicked this morning. I thought he'd come back."
"So what do you think?" Dooley said. "Is this the guy or what?"
Lizabeth shook her head. "The flasher was shorter. Not nearly so muscular. He had sort of a potbelly."
Matt climbed out of the black-and-white cruiser. "He was only wearing his tie and his shoes?"
"A yuppie flasher," Elsie said. "They're the worst kind."
It was getting out of hand, Lizabeth decided. She was beginning to regret calling the police. Now that it was daylight the whole thing seemed silly. The man just stood there with a bag over his head. It was probably a prank, a fraternity initiation, a practical joke. "I'm sure I'll never see him again," Lizabeth said to the gathering. "And if he comes back, I'll send Aunt Elsie out after him."
Dooley looked Elsie over and grinned. "Go easy on him," he said. "Call us if you need help."
Elsie grunted and turned toward the house. "What's in the bag sitting on the porch? Looks like a bakery bag."
Ferguson raced across the lawn, snatched the bag without ever breaking stride, and disappeared down the street.
"Yup," Matt said wistfully. "It was a bakery bag."
Elsie narrowed her eyes. "I could have used a doughnut this morning. Were there any Boston creams?"
"Yup. Fresh from the oven."
"I don't mind that dog sinking his teeth into an old football," Elsie said, "but when he starts swiping my doughnuts, he's gone too far."
"He's just a puppy," Lizabeth said. "He had a traumatic infanthood. He was abandoned on the side of the road."
Matt thought the people who abandoned Ferguson knew what they were doing. He looked like a cross between a schnauzer and a Great Dane, and he had the personality of Attila the Hun. The dog obviously had an eating disorder, and what was he doing when the potbellied degenerate was parading around in his birthday suit? The damn dog probably hadn't given out a single woof. "So he's a puppy, huh? He's pretty big for a puppy."
"Of course he's big," Elsie said. "Worthless dog eats everything in the house. He'd eat a table leg if you put gravy on it."
Lizabeth sat on the closed seat of the toilet and watched Matt run his thumb over a bead of caulking compound at the base of the tub. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, cupping her chin in her hands. She was close enough to feel the warmth from his body, close enough to see that he had freckles under the fine blond hair on his forearm. It was nice like this, she thought. Even nicer than working together at the construction site. The employer-employee relationship had been replaced by something that was much more relaxed, more intimate, almost conjugal. He was an interesting man, she decided. Sometimes he fit her stereotype of a macho carpenter and sometimes he surprised her with his intelligence and sensitivity. "So what do you like to do when you're not building or repairing houses?"
He stood, wiped his hands on his cutoff jeans, and thought about it. "I watch television. I go to hockey games in Philly. I ride my bike around."
"I saw a hockey game once," Lizabeth said. "I thought the men looked cute in those short pants, but it was horribly violent. They kept beating on each other. I don't understand what men find so fascinating about fighting."
Matt felt his mind go blank. It was a good thing he didn't tell her about his short-lived career in amateur boxing. Or his front-row season passes for the Flyers. Or the time he met Hulk Hogan and almost passed out from excitement. "How about you?" Matt finally said. "What do you do?"