Zero

Inside the trailer home, Rebecca and Charlene had long ago kicked off their heels and unbuttoned their Sunday blouses. Nothing could have been more natural to their neighbors - Alabama summer heat precludes Christian formalities.

Less natural to their peers might have been the manner in which those two young women responded to the hot still air inside the single-wide trailer. They did not throw open the windows and set oscillating fans to work in every corner of the room. They did not pour themselves tall glasses of iced-tea, or crack open bottles of beer. They even ignored the stock car race broadcast on the television set in the corner of the orange carpeted living area.

Instead, the two women lie on the sofa, naked, facing each other and licking pussy as if it were a form of worship endorsed by the church and in accordance with the observation of the sabbath. They were completely devoted to the task set before their mouths. As Rebecca dove her tongue inside Charlene, Charlene fully reciprocated. One could have imagined painting a large number 69 on their sides, much like the cars circling the oval on the TV set by Charlene's head.

Therefore it was Rebecca's foot that kicked the controls to the right of the screen. She hadn't intended to raise the volume; she only wanted to lower her ass so that Charlene's tongue could slide more easily along her protruding clitoris. That meant that Rebecca had to stretch her tongue to continue to flutter at Charlene's pearl: a sacrifice she was willing to make for fuller contact with the mouth under her crotch.

It also meant that the women could now hear the television announcer over the din of the air conditioner--not that the unit was working, however. They turned it on the minute they entered the trailer, but it had yet to cool any of the room, and certainly not the area near the sofa. Rebecca could feel the sweat forming a slick film between her shoulder blades, and on the insides of her thighs where they made contact with Charlene's pale skin. "Porcelain skin," as Charlene liked to say.

The race was down to just three laps, squawked the box in the corner. The faceless voice did not have a discernible southern accent. All part of the growing trend of the race circuit to mainstream exposure. Inside the trailer, the exposure could not have been greater as Rebecca parted her legs and dipped herself onto Charlene's eager mouth.

The women made their own final turns as if some magical checkered flag was waving over their cunts. That gentle flap of air was all Charlene really needed at that point. The air conditioner finally turned over and sent a chilled wave across her legs that met the warm front of Rebecca's lips and exploded in a cloudburst of pleasure.

Charlene's legs twitched with the power of her orgasm, and Rebecca responded to the vibrations. Rebecca crossed the finish line soon afterwards, and the climax almost forced her away from the folds of Charlene's pussy in search of air.

Trembling and short of breath, Charlene had barely pulled her head from between Rebecca's smooth muscular thighs before she heard the race announcer say, "And unbelievably, Wally Orbach has managed to pass Dewey on turn number three. It looks like a trip to victory lane for the number seventeen Super Stores Chevrolet!"

"Oh, shit," said Charlene. After lifting Rebecca's leg, she rolled out from under her, brushing her face against the damp thatch of her pubic hair in the process. Rebecca looked back and laughed at the mad scramble Charlene made of gathering her clothes.

Rebecca turned over on to her side, and made a deliberate show of massaging the puffy lips of her sex as her friend rushed to get dressed. Charlene noticed it despite her haste.

"Don't tempt me. I've got to go before he starts looking for me."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of tempting you," cooed Rebecca as she dipped her middle finger into her wet slit.

Charlene leaned over to pull the straps of her shoes behind her ankles. Rebecca smiled, moved toward her and offered her that same finger, now glistening with her juices. Charlene tilted her head and took the finger in her mouth, sucking away the nectar. She pulled away, mirrored Rebecca's smile, and said, "Gotta run, Becca."

Charlene ran out of the trailer onto the spotty patches of grass marred by tire tracks. She walked along the row of trailers, and at the first gap in the line turned left. Now along pit row, she headed for victory lane where her husband Wally was waiting for her.

One

"I'm sorry, Mr. Diller," said Agent Maytag. "I still don't understand why we're here."

"This is a blackmail case, isn't it?," replied the pot-bellied man in the seersucker suit at the other end of the table. "I thought the FBI handled these kinds of cases."

"We do, Mr. Diller," said Agent Stanton. "We just don't understand why you requested this be listed under the heading of sex crimes." She pulled her black hair behind her ear and leaned in to listen, a conceit to his requests that "the matter remain confidential."

"Well," whispered Diller, "at root this is a sex crime, isn't it? Women engaging in sexual conduct with other women. It isn't the natural way of things, now, is it?"

Maytag resisted the temptation to point out that it was only because Mr. Diller and others felt that way that such behavior made for good blackmail material. He checked himself. "But the criminal element here is the blackmail itself, not the questionable behavior used as leverage."

"Mr. Maytag, I told the FBI that deviant behavior had led to possible criminal activity. I don't know whether this is something you normally handle or not. I do know that I run a nationwide enterprise partnered with twenty-seven different Fortune 100 companies and enjoyed by millions of Americans. That enterprise is under threat, do you agree?"

"I agree that Wally Orbach and his wife are under threat," said Maytag.

"It isn't just them, Mr. Maytag. The whole SCARA image is in a delicate position. Wally Orbach is the most successful driver in modern SCARA history. Bad publicity for him is bad publicity for us. He knows that, that's why he came to us for help."

Maytag was pondering what he thought to be the oxymoron of "modern SCARA" when Stanton spoke.

"Mr. Diller, does Mr. Orbach know that you have contacted the FBI? Did he request it?"

"No, he came to me for advice. I told him to sit tight and that we would try to figure a way out of this mess. He doesn't know that I've called the FBI, but nobody knows. I want to keep this whole thing quiet."

Maytag thought of the audio cassette Diller played for them earlier. The women recorded on it certainly were not quiet there. They moaned and grunted. Gerry Maytag would have even described some parts as screams. He leafed through the photos on the table in a manner that suggested that Stanton continue her line of questioning. Taken through the blinds of hotel rooms, or the smoked glass of luxury buses, the photographs barely showed the young Charlene Orbach engaged in sex with other women. Often, she was so deep in another woman's crotch that it was difficult to identify her face.

"Do you think its possible that Mr. Orbach is the one doing the blackmailing? Maybe he wants to squeeze SCARA for a big payday and he is using a fictional third party blackmailer to apply the pressure."

"Ms. Stanton, Wally Orbach squeezes SCARA for a big payday just about every other week. He's the best driver out there, he's got the best pit crew. We change the rules about once a month to try to even things out, and all we do is hurt the other Chevys on the circuit. Look at last Sunday in Huntsville. The top ten goes Orbach, then five Fords, a Pontiac, two more Fords, and then the next Chevy comes in at tenth. Forget lesbians, Ms. Stanton. That there is some real embarrassment."

"Any idea who the other women in the pictures are?" asked Maytag.

"No. Maybe you should ask Charlene," replied Diller.

Stanton stood up and said "We intend to."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Diller," said Maytag as he extended his hand. "You did the right thing by calling in the FBI."

Two

The gun-metal gray car sat atop a hydraulic lift. The color was just a primer coat, not yet the deep scarlet and silver that had grabbed the checkered flag so often in the past two years. Underneath, Wally Orbach and his crew chief, Mike McClure, examined the car with such attentiveness that they did not notice Maytag and Stanton standing behind them.

Maytag startled the pair of McClure and Orbach by speaking. The two duos faced each other now in marked contrast: Maytag and Stanton dressed in the dark blue suits of field agents that showed no signs of the grease or motor oil that peppered Orbach and McClure's overalls. How ironic that McClure and Orbach won more money with last weekend's victory than either of the suits would earn this year.

"Mr. Orbach," said Maytag, "Could we have a word with you? Mr. Diller sent us."

"Sure," Wally replied. Realizing that these two were not merely business associates, he added, "Let me get cleaned up, we can talk in the office."

'The office' was a team trailer outside the garage. Inside, the three huddled around a small table. Space was cramped due to the volume of electronics stuffed inside the vehicle. Wally apologized and explained that the devices were used on race day to monitor everything from lap speeds to weather conditions.

Maytag and Stanton introduced themselves as FBI agents, and showed them their identification. Wally offered coffee but the two declined. He said he was glad that Diller had called them, but wondered who else knew about what he delicately called "the situation."

"As far as we know, the bureau agent who spoke with Mr. Diller, her commanding officer, our director, the two of us, Mr. Diller, and yourself," answered Stanton.

Wally Orbach seemed satisfied with the answer, but Maytag was not.

"Wally," he began, "I'm sure this has been difficult for you, but I need to ask you how much you have discussed this with your wife, and exactly what the two of you have said to each other."

"You mean how many plates we threw at each other," Orbach said with a wan smile.

Maytag smiled in turn. "Something like that."

Orbach explained that he had indeed confronted Charlene. She reacted like a teenager who had been caught necking and setting fire to her parents' barn at the same time. She was upset, and apologetic. However, Charlene said she had no idea who could have taken the pictures.

"Do you know the women in the pictures?" asked Stanton.

Wally shook his head. "No. I asked her about that. She told me that one of them was some college girl she met in Daytona, the other was a call-girl she hired in Dallas."

"Do you believe her?" asked Maytag, "I'm sorry, Mr. Orbach, I don't mean to be insensitive, but do you recognize the women in the photographs? Do you have any idea who they might be?"

"No, I get your meaning, Mr. Maytag. She's lied to me already, why not about this, right? Well, I have no idea who those women might be, and the pictures don't exactly show parts I would see in public."

"Do you have any enemies?" asked Stanton.

"Do those fifty-odd other drivers count?"

"How about money problems?"

"The only problem we have with money is that we've been winning too much of it." Maytag and Stanton lifted their eyebrows at that, so Wally elucidated. "Some of the sponsors offer special bonuses for drivers who can win certain sets of races in the same year. They get the good press in those later races when a certain driver is gunning for the South Bank Million or whatever, but the chances of that driver winning are usually slim."

"Until you started to dominate the circuit," Maytag interrupted.

"That's correct. They love the press, but they don't like handing over the big checks."

"Do you think one of those companies might want you out of racing, or at least distract you for an upcoming race?" Maytag asked.

"Nah," said Orbach, dismissing the idea. "They like to joke, but the fact is it's rarely their money anyway. They take out an insurance policy with some firm that works out the odds and all that. In reality, they already signed a smaller check a long time ago."

"Thank you, Mr. Orbach." said Maytag.

"One last thing, Mr. Orbach," said Stanton, "Have you and your wife reconciled her infidelity?"

"After we had our discussion, we kissed and made up. I'm not exactly sure what you mean by reconciled. She told me she was sorry I found out this way, but she didn't seem too sorry that she did it. Seems to me like she even wants to separate."

"How would you feel about that?" asked Maytag.

"Not too bad. We have a prenuptial agreement!" Wally laughed, then turned pensive. "Actually, I wish I knew how we're going to handle this. You should ask Charlene."

"We're headed there next," said Maytag, and the three said their good-byes and left the room.

Three

Charlene Orbach wore expensive cosmetics that gave her pale skin a soft glow. Her blond hair fell in short bangs across her forehead and in long pony-tail against the back of her neck and between her shoulder blades. She cleared her throat as if to speak, and leaned forward in her leather armchair to lick the pussy in front of her.

Ginny liked the feel of blood rushing to her head during sex. During sex with her husband, Pete (driver of the number 42 Magic Wax Ford and doggy-style enthusiast), she would often crawl slowly to the side of the bed and then off onto the floor. Four years of practice had made her an expert in predicting his rhythms. By the time she reached the edge and slid off, his strokes had usually reached the increased poundings of impending orgasm. A red flush would reach her face just as he filled her with his cream. The climaxes were intense for both of them.

For the occasional lunch with Charlene, Ginny preferred to climb down the queen in her leather throne, head first, stopping first at her milky tits before sliding towards the soft blond curls covering the pink seam of her pussy. Ginny usually told Pete that she and Charlene passed the time with with old-fashioned tongue wagging. Not even a lie, she told herself. Maybe tonight she would tell Pete that she and Charlene enjoyed a quick nibble together.

Ginny's long brown curls twisted and spiraled down Charlene's legs. Her ass twisted slowly in front of Charlene's eyes. Even the white triangle of Ginny's tan line seemed dark in comparison to the alabaster brow of the woman carefully attending to her clit. What potential the scene had for intrepid blackmailers--if only they could get a clear shot of Charlene's face.

Charlene's hands rested on the darker portions of Ginny's ass. The tan lines reminded Charlene of the swimsuits Ginny owned, and of her cheap plastic lounge chair with ratcheting hinges that changed positions. Ginny was bending over adjusting the ends of that chair when Charlene first noticed those dark portions of her ass, and when she first wondered what the parts under the suit might be like. One lunch and several mint juleps later, she found out for herself.

They still had lunch together, but they rarely needed more than one mint julep. Even today they had barely touched the two glasses on the coffee table. They preferred the salt and acidity of each other's flesh to the bittersweet mix of bourbon, mint, and sugar.

Charlene moved her right hand from the waist and hip of Ginny's side, and over to the crack of her ass, just off-center of the tan lined area. She cocked her fingers towards herself, and slid two of them inside Ginny's wet slit. She slipped in easily and stroked at a rapid pace.

Ginny responded by plunging inside Charlene's cunt with her tongue. As Ginny dove in and out with her head, the long curls bunched up and spread out over Charlene's legs. The flaxen tresses tickled Charlene's legs. Charlene concentrated on the sensation, seizing it with the same intensity with which she held Ginny's round ass.

The tickle grew and spread through Charlene's thighs, small tributaries of pleasure that flowed uphill, upchair, upginny, and swelled with strength where they met at her clitoris. There, the sensation cascaded over the edge and fell a thousand feet to the eager waiting tongue of her curly-haired paramour.

The shudder of Charlene's legs signaled her orgasm to Ginny a moment before the moans that vibrated against her bottom. Ginny focused on guiding Charlene through her climax, then gently lifted her head to look back at her. A powerful head-rush greeted Ginny after her head rose above her shoulders.

Charlene, not fully recovered from her own orgasm, pressed her face against Ginny and swirled her tongue in large circles around Ginny's lips and her own probing fingers. Ginny moved her head back between Charlene's thighs, and the tingling rush of blood further disturbed her equilibrium. She lost sight of the room and drifted into orgasm, upside down in Charlene's leather armchair.

Then the phone rang.

Four

Charlene Orbach was giving a tour of her trailer to Agents Stanton and Maytag. They were now in the living area, standing behind a leather recliner, admiring a wall of photos decorated with various pictures, and a large glass replica of the red number 17 that adorned her husband's Chevrolet.

Charlene pointed to a picture. "That one is of the two of us at Pocono, where Wally won his first SCARA Maxim Cup race."

Heather looked at the photograph. Charlene smiled brightly and wore simple dark sunglasses. Her hair was styled differently, but there was no mistaking its luxuriant golden color. Wally wore a Super Stores hat and held a bottle of Mighty Juice in the hand that reached around Charlene and pulled her close to him. Without a single visible logo, Charlene almost looked out of place.

The three took a small tour of the pictures on the wall. A detailed sketch of Charlene and Wally's time together emerged, with SCARA as the ever-present backdrop.

With each picture, Charlene touched Heather on the arm or shoulder and made one phatic comment or another. They joked about the past fashion trends caught forever by the camera, shared adages about life on the road, and laughed.

Maytag watched Charlene, venturing only to add, "The pictures are wonderful."

"Aren't they, though? Actually, Rebecca Phipps takes a lot of them. She was a professional photographer when she met Dusty."

Upon entering the kitchen, Charlene apologized for the mess, and offered tea. Both agents declined the offer, and they retired to the living area to asked Charlene a few questions.

Although Charlene did not know who might want to blackmail her husband, she did recall the nights the pictures must have been taken. Her story matched her husband's. She attempted to explain away the incidents as simple sexual experimentation. She could not remember telling anyone where she was going on either of the two occasions, and she'd certainly not told anyone what she'd planned to do.

There had been a few others during this time; she gave dates and times. She said Wally was not aware of these, and dismissed the whole series of actions as "a phase I've been going through."

"Could I take you up on the offer of tea?" Heather asked at what Maytag thought to be the end of the questioning.

Charlene responded "Certainly", and excused herself to the kitchen. When she had left the room, Stanton turned to Maytag and said, "The case is solved, I just need you to get out of the room."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm not. I'll explain later, but right now, I don't think Charlene will open up and tell us what we need to know with you here. So make something up and vanish for a little while, all right?"

"Earl Grey or chamomile?" called Charlene from the back of the single-wide trailer.

"Earl Grey is fine," responded Stanton, after which she nodded towards the door and pointed, sending Maytag out as if her were a dog who had tracked mud onto the orange carpet.

"Uh, Mrs. Orbach," yelled Maytag after he stood up, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave now, so I won't be having tea."

Charlene stepped back out into the living area and asked, "Is something wrong?"

"No," said Maytag, "But we have a hotel problem. With the race here this weekend, there wasn't a room for miles around."

"That's no surprise! But SCARA should have some rooms reserved for staff and whatnot. Maybe you can use one of those."

"That's exactly what I need to take care of right now: meeting with the person in charge of all that." A small lie, but useful. Maytag and Stanton had already made arrangements while in Diller's office. With that, Maytag thanked Charlene, told Stanton he would call once he was done, and left the trailer.

Five

After Heather took her first sip and sat back on the sofa, she remarked, "Speaking to your husband today I noticed just how involved he was with the team. He explained to us that they were preparing one car for a race over a month away."

"Yes, Wally and Mike are very involved. They win a lot of races, though."

"True," said Heather, continuing to sip her tea. "But I can imagine you do get lonely."

Charlene shrugged her shoulders and took a sip from her own teacup.

Stanton went on. "I can't say I blame you for wanting to have a chance encounter or two on the side."

Charlene paused. "I've heard from some of the older wives that they used to all come with their husbands for the whole series. It was like some big carnival, where the workers live as a big extended family. One of the wives even ran a sort of general store, right out of their trailer. Now there's so much money, many of the women live at home. They shop all week, take a lover, or two, and show up for the weekend, or maybe just for race day. I can't blame them, there isn't much to do here."

"Of course not. All the boys play in their clubhouses with their million-dollar toys and leave you here alone."

"What's a girl to do?" asked Charlene as she drank form her cup and gazed over the rim at Heather.

Heather leaned over her and looked directly at Charlene with her bright blue eyes. "Maybe she goes out to Daytona beach and finds a nice-looking college girl to help her pass the time."

Charlene carefully placed her cup and saucer on the end table and put her hand on Heather Stanton's knee. "I could understand that. How about you?"

"I've spent time living out of a suitcase. I can understand the need for company. Like maybe the girl who just left here a little while ago."

"I beg your pardon," said Charlene, feigning confusion. She tried to pull her hand away, but Heather held it firmly against her own leg, inching it further along her leg as she spoke again.

"You know what I mean, Charlene. I saw the lipstick on the glasses in the kitchen. Two glasses, two different shades. Yet your lipstick was perfect before you made tea. There are fresh smudges on the side of the cup."

"Maybe I just wanted to freshen up after you called."

"You should have concentrated on getting dressed. Or are those your friend's panties on the floor behind you?"

Charlene looked over her shoulder at the rolled up triangle of cotton against the wall, beneath the large red 17. "I must have missed those while I was tidying up."

"Really?" remarked Heather as she moved to the edge of the sofa, closer to Charlene. "Panties carelessly tossed around the apartment, presumably from a passionate encounter with your husband? That doesn't sound like anyone who might want a divorce."

"He told you that," exclaimed Charlene. Her guard was down. Before Charlene could react, Heather reached over and pressed her thumb to the crotch of her pants and slid along the fabric.

"Now, see, you did forget to get dressed. I can feel you right through these pants. That's your underwear, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh," said Charlene as her mid-afternoon arousal returned in fuller measure than the moment Ginny first threw those panties over the armchair.

"Now, Charlene, I saw those things today because I'm a good detective. My partner would have seen them, too, if he hadn't been staring at you so much."

Charlene giggled as Heather continued to massage her lips through her pants. The two women looked like opposite chess pieces: Heather's dark hair fell onto her navy pant suit, while a golden mane brushed against Charlene's cream-colored two piece outfit.

"It wasn't enough for you just to fool around with those girls was it? This isn't a phase, is it? The experiment was a success, and you needed that feeling again, didn't you?"

"Yes," Charlene admitted. "I'd never come before I started to fool around with women. If I'm licking another woman, though, I lose control, and I can reach that place."

"You need that, don't you?" asked Heather. She stood up next to Charlene and ran her hand inside the front of her pants. Heather's finger found Charlene's clitoris engorged and her lips wet and slippery. "I could rub this pretty girl all day, and unless I give you a little taste, you'll just sit there frustrated."

"Yes, I want a little taste." Charlene took hold of the wooden lever on the right side of the chair, and pulled it all the way. The leather cushions expanded and stretched out, and Charlene removed her pants and let her own legs stretch out in the same manner. Heather began to pull her own pants down around her ankles. The symmetry of the chess pieces remained, as the two figures now stood half dressed, with a dark thatch of Heather's pubic hair complimenting the lightly colored wisps of fur above Charlene's twat.

Heather had baited and captured her prey. A tangle of legs and arms ensued. Heather worked with her fingers; Charlene responded with an enthusiastic kissing and tonguing of Heather's little heater.

"Mmmm, that's right," Heather said. "That's good."

Charlene continued to flick, lick, and suck at Heather's genitalia until Heather asked her, "How many, Charlene? How many others can I 'question' this week while I'm here?"

Charlene disengaged for the moment. Glistening lips parted and spoke. "I only fool around with a couple of girls. But there must be a dozen or so fucking each other at any given time. What else are you going to do around here? Why do you think they aren't at home fucking the pool boy? They're either stupid, or fucking each other."

Charlene succumbed to the kneading of her pussy and darted forward to lick Heather again. She stopped a moment to catch her breath and relax her neck muscles. "These women are gorgeous, too. I mean, you're really cute, and you have this trim little cop thing going, but some of these girl are ex-models. I've fucked a former Miss Georgia."

Charlene was licking pussy once more when Heather asked, "You like the cop thing, huh?"

"Mmm-hmmmm," mumbled Charlene, not bothering to pull her mouth away this time. The pace of her licking was furious, and Heather found it hard to concentrate. "Maybe you'd like me to handcuff you to your bed?"

Three minutes later, during which time the two shed the remainder of their clothes and scampered to the bedroom, Heather had Charlene on her back, handcuffed to the bed. Stanton hadn't planned for this, but it could only help her.

Heather straddled her face and kept that hand working on her pussy. Only the exertion of moving the tired hand fixed her concentration on questioning Charlene.

"So does SCARA know?"

"Someone must. On any weekday this place is like one big wooden house with no nails. All tongue in groove, y'know?"

"But someone is blackmailing you, specifically," pressed Heather.

"I am married to Wally Orbach, you know." Charlene now seemed annoyed at the continue questioning and strained against the cuffs to get her mouth on the dark fragrant flower in front of her.

"I'll tell you what I think," Heather said as she lowered her pussy onto Charlene's waiting mouth. She could not help from moaning a bit as Charlene renewed her tonguing. She bucked her hips in time with the licking and repeated, "I'll tell you what I think. I think that Rebecca Phipps was here earlier. I think she took those pictures." Charlene stopped licking and looked up at Heather with disbelief.

Heather continued, free of distraction. "I think you and Rebecca planned this whole thing so that you could get around the prenuptial agreement. The divorce would be easy to get, but the only way you could get any form of alimony was to use blackmail."

"You are so close!" Charlene remarked with a mix of surprise and admiration. "God, smart cops are even sexier! And I'll tell you what you don't know, as soon as you turn around and lick me 'til I come."

Heather thought she had the upper hand. The only way a photographer would take those pictures of random encounters was to know they would occur. If they knew that much they would know about the other trysts, which gave better material for blackmailing SCARA. Charlene had to have been involved.

Moreover, Charlene was handcuffed to a bed, and desperate for both physical and sexual release. How was it that the intrepid FBI agent wound up with her head between pale thin legs, eating pink pussy while blond hairs tickled her chin?

As smart as she was, Heather found herself licking a suspect into oblivion while that same suspect lapped away at her own government- issue pussy.

When she came, Heather found that she no longer really cared how she entered into the predicament. She merely wanted to stay there a little while longer.

Six

The settlement went roughly this way:

Rebecca Phipps admitted to taking the photos on request, but claimed that Charlene had asked her to take them for her husband, Wally, who it seemed had certain voyeuristic tendencies.

In return for her testimony, Charlene Orbach was granted a reduced sentence of two years probation. She admitted to originally planning blackmail, but said she presented Diller with the photos directly.

It was Diller's idea to increase the desired amount and send them to Wally Orbach. Diller was then entitled to half of the payoff from SCARA. He had called the FBI only as a smokescreen, and demanded the special sex crimes unit because he had heard from friends in Houston that they were somewhat incompetent. His original plan was to pay the ransom within days of their arrival and claim he did so because he felt threatened by a late night phone call.

Wally Orbach consented to a divorce settlement outside the bounds of the prenuptial agreement. Wally and Charlene called the terms of the agreement "satisfactory." Wally was granted custody of all photographs Rebecca had taken "in order to dispose of them properly."

Stanton and Maytag received thanks from Washington and two tickets for the next SCARA race in Richmond, Virginia. Maytag remained amazed at Stanton's sleuth work throughout the entire plane ride home.

"Incredible," he said as they took their luggage from the baggage carousel. "You really licked that case."

To which Stanton smiled. "You could certainly say that."

End