42

Three cups later, Alison was dressed and the children awake and fed. Saturday, no school or work, Mike had Bonnie and Clyde, and she breathed a small prayer of thanksgiving all was well. Or, as well as could be expected considering the status of her heart. But as she’d learned after Frank’s murder, life moved on.

Robert left a message on her voice mail informing her that a prospective buyer for her house wanted to tour the residence this afternoon. Claire gave a huge sigh but didn’t say anything. Justin excused himself, retrieving the driver that seemed permanently attached to his hand these days to hit some balls in the backyard. Before she lost her nerve, she e-mailed Robert, giving her permission with a request they have a talk either sometime today or Sunday.

She felt like curling into a ball and crying. But she was the adult. She needed to be strong for her children. Losing their home was going to be excruciating for the children on top of everything else they’d been through with the loss of their dad. And when they found out they’d lost Mike, too . . . ?

Maybe she was the adult, but at the moment, she didn’t feel up to that conversation with them. To distract herself, she looked out to her flowerbeds, mentally starting the process of saying good-bye. Justin poked his head through the door.

“Something’s wrong with Mrs. Lambert next door. She left her car in the driveway and got out of it all hunched over. She’s crying like crazy.”

Alison didn’t hide her alarm. “Are the kids strapped in the car?”

Justin leaned out the door and darted a quick glance over the fence. “Yeah. The baby and Kelsey are in the backseat. The baby’s shrieking her head off. Mr. Lambert’s out of town again this week.”

Claire, who babysat regularly for the Lamberts, got off the couch. “He’s always out of town, like Dad . . .” Claire bit her lip. “I’ll see if I can help.”

The phone rang. If this was a solicitation . . . But it could be Mike with more news. Maybe he’d found Ginny Walston. She waved the kids toward the Lamberts.

“Let me deal with this, and I’ll be right over.”

She snatched up the phone just before the last ring would’ve routed it over to voicemail. “Hello? Hello?”

“Al-Alison?” A voice, vaguely familiar, trembled on the other end. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

She gripped the phone. “Miss Lula? What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“I’m at Weathersby.” Lula tried to swallow her tears and failed, her gravelly voice clogged like a storm drain after a tropical depression. “I’m a foolish old woman, but I can’t find Miss Patty. Her bed’s not been slept in, and she ain’t touched her food since yesterday.”

Miss Patty? Alison rubbed her forehead in confusion.

Ah. The cat.

“Maybe she’s on the prowl. Cats, from what little I know, are pretty independent creatures. I’m sure she’ll turn up right as rain soon.”

Lula cleared her throat. “Miss Patty’s too old, like me, to go on a prowl. She likes to stick close to home, and with those terrible goings-on last night, I’m afraid she got hold of that poison that killed Natalie Singleton. Miss Patty could be sick and dying somewhere.” Her voice ended with a whimper.

She had a feeling she knew what was coming.

“I didn’t know who else to call.” Lula sounded old and pitiful.

“Okay, I’ll be there in thirty minutes, and we can hunt for Miss Patty together.”

“You’re a kind woman, Alison. I always knew it.”

A sucker was more like it. She hung up the phone after making arrangements to meet Lula at the main house.

She looked down at her attire. Blue jean denim capris and an old baggy white T-shirt, the short sleeves rolled Fonzie-style. She had on her grungy, let’s-clean-the-house-it’s-Saturday wardrobe.

But hey? How fancy did you need to be to hunt for a missing cat?

And it was her day off. The spring festival in full swing, the grounds would be loaded with visitors.

So why the niggling slivers of doubt? Too many bad memories?

She ran a quick hand through her hair. Mike, with her help, had done his job. The killers were behind bars. It was perfectly safe to go to Weathersby again though there was still no sign of Ginny Walston. A loose thread that continued to nag at the edges of her mind.

Alison needed this job and the goodwill of all who worked there. Besides, she was a sucker for the needy, whether elderly or feline.

Slipping her feet into a nearby pair of matching denim flip-flops, the band edges frayed and stonewashed, she ran over to the Lamberts where Claire stood next to the Lamberts’ car yakking on her cell phone. Justin scurried past, carrying bags of groceries into the house.

“What’s going on?” She panted with her small effort at running across the lawn. She needed to get back to exercising regularly.

Bright and early Monday.

Claire held up a hand. “Great, Sandy,” she said into her phone. “You don’t know how much this will mean to the Lamberts.” There was a silence as she listened. “Make sure everyone remembers to wear white shirts and black pants. More professional looking. I’ll see you guys in ten.” She snapped her pink phone shut with a flourish. “Right,” Claire nodded to herself as much as anyone. “We have a plan,” she said as if metaphorically rolling up her shirtsleeves.

“A plan for what?”

“Mrs. Lambert’s hurt her back.” Justin reached for another bag in the trunk. “Today’s Kelsey’s fourth birthday party. Fifteen other little squirts will be here in three hours.”

She frowned. “And?”

“The caterer called as Mrs. Lambert pulled into the driveway. He’s got the flu and he canceled. Mrs. Lambert is flat on her back, and Claire and I are going to put on the party for her.” Justin disappeared into the house.

“Mrs. Lambert had already bought the decorations, and I think I can throw something together for the children to eat. It’s a cowgirl party, and I have a few ideas to jazz it up.” Claire seemed energized by the thought.

She hoped Mrs. Lambert knew what she was getting herself into with Claire and her ideas. Not to mention needing a big wallet.

“Sandy, Julie, and the rest of the girls are going to come over and help serve the food, babysit the baby, and run the gaming portion of the event.”

Had she missed something significant?

Claire scanned the front yard, oblivious to the frown lines forming between her mother’s brows. “My main concern is getting the cake decorated in time. It’s humid today.” She patted her mother on the arm, not expecting her to understand but making the attempt nonetheless. “And the other issue that needs to be resolved is where we can put the ponies.”

“Ponies? Are you sure, Mrs. Lambert—?”

“Chill-lax, Mother. I have everything under control. Mrs. Lambert is totally on board with my ideas. I’ve been watching the Food Channel, and I know just the thing to put this party over the top.” She shaded her eyes with one hand as she continued to scope out the front lawn.

Justin ambled up. “I’m going to take Western-style studio portraits of each kid on horseback with Dad’s old camera and put together a pictorial scrapbook for each one to take home with their goody bag.”

“Pictorial scrapbook?”

She remembered one particular Ladybug party for three-year-old Claire, the pressure in her high society world to impress not just the children, but their moms, too. The ladybugs, real ones, had escaped and swarmed over her three-hundred-dollar, Let Them Eat Cake, edible centerpiece. She shuddered at the memory.

“Don’t worry, Mom.” Justin patted her shoulder. “We’ve got it under control, and reinforcements are on their way. It will be fan-tabulous.”

“Uh-huh,” nodded Claire. “Who was on the phone?”

She explained the mystery of the missing cat. “I’m going to stop by Fresh Market for a few supplies and then help Miss Lula search. The cat’s probably already come home by now.” She glanced at her watch. “I’ll be home before Kelsey’s party to help.”

“No worries.” Justin pretended to putt an imaginary golf ball. “We can handle it. Enjoy your day.”

Right. Searching for a finicky feline was definitely her idea of fun. Still. Anything for a distraction.

She grabbed her keys and purse from the house. In her rush, she noticed her cell phone batteries were low and would need charging when she returned. Making a quick dash into the grocery, she didn’t bother to bag it after checking out, just stuck the coffee bag into her purse.

Miss Lula waited for her on the front porch of Weathersby, wringing her hands in her apron. She raced through the deadly yew hedge, careful to avoid eye contact with the spot at the corner of the house where she’d found Natalie’s body the night before.

“Still no luck?”

“If that cat is hiding from me deliberate, I’m going to take a broomstick to that creature.”

“Let’s search the house one more time.” Alison helped Miss Lula up the steps. They quietly moved around the cluster of visitors taking the house tour conducted by Erica, who gave a small wave of acknowledgment as Lula and Alison slid by. Miss Lula went left into the massive dining room. She went right into the front parlor.

Over the mantel, Oliver’s portrait hung. He was creepy. She’d never spent much time in the house before. Venturing behind the tourist ropes to look under the French Empire red stripe silk settee, she also peered around the baby grand piano. Erica’s group moved into the dining room, and she heard the heavy, labored tread of Miss Lula ascend the staircase to the second story.

Oliver’s beady eyes in that corpulent face did seem to follow you wherever you happened to stand, and she deliberately turned her back on the long-dead Weathersby progenitor. Under the portrait, the fragrance of dried rose petals in a blue Cantonese bowl filled the room.

Cordoned off, silver-framed photographs of weddings and family gatherings, sepia toned and aged, stood scattered artfully across the piano. She smiled, remembering the colorful history of fashion represented in the moonlight last evening. The side table held a stereoscope, the 1800s definition of vacation slides. And a silver jet locket. One of the mourning kind—macabre and gothically fashionable in the Victorian age—where a lock of the beloved’s hair was kept in remembrance after their deaths.

Not her idea of preserving memories of the dead, but to each age its own customs. With the same irresistible ghoulish urge that caused people to watch horror movies, she found herself drawn to the locket. She stepped over the rope.

Opening it, she found a small, plaited braid of hair with strands of pure white, a salt-and-pepper gray, several ginger colored ones, an auburn as red as Claire’s, and a solid strand of black interwoven together.

The black strand reminded her of Natalie Singleton’s silky crow locks. In her mind’s eye, she saw Natalie again as she had appeared last night. First, in her dazzling flapper dress, the black feather defiant of convention. And then, of Natalie writhing on the ground.

The red one looked like it belonged to Claire.

Or to Frank.

Goose pimples broke out on her arms. With the sound of laughter and shuffling feet, Erica and her group entered the parlor. Spinning around, she clutched the locket and shoved it into her purse beside the coffee beans.

Erica frowned. Had Erica seen her take the locket? Perhaps she already knew the contents of the locket.

She must look deranged. She felt deranged.

Had someone been collecting locks of hair from his or her victims? People didn’t act that way, did they?

Even murderers? Who was that psychotic?

Jasper, definitely. But this smacked of a deranged female mind.

And Erica had set up the clothing and jewelry exhibits.

She offered an apologetic smile to Erica and the visitors. She slunk quickly out of the room and away from Erica’s quizzical looks. Miss Lula was downstairs again in the docent office, her apron over her head. At the sound of Alison’s tread upon the squeaky oak floorboard, Lula lifted her face and swiped at her eyes.

“I’m always careful to make sure the cat’s in the house before dark. Too many wild creatures roam the night, animal and human. I’ve had Winnie and Erica searching the outbuildings and gardens on their tours this morning. Nobody’s seen hide or hair of her. I don’t understand it. I can’t believe she’s gone.”

She tried to focus on what Miss Lula was saying, but all she could think about were scissors clipping at Natalie’s silky black tresses while she lay suffocating in her own vomit.

And Frank, his head turned sideways on the headrest of his car, the breeze from the open window of the driver side ruffling his side-parted bangs into the fiery red dot of blood that marked his temple.

She closed her eyes.

“I hear some animals, maybe cats, go curl up and hide when death comes a-knocking.” Lula sighed. “Maybe it’s time for this old girl to hang it up, too.”

She swayed on her feet.

“Are you all right, Alison? You look mighty strange.”

She licked her lips and opened her eyes. Lula grabbed her forearm as the room started to tilt. She found her weight supported by the iron grip of the old woman. Who was the pitiful one now? She hadn’t thought an old woman could be so strong. How strong did you have to be to shoot someone, poison another, and cut tresses from their hair?

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “Just too much . . .” She stopped and gestured around the room. She needed to get away from this place and these people.

“You need to go home. You had a terrible shock last night.” Lula tsked-tsked herself. “I shouldn’t have called you away from your children.”

She patted Lula’s hand covering her arm. Better keep that open-book face of hers guileless. “I’m sorry we didn’t find Miss Patty. Are you going to be okay?” Alison’s fear mixed with feelings of guilt over her suspicions about Miss Lula.

Lula grimaced. “Life. Seasons change. And what doesn’t kill us, the good Lord intends to cure us, I suppose. Nothing ever stands still. I don’t know if you’ve lived long enough to notice,” with a quick glimpse of Alison’s set face, she amended, “but I reckon after the last few months, you knows exactly what I mean.” She laughed hoarsely. “Trees that can’t bend with the wind, honey chile, break. Don’t let life break you.”

She nodded. “You are one wise woman, Miss Lula.”

Not Miss Lula? Surely not? Erica, maybe.

Lula’s wrinkled, brown face creased into a smile. “Wisdom won the hard, old-fashioned way. Through blood, sweat, and a bucket of tears.”