Mallory’s strong aversion to dirt and disorder had become numbed on the upper floors of Trebec House. She was also losing her fanatic compulsion about time. Force of habit no longer drove her to reach for the lost pocket watch ten times a day. She only knew that it was still morning, and only by the low-riding sun shining in the east window. As she laid a bundle of clothing down on a cedar chest, she caught a movement in sidelong vision and turned to face the intruder in a far dark corner of the room.
It was a woman standing barefoot in the shadowy glass of a full-length mirror. She wore an antique poet’s blouse and pale blue jeans. Time was slipping by Mallory, seconds melding into minutes as she drank in this soft, feminine image so like her mother. The face in the mirror was stained with glistening tears.
Footfalls in the hallway brought her back to the solid world. Mallory’s hand passed over her face to erase the evidence of crying.
But there was none – her face was dry.
She stood very still, staring down at her hand. There was no trace of -
The footsteps were coming closer.
Get a grip.
“The temperature is dropping like mad,” said the old woman, coming through the doorway, her arms filled with clothing.
Apparently, canny Augusta could ferret out the invisible tracks of phantom tears, for her voice was gentle now. “You’ll need a coat. I’ve got one here. I think it’s your size. Now those running shoes were just ruined. Couldn’t do a thing with them.” She held up a pair of riding boots for Mallory’s approval. “How do these suit you?” The fine leather was black, and the detailing was western.
“Perfect. And I already found a coat.”
Augusta cast a dubious eye on the garment draped over the cedar chest. This long black coat had been more fashionable in the days when overland travel was on horseback. It did fit well with the period blouse, but Augusta had hit on its more useful quality. “Yes, that would blend well with the dark, wouldn’t it? I can’t believe that old duster is still hanging together. It’s a lot older than I am. Well, it’s yours if you like it so much.”
The old woman opened an armoire and began to pull out boxes from the top shelf. “There’s a hat that goes with it, if I can only remember where it was stored. My grandmother wore it when she went riding.” A large round box came apart in her hands, and the black hat tumbled to the rug. Augusta picked it up and turned it over in her hands, smoothing out the low flat crown and the wide brim.
“It won’t cover up all that bright gold hair.” She reached back to the shelf. “But I guess we can do something with this.” Augusta held up a black bandanna.
Mallory pulled back a pair of red drapes from another window. Light washed through the room, killing every corner shadow. She turned to the mirror again and appraised the white linen blouse. The romantic flow of material was far from her own severely tailored tastes, but the billowy lines hid every trace of her bandages. She pulled on the harness for her shoulder holster and winced as the leather strap crossed her wound.
Augusta stood behind her and spoke to the reflection. “You’ll have to find some other way to wear that gun. That left shoulder is gonna be sore for a while. You won’t have full strength or mobility for another week or so. But I guess I pulled that yellow cat through worse wounds than you had.”
Continuing a conversation that had begun over breakfast, Mallory asked, “Why did Ira’s father commit suicide?”
“Suicide? Oh, now don’t go making more of that than it was. Ira’s daddy never was the best driver in town. That car had a lot of dents in it long before it ever hit that phone pole.” She pulled open a dresser drawer and rummaged through the musty clothing. “Maybe we can fix your holster to a regular belt.”
“The insurance company contested the settlement,” said Mallory. She had raided the local agent’s computer, but the investigator’s report had been sloppy and incomplete. It contained only bare bones of dates and physical evidence. It had been no more helpful than the data she had stolen from the sheriff’s computer.
“The company man did make a fuss at first. But he finally paid the claim in full.” Augusta held up a narrow strip of leather. She looked at Mallory’s large gun and discarded the flimsy belt with a shake of her head. “Darlene had to use all the policy money to buy her own house back from the New Church. Seems her husband had signed over the deed as a donation and a tax deduction.”
“I thought the New Church was all Laurie family.”
“Most but not all. I don’t know that Ira’s father was that religious. I think he was just looking for a way to avoid taxes. If you gave up your house, you got to live in it rent-free till you died.” She had found a broad belt with an ornate buckle and held it up to the light. “Now that’s promising.” She handed it off to Mallory. “That was how Malcolm wound up with all that prime property on the lower bayou. He convinced a lot of fools that the best way to hold on to something was to give it away, and the best way to save money was not to earn any.”
Mallory threaded the belt through her holster. “But why did the insurance company contest it? There must have been – ”
“It was just a formality is all. It’s a common thing when there’s an alteration in the paperwork a few days before a death. The original policy favored the New Church, and then he changed it to name Darlene as the sole beneficiary.”
So Ira’s father had a falling-out with the New Church before he drove his car into a telephone pole, head-on, according to Deputy Travis’s accident report. He had made no attempt to break his speed.
The air was colder this morning. Charles buttoned up his new denim jacket as he stood on Darlene Wooley’s porch and watched the town square coming to life, people walking by, cars slowly driving past the fountain, friends hailing friends, open and gregarious in asking after one another’s health.
Ira would never be part of that flow, not entirely. Autism was the cult of one, the self-involved, but Charles wondered which of these outward-looking folk would have noticed the loss of one of their stars, if not for Ira.
The door opened behind him. He turned to see the tired but smiling face of Darlene Wooley.
“Well, Charles Butler. I thought you’d left town.” She opened her door wide and stepped back to allow him to pass into the foyer. “I was just getting ready for work. Can I offer you a cup of coffee? It’s already made. Won’t take a minute to set out another cup.”
“Yes, thank you.” He followed her into a wide room of perfect symmetry. The couch and coffee table were placed dead center against one wall and flanked with a balance of identical armchairs. Matching incidental tables were centered on the side walls, and paintings were hung with an eye to pattern, large pieces accompanied by smaller works of equal size on each side. Mallory would have approved, for it was very neat, each thing in its place, though some pieces of furniture showed wear at the arms and the cushions.
“I’d like to see Ira, too, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course I don’t mind. He remembers you very well. He says ‘sandwich man’ over and over, every time we have lunch at Jane’s. Well, you have a seat, and I’ll get us some coffee.”
He settled into a large armchair with a prominent darn in the upholstery.
“This house hasn’t changed in twenty years.” Her voice was apologetic. “I never redo the furniture or move anything around. It makes extra work for Ira. If you were to move something just a hair out of place, he would notice that, and then he’d have to memorize the room all over again. When he’s not at school, he spends most of his time in the house.”
“I’ve seen him in the cemetery.”
“That used to be his favorite place. Until recently, the stones never moved.”