Texas Gothic - By Rosemary Clement-Moore Page 0,67

makeshift buffet table. The students sat on the ground and on a few camp seats from the work areas. Dr. Douglas lounged in one of the chairs, chatting with a woman I couldn’t see behind her enormous sunglasses.

None of them, fortunately, was paying attention as I trotted after Ben. I’d totally mishandled him—again—and trying to repair my case was like trying to bail a leaky rowboat.

“I would only talk to him if he was having a good day,” I bargained. “Alzheimer’s patients sometimes remember the past more clearly than the present—”

He stopped. Turned. Leaned down so he was right in my face. “No. Do not talk to Grandpa Mac about ghosts. He sees enough of them already.”

My mind snagged on that for a moment, wondering if he saw them in the present or the past. Was his Emily like Uncle Burt, or was she only in his mind?

The question wouldn’t matter if I didn’t fix things with Ben.

“Look,” I said, “the only stories I have are via the Kellys. What the Kellys said they saw or heard, or what their cattle-rustling grandfather said.” In fact, it seemed like the Kellys had done a lot more talking about the ghost than Aunt Hyacinth could have, given that she’d been on a slow boat to China for a while now. But I didn’t point that out, since Ben was mad enough already.

“Fine,” he said, proving how angry he was. “Why don’t you take Joe Kelly out to dinner and ask him about the Mad Monk.”

“Maybe I will,” I said, because apparently I was five.

“Wear a raincoat for the beer and your rubber boots for the bull—”

A woman’s voice, syrup thick and laced with maternal disapproval, rolled heavily down the hill. “Benjamin Francis McCulloch! I told you to bring that young lady up here for some lunch, not to yell at her like a hooligan.”

Francis? I was never going to let him tease me about Amaryllis again.

The triple-name whammy had an astounding effect on Ben. He colored to the tips of his ears and, after one last acid glance, wiped his face of anything but pleasant solicitude and gestured me onward to the picnic. With the same exaggerated courtesy, I swept by him … and knew I was just as red-faced as he.

Most of the gang were too busy eating and talking to pay much attention, but Mark looked vastly amused. Caitlin’s expression implied she was updating her taxonomy to include Freshmanicus buttheadius. And as I passed Phin, she murmured, “What was that you said about not antagonizing the law?”

I ignored her and focused on the blond woman who literally greeted me with open arms. “Amy! I’ve just been chatting with Phin. It’s so delightful to meet you both.”

Mrs. McCulloch had a big Texas drawl to go with the big Texas hair, and she seemed utterly genuine. Her warmth threw me off balance. If there was any bad blood between her and Aunt Hyacinth, it didn’t affect her greeting at all, and she clearly didn’t hold my public argument with Ben against me.

Either that, or she was the best actress in the world. I glanced at Phin, who shrugged—her mouth full of sandwich—which I interpreted to mean she’d taken the woman at face value and so should I.

Holding me at arm’s length, she gave me a rather matriarchal inspection. “Aren’t you adorable! Look at those dimples. I expected you to be taller.”

“Understandable,” I said, still a little bewildered by the reception. Phin and I bookended average height, but Aunt Hyacinth was something approaching Amazonian. “My aunt Iris always said Hyacinth married Uncle Burt because he was the first man she met who didn’t insist she wear flats on their dates.”

She laughed. “I can’t imagine anyone insisting your aunt do anything. As we well know.”

“Mom,” Ben chided her in a long-suffering sort of tone.

Mrs. McCulloch breezed along. “Come have a sandwich. Ben, get Amy a drink.”

He shot me a warning glance behind his mother’s back, as if I was going to ask her about the Mad Monk right then. Which I might have, but not while he was within earshot. Or while I was so hungry.

Mrs. McCulloch chatted while I cleaned my hands and made a cheese sandwich. “Can you believe all the excitement down by the gate? Who knew one bridge would lead to all this?”

Mark ambled over for some more potato chips. “You never know what’s going to turn up in construction, Mrs. McCulloch. When the highway department expanded the road through