My neighbor from up the road, Lorinda Prescott, was at the front door with her fabulous supper dish that was supposed to be scooped up with tortilla chips. And she’d brought Tostitos, too. “I just wanted to thank you for the delicious tomatoes,” she said. “I’ve never tasted any as good. What brand were they?”
“I just bought ’em at the lawn and garden center,” I said. “Please come have a seat.” Lorinda said she wouldn’t stay long, but I had to introduce her to my company. While Lorinda was being charmed by Mr. Cataliades, I raised an eyebrow at Diantha, who slipped back down the hall to shut the door to the guest bedroom, where Copley Carmichael was still propped against the wall. After that, Diantha and Mr. Cataliades went upstairs, having said polite things to Lorinda, who seemed a bit stunned at Diantha’s ensemble.
“I’m so glad you’ve got someone staying with you while you’re getting better,” she said. She paused, and her brow wrinkled. “My goodness, what’s that noise?”
A dull thumping sound was issuing from the guest bedroom. Damn. “That’s probably . . . gosh, I guess they shut their dog in that room!” I said. I called up the stairs, “Mr. C! The dog’s acting up! Can you get Coco to calm down?”
“I do beg your pardon,” Mr. Cataliades said, gliding down the stairs. “I will make the animal keep silent.”
“Thanks,” I said, and tried not to notice that Lorinda was looking a little shocked to hear Mr. C call his dog “the animal.” He went down the hall, and I heard the door to the guest room open and close. The thumping ceased abruptly.
Mr. Cataliades reappeared, bowing to Lorinda on his way through the living room to the stairs. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Prescott,” he said, and vanished into one of the upstairs rooms.
“Gosh,” said Lorinda. “He’s mighty formal.”
“Comes from an old New Orleans family,” I explained. A couple of minutes later, Lorinda decided she needed to get home to start supper, and I bowed her out of the house with lots of pleasantries.
When she was gone, I breathed out a deep sigh of relief. I was hurrying to the guest bedroom . . . and the phone rang. It was Michele, checking up on me, which was a nice thing for her to do, but real bad timing.
“Hi, Michele!” I said, trying to sound perky and healthy.
“Hey, nearly-sister-in-law,” she said. “How are you today?”
“So much better,” I said. That was only half a lie. I was better.
“Can I come by and pick up your laundry? I’m doing mine tonight, so Jason and me can go line dancing tomorrow night.”
“Oh, have a good time!” It had been ages since I’d been dancing. “I’m caught up on my laundry, thanks so much.”
“Why don’t you come to Stompin’ Sally’s with us, if you’re feeling so much better?”
“If my shoulder isn’t too sore, I’d love to,” I said impulsively. “Can I let you know tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure,” she said. “Anytime before eight, that’s when we’re leaving.”
I finally got to the guest bedroom. Copley was there, unconscious, still breathing. I hadn’t been sure how Mr. C had silenced him, but at least it was not by snapping his neck. And I still didn’t know what to do about him.
I called up the stairs to Mr. C and Diantha to tell them supper was ready. They came down the stairs lickety-split. Each of us had a heaping bowlful of the ground meat, beans, sauce, and chopped peppers, and I shared out the bag of tortilla chips to use in scooping up the mixture. I had some shredded cheese, too. And Tara had left a pie made by Mrs. du Rone, so we even had dessert. By tacit agreement, we didn’t discuss the disposition of Copley Carmichael until we’d finished eating. The locusts were singing their evening chorale while we tried to reach a consensus.
Diantha’s opinion was that we should kill him.
Mr. Cataliades wanted to lay some heavy magic on him and put him back in place in New Orleans. Like substituting a ringer for the real Copley Carmichael. Obviously, he had a plan for using the new version of Amelia’s father.
I couldn’t see letting him back into the world, a soulless, devil-tied creature with no impulse for good. But I didn’t want to kill anyone else, either. My own soul was dark enough. While we debated and the long evening turned into darkness, there was another knock at the back door.