a lap of the mansion (no small feat) from the top floor to the basement. Safe for now—no one’s home but Jezebel, the cat, one of those super-fluffy Persians that would disappear if it rained on her. She stares at me with disgust.
“What, you’re a snob too?” I ask.
She gives one petulant meow and slinks away.
So the house is empty—meaning that right now is the perfect time for trying to find out more about my grandmother and this hellacious place. Not that I haven’t already searched the entire house. My grandmother, though, must have known that as a curious teenager with bad manners I would do exactly that, because the most incriminating things I could find were some photos of her as a debutante. No pictures of Mom, no family photos. Just a lot of group shots of the original four Magnolias. Oh, and bank statements. Hayes was right. My grandmother doesn’t have to worry about this recession thing. She’s certifiably rich.
There’s one room, though—at the very end of the second-floor hall at the back of the house—that’s always locked. Strangely, there’s a large framed Escher puzzle on the door. The room must have been my mom’s; none of the other bedrooms contain any of her things. I’ve never tried the full-on break-in, because Josie’s always here. But must be grocery shopping at the moment, so now seems as good a time as any.
I tiptoe down the hall to the door in question. I’ve tried the knob at least fifty times, but I do it again anyway. It’s still locked. Why would my grandmother lock it? Okay, she was hurt when Mom left, but is locking away all her things in her room really necessary? This house is a fortress—I have no idea where a key might be. Although I have noticed that one of the room’s windows has its own little decorative iron balcony. It’s about eight feet to the left of the main second-floor porch. That’s too far to jump, of course, but there’s a drainpipe between the two porches that might—if I grow some major cojones—serve as enough of a foothold to enable me to hop from one balcony to the other.
“Miss Lee?” I call again. “You want to ask the Magnolia sisters over for dinner tonight? Maybe I’ll make my famous California wheat gluten veggie balls?”
Nothing. She must really be gone. I flip my legs over the porch railing and, taking a wide step over two stories of free fall, place my foot onto the drainpipe and then hop onto the ledge of the balcony next to the locked room’s window. No one’s on the street below except a curious dog, which stares at me with unmistakable boredom. Okay, I haven’t killed myself—yet.
I peer through the window. Bummer. The view is blocked by thick drapes. I press my nose against the glass, but there’s not even a crack in the curtains to peek through. Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the nail file I swiped from my grandmother’s bathroom. Reggie taught all the kids this trick: To break in through a window that’s not bolted, just slip something flat and long in the opening. (He told me he learned that while doing a stint as a cat burglar in Paris.)
“Alexandria, what do you think you are doing?”
I swear, the woman’s voice could freeze boiling tar. My grandmother, looking immaculately groomed, is leaning over the porch railing, peering at me from my left.
Having grown up in an environment where there are about 6,748 ways to get into real trouble daily (the feds discovering the farm’s illegal crop, being attacked by a wildcat or a shark, getting lost in the woods), I’ve long thought it best to just say what I’m doing—legit or not—when asked.
“I’m trying to break into Mom’s room,” I say evenly. “I don’t think it’s fair that you’ve locked up all of her stuff. I am her daughter, after all.”
Awesome line—too bad my voice is trembling. Sometimes it really sucks being a girl. Tears always seem to come at the worst time.
“That’s not her room anymore,” my grandmother says, her voice softening very, very slightly. Have I managed to bring a little radiation to the polar ice caps? Is it possible?
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you want. But you’d better come off that balcony. It’s decorative, at least one hundred forty years old, and most certainly not up to code. I know you’re anxious to leave the house, but not in a hearse, I