The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,48

A free spirit, Lily was a musician and a pseudointellectual and a single mother by choice. She and her straitlaced, by-the-book, churchgoing mother were always at odds. It said something that Lily was concerned enough to put aside her feelings for her mother to visit Nikki.

“But shouldn’t you be resting? In bed?” Charlene asked.

“Seriously, Mom. I’m okay.”

“Well—”

“I’m following doctor’s orders, okay?” That was a bit of a lie, but there was no way Nikki could spend another day or hour or even damn minute holed up in her supposed misery.

“If you say so.”

“I do. Sorry I missed you.”

A beat. Then, “Me too. Be careful, Nikki,” she added. Then her voice was softer as if she’d turned away from the phone. “Lily, is there anything you wanted to say to your sister? Here, talk to her. I need to freshen up. And don’t go out onto the veranda to sneak a cigarette. You know how I feel about that. You’re a mother, for God’s sake. What kind of example are you setting?”

“You know what they say about reformed sinners,” was the husky response.

“I quit years ago. Years! Now, here. Talk to Nicole.”

A second later, Lily’s husky voice was clearer. “Hey, Nikki. We were just checking on you, no big deal, and if you say you’re cool, then we’ll touch base later.”

“I’m fine. Mom just won’t believe it.”

“Some things never change.”

“I guess not.”

“I’ll call later, or, more likely, Mom will.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Okay, she’s gone now, into the powder room. Oh, God, she is in such a mood. The thing is, she’s all about baking you something, if you can believe it, like peanut butter cookies or an apple pie or something. She keeps obsessing about it.”

“I don’t even like peanut butter cookies.”

“I know, I know, but I do, and sometimes she gets us—or what we like—mixed up. Remember the time she bought me that series of crime novels for Christmas and gave you the poetry books? I mean, really? She didn’t even realize what she’d done.”

“That was right after Dad died,” Nikki said, remembering. Charlene had been in a fog for nearly a year, even though her marriage to Nikki’s father had been far from perfect. “She was a little out of it.”

“Still is, if you ask me,” Lily said. “Anyway, right now she feels like she has to do something motherly.” Her voice lowered. “Actually, I think she planned to pick something up at a bakery, she detests getting the kitchen dirty.”

“I know.” Nikki almost smiled. She and Lily were direct opposites, but they had one thing in common: They understood their mother’s need to control them and fought it at every turn. “I need to talk to her. About what she remembers about the Duvals.”

“Oh, God. Once she starts, she’ll never stop.”

“Has to be done.”

“Well, fine, then it’s your funeral.”

“Very funny.”

“If you say so. She’s coming back—”

“Not now.” Nikki wasn’t ready to deal with Charlene. Not yet. “I’ll talk to her and you later.”

“Okay. Take care of yourself. Ciao,” Lily said with a perfect Italian accent that ended the call.

Nikki stuffed her phone in her pocket and tried once again to remember the theater as it had been. Standing in what had been the middle of the seating area but was now occupied by a coffee kiosk, Nikki imagined the three sisters, huddled together in the middle rows, maybe popcorn and sodas or red licorice in hand. They’d been watching Shrek, a recently released kids’ movie. And what had happened? Had they left during the film? Why? On their own? Or lured? Or coerced? Some other moviegoers had reported seeing them before and during the show, but not after. So what had happened? Why had they left?

She glanced up to the area where the projection room had been situated, the small windows still visible, and as she did she felt as if someone were staring at her, someone located in a dark corner, or on the balcony, or . . .

Oh, get over your bad self! There is nothing wicked, nothing degenerate here.

But in her mind’s eye she saw those three blond, blue-eyed girls in the darkened theater being lured even farther into the shadows . . .

“Nikki? Nikki Gillette!” A woman’s voice cracked into her reverie and she actually jumped.

She whipped around to spy a tall brunette in a summer dress and green apron heading her way. Her long hair was wound tight onto the back of her head, and huge gold hoops glinted