presuming your daughter contracted consumption in the workhouse. I need to think about this, Ms. Malloy. I’ll call you back this evening.”
I retreated to the balcony to wait.
* * *
Caron and Peter were briefed on the situation. Peter, who was in Little Rock, offered all the usual platitudes, sprinkled with endearing remarks, and assured me that he was frantic to learn what Terry Kennedy said. Caron expressed her solicitude by heading out to a pizza place to meet her friends, one of whom was Joel.
I was perfecting my argument when Terry Kennedy called. “Claire,” he began, “if I may call you that, I am willing to discuss the house, but we need to talk in person. I should be in Farberville by late tomorrow afternoon. As soon as I’ve checked into a motel, I’ll call you.”
“You’re not going to stay at your house?”
There was a long silence. “Maybe I will,” he finally said. “It could be interesting. In any case, we’ll talk tomorrow. I was so startled by your earlier call that I didn’t ask about Angela. She, Winston, and I were friends. You said that she disappeared?”
I told him what I knew, which wasn’t much, then said, “Do you have any idea where she could be? She’s divorcing Danny and it seems that she forgot all about me.”
“Angela will come up with some crazy rationalization. I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon.”
I tripped over a box of Christmas ornaments as I went to the kitchen to find something for dinner. Ah, the perils of tiptoeing along the fine line between optimism and pessimism.
* * *
Caron was still asleep when I left the duplex the following morning. I drove to Angela’s house and rang the doorbell, but there was no response. I’d already called Bartleby-King and Associates; Angela had yet to resume associating with them. She had been missing for almost forty-eight hours. It was premature to file a missing persons report. Since I had nothing worthwhile to do until Terry arrived from Key West, I decided to drive out to Hollow Valley on the off-chance she was there—and spend some time in my future home, counting bar stools and examining the bedroom decor.
Twenty minutes later, I turned at the Hollow Valley Nursery sign. Before I reached the driveway to my house, a willowy woman with hair so pale that it wafted around her face and shoulders like a cirrus cloud leaped out into the road and began to pirouette. Her oversized gauzy white shirt rippled like feathers. I hit the brakes before I mowed down the Swan Queen. In response, she wiggled her fingers at me before returning to her invisible lamentation of cygnets.
I tolerated the amateurish production for several minutes, then opened my car window and said, “That was lovely. If you’ll be so kind as to move aside, I’ll just drive around you and be out of your way.”
“You’re not bothering me,” she trilled as she began hopping about, her arms swaying over her head. “I’m channeling the deities of Litha so we can prepare for the Midsummer’s Eve bonfire and the appearance of Juno Luna, the goddess who blesses women with the privilege of menstruation. Come dance, whoever you are! The sun seeks its zenith. Free yourself and feel the warmth and perfume of nature!”
“Another day, but thank you anyway.”
Pandora Butterfly, or so I presumed, gave me a wee frown. She twirled to a halt and said, “You won’t dance with me?”
“I would prefer not to,” I said solemnly, then clamped my lips together. A giggle erupted, followed by another and another, until I was sprawled across the front seat, tears streaking down my face, laughing so hard I was in danger of wetting my pants.
Pandora stuck her head inside the car. “Are you okay, lady?”
I stayed where I was until I could present a more dignified visage. She retreated as I sat up, although I could not contain an occasional snort. “I’m okay, and you’re okay. You’re Pandora, right?”
“Pandora Butterfly
I retreated to the balcony to wait.
* * *
Caron and Peter were briefed on the situation. Peter, who was in Little Rock, offered all the usual platitudes, sprinkled with endearing remarks, and assured me that he was frantic to learn what Terry Kennedy said. Caron expressed her solicitude by heading out to a pizza place to meet her friends, one of whom was Joel.
I was perfecting my argument when Terry Kennedy called. “Claire,” he began, “if I may call you that, I am willing to discuss the house, but we need to talk in person. I should be in Farberville by late tomorrow afternoon. As soon as I’ve checked into a motel, I’ll call you.”
“You’re not going to stay at your house?”
There was a long silence. “Maybe I will,” he finally said. “It could be interesting. In any case, we’ll talk tomorrow. I was so startled by your earlier call that I didn’t ask about Angela. She, Winston, and I were friends. You said that she disappeared?”
I told him what I knew, which wasn’t much, then said, “Do you have any idea where she could be? She’s divorcing Danny and it seems that she forgot all about me.”
“Angela will come up with some crazy rationalization. I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon.”
I tripped over a box of Christmas ornaments as I went to the kitchen to find something for dinner. Ah, the perils of tiptoeing along the fine line between optimism and pessimism.
* * *
Caron was still asleep when I left the duplex the following morning. I drove to Angela’s house and rang the doorbell, but there was no response. I’d already called Bartleby-King and Associates; Angela had yet to resume associating with them. She had been missing for almost forty-eight hours. It was premature to file a missing persons report. Since I had nothing worthwhile to do until Terry arrived from Key West, I decided to drive out to Hollow Valley on the off-chance she was there—and spend some time in my future home, counting bar stools and examining the bedroom decor.
Twenty minutes later, I turned at the Hollow Valley Nursery sign. Before I reached the driveway to my house, a willowy woman with hair so pale that it wafted around her face and shoulders like a cirrus cloud leaped out into the road and began to pirouette. Her oversized gauzy white shirt rippled like feathers. I hit the brakes before I mowed down the Swan Queen. In response, she wiggled her fingers at me before returning to her invisible lamentation of cygnets.
I tolerated the amateurish production for several minutes, then opened my car window and said, “That was lovely. If you’ll be so kind as to move aside, I’ll just drive around you and be out of your way.”
“You’re not bothering me,” she trilled as she began hopping about, her arms swaying over her head. “I’m channeling the deities of Litha so we can prepare for the Midsummer’s Eve bonfire and the appearance of Juno Luna, the goddess who blesses women with the privilege of menstruation. Come dance, whoever you are! The sun seeks its zenith. Free yourself and feel the warmth and perfume of nature!”
“Another day, but thank you anyway.”
Pandora Butterfly, or so I presumed, gave me a wee frown. She twirled to a halt and said, “You won’t dance with me?”
“I would prefer not to,” I said solemnly, then clamped my lips together. A giggle erupted, followed by another and another, until I was sprawled across the front seat, tears streaking down my face, laughing so hard I was in danger of wetting my pants.
Pandora stuck her head inside the car. “Are you okay, lady?”
I stayed where I was until I could present a more dignified visage. She retreated as I sat up, although I could not contain an occasional snort. “I’m okay, and you’re okay. You’re Pandora, right?”
“Pandora Butterfly
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