Ghost Moon by Karen Robards Page B

long, well-scrubbed and scarred oak trestle table in the center of the room provided seating for up to twelve. Above it hung a century-old wrought-iron chandelier that had been converted to electricity just before Olivia left home. The far wall was a bank of multipaned, floor-to-ceiling windows, which included two French doors that opened onto the lower of the two galleries that surrounded the house. At the moment, cream-colored drapes with a green ivy pattern were closed over the windows, keeping the darkness out. The kitchen itself was brightly lit by antique brass-and-copper lamps, original to the house, that had been converted from oil at some point, and the chandelier over the table, which was agleam.
    As Olivia came through the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the hall, both women looked around.
    ‘‘Hi,’’ Olivia said uncertainly, realizing that, despite her overwhelming sense of having come home, in reality the kitchen help were more certain of their place in the house than she. ‘‘Has there been any news about Mr. Archer?’’
    Both women shook their heads.
    ‘‘Not that we’ve heard,’’ said the woman from the hall.
    ‘‘You’re Olivia Chenier, aren’t you?’’ The one Olivia hadn’t seen before looked her over appraisingly. If appearances were anything to judge by, she was the older of the two. She was around thirty, with obviously dyed dark red hair, blunt features, and a pear-shaped figure that the apron tied tightly around her waist only emphasized.
    ‘‘Yes. Well, Olivia Morrison now,’’ Olivia said, tightening the belt of the knee-length pink chenille bathrobe that Martha had provided. Her legs and feet were bare. While she was decently covered, and the only alternative garment she could have chosen was the limp sundress she had worn earlier, she felt hideously self-conscious under the other women’s avid stares.
    ‘‘I’m Amy McGee, Amy Fry, that was. You probably don’t remember me, but I used to see you around a lot when you were growing up. I live in town. You ran off and married some rodeo rider, didn’t you? Lord, when it happened that was all anybody talked about for months. Hot hot, is what we all said.’’ The woman shook her hand suggestively.
    ‘‘Amy!’’ the other woman protested. She was younger, slimmer, prettier, with mouse-brown hair pulled back into a ponytail at her nape. With an apologetic look at Olivia, she added, ‘‘I’m Amy’s sister, Laura Fry. We own Sisters Catering. We did the cooking tonight, all except the desserts. They came from Patout’s Bakery in town.’’
    ‘‘The boudin smells wonderful, although I didn’t get a chance to eat any.’’ Glad to be rescued from a discussion of her past, Olivia walked across the cool, rough-textured brick pavers that tiled the kitchen floor. With her face scrubbed clean of any makeup and her hair brushed straight back and tucked behind her ears, she wondered how she stacked up to the Olivia they remembered. Not well, she guessed. ‘‘I just came down to use the phone. Is it still . . .?’’
    She nodded toward the butler’s pantry, which was basically a walk-in food closet with a sink and a telephone at the far end of the kitchen. When she had lived here, there had been two telephones in the whole huge house: one in the butler’s pantry, for general use, and one in Big John’s office, in the west wing. Big John had never liked telephones, and saw no need to have more than two of the noisy contraptions in his house. To his mind, two was pushing it. The restriction had played havoc with her social life, and as a teenager she had been impatient with Big John’s autocratic decree. It had been hard to carry on a conversation with anyone, let alone boys, in the middle of the busy kitchen, where any chance passerby was free to listen in.
    More than once she had driven into town to use the pay phone in the drugstore. Every time she had done it, the necessity made her mad.
    ‘‘In