course.
Matthew drew his knuckles lightly down her cheek. It really was a pity that it had come to this. His aunt was a gifted artist, and he hated that her talents could no longer be utilized. But she had only herself to blame for her current misfortune. She shouldn’t have stuck her nose into Matthew’s business.
When he’d first come back to the area several years ago, he and Savannah had gotten on just fine. He’d been willing to let bygones be bygones, and she’d been flattered by his interest in doll making, had taught him almost everything she knew. Then she’d started to ask too many questions. The accident had curbed her curiosity for a long time, because she’d needed Matthew then. She hadn’t wanted to do or say anything to drive him away.
As time went on, however, she’d grown more and more independent. Eventually, the questions had started up again, and somehow she’d found out that Matthew had dropped out of medical school a few weeks after the family fortune had come under his control, and she’d threatened to expose the fact that he wasn’t a licensed physician. He might have been able to talk his way out of that one, but then another child had disappeared and her curiosity had turned into suspicion. Matthew had to take matters into his own hands, as he had learned very early on to do.
He drew aside the blanket and quickly gave her the injection in her left hip. Then he threw the needle away, pulled the covers up to her chin and leaned down to kiss her forehead.
Walking over to the window, he stared out across the lawn, down to the gate and to the gravel road beyond. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he could see a trail of dust in the distance, and his heart quickened with excitement.
After all these years, Mama was finally coming back for him.
He felt moisture on his face and he quickly wiped it away. No time for tears. He had to be ready when she got here.
Twenty-Seven
By ten o’clock that morning, Dave and Claire had crossed into Terrebonne Parish, and from Houma, they headed south on Highway 53, deep into bayou country. The sunlight that shone through the oak and willow trees was soft and dappled, and hot enough out over the bayou to melt all but a ribbon of morning mist. The water was dark green with algae and duckweed, and along the banks, lily pads grew thick and tangled and bursting with yellow blossoms.
Near the tiny town of Tiber, they took a side road that ran through acres and acres of sugarcane fields. The area was rural and impoverished, the houses they passed along the way little more than shotgun shanties with dirty yards and outdoor privies. From open windows and dilapidated porches, dark eyes watched with wary curiosity, and only an occasional hand lifted in greeting.
Claire had lived in Louisiana all her life, but she was still a stranger to the traditions and superstitions that permeated the bayou country. Voodoo had been a profitable tourist attraction for decades, but was still a serious practice in the Acadian swamps. It wasn’t unusual to see a dime tied around an ankle or a gris-gris hanging from a dusky neck to ward off bad luck.
As they drove into the countryside, Claire’s uneasiness deepened, but she tried to hide her trepidation from Dave. They’d spoken very little on the trip, neither of them ready to talk about what had happened the night before. And as they drew ever closer to their destination, Claire suspected that his apprehension was as great as her own. He stared straight ahead, jaw set, hands gripping the steering wheel. And when they rounded a bend in the road and could see glimpses of the house through the trees, he said tightly, “That’s it.”
Savannah Sweete lived at the end of a gravel road in a white-pillared plantation house surrounded by a wrought-iron fence. Magnolia trees and crepe myrtle bushes lined the winding drive, and when Claire rolled down her window, she could smell honeysuckle mingling with the earthier scent of the swamp.
The gates were closed across the drive, but the parish sheriff who had arranged the meeting told Dave that Savannah would be expecting them. All he had to do was tap his horn and she would use her remote to let them in.
She must have been watching for them because the gates swung open before Dave sounded the horn, and they were able to drive straight through. The house sat on a slight incline, in deep shade, surrounded on three sides by towering oak and pecan trees and on the east side by the bayou. The lawn sloped down to the water’s edge, and Claire could see a pirogue tied up at a wooden dock.
Dave parked in the gravel drive, and as they got out of the truck, Claire lifted a hand to her eyes. White wicker rockers on the front porch were cooled by ceiling fans. Hollyhocks grew in the sun, blue hydrangeas in the shade, and as she climbed the porch steps, Claire could hear the drone of bees swarming a bottlebrush bush at the corner of the house.
She waited nervously while Dave rapped on the door with the big brass knocker. When the lock clicked open, seemingly of its own accord, Claire said, “How did that happen?”
“It must be on a remote like the gate.” He pushed open the door and stepped inside.
The foyer was dim and smelled musty and damp, as if no one had lived in the house for years. The ravages of time and neglect were clearly visible in the faded wallpaper, the peeling woodwork and the water-stained ceilings.
An oak staircase curved up to a shadowy gallery, but the parlor to the right of the front hall was filled with sunlight. To the left of the foyer, an elevator with an ornate grille had been installed to accommodate Savannah’s wheelchair.
Dave walked over to the stairs and called up. “Hello? Anyone home?”
Everything was silent except for the gold-and-walnut grandfather clock ticking in the foyer. A moment later, floorboards creaked overhead. A woman’s voice said from the shadows, “Yes?”
“I’m Dave Creasy and this is Claire Doucett. We’re here to see Savannah Sweete. She’s expecting us.”
“Of course. Sheriff Granger called and said you were on your way. There’s a pitcher of sweet tea in the parlor. Please make yourselves at home. I’ll be down in a moment.”
They walked through the wide opening into the parlor, and Claire glanced around. Despite the sun shining in through the long windows, the room was dreary, furnished with heavy draperies and dark velvet divans. Windows looked out on an enclosed terrace, and beyond the garden, she could see a white, lattice summerhouse down by the bayou.
But what caught her attention more than anything were the dolls. They were everywhere. Peering down from the walls. Peeking playfully around curtains. Having tea at a tiny table set for two. And all of them so lifelike that Claire found herself having to look twice.
“Holy cow,” Dave muttered. He rubbed the back of his neck as if the hair there was suddenly standing on end. “Why do I feel as if we’ve just landed in some sort of freak show?”
“They are a little unnerving,” Claire agreed. “But wouldn’t Mama get a kick out of this place?”
A few minutes later, they heard the elevator descend. The iron gate swung open and Savannah Sweete’s wheelchair rolled smoothly onto the hardwood floor.
She was slim and attractive, her face unlined, the skin at her throat still smooth and supple. Her gray hair was cut short and fringed at the ends, and her smile, when she entered the room, seemed genuine and friendly. She was much younger than Claire would have guessed, or else she was very adept at concealing her years. She was beautifully made up—eyes, lips, cheeks all dusted with soft colors that complemented her pale skin. She was as perfect as her dolls.
She wore a black pleated skirt that fell over her knees and a silk lavender blouse draped with a matching sweater. There were pearls at her throat and in her lobes, and it was obvious to Claire that she still took a great deal of pride in her appearance. Even her hands and nails were perfectly groomed.
“I’m Savannah,” she said, and held out her hand first to Claire and then to Dave. Her drawl was very pronounced, her demeanor pure Old South. “Won’t you sit down?”
When they were settled on one of the divans, she rolled over to the coffee table to pour the tea. “I understand you have some questions about one of my dolls. Sheriff Granger said something about a resemblance to
