“Sissy, I can’t!”
“Why not? You can do it with roses, and police composites. I have plenty of photographs you can use for reference.”
“Sissy, how old was Frank when he got killed?”
“Forty-seven. Why?”
“Forty-seven. So what’s going to happen if I draw him and he comes to life and he’s only forty-seven and you’re seventy-one? I mean, how are you going to deal with
Sissy took a deep breath. She knew that what she was thinking was deeply unnatural, and probably wrong. These days, she wasn’t religious. After Frank had been killed, she had stopped attending church. But she did believe in greater powers, and a moral order, and to bring Frank back to life did seem like flying in the face of God. She thought of all of those stories — like “The Monkey’s Paw,” in which a grieving father resurrects his horribly injured son. Deals with the devil always carried a price that was far too much to pay. In fiction they did, anyway. She didn’t know whether the same was true of real life.
“I don’t honestly know
“Sissy — ”
“We have to try, Molly. If there’s one thing the cards are quite certain about, there’s going to be a massacre. How are we going to live with ourselves if we don’t try everything we can to stop it?”
“It’s too scary.”
Sissy reached out and took hold of her hand. “Come on, Molly, Frank was never scary. He was tough, yes, and a very good cop. But he was always fair, and he was always kind, and he always had a terrific sense of humor.”
“Yes, but he’s
Sissy said nothing for a while, but looked down at Molly’s hand as if it held the answer to everything. Then she said, “Would you at least try?”
“I have to ask Trevor. Frank was Trevor’s father, after all. He may want him left in peace.”
“You can’t let any more innocent people get killed, Molly. I know you didn’t bring those drawings to life on purpose. Those murders weren’t your fault. But you have to face the fact that you’re the only person who has the ability to turn them back into drawings again and destroy them.”
Molly stood up and went to the window. “I think I need to find out more about this necklace first. I don’t want to start bringing any more drawings to life until I’m sure of what the consequences are going to be. I’m sorry, Sissy, but this really creeps me out.”
“Can you remember who sold you the necklace?”
“She gave me her card. She said she had a small antiques store, out near the country club.”
Molly went through to her studio to find her purse. She was gone for only a moment before she called out, “Sissy! Come here, quick!”
Sissy followed her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. But
She pointed toward her desk. The roses had gone. The “real” roses, anyway. But on the sheets of paper on which she had rested them, they had reappeared as paintings.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Sissy picked up the painting of the red Mr. Lincoln rose and sniffed it. It had no fragrance at all, only the smell of cartridge paper.
“We can do it,” she said. “I’m sure we can do it.”
Molly said, “I’m still frightened, Sissy.”
“All right. I know you are. So let’s find out more about your necklace.”
Molly reached into her embroidered bag and took out her purse. “Here it is. Dorothy Carven, Persimmon Antiques, Madison Road. Why don’t I give her a call?”
At that moment, they heard the front door open and Trevor call out, “Hi, Molly! Hi, Mom! We’re home!”
Persimmon Antiques turned out to be a fussy, high-class antiques store with a single Sheraton chair in the window and thick brown carpeting inside. A little bell jingled as Sissy and Molly walked in through the front door.
“Classy,” said Sissy. There were fewer than a dozen pieces of furniture in the store — two chaise longues, a pair of armchairs, two bureaus, and a gilded desk. On one of the tables stood some eighteenth-century figurines of shepherds and shepherdesses, as well as a Meissen dinner service. The walls were hung with oil paintings, mostly landscapes and views of the Ohio River.
A woman appeared from the back of the store with her mouth full. She was tall, fiftyish, with rimless half- glasses and a wing of white hair. She was wearing a purple silk pantsuit and at least twenty gold bracelets.
“May I help you, ladies?” she asked, and immediately pressed her fingers to her lips. “Do forgive me! I just picked up some strawberry cheesecake from the Bonbonnerie, and I couldn’t wait until I got home. Have you tried their cherry trifle? To die for, I promise.”
Molly said, “Ms. Carven? You may not remember, but I bought this necklace from you at the Peddlers Flea Market.”
The woman peered at the necklace over her glasses, and then took hold of it and lifted it up. “Yes, of
“Do you know anything about its provenance?” asked Sissy.
“Provenance? I don’t think it has any kind of provenance. It’s just a costume piece, that’s all. I pick up quite a few interesting bits and bobs when I’m clearing houses. I wouldn’t sell them here, so now and again I take them down to the flea market to see what I can get for them.”
“So you don’t know anything about it? Where it came from, or who collected all of these mascots?”
“Well, I bought it from an elderly woman in Hyde Park. Her husband had died and she wanted to get rid of everything. He had one or two very fine paintings, as I remember, and a wonderful longcase clock. But he also had an awful lot of junk. Boxes and boxes of newspapers and old theater programs and buttons and coins. I think he was one of these people who never throw anything away.”
“You don’t have the woman’s name?”
“May I ask why you want to know?”
“Oh, I’m writing a book about jewelry and superstition,” Sissy lied. “You know, charm bracelets and birth- stones and things like that. And, as you say, this necklace is very unusual, isn’t it? I’m sure it must have a story.”
Ms. Carven went over to the gilded desk, opened the top drawer, and took out a leather-bound book. She licked her thumb and leafed through it until she came to the page she wanted. “Here you are. Mrs. Edwina Branson, 1556 Observatory Road. There’s a telephone number, too, if you want it.”
Mrs. Edwina Branson was well into her eighties. She was white haired, small, and stooped, and was dressed in a smart cream blouse with a pearl pin at the collar and a green plaid skirt. She obviously took good care of herself.
She lived in a ground-floor apartment overlooking a small courtyard. Her ginger cat was sleeping on the bricks outside her window. The apartment was furnished entirely with modern furniture — a beige couch, two beige chairs, and an oak-topped coffee table. The only pictures on the walls were photographs of her children and grandchildren.
“I have some iced tea if you’d care for some,” she told them.
“Thanks all the same,” said Sissy. “We don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
