‘‘I told Carley she didn’t need to be looking for relatives. I want them to go now.’’
‘‘Why, Gramma?’’ said Carley.
‘‘Never mind why. You don’t need to know why. Just tell them to go,’’ she said. She slumped in a chair as if exhausted. ‘‘I heard what you were up to,’’ she said, glaring at her granddaughter, as if Carley had been trying drugs rather than trying to trace her family tree.
Normally, Diane would excuse herself and let them sort out their problems in private, but it was obvious the grandmother knew something. Diane hoped it was about Clymene. She and Kingsley sat quietly watching the drama.
‘‘You have to tell me why, Gramma,’’ said Carley.
She was a pretty girl. Diane tried to find Clymene in their faces. She wasn’t there—the hair color and skin tone were, but not the look.
‘‘I don’t have to tell you why, child. Just do as I say,’’ she said.
‘‘Carley, maybe . . .’’ began her mother. Ellen Volker was clearly in a quandary with her mother’s obvious distress and the possibility of having to kick guests out of her home.
Carley’s face was firm. ‘‘Mother, you always say this is my home. If that’s true, I should be able to have guests.’’
She laid a suntanned hand on her grandmother’s arm. ‘‘Gramma, if you would just tell me what this is about. Is it because we have relatives who have been in prison? You can’t be ashamed of things you can’t control. Look at how many people around here claim to be related to Blackbeard,’’ she said.
Carley’s effort to get her grandmother to smile failed. Gramma looked at Carley.
‘‘Ashamed? Oh, child, you just don’t know. Why do you have to be so stubborn?’’
‘‘She gets it from you, Mother,’’ said Ellen. She straightened up and tried to put on a smile. ‘‘Where are my manners? This is my mother, Sarah Wallace. Mamma, this is Diane Fallon and Agent Kingsley,’’ she said.
Diane and Kingsley took out their badges again and showed them to the grandmother.
‘‘FBI?’’ she said.
‘‘How did you find out I had company coming to talk about our family tree?’’ said Carley.
‘‘You told your friend Jenny and she told her mother, who told me,’’ her grandmother said. ‘‘Does it matter?’’
‘‘It does if I want to plug up the leak,’’ said Carley.
‘‘Carley,’’ chided her mother gently. She looked at Diane and Kingsley. ‘‘I can’t imagine what you must think of us.’’
They smiled at her.
‘‘Mrs. Wallace,’’ said Diane. ‘‘We’re looking for a woman who has escaped from prison. She was there for killing her husband and she has killed others. We don’t know her real name, but we think she is a cousin of your daughter. That would make her your niece, wouldn’t it?’’
Sarah Wallace sat without saying anything, looking less frightened and more angry.
‘‘Mamma, is this about your sister?’’ said Ellen Volker.
‘‘Don’t you mention her name,’’ said Mrs. Wallace.
‘‘It’s been so long I’m not sure I remember,’’ said Ellen Volker. ‘‘Mamma has a sister she hasn’t spoken to in over thirty years.’’
‘‘Shh!’’ she spat to her daughter. ‘‘Do the two of you have to have such big mouths?’’
‘‘Mamma!’’ said her daughter. ‘‘I’ve never seen you like this, least ways, not in front of strangers.’’
‘‘Mrs. Wallace,’’ said Kingsley. ‘‘This is very important. We have to find this woman. The United States Marshals already know that you are a relative, and they will be coming here too.’’
‘‘Marshals?’’ said Carley and Ellen together.
‘‘Gramma, you’d better talk,’’ said Carley.
‘‘Look what you’ve done,’’ said Sarah Wallace. ‘‘I’m trying to protect you and look what you’ve done.’’
‘‘Mother! Maybe if you hadn’t been so secretive and told us why you were so set against her genealogy research, Carley would have understood. She’s an adult now and you can’t treat her, or me, like a child and keep secrets that you say are for our protection. If we’re in danger, we need to know so we can do something. For heaven’s sake, don’t tell us we’re in danger and then not tell us what we’re supposed to look out for. You are being ridiculous and mean about this. Talk to these people.’’
Sarah stared at her daughter. Diane got the idea that it took a lot to get Ellen Volker mad, but when she got mad, her family paid attention. The grandmother shook her head. ‘‘Maybe you’re right.’’
She poured herself a glass of tea and took a drink as if it were whisky.
‘‘I have a sister, Jerusha, who’s nine years younger than me. I don’t know if you remember her, Ellen.’’
‘‘Yes, I remember. I was a teenager when you two had the falling out,’’ she said.
‘‘Falling out? Is that what you would call it? I suppose I should have told you the story a long time ago. If I had, we wouldn’t be here arguing.’’
‘‘Well, tell us now, Mamma.’’
‘‘Jerusha married a man named Alain Delaflote. Our parents didn’t like him or his family, and neither did I.
