Instead, put that fertile brain of yours to work. We have a logjam of facts. Figure out where to poke in a stick of dynamite and change the landscape.”
“In other words”—her drawl was dangerously pleasant—“I’m confined to quarters?”
“Here in a locked room you are one hundred percent safe.”
“Maybe I should ask that grizzled police chief to lock me up.” Her eyes widened. “Get that considering look off your freckled face.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “If you don’t stay, I don’t go.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake. You are a pain.”
“You are recalcitrant.” I had a happy memory. I lifted my right hand. “I, Kay Clark, do hereby solemnly promise…”
She made a rude gesture, then raised her arms in surrender.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I loved the cemetery that adjoins St. Mildred’s. Rustling leaves of cottonwoods, elms, and oaks shaded old granite tombstones and newer bronze markers from the blistering summer sun. A light breeze stirred the fronds of a willow near our family plot. I smiled at the memorial column that Rob and Dil, our children, had placed there in our memory.
I took a moment, as had been my custom in years past, to visit the marble mausoleum of the Pritchards, one of Adelaide’s leading families. My Christmas visit as an emissary had been to aid Susan Pritchard Flynn’s young grandson. Inside, I stroked the marble greyhound at the head of Maurice Pritchard’s tomb and slid my hand over the head of the elegant Abyssinian on his wife Hannah’s tomb. That homage, according to Adelaide legend, always led to good luck. With the spirits of a stalwart dog and a wise cat on one’s side, good fortune seemed assured.
I felt in need of a hearty dose of luck as I skimmed below the trees, seeking Diane. I understood Kay’s impatience to be out and about. She and I had discovered a great deal about Jack Hume’s final days, but we were leagues away from knowing whose hand had pushed Jack to his death.
I curved around crape myrtle. Inside a wrought-iron fenced area lay the Hume graves. Diane knelt next to a grassy mound. The granite stone read: JAMES JEFFREY HUME, BELOVED HUSBAND AND FATHER, APRIL 22, 1953–JANUARY 9, 2004, WHITHER THOU GOEST, I WILL GO.
In a metal vase, Diane arranged a mass of rainbow-colored plumeria and lavender daylilies. “…counting on you, James. I’m frightened for Jimmy. Everyone knows he was angry with Jack. So was I.” Tears trickled down her face. She lifted a hand and brushed the soft, worn gardening glove against her cheek. “I couldn’t go on if I didn’t feel you were near. Every time Laverne brings you home again, it’s as if you are in the next room and I can walk in there and find you. And you’ve shared so many wonderful memories. Last time, you remembered my gardenia wrist corsage at the wedding and even described your grandmother’s beautiful lily-of-the-valley handkerchief that I carried. Oh, James, our wonderful, glorious, beautiful night. I miss you so much.” Her delicate face, despite age and wrinkles and sorrow, reflected abiding love.
I felt a swift surge of anger. Ronald Phillips had done his research well. How easy to find the newspaper account of Diane and James’s wedding and pick out the details of the bride’s ensemble. Had his lips curled in a cold, satisfied smile?
A shoe scraped on the bricked path that curved around a cottonwood.
Diane looked over her shoulder. “Laverne!” Her voice echoed surprise.
Laverne Phillips approached in jerky, reluctant steps. Tight coronet braids emphasized her sharp features. Her all-black attire, fringed blouse, billowy slacks, low-heeled patent pumps, gave her an aura of doom. “Diane.” Laverne hesitated, then blurted, “I need to talk to you about tonight.”
Diane pushed up from the ground, her eyes flaring in concern. “Is something wrong? You aren’t leaving, are you? I must talk to James. I must.”
Laverne stopped at the foot of James’s grave. Her gaze was glassy. “I’m not leaving. But”—a long, thin hand reached up to press against one temple—“I’ve been struggling all day. My head hurts so bad.” She squeezed shut her eyes. “I can’t get away.” There was an underlying thread of hysteria in her voice, and a haunting note of truth.
Laverne was in the cemetery unwillingly, but she was there. Ronald had insisted. I didn’t doubt she had her lines prepared, but the pain in her eyes and the slackness of her face indicated misery.
“What is it?” Diane’s voice was faint.
“James.” Laverne shifted her stance. She looked away and down, telltale signs that she was now lying. “I keep having images.” She lifted both hands, pressed her fingers against her temples. “James is upset.”
Diane gave a low cry, one hand spread against her chest.
Diane was desperately afraid. Was she afraid for Jimmy? Or for herself?
“I get flashes, pictures. They aren’t clear to me.” Laverne’s gaze fixed on the broken stump of cedar, split by age. “It’s night. I see a figure on the balcony. The scene shifts. I didn’t see Jack’s body at the base of the steps, but now I see him. He’s lying there, dead.”
“Jack?” Diane’s voice quivered.
“James’s voice is in my head, over and over again.” Laverne wrapped her arms across her chest. “Every time the message is the same: ‘Bring them back. Bring them back. Bring them back.’”
Diane stepped toward her, imploring, “Bring who back?”
Laverne shuddered. “I have to get him out of my mind. I see James and then the faces come, over and over again, you and Jimmy, Evelyn, me, Ronald, Margo, Shannon, Gwen and Clint Dunham, Alison Gregory. James’s words hit at me like the flick of a whip: ‘Bring them back, bring them back, bring them back.’” Laverne’s voice rose higher and higher as she repeated the phrases. “They must all be at the seance tonight, everyone who was in the house the night Jack died.”
