The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told

“Well, she’s certainly had the kids.”

“She had to. You ask her who the fathers were?”

“I got the impression she wasn’t going to say.”

“She can’t.”

“What?”

“She doesn’t know.” Not exactly the sort of thing you’d expect from your grandmother-at least not in that tone of voice. Tired voice, not judgmental. “She might think she does. She’d be wrong. If she’d never touched a man, she’d still have had those kids.”

“She did say something about birth control. No, I’m not going to repeat it.”

“She’s angry about the kids?”

I shrugged. “She’s angry about being alone with them, if I had to guess.”

“Don’t guess. It makes you sound-”

“Stupid. Yeah, I know.” I chose the next words with care. She was still gripping the cane. “How did you know?”

“That’s probably the first smart question you’ve asked all day.”

Given that the rest of them had to do with lawn care, a thing she generally despised, this wasn’t hard. “Does that mean you’ll give me an answer?”

“I’m thinking about it.”

I waited her out. Have I mentioned she loved to talk?

“I’m the crone,” she said at last.

“And that makes me the maiden?” I couldn’t keep the bitter sarcasm out of my voice.

“You?” Neither could she.

Having retreated back into the realm of idiocy, I waited, cheeks burning some. “I guess that’s a no.”

“Big damn no. You think I’ve taught you how to tend a garden all these years for nothing?”

No, because you’re a sadist. Smart me, I didn’t say it out loud. She rapped my knuckles anyway.

“I’m getting old,” she continued.

I didn’t point out that she’d always been old.

“And I’m getting tired.” She sat down again. “And the damn pipe keeps going out.”

“Gran-”

“There was another mother,” she said at last. “And the maiden, which is definitively not you, so get that thought out of your head.”

It wasn’t in my head any more. “Another mother?”

“The mother,” she told me quietly.

“What happened to her?” Because it was pretty clear that something had.

“She died.”

Thanks, Gran. Guessed that. “When?”

“When I was younger.”

“You weren’t the crone then?”

“Damn well was.”

“What happened?”

She shrugged. “War,” she said at last, her eyes gone to blue. “She lost her son.”

“Lost him?”

“He died.”

“And she couldn’t have another one?”

“No.”

I frowned. “The kids are special, too?”

“The children are the mother’s. They define her. She always has two.”

“How did he die?”

“I told you. Pay attention. There was a war. He was in it. He didn’t come back.”

“And she died?”

Gran nodded quietly.

“Her daughter?”

And shrugged. “Her daughter buried her mother.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“Then what-”

“It’s been a long time,” Gran continued, “since there was another mother.” She got up again. “Better that I talk to her, since you’re so useless.”

“Gran, Maggie’s-”

She rapped the porch with the cane tip. “You going to get out of my way, or am I going to have to go through you?”

I got out of her way, and trailed after her like a shadow. I liked Maggie. I didn’t want to subject her to my grandmother without offering a little cowardly moral support.

Gran snorted at the grass. Emptied her pipe on it and shoved said pipe into her apron pocket. Then she marched up the walk, which was short, and knocked on the door with her cane. It opened. No one was behind it. I hate it when Gran does that. Then again, I hate it when she does anything that defies rational explanation.

She walked into the small vestibule. It was littered with the debris of two children; coats, boots, shoes, a smattering of dishevelled and empty clothing, a dirty stroller. “Margaret?” she shouted, standing in the center of the mess as if she owned it.

Maggie came out of the kitchen, frowning. Connell was on her hip. She saw me, and the frown sort of froze.

“This is my Gran,” I told her.

And lifted. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said, extending a hand. Her left hand; her right hand was full of baby, and she had nowhere to put him down. Mags is pretty practical.

Gran took it in that iron grip of hers, but instead of shaking it, she turned it up to the light, as if to inspect it. The frown that Maggie had surrendered, Gran picked up. “This won’t do,” the old woman said, in as stern a voice as she used on the racoon who had the temerity to inspect her garden.

“What?”

“What’s this ring?”

“Detritus.”

“Good. Take it off.”

Maggie shot me an ‘is she sane?’ look. I shrugged.

“It’s a wedding ring,” Maggie told Gran.

“I know what it is. Why on earth are you wearing it?”

Maggie shrugged. I knew the shrug. It was nine tenths bitterness and one tenth pain, and I personally preferred the former.

“You aren’t the wife,” Gran said, in her most imperious voice. “You’re the mother.”

“Funny, that’s what my ex said.”

Gran ignored her. “This is the boy?” she asked. I started to say something smart, and thought better of it. At his age, it was hard to tell.

“This is my son, yes.”

“And the girl?”

The ‘is she sane’ look grew a level in intensity. “My daughter is in the backyard digging her way to China.”

Gran nodded, as if the answer made sense. Given that she’d raised me, it probably did.

“Well, he looks healthy enough.” She pushed past Maggie, and Maggie looked at me. I shrugged. Gran made her way to the sliding doors of the kitchen and took a look out. “So does she.”

“Thanks. I think.”