But as I did, I saw that a woman in a long, white dress was lying on her back under my bed, one arm wrapped around the carton, humming. And for bonnie Annie Laurie, I’d lay me down and die. She turned her head toward me, and terrified as I was, I couldn’t look away. Her alabaster face was framed by long, loose auburn hair. Her eyes, deep-set and very dark, like holes burned into her face, were fixed on me. They seemed to hold me, draw me.
She stopped humming. There was a moment’s silence as I stared at her, transfixed by fear. Then Please, she whispered, Please. Her voice was thin and high and her breath congealed in a puff of cold fog. I jerked back, but not fast enough. She put out an icy hand, its fingers as dry and cold as frozen bones, and seized my arm. Powerless to resist, I was being pulled under the bed and into her arms, while the bell on my shop door jingle-jangled wildly.
I was saved by that bell—but it turned out to be the alarm clock. It was six thirty, the sheets were all sticky and twisted around me, and that damned Scottish melody was lodged in my head again, like an old vinyl record with a stuck needle. I had to turn on the radio to blot it out.
When I went to put my sneakers on, I couldn’t find one of them. I settled for sandals. I suspected it had gotten kicked under the bed, and I couldn’t bring myself to lift up the dust ruffle and look.
• • •
I fed the dog, the cat, and Caitie’s chickens, then nuked a breakfast burrito in the microwave and took it and my coffee with me. I don’t think I’ve ever been more glad to step out of the house and into the brightness of the early morning. The sunshine filtering through the trees seemed to make a cheerful mockery of the dark dreams of the night and that frightening figure under the bed.
On my way to the shop, I stopped off at Sheila’s to see how she was—and was relieved that she seemed her normal self. That is, she was still in bed but she was already working on her laptop, going through some files that Connie had emailed her. There was a pot of coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs on the bedside table and Rambo was stretched out on the floor.
But her doctor was insisting that she stay home for the rest of the week, and Blackie had appointed himself as the Enforcer. “I’m sorry that McQuaid had to pick up my investigation in Lubbock,” he told me quietly, as he went with me to the door. “But I was afraid if I didn’t come back and make sure Sheila stayed home, she would be in uniform and at the police station before sunup this morning.”
“You can’t keep a good woman down,” I said. “Oh, and speaking of keeping it down,” I added, “I left some bottles of ginger ale and a bag of peppermint tea on your kitchen counter yesterday. If nausea is still a problem for her, give them a try.”
“Got it,” Blackie said. He frowned. “I worry about the baby, you know. And her, too, of course. Sheila’s not a twentysomething.”
“That’s true,” I agreed. “But she’s in much better shape than your average twentysomething. I doubt if many of them could run her usual four miles before breakfast. I’m sure she’ll be fine—once she stops throwing up.” I paused. “Let me know if you need anything, Blackie. I’m on chicken duty tomorrow morning, but I’ll be glad to shop for you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Chicken duty?”
“Caitie’s chickens. Adams County Fair. The big poultry show starts tomorrow. Caitie is aiming for at least one blue ribbon.”
“Oh, right.” He grinned. “Well, have fun.”
“We will,” I replied. “Extra Crispy and Dixie Chick have had their baths and their pedicures, and they’re ready to strut their stuff.”
“Atta girl.” Blackie rolled his eyes. “You are gonna knock ’em dead.”
“I hope so,” I said.
Little did we know.
• • •
I love Thyme and Seasons first thing in the morning, when the shelves are tidy, the floor is nicely swept, the counter is neat, and the sweet morning light filters in through the east windows, casting a golden glow over the shop. Today, I was first to arrive and everything was blessedly quiet. Ruby and Lori hadn’t shown up yet, Cass’ kitchen was still dark, and Khat and I were the only creatures stirring.
The night’s frightening dream lingered in my mind, but it had given me an idea. I would get the carton of photos out of the storeroom and bring it downstairs, where there was counter space and a better light. Between customers, I could sort and study the photos. If I got lucky, I might find something that would help us document the laces. There might be papers in the box. Maybe even a diary.
A reasonable plan, but I hesitated. Perhaps it was the dream, but I stood at the foot of the stairs, reluctant to go up. I wasn’t terribly eager to open the storeroom door and step into the dark with only a naked bulb for light, which might burn out again and leave me groping in blackness. I might hear that ghostly humming and sense that someone, something else was with me, that I wasn’t alone.
Funny thing. Only two days ago, that room had been just another large walk-in closet, full of piles of stuff that had to be sorted and disposed of so we could make room for more stuff. Now, it was like one of those eerie rooms in a Stephen King novel, a dark
