A sidebar mentioned that in a "bizarre coincidence," John Metcalf's three adult daughters, one of whom was Mica Metcalf of Tara Hair Girl fame, had confessed to witnessing the twenty-year-old murder of Representative Lawrence Gilbert's wife. This just as the man convicted of the crime was appealing for a new trial in Charlotte. In lieu of the girls' high school pictures, thank God, they had used a press photo of Uncle Lawrence.
She refolded the paper and cast about for a cheerful angle. "Our names weren't mentioned."
"With Magnificent Mica in the mix? Of course not."
Regina frowned over the top of her cup. "I'm worried about you, Justine."
"Me?"
"Yes, you. What's up with getting high on nutmeg? I didn't even know that was possible."
Justine scoffed. "It's nothing. If you're going to worry, worry about Dad."
"I am—so much I can hardly talk about it."
Justine flicked her ash into a flowerpot "So you think John killed the bastard?"
Regina drank deeply. "I can't imagine it, but I'm terrified. With everything that Dad's been through lately, he might not be in his right mind. And if he didn't do it where the heck is he?"
"I don't know."
"And if John didn't kill Dean, then who did?"
Justine exhaled a plume of smoke. "Mica."
"Be serious."
"I am." She leaned back against the glider and pointed her cigarette. "Her career was on the line, he'd given her VD, plus she found him in my bed."
She scoffed. "I know you and Mica have your differences, but she's our
sister.
You surely can't believe that she would commit murder."
"Regina, Mica's been gone for twelve years—we don't know what she's capable of. People change."
"So where's Dad?"
"He's taking the rap."
"What?"
"You know Mica has always been his favorite. Do you think he'd let her go to prison?"
She hadn't realized that her sisters' competition for John's attention ran so deep. "I think you're letting your animosity for Mica get in the way of your common sense. If there's a God, Dean shot himself, then crawled into that wardrobe to die."
Justine shook her head. "Regina, only you could think of such a perfect ending, where no one else gets hurt."
"I think there's been enough hurt in this family, don't you?"
"Don't look at me—I didn't start it."
"But you could end it."
Justine smiled the strangest little smile. "I'm actually feeling much better about the state of things between me and Mica."
Regina pursed her mouth and nodded, wondering what had changed since last night when her sisters could barely look at each other, much less be civil.
Then from inside the house, she heard what sounded like an animal caught in a trap. "What on earth?"
Justine seemed much less concerned, and before Regina could stand, the screen door was flung back. Mica appeared in a silky nightshirt, her face contorted, carrying a black something or other.
"What's wrong?" Regina asked.
"What's
wrong?"
Mica bawled. "What's wrong is this!" She held up a long black braid, and Regina gasped in horror.
"Oh, my God, is that your
hair?"
Justine flicked more ash. "Eww."
"I'm going to kill you!" Mica screamed, and launched herself at Justine.
It took Regina a few seconds to figure out that Justine was behind the severed braid. An awfulness settled into her stomach, and she might have let them fight to the death if there weren't so many other more dire issues at hand. She put down her coffee and levered herself between them. "Stop it. Stop it!"
They pulled her down with them, arms and legs flailing. This couldn't be happening. She was a respected senior editor at a prestigious publishing firm.
They all went rolling to the edge of the porch and off the three-foot drop into the giant dew-laden ivy. She landed with a
whoof
and heard their grunts, too. She turned her head sideways and looked into the face of a blue concrete bunny. Another couple of inches to the right, and she might have wound up drooling for the rest of her life.
"Are you okay?"
She looked up to find Mitchell staring down at her. She nodded miserably. Then a big wet tongue licked her forehead.
"Hi, Sam."
Mitchell reached down to pull her up. "Looks like I came at a bad time."
"No," she assured him. "This is how we start every day around here." She assessed the carnage. Justine was sitting up in the ivy, finishing her cigarette. Mica sat up a few feet away, crying and ruffling her short locks. The disheveled braid lay nearby, looking like a dead animal. Sam went over for a sniff.
Mitchell made a clicking noise with his cheek. "Let me guess—they tried your coffee."
"Hardee-har. No, Justine whacked off Mica's hair."
He flinched.
"I know. Listen, could you give us a minute?"
"Sure, I'll... go make some coffee."
"Great."
"Come on, Sam."
She straightened her damp, disheveled clothing and took a few seconds to catch her breath. Justine and Mica sat in steeped silence, as if waiting for a lecture. She put her hands on her hips and studied them for a long time. Stubborn, spoiled girls who'd grown up to be stubborn, spoiled women. And she was through being a referee. Finished. The end. She turned her back and waded through the ivy toward the porch.
"Aren't you going to say something?" Justine called after her.
She kept walking and climbed the short set of stairs in silence.
"We know you want to," Mica said.
She crossed the porch, walked into the kitchen, and closed the door behind her. Sam had found a quiet corner to occupy. Mitchell leaned against the counter, baby-sitting the coffeepot. "Regina, we don't have to work today."
She sighed. "No, it's fine." Since the shop was now considered a crime scene, they'd decided to move on to the house to begin tagging the antiques there that would have to go.
"You don't have to help me, you know."
"It's the only productive thing I can do right now."
"No word from your father?"
"None."
"I passed Deputy Pete parked at the end of your driveway."
"In case Daddy returns, I suppose."
He made a noncommittal sound. "How's your mother holding up?"
"Not well. I was getting ready to take her breakfast when all sister hell broke loose."
He poured new coffee for both of them. "Women are scary."
She lifted an eyebrow. "How so?"
He handed her a cup. "Men fight fair. They tell each other what they think. Get pissed off. Pound each other into the ground. Then, usually, they go on being friends." He drank from his cup and swallowed with a shake of his head. "But with women, it's like guerrilla warfare—you never know what direction they're going to come from. And
vicious,
man, oh man."
She sipped from her cup. "You don't really expect me to agree with you, do you?"
"No." He bit into cold toast and nodded toward the door. "Doesn't your sister make a living with her hair?"
"She used to." She pushed aside thoughts of her sisters and busied herself making a tray for Cissy.
Mitchell walked the perimeter of the kitchen. She didn't have to look to know that he was studying the crush of bric-a-brac on the walls. Decorative statehood plates, chalk fruit plaques, metal signs advertising food products, antique calendars, and so much more. All hung against a busy floral-patterned wallpaper.
"Blinding, isn't it?"
He laughed. "Lots of tchotchkes. But it seems homey."
"There are some wonderful pieces in the house; it's just a matter of finding them. I thought we'd work from the attic down to tag items for the auction."
"Won't this be hard for you?"
She carefully cut an orange into wedges. "Before I came home, I thought it would be. But I've come to terms with the fact that this house will never be a gathering place for a cozy family." She turned to look at him. "Despite appearances, it isn't 'homey.' There are no family heirlooms here, just an accumulation of
other
people's family heirlooms. And at the moment, I have bigger things to worry about than hanging onto my childhood canopy bed." She hadn't meant to sound so grim, but there it was.
He studied her for a moment, then angled his head and wagged his eyebrows. "Canopy bed, huh?"
She smirked, grateful for the levity. "Is that all you ever think about?"
"Pretty much. Especially lately." He moved to stand next to her and put his hand on her waist. "Look, Regina—"
She pulled back. "Don't, okay?"
He assumed a hands-off position. "I was only going to say that I'm sorry you're going through such a rough time. It's obvious how much your family relies on you, and it doesn't seem fair for you to shoulder all this alone."
She remained silent.
He sighed. "I'm offering you a shoulder, that's all."
She lifted a disbelieving eyebrow. "That's all?"
A mischievous grin crept over his face. "Well, the shoulder bone's connected to the backbone, and the backbone's connected to the hipbone—"
"Stop." But she smiled, exasperated. "I'm taking this upstairs. How about if I meet you on the landing in fifteen minutes and we'll get started?"
"I'll get my laptop."
The doorbell rang as they were walking through the entryway.
"Maybe Dad's turned up," she said, her heart pounding.
Please be alive; this family can't take that kind of a hit.
She set down the tray and steeled herself as she rounded the corner, but her shoulders fell in relief at the sight of the man on the other side of the screen door, dressed, as always, in a suit. "Uncle Lawrence."
He smiled back. "Hello, my dear. I came to check on your mother and you girls."
She lifted the latch, then opened the door. "I thought you'd left town."
"When the hearing in Charlotte was postponed, I decided to get in a few days of R and R. Might be my last chance before the election."
She sobered. "Uncle Lawrence, I'm so sorry about the hearing. We didn't mean for any of this to happen."
"Cissy told me how you girls were dragged into this mess. I'm sorry you had to see such a terrible thing all those years ago." He gave her a sad smile. "Don't worry your pretty head; I'm a survivor. And now I'm glad I stayed in town. Dreadful business about the Haviland boy."
"Yes."
"Any news from John?"
She shook her head. "I'm worried, Uncle Lawrence."
"Do you have any idea where he might have gone?"
"No—you know yourself that Dad hasn't left the county in years." He and Cissy used to take vacations all the time, but after the wedding debacle, John seemed to have packed it all in. In hindsight, she realized it had been a big blow for him, losing Mica and Dean. And eventually Justine. "Dad's family is gone, but can you think of anyone he might have known in Virginia from school? An old friend, maybe?"
He thought and shook his head. "That's too many years ago. But he'll turn up." He patted her hand; then he looked Mitchell up and down.
"Uncle Lawrence, meet Mitchell Cooke, the appraiser I told you about. Mitchell, this is Lawrence Gilbert."
The men shook hands, but Lawrence seemed wary. "I understand you're also an attorney, Mr. Cooke."
"That's correct."
"With ties to another Cooke in Charlotte."
Mitchell inclined his head. "Also correct."
Her uncle looked back to her. "I guess now I know why his name seemed so familiar to me that day you first mentioned it." From his expression, he wanted to take back his flirting recommendation.
She spoke to smooth over the awkward moment. "I was just on my way up to see Mom, Uncle Lawrence, if you'd like to come with me."
"You go on up, dear. I'd like a moment with Mr. Cooke."
"Oh." She looked at Mitchell, and he looked back.
"I'll meet you upstairs."
"Okay," she said, retrieving the tray and trying not to feel left out.
The men's voices were a solemn murmur as she climbed the steps and walked down the hall to Cissy's room. She knew her mother was awake because she'd seen a light under her door when she passed by earlier. She rapped. "Mom? It's Regina." She heard her mother's voice, so she opened the door and stuck her head inside. "I have breakfast."
Cissy was sitting up in bed, surrounded by a mountain of pillows and a box of Kleenex. "I'm not hungry, but juice sounds good."
"I brought coffee."
She wrinkled her petite nose. "Did you make it?"
"No, Mitchell did."
Cissy sniffed. "He's here early—did he stay last night?"
"No."
Sometimes she wished her mother weren't so liberal-minded. "We moved the appraisal to the house." No need to mention that the shop was sealed tight with yellow crime scene tape. "We're starting in the attic."
"Forget the attic," Cissy said with a wave. "Your father cleared everything out of that oven long ago. Nothing up there but bats."
Regina smiled wryly to herself—Justine's favorite threat had been to put bats in their beds if they didn't do something she wanted them to. Worked every time.
Cissy fell back against the pillows. "Sell it all—it's just a bunch of
stuff."
She burst into tears. "I've made so many mistakes, Regina."
Her mother couldn't have said anything that would have shaken her more. Her parents weren't perfect, but hearing it come out of Cissy's mouth... no child wanted to listen to that kind of admission. She set the tray on a nightstand and sat down on the side of the bed.
"Mom, everyone makes mistakes."
"But these were whoppers. I misjudged your father. Not only has he betrayed and bankrupted me, but now he goes and shoots our son-in-law."
"We don't know that he shot Dean," Regina soothed. "And Dean wasn't your son-in-law."
Cissy blew her nose. "Dean was as close as we were going to get. And now your father will go to prison—"
"Mom, don't say that." Regina stood and walked over to raise the window shades. "Dad could be somewhere sleeping off a hangover."
"Regina, I know you love your father, but I think this time even you need to face facts."