Page 50 of Death on Gallows Path

Pammy sat on a massive upholstered chaise with her outstretched legs crossed at the ankles and a glass of white wine in her hand.

She wore a wing-collared white shirt, neatly tucked into trim black slacks.

With her line usurped, Zoley had gone still.

Pammy smiled sadly at us and said, “Zoley and I have known each other so long I’ve heard that, uh, explanation a lot. Makes it easier for people to get her name. Otherwise people stumble around, can’t figure it out.”

Zoley said sharply, “Like needing to spell Swindell — S-w-i-n-d-e-l-l.”

Didn’t seem like the same thing to me, but she seemed to feel she’d scored points.

I turned back in time to see Pammy controlling what I’d swear was the tail end of a shut-your-mouth glare at Zoley.

Not what I would have expected from Pammy, as well as making as little sense as Zoley’s I-scored attitude.

Clara smoothed over the moment. “We’re so, so sorry for your loss, Pammy. We brought you baked spaghetti — all of you, since you’re here with Zoley and Bryon.”

Pammy blinked at Clara, glanced at me, returned to the food-bringer, then produced a wan smile.

“That’s so kind of you.”

Pammy took a sip of wine, but then stopped midway to returning the glass to the table beside her, staring into the middle distance.

Some women might have been uncomfortable drinking wine in the circumstances, perhaps hurriedly putting down the glass as if to deny it had been in her hand. Pammy barely seemed to know she held the stem.

During this, Zoley detoured to the other side of the room, where it met up with a kitchen. She deposited the carrier on the nearest corner of a massive island of a stone that wouldn’t dare be as recognizable as granite.

“Pammy’s not doing carbs,” she said as she rejoined us.

I bit my tongue to keep from saying something about wine having carbs.

Grudgingly, Zoley added, “Bryon might like your casserole.”

Unabashed, Clara said, “Of course he will. Men love the layers of spaghetti, meat sauce, and cheese. They hardly notice it has cottage cheese. Besides, Pammy—”

She sat on the open area at the end of the chaise and patted Pammy’s legs in those neat black slacks. She also wore dark red leather flats with a pierced pattern, which she didn’t move to give Clara more space.

Possibly not aware of it, going by her glazed look.

“—you need comfort food,” Clara continued. “It’s the best thing for you.”

“It’s very nice of you,” she said without inflection.

“It’s a small thing to do when Zoley’s taken you into her home. With the two of you friends for so long . . . Did I hear you went to college together?”

Pammy remained silent, appearing unfocused.

Clara turned to Zoley.

“Uh-huh. UK.” She looked down as she tweaked the fabric of her shirt.

“Is that where you met?”

“No. Met in the town outside of Paducah where I grew up.”

“Didn’t you grow up there, too?” I asked Pammy.

Zoley answered. “Nah. She didn’t come until high school.”