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“Cal it is.” I moved against the arch leading into the dining room. “I’m going to give you clear and easy access to the front door …hole. Walk right on through unharmed. However, if as my friendly neighbor you wish to hold a civil conversation and ask after Stephen’s pelt, you may turn around and ring the doorbell.”
Calico sauntered past. “You’re one curious creature.”
“There’s been too much death already; listen close and you’ll hear flies buzzing at the glass.”
She started off the porch, stopped, turned on her heel and pressed one red nail to the doorbell. The sound resounded through the entry. Without relinquishing my grasp of the knife, I waved her through.
“Hello, Cal.”
“Hello, doll.”
“Marcy.” I wrinkled my nose. “Not a fan of dolls.”
Her smile was soft. “What a shame. I adored your grandmother’s collection.”
“Sorry about Stephen,” I continued, signaling an end to needless chitchat. “He gave more than he took from the world. I’m sorry I never made more of an effort to get to know him.”
“Thanks.” Her posture didn’t waver from a position of strength, but her eyes lingered on the porch. A replaced board marked the spot where Cho’s head had hit. “I suppose I owe you an apology and condolences. Your grandmother often babysat us while you were at school or sleeping over a friend’s. Always had a wonderful, colorful escapade to share. She’s the reason Stephen and I treasure the arts.”
There was a lot to be upset about, but I allowed myself a pleased, “Glad to hear her passion lives on another generation. What do you do?”
She played with her necklace. “I’m a private dealer, but the family owns The Gallery at Chandler and Brent.”
“Sounds like we should be friends,” I said, walking to the kitchen. “I’ll put a kettle on for tea. We can discuss what’s brought you into my home this afternoon and what’ll get you out.” I slipped the knife into its block and reached for the teapot.
Heels clicked across the tile behind me. Fingers tiptoed along my shoulder.
I froze.
“Do you enjoy women, Marcy?” Calico purred.
Her hand pulled away when I touched the knife. “I enjoy people who respect my personal space.”
“You live with a pretty blonde, don’t you?”
“Her name is Lisa, and the man you’ve likely seen on walks with us is her wonderful fiancé.”
“Having a husband didn’t stop my mother.”
“Whatever.”
Cal bit her lip as if in debate over something, then smiled and confidently moved within range of an irritable flick of the chef’s knife. “Since you didn’t know about me, I’m going to guess you don’t know about her, either. See, your grandmother had my mother obsessed. I wondered if you drank from the same cup.”
Not about to slash through our tentative peace, I made a show of filling the kettle with an annoyed huff. “It’s my house now, not my grandmother’s. I’ll not discuss who or what my grandmother may have done inside it.” But it sure made me wonder what else I didn’t know. Provided, of course, that Cal was telling the truth.
“I don’t expect you to remember, but when she passed, Stephen sent flowers on our behalf.” Cal perched one foot on the seat of a kitchen chair and laid a hand on her hip. “And to whom shall I be sending flowers when the monster who killed my brother paints a gutty version of the Sistine Chapel in your entry?”
The sheriff had suggested a similar fate. Sweaty, I rubbed my neck and recalled the forged iron heat of the man’s body as the bullet pinged to the tile. Heat was a prime symptom of transformation, wasn't it? I tested my teeth for a loose wiggle. Nothing.
I turned toward her. “Going to waste your one phone call on flowers?”
Her lips, drawn into a smile through her entire assessment of my kitchen, tightened to a thin line. “Be grateful if we could keep this nonsense between us girls. Neighborly forgiveness would go a long way toward keeping the harmony between our houses.”
I agreed and offered her a cup. She declined.
“Never had a problem with your family,” I began. “So, I’ll share two facts. One, entry to my home is an invite-exclusive offer. I may not be able to stop pests from entering, but I’ve no qualms about exterminating them. Two, the sheriff explained how werewolves honor their dead. I'm sorry, but I don’t and never have had Stephen’s pelt.”
“Thought as much, but I couldn’t drive past without stopping.” Cal was quick to thumb away her tears, pushing herself toward the exit. “We’re trying to make arrangements. Pelts are returned next-day; thought it’d been delivered here mistakenly when the deputy left last night for your home.”
