“That’s fascinating,” Dillon said with real interest.
“It is,” I agreed. “But even if we prove conclusively that he was poisoned, we still won’t know who killed him.”
“Who the hell is Annabelle?” The voice drifted up from the main hall. After a moment, I identified it as Bruce, the actor impersonating Cyril Rothmere’s ghost.
“The damn name keeps popping into my head, like a song I can’t get rid of. Is anyone here named Annabelle?” Bruce sounded peevish.
I looked at Dillon, wide-eyed. “Do you think—?”
“That the spirit of Cyril possessed that actor and fed him the name of his murderer?”
I twisted my mouth sideways. “It sounds silly when you put it like that, but—”
“Anything is possible.”
I felt his smile in the darkness.
“You’d better get going if you’re going to make it home while it’s calm.” His warm hand on my shoulder turned me toward the landing and he moved with me to the top of the stairs. As I started down, less tired than I’d been only minutes before, he called after me, “Hey.”
I looked back. His blue eyes glinted.
“I’m sorry about Friday night. Can I have a rain check?”
“Hurricane check.” I smiled. “You know where to find me.”
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I almost bumped into Bruce, the actor. I stepped back as he muttered. “Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle. Jesus!”
Chapter Twenty-four
THURSDAY DAWNED BRIGHT AND SUNNY, AND YOU’D’VE never known Horatio had come through except for the detritus in the yards and streets, people sweeping water out of their garages, a live electric line sparking and whipping in the street like an angry cobra, and the huge magnolia limb that had smashed through the veranda roof and into Violetta’s salon.
Mom and I surveyed the damage the next morning, me with a cream cheese–smeared bagel in one hand and Mom with a mug of coffee. Althea had gone home at first light to check on her bungalow after we listened to news updates that said no deaths had been reported during the storm and only minor flooding had occurred in low-lying areas near the river. Thank goodness! The wet grass was crisp and cool under my bare feet and the air smelled clean and fresh, all mugginess washed away. I knew it would return with a vengeance as rain-wetted items mildewed and rotted, and the sun steamed water from drenched foliage, but I enjoyed the freshness now. A crinkly sound from overhead brought my gaze up, and I noted plastic grocery bags flapping in the uppermost limbs of the trees in our yard and the neighbors’ yards, pennants planted by Hurricane Horatio to claim the high ground.
Mom took a long swallow of coffee and sighed. “I suppose it could be worse.”
The large branch had crushed the veranda roof and smashed one of the two plate glass windows that fronted the salon, despite its plywood covering. Glass glittered in the strong morning light. My styling chair lay knocked on its side, and I was sure rain had damaged the heart-of-pine floorboards. Still, insurance would cover most of the repairs and no one was hurt. The house would be livable once Fred nailed wood over the gaping hole so people couldn’t come and go as they pleased. We’d spent the night upstairs—I’d dropped off much quicker than I thought I would—but I didn’t want Mom sleeping here again until the house was looter-proof.
The magnolia tree had a gaping wound where the limb had been, and the sight saddened me. As a child, I’d spent many a day tucked into the crook where the limb met the trunk.
“Think it’ll be okay?” I asked Mom, nodding at the tree.
She examined it, putting a hand against the blackened wood. That, plus the lingering odor of sulfur and campfire, convinced me lightning had severed the branch. “It’s like it’s been cauterized,” she said. “I think it’ll be fine. This is a tough old tree.” She patted it.
“Not as tough as you are, Mom.” I put an arm around her shoulders and squeezed.
She laughed. “Is that like calling me a tough old buzzard?”
“Not even close.” I crept up to the veranda steps, careful to avoid the glass that lay like a skim of sparkly wax on the veranda and sidewalk, and peered into the salon’s soggy interior. “I guess Violetta’s is out of business for a week or two.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Mom said, joining me. “Maybe we can go back to cutting hair in the kitchen, like I did in the old days.”
“That’s a thought,” I said doubtfully. Mom’s clientele had expanded in the years since she and Althea did cuts and facials in the kitchen, and I couldn’t see customers dangling their heads over the kitchen sink for a shampoo while others sat around the kitchen table.