“You can sense it all the way out here?” I tried not to sound too incredulous.
“I went in yesterday to take lunch to your Mother after Michael came back to stay with the boys,” she said. “I sensed something at Trinity.”
“Something?” I repeated. “Like evil?”
“Danger.”
Her voice carried a note of firm conviction that alarmed me. I didn’t quite believe Rose Noire had the psychic ability to sense danger. But I didn’t ignore her premonitions, which all too often turned out to be accurate. My theory was that she was very good at observing facts and danger signs and even subconsciously adding them up but either unable or utterly unwilling to recognize that she was making deductions rather than having premonitions.
“I don’t trust that man,” she murmured. And then, before I could ask, she clarified: “Mr. Lightfoot. His aura is very dark and troubled. He’s not what he seems. And it’s infecting the whole choir. I sense nothing but pain and unhappiness around them.”
“Doesn’t take a psychic to figure that out,” I said. “I could tell as much just from attending a rehearsal.”
“Your instincts are good,” she said, nodding with approval. “He has something to do with the pranks.”
Not unless I was completely wrong about Ronnie and Caleb.
“Lightfoot?” I said aloud. “Seems unlikely. Why would he try to sabotage his own concert?”
“Your mother didn’t believe me either,” she said. “And I think the man she was talking to only pretended to. A tall, elderly man she was arguing with,” she added, seeing my inquiring look. “I think he has something to do with running the church.”
“That would be Mr. Vess, Trinity’s resident gadfly,” I said. “And I’m sure he’s quite willing to believe anything negative about Lightfoot.”
“I hope he takes it seriously, then,” she said. “He could be in danger, too.”
Perhaps he had taken her warning. Was it Vess who’d tried to look up Lightfoot’s history on the computer? And was he acting on his own suspicions or because of Rose Noire’s warning? I had a hard time seeing him as a believer in premonitions, but if Rose Noire hadn’t bothered to share the source of her conviction that Lightfoot was not what he seemed …
“Well, I’m taking this to the sewing ladies,” she said, stooping over to pick up the urn. “Are you going to join them?”
“Maybe later,” I said. “I was up before dawn, and I need a break.”
“Your arm is hurting you,” she said.
“Not that much—” I began.
She frowned slightly.
“Why, yes,” I said. “I hadn’t noticed it till now, but I think it is hurting me. I’d better go up, take some of those painkillers, and lie down.”
She smiled happily.
I glanced into the living room. Spike and Tinkerbell were curled up in front of the hearth, where a much larger than usual fire was blazing merrily—no doubt to impress the sewing circle attendees if they wandered into the living room. If Michael and I had to chop and split our own wood, I’d have protested the extravagance of the huge fire, but since I knew every log was helping put food on the family dinner table for one of Randall’s poorer cousins, I just pulled out my notebook and jotted down a reminder to check the level of firewood in the barn and call for a new supply if necessary. Tinkerbell raised her head and thumped her tail on the floor in greeting. Spike opened one eye, sniffed vigorously for a few moments, and then, having detected no trace odors of anything edible, went back to sleep.
“I don’t think those two have left the fireplace in days,” I said. “What did Mother do, glue them to the cushions?”
“She might as well have,” Rose Noire said. “They’re heated cushions.”
She sailed off toward the library, carrying the huge coffee urn.
Okay, now it made sense. I cast an envious glance at the cushions before trudging upstairs. Maybe it was time to break down and buy an electric blanket. I didn’t like the idea of sleeping under a tangle of wires, but if the weather kept on being this cold …
I’d worry about it later. I fell onto the bed. In a few minutes I’d gather enough energy to crawl under the covers, I told myself.
Then I realized that I felt grungy. I hadn’t had time for a shower before racing off this morning, and I’d been spending a lot of time in close proximity to duck poop.
I had plenty of time to take a shower before my nap. In fact—I felt a twinge of deliciously guilty pleasure at the thought—I had enough time to take a good, hot, soaking bath.