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  “Where?” he demanded.

  I pointed to the dense azaleas that lined the driveway. “Over there. It was just a noise. I maybe jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

  He led and I followed as he checked beneath each huge shrub. He didn’t call Margo’s name. He couldn’t bear to do so, because he knew she wouldn’t answer. Halfway down the drive he stopped. I walked over to look and found the strange claw marks similar to the ones Mark and I discovered in the backyard.

  “What kind of animal is that?” he asked.

  “Coyote.” I didn’t know, but a definite answer was required. Bob expected me to know such things since I was a native of the area.

  “They wouldn’t … attack a human, would they?”

  Again, I was no authority on coyotes, but he needed reassurance. “No, Bob. They’re mostly scavengers and they prey on small animals like rabbits. Not humans.”

  He searched for another ten minutes before he gave it up. We’d turned to go back to the house when I heard the giggle again, so soft it could have been the whisper of the wind. I stopped.

  “What is it?” He halted too, waiting for me.

  “Listen,” I said.

  We stood for a long moment as the gentle surf sucked at the marsh grass to the south and the wind sawed through the live oaks around us. Crickets churned and the frogs made a variety of noises. Some sounded like cries, others like the grind of a motor.

  “Mimi.” The voice was almost a purr. “Mi-mi.”

  I tensed and Bob caught hold of my arm. “What is that noise?” he asked.

  “You heard it? Like someone calling my name?”

  He shook his head. “Not like that. Like something suffering. Like a small creature in pain.”

  I clutched his hand like a terrified child. “Let’s go inside.” I hustled us forward, afraid to look back and see what might be watching us.

  18

  It’s hard to comprehend how time passes when every second is spent waiting. Belle Fleur became a house filled with listening and watching, hoping for the glass-pack muffler of a black Mustang or the ring of the phone. But those things didn’t happen. Margo was gone, vanished as if the words of James Whitcomb Riley’s poem had come to life and she’d been snatched by two great big black things. And Andrew Cargill, too.

  Mark kept me apprised of the investigation. There were leads, but none panned out. To his credit, Sheriff Delchamps kept up a nightly appeal on the local news stations. He did love seeing himself on television, but he was working to find Margo.

  Berta suffered. She stayed in her room more than was healthy, and some days she didn’t bathe or dress. Guilt ate at her, because she blamed herself for Margo’s disappearance. Not even Bob could anchor her in the swirling vortex of emotions. She refused to believe anything except her eldest was alive and living with Andrew somewhere in California. Margo hated Alabama, and it was logical she’d flee back to a place she loved. That one fantasy kept Berta from going insane.

  But I wasn’t certain. While I hoped for the best, logic told me Margo wasn’t able to come home. When Erin was riding and Donald was busy, I examined Margo’s belongings, hoping for some evidence of her whereabouts by what she’d left behind. The problem was that she left everything behind. She’d been wearing shorts, a red top, and blue canvas shoes when she left. She hadn’t even taken her cosmetics. She had no money to speak of. It didn’t make sense.

  Mark’s visits became more personal than professional. He had little news. New leads didn’t turn up, and the severed hand was a dead end. But Mark’s presence seemed to comfort Berta, a sign that the law officers hadn’t given up hope. But I knew Mark came to see me. And for the first time in my life, I found myself dating steadily, if somewhat restrictively. We kept our feelings under wraps. The hours I stole with Mark made me feel more fully alive than I’d ever known.

  Bob worked later and later—the renovation of the downtown Mobile hotel was in full swing. Bob could either meet his obligations or trash his career. He didn’t speak about it, but I understood his dilemma, as I also understood that Belle Fleur was not a welcoming place any longer. Watching Berta deteriorate was too brutal—he loved her so much and he was powerless to help her.

  The care for Erin and Donald fell to me and Annie. Bob was too wrapped up in Berta to notice that Annie had begun to change. I’d caught hints of it, but with Bob and Berta both distracted, a much darker Annie peeked out. I no longer trusted her with the younger children for extended periods. No matter how many times I told her not to scare the children, she persisted in telling her ghost stories. On more than one occasion, I woke up to find Donald and Erin both creeping into my bed, terrified by some tale Annie had spun. It seemed to me that Annie took pleasure in tormenting them.

  Two weeks after Margo disappeared, I officially accepted a public date with Mark. We had plans to go to a high school scrimmage game to mark the beginning of the school year. In Alabama, football is god, especially high school. I had no real interest in the game, but it was an excuse to escape the tension of Belle Fleur.

  The night was unbearably hot. August in Coden was like walking through damp gauze. Watching the players run across the field and the cheerleaders jump and yell, I wondered how they did so when I felt as if someone was pressing lightly on my lungs.

  Mark and I sat at the fifty-yard line, and he explained the intricate plays, trying to keep me interested in what seemed to be aimless running back and forth. “The red team quarterback has a great arm,” Mark noted.

  “He did make some good passes.” I was pleased to be able to comment.

  Mark put his arm around me. He’d been very patient with my shyness. He liked it that I wasn’t experienced, that I held back. “Would you like to drive into Mobile, maybe have a drink? There’s a new pub at the mall that folks say has great sandwiches.”

  The invitation was tempting, but I’d been gone for three hours already. Annie had promised not to tell any stories, but I’d discovered that Annie didn’t always keep her word.

  “I should go home. The children—”

  “May need you.” He tightened his arm around me. “Do you think you’ll be that worried about your own children?”

  “I can’t imagine being any other way.”

  We drove back to Belle Fleur with me pressed against him. Even in the heat, I enjoyed the feel of him. When we pulled into the yard, I knew something was wrong. Donald stood in the second-floor window of Margo’s room. He was crying, and he waved to me to hurry inside.

  “What the hell?” Mark said. When I tried to run into the house, he grabbed me and held me back, stepping in front of me.

  As soon as we were inside, I called out for Donald. Still crying, he appeared at the top of the steps. When he saw me, he ran into my arms and slammed against me so hard I almost fell backwards.

  “What’s wrong, buddy?” Mark asked. He scanned the room, moving slowly to check out the den and the kitchen.

  “Annie said Margo was dead.” He clutched at my smock top. “Erin got so mad she locked herself in your room, Mimi. She wouldn’t let me in. And then I heard something in the hall, scratching at my door.” He was almost hysterical.

  “Where is Mr. Henderson?” Mark asked over Donald’s head.

  I shook my head. Surely Bob and Berta had heard the commotion. Why hadn’t they come out to attend their children? I was a tutor, not their mother. “Let me get Erin.” I disentangled Donald, and Mark scooped him into his strong arms.

  “Get Annie, too,” Mark said.

  Erin was indeed locked in my room, but she flew out when she heard me calling her name. Tears streaked her cheeks and her eyes were wild. “Where’s Annie?” I asked her before I sent her down to Mark.

  “In her room.” Erin was getting a grip on herself. “She said she saw Margo’s ghost out on the front lawn. That meant Margo was dead.”

  “She doesn’t know any more than anyone else.”

  “She shouldn’t say such things.” Erin followed me as I went t
o the staircase.

  “No, she shouldn’t. Go on down to Mark. I want to have a word with her alone.”

  Erin scampered down the stairs, and I climbed to the third floor. I could feel the pulse of fury in my jaw. Annie had gone too far this time. I tried her door without knocking and found it locked. She answered immediately, though.

  “You look like you’re about to explode.” She stepped into the hall and closed the door. She’d become very secretive about her room.

  “The children are frightened and upset. What did you tell them about Margo?”

  She took her time assessing me. “The truth. Berta wants to pretend that Margo is living in California, some little hippie flower child running around with her mechanic boyfriend. That’s Andrew’s hand. Everyone knows it. What happens when someone’s hand is cut off, Mimi? They bleed to death. If Andrew is dead, chances are good that Margo is too. It’s time for everyone in this house to face reality and stop pretending.”

  I drew back to slap her. It was an automatic impulse, but her hand was lightning-fast. She caught my wrist in a punishing grip. “I wouldn’t try that.”

  “I will see to it that you’re put out of this house.” I snatched my wrist away from her. “Cora can find you another place to stay.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that, Mimi.” She tilted her head. “Berta adores me. While you’ve been minding the children, I’ve been tending Berta. We’re very close.” She opened her room and stepped back. “If you make it a contest between us, you’ll be the one leaving.” The door closed softly.

  When I returned downstairs, Mark had Donald and Erin engaged in a game of Uno at the kitchen table. I joined them, and in a few moments, Annie appeared in the doorway wearing baby doll pajamas that showed her long, slender legs to advantage. She wasn’t the least disturbed by Mark’s presence. I hadn’t recounted our conversation to Mark. I didn’t want to upset the children again.

  “Donald, Erin, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Annie said. She held her hands behind her back and brought them forward with an Almond Joy in each one. “I am sorry.” She handed one to each child.

  Donald tore into the candy. Erin put hers on the table.

  “Berta doesn’t like for them to have a lot of sugar,” I said.

  “It can be our secret.” Annie grinned. “A candy bar every now and then won’t hurt anyone.” She turned in the doorway. “Now I’m going to bed.” She took her time walking away.

  “She’s really grown up,” Mark said.

  “Maybe a little too much.” I had no doubt that Annie was sending me a private message. I’d seen her flirt with Mark before, but now she was letting me know how far she’d take it.

  With Annie’s conduct so questionable, I wasn’t comfortable leaving the house often, and Mark spent many an hour munching Jiffy Pop and watching the network movies on television in the Henderson living room with me and the children. When Mark was in the house, Annie kept to her room or else she went walking along Shore Road or exploring the overgrown grounds of the Paradise Inn. She was looking for something.

  When Bob was at work, Annie spent most of the day with Berta. Erin and Donald took all of my attention, and the shut door of Berta’s bedroom was like a hand in my face. Even when I knocked to deliver coffee, Annie took the tray. The glimpses I caught of Berta told me she was mired in her worry and grief. Had I wanted to talk with Berta about Annie, I was thwarted at every turn.

  In the evenings, when Bob was home, Annie was at his side. If he went to the Paradise to take measurements, she was his helper. She was versed in architectural styles—from books she’d gotten from the library—and she delighted Bob with her interest in his work. Trouble was brewing there, but I saw no way to stop it.

  In late August, Sheriff Delchamps staged a raid on the Unification Church. Margo was just an excuse to do so, and he found no trace of her or anything else crime worthy. Still, some days I’d see the Moonies selling their roses at the corner of 188 and Hwy. 90 and wonder if Margo and Andrew had been spirited away, assisted to a new life as flower vendors on some sunny California street. Then the vision of the severed hand would return. No one had proven it was Andrew’s—the ring wasn’t familiar to the Cargill family. But Andrew was the only missing male in the community. While no one said it, I knew everyone thought it was Andrew’s hand and that the young couple was dead.

  August gave way to September, and Erin enrolled in the public school. A thin shadow of herself, Berta resisted, but Bob persuaded her that it was temporary, until the household regained balance. She gave in with surprisingly little resistance, and each of my days developed another hole, another void. I missed Erin’s enthusiasm, but I redoubled my efforts to give Donald the best education possible. I kept him out of the house as much as I could.

  A spree of bank robberies and the murder of a Mobile city councilman at Shady Banks, a reputed whorehouse, turned the sheriff’s attention at last. Margo slipped from the news. The posters that Bob printed and put all over south Mobile County grew tattered and disappeared from the trees and posts on which we’d nailed them.

  The same was true for the Cargills. Andrew was replaced as a mechanic at the Esso station. The fabric of life was re-knit with little to show that Andrew had ever been a part of the community. While Bob had the funds and influence to keep the pressure on for Margo, no one seemed to worry about Andrew.

  One morning I borrowed the car without revealing my destination. There was no evidence that Margo and Andrew had left together, but it was hard not to draw that conclusion. Mark had talked with Andrew’s family regularly, and they had heard no word from their son. I put a basket of fresh muffins I’d baked into the station wagon and drove to the clapboard house on the south side of town.

  Mrs. Cargill met me at the door. She was only a few years older than Berta, but she’d spent days in the sun working on the dock when her husband returned with the day’s catch. Her skin was leathery and her brown eyes haunted. She took the basket of muffins I offered but didn’t invite me in. Like Berta, she seemed on the edge of life, no longer a real participant but a wraith sentenced to watch from a distance.

  “Mrs. Cargill, do you have any idea where Andrew might be?” I asked. It had occurred to me that perhaps Andrew—if he was alive—was communicating with his family. It was a foolish hope that Mrs. Cargill might tell me what she wouldn’t tell Mark or the sheriff. Looking at her, though, I knew her son was as gone as Margo. Still, I had to ask. If there was any chance, I had to try.

  “I told the sheriff and the deputy, we’ve had no word from Andrew since the night he disappeared. Not a word.”

  “We still believe Margo is alive,” I told her.

  “Andrew wouldn’t hurt that girl,” she said.

  “I don’t believe he did. None of the Hendersons do. Berta wants to believe they’re together, happy somewhere.”

  She shook her head. “Andrew’s not the kind of boy to run off and not call home. Since my husband died, Andrew helped take care of the family. Folks never knew what kind of boy he was. They looked at him and thought the worst, but he was a good boy. He’s dead. I know it.” She put a hand on her heart. “That girl was the worst thing coulda happened to him. Spoiled, used to the best. She put him in a spot he didn’t fit. He didn’t hurt her, but she got him killed, and herself too.”

  She dropped the basket of muffins and closed the door.

  I didn’t tell Bob about the encounter, but I told Mark when he stopped by the house on Wednesday night. He’d come to collect me for a movie date. Young Frankenstein was playing at the Loop, and he thought I could use some light entertainment. I was reluctant to leave the children, but I was also exhausted with the emotional turmoil of Belle Fleur.

  Mark’s car, a restored 1964 Dodge Dart, rode low and fast, and we cut through the dense pinewoods and across creeks where frogs screeched at a high-pitched whine as we blasted by. Mark drove fast, but he had a get-out-of-jail-free pass with his badge.

  The movie, shot in black and wh
ite, made me laugh. For a couple of hours, I forgot everything about my life and sank into the antics of Gene Wilder, Marty Feldman, and Teri Garr.

  The moment the lights came up, though, my anxiety returned. The drive from Mobile took forty minutes, so we headed back to Belle Fleur. Though I tried to hide my worry, Mark knew.

  “The house isn’t going to disintegrate without you there for an evening.” He reached across the seat and took my hand. His thumb worked slow circles across my knuckles. “You can’t let their problems overwhelm you, Mimi.”

  He was right. Unfortunately, he offered no solid suggestions as to how to accomplish what he said. For a while I let the whisper of the tires on the asphalt lull me. The night was soft with stars and a misty humidity. We drove with the windows down, and I let the breeze catch my hair and toss it in all directions. “Did you ever learn anything about Annie?” He’d offered to look into her past.

  “She’s a riddle. We can’t find a thing about her. That could give you some comfort, Mimi. If she had a record, we’d be able to track it. I can only say she was damn lucky to run into Cora on the street. How many unwanted kids end up living in a place like Belle Fleur with a family like the Hendersons?”

  “She has to have a past.” My tone earned me a hard look from Mark.

  He drove in silence a moment. “I’m sure she does, but without a direction or clue from her, we don’t even know where to begin looking. She’s a sixteen-year-old girl who’s a little … strange. What is it about her that troubles you so much?”

  “The timing.” A chill ran down my arms and I rolled up my window. “Annie shows up looking for a home and Margo leaves. Like there’s not room for both of them.” The minute I said it, I realized the accuracy. “It was as if Annie’s arrival had precipitated Margo’s departure.”

  Mark reached across the seat and pulled me closer to him. “Forget about Annie and the Hendersons. Just for a little while. It’s like you’re obsessed, Mimi. You work there, but they aren’t your family.”