Nora Roberts - Tribute

“I know what it is. Code name for the season-three finale of Lost . Well… keep back some.”

“Wait until I-”

But he didn’t wait. Instead, he shifted his body, putting it between Cilla and the box, then yanked the lid down.

No snake coiled and hissed inside. None struck out and slithered down the pole. The doll sat, her arms lifted as if in defense. The bright blue eyes were open, and the smile frozen on Cilla’s young face. The bullet left a small, scorched hole in the center of the forehead.

Enough was enough, Ford decided. The cops had the doll; the cops would investigate. And so far, the cops hadn’t been able to do dick-all about stopping the threats against Cilla.

They weren’t pranks, they weren’t harassment. They were threats. Dusting the damn doll and the mailbox, asking questions, even determining-if they could-what caliber of bullet had been used wasn’t going to solve the problem. None of those things would prevent that look of shocked horror from covering Cilla’s face the next time.

Everyone knew there’d be a next time. And the next time, at any time, it could be Cilla instead of a doll.

Yeah, enough was more than enough.

He pulled up in front of the Hennessy place. It was somewhere to start, he thought. Maybe it was somewhere to finish. He walked up, banged on the door.

“Wasting your time.” A woman under an enormous straw gardening hat walked over to stand at the picket fence that formed the boundary between houses. “Nobody’s in there.”

“Do you know where they are?”

“Everybody knows where he is. Locked up.” She tapped her temple under the brim of the hat, then circled it. “Tried to kill a woman over on Meadowbrook Road a couple months back. Janet Hardy’s granddaughter-theone who was the little girl in that TV show? You want to talk to him, you’ll have to try Central State Hospital, down in Petersburg. ”

“What about Mrs. Hennessy?”

“Haven’t seen a sign of her the last couple weeks. Selling the place, as you can see there.” She pointed to the Century 21 sign, then slipped a small pair of clippers into a pocket of her gardening belt. Settling in, Ford knew, for a little over-the-fence chat.

“She’s had a hard life. Her boy was crippled back when he was a teenager. Died a year or so ago. That husband of hers never had a good word to say to anybody around here. Shouting or shaking his fist at kids for playing too loud, or telling people to mind their own if they offered a helping hand. Me, I’d’ve left him after the boy died, but she stuck. Could be she’s taken off now he’s locked up, but more likely, she’s gone down to Petersburg. Don’t know if anybody’s looked at the house yet. I’m going to hope somebody buys it who knows how to be neighborly.”

It was a haul to Petersburg and back, Ford considered. “I guess you’d have noticed if she moved out. I mean, furniture, luggage.”

“Might have, if I was home.” She gave Ford a harder measure from under the wide brim of her hat. “You’re not kin to them, are you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, I can tell you I haven’t seen her or heard a peep out of the house for days now. In fact, I’ve taken to watering what flowers she put in. I can’t stand to watch something die of neglect.”

CILLA TRIED to take a page out of Ford’s book and look at the bright side. The bright side could be that a defaced doll in the mailbox did no damage to her property. It cost her nothing but time and stress.

A bright side could be the police took the whole ugly business very seriously. True, they’d had no luck tracing any of the dolls so far, not when they were sold regularly on eBay or in secondhand and specialty shops, or could have been taken out of someone’s personal collection. But it brought her a measure of comfort to know the police were doing whatever the hell the police did.

And her crew was pissed off on her behalf. Having people in your corner, even if it was only to express outrage and support, was always a bright side.

Plus her new countertops and backsplash kicked serious ass. That knocked her level of stress down several notches. The streaks and specks of warm gold, flecks of black and white against rich chocolate brown set off her cabinets. And, Jesus , her copper hardware would just pop. She’d been right, so absolutely right, to go for the waterfall edging. She couldn’t believe how long and hard she’d stressed over that. It gave the counters such presence, such authority.

Cilla ran her hand over the island as she might a lover’s warm, naked flesh, and all but purred.

“Pretty dark, especially with this half acre of the stuff you’ve got in here.”

Cilla merely looked over, tipped her head and spoke in the tone she’d use to a naughty little boy. “Buddy.”

His lips twisted, but the attempt to defeat the smile failed. “I guess it looks all right. Cabinets are nice, anyway. Got a forest of them in here, but having the glass fronts on some breaks it up a little. I’ll get your sinks mounted. Be back tomorrow after they’ve cured to hook up the plumbing, the dishwasher and the faucets. Don’t know why anybody’d want copper for faucets.”

“I’m just crazy that way.”

“Crazy some way. Are you going to help me mount these sinks, or just stand around looking like the canary-eating cat?”

While they worked on the first undermount, Buddy whistled through his teeth. A few bars in, Cilla caught herself humming with him.

“‘I’ll Get By,’” Cilla said. “My grandmother’s signature song.”

“Guess the mind wanders to her in here. Got that clamp on there?”

“It’s on.”

“Let’s test the fit then. Second time I put a sink in this place.”

“Really?”

“Put in the one you’re replacing for your grandmother. That’s been going on forty, forty-five years, I expect. Probably time for a new. That’s right, that’s right,” he murmured. “That’s a good fit. That’s a good one.” He marked the location for the mounting clips.

“Let’s lift her out.”

Cilla gripped the two-by-four clamped to the sink. “You and your father did a lot of the work around here back then.”

“Still got plenty.”

“You did a lot for Andrew Morrow.”

“That’s a fact. We did all the plumbing for Skyline Development. Thirty-three houses,” he said, taking out his drill. “That job made it so I could buy one of those houses. Lived there thirty-seven years come October. A lot of people got their homes because of Drew Morrow. I’ve fixed the johns in most of them.”

AFTER THE TWO sinks were mounted, Cilla went outside to hunt up her father. She’d kept him off the scaffolding that morning, conning him into “doing her a favor” and painting her shutters.

It looked as if he was having as much fun running the paint sprayer as he had hanging up three stories. “Take a break?” she asked and offered a bottle of water.

“Sure can.” He gave her arm a quick rub. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better since I got to work. Better yet when I stand staring at my counters with a big, sloppy smile on my face. Something occurred to me when I was working with Buddy. How he and his father did some work here. Dobby did, too. I’m wondering who else who’s working here now, or who I didn’t hire, or who’s retired, might’ve worked on the place when Janet had it. Maybe they’re pissed off because I’m changing it. It’s no crazier than Hennessy trying to run me down for something that happened before I was born.”

“I’d have to think about it. I was a teenager, Cilla. I can’t say I’d have paid much attention.”

He took off his hat, ran a hand through his hair. “There were gardeners, of course. The grounds were a showplace. I’ll ask Charlie if he remembers who she had for that. I do remember she had what you’d call caretakers. A couple who’d look after things when she wasn’t here, which was more than not. They’d open the house up when she was expected, that sort of thing. Mr. and Mrs. Jorganson. They’ve both been gone for years.”