Chapter 22
Sam tookWalker’s silence as incredulity at the shed, not her comment aboutghosts.
After his painful revelation of how he’d lost his wife and son, she understood he was entitled to cynicism. She admired his fortitude in finding a means to move forward despitethe emotional and physical pain. Her loss of her parents had been traumatic, but nowhere on the level he’d suffered. She was in serious danger of opening her heart to him, but could she accept that he’d never believe in herweirdnesses?
Without speaking, they borrowed Cass’s wheelbarrow and shovel. They crunched down the lane to the ghost house, where they collected very real, very smellycompost. Sam’s scientific mind acknowledged that someone may have overheard her talking and decided to spook her, as they had poor Xavier. But the part of her head that Cass had inhabited wanted to believe she’d talked to the ghost of the woman who had created this wonderfulgarden.
While they shoveled, Walker studied Grace’s house and yard, probably looking for evidence of how the moundhad been delivered. Sam didn’t care. She had what she needed, and he didn’t object to pushing the heavy wheelbarrow the rest of the way down thelane.
She handed him the apartment key before he loped back up the path to collect his car. “In case the sheriff needs to examine the crime scene. Just drop it off when you’re done.” She stood on her toes and kissed his bristly cheek—he hadn’thad a razor with him. “Let me know if you need more Lucytranslations.”
He kissed her back, a little more fervently than expected after hissilence.
Feeling a little foolish carrying a beautifully carved walking stick into a restaurant, Sam tucked it behind the counter, then washed, and put on a clean apron. After last night’s craziness, she was heeding Mariah’s warning to carry aweapon.
“Anyone heard how Mr. Black is doing?” she asked as she carried the coffee carafe up and down the counter, fillingcups.
“Brenda took Cass down to the hospital this morning,” Mariah said, setting out a plate of poached eggs for Harvey. “They can call Dinah’s landline and let us know if they hearanything.”
“Is Dinah okay?” Sam asked in a low voice, nodding at thekitchen.
“Yeah, her mother’s funeral was yesterday, so there’s no purpose in her going home now. It was cruel of her brother not to let herknow.”
“No need to go talking behind my back,” Dinah said with dignity, appearing in the doorway carrying a plateful of powdered beignets. “Tullah will help me speak withMamanwhen she’s ready. I forgive those who hurt me. Their ignorance only hurtsthem.”
“Nice attitude,” Sam said inadmiration.
“We need a national Forgive the Ignorant Day,” Harvey said cynically, eyeing the beignets with a gleam of hope in hiseye.
Dinah slapped the plate down in front of him. “Here, this is partial payment for Sam’s staff. You behave, and you’ll get more. She’s going to be a valuable asset to thiscommunity.”
“I paid for thewalking stick,” Sam admonished. “Unless, of course, you wish to kill Harvey with kindness. In that case, I’m all on board withthat.”
He slanted her an evil look from under his sinfully long black lashes, but with mouth full of hot grease and sugar, didn’trespond.
She started to inquire about Daisy’slamassu, but decided the fewer people who knew Daisy had been there last night,the better off she was. Daisy would not do well underinterrogation.
“Has Mr. Gump abandoned us?” she asked, for no good reason other than to determine if he might be behind the Kennedy’s decision to develop theirland.
“He was at the lodge last night but must have drove back to the city,” one of the lodge employees said. “He’s talking about opening an office up here once the constructionstarts.”
That was not a statement to unite community spirit. The café wentsilent.
“Was that mural painted when the café opened?” a young hiker asked, oblivious to the animosity. He nodded at the faded painting behind the appliance counter. If his scruff was any indication, he’d been camping in the woods. He hungrily eyed Harvey’sbeignets.
Sam turned around to study the fadedpaint lost among the appliances and dishes. Now that she knew her adopted parents were artists, she understood why the mural and the paintings elsewhere called toher.
Harvey pushed the plate toward the hiker, grabbing a couple more for himself as he studied the mural. “No idea. Anyoneelse?”
Dinah glanced at it. “It was here when I opened the place. I keep meaning to either cleanit up or paint it over, but it grows onme.”
Sam had been meaning to take a look since she first noticed it. Taking this opportunity, she pushed aside the huge coffee machine to see the bottom right corner. “It’s not just dirty, I think it’s tempera!” she said in surprise. “It’s been varnishedover.”
Spitting on one of the clean rags Dinah kept under the counter, Sam dabbed at acorner of the paint, hoping to find a date or signature under the grease and grime. “Why would anyone use anything as difficult and delicate as tempera in arestaurant?”
“What’s tempera?” Mariah leaned over towatch.
“It’s an ancient form of paint, made from egg yolk, used well before oils were invented. Many old European murals still survive because the stuff lasts forever, butit’s real thin and cracks easily. Cleaning it isn’t a goodidea.”
