Which they were. Piper shrugged. "Let them. If they're so suspicious, they can come over. They'll only find us brewing sage tea."
"It's not just suspicion, it's worry."
"Phooey." Hannah climbed out of the car in a spurt of energy, but she quickly shot a hand to her temple and pretended to ward off a dizzy spell. She smiled at Liddy. "You're a sweet woman, my dear. But if Piper and I are to be attacked by wild dogs, so be it. There's not a thing you could do if you stayed."
Liddy gripped the wheel. "I'm not sticking up for either of you ever again."
Piper laughed. "Liddy, you're a sweetheart. You got more than you bargained for when you married into this crazy family. I'll be careful, and I'll watch Hannah. Promise."
Reluctantly, Liddy finally agreed and left her husband's sister and great-aunt to their own devices. Hannah made a point of taking Piper's arm as they headed up the walk to her front door. "Your hand's cold," Piper said.
"It's that hospital," Hannah sneered, and left it at that.
She had to have a hot, restorative cup of sage tea before she would even permit the mention of poisoned water jugs. Piper was fidgety enough, she had a cup as well. Sage was considered a woman's herb, its healing and preventive qualities on the female reproductive system well known. Where there was a thriving sage garden, there was a strong woman. Or so the belief went. And, used externally, it was a good hair rinse, something Piper kept in mind when she was drinking the stuff.
"There." Hannah rested back against the tall wingbacked chair in her living room. "I feel much better. I should have had you smuggle me in a cup last night."
"I've done enough sneaking around on your behalf."
"So you have. Now. Am I to assume you didn't find the water jugs."
Piper set down her china cup; she'd only drunk half her tea. "I looked everywhere, Hannah. I didn't find either of them. No fresh jug filled with water, no empty jug. Unless you keep your water somewhere I didn't look, they're gone."
She looked mildly offended. "I keep my water in the refrigerator or store it in the broom closet."
"I looked both places, and on the deck, and in the trash."
"Then someone stole them."
Piper had guessed that was coming. "There's no sign of forced entry, and your doors were all locked. Who else has a key besides me?"
"The director of the complex and your father."
"I can speak to both of them and make sure their copy wasn't stolen. But that'll mean explaining to them why I want to know."
Hannah's brow furrowed, and she was thoughtful a moment, finally emitting a small sigh. "Perhaps you should hold off."
Piper's heart jumped. "Hannah, were there any water jugs?"
"Of course there were." She spoke without irritation, almost absently; her green eyes had glazed over. She rubbed her temple. "I need to think. My dreams—" With obvious effort, she jerked her chin up and focused on her niece. "You should go now, Piper. I need to be alone."
Piper remained in her chair. "What is it, Hannah?"
She shook her head. "Leave. Please."
"Hannah."
A small smile. "I'm fine. Truly. Now call someone for a ride and wait outside. I must be alone."
"I'll walk into town," Piper said. She remembered date's opinion that her aunt was withholding information. "It's not that far, and I need the exercise. Frankly, there's not a single soul I want to see right now. I'm not in the mood to argue about where I've been, what I'm doing. Geez, I'm going to be watched like a bug on a pin." She shook off the indignity of her situation. "Look, Hannah, if this is some witchy thing you're doing—"
"What difference does it make to you? And walk, if you wish. I expect your Clate will be along before you get too far."
If she were so damned clairvoyant, why couldn't she have sensed her water was poisoned? But Piper let that inconsistency go for now. "Hannah, he's not my anything."
"Oh, but he is. I'm more sure of it now than ever."
Piper's brothers paid Clate a visit after he'd made a few business calls, read his morning faxes from Mabel Porter, and refilled the holes in his back yard that were empty of buried treasure.
From their dusty, paint-stained appearance in his driveway, he guessed the two men had sacrificed their lunch hour to read him the riot act or do whatever it was they'd come to do. Macintosh & Sons, he'd discovered, was a class outfit. The father and two sons were knowledgeable, skilled, hardworking, and principled. Clate could have chosen a similar path at sixteen. He'd liked the physical part of his work, that incomparable sense of accomplishment when, at the end of the day, he had something concrete to show for his labor. But he'd relished the excitement of putting together deals, getting fresh projects off the ground, finishing them, moving on to the next. The money, the thrill, the power, the respect—they all contributed to his satisfaction with what he did.