I drifted back to sleep, and when I woke again, a drowsy glance at the clock sent a bolt of panic through me. Eight forty-five! I was supposed to be over at the church at nine.
Within twenty minutes, I was dressed and rushing out the door while trying to dig a hair clip from my purse. My foot collided with something metallic, liquid splattered everywhere, and before I knew it, I was tripping and stumbling over a mass of spitting, growling black fur. J.T., cat, dish, milk ran through my mind in no particular order, and I did the tomcat tango, the contents of my purse spewing everywhere before an old metal porch rocker finally broke my fall. I flopped facedown over it, letting out a loud “Ooof!” From the corner of my eye, I caught an upside-down view of the one-eared cat running through a spill of milk and straight into the cottage.
“No, no, no!” The door swung shut and the lock clicked just as I was realizing that the cottage key with the plastic card attached was nowhere in the spattering of purse clutter on the porch floor.
“No!” I scrambled forward, but there was no key under the mat where we usually kept it in case I wasn’t around when the kids came home. “Please, please, please no.” But please doesn’t fix things when you’ve pulled a stupid, as my daddy would have put it. There was nothing on the porch but pens, a hairbrush, and a random assortment of makeup, all floating in a shallow pool of milk next to a blue enamelware mixing bowl.
Seconds ticked by as I stood with my arms held out, looking down at the sticky white stains on the T-shirt and jeans that were now a disaster. Who in the world’s going to give you a job? The thought came in Aunt Marney’s voice. My father’s sister had a way of making you feel worthless with only a few words.
“Well, good mo’nin’, good mo’nin’, good mo’nin’!” Brother Guilbeau’s voice surprised me, and I spun around. He was crossing the yard at a good clip, moving like a man in a hurry.
On my way down the steps, I apologized for being late in getting over to the church and folded my arms self-consciously over my milk-spattered T-shirt. I hadn’t found a hair clip either. You look like trailer trash. I wonder why that is? Trammel was hanging out with Aunt Marney in my head, but Brother Guilbeau only smiled and waved off my apology. A strange sense of comfort washed over me. Something about Joe Guilbeau made me feel like everything would be all right.
For a short man, he was surprisingly quick. He moved fast and talked fast. Within a few minutes, he’d commented that it was a nice walk through the stable yard in the morning mist, so he really didn’t mind coming over. He’d told me he remembered visiting the Outer Banks on vacation years ago when there were horses there, asked me what brought the kids and me to Hatteras, and given me some instructions for cleaning out Iola’s house —throw away the trash, anything perishable, and stuff that might attract bugs and mice. “We’ll get to decisions about everythin’ else after the paperwork’s settled wit’ the house,” he added, and I felt a pinprick of worry.
I started to ask about the unsettled paperwork, but then I thought, Why rock the boat? Brother Guilbeau seemed to know what he was doing.
“Can’t offer you any money for the job right off, but you got the cottage and all the paid bills. I get a chance, I’ll see can I come up wit’ a few dollars out of the discretionary fund wit’out havin’ to pass it round church council. Best just keep your work quiet over here till everythin’s settled wit’ the house.”
That was the second time he’d said it —settled with the house. This time, it rang in the corner of my mind like a smoke alarm detecting a fire not far away.
I glanced at the cottage and saw the one-eared cat sleeping happily on the windowsill in the front room. Luckily, there were several keys on that ring Brother Guilbeau was holding. Hopefully one of them opened the cottage.
“Okay,” I answered as a breeze wafted by, wrestling a few loose leaves from the trees and raining them silently down around us. One landed on Brother Guilbeau’s head, but he didn’t seem to notice as he handed me the keys and reminded me again to clean out all the perishables. I was welcome to keep whatever food I thought I could use. If I needed any cleaning supplies today, I could get them at Bink’s Village Market and charge them to the church account. As soon as he had the chance, Brother Guilbeau would drop off some cash I could use to buy supplies at the Food Lion or Burrus Market, where there was more selection.
“No tellin’ what’s in the kitchen there.” He motioned toward the house. “Last year or two, Iola had a worry somebody’d try to move her into the old folks’ home, so she stopped havin’ anyone pass through the front door. She didn’t mean to make nobody the misère, but she wanted to be in her house when the death angel come to call. Guess she got her way.”
A heebie-jeebie ran over my body. I didn’t want Brother Guilbeau to think I couldn’t do the job, but the less I heard about Iola and the death angel, the better. Working alone in that house would be bad enough without remembering that someone had just died there.
Brother Guilbeau slid a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to me. It had his name on it, but it was for a zydeco band, not for the church. Underneath the name, the card read, As seen in Reme’s Bayou. Even I had watched the movie Reme’s Bayou.
“My other job, when I’m not doin’ the worship music over to Fairhope Fellowship. Only Louisiana-bred zydeco band on the Banks,” he told me and winked. “There’s the number to my cell phone. You got any question, you call me up, okay?”
“Okay.” The keys felt weighty in my hand, but I tried to make it look like I didn’t have a worry in the world. I’d managed to successfully plot an escape from the well-guarded lair of Trammel Clarke. How bad could one strangely creepy house be? “I’m sure I can handle it.”
Brother Guilbeau gave me an enthusiastic nod, and we parted ways. Standing alone in Iola Poole’s front yard, I gazed up at the house with its wraparound veranda and intricate railings. Ribbons of peeling paint and crumbling plaster shivered in the breeze like bridal veils, mimicking the uneasy quiver in my stomach.
There was no sense putting it off. As soon as I got the cat out of the cottage, grabbed a little breakfast, and put on some dry clothes, I’d have to get started.
Whatever was inside that house, it wasn’t going anywhere, and in some strange way, I felt that the place was holding its breath, every nail, board, and batten watching through time-weathered eyes, just waiting for me to come inside.
Whether it was stalking me or inviting me, I had absolutely no idea.
CHAPTER 4
IN THE FOURTH GRADE, a girl named Isha asked me home with her after school. I went, even though I knew Aunt Marney would have a fit if she found out. It wasn’t like any of the other kids were going to invite me over —not with the reputation my parents had. They’d just been through another humdinger of a breakup. This one got hot enough to include dishes flying and the police showing up. CPS had dumped Gina and me with my father’s sister in Texas again, and Aunt Marney had made it clear that this was the last time she was taking us. Having us around my father’s old hometown was an embarrassment to her, and even at just ten years old, I could see why. It’s never good to be in a place where your daddy’s bad deeds walk through every door before you can even get there. Gina wasn’t helping matters. At twelve, tall and blonde, she looked sixteen and was already a whole lot like Mama and Daddy.
Isha’s mother was from Sierra Leone —black as the ace of spades, as my father would’ve not-so-nicely put it. Isha’s daddy was a local boy who’d gone all the way to Africa to oversee production in bauxite and platinum mines. They lived on a corner lot in a big blue house with antique rosebushes outside and all the things I’d always wanted inside. There were sweet rolls, milk, and a smiling mama waiting in the kitchen when we walked in.
When Isha’s daddy came home, he swept his daughter up like they hadn’t been together in a month. I just stood there watching from the upstairs hallway with my arms wrapped awkwardly over the princess clothes we’d made from safety pins and old bedsheets.
“And who’s this?” her father asked, smiling. He had kind eyes. Soft and warm and friendly.
Isha introduced me as Princess Tandinajo the Brave. When I snaked out my hand, trying to be on my best manners, he bowed low and pretended to kiss my fingers the way Robin Hood did with Maid Marian. His lips never touched my skin, but I jerked my hand back anyway. After a stint in emergency foster care, I’d learned a few things about being too friendly with men I didn’t know.