“Interesting,” I said to be polite. Old letters from people long-since dead had never had any appeal to me. Especially since I had other, more direct, ways to communicate with them.
He took the saltshaker from my hand and began to roll it in his fingers. “The way somebody painted that date onto the shakers—it must mean something. It looks like it might be the only thing that remains from the lake house. And yet, according to these letters to Rosalind, accumulated over several decades, that house was a real haven for her and her family. A very special place that they all looked forward to visiting as often as they could.”
“How do you know it’s the only remaining piece of the house?”
“My mother. I asked her about it. She told me that she’d offered to have her moving people load everything up at the lake house to either salvage or sell before they flooded the lake, and Button told her it should all stay intact. So that when she remembered it, she’d know it was all still there, just underwater.”
Reaching forward, he pulled a photocopied version of a piece of newspaper toward us. “This was after Rosalind’s death, so I’m assuming Button must have clipped it out and added it to her mother’s drawer full of correspondence for posterity’s sake. I’ve read through it several times, and the one thing that sticks with me is that the families on the lake and in the town knew what was coming a full year in advance. And the Pinckneys even had my mother offering to help them empty the house and take care of the contents. Yet Button and her brother did nothing to save anything from the house. Only a salt-and-pepper-shaker set with that date written on it.”
“It could be anything, Jack. Like your mother said, they wanted to keep the house intact, even underwater—that’s why they only took the shakers. And maybe that’s the date a favorite dog died. Or a first kiss. Who knows? It was with the rest of the collection at the South Battery house where it probably always was—and not salvaged from the lake house at all. I think you’re reading more into this than is there.”
He continued to thrum the pencil against the pad. “How many years ago was that—thirty-two? That’s really not that long ago. Rosalind’s husband said he’d hired a local couple—and they were newlyweds in 1960. It’s possible they’re still alive, and might even still live locally. I’m thinking I need to take a research trip to Alabama and see what I might be able to turn up.” He tossed down the pencil and began unbuttoning my blouse. “I certainly can’t get any writing done here, so I might as well see if I can be productive someplace else. In the meantime . . .”
He’d just pressed his mouth to the little triangle of skin above my bra when the doorbell rang. Reluctantly, he sat back and began rebuttoning my blouse. “The doorbell always thinks it knows when it should start working again.”
“It’s probably someone coming for Lindsey. It’s almost ten o’clock.” As if on cue, the grandfather clock struck four.
Jack came with me to the door and opened it to find Michael Farrell, Lindsey’s father. The men shook hands and then Jack excused himself to go get Lindsey. Out of politeness, I asked Michael if he’d like something to drink and he surprised me by saying yes and following me into the kitchen.
I poured him a glass of sweet tea from the pitcher in the fridge, then joined him at the kitchen table, feeling awkward while gradually growing aware that he was trying to find the right way to say something.
“Is everything all right?” I preempted. “Lindsey okay?”
He took a sip of his tea and nodded. “Yes, everybody’s good.” He regarded me for a long moment. “I’m trying to find the right way to ask you for a favor.”
“A favor?” I said, surprised. “A favor to do what?”
“Actually, it would be a favor to ask you not to do something.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what—”
“I’ve been doing some research on you and your mother.”
“Oh,” I said, sitting back in my chair, finally understanding where he was leading.
“Veronica said that she was only hiring your mother, but from what I’ve read, you also claim to be ‘psychic.’ I can certainly understand why you would have tried to evade the truth when we talked about it at your party.”
I sat up. “I wasn’t trying to ‘evade’ anything, and I certainly have not made any claims about being psychic despite what you may have read.”
He crossed his arms and watched me dubiously, his sweet tea forgotten. “Yes, well, when I asked Veronica about it, she admitted that you and your mother have both agreed to help her find out what happened to Adrienne.”
When I didn’t respond, he said, “I’d like to ask you not to.”