The Steep and Thorny Way(45)

“He’s still coming to our house,” she said with a hiss. “Why in hell aren’t you using the Necromancer’s Nectar?”

“But I did.”

“When?”

I counted in my head. “Two nights ago. I did exactly what you said—the spoonful, the crossroads, the circle on the ground—and I spoke to him.”

“Well, he’s still barging through our front door, still looking lost and desperate, giving us all a fright. Even Mama saw him last night. She’s planning to hire a Spiritualist to exorcise him.”

“No!” I waved my hands in her face. “Don’t do anything to hurt him. Please.”

She swatted my fingers away. “We don’t want him in our house.”

“I’ll speak to him again. I’ll see what he wants. I’ll . . .” I turned my head and looked beyond the other townsfolk, spotting Mama and Uncle Clyde nestled together on the blanket, their heads tipped close together, their arms touching. “I’ll do whatever it takes to set things right.”

“I hope you do.”

“I’ll speak to him tonight, in fact. Just”—I rubbed the back of my neck—“please, don’t do anything that might cause him any harm. Don’t send him away just yet.”

“All right.” She pushed her hat farther down on her head, shadowing her face with the short brim. “I’ll tell my mother you’re taking care of him tonight, but if he—”

“Wait a minute.” I dropped my hand to my side. “Tell me again why you think my father is heading to your particular house all the time, looking so upset.”

“We’re sensitive, that’s why.”

My jaw hardened.

Mildred stepped back on her left foot. “What’s that look for?”

“Are you sure there’s no other reason?”

“Cheese and crust, Hanalee. Why are you glaring like you suspect me of murder?”

“There’s a troubling undercurrent rumbling beneath the surface of this town,” I said. “I don’t trust much of anyone these days.”

“I’m prone to seeing ghosts. That’s all. And I find myself overcome with premonitory sensations whenever something awful is about to happen.” She tipped her fedora out of her eyes. “In fact, I experienced one of those sensations that Christmas Eve, right after your father left our house.”

My head jerked back. “What?”

“I . . .” She inched backward. “What? I just said—”

“Why on earth was my father at your house that Christmas Eve?”

Mildred scratched at her elbow, and her lips sputtered as if she didn’t know what to say.

I edged toward her. “Don’t you dare tell me my father was seeing your mama.”

“No! That’s not it at all. He was picking up whiskey for a bootlegging run.”

“He . . . No!” I darted a quick peek in Mama’s direction again. “My father was most certainly not a bootlegger.”

“Yes, he was. He hadn’t been doing it long, and he seemed nervous about it.”

“No, my father simply wasn’t feeling well that night. We believe he decided to walk to the Christmas Eve service after he felt better, and—”

“Bootlegging is nothing to be ashamed about, Hanalee,” said Mildred, and her eyes softened. “We all know the farms have been suffering since the war ended. He came by that night and picked up a crate of hooch, and directly afterward I trembled with one of my premonitions so violently, I dropped to my knees on the floor.”

I grabbed hold of a nearby tree trunk and found it difficult to stand without doubling over.

“I tried to help him, though, I swear.” Mildred also braced a hand against the birch. “After I found the strength to get to my feet, I hopped onto my bicycle and rode after him. I tried my best to stop him from going any farther with that crate, but he must have been walking through the trees and the fields instead of the road.”

“Where was he taking the whiskey?”

“I don’t remember him saying.”

“The Dry Dock?”

She shrugged. “I honestly don’t remember. So much happened that night.”

“Did Joe hit him when he was carrying that crate, then?”

“Joe wasn’t driving back to his house just yet.”

“How do you know?”

She scratched at her elbow again and rocked a little from side to side.

I nudged her left arm. “How do you know Joe wasn’t driving home just yet, Mildred? Tell me.”

“B-b-because . . .” Her eyes shifted about. “When I was riding my bicycle in the dark, I saw a car pulling off the side of the road up ahead of me. By the time I pedaled farther, I heard”—she blinked—“sounds . . . coming from behind the trees on the drive to that old abandoned vineyard. Not the Paulissens’ vineyard; that other one that’s been closed and overgrown for years.”

I furrowed my brow. “What types of sounds?”

Her face reddened, to the point where the blush blended in with her freckles and rendered the spots invisible. “Love sounds,” she said, and she grimaced.

“Oh.” I swallowed.

“I know I shouldn’t have stopped—I should have kept bicycling after your father.” She removed her fedora and fanned her face. “But I did stop. I parked my bicycle on the road and crept through the bushes, and I saw the reverend’s Model T—I knew it was his, because the first three numbers of the license plate are one-three-zero, like my father’s birthday, January thirtieth.”