Almost Dead (Lizzy Gardner #5)(84)

It had rained earlier in the morning. Instead of getting a whiff of fresh hay or even manure, something damp and moldy wafted her way.

She knocked.

When no one answered, she walked a third of the way around the porch before she heard a woman call out, “Can I help you?”

Lizzy hurried back to the door. “Hello. I’m Lizzy Gardner. I was hoping you might have a few minutes to spare.”

The woman wiped her hands on an old tattered apron strung around her tiny waist. “We haven’t been to church in a while, but you can tell the pastor we’ll be back as soon as Jim is feeling up to it.”

“I’m not with the church. I’m an investigator.”

The woman was petite and birdlike. Beneath the apron she wore faded jeans, a moss-green T-shirt, and a pair of brown tie-up boots with worn soles that looked as though they’d walked five hundred miles and then some. Her gray hair was pulled back away from her face. “What would an investigator want with us?”

“It’s about your daughter, Jenny Pickett.”

The woman licked her thin, dry lips.

“When Jenny was in high school, do you remember if she ever mentioned the Ambassador Club?”

She shook her head thoughtfully. “Never heard of it before now. Jenny was and is very bright. As far as I know, she never joined any clubs, though.”

“Have you heard anything about what’s going on with some of the graduating class of 2002?”

“You mean at Parkview? Jenny’s school?”

“Yes.”

“We don’t get the newspaper or own a television set. Never have. My husband often quotes somebody or other: ‘Without hard work, nothing grows but weeds.’ ” Ophelia Pickett held the door wide. “Why don’t you come in and tell me all about it.”

Lizzy stepped inside.

“I just made some stew if you’re hungry.”

“I already ate,” Lizzy said, “but thanks for offering.” The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she followed the woman across the main living room.

Not one light was on, and the windows were covered with a hodgepodge of fabric that looked like a patchwork quilt, but not the kind you might find at a craft show. These curtains looked as if they had suffered the same trauma as Mrs. Pickett’s boots.

Every available surface in the house had a doily on it, most of them faded to a dingy yellow. Dust mites and spiderwebs had made a home in every high corner of the ceiling. The kitchen was a medley of furniture—a picture of both hominess and thrifty chic.

The woman grabbed a dirty rag and wiped it across the vinyl seat she had pulled out for Lizzy. “Go ahead—get comfortable while I finish up this stew.”

Lizzy did as she said.

“Now tell me,” Ophelia said as she struggled to get a thick wooden spoon through whatever was in the tin pot on the stove, “what is the name of the club you asked about?”

“The Ambassador Club.”

“And what is it exactly that’s happening to the class of 2002?”

“Members of the club seem to be running into a bit of bad luck. Most seem to be accidents, but not all.”

“Are you saying that they’re being murdered?”

“We’re not sure. We still have a lot of questions.”

“Well, I’m glad my Jenny wasn’t a part of any clubs,” the woman said without looking away from her stew.

Lizzy watched the woman work, couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong with this scene, but this was no Norman Rockwell painting she was looking at.

“I do hope the police have rounded up a few suspects.”

“Not even close at this point.”

“And why would any of this matter to me or my wife?” an old man asked from the door, his walking stick pointed at Lizzy. He had a square face with a large, bulbous nose in the middle of it. His hair, what little was left, stuck out like a porcupine’s quills. Without his stick to hold him up, he was bent so far over she thought he might topple.

Lizzy stood and offered her hand, ready to introduce herself, but Mrs. Pickett told her to sit down and pay him no mind.

“What is Mindy doing in our house?” the old man demanded of his wife.

“It’s not Mindy, dear. This is Lizzy Gardner. She’s an investigator.”

He grunted and walked off.

“Mindy who?” Lizzy asked, knowing the name sounded familiar.

“Mindy, Cindy, Windy,” Mrs. Pickett said. “Don’t pay any attention to him. His mind gets a bit muddled at times, but he’s a good man with a good heart.”

“I don’t mean to cause any problems.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” She used a ladle to fill a bowl and then slid it in front of Lizzy, along with a spoon and a cloth napkin that looked as though it had never been washed. “Eat up,” she said.

Lizzy made the mistake of looking into the bowl. It was not a pretty sight—lumpy with something sticking out of it, something that looked a lot like a claw or maybe a beak. She almost gagged. “I’m really not hungry. Do you think I could use a bathroom?”

“Sure,” the woman said, frowning as she took the bowl to the stove and poured its contents back into the pot. “Follow me.”

They walked down the hallway and through a bedroom to get to the bathroom. “This is the only one that’s working.”