The Line (Witching Savannah, #1)(16)
“I do have faith in you.” This time she didn’t resist when I pulled her into my arms. I didn’t think the alcohol could be the only thing interfering with her powers, but I knew now was not the time to kick out any of Ellen’s supports.
“Will you walk me back into the house?” she asked. “I can’t face that bunch of buzzards on my own.” We took a few more steps, and she stopped again. “What do you think she wanted? Why did Ginny want to see you?”
“Honestly,” I lied, “I haven’t the darnedest.” We turned down Perry and headed home.
Folk usually chose to cross the street rather than passing directly in front of our house, an almost embarrassingly large, but still graceful, Victorian that took up the better part of the block. Maybe they crossed out of respect or fear, or maybe a century and a half of people doing so had carved some kind of psychic groove into the walkway. Which is why it was an entirely new experience to see a stranger sitting on the front steps.
“Adam Cook! Although it’s Detective Cook now, isn’t it?” Ellen addressed the man. A policeman. I knew without asking that he was there to interview me. I’d been expecting this conversation, but I had hoped that the police would find Ginny’s killer before I was forced to relive the morning I found her body. Unrealistic, I knew, but it would neither be the first nor last time I fell prey to foolish optimism.
“Yes, ma’am. That’s correct,” the officer said, standing and taking Ellen’s hand. “Thank you for remembering. It’s good to see you again.” Even after stepping down onto the sidewalk, he towered over the both of us. Mixed African American, American Indian, and Caucasian blood played in his handsome features. A high forehead, straight nose, and nearly cinnamon skin came together in an extremely eye-pleasing way.
“Oliver is going to be so pleased to see you,” Ellen said, then remembered herself. “Good heavens, don’t tell me you were left out here on the doorstep! Did no one respond when you rang the bell?”
“Oh, no, ma’am. There was a response. I was kindly asked inside to wait, but honestly there was so much…” he searched for a word and settled on “?‘activity’ going on inside, I thought it would be better to wait out here and enjoy the morning air. I do hope to pay Oliver a visit before he heads back to California, but I’m afraid I’m here on official business.” His intelligent, tea-colored eyes flashed over to me. “Miss Taylor,” he said. “It’s good to see you up and about. I saw you in the hospital while you were still out, and I have to admit that I’m amazed by your recovery.”
“Well, we Taylors are a hardy stock,” Ellen responded for me.
“Yes, ma’am, I know that for a fact from personal experience,” he said, but his lips arced into an embarrassed smile, and he quickly changed the subject. “Miss Taylor, would you feel well enough to talk with me about the incident?”
I made the connection between his embarrassment and his history with my uncle. Detective Cook had obviously been another one of Oliver’s conquests. I almost blushed myself at the thought of the two of them together.
“Sure,” I responded. To my surprise, I was a bit relieved that the discussion I’d been dreading would soon be over. Maybe telling the detective my story would be enough to exorcise it from my dreams. “I can’t say that I’ll be able to help much, but I’ll do my best.”
“Fine,” he said, smiling, his manner clearly intended to put me at ease.
“Then I must insist that you come inside,” Ellen interjected brusquely, her furrowed brow betraying that she was offended. “We do not discuss such matters on the doorstep.”
“Yes, ma’am. Of course. I apologize for my tactlessness,” Cook responded.
As Ellen ushered us into the house, Maisie caught my eye. She wore an old white sundress, and her golden hair was knotted into a careless bun, but even so casually attired, my sister was one of the most breathtaking beauties Savannah had ever known. She pointed almost imperceptibly to the ceiling, and I knew she was telling me to meet her in our not-so-secret secret meeting place, a linen closet in the back corner of the house’s uppermost floor.
Ellen guided Detective Cook and me into the library and shooed away the members of the extended family who had set up shop there. Cook stopped a moment and took the room in. Ceiling high shelves with ancient leather-bound books lined the length of the western wall; the eastern wall was taken up by two sets of French doors that opened out onto the house’s side porch. The northern wall was devoted to an oversized fireplace that we rarely lit. A painting of my grandmother hung over its mantel. It was a beautiful room, but I spent so much time in it that I’d stopped noticing. Cook’s admiration prompted me to see it through new eyes.
“I should get Iris and Connor,” Ellen said. “They can fill in any blanks that Mercy might have.”
“No, thank you,” Cook replied with a little too much vehemence. “I would rather talk alone with Miss Taylor, if that is all right with you?” he said, looking at me for agreement. “If I understand correctly, you are shortly to turn twenty-one, and this is just a casual, informal discussion. You are certainly not suspected of having been involved in your aunt’s, or great-aunt’s that is, assault.” He chose the most benign terms: incident, assault.