The Almost Sisters(34)

“Good,” I said, though my heart sank. If Wattie didn’t want her to talk, that meant Birchie had plenty more to say. I wasn’t asking questions, and I was still learning too much.

Keeping Birchie quiet would take both of us. The Fish Fry proved that Birchie’s illness had progressed past Wattie’s powers to thoroughly contain it; Birchie might at any minute say the world’s least convenient truths. Or worse, she might say self-incriminating nonsense. She did have Lewy bodies. She saw awful rabbits humping all over the town. What if the Lewy bodies made her remember things that never were?

I fixed Wattie with a stern gaze and said, “That trunk belongs to Birchie?”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about this,” Wattie said.

“I’m making sure we’re protecting the right person. Is it hers?”

Wattie’s wide, full mouth compressed, and her sparse, white eyebrows knit, but after a moment she ducked her chin in a nod.

“Okay. Hear me now,” I said, sounding just like Frank. “If the police ask, you say you only helped Birchie move the trunk because she asked you. I’m sure she was very agitated due to her illness. The illness that means she can’t be held responsible for anything. So you probably agreed to help her move that trunk with no idea what was in there.”

Wattie’s nostrils flared. “My mother didn’t raise me to be a liar.”

“Well, you’ve gotten pretty good at it all on your own, then,” I said sharply, but my heart sank. Of course Birchie had told Wattie what was in the trunk. She told Wattie everything. “Okay, that was cheap, but I had no idea Birchie was ill until last week, so maybe I was owed that shot.” She looked away, but I saw that my words had landed with her. “For the record? My mother didn’t raise me to be a liar either. Lucky for you, I don’t always take her good advice.”

“Hmf. The world would be a better place if we all listened to our mothers—and our grannies, too,” Wattie said.

“Maybe. Did your mother teach you how to keep your mouth shut?”

“You’re a caution, girl,” Wattie said, smiling a little in spite of everything. “You spent half your childhood in that attic, and you never knew he was up there, did you? It’s fair to say that I know how to keep things to myself.”

I shook my head. “Hush, now. We let Frank talk, and we sit tight.” But the information sank in anyway. He. The person in the attic was a he. A he was so much more human than an it, and worse, Wattie knew that the remains were male. Still, it didn’t mean she had known the him personally, or that she had had anything to do with his death or his interment in a sea trunk. “Don’t say another word. Frank believes it’s better if I don’t know who’s in there.”

“I told you already,” Birchie piped up, agitated.

“Birchie, please, please, please stop talking,” I said, reaching across Wattie to pat at her.

“I told you the first night you were here,” Birchie insisted. “I told you at dinner.”

It was morning, Birchie’s best time, and she sounded so certain. Nevertheless, I was pretty sure we hadn’t discussed who might or might not be dead up in her attic over the roasted game hens and fresh tomato salad.

“I can’t remember how to make that cornbread,” Wattie said, sudden and loud. Birchie started and looked at her, blinking. “I can’t remember how much flour and how much cornmeal.”

“Two to one,” Birchie said. “Two to one, you know that. And three good-size fresh eggs.”

Wattie shook her head. “You better start at the beginning.”

Birchie seemed to sink back into herself. “I need to get your mother’s bowl, because in that bowl we can eyeball how high to put the flour and such. I keep it second bottom cabinet, left of the stove. . . .” As Birchie walked us through the process of making her signature dish, I realized that Wattie had done this before. It was a coping mechanism for Lewy bodies, taking Birchie step by step through something that was second nature. Something she remembered in her hands and nose and mouth, not just her mind.

Lavender came in with a tray full of hot cocoa and a worried face.

“Where are Hugh and Jeffrey?” I asked.

“Eating fifty more cinnamon rolls. They are going to puke if they don’t stop.” She set the tray down. “Can we have the laptop back? We were doing something.”

“Sure,” I said.

It was still sitting on the coffee table. She picked it up and turned to go, saying, “And when you get a second, can you call my mom? I told her you were busy with the cops, but she’s having kittens.”

“You called Rachel?” I said. I didn’t need Lavender’s confirming nod. When things went to shit, girls called their mothers. My own mom smelled like chamomile and honey, and I half wanted to run home, crawl into her lap, and abdicate all pretense of adulthood. Instead, I had to call Rachel. She must be foaming. “Jesus, please us.”

“Leia! Mind how you use the name of our Lord,” said my grandmother. Who had kept a dead body in her attic for God only knew how long.

“How much grease goes in the skillet?” Wattie asked, insistent, pulling Birchie’s attention.

“A goodly scoop. Use the spoon I keep right by the coffee can,” Birchie said, back on track.