The Last of the Moon Girls(69)

Evvie shrugged. “Your mother. Your house.” She tipped her head to one side, looking at Lizzy closely. “So how is it? Seeing her after all this time?”

Lizzy considered the question, sifting through the emotions of the last twenty-four hours. “It’s . . . hard,” she said finally. “I look at her, and I’m so angry. Then I think, How is she any different from me? We both left. We were both gone when Althea died, and we both came back too late. It’s the same.”

“It’s not,” Evvie snapped. “Not by a long shot. You were running toward your dreams, to who you wanted to be. Your mama was running away from the mess she made. Where is she, by the way?”

Lizzy hiked a shoulder. “Who knows? She said she was going for a walk. She was acting so . . . I don’t know what. Weird.”

Evvie’s eyes narrowed. “Weird how?”

“I’m not sure. I never thought of her as deep—she was always so wide open—but that’s what it felt like. Or maybe she was just playing me. We were talking about the mural she painted on the side of the barn, and all of a sudden she was talking about when she was a kid here, and how the sky used to look at twilight. I’ve never heard her talk like that, like she actually cared about something. I didn’t even know that was possible.”

“And now that you do know?”

Lizzy shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. When I saw her get out of Andrew’s truck, it was like someone punched me in the chest and all the air went out of me. All I could think was, Here we go again. After everything she put us through, all the heartache she caused, she shows up out of nowhere, pretending to give a damn, and I’m supposed to what? Take her at her word and welcome her with open arms? I can’t. Not after the way she left.”

A series of short raps on the front door kept Evvie from responding. She dropped the wad of damp newspaper in the sink and grabbed a towel to wipe her hands. “Probably the pamphlet pushers again. I’ll go.”

A moment later she was back. “It’s the police. They want to talk to you.”

Lizzy went to the door, where a pair of uniformed officers were waiting on the stoop.

“Can I help you?”

“I’m Sergeant Woodruff,” the taller of the two said crisply. “This is Sergeant Grainger. We’re responding to a call about a doll and some sort of threat. Are you Elzibeth Moon?”

Lizzy jerked her head around at Evvie, who was now hovering within hearing range. She cocked an eye at Lizzy, then put up a hand. “Wasn’t me.”

Lizzy believed her. But who? It couldn’t have been Rhanna. She didn’t know about the doll. Which left . . . She’d kill him.

“May I ask who made the call?” she asked with a too-polite smile.

“I’m sorry, ma’am. I don’t actually have that information. We’d like to speak with you if we could, and take a look at the doll and note if you still have them, to get a feel for what we’re dealing with.”

“Actually, I don’t think I do,” Lizzy told him, knowing full well that she’d ripped the hideous thing in half and stuffed it into a bin in the mudroom. The last thing she needed was Rhanna walking in to find the police in the foyer. “I’m pretty sure I threw it out. In fact, I know I did.”

Evvie suddenly reappeared, cradling the remains of the doll in the crook of one arm. She passed the messy jumble of straw and black cloth to Sergeant Woodruff, then wiped her hands on her skirt, as if relieved to be rid of it. “There it is. The note too.” She cut her eyes at Lizzy. “They’re here. May as well show it to them.”

Sergeant Woodruff examined the remains of the doll with more than a little curiosity, slowly turning the pieces over in his hands. “Crude. Definitely homemade.” He lingered briefly over the note, then handed it to Grainger, who had come in behind him.

Grainger held the scrap of paper up to the light. “No watermark. Heavy, but definitely not expensive. Looks like it’s been torn from something. The text is in block letters. Red crayon. Could be a kid, but the verse feels too grown-up. Do you recognize the handwriting, Ms. Moon?”

Lizzy shook her head. “No.”

“Right. Just covering the bases. We’d like to take both the doll and the note with us, if you don’t mind. We also have some questions, if you can spare a few minutes.”

Lizzy opened her mouth to protest but nodded when she couldn’t think of a plausible excuse. She was going to kill Andrew.



Forty minutes later, Sergeant Woodruff finally closed his notepad and pushed to his feet, having gathered far more information than Lizzy wanted to share about her visits with Fred Gilman and Louise Ryerson. At least she’d managed to keep Roger’s name out of it.

“I think we have what we need for now,” Woodruff said, slipping his pen back into his shirt pocket. “Thank you for your time, though I suggest you leave the detective work to us in future. There’s a reason we caution people about taking matters into their own hands. It rarely turns out the way they hope.”

Leave the detective work to us? They’d done that eight years ago. It hadn’t worked out well. She managed to nod dutifully.

Grainger collected the note and the remains of the effigy, cradling them awkwardly against his chest. “We’ll be in touch, but feel free to call us if you see anything suspicious. We’ll be working with SCFD on the shed fire. When we have something, we’ll let you know. Until then, try to be patient.”