Passion to Die For. Marilyn Pappano
he walked out.
Chapter 3
When Ellie walked onto the porch Friday afternoon, the sun was shining, making it warm enough for short sleeves. After the previous day’s rain, everything downtown had a fresh, clean look to it: the color of the flowers brighter, the contrast against the grass sharper, the smells of sawn wood richer and earthier. The news reports called for good weather through the weekend, with an appropriate fall crackle in the air on Saturday for the Copper Lake Halloween Festival.
The sound of rhythmic hammering came from the square where a half-dozen teams of volunteers were building the booths for the festival. Most of the local restaurants sponsored a booth; Ellie’s was a prime corner section, directly across the street from the deli. There would also be the usual carnival-type food—funnel cakes, Sno-Cones, deep-fried everything—and simple old-fashioned games like bobbing for apples and musical chairs. There would be costume parades across the front veranda of River’s Edge, the grand Greek Revival plantation home on the southeast side of the square, and a band would set up in the gazebo.
A lot of good fun for kids and their families and people who had dates, she thought sourly.
A sleek vintage Corvette pulled to the curb at the end of the walk, top down in deference to the weather. Her hair tied back with a red print scarf, Anamaria looked exotic and sexy as usual. She was a beautiful woman, and deeply in love with her husband. Those Calloway boys—and their wives—had all the luck.
Ellie slid into the passenger seat. “I thought you didn’t like to drive the ’Vette.”
“Oh, I like to,” Anamaria replied breezily. “I just don’t like Robbie to know.”
Robbie was inordinately proud of the vehicle he’d bought as little more than a rusted heap and rebuilt from the ground up. Since his marriage to Anamaria, it had been a sore point that she preferred to drive her nothing-special Honda over his restored baby.
“Besides,” Anamaria said, resting one hand lightly on the swelling of her stomach, “I figure if I want to drive it, I’d better do it before Gloriane gets too big.”
Ellie’s gaze dropped to Anamaria’s belly; then she pointedly looked away. She never thought about having children. Never. It was safer that way. Well, except when she saw an expectant mother or a sweet, innocent infant. Or when she watched Russ and Jamie fussing over two-month-old Sara Elizabeth. Or noticed how solicitous Robbie was of Anamaria. Or let her defenses down and remembered back to when she was a child herself and for such a very short time, things had seemed…hopeful.
For a moment she closed her eyes, grinding her teeth, shoring up that little bit of weakness around her heart. When Anamaria’s hand settled on her arm, it startled her eyes open again.
“Are you all right?”
It was such an easy question to lie to. She’d been doing it for years—smiling, tossing off an airy I’m fine. Truthfully, for a good portion of the past five years, she had been fine. She’d had more in her life—a career, a home, a good man and dear friends—than she’d ever dreamed of.
Now, thanks to Martha, it was hard to imagine that anything would ever be fine again.
Still, she managed an uneven smile. “I’m fine. How is Mama Odette?”
Anamaria clearly recognized the question for the evasive tactic it was, but let it slide. “She’s great. The doctors say she’s got the heart of a woman half her age.” After a pause, she went on with a sly smile. “And Mama Odette says she’s not giving it back.”
Ellie laughed in the moment before her thoughts took a melancholy turn. Anamaria had never known her father, and her mother had died when she was a little girl. But she’d had an amazing family welcoming her with open arms—her grandmother, Odette; her aunts and their daughters; Odette’s sisters and their daughters. Dozens of strong, smart and loving Duquesne women gathering her in.
And Ellie had had her mother and her father, neither of whom had wanted kids in the first place. Her paternal grandmother had been a cigar-smoking, whiskey-drinking old woman who’d scared the wits out of Ellie every chance she got, and her maternal grandparents had never been a part of her life. She’d had aunts and uncles but could hardly remember them, had cousins but had never known them.
It wasn’t fair—all those people who’d loved Anamaria, and not even one who’d wanted Ellie.
Life ain’t fair, Martha had often said as she’d unscrewed the cap from yet another bottle of booze.
The click of the turn signal penetrated Ellie’s thoughts, and she looked up to see that they’d reached the mall. It was small, but it offered a lot, including their reason for coming there. In a small first-level storefront was the Seasonal Store. If you celebrated a holiday, any holiday, the Seasonal Store was the place to shop. Right now the front half was filled with all things Halloween, while in the rear, Christmas was encroaching on the space allocated to Thanksgiving.
“You shouldn’t have put off buying your costume for so long,” Anamaria admonished as they wound through the racks. “There’s not a lot left for adults.”
“Are you dressing up?” It had taken Ellie’s staff three years to nag her into joining them among the ranks of the costumed. She’d had fun. She’d felt free. She had looked forward to repeating it this year…until things had changed.
“Of course I am,” Anamaria replied, then added drama to her voice. “I’m going as the great Queen Moon, who knows all, hears all and sees all, but doesn’t tell all for less than a gold doubloon.” She took a costume from the rack, studied it a moment, then returned it to pick up a different garment. “There really was a Moon in our family—she was Mama Odette’s great-grandmother—and her faithful believers really did call her Queen. Who knows? Maybe I’ll channel her Saturday night.”
Psychic gifts ran strong in the Duquesne family. It had made Ellie wary when she’d first met Anamaria. Could Anamaria see things that no one else could? she’d wondered. Would she give away secrets Ellie had so stubbornly kept?
The answers, the last six months had determined: seeing secrets? Probably. Sharing them? Definitely not.
“How about this?”
Ellie turned away from a moldy-looking corpse outfit to find Anamaria holding a full black skirt. She lifted one flirty strip of nearly transparent fabric, then let it flutter down again. “Just a skirt?”
“I have a white peasant top you can borrow and a burgundy velvet shawl with fringe. And some black knee boots, a scarf to tie over your hair, maybe a long wig and voilà.”
“Voilà what?” Ellie asked drily. “Serving wench? Pirate lady?”
“Depending on how low we can get the neck of the blouse, maybe pirate’s lady friend,” Anamaria teased.
“I think she was closer the first time with wench,” a voice said from behind Ellie. “After all, isn’t that just an old-fashioned way of saying whore?”
Ellie restrained the impulse to whirl around. She didn’t need to look to know it was Martha who had spoken, didn’t need to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d caught Ellie off-guard.
Anamaria gave Martha a long, level look, then took hold of Ellie’s arm. “Let’s find a wig.”
Ellie’s feet automatically followed Anamaria’s lead, but Martha wasn’t about to be ignored.
“You’re that psychic girl that’s married to the youngest Calloway boy, aren’t you? Man, you must have put some mighty good voodoo on him, getting him to marry you, what with him being rich and white and you being neither.” Martha fluffed her hair and smiled broadly. “What does your psychic gift say about me?”
“Just ignore her,” Ellie said, but Anamaria wasn’t listening.
She walked in a slow circle around Martha. “Your whole life, you’ve