Art's Blood by Vicki Lane Page B

her business. Now as she sat rocking gently, feeling a little breeze dry her sweaty face, she told herself that she was grateful Ben was there to help Kyra through this difficult time. He’ll be fine, she assured herself. He’s just responding to the old damsel-in-distress situation. If what Willow said is true, Aidan’ll be free soon and things will sort themselves out. “Or not,” she told a sleeping Ursa, standing to brush the bits of grass off herself.
    She fixed a quick lunch— thick slices of dead-ripe, garden-warm tomato, liberally salted and peppered and piled on homemade bread. The quintessential summer sandwich, she decided as she swirled the pale yellow mayonnaise on the bread. The mayonnaise, a treasured recipe from her grandmother, was slightly sweet and slightly lemony— and a slightly guilty pleasure.
    When the last delectable crumb had been consumed, she settled in front of the computer with a glass of iced coffee and checked her e-mail. A long message from Rosemary, whose busy schedule made such communications all too infrequent, was a welcome sight.

    Hi Mum—

    Hope all is well at the farm. I had hoped to get up there for a few days but the combined trials of home ownership and two new classes to prepare for are keeping me here. I love my new house and as soon as the plumbing situation is dealt with and I can get the drywall repaired and painted, I hope you and Laur can come for a few days. I think you’ll like it— lots of big trees and a backyard that badly needs flowers. Maybe you could bring some daylilies or something. I can’t afford landscaping right now as I owe my soul to Mr. Dooley, the plumber. Mr. D’s quite a character— and has been really nice about dealing with the emergencies generated by my antique pipes.

    Two new classes: one in women’s studies, concentrating on some of the classics— Austen, the Brontës, George Eliot, and Mary Shelley— the usual suspects. I could do most of it in my sleep but want to work up some new angles. The other is contemporary regional fiction of the South— pretty much what my book covers. I really look forward to it, but there’s a fair amount of prep if I want to do things right.

    At least the book is mostly done. My editor is reading it now, but I’m reasonably confident that he won’t want too many changes. Which brings me to another thing. I have an idea for a short story— maybe even a novel. Remember the Mullins family and that terrible Halloween? I think I want to base my story on that. You know that I’ve never quite come to terms with what happened back then, and a friend has suggested that I write about it— fictionalize it, of course. At first the idea seemed pretty ghoulish, but the more I thought of it and imagined the different answers there could be, the more it nagged at me. So I’m going to give it a go.

    It would be awfully helpful, Mum, if you would check at the Ransom library for articles in the local paper about the tragedy. It was Halloween of 1986. Maybe you could make copies of the articles and send them to me. I really think this is something I need to do. No big hurry— just when you have the time.

    Haven’t heard from Laur or Ben recently. Or you either. I know this is a busy time on the farm but let me know what’s happening. Has Ben found true love? Or Laurel? Or what about you? Laur mentioned Phillip hadn’t been around in a while.

    I hope to get home for fall break, at least.

    Love you,

       R

    P.S. Do you have any idea where the Mullins family went when they moved away?

CHAPTER 7

    STREET ANGEL, HOME DEVIL

    (WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, AUGUST 31)
    T HE M ULLINS FAMILY. E LIZABETH SAT AT THE computer, staring at her daughter’s words. Rosemary had been a school friend of the oldest Mullins child — we’re best friends, Mum. And we cut our fingers and swapped blood so now we’re blood sisters! When the tragedy occurred, so horribly, so unforgettably on that Halloween nineteen years ago, the