while clean and recently painted, was losing the battle with gravity and dry rot. The front porch visibly sagged in places, one of the carved support posts slightly askew. The screen door behind which Prickett stood had been torn and patched and torn again.
Prickett was a slightly built woman who appeared to be in her early sixties. Marie was surprised at her age; most of the other women at the day-care center had appeared to be in their twenties. She stood ramrod straight behind the door, no expression on her face. Her skin was a light brown, only slightly creased with laugh and worry lines.
“Ms. Prickett?” Marie said. “I’m Marie Jones. We spoke on the phone?”
“It’s Mrs.,” Prickett said.
“I’m sorry?”
“You said Ms. It’s Mrs.,” Prickett said. Her diction was crisp and precise, like a schoolteacher’s. “I was married twenty-nine years. I raised seven children. I’m not ashamed of it.”
“No, ma’am,” Marie said. “Mrs. Prickett, I really need to talk to you.”
The woman made no move to open the door. “You work for that Fedder woman,” she said. “Why should I talk to you?”
Marie decided to gamble. “Because I’m not sure my client is telling me everything I need to know. I’m doing my job, but I want to know who I’m doing it for.”
Prickett didn’t move. “And if you find out something that makes you think twice about giving that little girl back to that woman,” she almost spat the last two words, “what then? You going to give the money back?”
“Well, actually,” Marie said, “I haven’t been paid yet.”
Prickett remained silent for a long moment. Then she smiled sadly. “You really are new at this, aren’t you, Miss Jones?” She opened the door. “Come on in.”
Marie entered. The front room was dimly lit by the light through the big front windows. There was a worn couch by the door, covered by a crocheted afghan. A matching and equally ancient easy chair stood beside it, facing a console television.
“I was just getting ready for some tea,” Prickett said. “You want some?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Marie said. “One sugar, please.” She sat down on the couch. There was a coffee table in front of it, with copies of The Watchtower and Modern Maturity arranged in neat rows.
There was the rumbling of feet on stairs somewhere out of sight. A slim young black man came into the room.
He stopped short when he saw Marie. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Marie stood up. “Marie Jones,” she said, extending her hand. “I’m—”
The young man cut her off. “I know who you are,” he snapped. “You’re that investigator.” Before Marie could respond, he turned and shouted toward the back of the house. “Mama?” he called. “Mama!”
“Don’t you shout at me like that, Curtis,” Prickett said as she came back in the room, carrying a tray with a teapot and two cups. “I haven’t gone deaf yet.”
Curtis was unabashed. “I thought we talked about this, Mama.” He gestured toward Marie.
“This lady, son,” she said, setting the tray down on a clear space on the table, “is a guest in our home. And she’s shown better manners so far than you have. Now, don’t you have to get to work?”
“You said you weren’t going to—”
She cut him off decisively. “I changed my mind,” she said. “Which is my right. Last I checked, I am a grown woman.”
He stood firm. “Haven’t white people caused us enough—”
“That’s enough, Curtis.” The tone was calm, but Curtis’s mouth snapped shut as if he’d been slapped. His mother walked over to him and hugged him. The top of her head nestled comfortably under her son’s chin. “Now go on to work. I’ll be all right,” she said. Curtis gave Marie a stormy look over the top of his mother’s head, but he hugged back.
“You be careful, Mama,” he said in a low voice. She nodded. Curtis left, giving Marie one last hard look.
Prickett sat back down. “I apologize for my son,” she said formally as she picked up the teapot.
“No apologies necessary, ma’am,” Marie said. “He’s trying to take care of you.”
“You’re very sweet.” She poured a cup of tea for Marie and one for herself. “I suppose that should worry me, coming from a police officer.” She raised a hand as Marie started to speak. “No, no,” she said. “I know, you’re one of those private detectives. But you haven’t been for long. And you used to be a policewoman, didn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “If you don’t mind my asking, how could you tell?”
Prickett blew on her tea. “Just something about you. The way you speak.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. “The way you say ‘ma’am’ sometimes, like you don’t really mean it.”
Marie flushed. Prickett smiled. “Don’t worry, Miss Jones, most times you do. Mean it, that is. I can tell you were raised right. Sugar’s in the bowl right there.” As Marie spooned the sugar into her tea, Prickett asked “So why aren’t you a policewoman any more?”
Marie hesitated, the cup halfway to her lips. “Mrs. Prickett,” she said. “I don’t think that has anything to do with what I need to know.”
Prickett was unperturbed. “Well, now,” she said. “Seems to me I’m about to give you a lot of information that might come back to bite me if I give it to the wrong person. You said you wanted to know who it was you were doing this for. Well, so do I.”
Marie took a sip of her tea. The hot liquid had to fight its way past the lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. Finally, she said, “I got shot. Me and another officer. He died.”
“Oh,” Prickett said. “I’m sorry to hear that, dear. And they blame you for that?”
“They didn’t need to,” Marie said. “It was my fault.”
“Seems to me I saw something on the TV about all this. You and some bounty-hunter fellow went after those two that did all that killing.”
Marie gritted her teeth. One of the things she had hated most about the whole experience was having the distorted details on every local newscast for weeks.
“Yeah…I mean yes, ma’am.”
Prickett nodded. “I remember now. That was quite a story.” She took a sip of her tea. “Seems to me I remember that bounty hunter from the TV. Big, good-looking fellow. You two—”
“Mrs. Prickett,” Marie said. “Can we talk about something else now?”
Prickett looked startled, then contrite. “I’m sorry, Miss Jones,” she said. “I’m being a nosy old woman. Go ahead and ask your questions.”
Marie took out a pad and pen. “How did Lundgren get possession of his daughter?”
Violet arched an eyebrow at her. “Possession? That little girl wasn’t a possession, Miss Jones, however her mother may look at it. She was a child.”
Marie took a deep breath. “Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry,” she said. “How did Sergeant Lundgren get his daughter?”
“That’s simple,” Violet said. “He called and asked to pick her up.”
“Didn’t her mother object?”
Violet snorted. “I should say she did.”
“That’s not what Miss Melanie…um, your former boss…said.”
“Hmph,”