thought, hard to imagine her taking a butcher knife to her father and stepmother.
Stepmother.
That was the part that bothered Karen the most, even though she knew she was being stupid and irrational. A prominent father, a second wife almost the daughter’s age, a governess, and a teenaged girl—all living in this house over eighty years ago. The similarities—
Stop it, Karen, she commanded herself. Jessie is not Lettie Hatch, and I’m not Sarah Jane. In spite of herself, she shivered. She picked up the page with the photos of Horace and Sarah Jane. Horace was a frightening-looking man with intense eyes and a grimace on his face. It couldn’t have been easy to be married to him, she thought, and looked at the image of Sarah Jane. She wasn’t smiling either, but it was easy to see she had been quite a beauty—long curling blond hair, and a pert cupid’s bow mouth. She put the printouts down and shivered. So much death.
It brought her mind back to the first Mrs. Kaye. Her predecessor.
Why had Ivy killed herself?
And why didn’t Philip call?
Why the hell did I come up here?
Why did I marry him?
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. From the back of the house the waves kept up a steady crash on the beach. It was so quiet, so still. Not a mile away the town was a raucous party of life, but here, in this house, it was quiet…
Quiet as a grave.
Both Alice and Jessie were in bed. It was after ten. They’d had dinner together; Alice had made a nice chicken salad with vegetables on the side. They’d eaten in silence. Karen had again tried to draw Jessie out, get her to say something, anything, but she was either given a shrug in response or just ignored. The air of tension made her almost want to scream.
Finally, she stopped trying.
She tried to feel compassion for the girl. If I’m to be her stepmother, I’m going to have to try to feel something for her. Karen tried to imagine what it would be like to find her mother’s body, hanging lifelessly from some beam, and couldn’t. Her own mother was so vital and alive, always in motion, always talking or cleaning or cooking or doing something. She couldn’t imagine coming into a room and seeing her hanging from the rafters—
Stop it, Karen, you’re scaring yourself.
“I need to get out of this house,” she said aloud.
She headed into the bathroom and turned on the shower. She loved the shower—the three heads with strong sprays of water always felt so good. Feeling a little foolish, she locked the door behind her. She stepped into the water and let it flow over her. You need a break from this place, Karen, she commanded herself. It’ll do you some good to get out of the house.
She finished her shower, put on some clothes—a black T-shirt reading It’s not the heat, it’s the stupidity, and a pair of jean shorts—and crept down the stairs. Jessie’s bedroom door was shut, her lights out. Karen grabbed her purse and checked for her keys and wallet.
She slipped out the front door into the warm night and walked down the street. By August vacation time, it was still early; the tourists were out in force on the sidewalk. Karen breathed the warm night air and tasted salt from the sea. She hadn’t really explored the town yet. It was high time she did so, if this was going to be her home.
She walked past several clubs, crowded full of people drinking, music blaring. She paused outside one of them, felt tempted to go inside, but finally just kept walking. The crowd was her age, early- to midtwenties, but she was different now. She wasn’t a single woman out for a good time anymore. She was a married woman.
Despite the warmth of the night, she felt cold and hugged her arms around herself. What was I thinking coming out tonight? I don’t want to deal with getting hit on or anything. I just want to drink something—drink a few somethings and forget about everything, forget that—
—forget that maybe marrying Philip was a mistake.
“Stop it, Karen Kaye.” She shook her head. Loud music was coming out of a bar just ahead of her. She held her head up high and paid a five-dollar cover to a bald-headed man with muscles bulging under his tight black T-shirt who smiled at her. She smiled back and entered the darkness.
She paused for a moment to get her bearings. Buoys, fishing nets, and other maritime paraphernalia hung from the aged weathered wooden walls. The place smelled of beer and sweat. Two pierced, tattooed men were slinging drinks at a long bar to her immediate left, and another couple of bars were placed throughout the room. There was a small dance floor off to the side, but few were actually dancing.
Here goes, Karen thought, and walked determinedly up to the bar and ordered a beer. She took a swig from the bottle and leaned back against the bar.
That’s when it hit her she was the only woman in the place.
Perfect, she thought, smiling to herself, a gay bar.
She had nothing against gay bars—back in New Orleans, she and Dave had often gone dancing at the gay bars in the Quarter. In fact, this was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Nobody would probably talk to her, but she’d be in a crowd of warm bodies nonetheless, and she sure didn’t have to worry about being hit on. She took another swig.
The music stopped, and the lights dimmed. “Ladies and gentlemen, the A House is proud to present the vocal stylings of Miss Zsa Zsa Lahore!”
Zsa Zsa Lahore? Karen stifled a giggle.
“Hello, everyone!” A small figure climbed up onto the small stage, wearing a black leather miniskirt over fishnet stockings and spike heels. A huge blonde Dolly Parton–esque wig towered over the performer’s head, and long curly thick blond ringlets dropped down to bare shoulders. Dangly rhinestone earrings swung wildly with every movement, and a teardrop necklace dropped itself right down into the cleavage inside a red satin shirt.
“Welcome to my fans and all of you wonderful tourists who keep our li’l town alive! Bless you and spend all your money! We need it!”
The crowd cheered, and Karen found herself smiling. She’d been to drag shows before in New Orleans, but without exception she almost always could tell the performers were men in dresses. Zsa Zsa, though, was a master illusionist. If Karen didn’t know better, she would have sworn Zsa Zsa was a woman.
She recognized the opening bars of Shania Twain’s “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” as Zsa Zsa began her act. And what an act it was. Zsa Zsa had the song down perfectly. She didn’t just stand there making minimal movements, she actually danced around, every once in a while letting loose with a high kick Karen wouldn’t have thought possible in that tight miniskirt. People crowded up to the stage to offer dollar bills, which Zsa Zsa gratefully accepted and tucked into her cleavage. The song ended, and another started—Karen recognized “Bootylicious” by Destiny’s Child—and she couldn’t help but laugh as Zsa Zsa worked her “booty” for the crowd, turning her back to them and bending over and slapping it.
At the end, she finished and bowed to thunderous applause, thanking the crowd before introducing the next performer—Floretta Flynn, a three-hundred-pound drag queen in full Nashville regalia. She launched into “You Ain’t Woman Enough to Take My Man” as Zsa Zsa disappeared into the crowd.
Karen turned back to the bar, finishing her beer and putting the empty down. The bartender was at the other end of the bar mixing what looked like kamikazes. She fished a five out of her wallet and tried to get his attention, to no avail.
“Hello, gorgeous,” a deep voice said next to her.
She turned her head and found herself looking right into Zsa Zsa’s heavily made up face. Zsa Zsa had the deepest green eyes she’d ever seen.
Karen smiled. “Hi,” she managed to say. “You were wonderful—and you look fabulous.”
“Aren’t you sweet?” Zsa Zsa adjusted her breasts with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “God, I can’t