Flipping through Paris Trout was unrevealing. The novel told the story of the heartless murder of a black girl, and if that was significant to Jennifer Deighton’s own story, I could not imagine why. Seth Speaks was a spooky account of someone supposedly from another life communicating through the author. It did not really surprise me that Miss Deighton, with her otherworldly inclinations, might read such a thing. What interested me most was the poem.
It was typed on a sheet of white paper smudged purple with Ninhydrin and enclosed in a plastic bag:
JENNY
Jenny’s kisses many
warmed the copper penny
wedded to her neck
with cotton string.
It was in the spring
when he had found it
on the dusty drive
beside the meadow
and given it to her.
No words of passion
spoken.
He loved her
with a token.
The meadow now is brown
and overgrown with brambles.
He is gone.
The coin asleep
is cold
down deep
in a woodland
wishing pond.
There was no date, no name of the author. The paper was creased from having been folded in quarters. I got up and went into the living room, where Lucy had set coffee and tea on the table and was stirring the fire.
“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” I, said, glancing over the poem again and wondering what it meant. Was “Jenny” Jennifer Deighton? “What would you like to eat?”
“Believe it or not, steak. But only if it’s good and the cows haven’t been fed a bunch of chemicals,” Lucy said. “Is it possible you could bring home a car from work so I could use yours this week?”
“I generally don’t bring home the state car unless I’m on call.”
“You went to a scene last night when you supposedly weren’t on call. You’re always on call, Aunt Kay.”
“All right,” I said. “Why don’t we do this. We’ll go get the best steak in town. Afterward, we’ll stop by the office and drive the wagon home and you can take my car. There’s still a little ice on the roads in spots. You have to promise to be extra careful.”
“I’ve never seen your office.”
“I’ll show it to you if you wish.”
“No way. Not at night.”
“The dead can’t hurt you.”
“Yes, they can,” Lucy said. “Dad hurt me when he died. He left me to be raised by Mom.”
“Let’s get our coats.”
“Why is it that every time I bring up anything germane to our dysfunctional family, you change the subject?”
I headed to my bedroom for my coat “Do you want to borrow my black leather jacket?”
“See, you’re doing it again,” she screamed.
We argued all the way to Ruth’s Chris Steak House, and by the time I parked the car I had a headache and was completely disgusted with myself. Lucy had provoked me into raising my voice, and the only other person who could routinely do that was my mother.
“Why are you being so difficult?” I said in her ear as we were shown to a table.
“I want to talk to you and you won’t let me,” she said.
A waiter instantly appeared for drink orders.
“Dewar’s and soda, “I said.
“Sparkling water with a twist,” Lucy said. “You shouldn’t drink and drive.”
“I’m having only one. But you’re right. I’d be better off not having any. And you’re being critical again. How can you expect to have friends if you talk to people this way?”
“I don’t expect to have friends.” She stared off. “It’s others who expect me to have friends. Maybe I don’t want any friends because most people bore me.”
Despair pressed against my heart. “I think you want friends more than anyone I know, Lucy.”
“I’m sure you think that. And you probably also think I should get married in a couple of years.”
“Not at all. In fact, I sincerely hope you won’t.”
“While I was roaming around inside your computer today, I saw the file called ‘flesh.’
Why do you have a file called that?” my niece asked.
“Because I’m in the middle of a very difficult case.”