“Are you?” Miss Honoree looks suspiciously at the camera facing her.
I smile. “Yes, everything is ready to go. Now, what’s your birthday?”
“December thirty-first, but I can’t recall the year. When were you born?”
“New Year’s Eve, huh?” I chuckle. “And we’re still playing this game?”
“You bet your ass. You made a deal.”
“Okay. May 1, 1990. And by the way, records show you were born in 1905.”
“I don’t feel that old. I mean, one hundred and ten is ancient. I feel younger—one hundred and five or one hundred and six.”
“You are one hundred and nine and five months, which is splitting hairs, I know. I like to round things up. Not a lot of difference once you get over one hundred.” I shrug. “By then, it’s gravy.”
“You try getting this old and then ask me about the difference.”
I concede her point and move on. “Where were you born?”
“Baton Rouge, Louisiana, or thereabouts. What else do I know—my mama’s name was Cleo. I can’t recall my father’s name.” She pauses. “What’s your father’s name, Sawyer?”
“His name is Marvin, but you mentioned Baton Rouge. I have a photo of Maggie, my grandmother, outside an old house in Baton Rouge.” I rifle through my backpack. “I believe it was taken just before she sold it.” I remove a photo from the stack and flip it over. “Around 1990, I think.”
Honoree’s body stiffens, and her nose wrinkles in an attractive sneer. “What house? Maggie White never owned a house in Baton Rouge.”
I am caught off guard by her harsh tone. “Um. Well, she didn’t own it when you knew her. The family that raised her left her the house, I imagine, and she sold it in 1990.”
“Maggie never owned a house in Baton Rouge!” Honoree’s voice is brittle, loud, and persistent. I hit a nerve.
“I have the bill of sale,” I say, hoping to calm her. “It was in a box in the attic.”
“Maggie never owned a goddamned house in Baton Rouge!”
That didn’t work. “I’m sorry, Miss Honoree. It’s not a big deal. Let’s forget about it. We can talk about something else.”
“I’m done talking.” Honoree shuts her eyes. “I’m tired.”
Lula returns as if summoned by magic. “Would you like Sawyer to leave?” She marches by me.
“Come on, Miss Honoree.” I look at Lula, at a loss. “I have no clue what got her so mad.”
“She’s just tired. Let’s take a break, and you can come back after dinner or maybe tomorrow.”
I gather my things from the table and shove them into my backpack. “Crazy,” I mutter, walking out of the room. “All I said was Baton Rouge, and you would’ve thought I had called the hounds of hell.”
CHAPTER 15
HONOREE
Saturday, October 24, 1925
Honoree awoke to a shout and a bang. A door had slammed shut, and an angry mother’s tongue crackled like gunfire. It was her neighbor, Laura Lee, fussing at one of her five children. Something about leaving the door open and letting the cold in. Poor child’s ears had to ache from the flurry of damnations Laura Lee hurled.
Honoree’s eardrums certainly did. All she wanted was to sleep for a few more minutes without dreaming. She tossed aside her mother’s quilt and rose from the cot, but her knees wobbled, and she sat back down.
Gunfire. Blood. Ezekiel had begged her to leave town. It wasn’t her fault the barkeep was dead.
Christ. The envelope was hidden in the heart-shaped basket. She had looked inside, but only after she’d returned home from the Dreamland. Even if she had opened the envelope before, it wouldn’t have mattered. The only thing that mattered was that she’d been hired to be in the chorus at the Dreamland Cafe.
