“Do you mind?” Irene shot back. She looked sheepishly at Joan again. “You might say I keep tabs on people.”
Mrs. Harris pointed the rifle at Irene. “What else do you know?”
“Mama,” Joan said, and pushed the barrel of the rifle down again. “But I would like to know the answer to that, too. Except I think I’m going to need a drink. Come on, Mama. We need to lock that gun up before you take an eye out.”
“You sure?” Mrs. Harris asked, still eyeing them with suspicion.
“Honestly, I’m not one hundred percent sure,” Joan admitted. “But I think it’s okay for now. Think you could whip up some of your homemade ginger beer?”
Mrs. Harris’s demeanor changed instantly. She looked delighted. “I was just in the process of making a batch.” She turned with her daughter, walking slowly, carrying her rifle like a soldier on patrol.
Frances and Irene exchanged a look. Irene made frantic gestures toward Mrs. Harris and the gun, followed by some circular motions at her head, indicating she thought Joan’s mother was crazy. Frances lifted her shoulders to her ears in a universalI-don’t-knowmotion.
“Look alive, ladies!” Joan called over her shoulder.
They followed.
Nine
Joan’s home was something to behold.
The “structure,” as Frances was thinking of it, because “house” didn’t seem to fit, was surrounded by snapdragons, irises, sunflowers. They entered through a mudroom, crowding in together while Joan returned her mother’s rifle to the gun safe. From there, they stepped down into a large, sun-drenched room, the light coming from a wall of crank-case windows that were opened to the forest beyond. The house was deeper than it was wide.
A grandfather clock ticked noisily in a corner, and an assortment of crystals hung in one of the windows. Thick, woven rugs covered the Saltillo tile floor, and near the back door, a freestanding stove for warmth. There were cases stuffed with books along one wall and before them, two worn armchairs arranged with a table between them, on which more books were stacked. A worn leather couch was situated across from the chairs, and two black cats were perched on the back of it, watching them all curiously.
The walls were covered in art. But a particular kind of art—scenes done in ink in the crosshatch style. Tiny lines that, together, formed a scene. Frances knew that was all Joan—she was an artist.
The other notable thing about the great room was the overpowering scent of marijuana.
Behind the couch were several plastic bins, filled with clothing, shoes, knickknacks. “Are you moving?” Frances asked.
“Now why would we be moving? That’s the dumbest question I’ve heard all day,” Mrs. Harris said.
Frances had not endeared herself to Joan’s mother, clearly.
“That’s Mama’s hobby. She goes to the Goodwill bulk sale in Colorado Springs, then sells anything of value on eBay. Have a seat,” she added as her mother shuffled through the room and a door at the other end. “I’m going to help Mama get started.” She followed her mother but paused and glanced back at them. “Don’t touch anything. Just … stay put.”
Irene waited until they had left the room, and glared at Frances. “Great. She thinks we’re going to steal from her.”
“Well? We kind of have a history. And what is going on between you two? I’ve never seen you act so shy.”
“Nothing!” Irene said, her face reddening. “It’s just been a long time since I’ve seen her.”
Joan was back in a few moments. “She’s gone down to one of the outbuildings to whip up a batch of her ginger beer,” she said, glancing quickly over her shoulder. “It is the vilest thing you will ever taste, but you will drink it, and you will be happy about it. It’s got a mushroom base.”
“Pardon?” Frances asked, confused.
“Just drink it. It’s the only way to get her out of the room so I can talk to you. For all I know, Edie is going to jump out from behind a tree next.” She paused and looked from Irene to Frances. “Is she?”
“She’s not here. And if she was, she wouldn’t jump out from a tree,” Frances said. “She never liked that kind of thing, remember?”
“Mm-hmm,” Joan said dubiously. She moved to a floor pillow and sank down, cross-legged, with the ease of a child. “All right, what’s this all about? You need money?”
“No,” Frances said, appalled.
“Hold on,” Irene said. “How much you got?”
“I’ve done okay for myself,” Joan said.
