a down-home grin lent credibility to her musing.
“Who are you?” she whispered. Friends of Mrs. Rucker? Other family members?
She returned the picture to its place on the mantel, and even though she supposed the framed photos were the sort of personal effects she should be wrapping in tissue and packing away, she couldn’t bring herself to do so. Instead, she took a long, lingering look at each person.
Most of the photographs appeared to be thirty years old or more. Weren’t there any more recent than that? Didn’t Mrs. Rucker have any great-grandchildren?
The Rossi house was loaded with pictures and portraits of both Susan and Amy when they were young, and now Callie’s photographs had a prominent place on tabletops and walls.
Deciding to leave the living room intact for now, Amy headed for the kitchen, then paused beside the lamp table, where the dirty china cup and saucer sat. She glanced at the Bible she’d noticed during her first visit to the house, its worn and cracked leather embossed with the name Eleanor Rucker in gold letters. It rested next to a television guide, the kind that came with the local newspaper. The date, she noted, was a little more than two months ago.
Was that the week when Eleanor Rucker had been frightened by imaginary hippies?
Was that how long the house had been empty?
Suspecting she might never get the answers to any of her questions, Amy carried the dirty dishes to the sink, turned on the spigot, and waited for the water to heat. After placing the stopper in the drain, she reached for a plastic bottle of lemon-scented dish soap that sat on the counter and squirted a stream under the faucet spray.
She lifted the dirty cup, but before placing it in the soapy water, she took time to study the pattern—tiny pink roses with a delicate gold trim.
She tried to imagine a special occasion, the dining room table draped with freshly starched white linen, the dishes set out with sparkling crystal goblets and polished silver.
In the middle of the table, she could easily see newly clipped rosebuds—pink to match the china pattern—carefully arranged in a vase and flanked by two long, tapered candles, the flames flickering in the evening light.
She could almost hear the hum of happy voices, of faceless family and friends.
Perhaps “Betty Grable” sat at the head of the table with her husband standing at her side, his hand resting gently on her shoulder, a smile on his face as he welcomed the guests with a Jimmy Stewart drawl.
The doorbell sounded, drawing Amy from her crazy thoughts, and she frowned. No one knew she was here. Maybe it was the real estate agent coming to remove the lockbox and the sign. Or maybe it was a door-to-door salesman.
Either way, she shut off the water and strode to the entry. When she opened the front door, she found a petite, thirty-something Latina on the porch, holding a plate of brownies covered with plastic wrap.
The woman, who wore her long, dark hair straight, smiled warmly and introduced herself as Maria Rodriguez. She nodded to the left. “I live next door and thought I’d come over and welcome you to the neighborhood.”
Amy hadn’t counted on any visitors, nor had she intended to stretch the truth any more than she already had. Still, she took the plate of chocolate goodies and managed to introduce herself and return the woman’s smile. “These look delicious. Thank you.”
“One of the women in the neighborhood brought a lemon cake to me when I moved in. So when my son told me he’d seen our new neighbor, it seemed like the right thing to do.”
The conversation lulled. If Amy had truly been a new neighbor moving in, she might have known what to say. As it was, she felt like a fraud. So she thanked the woman again.
“I heard you have a daughter,” Maria said.
Amy nodded, thinking that the web she’d begun to weave was expanding without any effort on her part, and she wasn’t sure how to stop it from growing any further.
By sticking to the truth whenever she could, she supposed. “Her name is Callie. And she’s five.”
Maria flicked a long strand of hair over her shoulder and smiled. “I have a five-year-old, too. Her name’s Sara. It’ll be nice for her to have someone new to play with. There aren’t too many girls living on the street.”
Amy hadn’t planned on bringing Callie to Sugar Plum Lane, but again she nodded. “That would be nice.”
“Is she here?” Maria asked.
“No, not today. She’s with a sitter.”
A slow grin stretched across Maria’s face, as though she understood how difficult it would be to have a child underfoot.
“I thought I’d pack up Mrs. Rucker’s belongings first,” Amy added.
Maria’s smile faded. “I would have offered to pack up things for the Davilas. I didn’t realize they were going to hire someone to do it.”
Had Maria found that a little unusual, too? Either way, Amy decided to let it go. There were probably a lot of things she didn’t understand, so she thought it best to change the subject. “I heard Mr. Davila had a heart attack. Is he doing all right?”
“There were some complications, but I think he’s going to be fine. From what I understand, it’s going to take some time.”
“I’m sure his illness took the family by surprise,” Amy added.
“Yes, it was completely unexpected. He was pretty active and appeared to be healthy. In fact, Ellie was supposed to move in with him and his wife, but that didn’t pan out.”
“Did she move in with one of her children instead?” Amy asked.
“She only had one child. A daughter. But they weren’t very close.”
Which meant what? That her daughter, who had to be Barbara Davila, wouldn’t take the old woman into her home to live with her? Or that she couldn’t for some reason?
Amy hated to ask too many questions, especially up front. Yet that’s why she was here, wasn’t it? To find the answers her mother had been seeking?
“Have you lived on Sugar Plum Lane very long?” she asked Maria.
“I moved in with my tía, or rather, my aunt, when my mother died. I spent my teenage years with her and left when I got married. But after I filed for divorce, I brought the kids and came home.”
Apparently the women had several things in common. They’d both lost their mothers, and they’d wanted out of bad marriages, which left them raising their children alone.
“So you live with your tía,” Amy assumed, realizing Maria’s aunt probably knew more about the Ruckers—or, more specifically, about Barbara Davila.
“No, not anymore. Sofia passed away a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” And for more reasons than one. Maria’s aunt might have held the key to Amy’s search.
“Well,
