no pornography! You must promise, Aunt Ivy,” Beth said firmly. “Most—” normal teetered on the tip of her tongue “—people don’t think as liberally as you do about these kinds of things.”
“Of course not!” Her aunt looked insulted that Beth would even suggest such a thing. “Though I don’t know what all the fuss is about. There are statues of naked men in museums. Why, there’s even one in the center of the town common. Nudity is a very healthy thing. If I were a bit younger and less wrinkled, I’d be tempted to join one of those nudist colonies. I think it would be a very exhilarating experience. I might just do it one of these days anyway.”
The image of a shar-pei came to mind, but Beth blinked it away.
Iris’s mouth fell open, and then recovering, she said, “That statue you speak of, sister, is a copy of the David by Michelangelo. It’s a famous work of art.”
“I’ll say it is. That David was no slouch. Makes me want to travel to Italy to check out those Italian men.”
“Do either of you know anything about Robert Donovan’s whereabouts? Where he might have gone after leaving here?” Beth interrupted, though she doubted the new topic would be any safer. “I was hoping he might have told you something during your visits.”
The two women’s faces reddened simultaneously and their eyes widened before exchanging what Beth construed to be guilty looks, even as they shook their heads in denial. “Why, no, dear.” Iris smoothed the skirt of her print dress with quick, nervous movements. “We didn’t associate with Mr. Donovan all that much. Did we, sister?”
Ivy shook her head. “No. Not at all.”
“But I thought you played bridge with him a few times. I distinctly remember you telling me that.” Her suspicions continued to grow. The old women were hiding something.
Dead bodies, perhaps?
Bonnie and Clyde. Iris and Ivy. It didn’t have the same cachet to it. But still…
“Dr. Donovan is here to search for his father. He’s very worried about him, says it’s not like him to go off without leaving word.”
Ivy scoffed. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll be just fine. After all, Robert—” Her cheeks filled with color at the slip. “I mean, Mr. Donovan is a grown man who undoubtedly knows his own mind. Young people should give older folks more credit for being capable. Why, you’d be surprised what we can do when we put our minds to it.”
Thinking back to the shovel, bones and locket, Beth had no doubt about that.
“Are you sure you’ve told me everything? It’s very important that you confes…confide in me, if you know anything.”
“Of course, dear,” Iris answered in wide-eyed innocence, quickly changing the subject. “Now, why don’t you tell us about your meeting with Mr. Pickens? I’m just dying of curiosity, and so is Ivy.”
Heaving a sigh, Beth knew she’d get no more information out of the two old ladies today. They could be as stubborn as lint on black socks when they put their minds to it. Though she went on to reveal the details of her meeting with the banker, Beth couldn’t shake the feeling that Iris and Ivy knew more than they were saying, which didn’t bode well for her peace of mind, not when there were bones buried in her basement.
“I HATE LYING TO Beth, Iris.” Ivy wrung her hands nervously and paced across the colorful Aubusson carpet her ancestor Isaac Swindel had brought over from England when he’d made the trip to the colonies with William Penn. “She’s going to be madder than a flea-infested dog when she finds out what we’ve done.”
Uneasy at her sister’s prediction, for she knew it was true, Iris said, “Now, sister, you know it can’t be helped. We don’t want to involve Beth and get her into trouble. It’s best to keep our own counsel, as we’ve already discussed. Besides, keeping information from someone to protect them isn’t really lying—it’s being responsible.”
Blue eyes filled with uncertainty, Ivy pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to ease the pain centered there, and nearly dislodged her wire-rimmed glasses. “I’m going to take some Excedrin and rest a bit before dinner. I feel a headache coming on.”
“All right, dear. I’m going to try that incantation one more time. I must be doing something wrong. It’s just not working like it should.”
“Maybe you should add some Viagra to your potion. It supposedly raises quite a few…er…things.”
“Ivy Swindel! You are shameful.”
The old woman smiled. “Yes, I know. But at my age I have every right to be. Life should be fun when you’re as old as I am. In fact, I’m thinking about forming a chapter of that Red Hat Society here in Mediocrity. It’s for women over fifty. They wear red hats, purple dresses and have oodles of fun. I may even let you join…or not,” she tossed out before disappearing.
Iris shook her head and had just opened up The Wicca’s Guide to Potent Brews when she felt someone’s eyes upon her. She and Ivy rarely closed the door to their suite of rooms; they were the only inhabitants on the fourth floor, so it seemed unnecessary.
Her niece had insisted that they were too trusting of strangers and that someday one of the guests would walk off with their antiques and cherished possessions. But so far that hadn’t come to pass, and Iris was doubtful it would.
Beth tended to be distrustful of people because of her unhappy childhood and the way her former husband had treated her. Not that Iris could blame the poor child. Greg Randall had proved to be a womanizing scoundrel. Still, it was Iris’s belief that one had to have faith in the good of mankind.
Glancing over her left shoulder toward the open door, she found a young blond girl framed in the doorway and knew immediately that she was Bradley Donovan’s daughter. “Hello?” She smiled in greeting. “Are you lost?”
The child, who was attired in jeans and a bright pink sweatshirt adorned with red hearts, shook her head. “Nope. I just wanted to see what was up here. I’m staying at the inn with my dad.”
Apparently the sign stating Private Residence hadn’t deterred the inquisitive child. “Come in. You must be Stacy Donovan. My niece, Beth, has told me a bit about you.”
Nodding, the child stepped forward somewhat tentatively and looked about at the heavy upholstered furnishings, red velvet drapes and ecru lace curtains hanging at the windows, then pulled a face. “This is really old stuff. Reminds me of my Grandma Donovan’s house. At least you don’t have those plastic things covering your lamp shades.”
Shutting the book, Iris seated herself on the wing chair fronting the fireplace and motioned for the girl to sit down. “I don’t get many visitors your age, and I always enjoy talking to young people.” She missed her days of teaching school for that reason.
“No wonder no one visits,” Stacy said, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. “It stinks in here. What’s that smell? It’s, like, totally gross.”
Taken aback by the girl’s bluntness, a soft blush touched the older woman’s cheeks. “I’ve been burning incense.”
Clearly impressed, the girl’s eyes widened. “Cool. Do you smoke pot?”
Iris
