By Vicki Lane
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Elizabeth sighed and wondered briefly if anything ever happened on Ridley Branch without Miss Birdie’s knowing about it. ” Some were on the beds; some were folded on closet shelves. A once-beautiful Grandmother’s Flower Garden, now tattered and faded to a pale shadow of its original splendor, 38 was in use as an ironing board cover. Triangular scorch marks dotted the little pastel hexagons that some hand had so carefully stitched together. “Ain’t much left of that one,” Birdie remarked cheerfully, seeing Elizabeth run her hand gently over the old quilt’s soft surface.
Turn a-loose of me and ketch a-holt of that thar calf! I’ll stop! I can still see the two, shaking with helpless laughter as they told the story. Indeed, for years after my marriage I dined out, as they say, on that story. I could mimic the mountain twang to perfection and was always called on to “do” the story of Uncle Sol and the bull calf. And I was happy to oblige, for there were other stories that I could never tell. CHAPTER 8 THE OBVIOUS SUSPECT (WEDNESDAY NIGHT, AUGUST 31) THE COOLER EVENING AIR WAS A RELIEF FROM THE warm house when Elizabeth and Phillip brought their after-dinner coffee out to the porch and settled in the rockers.
But when I got outside, I had this funny feeling that something was wrong and I just started walking down the road. ” She hugged her knees tighter. There were no tears and her face was a mask. “When I got to the top of the hill by the old graveyard, I could see the flames. And then the black car. It was on the road above our house, just sitting there with its lights off. ” Elizabeth asked. “It might have been just someone passing by, maybe watching but then afraid of being suspected when the fire truck arrived—” “I recognized it,” said Kyra, her voice still lifeless.
Art's Blood by Vicki Lane