The Prophet

Chapter Five

The next day, I took Angus for a walk in the same neighborhood where I’d seen Devlin and the woman. And I even managed to convince myself that I had a legitimate motive for doing so.

I’d broken a statue in the garden and had then fled the scene without a word. The least I could do was extend an apology and an offer of compensation, even if the accompanying explanation would require a lie. A white lie, but an untruth nonetheless. After all, I could hardly confess that I’d been lured into her garden by a ghost and had then been accosted by another. And not just any ghosts, but the spirits of Devlin’s dead wife and daughter. I could only imagine how that would go over with his…whatever the woman was to him.

Of course, the bigger lie was the one I told myself. My return trip to that neighborhood had very little to do with a guilty conscience. I wanted to find that woman’s house and see her in daylight to assuage my curiosity.

I fully appreciated that my judgment in the matter wasn’t what it should be. I blamed it on exhaustion. All those otherworldly visitations had wreaked havoc on my nerves, and I hadn’t slept a wink. In the course of one evening, I’d been drawn into two disturbing mysteries—Robert Fremont’s murder and Shani’s need for me to find her. I had no idea what either search would entail and already I felt emotionally and physically worn out. But, as Angus and I strolled along the sidewalk, I told myself I wouldn’t dwell on those unsettling contacts today, not even Shani’s disquieting plea. The weather was just too gorgeous, so warm and mellow that the netherworld chill of last evening seemed like a bad dream. I had Angus on a leash, but that was a mere formality. He never strayed far from my side, nor did he rebel against the restraint, so I indulged him as much as I could, letting him take his time with whatever new sight or smell caught his fancy.

I used those frequent interludes to admire the gardens that I glimpsed through wrought-iron fences. The sweet fragrance of autumn clematis wafted from trellises, and now and then, I caught the spicier aroma of the ginger lilies that were just starting to open. I drew in a breath, letting the perfume of a Charleston morning wash over me.

I’d just stopped to admire the electric yellow of a ginkgo tree when the dark-haired woman from last evening suddenly came around the corner of her house. I recognized her immediately, though she looked somewhat different in daylight. A little shorter and curvier than I remembered, but by no means overweight. She had a round, pleasant face and an air of sweet gentility that conjured up images of lacy parasols and English tea roses.

Not at all the impression I’d been left with the night before.

Simultaneously, I noticed the burnish of auburn in her hair and the pink in her cheeks, neither of which I’d been able to detect in the waning light of her garden. She was dressed in faded cords and a droopy cardigan that hung past her generous hips, and judging by the stains on her knees and the large pair of pruning shears in one hand, she’d already been up to some gardening. If not for her ingénue-like countenance, I might have thought the gleam of those large blades a little sinister.

“Hello,” she called, the husky timber of her voice taking me by surprise even though I’d heard her speak last evening. “May I help you?”

I realized that I’d been gawking and, in my embarrassment, blurted the first thing that came to mind. “I was just admiring your garden.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m afraid I can’t take any of the credit, though. I just moved in.”

I noticed the Realtor’s sign in the front yard then and the bright red “sold” sticker that had been slapped across the front. “I didn’t even realize the house was up for sale.” Of course, I wouldn’t, seeing as how I rarely came down this street.

“It was a fast turnaround. Only on the market a few days. Luckily, I happened along at just the right time. The seller needed to move out quickly and so here I am.” She set aside the pruning shears and walked over to the gate. Her hair was pulled back and fastened at the nape, but the breeze caught the loose tendrils at her temples and they floated about her face like sea anemones, giving her a lively animation. “Do you live in the neighborhood?”

I waved vaguely. “A few blocks over on Rutledge.”

She peeled off her gloves and thrust a hand over the fence. “I’m Clementine Perilloux.” She used the more exotic French pronunciation—Clemen-teen.

“Amelia Gray.”

We shook, and then she knelt and put out her hand to my dog. “And who is this?”

“Angus.”

She said his name softly, and he moseyed over to sniff her hand. Apparently impressed by what he smelled, he allowed her to rub his head and scratch behind the ear nubs. I tried not to begrudge his enjoyment.

“What a sweet face. Just look at those eyes.” She glanced up. “May I ask what happened to him?”

“I was told he was used as a bait dog.”

Her good humor vanished. “I assumed as much. I used to volunteer at an animal shelter when I was in college. We would see similar scars and mutilations from time to time. They cut off the ears to avoid unnecessary wounds.”

“So I’ve read.”

“Breaks your heart, doesn’t it? Although Angus seems to be in very good hands these days.” She gave him a few more brisk rubs, then stood. “Where did you find him?”

“Oh, he found me.”

“That’s always the best way.” Her eyes were hazel, I noticed, and as soft and limpid as Angus’s. Given what I’d seen last evening, I had been prepared to dislike her on sight, but I found it impossible to muster up even an ounce of animosity. She was so earnest and charming. So…wholesome. I would never have pegged her as Devlin’s type, but then if Mariama was the yardstick, I wasn’t even on the spectrum.

“Do you know what I think?” she said crisply as she dusted her hands on her gray pants. “I think you and Angus should come around to the back garden and have some breakfast with me.”

“We couldn’t possibly impose,” I protested.

“It’s not at all an imposition. In fact, you would be doing me a huge favor. I don’t know anyone in the neighborhood yet, and I would love having a friend nearby. My family lives here in the city, but they tend to smother, if you know what I mean.”

I didn’t, actually. My parents had always maintained a distance. Mama, because of the circumstances of my birth; Papa, because of his secrets. We were not a close family, though I had never once doubted their affection for me.

Clementine Perilloux opened the gate with a hopeful smile. “Please,” she coaxed. “I’ve made scones. And there’s a fresh batch of muscadine jelly from my grandmother.”

Her smile was infectious, and I had no ready excuse, so I merely nodded and followed Devlin’s brunette into the backyard with only a passing thought to the broken statue.