“It turns out Carter got them for free from a patient,” Patricia said. “He didn’t even buy them.”

“Then you didn’t want them anyway,” Grace said. “I spoke with Ben this morning. He said Ann Savage has been admitted to MUSC and is in intensive care. I’ll call if I find out anything further.”

The phone rang all morning. The incident hadn’t appeared in the morning paper, but it didn’t matter. CNN, NPR, CBS—no newsgathering organization could compete with the women of the Old Village.

“There’s already a run on alarms,” Kitty said. “Horse said the people he called about getting one told him it would be three weeks before they could even make it out here to look at the house. I don’t know how I’m going to survive for three weeks. Horse says we’re safe with his guns, but trust me, I’ve been dove hunting with that man. He can barely hit the sky.”

Slick called next.

“I’ve been praying for you all morning,” she said.

“Thank you, Slick,” Patricia said.

“I heard that Mrs. Savage’s nephew moved down here from someplace up north,” Slick said. She didn’t need to be more specific than that. Everyone knew that any place up north was roughly the same: lawless, relatively savage, and while they might have nice museums and the Statue of Liberty, people cared so little for each other they’d let you die in the street. “Leland told me some real estate agents stopped by and tried to get him to put her house on the market, but he won’t sell. None of them saw Mrs. Savage when they were there. He told them she couldn’t get out of bed, she was so poorly. How’s your ear?”

“She swallowed part of it,” Patricia said.

“I’m so sorry,” Slick said. “Those really were nice earrings.”

Grace called again later that afternoon with breaking news.

“Patricia,” she said. “Grace Cavanaugh. I just heard from Ben: Mrs. Savage passed an hour ago.”

Patricia suddenly felt gray. The den looked dark and dingy. The yellow linoleum seemed worn, and she saw every grubby hand mark on the wall around the light switch.

“How?” she asked.

“It wasn’t rabies, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Grace said. “She had some kind of blood poisoning. She was suffering from malnutrition, she was dehydrated, and she was covered with infected cuts and sores. Ben said the doctors were surprised she lasted this long. He even said”—and here Grace lowered her voice—“that she had track marks on her inner thigh. She’d probably been injecting something for the pain. I’m sure the family doesn’t want anyone to know about that.”

“I feel just miserable about this,” Patricia said.

“Is this about those earrings again?” Grace asked. “Even if you got back the one she swallowed, could you ever really bring yourself to wear them? Knowing where they’d been?”

“I feel like I should take something by,” Patricia said.

“Take something by to the nephew?” Grace asked, and her voice climbed the register so that nephew was a high, clear note of disbelief.

“His aunt passed,” Patricia said. “I should do something.”

“Why?” Grace asked.

“Should I take him flowers, or something to eat?” Patricia asked.

There was a long pause on Grace’s end, and then she spoke firmly.

“I am not sure what the appropriate gesture is to make toward the family of the woman who bit off your ear, but if you felt absolutely compelled, I certainly wouldn’t take food.”

Maryellen called on Saturday and that was what decided things for Patricia.

“I thought you should know,” she said over the phone, “we did the cremation for Ann Savage yesterday.” After her youngest daughter had entered first grade, Maryellen had gotten a job as the bookkeeper at Stuhr’s Funeral Homes. She knew the details of every death in Mt. Pleasant.

“Do you know anything about a memorial service or donations?” Patricia asked. “I want to send something.”

“The nephew did a direct cremation,” Maryellen said. “No flowers, no memorial service, no notice in the paper. I don’t even think he’s putting her in an urn, unless he got one from someplace else. He’ll probably just toss her ashes in a hole for all the care he showed.”

It ate at Patricia, and not merely because she suspected that not putting Ragtag on a leash had somehow caused Ann Savage’s death. One day, she would be the same age as Ann Savage and Miss Mary. Would Korey and Blue act like Carter’s brothers and ship her around like an unwanted fruitcake? Would they argue over who got stuck with her? If Carter died, would they sell the house, her books, her furniture, and split up the proceeds between themselves and she’d have nothing left of her own?

Every time she looked up and saw Miss Mary standing in a doorway, dressed to go out, purse over one arm, staring at her silently, not seeming to know what came next, she felt like it was only a few short steps from there to squatting in the side yard stuffing raw raccoon meat into her mouth.

A woman had died. She needed to take something by the house. Grace was right: it made no sense, but sometimes you did a thing because that was just what you did, not because it was sensible.

CHAPTER 6

Friends and relatives had dropped by the house all Friday and brought Patricia six bunches of flowers, two copies of Southern Living and one copy of Redbook, three casseroles (corn, taco, spinach), a pound of coffee, a bottle of wine, and two pies (Boston cream, peach). She decided that regifting a casserole was appropriate, given the situation, so she took out the taco one to thaw.

Carter had gone to the hospital early even though it was the weekend. Patricia found Mrs. Greene and Miss Mary sitting on the back patio. The morning felt soft and warm, and Mrs. Greene leafed through Family Circle magazine while Miss Mary stared at the bird feeder, which was, as usual, crawling with squirrels.

“Are you enjoying the sunshine, Miss Mary?” Patricia asked.

Miss Mary turned her watery eyes toward Patricia and scowled.

“Hoyt Pickens came by last night,” she said.

“Ear’s looking better,” Mrs. Greene said.

“Thank you,” Patricia said.

Ragtag, lying at Miss Mary’s feet, perked up as a fat black marsh rat streaked out of the bushes and dashed across the grass, making Patricia jump and sending three squirrels fleeing in terror. It dashed around the edge of the fence separating their property from the Langs next door and was gone as fast as it had appeared. Ragtag put his head down again.

“You ought to put out poison,” Mrs. Greene said.

Patricia made a mental note to call the bug man and see if they had rat poison.

“I’m just going down the street to drop off a casserole,” Patricia said.

“We’re about to have some lunch,” Mrs. Greene said. “What are you thinking about for lunch, Miss Mary?”

“Hoyt,” Miss Mary said. “What was his name, that Hoyt?”

Patricia wrote a quick note (So sorry for your loss, The Campbells) and taped it to the tin foil over the taco casserole, then walked down the warming streets to Ann Savage’s cottage, the freezing cold casserole held in front of her.

It was turning into a hot day so she had a little bit of a shine on her by the time she stepped off the road onto Mrs. Savage’s dirt yard. The nephew must be home because his white van sat on the grass, underneath the shade. It looked out of place in the Old Village because, as Maryellen had pointed out, it seemed like the kind of thing a child snatcher would drive.

Patricia walked up the wooden steps to the front porch and rattled her knuckles against the screen door. After a minute she knocked again and heard nothing but the hollow echo of her knock inside the house and cicadas screaming from the drainage pond that separated Mrs. Savage’s yard from the Johnsons next door.

Patricia knocked again and waited, looking across the street at where developers had torn down the Shortridges’ house, which used to have the most beautiful slate roof. In its place, someone from out of town was building an ostentatious miniature mansion. More and more of these eyesores were popping up all over the Old Village, big heavy things that sprawled from property line to property line and didn’t leave any room for a yard.

Patricia wanted to leave the casserole, but she hadn’t come all this way not to speak to the nephew. She decided to try the front door. She’d just leave it on the kitchen counter with a note, she told herself. She opened the screen door and turned the doorknob. It stuck for a moment, then swung open.

“Yoo-hoo?” Patricia called into the dim interior.

No one answered. Patricia stepped inside. All the blinds were drawn. The air felt hot and dusty.