Flipping through Paris Trout was unrevealing. The novel told the story of the heartless murder of a black girl, and if that was significant to Jennifer Deighton’s own story, I could not imagine why. Seth Speaks was a spooky account of someone supposedly from another life communicating through the author. It did not really surprise me that Miss Deighton, with her otherworldly inclinations, might read such a thing. What interested me most was the poem.

It was typed on a sheet of white paper smudged purple with Ninhydrin and enclosed in a plastic bag: JENNY

Jenny’s kisses many

warmed the copper penny

wedded to her neck

with cotton string.

It was in the spring

when he had found it

on the dusty drive

beside the meadow

and given it to her.

No words of passion

spoken.

He loved her

with a token.

The meadow now is brown

and overgrown with brambles.

He is gone.

The coin asleep

is cold

down deep

in a woodland

wishing pond.

There was no date, no name of the author. The paper was creased from having been folded in quarters. I got up and went into the living room, where Lucy had set coffee and tea on the table and was stirring the fire.

“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, I am,” I, said, glancing over the poem again and wondering what it meant. Was “Jenny” Jennifer Deighton? “What would you like to eat?”

“Believe it or not, steak. But only if it’s good and the cows haven’t been fed a bunch of chemicals,” Lucy said. “Is it possible you could bring home a car from work so I could use yours this week?”

“I generally don’t bring home the state car unless I’m on call.”

“You went to a scene last night when you supposedly weren’t on call. You’re always on call, Aunt Kay.”

“All right,” I said. “Why don’t we do this. We’ll go get the best steak in town. Afterward, we’ll stop by the office and drive the wagon home and you can take my car. There’s still a little ice on the roads in spots. You have to promise to be extra careful.”

“I’ve never seen your office.”

“I’ll show it to you if you wish.”

“No way. Not at night.”

“The dead can’t hurt you.”

“Yes, they can,” Lucy said. “Dad hurt me when he died. He left me to be raised by Mom.”

“Let’s get our coats.”

“Why is it that every time I bring up anything germane to our dysfunctional family, you change the subject?”

I headed to my bedroom for my coat “Do you want to borrow my black leather jacket?”

“See, you’re doing it again,” she screamed.