She drove up Mary-Sue’s long driveway and parked beneath the palm-lined porte cochere. With the right owner, this plantation-style villa could have been the kind of Southern colony where crazy old widows lived with their hundred cats and washed their woes down with moonshine. It was no place for any civilized woman to be living by her lonesome. She got out of the Town Car just as a symphony of insects was starting up.

Mary-Sue’s car wasn’t there. But there were no stacks of mail or newspapers piled at her door either, and those were the things Kate had been most afraid of finding, ahead of the decomposing body. From the doorstep, she smelled no scent of rot from within; through the windows, the rooms looked undisturbed. A couple of lamps had been left on; perhaps her mother had simply gone to the store and would return anytime.

As she walked back to her car, she saw the outline of someone lumbering up the driveway with a Quasimodo limp. He was short, with a wide barrel-chest and arms that hung low on his sides; this was either an orangutan or a backwoods boogeyman come to gnaw at her flesh.

“Howdy!” he thundered. He carried a flashlight and beamed it up at his own face, ghost-story style. The shadows didn’t do his features any favors—with his beaky nose and slab of a forehead, he was a gargoyle prized off the Haunted Mansion at Disney.

“I didn’t mean to scare ya,” he said, closing in on her. He was a gray-haired guy in a Buccaneers T-shirt so long you couldn’t see his shorts. “I’m Larry, your momma’s neighbor from next door. You came to visit with my sinkholes the other day, remember?” He reached out to shake her hand. “Katie—that right?”

She nodded, relieved. “Yes, that’s right. Hi there?”

“I saw your car drivin’ by, and took it for a hearse. Darn near leapt out of my skin!” He chuckled. “So I strolled over to see what the matter was.”

“Where’s . . . do you happen to know where my mother is?”

His smile weakened. “I’ll take you to her.” He gestured for her to follow him. “Come. We’ll hop into my wagon.”

Kate trailed after him—he was a fast walker in spite of his limp. With the butt of his flashlight he struck random bushes, warning off snakes, critters, maybe even alligators. Bugs blew out of there like dust off a beaten rug, but the cicadas squawked unperturbed.

“Is my mother all right?”

“She’s doing okay. Your momma’s doing okay.” He turned back and glanced at her pregnant form. He paused, about to say something paternal, then changed tack. “Hope you have some DEET on you. Or these skeeters here’ll have you for supper.”

“No. I got on the plane without much planning.”

“Ah, don’t you worry. I have some in the van.”