“Lord, no. Susan took it up when she married Ethan. She even kept those things under her bed, but I wouldn’t let her come near my house with them. I’m scared to death of snakes.”

“You and me both,” Mary Alice agreed.

“What about her children?” I asked. “Weren’t they in danger?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. Susan and Ethan both adored those babies. They were careful.”

I wondered how careful you could be with poisonous snakes under your bed and toddlers roaming around.

“How old are the children?” I asked.

“Jamie’s four and Ethan Jr.’s two. Bless their hearts.” Betsy wiped her eyes again. “I was keeping them while Susan was in Georgia. I didn’t even know she was back until the sheriff called. She wasn’t supposed to be back until today.” She paused. “And then he called again this morning about Monk. I swear, my head’s just spinning.”

Mary Alice held up the thermos. “Sure you don’t want some?”

“No, ma’am. But thanks. You know, I think I’ll go in the church and pray a little.” She opened the door and hesitated. “There’s not anything in there, is it?”

“In the church?” I asked. “You mean like snakes? I don’t think so.”

“Or blood?”

“If there is, it’s our cousin’s.”

“Oh, okay.”

Betsy started toward the church and then turned and came back to the car. I let the window down again.

“I wish you could have seen how beautiful Susan was,” she said.

“We did.”

She nodded, turned, and walked toward her husband who had come out of the church.

“That’s just downright pitiful,” Sister said. “That poor girl.”

I agreed.

“You still want to go look over the bluff and see if we see Virginia caught in a tree?”

I thought not.

Chapter Eight

Chapter
Eight

E-MAIL

FROM: HALEY

TO: MAMA AND PAPA

SUBJECT: POLISH COOKING

Mama, you’re not going to believe this. I signed up for a cooking class, figured I’d come home with some fancy Polish dishes that would impress even Henry. So I showed up, with my English-Polish dictionary, of course, so I could look up the exotic ingredients.

Anyway, there were twelve people in the class, ten women and two men, and a couple of them spoke enough English so I didn’t feel totally at a loss.

So in comes the chef, a very well-fed man with a huge chef’s hat. I was impressed. He announced what we were going to cook, and one of the ladies who spoke English told me “chicken.” They all seemed very excited. So was I until he got out a huge skillet into which he dumped almost a whole can of Crisco, dipped the chicken pieces into egg and then flour, and proceeded to fry them. Southern fried chicken, Mama! Polish soul food. I admit it tasted wonderful, though.

Hugs and greasy kisses,

Haley