Daisy Lane Read Free Page A

Charlotte’s dad came back,” Tommy said. “After that Grace wasn’t allowed to go over there anymore.”
    “That’s been over three years, now,” Ed said. “Poor girl.”
    “Charlotte doesn’t want to be friends with Grace anymore, anyway,” Tommy said. “She has new friends now.”
    Scott noted Tommy’s heartbroken expression. It looked like Grace was not the only friend Charlotte had discarded. Scott had observed that Charlotte Fitzpatrick’s recent change in attitude and appearance had developed when she started at the Pendleton Consolidated High School this past fall. He and Ed exchanged looks but no more was said about that.
    “Does Grace have any other family members?” Scott asked.
    “Grace’s grandmother died two years ago,” Ed said, “from cancer.”
    “Grace’s mom killed herself back when we were in grade school,” Tommy said. “She was kind of crazy. She came to school in her nightgown once and tried to take Grace out of class, but the teacher wouldn’t let her. Grace’s grandma had to come and get her.”
    “I seem to remember her mother’s official cause of death was accidental overdose. There was some talk of mental illness, but their church didn’t believe in medical treatment for anything,” Ed said. “She might have been self-medicating.”
    “It’s handy having a newspaper editor as a friend,” Scott said. “How long ago did her mother die?”
    “Must be five, six years ago,” Ed said.
    “Jacob Branduff would not be anyone’s first choice to be a young girl’s guardian,” Scott said. “It might be time to have a social worker look in.”
    “Whoever does should wear a bulletproof vest,” Ed said.
     

CHAPTER TWO – SATURDAY
     
     
    On Saturday at noon someone knocked on the door. It was a sound so rarely heard that it made Grace’s heart race. Outside on the porch stood a woman whose house her grandmother used to clean. She was one of those who was never pleased, and did not mind insisting that an old woman who walked with a stoop, whose hands were gnarled with arthritis, scrub her floors by hand rather than mop them from a standing position.
    Although Mrs. Larson was a tall, strapping woman with strong features, she dressed as if she were petite and girlish. She wore her mousy brown hair in a playful ponytail with a bow, had on a twinset and pearls with her man-sized capris, and a tiny tailored handbag hung over her arm. Her choice of clothing was so mismatched to her physique that Grace felt a stab of pity for her.
    The woman was looking around with an expression of disgust until she saw Grace. Then she fixed a big, insincere smile on her face.
    “Hello,” Mrs. Larson said. “You and your grandfather weren’t on the list for a hunger mission dinner but we had one extra, so we thought you might enjoy it.”
    Grace was not fooled by the concerned look on her face. Her mouth may have been smiling but her eyes were still mean. She was holding a basket that Grace knew held all the elements of a traditional Sunday dinner. She could smell salty ham and yeasty rolls. Mrs. Larson kept looking around Grace, trying to see inside the house.
    “Thank you,” Grace said, firmly holding the screen door open only six inches. “But it would be better if the food went to someone who needed it. We’ve got plenty to eat.”
    “Are you sure?” Mrs. Larson said. “It will only go to waste if you and your grandfather don’t take it.”
    “I’m sure someone up Possum Holler could use it,” Grace said.
    “Well, I’m not so sure of that,” Mrs. Larson said. “If you ask me, they’re living high on the welfare hog out there. I wouldn’t step one foot up that holler if my life depended upon it. Some meth addict would probably kill me for my pocketbook.”
    There, finally, was the facial expression that matched the mean eyes; Grace was gratified to see it. Mrs. Larson then had trouble changing it back to concern. Grace decided vicious disapproval must be the