Lasher Read Free

to talk the practical things of life—clothes for a school dance; whether or not to shave one’s legs yet; which perfume was best for a girl of thirteen? (Laura Ashley No. 1.) And these were the dumb things Mona actually did not know, half the time.
    Well, what was Mona going to do now that she was out on Mardi Gras Night, free, and nobody knew it, or might ever know it? Of course she knew. She was ready. First Street was hers! It was as if the great dark house with its white columns were whispering to her, saying, Mona, Mona, Come in. This is where Oncle Julien lived and died. This is the house of the witches, and you are a witch, Mona, as surely as any of them! You belong here.
    Maybe it was Oncle Julien himself speaking to her. No, just a fancy. With an imagination like Mona’s you could make yourself see and hear whatever you liked.
    But who knew? Once she got inside, maybe she’d actually see the ghost of Oncle Julien! Ah, that would be absolutely wonderful. Especially if it was the same debonair and playful Oncle Julien about whom she incessantly dreamed.
    She walked across the intersection under the heavy dark roof of the oak branches, and quickly climbed the old wrought-iron fence. She came down heavily in the thick shrubbery and elephant ears, feeling the cold and the wet foliage against her face and not liking it. Pushing her pink skirt down, she tiptoed out of the dampish earth and onto the flagstone path.
    Lamps burned dim on either side of the big keyhole doorway. The porch lay in darkness, its rocking chairs barely visible, painted black as they were to match the shutters. The garden seemed to gather round and press in.
    The house itself looked to her as it always had, beautiful, mysterious, and inviting, though she had to admit in her heart of hearts she had liked it better when it was a spidery ruin, beforeMichael came with his hammer and nails. She had liked it when Aunt Deirdre sat forever on the side porch in a rocker, and the vines threatened to swallow the whole place.
    Of course Michael saved it, but oh, if only she’d gotten into it once while it was still ruined. She’d known all about that body they found in the attic. She’d heard her mother and Aunt Gifford arguing about it for years and years. Mona’s mother had been only thirteen when Mona was born, and Gifford had been there from the time of Mona’s earliest memories.
    In fact there had actually been a time when Mona wasn’t sure which one was her mother—Gifford or Alicia. And then there had been Ancient Evelyn always holding Mona on her lap, and even though Ancient Evelyn wouldn’t talk very much she still sang those old melancholy songs. Gifford had seemed the logical choice for a mother, because Alicia by that time was already a prodigious drunk, but Mona had it right and had for years. Mona was the woman of the house at Amelia Street.
    They’d talked a lot in those days about that body upstairs. They’d talked about Cousin Deirdre, the heiress, who wasted away in her catatonia. They’d talked about all the mysteries of First Street.
    The first time Mona had ever come into First Street—right before Rowan’s marriage to Michael—she had fancied she could smell that body still. She’d wanted to go up and lay her hands on the spot. Michael Curry had been restoring the house, and workmen were up there painting away. Aunt Gifford had said for Mona to “Stay put!” and given her a stern look every time Mona tried to wander.
    It had been a miracle to watch Michael Curry’s work. Mona dreamed such a thing would someday happen to the house on St. Charles and Amelia.
    Well, Mona would get to that third-floor room now. And thanks to the history she knew who the dead man had been, a young investigator from the Talamasca called Stuart Townsend. Still wasn’t clear who had poisoned the man. But Mona’s bet was it had been her Uncle Cortland, who really wasn’t her uncle at all, but actually her great-great-grandfather, which was