double-checked my seat belt, gritted my teeth, and hung on to the overhead handhold.
Major Moolah Road is unpaved, and as rough as a dragonâs back, but itâs mercifully short. Claudette Aikenberg lives at the very end, on a wooded peninsula that juts out into the Wadmalaw River. At the end of her drive an understated sign announces the name of her house: Three Bears.
We hadnât called, so I was both relieved and somewhat panicked to see a Jaguar sitting in the circular drive. Mama parked immediately behind it and then tooted her own horn.
âMama! What is that for?â
âIâm just giving her a heads-up, dear. What ifsheâs in the middle of putting on makeup and has only one eyebrow stenciled on? She might be too embarrassed to come to the door. I thought weâd give her about five minutes before we ring her bell. Iâm sure sheâll appreciate it.â
âMaybe. And thatâs penciled on, not stenciled.â
âOh, not for me, dear. When you get to be my age and have nothing left, itâs just easier to use a stencil.â
âI never heard of such a thing.â
âTheyâre called âThe Eyes Have It.â They come in eight different shapes. I like the one called Cupidâs Bow the best. See?â She turned her head so I could see both sides in profile.
Her brows were exactly matched. Why hadnât I noticed that before? And why hadnât I noticed that her skin hung in textured ribbons, like flesh-colored orange peels? Mama was getting old, and since the distance between our ages has pretty much stayed constant, that meant I too was getting older. I glanced at the backs of hands: still smooth, but several of the freckles were morphing into age spots.
âLooks nice, Mama.â
âThank you, dear. Do you think thereâs any chance we could talk Wynnell into shaving off those hideous eyebrows of hers and using the stencils?â
âI seriously doubt it. Wynnell needs those brows the same way a cat needs whiskers. They help her judge spaces. You wouldnât want her to get her head stuck in a cupboard, would you?â
Mama laughed, even though I was half serious. We chatted pleasantly for a few more minutes before Mama got out to fluff her crinolines. Then she had me honk the car one last time.
Thanks to our generous warning, Claudette Aikenberg answered the massive front door looking like a million bucks. I recognized her immediately from the auction, even though then she was wearing an Hermès head scarf and Versace sunglasses. It was clear by her expression that she didnât have the slightest recollection who I was, despite my rather distinctive size, which is usually a surefire giveaway.
âHey,â Mama said, ever the smooth operator. âIâm Mozella Wiggins, and this is my daughter, Abby. Weâd like to invite you to church with us.â
I would have gasped in surprise, but Mama, anticipating that, kicked me in the shin with the heel of her pump. I gasped in pain instead.
âYes, come to church with us,â I managed to say.
âWhat church is that?â
âChurch of the Holy Confection,â Mama said, without missing a beat.
âFather Baker teaches a mean Sunday school class,â I said after just one beat.
âIs it Catholic?â
Mama smiled coyly. âAre you?â
âBaptist.â
âOh well, this church is intensely Catholic. Iâm sure youâd be happier at a Baptist church. But a celebrity, such as yourself, probably already belongs to a churchâ¦â Mama let her voice trail off. Clearly she was up to something; something diabolical.
Claudette Aikenberg swung the door wide open. âLadies, would yâall like to come in and sit a spell? Maybe have a glass of tea.â
âDonât mind if I do,â Mama said, and sailed in like she had a stiff breeze to her back.
I followed meekly, apologizing out the
Learning to Kill: Stories