Alafair Tucker 01 - The Old Buzzard Had It Coming

alley.”
    Alafair’s grip tightened on the spoon she was using to stir the squash on the the stove, and a sweat broke out on her forehead. Shaw obviously didn’t remember, but Alafair was suddenly thinking of just the kind of pistol that he was describing. She owned one—a two-shot .22 ladies’ derringer, silver-plated and ebony handled. Her father had given it to her when she was sixteen, just about the time she began to show an interest in boys, she remembered ironically. She kept it in its little velvet-lined box on the top shelf of her chiffarobe, along with a package of two bullets. She hadn’t touched it in years. It couldn’t be, she was thinking. She didn’t recall that she had ever told any of the children about her little pistol. Of course, children snoop….
    ***
    It took every bit of the considerable fortitude Alafair possessed to get through dinner without alerting Shaw to her agitation. She made a typically huge meal just for him, sat down and ate her share, chatting pleasantly all the while, and was in the process of clearing the table when Shaw rebundled himself and went out to fetch Dan from the tool shed. The instant the door slammed behind him, Alafair was in her bedroom like a shot, pulling the little box down from behind a wall of folded quilts and hat boxes.
    She had the box open as soon as both hands were on it, and so knew it was empty before she set it on her dresser, but she stood there for quite a while staring into it nonetheless. She couldn’t think. Her heart was out of control. Suddenly this whole affair was infinitely more serious than it was even an hour ago. Could it be a coincidence that the gun was gone just at the time that someone was killed with something similar enough as to make no difference?
    Oh, please, God. Phoebe wasn’t just in danger of a broken heart. She was an accomplice. Maybe worse. No, mustn’t even think that thought. Maybe it was one of the other children. No, why would it be? Besides, that wasn’t any better. She had taken two steps toward the back door, intending to run back out to the soddie and confront John Lee, before she reconsidered and sat down on the bed. If she asked him where he had gotten the gun, and he had gotten it from Phoebe, he would lie. If she asked him where the gun was, he would lie. He would do anything to protect Phoebe, including run away. No, she couldn’t alert him that she knew Phoebe was involved. She was going to have to wait and confront Phoebe herself. If she ran out right now and told Shaw what was happening, he would at the very least rush to the soddie and beat John Lee to a pulp and ask questions later.
    And so, she was going to have to wait. Alafair, who seldom wept, began to weep softly with fear and frustration. How could Phoebe, of all people, get mixed up in such a thing? Sweet, gentle Phoebe, so quiet and obedient, so different from the rest of her sassy brood. Yes, she would have to say that, as much as she loved all her children, Phoebe might be her favorite. She stopped crying abruptly and sat up straight on the edge of the bed. Well, there was just no way, that was all. No matter what Phoebe had done, Alafair wasn’t going to let anything bad happen to her while her heart still beat in her body. She stood up and smoothed her hair in the mirror, returned the box to its place in the chiffarobe, then got on with her housework.

Chapter Nine
    Alafair was a lioness. She was in her hunting mode, her senses heightened to the point of clairvoyance, waiting and watching for the perfect time to pounce. Her prey, the little doe Phoebe, had no idea she was being stalked, and so when her mother finally went for the kill, she was doomed.
    Alafair made her move after supper was cleared away, in that short happy period before bed when the family gathered in the parlor. She managed by some plausible ruse to get Phoebe alone with her out on the enclosed back porch. It was cold, and both women wrapped their shawls around themselves more tightly. But it was private.
    “What did you want me for, Ma?” Phoebe asked, her breath fogging in the chilly air. She cast an innocent glance around the porch, looking for some likely task that needed doing.
    “I wanted to talk to you,” Alafair began. “Phoebe, you know that John Lee’s dad was shot. What you may not know is that he was killed by a small caliber derringer.”
    Phoebe froze as still as a hunted rabbit. She paled so suddenly that it occurred to Alafair that she