Carolina Moon

that you do.” Grudgingly, Tory gave way.
    “All right, help me out here.” Faith swirled in, spun around.
    “What does she like?”
    “Oh, she likes everything. I could make her a paper hat and she’d be pleased as punch. Lord, you’ve got a lot more in here than I imagined.” Faith reached up, sent a metal wind chime whirling and tinkling. “Nothing practical. I mean I don’t want to get her a set of salad bowls or that kind of thing.”
    “I have some nice trinket boxes.”
    “Trinkets? That’s Aunt Rosie’s middle name.”
    “Then she should have the big one.” In the interest of getting it over and done, Tory walked over and chose a large beveled glass box. The panels were mullioned in diamond shapes and hand-painted with tiny violets and pink roses.
    “Does it play music or anything?”
    “No, it doesn’t.”
    “Just as well. She’d have it going all day and half the night and drive us all mad. She’ll probably fill it with old buttons or rusted screws, but she’ll love it.”
    Faith flipped over the tag, whistled. “Well, I see I’m keeping my word.”
    “The panels are hand-cut and painted. There are no two alike.” Satisfied, Tory carried it to the counter. “I’ll box it for you, and throw in the gift tag and ribbon.”
    “Very generous.” Faith took out her checkbook. “Seems to me you’re ready for business. Why wait till Saturday?”
    “There are a few stray details yet. And Saturday’s the day after tomorrow.”
    “Time does fly.” She glanced at the amount Tory had totaled and dashed off the check while the present was boxed.
    “Pick out a gift tag from the display there, and write what you want. I’ll loop it on the cord.”
    “Hmm.” Faith chose one with a little rose in the center, scrawled off a birthday greeting and added xxx ’s and ooo ’s after her name. “Perfect. I’ll be top of her list for months now.”
    She watched Tory secure the box with shiny white ribbon, slide on the card, then twist and loop the business into an elegant bow.
    “I hope she enjoys it.” She passed the box over just as the phone rang. “If you’ll excuse me.”
    “Sure.” Something in Tory’s eyes had Faith stalling. “Just let me enter that figure in my checkbook. I’m always forgetting.” The phone rang a second time. “You just go ahead and get that. I’ll toddle on out in just a second.”
    Trapped, Tory picked up the phone. “Good afternoon, Southern Comfort.”
    “Tory. I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to you.”
    “No, that’s all right. I appreciate it. Were you able to get the information?”
    “Yes, I think I have what you’re looking for.”
    “Would you hold on a moment? I’ll get the door for you, Faith.”
    With a little shrug, Faith picked up the box. But as she walked out she wondered who was on the phone, and why the call had made Tory’s quick and clever hands tremble.
    “I’m sorry, I had someone in the shop.”
    “Not a problem. The victim’s name was Alice Barbara Powell, white female. Sixteen. Her body wasn’t discovered until five days after the murder. She wasn’t reported missing for three days, as her parents thought she was at the beach with friends. The remains … well, Tory, the animals had been at her by then. I’m told it wasn’t pretty.”
    “Did they catch him?” She already knew the answer, but she had to hear it.
    “No. The case is still open, but inactive. It’s been ten years.”
    “What was the date? The exact date of the murder.”
    “I have that here. Just a minute. It was August twenty-third, 1990.”
    “God.” A chill ran through her, into heart and bone.
    “Tory? What is it? What can I do?”
    “I can’t explain, not right now. I have to ask you, Abigail, if you can use your contact again. If there’s a way you can find out if there’s any like crime, in the eight years before, and the ten years after. If you can find out if there were any other victims of that kind of murder on that date. Or right near that date in August.”
    “All right, Tory, I’ll ask. But when I find out, one way or the other, I’m going to need you to tell me why.”
    “I need the answer first. I’m sorry, Abigail, I need the answer. I have to go. I’m sorry.”
    She hung up quickly, then simply sat down on the floor.
    On August 23, 1990, Hope had been dead exactly eight years. She would have been sixteen years old that summer.

13
    T he living brought flowers for the dead, elegant lilies or simple