Dead as a Doornail

my grandmother’s house up looking for Tara, ignoring my grandmother’s protests, until Gran had to call the sheriff’s department to come drag Myrna out. Tara had run out our back door to hide in the woods behind our house when she had seen the set of her mother’s shoulders as Mrs. Thornton staggered to our door, thank God. Tara and I had been thirteen at the time.
    I can still see the look on my grandmother’s face while she talked to the deputy who’d just put Myrna Thornton in the back of the patrol car, handcuffed and screaming.
    “Too bad I can’t drop her off in the bayou on the way back to town,” the deputy had said. I couldn’t recall his name, but his words had impressed me. It had taken me a minute to be sure what he meant, but once I was, I realized that other people knew what Tara and her siblings were going through. These other people were all-powerful adults. If they knew, why didn’t they solve the problem?
    I sort of understood now that it hadn’t been so simple; but I still thought the Thornton kids could have been spared a few years of their misery.
    At least Tara had this neat little house with all-new appliances, and a closet full of clothes, and a rich boyfriend. I had an uneasy feeling that I didn’t know everything that was happening in Tara’s life, but on the surface of it, she was still way ahead of the predictions.
    As she’d directed, I went through the spanky-clean kitchen, turned right, and crossed a corner of the living room to pass through the doorway to Tara’s bedroom. Tara hadn’t had a chance to make her bed that morning. I pulled the sheets straight in a flash and made it look nice. (I couldn’t help it.) I couldn’t decide if that was a favor to her or not, since now she’d know I minded it not being made, but for the life of me I couldn’t mess it up again.
    I opened her walk-in closet. I spotted exactly what I needed right away. Hanging in the middle of the rear rack was a knit suit. The jacket was black with creamy pink facings on the lapels, meant to be worn over the matching pink shell on the hanger beneath it. The black skirt was pleated. Tara had had it hemmed up; the alteration tag was still on the plastic bag covering the garment. I held the skirt up to me and looked in Tara’s full-length mirror. Tara was two or three inches taller than I, so the skirt fell just an inch above my knees, a fine length for a funeral. The sleeves of thejacket were a little long, but that wasn’t so obvious. I had some black pumps and a purse, and even some black gloves that I’d tried to save for nice.
    Mission accomplished, in record time.
    I slid the jacket and shell into the plastic bag with the skirt and walked straight out of the house. I’d been in Tara’s place less than ten minutes. In a hurry, because of my ten o’clock appointment, I began getting ready. I French braided my hair and rolled the remaining tail under, securing everything with some antique hairpins my grandmother had stashed away; they’d been her grandmother’s. I had some black hose, fortunately, and a black slip, and the pink of my fingernails at least coordinated with the pink of the jacket and shell. When I heard a knock on the front door at ten, I was ready except for my shoes. I stepped into my pumps on the way to the door.
    Jack Leeds looked openly astonished at my transformation, while Lily’s eyebrows twitched.
    “Please come in,” I said. “I’m dressed for a funeral.”
    “I hope you’re not burying a friend,” Jack Leeds said. His companion’s face might have been sculpted from marble. Had the woman never heard of a tanning bed?
    “Not a close one. Won’t you sit down? Can I get you anything? Coffee?”
    “No, thank you,” he said, his smile transforming his face.
    The detectives sat on the couch while I perched on the edge of the La-Z-Boy. Somehow, my unaccustomed finery made me feel braver.
    “About the evening Ms. Pelt vanished,” Leeds began. “You saw her in Shreveport?”
    “Yes, I was invited to the same party she was. At Pam’s place.” All of us who’d lived through the Witch War—Pam, Eric, Clancy, the three Wiccans, and the Weres who had survived—had agreed on our story: Instead of telling thepolice that Debbie had left from the dilapidated and abandoned store where the witches had established their hideout, we’d said that we’d stayed the whole evening at Pam’s house, and Debbie had left in her car from that address. The neighbors