Divine Evil

were books in, well, I guess you'd call it Biff's den. I wanted something to read. Mostly there was just pornography and men's adventures. But—”
    “But?”
    “I found a copy of
The Satanic Bible.”

Chapter 21
    J ANE STOKEY SPENT EACH DAY cleaning and packing. After the eggs were gathered and the stock seen to, she settled into one room of the rambling farmhouse. Much of it would be sold at auction. She'd already had Bob Meese out to give her a bid on the mahogany dining room set that had been her grandmother's. The big and little server, the china cupboard, the extension table meant for large families with lots of children, the scarred and treasured chairs. They had all meant something to her once. Over the years, the shellac had turned black, and the surfaces wouldn't hold much of a shine, but the dining set had been her pride and joy. And a bone of contention between her and Biff.
    He had wanted to sell it. It was one of the few things she'd had the will to refuse him.
    Now he was getting his wish.
    She would have no room for heavy old furniture in Tennessee. Her sister didn't want it. Cam had his own. Jane had no daughter to pass the tradition down to. It would end with her.
    She didn't think about that. Didn't allow herself.
    It would cost too much to truck it south, too much to store it. The plain fact was she didn't have the heart to hold on to it now that she was alone.
    She went through the drawers, separating linens into a box to sell or a box to take. Her mother's damask tablecloth with its spot of cranberry sauce that hadn't washed out from some Thanksgiving years before. The lacy runner that had been a wedding present from Mike's aunt Loretta. She had once starched and pressed it so lovingly; now it was limp with age and disuse. There were the napkins with the fancy
R
in the corners that she had embroidered herself.
    She folded them into her takeaway box like a secret.
    From linens she moved to glassware, wrapping the candlesticks, the candy dishes, the single champagne flute that had survived thirty years.
    One box filled, and she started on a new one, thinking, How things do collect after thirty-odd years. With competent hands she wrapped pieces of her life in newspaper for other people to pick and paw through. And here was the platter Mama had bought from the traveling salesman with the carrot red hair and the white, white grin. He'd said it would last a lifetime, but Mama had bought it because of the pretty pink flowers around the edges.
    A tear fell on the newsprint as Jane wrapped it.
    She couldn't take it all with her. She couldn't. What would a woman alone do with so much? Why, every time she washed or dusted them, she would be reminded that there was no one to care.
    She would buy herself some new dishes, like the ones she'd seen in the JC Penney catalog. There was no reason to fill cupboards and closets with things she didn't need. Why, she couldn't think what had made her keep all of itfor so long. Dust collectors, Biff had called them. He'd been right, too. She'd spent hours chasing the dust from them.
    She wrapped a small china cat and slipped it guiltily into her take-away box.
    The knock on the door made her jolt. Jane brushed off her apron, smoothed down her hair before she went to answer. She sincerely hoped it wasn't Min Atherton again, come to poke around the house with the excuse of being a concerned friend and neighbor.
    Jane nearly laughed at the thought. Min had been a nosey busybody since the day she could talk. If she weren't married to James, no one would give her the time of day. The surge of regret and envy came swiftly. Min might have been an irritant, like a speck of dust in the eye that wouldn't tear out, but she had a husband.
    Jane opened the door to her son.
    “Mom.” He could think of nothing in his life he regretted more than what he was about to do. “I need to talk to you.”
    “I'm busy, Cameron.” She was afraid he had come to talk about the farm. She'd waited for him to come and complain that she was selling. But he hadn't complained. He hadn't said a word about it. “Settlement's in three weeks, and I've got the whole house to pack up.”
    “In a hurry to get rid of it?” He held up a hand, cursing himself. “That's your business. But I need to talk to you. It's about Biff.”
    “Biff?” Her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse and began to twist. “Did you find out something? Do you know who killed him?”
    “I need to talk to you,” he