High Noon

wondering if you’d mind walking by the house, maybe after classes, just for a while. You don’t have to come in, I know how that is. You stop by, that’s it for a couple hours. But if you could just detour by here when I’m not around, I’d be easier.”
    “You know I will. Honey, if you’re really worried—”
    “Uncomfortable sensation,” she corrected. “Not yet up to really worried. I guess I’m remembering…”
    “The things Reuben used to do.” Mouth tight now, Carter dried his hands. “Letting the air out of the tires on the car, spraying that poison on the flowers Mama planted outside the house.”
    Phoebe rubbed his arm. The remembering was always harder on Carter. “Yeah. Mean little things. If it is Arnie Meeks doing this, I expect he’ll get tired of it soon enough.”
    “Or he’ll escalate.” He touched her now, a skim of fingertips under her eyes where the bruises had faded away. “He could come after you again, Phoebe.”
    “He’s not the type for the direct approach, and believe me, Carter, he won’t take me by surprise again. I’m not defenseless like Mama was.”
    “No, you made sure not to be, and still, this guy put you in the hospital.”
    “He won’t do it again.” Now she gave his arm a squeeze. “That’s pure promise.” She shook her head before he could say anything else. “Mama’s coming. You went out for a run, all right? Just stopped by for coffee. If she hears about this she loses the courtyard.”
    Knowing she was right, he nodded, and made the effort to clear the grim from his face as his mother came into the kitchen.
    “Well, look at this! Both my babies!”
     
    The doll had been a dead end. The make and model had been discontinued three years earlier, and no shop in Savannah or the outlying malls carried it still. There was eBay, of course, flea markets, yard sales, all manner of other venues. And as it was hardly a matter of life and death, it didn’t rate the time, effort and budget of the police department to try to track it down.
    Johnnie Porter was unduly suspected as it turned out he was spending the entire week, along with the rest of his class, at outdoor school.
    There were other young troublesome boys, certainly, but none sprang to mind. And she couldn’t think of any reason one—including Johnnie—would target her house twice. Only her house, from what she gathered by making casual inquiries among her neighbors.
    So she made it a point to take a long walk around the square and into the park after shift, to keep her ears pricked for anyone whistling a mournful tune. That night she set up her own surveillance post inside her terrace doors, in case anyone decided to drop off another gift.
    She sat and rocked, field glasses in her lap, and felt a little like old Mrs. Sampson on Gaston Street, who sat and rocked and watched everything and everyone from her front parlor window.
    If the uncomfortable sensation bumped up a notch, she’d request a radio car do a couple of drive-bys at night, maybe once or twice during the day. The house had a good alarm system, something Cousin Bess had insisted on. She was the one who usually armed it at night, making that last round of the house when everyone was in bed.
    Another thing Cousin Bess had insisted on.
    People are no damn good, not a one of them. That had been Cousin Bess’s opinion. But you’re blood, so you’ll have to do.
    Mama hadn’t been good enough, of course, Phoebe remembered. Except to fetch and carry and clean and slave in exchange for the roof over her head, and the heads of her children.
    Carter had been almost beneath Cousin Bess’s contempt—almost. His nightmares and night terrors in the months following Reuben was a sign to Cousin Bess of weak and diluted blood—from Mama’s side, naturally. A true Mac Namara would never blubber in his sleep, even at the age of seven.
    But Phoebe herself had been another matter. If she’d defended Carter or hadn’t been able to keep the sass from ripping off her tongue, Cousin Bess had approved. At least this one has a spine.
    So there’d been piano lessons she hadn’t wanted and was a miserable failure at, dance lessons she’d actually enjoyed. Art and music appreciation, trips to the right shops, the right salons, even an odd and dazzling week in Paris. Culminating in the dreaded and stupefyingly boring debutante ball.
    She’d agreed to that only by bargaining with Cousin Bess over the guaranteed payment of Carter’s college