Page 127 of Fire and Bones
The address Roy provided took us to an elm- and poplar-shaded block two turns off Main Street and not far from Mount Airy’s small downtown area. A mix of old brick bungalows and older one- and two-story frame houses lined both sides. An auto repair shop took up part of the far end on the southeast corner.
Deery pulled to the curb beside a cop’s old tried-and-true. A fire hydrant.
The sun was beaming, the day growing warm. Only a few bits of gray fluff marred an otherwise flawless blue sky.
So why the cold prickle spreading across my skin?
Apprehension? Déjà vu?
Ignoring this most recent of my hindbrain’s curious alerts, I focused on Susan Lipsey’s home.
It was another Victorian, similar to the one that had burned in Foggy Bottom. Same fish-scale shingled roof. Same recessed and spindled second-story niches. Same high-peaked gables. Same round corner tower topped with turret and finial. The color scheme here was mustard and brown.
A wide front porch stretched the breadth of the first floor, ending in a roofed gazebo on the far right. Through leaf-plastered screening, I saw stacked lawn furniture and a collection of empty terra-cotta pots.
I followed Deery up a walkway bordered by thick, thistly bushes and climbed a balustraded staircase to a glossy brown front door. The buzzer made a tinny bleating sound when encouraged by Deery’s thumb. No bonging church bells for GrammaSue.
A very short wait, then a muted voice, deep and raspy, posed the anticipated question.
“Who’s there?”
“Police, Mrs. Lipsey. Please open up.”
To my surprise, a dead bolt shicked, the lever handle dived, and the door swung in on its chain.
The woman was tall and, despite her advanced years, well-muscled in a loose, fleshy way. Her hair was snowy, her skin so pale it seemed almost translucent. She had no brows or lashes, but several long white hairs corkscrewed from her corrugated upper lip.
A shapeless apricot housecoat draped her large frame, flattering as a hospital gown on a corpse. A pocket in a side hem bulged with a collection of items whose purpose I could only imagine. Phone? Keys? Inhaler? Stanley Cup?
Crimson polish added color to the woman’s nails. Neon blue and orange HOKAs added inches to her already impressive height.
“ID?” she demanded through the narrow space she’d created.
Deery badged her.
The woman read the shield, smoke drifting across her face from an unfiltered Camel squeezed between the knobby fingers of one blue-veined hand. After mumbling words I didn’t catch, she closed the gap, disengaged the chain, and opened the door wide.
“You are Mrs. Susan Lipsey?” Deery asked.
“Not sure that’s your business.” Defiant.
Deery’s face went stony.
“The boys said you’d be comin’ to grill me.” Though red-rimmed and watery, Lipsey’s eyes were the same gold-flecked hazel as those of her grandsons.
“May we come in?” Deery asked.
“I got a choice?” Welcoming as a straight-arm.
“No.”
“You carryin’ any airborne viruses I can catch? Covid? RSV?”
“No, ma’am.”
“At my age, you gotta be careful.”
“Of course.”