Page 97 of Fire and Bones

We climbed. Doyle thumbed the bell.

The chimes could have announced Mass at St. Peters.

Nothing happened when they’d finished ding-donging.

Doyle was reaching out for another go when we heard the snap of a deadbolt. A second. A third.

The metal door swung inward.

Willie T. Pope might have stood five feet tall in her prime. Though the dowager’s hump added a few inches, the most she could claim now was four and a half.

Pope wore a pink floral kimono that pooled on the floor at her feet. Black lace gloves on hands gripping a walker wrapped in green and white satin ribbon. A curly red wig that didn’t sit right on her head.

“Ms. Pope?” Hiding my surprise.

“Who’s asking?”

“I’m Tempe.” Indicating Doyle. “This is Ivy.”

“You two sisters?”

“No, ma’am.”

“You missioning for the Mormons?” Pope’s eyes never stopped shifting between Ivy and me, birdlike, inquisitive. The clearest blue I’ve ever seen.

“No, ma’am.”

“What do you want?”

“We’re curious about a car once registered to this address.”

“I’m eighty-nine. You think I still drive?”

I hoped not.

“How long have you lived here?” Friendly as a Walmart greeter.

“Forty-two years. By myself since Mite passed. Come to think of it, she’d burn my ass for telling you that.”

“Your secrets are safe with us.” I resisted the urge to wink.

“Weren’t no secret. Mite was queen bitch when it came to security.”

“Did Mite drive a yellow Camry?” Doyle asked.

“Mite drove a big-ass Ducati. Damn bike scared the crap out of me.”

“Who owns the car in your drive?” Doyle was not one for small talk.

“My nephew’s kid. Says he’s going to restore the thing, but his parents don’t want an old beater spoiling their view of the pansies. What the hell? No skin off my nose if he tinkers with it here.”

“Do you know anyone who owns or used to own a yellow Camry?”

“My, my, Miss Ivy. You’ve really got your tits bouncing over that car.”

“Do you?” Doyle’s patience was fast evaporating.

“Question asked and answered.”