A Judgment of Whispers by Sallie Bissell Page B

at her self-pity. “At least you have a job. Food on the table, a roof over your head. That’s more than a lot of people.”
    She returned to the kitchen and glanced at the clock. 7:32. Clara would be here at eight, then she would be free to go out to the garage and work. She wanted to tweak a couple of paintings before she took them to the gallery in Asheville. She had high hopes for this new show—she’d done well there last fall and was actually starting to build a following.
    Suddenly she heard a dull thump coming from the living room. “Oh no!” she cried. She’d heard that sound before. Usually a bird had lifted off the feeder and flown into the front window. Sometimes they were just stunned; other times they lay dead, their necks broken.
    She hurried back to the living room, hoping it wasn’t one of the cardinals. There was a smear of blood on the window, which was unusual for a bird strike. After fumbling with the front door lock, she stepped out onto the porch. A dead squirrel lay on the walk, bright red blood staining its white chest. She was staring at it, surprised to see such a thing, when suddenly she heard someone yell something from the street. She turned in time to see a beat-up black truck tear away from her mailbox, as someone in the passenger seat gave her the finger.
    For an instant she could make no sense of it—a dead squirrel on her walk, someone making obscene gestures as they hurried away. Then it all fell into place. Someone in the truck must have thrown the squirrel against her window, fleeing when they saw her come out on the porch. She sighed. The news must have gotten out. The Teresa Ewing nightmare was beginning again.
    She looked at the little creature, its tail still fluffy and waving slightly in the breeze. An hour ago, it had probably been alive. Just an hour ago. Tears came to her eyes, then she realized that she had to get it cleaned up before Zack got up. A dead animal might push him over some kind of edge after everything else he’d suffered in the past two days. She started to go back inside for the broom and dustpan when she heard another car pull into her driveway. She turned, wondering if the same bastard had come back to throw something else, but the car was different—big and white and sadly familiar. It stopped and a moment later, Detective Whaley emerged. As he lumbered toward her, she felt her hands closing into fists. She did not need to deal with Whaley right now.
    He ambled up the walkway, stopping when he saw the squirrel and the blood on her window. “Somebody swing from the wrong tree this morning?”
    â€œSomebody threw that at my window.” Grace crossed her arms.
    â€œReally.” Whaley looked mildly interested. “Get a make on the car? A plate number?”
    â€œBlack truck, passenger with an active middle finger, heading west. You can’t see plate numbers from this front porch.”
    â€œMale or female?”
    â€œI couldn’t tell,” she replied. “I just hope they didn’t put a snake in the mailbox.”
    Whaley’s eyes grew sharp. “Excuse me?”
    â€œSnakes in the mailbox, detective. Business as usual here, every time Teresa Ewing gets resurrected.”
    His face darkened to the point that she feared he would hit her. Instead, though, he turned and walked back to the driveway and down to her mailbox. She watched as he tore off a long forsythia frond and looped it around the mailbox latch. Standing a good four feet away, he pulled the door open. Looking up at her with utter disgust, he stepped forward, stuck in his hand, and retrieved her mail. Tossing the forsythia frond to the ground, he walked back up to the front porch.
    â€œThank you,” she said, not bothering to hide her sarcasm. Why should she be grateful for one act of kindness after so many years of abuse? He was a cop; he was supposed to fish snakes out of people’s