possibility? “What about your stepmother’s first husband?”
“What about him?”
“He never cal ed or came to visit? Never paid child support? Never sent a Christmas card?”
“Growing up, we never heard from him. Didn’t even know where he was. But he showed up last summer. Turns out he’s been living in Alaska al these years. He flies fishermen to remote lakes and streams, that sort of thing.”
Hunter tucked that piece of information away to examine later. A boy abandoned by his father could easily harbor a deep resentment of adult males. “Tel me a little more about Irene.”
“After my father met her, they got married and she brought her children to live with us. Clay and I were thirteen.
Grace was ten; Mol y was eight.”
“Did you get along with your stepsiblings?”
“Very wel .”
“You never fought?” He didn’t bother hiding his skepticism.
“We had the usual squabbles. But to be honest, those years were some of the best of my life. In the summer, after we finished our work, Clay would give us rides on the tractor. Sometimes Grace and I would dress up in Irene’s old clothes and pretend we were getting married. Mol y would beg us to put makeup on her, and we’d weave dandelion wreaths to wear in our hair.”
He found the images her words created oddly appealing, like something out of a book. “What about your stepmother?”
Her turn signal clicked as Madeline passed the car in front of them. “Mom would make lemonade and bake cookies and we’d go out on the porch to read the Bible. I can stil hear the creak of her rocking chair, the insects buzzing, feel the heat of late afternoon…”
“So your stepmother was as religious as your father.”
The hesitation in her manner told him she wasn’t as sure of her next answer. “No…he was the one who insisted on daily Bible study. But she made a party out of it. She knew how to make the most mundane tasks fun.”
Hunter sensed Madeline’s desire to steer his interest away from the Montgomerys. But if she wanted him to solve this disappearance—this probable murder—he had to investigate al possibilities and eliminate them one by one.
“Did your father and your stepmother ever fight?”
Her teeth sank into her bottom lip and, for some reason, Hunter thought of the condom a client had recently handed him as a promotional piece for his strip joint. He’d shoved it in his wal et, but he had no plans to use it, at least in Mississippi. Fortunately, he wouldn’t be tempted—not by Madeline Barker, anyway. She had a boyfriend.
“They had occasional disagreements,” she was saying.
“But they didn’t get violent. My father never raised his voice.
And my Mom— Irene, ” she clarified, “wasn’t the type to fight. If Dad asked her to join the church choir, she joined the choir. If he asked her to host a funeral luncheon, she hosted a luncheon. She wanted nothing more than to be a good wife, to please him.”
“She wanted nothing more than that? You don’t think she was too servile? That she might’ve resented her lack of power in the relationship?”
“This is the South, remember?”
“I understand that Mississippi might not be a hotbed of feminist activism, but that doesn’t mean she liked it.”
“I would’ve known if she resented him. She didn’t.”
Possibly. “Did your father expect to be obeyed?” he asked.
“He did,” she admitted without reservation. “Like I told you, it’s fairly normal where I live, and was even more so twenty-five years ago.”
Hunter had been raised by a strong, very opinionated mother who’d endowed him with a great deal of respect for the opposite sex. He found this take on women very old-fashioned, as if he’d slipped into the fifties—or earlier. “Do fashioned, as if he’d slipped into the fifties—or earlier. “Do you fit the Southern mold?”
“I believe in equal jobs for equal pay, but I like it when a man is nice enough to open the door for me or
“What about him?”
“He never cal ed or came to visit? Never paid child support? Never sent a Christmas card?”
“Growing up, we never heard from him. Didn’t even know where he was. But he showed up last summer. Turns out he’s been living in Alaska al these years. He flies fishermen to remote lakes and streams, that sort of thing.”
Hunter tucked that piece of information away to examine later. A boy abandoned by his father could easily harbor a deep resentment of adult males. “Tel me a little more about Irene.”
“After my father met her, they got married and she brought her children to live with us. Clay and I were thirteen.
Grace was ten; Mol y was eight.”
“Did you get along with your stepsiblings?”
“Very wel .”
“You never fought?” He didn’t bother hiding his skepticism.
“We had the usual squabbles. But to be honest, those years were some of the best of my life. In the summer, after we finished our work, Clay would give us rides on the tractor. Sometimes Grace and I would dress up in Irene’s old clothes and pretend we were getting married. Mol y would beg us to put makeup on her, and we’d weave dandelion wreaths to wear in our hair.”
He found the images her words created oddly appealing, like something out of a book. “What about your stepmother?”
Her turn signal clicked as Madeline passed the car in front of them. “Mom would make lemonade and bake cookies and we’d go out on the porch to read the Bible. I can stil hear the creak of her rocking chair, the insects buzzing, feel the heat of late afternoon…”
“So your stepmother was as religious as your father.”
The hesitation in her manner told him she wasn’t as sure of her next answer. “No…he was the one who insisted on daily Bible study. But she made a party out of it. She knew how to make the most mundane tasks fun.”
Hunter sensed Madeline’s desire to steer his interest away from the Montgomerys. But if she wanted him to solve this disappearance—this probable murder—he had to investigate al possibilities and eliminate them one by one.
“Did your father and your stepmother ever fight?”
Her teeth sank into her bottom lip and, for some reason, Hunter thought of the condom a client had recently handed him as a promotional piece for his strip joint. He’d shoved it in his wal et, but he had no plans to use it, at least in Mississippi. Fortunately, he wouldn’t be tempted—not by Madeline Barker, anyway. She had a boyfriend.
“They had occasional disagreements,” she was saying.
“But they didn’t get violent. My father never raised his voice.
And my Mom— Irene, ” she clarified, “wasn’t the type to fight. If Dad asked her to join the church choir, she joined the choir. If he asked her to host a funeral luncheon, she hosted a luncheon. She wanted nothing more than to be a good wife, to please him.”
“She wanted nothing more than that? You don’t think she was too servile? That she might’ve resented her lack of power in the relationship?”
“This is the South, remember?”
“I understand that Mississippi might not be a hotbed of feminist activism, but that doesn’t mean she liked it.”
“I would’ve known if she resented him. She didn’t.”
Possibly. “Did your father expect to be obeyed?” he asked.
“He did,” she admitted without reservation. “Like I told you, it’s fairly normal where I live, and was even more so twenty-five years ago.”
Hunter had been raised by a strong, very opinionated mother who’d endowed him with a great deal of respect for the opposite sex. He found this take on women very old-fashioned, as if he’d slipped into the fifties—or earlier. “Do fashioned, as if he’d slipped into the fifties—or earlier. “Do you fit the Southern mold?”
“I believe in equal jobs for equal pay, but I like it when a man is nice enough to open the door for me or
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