The Girl On Legare Street by Karen White

use it in his next book. You never know”—she looked back at me—“what Jack will decide to write about next. And if this mystery is juicy enough, I can imagine it will be a great follow-up to the Vanderhorst story he’s working on now.”
    “Really?” I asked. It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “And you two have already talked about this?”
    “Not exactly,” Jack said.
    “Yes,” Rebecca said at the same time.
    Jack stood and began pouring coffee into our mugs, and I noticed how many sugars and how much cream he put into Rebecca’s mug without having to ask her. “What I meant to say is that Rebecca mentioned it to me and I’ll certainly keep it in mind.” He carried the three mugs over to the table and put them in front of us. “But I’d never write a word without your permission.”
    I didn’t say anything, stalling for time by blowing on my hot coffee. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of working with an outsider, but adding another person to the mix might make the whole ordeal go faster. This would mean my mother could live in peace in her house without requiring my presence in her life for very long, I wouldn’t have to enter my house in fear that something was waiting for me, and it would keep Jack hanging around for a while longer. Not that I was interested in him romantically, of course. It was just that he knew a lot about furniture placement and could hang a painting straight.
    I took a sip from my mug and savored it for a long moment. “We could certainly give it a trial run,” I conceded. “See how we work together.” I took another sip. “But one last thing . . .”
    Rebecca watched me carefully.
    “If you need to make any mention of my mother’s past penchant for telling fortunes at parties, say that it’s ‘intuition.’ That my mother’s what they call ‘an intuitive.’ ”
    After a short pause she said, “Fine. I can do that.” She drained her mug, then waited for Jack to pull out her chair before she stood, cradling General Lee like a baby before gently putting him on the floor. Instead of running to me, he sat at her feet, and I thought he might even have sent me a defiant look.
    I stood, too—without assistance—and pointedly looked at Jack, who seemed to be fixated on Rebecca.
    “I’d better go now. Thanks for the coffee,” she said to me before turning to Jack. “And thanks for last night. I had fun. I’ll give you a call later.” She kissed him on the cheek, lingering a little longer than necessary, and I found myself studying the wood grain of the Shaker table.
    After Jack helped her into her coat, she stood still for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “Have you been up to the attic yet in your mother’s house?”
    I shook my head. “It’s not her house yet. We’re working on it. Why?”
    “I think you need to. I believe it’s still filled with Prioleau family things and there’s something up there you need to see. A portrait, maybe.”
    “And you know this—how?”
    Jack leaned on the table. “She has dreams. Sometimes they make sense, and sometimes they don’t.”
    Rebecca nodded. “That’s right. And I saw—something, maybe a painting or photograph, in the attic that I felt in the dream would mean something to you.”
    I studied her doubtfully. “We’ll be doing a few walk-throughs. I’ll make sure there’s access to the attic and go take a look.”
    “Great,” she said before looking at Jack. “I’m afraid I’ll get lost in this big old house. Would you mind walking me out?”
    “Not at all,” we said in unison, and I couldn’t help but smirk at him as we led Rebecca to the front door.
    We had made it as far as the front porch when I realized I had another question for her. “That picture, or whatever it is—the one in the attic. What made you think I’d be interested in seeing it?”
    She narrowed her eyes a little as she regarded me, turning her head to the right as I remembered seeing Emily do, and I wondered who had