Black Silk. Metsy Hingle

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      Mention of the late shift made her glance at her watch. It was almost seven—which meant she was going to be even later getting to her parents’ house than she’d originally thought. She also had hoped to grab Anne before she headed to their folks’ and demand an explanation from her. Realizing that she’d have to wait only served to annoy her more. “I gotta go,” she said and began shoving papers and files into her bag to review at home.

      “Got a hot date?” he teased.

      “Hardly.” The truth was it had been more than two months since she’d been on a date. And that one had been a fiasco. Not that it was the guy’s fault. It wasn’t. She doubted if many guys would like being left in a five-star restaurant with two pricey entrées on the table because his blind date had been called to a murder scene.

      “So what’s the big hurry?”

      “I’m having dinner with my folks. And then I’m going to toss my sister Anne off a bridge.”

      Five

      Anne looked up from the sink in her parents’ kitchen as Charlie came through the door, carrying the plates following dinner. She plopped them on the counter next to the sink. “You rinse and I’ll load the dishwasher,” she said in that same brusque tone she’d used with her all evening.

      Anne started to argue, but decided against it. “Fine. But I set the table and did the salad because you were late, so you rinse and load the dessert dishes by yourself.”

      “Girls, quit fussing and finish the dishes. Your father’s already setting up for the bananas Foster,” her mother called from the next room.

      But not even the prospect of bananas Foster—one of her favorites—did anything to lighten her mood. And it was all Charlie’s fault. Fuming silently, Anne scraped the remains from the plates into the disposal. She’d known Charlie was angry with her the minute she’d come through the front door. Her sister had trained those blue eyes on her and looked as though she’d wanted to strangle her. Then she had barely said ten words to her all evening. And when she’d mentioned her coup—being the first reporter to break the news about the cancellation of the Stratton/Hill wedding—Charlie had ruined the moment by cutting her off. Since Charlie was working a case that involved Stratton, she couldn’t discuss or listen to any of the society drivel that she reported if it involved J. P. Stratton.

      Society drivel, my fanny, Anne thought, her irritation growing. Just because Charlie was a police detective and she was a TV reporter didn’t mean her job was a piece of cake. Maybe she didn’t put the bad guys in jail, but she worked her rear end off just the same. Besides not all of her stories were fluff. More than a few of them had resulted in improved conditions for people caught up in the red tape of bureaucracy or forgotten by the system. Why, she even had a file folder thick with thank-you letters from people whose lives had been changed for the better as a result of her investigative reports.

      Continuing to stew over her sister’s unfair attitude toward her, she attacked the next plate with a sponge and dishwashing liquid. When Charlie returned with the serving dishes, Anne practically growled as she said, “I don’t know why we bother with the dishwasher at all if we have to wash everything first.”

      “Because that’s the way Mom wants it done.”

      Anne shoved the washed plate at her sister for loading in the dishwasher. “Well if you ask me, it’s dumb.”

      “Nobody asked you.”

      Anne threw the sponge in the sink, sending suds flying. “What is your problem?” she demanded.

      “As if you don’t know.”

      “I don’t,” Anne insisted.

      “Fine. Play innocent. We’ll discuss it later. Dad’s waiting to do the flaming dessert thing.”

      “I want to discuss it now.”

      “Will you keep your voice down?” Charlie chided with a glance toward the door. “You know how upset Mom gets when we argue. And it’s been a tough enough day for them as it is.”

      Charlie was right. Today had been tough for their parents. Although they had moved past the grief that had paralyzed them following Emily’s death, some days—like Emily’s birthday—were more difficult for them than others. It wasn’t all that easy for her either, Anne admitted. Even though it had been six years since Emily’s murder, sometimes she still walked into the kitchen and expected to see her there. Maybe because there had been many a spat waged among the three of them over kitchen cleanups. She’d lost count of the times Emily had weaseled out of her turn to do the dishes by giving her a lipstick that she’d wanted or offering to lend her a blouse she’d admired. It had infuriated Charlie and she’d taken Emily to task for it more than once.

      Anne shifted her gaze over to the breakfast nook where the same yellow and white curtains were draped across the bay window, where the garden was once again abloom with pansies in bright yellows, purples and white and camellia bushes and early blooming azaleas were bursting with red and pink flowers. The same porcelain vase was filled with fresh-cut roses and sat in the center of the table that smelled of the lemon oil her mother had used to polish it. For a moment, Anne could almost see the three of them seated at that table again as they had done so often while growing up. She could almost see them that last year before Charlie went off to college with Emily eating her egg-white omelet and lecturing Charlie on her diet. With Charlie ignoring Emily while she scraped the burnt parts off of her toast and washed it down with coffee. With her loading sugar on her cereal and following Charlie’s lead by tuning Emily out.

      God, but she missed Emily. And she missed being one of three.

      “You going to wash that plate or just stare at it?”

      At Charlie’s sharp comment, Anne shut off the memories. Picking up the sponge, she began washing the plate. And as she washed, she wondered what she could have possibly done to make her sister so angry with her. Before running into her and Vince at the Stratton house, she hadn’t even seen Charlie for days. And hadn’t she backed off when Charlie had refused to comment? Anyone else would have dogged her heels for answers. Why, she had even undercut her own news scoop by not revealing that it had been homicide detectives seen leaving the Stratton home. So where did Charlie get off being angry with her? She was the one who should be angry with Charlie for the way she had spoken to her. Right? Right! Feeling indignant, Anne slapped the sponge against the next plate, then shoved it at Charlie.

      “There’s still gravy on the corner. Wash it again,” Charlie said and shoved the plate back at her.

      That tore it. Turning to face her sister, she snapped, “You want it washed again? You wash it.” And without stopping to reconsider, she threw the sponge at Charlie. The soapy square of foam caught her right between the boobs before falling to the floor with a plop. Anne felt a moment of immense satisfaction at her sister’s stunned expression—until Charlie scooped up the sponge with astonishing speed.

      “Why, you little witch,” Charlie began, brandishing the sponge like a weapon in her fist. “I should make you eat this.”

      “You can try.”

      “Don’t tempt me, Annie. That stunt you pulled on the news this evening was bad enough—”

      “What stunt?”

      “—And now you’ve СКАЧАТЬ