Free Poison to Purge Melancholy by Elena Santangelo Page B

through the doorway. “I put your suitcase and coat upstairs in the first bedroom, Foot. Where’s Ma?”
    “Fixing a fuse.” Foot’s tone equated that with shoveling manure.
    “Apparently the fuses blow out a lot,” I said, resuming my seat on the bench. “Evelyn was fixing one when we arrived.”
    Foot let out a grim sigh. “This place is a dump.”
    Horse nodded. “Yes, brother, but it’s the dump of our ancestors and therefore sacred ground.” He crossed to the fridge and, like his niece, scrutinized the contents.
    “We need to talk some sense into Mom this weekend,” Foot said.
    “You always were the optimist.” Horse took out a carton of eggnog and, pinching the top shut, shook it. “Where’s your wife, by the way?”
    “Irene’s working late tonight. She’ll drive up tomorrow morning and we’ll go home together. That’s why I took the train.”
    “I swear, you keep getting married just so you’ll have a chauffeur. Be easier to buy a second car for yourself.”
    “I have a car.”
    “A collector’s edition ’Vette that you never take out of your garage.” Horse turned to me for an aside. “He never buys anything that depreciates.”
    “And he doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘investment.’ If he did, he’d be upset about Mom selling the house.”
    I felt like the little target ball in bocce. Not that I have anything against family bickering. On Grandmom Montella’s side of my family, disagreement was an art form and calling a loved one stupido was a gesture of affection. But bringing in a third party wasn’t kosher. The sport of it was in direct confrontation.
    “I never said I wasn’t upset.” Horse went over to the cupboard Beth Ann had left open and began pulling down punch glasses.
    “Knowing our mother, I’ll bet she put the money in her savings account.” Foot shuttered as he said it.
    “Calm down. We discussed all this last weekend. As soon as Hugh and Acey get here—”
    The fluorescent lamp blinked a dim orange twice, then came on full. Grabbing the excuse to leave, I said, “I’ll go tell them they found the right fuse,” and hurried out.
    Of course, my decision took me through the dining room. I put on the brakes in the hall doorway, realizing that here I was, alone, just beneath where I’d been spooked earlier. And I felt something. I can’t describe the feeling other than to say I was loathe to walk past the base of the stairs.
    “This is silly,” I whispered. Nothing talked back, so my confidence was bolstered. Still, the creepiness remained. Well, I told myself, I’d handled this kind of thing before. And I didn’t have much time until Hugh arrived. “Okay,” I said, my voice soft so I wouldn’t be overheard by any of the Lees I wanted to impress this weekend. “Okay, if you are a ghost, give me some idea of who you are and what you want.”
    I closed my eyes to wait for a vision, which is how it always worked in the past. My lashes were barely together for two seconds when I was kissed. On the mouth. Hard.
    Backing away as fast as my feet would carry me—so fast I tripped on a chair leg and ended up sitting on the floor—my eyelids snapped open.
    The doorway was empty, except—
    Except for the sprig of mistletoe that dangled from the lintel.
    Go to the kitchen , Zela had said, and at that moment my one thought was to do just that, and stay there the rest of the weekend.
    I would have, too—I was halfway there—when I heard Beth Ann behind me. “What was that noise? Sounded like something fell.”
    I turned and there she was, in the doorway, right beneath the mistletoe. “Don’t stand there.”
    “Why?” Half inquiry, half defiance. Her specialty.
    In lieu of an answer, I went toward her with some notion of pulling her to safety. “Where’s your grandmother?”
    “Still downstairs. She sent me up to see if the fuse was working.” With that, to my relief, Beth Ann moved into the dining room, until she could see through the pantry