The VW didn’t look that bad to Kit, but probably Gabrielle encouraged Mavity to hide it-it was not a sleek new Mercedes, such as Gabrielle herself drove.
“You said your cousin Donnie’s family was killed in the hurricane?” Eleanor was saying.
Cora Lee nodded. “His children, yes. There are a lot of questions about those failed levees, about the shoddy way they were reinforced, and where the federal money went, that was given to the state to do that work. Questions,” Cora Lee said, “that in my view ought to lead to some serious charges. But I guess…I guess I’m getting old and crotchety.”
Eleanor laughed. “You don’t look like you’ll ever get old. But a bit judgmental? Why not? My daddy told me, ‘If you are not brave enough to make judgments about life, you’ll end up with a head full of porridge.’ My daddy wasn’t big on shady politicians, either, and on the folk who allow and encourage them.”
Cora Lee smiled. “There’s plenty of that, in New Orleans. Even as a child, I was aware of the ugly stories about the good-old-boy politics.” She stood up when they heard a truck pull in, and moved to the window. Kit could hear a tractor or some kind of heavy equipment, and already the big chocolate poodle and the Dalmatian had charged out of the room and down the stairs, barking and threatening.
Kit wanted to see, too, but that would appear too strange. Racing to the window must be traditionally left to the rowdy and protective canines. Instead, she yawned and stretched, and made a show of slowly extricating herself from the little girl and from the quilt and pillows. She gave the child a nose touch, then languidly jumped to the sill beside Cora Lee, rubbing up against her as if for a pet, glancing out only slyly, as if she didn’t give a whit what was out there. Behind her, Eleanor Sand knelt to gather up the little girl, perhaps uneasy at the activity below. “I think we’ll move on,” she said quietly.
“I didn’t know they’d be here so early,” Cora Lee said, picking up Kit and holding her, watching a flatbed truck as it backed carefully up the far side of the drive. It parked well away from Eleanor’s squad car. The forklift ambled between them, to the garage door; and when the two women and the child headed downstairs, Eleanor holding the little girl’s hand, Kit padded down behind them and out the front door.
She paused on the front porch, watching Eleanor’s squad car pull away, and Cora Lee and the truck driver disappear into the garage. The driver was a big, bald, sad-faced man who resembled a grieving bloodhound.
In a moment the garage door rumbled open to reveal the bright, many-colored playhouse that nearly filled the interior. Lori and Dillon stood talking with the driver, both girls gesturing and looking as anxious, Kit thought, as two mother cats protecting their kittens.
But soon, under the girls’ hands-on direction, the truck driver and the skinny, wrinkled forklift driver showed that they could be gentle and careful as they helped the girls separate the house into its three parts. Lori and Dillon insisted on removing all the bolts themselves, but they allowed the two men, under their nervous instruction, to separate and slide each section onto a heavy-duty dolly, and roll it out the door to where the forklift could raise it onto the truck bed.
Kit watched, hiding a smile, as Lori and Dillon shepherded every move, Dillon’s short red hair rumpled every which way, her old blue T-shirt torn and stained. Lori’s long dark ponytail had come loose from its ribbon and hung in a tangle, and her own T-shirt was stained with red and green paint.
The girls might look scruffy, Kit thought, but their finished creation shone perfectly groomed and impressive. They were so excited about the contest, and so afraid some accident would mar their work, that they gripped each other’s hands, white-knuckled as each piece was loaded onto the flatbed. Kit could see, inside Cora Lee’s car, where the bright turquoise and blue and red floor pads waited, along with the rope ladder neatly piled on top.
The two men were tying padding around the three sections when Donnie’s old truck pulled in, the truck he had bought used in the village when he’d arrived by plane from Texas. The tall, slim, graying blond man swung out, grinning. “Looks like you’re all set to go.”
“We’re going to have some pie and milk first,” Cora Lee said. “The girls need fuel before they get to work putting the house back together.” She put her arm around Donnie. “Come join us.”
She looked at Lori, who was fidgeting to get started. “We’ll be up there, Lori, by the time the truck is in place. The men will have to wait in line at the gate and be directed in, and there’ll be a mob waiting.”
“We’ll be in, in a minute,” Lori said, “as soon as they’re finished tying down.”
“Sometimes,” Cora Lee said as she and Donnie headed up the steps, “watching the girls, I feel like I’m a child again, too. The way we used to be,” she said, heading for the kitchen. She turned to look at Donnie. “Fifty years. We’re totally different people, now. And yet…”
“And yet,” he said, “we’re the same people. We’re the same two kids we were. Only the packaging is different.”
Cora Lee laughed. “A bit frayed around the edges?”
Kit padded into the kitchen behind them, watching Cora Lee set out the pie and begin to cut it, while Donnie started the coffee.
“You’re proud of the girls,” he said.
“They’ve worked hard on this project, and with such excitement. They did a huge amount of library research into architectural styles, surveyed every kind of structure and style from French Country to African huts to those Dutch-influenced hex-sign details from the Caribbean-and put it all together in their own way.”
“Including the hex signs,” he said. “I like that.” The hex signs were no more than big, primary shapes-triangles, circles, rectangles-painted on the shutters and walls in bright, contrasting colors.
“I so hope the girls will win,” Cora Lee said. “But whether they win or not, they should realize a nice profit. That money would give Lori a leg up for college, with her father in prison. And Dillon…her folks can pay for college, but she wants to contribute as much as she can. Dillon has come a long way since the bad time she had when her parents nearly divorced.”
“I understand a lot of credit goes to the police chief?”
Cora Lee nodded as she dished up the pie. “Teaching her to ride and handle horses, to be responsible for an animal, that has steadied her. As has Ryan’s training.”
“Ryan Flannery?”
“Ryan hired Dillon as a carpenter’s gofer and then helper. She had to get special permission from the school. Between the two experiences, Dillon’s a different person now, much more sure of herself and what she can do. Much more responsible.” She changed the subject when they heard the girls coming.
“We read the Cajun Night Before Christmas, today,” she told him. “Do you know the book? We were grown, when it came out. But it was so like the Christmas stories that your dad used to tell.”
Donnie gave her a faltering glance, as if he wasn’t tracking. Then, “You read it to Lori and Dillon? A picture book?”
Cora Lee laughed. “No, to the little girl who was found in the plaza. Where the murder was reported. An officer brought her up to visit-they just left. I’m sorry you weren’t here, you’d love her. She’s so solemn, and so hurt, Donnie. I wish you could have read some of the book to her; I used to love to hear you read.
“But maybe later. I’m sure one of the officers will bring her back.” She looked up when Lori and Dillon came in, and asked Lori to give Kit some milk and a few crumbs of gingerbread.