“You received an anonymous letter that said, Come home, Hannah needs you?” Abby repeated, staring at her sister as if she’d gone completely mad. They were seated in a restaurant on St. Charles Avenue, located not far from Sacred Heart Academy.

It had been Zoey’s idea to ride the streetcar and “get away from all this stress,” once she’d taken a two hour nap. Abby had wanted to stay home. She was tired and drained after Luke’s funeral. But she also wanted to get to the bottom of the “secret” Zoey and her father seemed to share about the night her mother died, and Zoey had promised she would tell Abby everything she knew.

In the end Abby had driven them into town where they’d hopped on the streetcar, ridden down the oak-lined avenue and ended up in this quaint Victorian home turned dining room. It was early evening. They’d been seated at a table near the window where a view of the garden showed off a million tiny white lights winking in the lush vegetation and along the fence. As the waitress delivered a tall glass filled with bread sticks, Zoey dropped the bomb about the note.

“Here, I’ve got it with me.” Zoey leaned over to scrounge in her purse. She came up with the a plain white envelope. The postmark was New Orleans, but there was no return address.

Though the evening was warm, Abby’s skin turned to ice. “Didn’t you think this was odd?”

“Yeah, a little.” Zoey reached for a bread stick.

“A lot, Zoe. No one ever called me Hannah but Mom.”

“Well, obviously she didn’t send it.”

“Precisely. So who did? Who wanted you here?”

“I thought maybe you sent it to me.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I figured it was your way of getting me here without you know, you having to swallow your pride.” Zoey dipped her bread stick in a tiny butter rosette.

“If I had needed you here, I would have called. You know that.”

“Then maybe. . .I don’t know. . .maybe Dad sent it.”

“Dad?” Abby picked up the note and shook it in front of her sister’s face. “How would he mail it?”

“Maybe Charlene did it for him.”

“Then why not just sign it himself? Why all the cloak and dagger stuff? Better yet, why not just phone? You know like a normal person.”

“Then I don’t know,” Zoey said defensively, but little lines of worry sprouted between her eyebrows. “Look, let’s not worry about it right now. We’ll talk about the damned note later.” She snagged the paper out of Abby’s hands and slipped it into the envelope just as the waitress reappeared.

“Are you all ready?” she asked pleasantly. She was plump, with rosy cheeks, her order pad at the ready. She glanced at Abby and added, “Or would you like a few more minutes to decide.”

Zoey, who had somehow scanned the menu said, “I’ll have the iceberg lettuce wedge, with shrimp, caramelized onions and blue cheese dressing on the side . . . oh, and maybe a cup of the shrimp bisque.”

The waitress turned to Abby whose appetite was fast disappearing. She’d walked into the little restaurant famished and now her stomach was in knots. Who had sent Zoey the note?

“Abby?” Zoey said and glanced from her sister to the waitress. “Do you know what you want?”

I want an end to all these questions. . .all this secrecy. . .

Glancing down at the menu Abby tried to focus. Was it her imagination or had several people at nearby tables stopped eating to stare at them? Pull yourself together, Abby. Don’t make a scene. You’ll get to the bottom of this. So Zoey received a note with your middle name on it the same week that your gun was stolen and people are turning up murdered. . . Her hands were shaking so she clasped them together in her lap.

“Maybe we do need a few more minutes,” Zoey said.

Abby cut her sister a look, then ordered the first thing she saw on the menu. “I’ll have the spinach salad, with barbecued shrimp. House dressing.”

She waited until the waitress had disappeared before she turned furious eyes at Zoey. “You should have told me about the letter earlier.”

“I wanted to wait until after the funeral.”

“So you knew I’d be upset?”

“More upset.” Zoey cast a glance to the ceiling where paddle fans were gently pushing the warm air around.

Abby was finished with skirting the issue. “So when are you going to tell me about the day Mom died?”