Apparently, Kiki believed Francine Owens had genuinely fainted.

“Okay,” Fiji said, still smiling, but with an effort. “That’s fine.” Just deny my whole life and my beliefs. That’s okay!

“Maybe I’ll go down and get my nails done this afternoon.” Kiki had spotted the Antique Gallery and Nail Salon sign that morning, and she’d been peering at her hands ever since. “Do I need to call and make an appointment?”

“I don’t think so,” Fiji said, maintaining her smile. “Go do that. Tell Joe and Chuy I said hi.”

And very soon after, that was what Kiki did. The relief of having her gone was ridiculously keen. As soon as Kiki’s feet touched the sidewalk, Mr. Snuggly appeared by his food bowl. He fixed Fiji with a baleful glare, and she hurried to pour in his kibble and spoon a little Fancy Feast on top.

He had earned the treat.

Kiki had called Mr. Snuggly “Blubberbutt” three times, within the cat’s hearing. Though Kiki had no idea that the cat could understand her, Fiji had winced every time, sure that sooner or later she’d pay for her sister’s tactlessness.

“She’ll leave sooner or later,” Fiji said, scratching Mr. Snuggly’s head. She tried to sound confident. Maybe I can stand it for a week, she thought doubtfully, and her fingers slowed. The cat butted her hand to get her attention, and she resumed scratching. “Sorry, buddy.”

When Mr. Snuggly felt he’d been adored enough, he ate his food, every bit, and exited through the cat door into the backyard in what Fiji considered a very pointed way. This time of day, he normally took a nap in the basket under Fiji’s counter.

Fiji felt she’d apologized enough for Kiki—in fact, she’d thought of calling Joe to apologize for whatever her sister was saying right now— but she knew that was ridiculous. My sister’s character is hardly my fault. Kiki’s a grown woman, Fiji reminded herself. As Quinn had said, people would form their own opinions of Kiki, which would not necessarily influence or affect their opinions of Fiji.

She told herself that several times.

Just when Fiji was beginning to feel more calm, if not exactly cheerful, Francine Owens came into The Inquiring Mind. The nearsuicide was not in the trancelike state of yesterday, but she didn’t seem to be the self-assured woman who’d held up the grocery store line, either. Fiji stood up.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “Welcome back. How are you feeling?”

“Maybe you can help me,” Francine said. She hesitated, looking around her as if she were seeing the store for the first time. “I know I fainted in here yesterday, and I appreciate how kind you were in getting me home safely. But I don’t seem to remember coming in here. Do you think it’s because I passed out, that I can’t remember? It just seems so odd. I’m not really sure why I’d come in this store. I mean, it seems charming, but not my kind of thing, normally?”

Fiji thought hard as she came out from behind the counter. It had never occurred to her she’d see Francine Owens again. She had no story prepared to cope with this situation. What could she say?

Fiji hated the idea that Francine Owens might put herself through expensive medical or psychological testing to find some physical issue that had caused her to pass out. “When you came in yesterday, we had a little conversation,” Fiji said slowly. “You were wanting to buy a gift for someone.”

If you could say the sun was coming out on someone’s face, that face was Francine Owens’s. “What a relief,” she said. “I wonder who the present was for?”

“I don’t believe you told me. But you know what? After you fainted and I left my friend minding the store, when I was taking you home? My friend smelled gas, and he called the gas company. They came out and fixed a gas leak. So I guess you must be extra sensitive to it, cause I sure never smelled it. But you must have.”

“Oh my goodness.” The woman sat down heavily in one of the wicker chairs. “I’m so glad to know why I fainted like that! I can cancel my doctor’s appointment. Now I just wish I could remember about buying a gift. Maybe it was for someone in my book club? We have a little harvest party coming up.”

“Know someone who likes wind chimes, or sun catchers, or scented candles, something like that?”

“I think Pearl might like wind chimes; she loves her garden,” Francine said, though she still sounded doubtful. “I drew her name.”

“Really, don’t let it worry you,” Fiji said. “You know we’re just a short drive away, if you decide your friend might like something from The Inquiring Mind.”

“That’s true. I just felt so foolish, not remembering why I was here.” She looked at Fiji apologetically.

To Fiji’s relief, another customer came in just then, a woman who regularly came to her Thursday night group. Most of the women who attended were simply seeking some excitement, or some way to stretch their emotional and mental muscles in search of something that fulfilled them or interested them. Denise Little, who was living at the Midnight Hotel while waiting for an assisted-living center vacancy, was a great reader and very curious. Denise, who was in her seventies, made her slow way east at least twice a week to visit with Fiji. She almost always bought some small thing to show she understood The Inquiring Mind was a business.

“Hi, Denise,” Fiji said, with maybe overdone enthusiasm. “This is Francine Owens. Francine, Denise lives here in Midnight, at least temporarily.”

Francine seemed reassured by Denise’s white-haired respectability. “I’ll take these wind chimes,” she said, clearly glad to conclude her time in the shop.

Fiji rang up the purchase and wrapped the wind chimes in tissue paper, feeling she would be just as glad to see Francine leave. While she was doing this, Francine politely started a conversation with Denise about living at the Midnight Hotel. “I hear it’s real nice,” Francine said.

“I’m just there until a place opens up at Big Sky in Marthasville,” Denise explained. “My house sold much more quickly than I ever expected, so I had to go somewhere. It’s been a real boon for me, and really comfortable.”

“How long do you think you’ll have to wait for Big Sky?” Francine asked. “I guess you’re on a list?”

Denise shrugged as she sank into one of the padded wicker chairs. “Just waiting for someone else to die,” she said baldly. “I’m third in line. I’ve got my furniture in storage, and I can have my own things in my room there. But it’s nice not to make my own bed or clean my own bathroom at the hotel. I’m pretty damn tired of housework.”