He bared his teeth at her.

She grabbed her purse, what was left of the cheapest bag of dog food she’d been able to find, and a six-pack of Coke. The stuff in the trunk could wait until the rain stopped. She emerged from the car, her short skirt hiking to the top of her thighs and her long, thoroughbred legs leading the way.

Gordon moved fast when he wanted to, and he shot ahead of her up the three steps onto the small porch. The green-and-gold wooden plaque Aunt Tallulah’s handyman had hammered into the brick forty years earlier still held a place of honor next to the front door.

DURING THE SUMMER OF 1954,

THE GREAT AMERICAN ABSTRACT EXPRESSIONIST ARTIST

LINCOLN ASH PAINTED HERE.

And left Tallulah a valuable work of art that now belonged to her niece, Sugar Beth Carey Tharp Zagurski Hooper. A painting that Sugar Beth needed to find as quickly as possible.

She selected a key from the ones Tallulah’s lawyer had sent her, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Immediately, the smells of her aunt’s world swept over her: Ben Gay, mildew, chicken salad, and disapproval. Gordon took one look, forgot that he didn’t like getting his paws wet, and turned back outside. Sugar Beth set down her packages and looked around.

The living area was stuffed with a cozy horror of family pieces: dusty Sheraton-style chairs, tables with scarred claw and ball feet, a Queen Anne writing desk, and a bentwood hat rack festooned with cobwebs. The mahogany sideboard held a Seth Thomas mantel clock, along with a pair of ugly china pugs and a silver chest emblazoned with a tarnished plaque honoring Tallulah Carey for her many years of dedicated service to the Daughters of the Confederacy.

There was no organized decorating scheme. The room’s threadbare Oriental rug competed with the faded floral chintz sofa. A coral and yellow flame stitch on an armchair peeked out from beneath an assortment of crocheted cushions. The ottoman was worn green leather, the curtains yellowed lace. Still, the colors and patterns, muted by age and wear, had achieved a tired sort of harmony.