by Lila Dare
“No.”
“But we might as well be,” Althea said, emerging from the bathroom, “for all the business we’ve had this morning. You might want Fred to have a look at the toilet while he’s here, Vi; I had to jiggle the handle again. Why are you limping?” She stared at my foot.
“Didn’t Mom tell you about my adventure this morning?” I didn’t want to talk about the Lindsay incident, so it was easier to let her think I’d twisted my ankle in the sea.
“Yes, she did, and let me tell you, baby-girl, that was the stupidest damn thing you’ve ever done. And also one of the bravest.” Concern and pride warred on her handsome cocoa face. “Why, you don’t swim much better than a cat.”
“Thanks,” I said drily, helping myself to a diet A&W from the mini fridge.
“Facts is facts,” she observed. “I’ve never been one to mince words.”
Mom and I laughed.
“What?” Althea gave us a mock glare.
The door swung open and I glanced over, thinking it was Fred, but a stranger stood on the threshold. Almost six feet tall, she had glossy black hair that draped from a side part, almost obscuring one eye, and fell to mid-back. Pale skin, pale blue eyes, and lush lips made a dramatic contrast with her hair. Designer jeans and boots emphasized long legs. She’d wrapped a spangly silver scarf twice around her neck and the ends dangled to her waist.
“Hello.” Her voice was warm and throaty. “I’m looking for Grace Terhune.”
“That’s me,” I said, setting my soda on the counter.
“That’s Avaline,” Althea suddenly said. “Avaline van Tassel.”
“Who?”
Mom and I looked from Althea to the newcomer. She clapped her hands together and I saw she was wearing at least one ring on every finger. Blue, red, and green stones—surely they couldn’t be real gems?—twinkled even in the low light. “That’s right. How lovely of you to recognize me. Are you a fan of the show?”
“What show?” Mom asked.
“She’s the spirit whisperer,” Althea said. “And, no,” she answered the woman’s question. “I wouldn’t say I’m a fan. I don’t believe in that nonsense . . . talking to spirits and all.” She jutted her chin out in her characteristic way. “Dead is dead, is what I say. Until the Second Coming.”
“A nonbeliever.” A small smile curved the corner of Avaline’s mouth. “That’s okay. The world is filled with disbelief, but still I carry on with my mission.”
“What mission?” I asked. “And why are you looking for me?”
“My mission is to communicate with the spirits,” she said, “especially ones tied to the earth by profound emotion—usually anger or sorrow—experienced at their deaths.”
I had a feeling I knew where this was going and wished I’d gone straight home from the high school.
“I understand you were present when the ghost of Cyril Rothmere pushed a local boy down a staircase. I want to interview you about that for my television show.”
The three of us looked at her with varying degrees of mistrust and discomfort. I didn’t know which part of her statement to disagree with first, so I asked, “Who gave you my name?”
“A Dr. Lucy Mortimer at Rothmere. She also gave me the name of the high school teacher who sponsored the trip, but he’s teaching and I can’t get hold of him.” She smiled winningly. “So I decided to start with you.”
I was going to kill Lucy. “Well, I appreciate your thinking of me,” I lied, “but I don’t want to be on your show.”
“Really?” She looked puzzled. “We have a viewership of almost twelve million. Friday nights at eight o’clock.”
“Twelve million? Really?” Althea sounded flabbergasted. “And I thought you had lame plans for your weekend nights, baby-girl. Can you believe there are twelve million people in this country with a sorrier love life than yours?”
“Leave her alone, Althea,” Mom commanded.
“I like my Friday nights the way they are,” I said loftily, “and besides—” I stopped short of telling them I was going out with Agent Dillon this Friday. Turning back to Avaline, I said, “I’m not interested. And anyway, I didn’t see the accident, but whoever pushed Braden wasn’t a ghost.”
“Well, we’ll let Cyril tell us about that,” Avaline said with a throaty laugh.
“Come again?” Mom said.
“That’s what she does,” Althea explained. “She talks to spirits. Or so she says.”
Avaline didn’t seem offended by Althea’s blatant skepticism. “That’s right. And I’ve got a feeling Cyril’s got a lot to tell our audience. From what Dr. Mortimer told me, he was murdered—maybe by a family member—and has haunted his old home ever since. Well, maybe once he gets a chance to tell his story on national TV, he’ll be free.”
Mom and I exchanged looks. Even if I believed in ghosts—which I didn’t—I had a hard time thinking they were hanging around in the ether, waiting their chance to appear on a talk show like the desperate, dysfunctional people who squabbled about family issues on Jerry Springer.
“Well, good luck with it,” I said. “Sorry I can’t help.”
Avaline didn’t take the hint. Running the spangled scarf through her hand, she said, “Dr. Mortimer told me you have some documents that might shed some light on Cyril’s case. I’d like to use them—”
“There wasn’t anything interesting in them,” I said, determined not to let this woman get her hands on Clarissa’s letters. For some reason, it seemed like a gross violation of her privacy.
“Oh, you must let me be the judge of that,” Avaline said, narrowing her eyes. “Given the right spin, any historic document can be fascinating.”
I didn’t want her “spinning” Clarissa’s life. “Well, I’ll look for them,” I said with a false I’ll-get-right-on-it air. “Where are you staying?”
“Can’t you find them now?” she said, pointing to the ceiling.
“I don’t live here.”
“Oh.” Momentarily stymied, she said, “Well, the sooner the better. We were hoping to film this week and get out of here ahead of the hurricane. Normally, we’d take longer on a project, but we’ve had legal issues with one of the episodes we thought was in the can and we need a replacement. I’m at the Magnolia House if you want to drop off the documents, and here’s my cell phone number.” She handed me a card.
Magnolia House! That was Vonda’s B&B.
Tossing one end of the scarf over her shoulder, Avaline headed for the door. “Let me know if you change your mind about being on the show,” she said. “My producer can be very persuasive.” She rubbed her thumb and first two fingers together in the age-old sign for money. “He’s already secured permission to film at the mansion.” Her long hair fluttering in the breeze that sifted in as she opened the door. Avaline made her exit.
I had to admit that she was a beautiful woman, not at all what I would have expected a ghost hunter to look like. If asked, I’d have pictured a short, middle-aged woman with a squeaky voice, a lot like the frizzy-haired actress in the original Poltergeist movie.
“Why didn’t you want to give her the Rothmere documents?” Althea asked.
“I’m not done with them,” I said shortly, embarrassed to explain my real reason.
Mom seemed to sense something because she pulled Althea away by saying, “Let’s run over to the Piggly Wiggly and get some bottled water and ice before the girls come in to do Locks of Love.”
“I’ll stay here in case they’re early,” I said, giving Mom a grateful look.
I PAID FRED WHEN HE FINISHED PUTTING UP THE plywood and then brought a couple of lamps down from the bedrooms to brighten up the salon. It was light enough, I decided, stepping back to survey my efforts, but lightbulbs just don’t have the same quality as sunlight. I called Vonda to gab about Avaline and the film crew, but her ex-husband, Ricky, who still co-owns the B&B with her, answered and said she was at the hardware store. After a moment, I dialed Marty’s number, but got his voice mail
again. Was he in Phoenix or Houston today? Was it significant that I didn’t know?
Feeling unsettled—it was probably the weather—I wandered out onto the veranda, leaving the door open to get a little fresh air and sunlight into the salon. I leaned my forearms against the rail and stared off in the direction of the sea. I couldn’t see it, but I could smell it. I took a deep breath, holding the air in my lungs for a moment, and blew it out. Birds chirruped and tweeted from the azaleas and oleanders growing against the side of the house, and a pair of squirrels chased each other around the magnolia’s trunk. I knew the storm wasn’t imminent; the animals would disappear and the yard would get eerily quiet as the hurricane drew near.
Noticing the hammock, I descended the steps to take it down, figuring it wouldn’t fare well in the hurricane. As I unwrapped the nylon cord from the magnolia’s trunk, a police car pulled up at the curb and Hank got out.
“Need some help?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he got started on untying the other end of the rope.
“Thanks,” I said. “The criminals must’ve all evacuated if the SEPD’s got time to help citizens with their hurricane prep.”
He smiled but then his face turned serious. Balling up his end of the hammock, he thrust the unwieldy mass into my arms. “I came to tell you something I think you should know.” He puffed his chest out self-importantly. “It’s about that Spaatz fellow you’re so keen on.”
I didn’t bother telling Hank I wasn’t “keen on” Glen Spaatz. The hammock was heavy in my arms and the raspy nylon dug into my skin, but I didn’t want to take it inside to stow it and risk Hank following me. He wasn’t much good at taking hints . . . witness all the hints in our marriage vows about “forsaking all others” that he’d completely missed. “What about him?”
“He had a run-in with the law in Los Angeles,” he said. His eyes gleamed with that “I was right, you were wrong” look he’d perfected when we were married and used right up until the day we signed the divorced papers.
His news startled me but I didn’t want to show it. “What, a traffic ticket?”
“Worse than that.” He paused, looking at me to gauge my reaction.
I refused to play his game and merely waited for him to speak, even though curiosity pricked at me.
“The ATF stormed his house,” Hank announced.
Ye gods. I wouldn’t have expected something like that. Maybe a little pot or something, but not a SWAT-unit-breaks-down-your-door type of offense. “What were they after?” I couldn’t resist asking.
He kicked at a fire ant hill, rousing the inhabitants to fury as they swarmed over the toe of his boot. “I dunno,” he admitted. “The file is sealed, but a buddy of mine was on patrol the night it went down.”
“So, Glen wasn’t arrested and didn’t end up in court or anything?”
“Just because we don’t have access to the details doesn’t mean something criminal didn’t go down,” Hank said hotly. “Damn it, Grace, can’t you see that the guy is no good? If the cops didn’t have something on him, why’d he leave LA and come here? Damn it!” The last exclamation was directed at the fire ants, not me, as Hank hopped around, slapping at his ankle.
“Who wouldn’t want to leave LA, given an option?” I asked.
Althea’s old LTD pulled up before Hank could answer, and she and my mom got out. “Hank Parker, if that’s your idea of a rain dance, I think you’ll find it’s unnecessary,” Althea said as Hank almost tumbled over trying to stop an ant that had apparently climbed up his shin.
“Fire ants,” I explained.
“These fu—These buggers sting,” he hollered.
I bit back a smile at the sight of him dancing around in his uniform, trying to simultaneously peel his sock down and smack the ants.
Althea shook her head. “That boy was born and raised here—you’d think he’d know better than to go stirring up a fire ant nest, which I’ll bet my last dollar he did.”
“I’ll get some calamine,” Mom said, disappearing around the corner of the house.
Hank had smushed the last ant and was sitting on the curb by his patrol car, one pant leg hiked above his knee, displaying large red welts on his hairy calf, when Mom returned with the calamine bottle.
“You could kiss ’em and make ’em all better, sugar,” he said to me with a smirk.
Eew.
“You want I should call the EMTs, have them come check you out, Hank?” Althea asked with spurious concern. “Doesn’t that look like an allergic reaction to you, Vi?”
The bites were red and painful looking, but I didn’t think Hank was in any danger of anaphylactic shock. Althea was just threatening to embarrass him in front of his cop buddies if he didn’t behave. Ant bites didn’t rank with a bullet hole when telling wounded-in-the-line-of-duty stories at the bar.
“Just give me the lotion,” he mumbled, holding out his hand. After using a cotton ball to dab pink dots of calamine on the bites, he rolled down his pant leg, muttered, “Thanks, Vi,” and got back in his patrol car.
“What was he doing here, anyway?” Mom asked as we watched him drive down the street.
I told them what Hank had said about Glen Spaatz. Mom pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. “I don’t suppose there’s any way Braden could have known something about Mr. Spaatz that he wouldn’t want spread around the school? That might even have cost him his job?” she asked.
Althea and I stared at her. I liked Glen and didn’t want to visualize him pushing Braden or pressing down on his face with a pillow, but what Mom said made sense. Except, how could Braden have learned something about Glen that Hank, a cop, couldn’t dig up? The whole thing made my head hurt.
RACHEL BROUGHT ANOTHER SEVEN LOCKS OF LOVE girls to the salon after school let out. I cut and styled on autopilot, thinking through what I’d learned about Braden’s death. It saddened me to think that there would be so many suspects in the murder of a high schooler. Lonnie could have done it, either as revenge for Braden testifying against his brother or to become the starting wide receiver. It was almost incomprehensible to me that someone would kill for such a reason, but I’d seen reports of people killing for high-end tennis shoes or because someone walked on their lawn, so I knew it was possible. If Mark’s dad was an abuser, would he kill to keep that abuse a secret? Could that be what Braden had meant when he talked about needing to “intervene”? Very possibly. I could see where a sensitive kid like Braden would want to intervene to protect his friend. And then there was Dr. Solomon. What if Braden knew something about the Relamin study that would cost the doctor or the pharmaceutical company money? Or their reputation? And how could he “intervene” in such a case? Maybe he’d confronted the doctor, or threatened to go to the media.
“It’s really short, isn’t it?”
The girl in my chair, a plump sophomore with auburn hair, recalled me from my thoughts. She peered at her reflection unhappily. Per her request, I’d kept her hair as long as possible, but it still barely grazed the bottom of her ears after I’d taken the ten inches required by Locks of Love.
“It’s for a great cause,” I reminded her. “Look, how about if we part it on the side, like this”—I made a deep part on the left—“and sweep the bangs across.”
“That’s better,” she said, tilting her head this way and that to see the effect. “But it’s still really short.”
“It’ll grow back,” I promised. “Think how much easier it’ll be to take care of. You can sleep an extra twenty minutes every morning instead of getting up to use the curling iron.” I hated it when clients weren’t happy with their hair.
Her freckled face brightened. “That’s true. And it was worth it.” She sat still while I blew hair off the cape with the dryer and then she bounded away like a prisoner being paroled.
Mom was determined to keep the salon open until the normal closing time, despite the lack of customers, but she told me to go ahead when I said I wanted to track down Lonnie Farber.
“I’ll go with you,” Althea said, surprising me. When I looked a question at her, she added, “I know that boy’s aunt Loretta—she’s raising him—and that trailer park they live in is in a rough area. You don’t want to go there on your own, baby-girl.” She tucked her purse under her arm and said, “I’ll drive.”
I shot Mom a look—Althea drove like a moonshiner evading the law—but she just smiled and shrugged. Reluctantly, I followed Althea to her LTD. Once maroon, it had faded to an ugly pink. Getting in, I buckled my seat belt as Althea reversed out of the narrow driveway at Mach speed. She headed to the south side of St. Elizabeth, past the new housing development where quite a few navy families lived, and turned onto a sand and gravel driveway where a rickety sign proclaimed “Green Acres.” I didn’t know if it was a joke about the TV show or not, but I had trouble picturing Eva Gabor living in one of the dilapidated trailers that came into view as we rounded a corner. Although Arnold the pig would have felt right at home.
Twelve or so trailer homes in gray, white, and tan were planted higgledy-piggledy around the clearing, with one hot pink trailer standing out like a wedding guest at a wake. I guessed there wasn’t much in the way of HOA restrictions. Rusty old beaters squatted in front of a couple of the mobile homes. Several of the trailers looked deserted—not surprising with a hurricane bearing down. Hurricanes sometimes spawned tornados, which seemed to have a special affinity for trailer parks. Live oak trees created an almost solid canopy overhead, even at this time of year, and dripped with Spanish moss. A layer of browned leaves and acorns almost obscured the scraggly grass. Getting out of the car, I avoided a shallow, muddy ditch where tiny crabs scuttled for cover.
“Over there.” Althea pointed to a trailer that wasn’t quite as rundown as some of the others. Clay pots filled with bronzy mums stood on either side of the metal steps leading to the front door, and cheery red and white curtains hung in the windows. A new red pickup with jazzy hubcaps and a tool box fastened in the bed didn’t seem to fit with the rundown surroundings.