Die Job

by Lila Dare

  “Live?” She sounded doubtful.

  “Live,” he affirmed, nodding quickly. He spread his hands expansively and a diamond ring sparked on his pinkie. “We’ll have the spirit and the hurricane, just like in 1831 when Cyril moved on. And we can hire reenactors to play his wife and the party guests.”

  “But, Les, you know the spirits don’t always respond to my overtures immediately,” Avaline said with a sidelong glance at me.

  Studying a portrait on the wall, I pretended not to be listening. Despite myself, I was marginally interested. I’d never thought about it, but I supposed you couldn’t whistle for a ghost like you could for a dog. Could you lure it with . . . what? A ghost wouldn’t have much use for food or money or a complete set of Ginsu steak knives. Maybe ghosts could be tempted with promises of fame or a desire to accuse their murderers.

  “Not a problem,” Les said. “We can pad the show if we have to, or maybe make it a two-parter. You know the ratings need a boost, darling, and doing it live—”

  They moved toward the front entryway, out of earshot, and I wondered if Les was the show’s producer, who could make problems disappear by applying a little cash. I didn’t envy them trying to film the show during a hurricane and wondered if they had any idea how loud a hurricane was. When Dillon hadn’t appeared after a couple of minutes, I made my way back to the foyer—Avaline and Les were nowhere in sight—and stepped over cables to climb the stairs. The cameraman was gone from the landing and I headed down the hall toward the portrait gallery. Stopping in front of the painting Lucy had shown the high schoolers, I studied Clarissa Rothmere’s painted likeness. She looked happy in this picture, one arm around the waist of a taller, plumper girl seated beside her—an older sister, surely—and the other stroking the head of a spaniel with its paws on her knee. She gazed out at me without a shadow of self-consciousness or worry, and I wondered what had happened to turn this carefree girl into the anxious, sickly writer whose seemingly privileged life was a veneer over the rot of murder, adultery, and greed, just like some of the South’s historic mansions were no more than wooden shells hollowed by termites, weather, and Union bullets.

  “Friends of yours?”

  Dillon’s voice came from behind me and I turned with a half smile. He stood a couple of paces away, hands crossed over his chest, gaze fixed on the painting. “Sort of.” I explained about my interest in Clarissa.

  Dillon moved closer to study the painting and his shoulder brushed mine. “She looks like a nice kid,” he observed. “This guy, though”—he pointed to a blond young man with a narrow face—“looks like a weasel.”

  I laughed. “Maybe that’s the brother who was in debt, the one Clarissa is afraid killed their father.”

  “My money’s on the wife,” Dillon said. “She’s got that unsatisfied look that means trouble. Ever looked at a portrait of Henry the Eighth? Or Marie Antoinette? They had the same look. You can probably find it in cave paintings, too, for all I know. The ‘I want more’ look you see on the faces of shoppers at the mall.”

  “Wow, you’re almost as good as Ms. Van Tassel,” I said. “Maybe you could get your own show—The Portrait Whisperer.”

  “TV’s not for me,” he said shortly.

  “Why not?”

  He eyed me for a long moment and then said, “I don’t trust reporters.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because getting the story first is more important to most of ’em than getting the facts straight or keeping a murderer behind bars.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a hypothetical situation.”

  “It’s not. It wasn’t.” Before I could probe for more details, he took a step forward, and he gently touched the abraded spot on my cheekbone. “Should I be asking what the other guy looks like?”

  His touch confused me and I didn’t want to talk about my dip in the Atlantic. Resisting the impulse to turn my face into his palm, I stepped back and his hand fell to his side. “Grace, zero. Ocean, one,” I said lightly. At his questioning frown, I gave him an abbreviated version of my morning’s swim. His brows arched toward his hairline, but I distracted him by recounting the story of Althea’s and my trip to the trailer park and our almost run-in with Lonnie. I downplayed the car chase, making it sound like nothing more than a Sunday drive down a shady lane, but he was still frowning by the time I got to the gun.

  “Lonnie pulled a gun on you?” Anger and something else vibrated in his voice.

  “Well, I’m not sure he knew it was Althea and me,” I said, “and he didn’t point it at us or anything. In fact”—I visualized the scene in my head—“he seemed scared. Frightened of something. And I don’t know why Althea or I would frighten him.” The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that Lonnie hadn’t realized who was trailing him.

  Dillon flipped open his cell phone and issued an order to someone to pick up Alonso Farber for questioning. “He’s armed,” he said into the phone. “Let me know when you’ve got him.” He hung up and concentrated on me again. “You’ve had a busy day.” His tone didn’t lead me to think it was a compliment. “Anything else I should know?”

  “Well . . .” I relayed what Hank had said about Glen Spaatz and what Mark had said about Braden’s involvement with the Relamin study.

  Dillon received the news impassively and I couldn’t tell what he thought.

  “Could Braden have been a threat to the pharmaceutical company somehow?” I asked.

  “I think you’ve been watching too many whistle-blower movies,” he said.

  “I guess I’d rather have Braden’s killer be a faceless corporation than some kid that Rachel goes to school with,” I said. I hadn’t realized it before, but it was true.

  “That’s understandable.”

  I hesitated for a moment, on the brink of mentioning my concern about Mark Crenshaw, but drew back.

  “What?” Dillon asked, clearly sensing my indecision. “You’d better tell me.”

  I shook my head, my hair whisking against my cheek. “No. It’s nothing.” I couldn’t justify siccing the police on Mark’s father with no more than an easily explained bruise and vague suspicions to go on. Maybe I could find an opportunity to talk with Captain Crenshaw myself and get a feel for the man. Or maybe I should approach Mrs. Crenshaw. To distract Dillon, who was looking at me with one brow quirked, I asked, “Where do you send Groucho when there’s a hurricane?” Groucho was his horse, a big black brute I’d only seen in photos.

  “A woman I know owns a boarding farm a couple hours northwest of here,” he said. “I had Groucho taken up there a couple days ago.”

  Conjuring an image of a svelte blonde in jodhpurs and riding boots, I suppressed a completely unreasonable sting of jealousy at the phrase “a woman I know.” “That’s good,” I said lamely. “I suppose he’s not used to hurricanes.”

  “Nope. They’re few and far between in Wisconsin.”

  I was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to hear all about his life in Wisconsin, his life before he arrived in Georgia. I realized I didn’t know if he had been married before, if he had siblings or children, or what he liked to do in his off time, other than hang out with Groucho. “What—” I started.

  Dillon’s phone rang. He answered it, raising one finger in a “hold that thought” gesture. “I’m on my way,” he said into the phone. “I’ve got to go,” he told me as he ended the call. “We’re still on for Friday?”

  “Barring hurricane intervention.”

  He grinned and strode away. I listened to his steps as he ran down the stairs and started thinking about what to wear Friday night. Maybe my halter-top dress with the leaf design. But that wouldn’t work if it was chilly in the aftermath of the hurricane. Possibly the blue . . .

  A creaking sound, like someone stepping on a loose floorboard, pulled me out of my thoughts. Looking over my shoulder, I saw no one, just Clarissa and Cyril and the rest of the Rothmere family gazing at me from the oil painting. Was there a new
urgency in Clarissa’s expression? I leaned closer to the painting and touched a finger to the painted fabric of Clarissa’s yellow gown, almost expecting the feel of silk under my fingertip. But the hundred-and-fifty-year-old paint was rough and dry. Too much talk of ghosts and spirit whisperers was getting to me. Or maybe it was the falling barometer making me feel so strange. Another almost creak—more a sigh of air compressed between two boards—goosed me out of the portrait gallery and closer to the stairs. Old houses make noises, I told myself, looking over my shoulder toward the shadowy passage that led out of the gallery in the other direction. And this house was full of people—cameramen and other people involved in Avaline’s show. Creaks and squeaks were nothing to worry about.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as I reached the stairs and began descending them. Sunlight, muted by clouds, streamed into the foyer from the open door. It felt welcoming after the stingy light in the upstairs hall. At the bottom of the stairs, under the magnificent chandelier, Avaline stood talking to a woman who looked vaguely familiar. She turned as I stepped into the marbled entryway and I recognized the other chaperone from the field trip, Dr. Solomon. Dark brows arched toward the widow’s peak, and she looked as startled to see me as I was to see her.

  The lines in her brow smoothed out as I approached. “Grace, right?” she said, extending her hand. “I guess you’re here for an interview about that night, too.”

  I shook her hand, noting the somewhat stubby fingers with their bare nails filed short. The rest of her look was equally no-nonsense: smooth, olive-toned skin free of makeup; hair pulled back into a low ponytail like on Saturday; deep-set brown eyes and a wide mouth that pulled down a tad at the corners. I could definitely envision her in a white lab coat rather than the navy slacks and pinstriped oxford blouse she wore with a cardigan knotted around her neck.

  “We haven’t talked her into it yet,” Avaline said, tossing back her mane of black hair. “Maybe you can convince her it won’t be painful, Tasha.” She laughed, and with a glance at her watch, excused herself, disappearing down the hall toward Lucy’s office.

  “I’d guess it will be more painful for you than it would be for me,” I said, taking the opening Avaline had unwittingly supplied. “I mean, you knew Braden so much better than I did.”

  Tasha Solomon drew in a fast breath, nostrils flaring wide. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you worked with him in that drug study, didn’t you?” I said innocently. “I’d only met him a couple of times with Rachel.”

  A technician walked past us, unwinding cable from a big spool and I stepped aside. Tasha Solomon didn’t move.

  “Ah.” She seemed to be thinking. “Who told you about the drug study?” Her eyes, hooded under heavy lids, watched me closely. “Not that I can confirm whether or not Braden McCullers was taking part.”

  “I heard it from one of his friends,” I said, deliberately vague. “I guess there was some talk that maybe the drug made him light-headed or dizzy.”

  “That’s bullshit,” she said, thrusting her face forward pugnaciously. “Relamin is a miracle drug. It’s going to make a huge difference in the lives of thousands of people trying to cope with depression. It’s—” She cut herself off. “Why am I explaining this to you?” She hefted her purse higher on her shoulder, preparing to leave.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” I said, a little startled by the severity of her reaction.

  “No, I’m sorry for blowing up at you,” she said. Some of the tension eased out of her shoulders. “This whole thing with Braden has made me a little edgy. He was a good kid and it’s just awful to think that someone would want to kill him. Ari—my daughter—spent a whole day in bed when she heard. Look, I’ve got an appointment.”

  “I’ve played over that night so often in my head,” I said, falling into step with her as she moved through the door and out onto the steps. “I keep thinking that I might have seen or heard something useful, but if I did, I don’t know what it was. Did you see anything?”

  “I was in the museum most of the evening, with Ari and Rudy.”

  “So you were all together the whole evening? Even when the fireworks started?” I hadn’t seen her when I wandered into the museum.

  Her tongue poked a tent in her cheek as we crunched across the gravel parking lot to her car, a white Volvo sedan. “Well, I guess each of us went to the bathroom at some point. And the kids went to check in with some of their friends. You know how kids are!” She laughed and fitted a key into the Volvo’s lock. “I don’t think any of them took the ghost-hunting thing too seriously. And who can blame them?” She arched her brows, inviting me to share her amusement at such an unscientific assignment.

  “Not me,” I agreed. I dragged the conversation back to the drug study as she slid onto the front seat. “Can you give me a ballpark figure for how much a drug like Relamin would be worth if it gets on the market?”

  She scowled. “I don’t have anything to do with marketing or accounting.”

  “What’s your best guess?”

  Turning the key in the ignition, she said, “Five hundred, maybe?”

  I felt let down. Half a million wouldn’t be worth killing Braden, not for a pharmaceutical company.

  “Maybe even three-quarters of a billion,” Dr. Solomon continued, “depending. And it will get approved.” She started the car forward, almost clipping me with the still-open door before she pulled it shut.

  Five hundred million, not thousand. That was real money. I stood in the small lot for a moment, the wind whipping at my hair, and speculated about what kind of money Dr. Solomon got for ensuring the drug made it through the FDA wickets. I’d bet last week’s tips that it was enough to murder for. It crossed my mind that Dr. Solomon didn’t have much of an alibi for Saturday night—although she’d freely admitted that, so maybe she was innocent?—and I wondered where she’d been on Sunday night when a werewolf-costumed murderer smothered Braden. Her daughter had hosted a Halloween party for her friends. Had Dr. Solomon been there, chaperoning again? Or had she played least in sight, trusting her daughter and her friends, or giving herself an opportunity to drive to Brunswick with no one the wiser?

  Chapter Sixteen

  I HAD JUST STARTED TOWARD MY CAR WHEN THE sound of an approaching motor brought my head around. Glen Spaatz’s Corvette cornered into the lot and came to a stop in front of me, blocking my path. Looking impossibly handsome, Glen grinned from the driver’s seat, all white teeth and crisp dark hair against a red Henley shirt. His tanned hands flexed on the leather steering wheel cover. “You’re here to find fame and fortune in Hollywood, right?” he asked through the open window.

  “Not hardly.” I was getting tired of people assuming I wanted to grab fifteen minutes of fame by letting Avaline van Tassel interview me for her show.

  “Good,” he said, surprising me. “You wouldn’t like it. You’re much too real to fit in with the Hollywood crowd.”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  He laughed. “It was a compliment. You know I tried that scene and it wasn’t for me, either. It’s the capital of fakery. Fake boobs, fake friends, fake bling, fake emotion.” A hint of bitterness colored his voice. “More fake stuff than you’d find at a drag queen contest.”

  The idea surprised a laugh out of me and his grin broadened. “Hop in,” he said, pushing open the passenger side door.

  “What?”

  “The St. Elizabeth Sabertooths’ volleyball team has a game in Kingsland tonight. I like to go to school sports events—wrestling, soccer, baseball, you name it—to support my students when I can. Since my other option for tonight is grading the pop quiz I gave today, I’m rarin’ to go to the volleyball game.”

  “But aren’t you here to do an interview for The Spirit Whisperer?” I asked. As the words left my mouth, I realized I was making the same assumption about him that had annoyed me when he made it about me.

  “Nope. I’m here to find you. Your mom told me you were here.”

&nb
sp; “Me? Why?”

  “Because you’re beautiful and fun and I enjoy your company.”

  “Oh.” His flattery and the look in his eyes took me aback.

  “Coming?”

  “My car—”

  “I’ll drop you back here to pick it up when we get back from the game,” he promised.

  Why not? I moved around the front of the Vette and climbed in.

  THE CROWD IN THE CAMDEN COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL gym in Kingsland was sparse, maybe because of Horatio and maybe because women’s volleyball wasn’t on a par with men’s basketball when it came to filling the bleachers. The first game had already started when we arrived and cries of “Mine!” mingled with the thud of the ball, the ref’s whistle, and cheers and groans from parents and a handful of students. Glen and I found a spot halfway up on the right-most section of risers and sat. The ridged metal was cold and I shifted to get comfortable, accidentally bumping Glen’s thigh with my leg. Principal Kornhiser sat just behind the volleyball team’s bench, wearing a yellow shirt printed with purple palm trees. He caught my eye and waved.

  “Now, he’d fit right in in Hollyweird,” Glen whispered into my ear, returning Kornhiser’s wave.

  “Are you saying he’s a fake?” I asked.

  “And how,” Glen said. “He’s all ‘good karma’ and ‘I’ve got your back’ to your face, but he’ll throw you to the wolves to preserve his and the school’s reputation.”

  Protecting the school’s reputation didn’t sound so hideous to me, and I wondered if Glen was getting some backlash about the ghost-hunting fiasco.

  I spotted Lindsay Tandy on the court immediately; she was half a head taller than all but one of her teammates. She waited for the serve, arms extended, knees bent, a look of fierce concentration on her face. The ball sailed over the net with terrific force and a blond girl got the dig, going down on her padded knees to do it. The ball popped up and another player moved into position to set it with her fingertips, floating it high and just a foot inside the net. Lindsay bounded up and smacked the ball down into the opponents’ court, palm rigid and feet four inches off the floor.