Die Job

by Lila Dare

  I’d missed part of what he was saying, but tuned back in in time to hear my name.

  “. . . Grace Terhune of Violetta’s salon.”

  I crossed the stage toward him, embarrassed by the attention. I’d never been much of one for the limelight, and the kids’ stares unnerved me. “Who’s my first victim—I mean customer?” I asked when I got to where Merle stood. I held up the razor and let it buzz. A chuckle ran through the audience and I immediately felt more comfortable. I scanned the faces in the audience and spotted Rachel, looking less animated than usual, and Glen Spaatz, leaning against a wall toward the back with a couple of other teachers, arms crossed over his chest. Was it my imagination, or was he glaring at me? His handsome face was set, his lips thinned, his brows drawn together.

  I didn’t have time to worry about it as Josh Washington, a short black teen with a six-inch Afro, bounced onto the stage, mugging for his buddies. He finally settled on the stool. “Be gentle,” he said loud enough for the microphone to pick up. “It’s my first time.”

  The audience howled when I picked up my shears and cut a big chunk out of the middle of Josh’s Afro. By the time I revved the razor, the crowd was chanting, “Take it off! Take it all off!” They applauded when Josh rose after I finished, ran a hand over his smooth pate, and showed a shocked face. He gave me a big hug, surprising me, before rejoining his friends in the audience.

  Mark Crenshaw came up next and settled onto the stool vacated by Josh. Merle handed the mike off to a student stagehand before ceremoniously helping Mark off with his letter jacket and draping a towel around his neck.

  “If you ever get tired of the principal thing, we could use you at the salon,” I told him.

  “I may come see you about a summer job,” he returned with a laugh.

  Merle was growing on me. I smiled at him and turned my attention to Mark, who looked at me under his brows with a shade of apprehension, clearly recalling the end of our last meeting. What—was he worried I’d take revenge by shaving off his ear or something? He must hang out with the wrong people.

  “It’ll grow back,” I whispered, in case his apprehension was really a reluctance to go bald. His hair was already so short that shaving it took only a few minutes. “Now, you can skip the haircut when you report to the Naval Academy,” I said to him, smiling when I finished.

  “Something else to look forward to,” he muttered, his tone an odd mix of anger and resignation. “Rules about hair, rules about uniforms, rules about walking and talking and eating and crapping. Frickin’ rules.”

  I flicked a glance at Merle to see if he’d heard, but apparently not. I didn’t know how to respond and merely whisked the towel off Mark’s shoulders as the crowd hooted. The Sabertooth mascot, a student in a moth-eaten costume with one fang hanging crooked, gamboled around the stage and escorted Mark off.

  The pep band played something brassy and the cheerleaders bounced forward for a quick routine as Merle folded down his collar and took his place on the stool, making a show of dusting it off before he sat. The high schoolers went wild, launching into their “Take it all off” chant when I picked up my scissors. I felt him wince as the blades bit into a section of hair I held taught between my fingers.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “Just my image. There it goes,” he said, watching the long, gingery strands flutter to the stage.

  “I think the kids know there’s more to you than just hair,” I said.

  He gave me a grateful smile. “Take it all off.”

  MERLE’s KNOBBY, BALD HEAD WAS A HUGE HIT WITH the crowd. He dismissed the pep rally and school with admonitions to be safe during the hurricane and with a couple of words about keeping Braden’s family in their thoughts. The fund established with the money they had raised would be called the Braden McCullers Memorial Fund, he announced to a now sober audience. Before I could escape, hoping to catch Rachel and take her for an ice cream and a chat, he touched my shoulder and asked if I’d stay for a yearbook photograph. I agreed, catching sight of Rachel’s back as she exited the auditorium with the stream of students. A serious-looking young woman with trendy blue glasses and braces took several photos of me with Merle, Mark, and Josh. A disembodied voice paged Merle over the PA system and he left with a warm handshake and a “Thank you.”

  Left alone, I descended the stairs to the right of the stage and headed up the aisle toward the hall. Pushing through the swinging doors, I caught a faint whiff of bubble gum before it was overpowered by the scent of pine cleaner coming from the mop a janitor wielded energetically outside the restrooms. A hand clamped around my upper arm and startled me.

  “I’ve got something to say to you,” Glen Spaatz said, his voice hard.

  “What is your problem?” I asked, twisting my arm free. “I don’t know what—”

  Shooting a glance at the janitor, now propping himself up with the mop and watching us avidly, he said, “In my classroom.” He started down the hall.

  After a moment’s hesitation, I followed. I didn’t like his attitude, but I was curious. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done to piss him off, so I was at a loss to explain his current mood. He turned down a side hall and then into a classroom. Entering it, I was swept back to my science classes, to the stink of chemicals and burned stuff and the “ew” factor of dissecting rubbery fetal pigs and frogs. I’d tried to get Mom to write a note excusing me from amphibian mutilation, but she’d refused. Two sinks with high arched faucets gleamed at the back of the room, and stacks of glassware occupied a long table. Largely forgotten chemical symbols decorated the blackboard. From the rotten-egg odor in the room, I’d guess today’s lesson had had something to do with sulfur.

  Glen ignored his surroundings and turned to face me as I hovered near the closed door. “I think it’s pretty low of you to get your ex-husband to check me out,” he said.

  My lower jaw literally dropped and I stared at him, open-mouthed. Before I could respond, he added, “The Gestapo tactics didn’t work in California and they’re not going to work here.” Thinning his mouth until his lips disappeared, he crossed his arms over his chest.

  “You are out of your frickin’ mind,” I said, taking a step forward in my anger. My fists clenched at my sides, my nails digging into my palms. “I didn’t put Hank up to anything. If you must know, you pissed him off so badly with that kissing stunt that he took it upon himself to look into your background. I had nothing to do with it. But from your reaction, I’d say his instincts were dead-on.”

  “You didn’t—” The merest hint of uncertainty sounded in his voice, but his whole body stayed rigid.

  “No, I didn’t. I didn’t and I wouldn’t. I hardly know you!” And I’d sure as heck lost any desire to get to know him better after his accusations. “There’s a murder investigation going on, in case you hadn’t noticed, and the police are checking into everyone who was at Rothmere Saturday night.”

  “When Agent Dillon came to interview me, he said—”

  “I don’t believe he said anything about me!”

  “No. He mentioned that he was following up on information that had come to the attention of the SEPD. I put two and two together and—”

  “And came up with a big, fat goose egg.” I made a zero with my thumb and forefinger. “Good thing you teach science and not math.”

  He snorted what might have been a laugh and gave me a rueful smile. “I’m sorry?”

  “Not enough.” I spun on my heel, the green denim skirt belling slightly around my calves, and was reaching for the doorknob when his voice stopped me.

  “Please. Let me tell you what I told Agent Dillon.”

  “Not interested.” I tried to make myself go through the door but curiosity stopped me. Okay, I was interested, not in Glen, but in what had happened in California.

  Scraping forward a chair, he sat with his arms draped over its back, facing me, and gestured for me to take another chair. I did, scooting it away from him first.

  “Your e
x might have mentioned that the ATF and the police busted down my door one day, searching for a shipment of automatic weapons an informant had told them was in my condo.”

  His eyes scanned my face, but I kept my expression noncommittal.

  “They had a search warrant and everything. Only thing was, they had the wrong address. Some moron had transposed two numbers—the gun runner they were looking for lived in the next building over.” He ran a hand through his hair and drew it across his cheek, smudging his mouth.

  “Good heavens! They must have scared you to death.” The thought of armed strangers busting into my house made me grip the chair seat.

  “You can say that again.”

  “But I don’t understand why it’s such a big secret.” Cocking my head, I said, “What’s the big deal? It was a mistake, right? They apologize and fix your door, you go back to learning lines or fixing dinner, and—”

  “I wasn’t alone.”

  I couldn’t see why that mattered, but I motioned for him to continue.

  “When the ATF broke in, I was—engaged, shall we say?—with a woman. A woman whose name is synonymous with ‘blockbuster’ and ‘Oscar nomination.’ ” He paused. “A married woman.”

  “Oh.” Ignoring an irrational ping of jealousy, I asked, “They recognized her?”

  “Of course they recognized her. Any male between the ages of four and a hundred-and-four would recognize her. She was deathly afraid it would get into the media, that her husband would find out, that it would trash her career. So I made a deal with the ATF and the LAPD. I wouldn’t sue the pants off of them for invading my home and pointing guns at me, damn near giving me cardiac arrest, and they’d make sure no one talked to the media. We signed all sorts of legal documents, nondisclosure agreements, so that’s why I don’t go around explaining why I really left California.” He hunched forward, resting his chin on the chair back and looking up at me from beneath his brows. “It’s not such a horrible secret after all, is it?”

  Not horrible enough to kill for, I wouldn’t think. For the actress, maybe, but not for Glen. And I didn’t see how Braden could possibly have known about it. “Not really, no.”

  “So, we’re okay?” There was something quizzical in the look he gave me, as if he could read my withdrawal but couldn’t figure out the reason for it. “I am sorry for jumping all over you like that.”

  “Apology accepted.” I left it at that. If his unjustified attack on me hadn’t squashed any interest I had in him, the revelation that he slept with married women was the final nail in the coffin. I stood.

  He walked me to the door and pulled it open. “Avaline and her crew are filming this evening. Are you going to watch?”

  “I don’t think so. You?”

  He nodded. “I suppose so. I’m going to wallow in melancholy and mourn my lost acting career.” He said it with enough self-deprecating humor that I laughed, but I wondered, walking through the empty halls, if there weren’t more than a kernel of truth in it.

  When I walked out the door, the wind flung a plastic grocery bag at me. I noticed Rachel waiting for me near the slot where her pink scooter was parked. “I thought you were, like, never coming out,” she said.

  “I’m glad you waited.” I hugged her. “Want to get some ice cream?”

  “Mom wants me to pick up some ice and fill our coolers. You know, in case we lose power tomorrow.”

  “I’ll drive you.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. I didn’t know how I was going to balance, like, forty pounds of ice on my scooter.”

  I laughed and drove her to a convenience store. Only one soggy bag of ice lay in the bottom of the silver insulated hut outside the store. We bought it and moved on to the Winn-Dixie, where they were completely out of ice.

  “People buy up ice before a hurricane,” the helpful clerk explained the obvious, “for if the power goes out. Otherwise, you’ve got to throw out a lot of spoilt food if Georgia Power don’t get the electricity back up quick enough. I lost a shitload of venison steaks last time.”

  Barely pausing to commiserate with the clerk, who seemed inclined to list every food item he’d lost after the last hurricane, we hustled back to the parking lot. “I’ve got an idea,” I told Rachel, and pointed the car toward Magnolia House, Vonda’s B&B. They had a commercial ice making machine and I was sure she’d give us enough ice to fill Rachel’s cooler.

  “Have you found anything out?” Rachel asked diffidently as we waited at a red light. “About Braden’s murderer, I mean?”

  Keeping my eyes on the traffic even though it was abnormally light, I told her about some of the conversations I’d had.

  “I’ve met Braden’s cousin,” Rachel volunteered when I told her about finding Catelyn at the McCullerses’ house. “She’s really nice. She’s majoring in psychology because she wants to help teens with depression and addiction problems. She got all interested in that when she visited Braden at Sandy Point.”

  “Sandy Point? Is that—?”

  “It’s the place he went to for depression counseling and stuff when he was, like, thirteen. He said it saved his life. He met with doctors and therapists and had ‘group’ and did a lot of stuff outdoors like hiking and fishing in the lake. I guess he was there for three or four months.”

  I hit the brakes and the car behind me honked before swerving around the Fiesta. I stared at Rachel. “Sandy Point is a hospital sort of place? It’s not a summer camp?”

  She shook her head. “No. Sandy Point Residential Intervention Center. It’s a place for kids and teens with depression or addictions or eating disorders and stuff. Braden told me it cost his folks over a hundred thousand a month to keep him there.”

  The unbelievable number startled me, but I let it go. I was more interested in figuring out why Mark Crenshaw had been wearing a Sandy Point tee shirt and looking very much at home on what had to be the Sandy Point campus in the photo on the McCullerses’ refrigerator.

  Chapter Nineteen

  MY BRAIN BUZZING, I DROPPED RACHEL OFF AT HER scooter after we heisted some ice from Vonda and loaded it into coolers at Rachel’s house. Still parked in the high school lot, I dialed Agent Dillon’s number and told him that Mark Crenshaw had been in a mental health facility with Braden McCullers.

  “That’s potentially interesting,” he said when I finished. “How do you know this?”

  I explained, and asked, “Can you find out if Mark was really there? And what he went there for?”

  “Maybe,” Dillon said. “Health records—especially mental health records—are notoriously hard to get. And I don’t know that we have probable cause to persuade a judge to issue a subpoena for the records. We don’t know, after all, that there’s any tie between the Crenshaw kid’s stay at Sandy Point and Braden McCullers’ murder.”

  “That’s true,” I admitted, feeling a bit deflated, “but it seems strange he wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It may be cool for adults to talk about being in therapy and paying their therapists a hundred bucks an hour to ‘analyze’ them, but I’m darned sure a high schooler would think it was as uncool as a pocket protector and a Barbie lunchbox.”

  “I had one of those.” I’d taken the lunchbox to school every day in first and second grade, gazing at Barbie in her pink ruffled evening gown as I ate my PB&J and drank the milk Mom always put in the little thermos that came with the lunchbox.

  “Mine was Batman.”

  “Of course it was.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dillon’s voice was half suspicious, half amused.

  “You just seem like a superhero kind of guy,” I said.

  “Just as long as you don’t think I hang by my heels from the ceiling and go hunting at nightfall.”

  I laughed and hung up after he thanked me for the information and told me he’d follow up. Feeling pretty darn good about having discovered something that might actually help the police, I headed for home. My good feeling evaporated o
n the way as I realized that the information might implicate Mark in Braden’s death.

  I noticed a pickup truck in Mrs. Jones’s driveway as I pulled to the curb, but I didn’t pay it much attention. My landlady had more relatives than your average rabbit—nieces and nephews and great-nieces and great-nephews and first-and second-removed whatevers—and I couldn’t possibly keep track of their vehicles. Probably just someone helping her batten down the hatches before Horatio hit. Someone moved on her veranda and I waved as I swung the car door shut.

  As I started toward my carriage house, heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs leading down from Mrs. Jones’s veranda. I turned, ready to smile and exchange greetings, to see Lonnie Farber hurrying toward me, leather jacket open over a black tee shirt and distressed blue jeans. I stood still, unable to decide if it would be smarter to try and make it into my apartment or confront him out here. I doubted I could unlock the apartment, get inside, and rebolt it before he caught me up, so I stood my ground, looking around to see if any neighbors were working in their yards or pushing strollers down the walk. I couldn’t spot a single soul on the entire block.

  “Miss Terhune. I’ve been waiting for you. Don’t you live there?” He nodded at Mrs. Jones’s house, puzzlement creasing his smooth brow. He stopped about a yard from me, feet planted a bit more than hip width, big receiver’s hands hanging at his sides. I didn’t see a gun. “You don’t gotta worry about me,” he said, correctly interpreting my look. “I’m not carrying.”

  “What do you want?”

  I couldn’t read his face as he stared down at the foot he was scuffing in a dry patch on the lawn. The black and silver training shoes he wore probably cost more than my monthly groceries. “My aunt Retta says I need to apologize to you and Miss Althea, for scaring you the other day. Even though you scared the crap outta me.”