Die Job

by Lila Dare

  “You failed at the hospital,” Dillon said, leaning into Lindsay’s space.

  “I didn’t!” she blurted. “The lines on the machines went flat. His—” She cut herself off as if suddenly realizing what she was admitting.

  “The nurse revived him,” Dillon said. “That’s the only reason you were able to get away. By the time they had him stabilized and the nurse was able to describe you, you were long gone.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lindsay said. Her hand clawed through her wet hair, and I thought she was going to yank a section out.

  “We’ll have a search warrant for your house as soon as I can get hold of a judge,” Dillon said. “What do you want to bet we find a werewolf costume in your closet or under your bed? And it will have Braden McCullers’ DNA on it.”

  “You won’t,” Lindsay said with a triumphant smile. “I’ve never had a werewolf costume. I went as a genie to Ari’s party. Ask Mark. Or Ari or anyone.”

  Dillon didn’t look perturbed, although I thought Lindsay’s confidence meant she’d gotten rid of the costume, maybe in a Dumpster in Brunswick, even, where the cops would never find it.

  “And if we don’t find the costume, I suspect we’ll find someone who remembers selling it to you.” His voice was still conversational, his posture relaxed, but his gaze never left Lindsay’s face. “You stand out—tall, beautiful, young—the clerk will remember you.”

  Lindsay looked suddenly less confident. Smothering Braden in the hospital had all been too last minute; I could read in her face that she hadn’t thought to get the costume in Jacksonville or somewhere she wouldn’t be noticed. “I love Mark,” she said. “More than anything in this world.” Her voice throbbed with passion and I believed her.

  “And you tried to kill Braden because he was trying to split you up. He was going to make sure Mark didn’t go to Annapolis.”

  “He had no right!” Lindsay burst out. “He said he was worried about Mark, worried the pressure would get to him and he’d try to kill himself. But I make Mark happy. I do! As long as we’re together, he wouldn’t—” A sob choked off her words and quickly turned to a crying jag that had tears and snot running down her face and her breath coming in gasps. I spied a box of tissues on an antique writing desk and handed them to her silently. She flung the box at me and wiped her nose defiantly on her sleeve as her sobs turned into hiccups. “I want—hic—a lawyer.” Hic. Hic.

  Agent Dillon nodded and made a show of turning off his recorder and slipping it back into his pocket. “That’s your right. I’m afraid you won’t be able to get one until the hurricane lets up a bit, though. C’mon.”

  He prodded Lindsay to her feet and guided her through the door I opened. We emerged into the foyer to see Avaline, still garbed in the white dress, talking to Cyril. Only now Cyril had mahogany-colored hair poking through a net that held it close to his scalp and his face was half natural looking as he rubbed off white makeup with a towelette of some kind. He still wore his mid-nineteenth-century clothes but had pulled off the boots and was padding around in navy argyle socks.

  “. . . a full size too small,” he said, nodding at the discarded boots, which lay near the bottom of the stairs.

  “Really, Bruce, it’s not like we had a lot of time to do wardrobe,” Avaline said, dismissing his complaint with an airy wave of her hand. She swanned toward Dillon with a sultry smile. “Happy?”

  He nodded briefly. “I think we got the outcome we were hoping for.”

  “We make a great team,” Avaline said, leaning forward to plant a red kiss on his cheek. Laughing, she rubbed at it with her thumb.

  I turned my back on the nauseating scene. “You were great,” I told the actor. “I don’t know how you did it on such short notice.”

  “Thanks.” He beamed. “I always had a flair for improv. Scripts are just too confining.”

  “It was a trick?” Astonishment had startled Lindsay’s hiccups out of her. “You’re not really—?”

  “A ghost?” Bruce laughed. “Not me, darling. Not for a good many more years, God willing.” He knocked on the wooden banister.

  If looks could kill, Lindsay’s glare would have turned him into a ghost on the spot.

  “I’ve got to tell Mom and Althea,” I told Dillon, who had extricated himself from Avaline’s clutches and was signaling to Officer Qualls to come take Lindsay off his hands. Residual anger bubbled up. “How could you?”

  “Lie about McCullers being dead?”

  “Yes! I blamed myself. I felt horribly guilty. And Rachel! How could you?”

  “I’m not going to apologize for trying to save the kid’s life, Grace. It was obvious the murderer was going to keep trying until she succeeded. We picked the easiest and most effective way of stopping her. His parents went along with it.”

  “You could have told me.”

  Dillon looked at me and slowly shook his head. “No. Not anyone.”

  I bit my lower lip. “I’m going to find Mom and Althea.”

  He nodded. “You can tell them Braden is at a specialized facility outside of Atlanta. He regained consciousness yesterday and the doctors are hopeful that there won’t be any permanent damage.”

  Despite my anger and hurt, a bubble of light floated up inside me and I almost ran down the hall to Lucy’s office, where I shared the wonderful news with my mom and Althea. Tears moistened Mom’s eyes when I finished, and Althea said, “Well, thank the good Lord.”

  “We’ve got to tell Rachel,” I said.

  “Her folks picked her up just before the hurricane got nasty,” Mom said. “Call her.”

  I did, using the land line on Lucy’s desk when my cell wouldn’t connect. Rachel gasped when I told her that Braden was still alive and asked me, “Are you sure?” three times before seeming to accept my news with tears and laughter. “I’m going to see him, like, now,” she announced.

  “Better wait until the hurricane peters out,” I said as her mom’s voice in the background said, “You’re not going anywhere in this weather, young lady.”

  Hanging up, I sobered a bit as I related Lindsay’s story to Mom, Althea, and Lucy. “She didn’t exactly admit to trying to kill Braden,” I finished, “but I think the cops will be able to dig up the evidence now that they know where to look. And, of course, there’s always Braden’s testimony.”

  “Hallelujah,” Althea said. “C’mon, Vi. I’m hungry. Let’s go see if those TV folk packed anything to eat. I know I saw a cooler.” She dragged Mom into the hall, leaving me with Lucy.

  “The important thing is that Cyril’s been cleared,” Lucy said, folding her hands primly on her desk. “As if a Rothmere would be guilty of murder. Why, they’re a family that’s always known the meaning of the word ‘honorable.’ ”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” I said. I told her what Stuart Varnet had said about Cyril and maybe Clarissa being victims of poisoning.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Lucy said, affronted. “Everyone knows Cyril died after falling down the stairs, and Clarissa died in childbirth five years after she married Quentin Dodd.”

  The news broke over me like one of the waves that had smashed me to the sea floor earlier in the week. The air left my lungs and a sharp stab of sadness felt like a sword in my ribcage. I had so hoped that Clarissa had lived a long life and died in her eighties or nineties, surrounded by children and grandchildren. The news that she’d died so young almost brought tears to my eyes. I blinked rapidly.

  Lucy watched me not unsympathetically. “You get attached sometimes,” she said simply.

  I just nodded, feeling foolish. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Stuart says they would know for sure if they had a hair or fingernail sample to work with.”

  Lucy hesitated, her lips working. Finally, she said in the voice of one goaded beyond endurance. “We do. For Cyril anyway. The funerary hair art, remember?”

  “Would you—?” I hardly dared ask her to allow me to send a sample to Stuart for
testing.

  “Not if they have to cut it up or dissolve it or—”

  “He said he could run the test on one hair.” I plucked a single strand from my head and waved the delicate filament at her. “One.”

  Calculation gleamed in her eyes. “I suppose it would be okay . . . if you agree to be a docent.”

  “How often would I have to be here?”

  “Maybe a couple days a month?” Lucy said. Her hand went to the cameo at her neck, and I wondered if she were regretting the offer.

  I’d found reading the old letters and learning about Clarissa amazingly interesting. It might be fun to learn more about the history of this area and the Rothmeres. Mind you, I didn’t want to turn into Lucy, half convinced I was a Rothmere, or even Mom’s beau Walter Highsmith, who spent weekends reenacting Civil War battles, but it wouldn’t hurt to become more familiar with the rhythms of plantation life that had shaped St. Elizabeth society and culture. Maybe I’d start by looking up Althea’s great-whatever-granny Matilda.

  “Deal,” I said, surprising Lucy and myself.

  I LEFT LUCY IN HER OFFICE AND WANDERED BACK TO the main hall. Laughter came from the dining room down the hall, and I figured Mom and Althea had hooked up with the television people. I didn’t see Agent Dillon and I wondered where Hank had sequestered Mark and his father and where Hank’s partner had taken Lindsay. The hurricane still raged outside, rain swishing against the weathered oak boards of the house, and wind ricocheting through the tree limbs, down the chimneys, and against the windows. Carefully avoiding the cables that still crisscrossed the foyer and trailed up the stairs, I mounted the staircase, drawn to the portrait of Cyril and his family.

  Before I reached the landing, a shout came from above me. “She’s gone! Agent Dillon, the Tandy girl escaped.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  SUDDENLY DILLON WAS BESIDE ME AND WE CHARGED up the stairs. Up here, closer to the roof, the rain sounded louder, pounding like a million woodpeckers trying to drill through the slate. I followed Dillon as he ran down the hall toward the distraught officer. Medium height with strong biceps swelling the short sleeves of her blue uniform, Officer Ally Qualls had short dark hair and wore a guilt-ridden expression.

  “She needed to go to the bathroom, sir,” Officer Qualls said as Dillon slid to a halt. “I didn’t think—It’s a hurricane! She climbed out the window.”

  “Damn it,” Dillon said forcefully. “She could die out there. Those slate tiles have got to be slicker than ice with all the rain, and the winds . . .”

  “I know, sir. I’m sorry. I should have gone in with her.” The cop met Dillon’s gaze for a moment, then let her head droop.

  Dillon didn’t waste time chewing her out. “Find Parker. Have him meet me outside. We’ll scan the roof, see if we can find the girl. You call the fire department and see if they can get a ladder truck out here. If they’re tied up with storm emergencies, call a tree-trimming company—anyone who might have a cherry picker we could use to retrieve the girl from the roof.”

  Officer Qualls was already contacting the dispatcher as Dillon wheeled and thudded down the stairs. His foot caught on one of the cables and he lurched forward, grabbing the handrail. I followed him, stepping into the foyer as he wrenched open the front door and wind gusted in. Our eyes met for a moment as he turned to heave the door closed, and I said, “Be careful.” I couldn’t tell if he heard me.

  Knowing Officer Qualls was still upstairs, I ran from room to room calling for Hank until I found him in what must have been a music room, keeping watch over the Crenshaws. An antique piano held pride of place in the room, with a harp backed into a corner.

  “Dillon needs you,” I gasped. “Lindsay . . . roof.”

  Hank didn’t hesitate and I had to admit he wasn’t a coward. Directing a terse, “Stay put,” at Mark and his dad, Hank strode from the room. I heard the door open and slam shut again and felt the draft from the wind, even thirty yards away from the entrance.

  I turned to go, but Mark’s hand on my arm stopped me. “What’s happened?” he asked, his dark eyes searching mine. “What’s happened to Lindsay?”

  “She escaped,” I said. “Out a second-story window.”

  “Oh my God,” Eric Crenshaw said. He rose from the chair he’d been sitting on and put an arm around Mark’s shoulders. “She’ll be okay, son.”

  Mark shot him an incredulous look. “There’s a hurricane out there, in case you hadn’t noticed. She will not be ‘okay’ unless we can get her down.”

  “There’s nothing you can do,” Crenshaw said. “Officer Parker told us to stay here.”

  “Screw that.” Mark pushed past me and into the hall.

  I caught up with him as he started up the stairs toward a startled Officer Qualls, who was still on the phone. “I know there’s flooding,” she was saying, “but this is a police emergency.”

  The response obviously angered her because she flipped the phone closed sharply and faced Mark with her holster unsnapped. “Back off.”

  Mark raised his hands to shoulder height, placatingly. “I just want to see where she went.”

  Officer Qualls exchanged a look with me and then shrugged. “The bathroom down here.” She led the way past a couple of bedrooms to a small bathroom on the north side of the house. A toilet with a wooden seat and water tank above it, a sink with chipped porcelain, and a claw-footed tub sat surrounded by mildewed aqua tiles, someone’s unfortunate remodeling job, which the Rothmere Trust hadn’t been able to return to period authenticity yet. Although, I wasn’t sure what “authentic” meant in terms of nineteenth-century toilets. An outhouse? A hole in a bench? When had flush toilets become a standard-issue item in upper-class houses?

  Mark lunged toward the window and struggled to push the sash up, breaking my pointless train of thought. Wind drove rain at us and I gasped at the hurricane’s fury in the confined space. Officer Qualls grabbed at Mark, her hand snagging in his belt, as if afraid he were going to follow Lindsay out the window. “I’m only looking,” he said with an impatient glance over his shoulder.

  Having learned her lesson, Officer Qualls kept her hold on him as he stuck his head and shoulders out the window, craning his neck first left and then right. He pulled his head back in, like a turtle ducking into its shell, and looked at us with worried eyes. Water dripped from his brows and eyelashes. “I don’t see her. Do you think she fell?” Water slid off his bald head and spattered on the floor. I handed him a dingy towel from a ring by the sink and he swabbed it over his head and neck.

  “They’d’ve found her if she fell,” Officer Qualls said pragmatically.

  “How could she be so stupid?” Mark cried, turning to stare out the window again. The lightning had moved past us and flickered from farther north, illuminating billowing clouds. The wind still blew with the force of the Atlantic behind it, and I didn’t know how anyone could cling to the roof for a minute, never mind the ten or so minutes that Lindsay had now been out there.

  A thought came to me. Lindsay wasn’t stupid. Desperate, yes; stupid, no. Even if she’d clambered out the window impulsively, seizing the opportunity to escape without planning for it, mere seconds on the roof must have convinced her she couldn’t make it to the ground. Not in this weather. Not with climbing handholds like gutters slicked with rain. She might have lodged herself someplace relatively secure, like against a chimney, and planned to ride out the storm, or . . .

  I slipped out of the bathroom, unnoticed by Mark and Officer Qualls, and made my way down to the next room on the same side of the hall. A bedroom. Bare. Window closed. The next room down was the room where Glen and I had found Lindsay’s sheet. I pushed the door and it yielded with a whine. Cautiously, I poked my head into the room. Nothing looked different. The bed with the rag doll sat undisturbed. The window was closed. The armoire was closed. I turned to leave, wondering if I’d guessed wrong, when something caught my eye. A footprint. A wet footprint in the middle of the rag
rug by the bed. My gaze drifted to the armoire, the only hiding place in the room. Should I leave to summon Officer Qualls and risk having Lindsay escape to the roof again, or should I talk to the girl and convince her to turn herself in?

  I compromised. Tiptoeing to the armoire, I leaned my back against it, bracing myself, and yelled, “Officer Qualls! Ally! She’s in here.”

  The doors bucked, bruising my back and behind. Running footsteps pounded down the hall. “In here,” I called as the doors banged against me with such force I went flying onto my hands and knees. Dang. I really needed to work out more. Looking over my shoulder, I saw that Lindsay had braced herself against the back of the armoire, drawn her knees to her chest, and exploded her legs against the doors. Now, she tumbled from the armoire, arms and legs sprawling, but quickly leaped to her feet. She turned toward the bedroom door, hesitated as the footsteps drew nearer, then lurched toward the window.

  “Don’t!” I shouted. Unable to get much purchase on the smooth wood floor, I flung myself sideways toward Lindsay, stretching an arm out as she threw up the window sash. My hand snagged around her ankle.

  “Let me go!” She kicked out at me, like a mail carrier trying to detach a Rottweiler from her leg. Her foot connected with my jaw, and my teeth snapped together with a crunch that reverberated up through my temples and down my neck. I felt my hand slipping off her ankle and clutched desperately at the hem of her jeans.

  “Let go. I will stomp you like that squirrel, you nosy bitch.” She raised her foot and aimed at my face. I rolled but still caught a blow on my cheek that made me see stars.

  The door burst open and suddenly a crowd of people—Mark, Officer Qualls, Dillon, Hank—surged into the room. Mark rushed to Lindsay and grabbed her around the waist. She strained against him for a moment, then collapsed into his arms, sobbing. I flopped onto my back, dazed and bruised, happy to lie still.