by Jana DeLeon
But no one received her mother’s wrath like Brenda.
“Explain to me,” her mother said, “why I just saw a picture of you funneling beer at a frat party.”
Crap. Of all the things her mother might have gotten wind of, the beer funneling was the worst. Her father had been a great attorney, but he couldn’t handle the increasing stress of the job, so he’d started drinking. It had gotten so bad that her mother had divorced him last year. Shortly after the divorce, he’d lost his job and Brenda hadn’t heard from him in months. Her mother claimed she hadn’t either, but Brenda figured she was lying to protect her from knowing what was really going on. Like he was living under a bridge or even worse, with her grandparents.
“You know how I feel about alcohol,” her mother continued, “and you’re not of legal age.”
“It was just that once,” Brenda lied. “It won’t happen again.” At least the part where someone photographed her and showed it to her mother.
“You’re right about that. You’re grounded. So unless you decide to funnel Scope at home, I’ll be quite comfortable in the knowledge that you’re not going to ruin your life or worse.”
“Grounded? For how long?”
“I haven’t decided yet, but way longer than you’ll like. I wouldn’t make plans for the rest of this semester.”
“Are you kidding me? That’s months. I can’t sit in the house with you for months.”
“Unless you want to get a full-time job, move out, and pay your own way, you can and will.”
Brenda jumped up from the chair and grabbed her purse.
“I’m not done talking to you,” her mother said.
“Well, I’m done listening. I have two months to listen to everything you have to say about how I’m ruining my life. I don’t see any reason to get it all in right now.”
Brenda ran out of the office and slammed the door behind her. The other office employees looked up from their desks and a couple of them frowned, but Brenda didn’t care. As if they didn’t know what a bitch her mother was. They worked for her.
She stormed out of the building and into the quad, not stopping until she reached one of the concrete benches. She flopped down on it and let out a long-suffering sigh. Her mother had always been strict, but it had gotten worse ever since the divorce. Brenda found herself lying all the time just to do simple things that other students had no trouble doing. Like attending frat parties. Like underage drinking. Everyone did it. But Brenda couldn’t because if she took a drink, her mother was afraid she’d become a big useless asshole like her father.
For months now, Brenda had been thinking about finding a full-time job and moving out. God knows, she wasn’t accomplishing anything in school. Her grades were decent but her business administration degree wouldn’t get her more than an office job. She could get one of those now. Probably rent a tiny apartment somewhere close to the French Quarter. Maybe get a moped. Okay, so the one and only time she’d been on one hadn’t turned out that well for her, the moped, or two parked cars, but she could learn how to ride one. And it would be cheaper and easier to park than a car. Worst-case scenario, she could walk. Walking miles every day was preferable to listening to her mother bitch for even five minutes.
Brenda had been saving her babysitting money for years, shoving it in the back of a stuffed bear and telling her mom she’d spent it on going to the movies and eating out with her friends. Last time she’d checked, she had over fifteen hundred dollars in the bear. That was probably enough for an apartment deposit and to get utilities turned on. All she needed to do was find a job that paid enough for her to cover the basics and then she could sit inside her own place, on the floor, and in complete and utter silence until she decided what she wanted to do with the rest of her life.
Her mother acted like silence was a bad thing, always rushing to fill nice quiet air with a million questions or suggestions for how Brenda should be handling her studies, considering a more relevant major, thinking about her future and retirement. Her mother never managed to exhaust those topics, but sometimes she got bored with the career speech. Then she switched to the food Brenda ate and that fifteen pounds she needed to lose, the hairstyle that she didn’t think was flattering, the friends that she had never liked, and a million other things. Since her mother approved of absolutely nothing about Brenda or what she did, it gave her a lot to bitch about.
For the millionth time, Brenda wondered if her dad’s stress had really been due to his job or was mostly from being married to her mother.
She fumed for a bit longer, then started to leave when she remembered the text. It was probably her friend Kimmie, sending her the details for the next best party they had to attend. Not that it mattered. Unless her mother died or Brenda sneaked out, she wouldn’t be attending anything but classes for a long while.
Or she could seriously pursue that full-time job thing.
She yanked the phone out of her purse and checked the text. Instead of a phone number, it showed a couple of numbers on the display but not enough to be a phone number. She read the text again and frowned. What the hell was this?
* * *
Let’s play a game, Brenda.
It’s called “Save the student.”
Use the clue below to find the student pictured here within the next 48 hours and I won’t kill him.
If you don’t find him, you’re next.
19845851652
* * *
“What the fuck?” Brenda said. If this was someone’s idea of a joke, it wasn’t a funny one. And who was that guy? He looked vaguely familiar. Definitely not a frat type. Too nerdy. Not one of the TAs. At least not in any of her classes. But she’d seen him somewhere before.
Oh well, whatever. She tossed the phone into her purse and jumped up from the bench. It was just some bullshit joke or some crazy. She had more important things to worry about than some frat guys getting off on scaring her. Besides, she was hardly the rescuing type. She couldn’t even manage to rescue herself.
8
Corrine sat in an overstuffed couch in her den and watched as Eleonore attempted to fry a steak on the stove.
“Crap!” Eleonore yelled and stuck her fingers in her mouth.
“Put them under cold water,” Corrine said. “I wish you’d let me help you. You’re not going to have a finger left that’s viable before you’re done.”
“This would have been easier on the grill. I’m not used to doing this in a skillet.”
Neither of them had been willing to risk cooking outside, figuring the smell of food grilling would give away the fact that the house was occupied again. So far, Corrine hadn’t seen any sign of press vans outside, which was surprising, but also pleasant.
“Well, you can serve up something else that doesn’t require a grill,” Corrine said.
“There’s not anything else. The staff threw out almost everything in here because it had expired and I could only smuggle so much food into my purse. If I went grocery shopping and then came here, that reporter who’s been following me probably would have caught on.”
“Maybe you should have opted for pita bread and lunch meat.”
“Now you tell me. Stop couch-seat driving. I can do this.”
Corrine shook her head and picked up the latest local magazine. Neither she nor Shaye was on the cover this issue, which was a good thing. They’d been featured far too prominently for a lot of weeks, but without them in town and with the police keeping a tight lid on everything that they could, news had turned to speculation, which had eventually gotten repetitive and faded out.
Of course, all that would change now that they had returned.
Eleonore cussed again and Corrine smiled. Her friend had insisted on cooking her lunch and refused all offers of help. Corrine was a much better cook than Eleonore and they both knew it, but Corrine also knew that Eleonore needed to do something for her. Needed to attempt to take care of her, even if it was in a small way. Corrine knew that Eleonore felt she’d failed bo
th Corrine and Shaye, but nothing could be further from the truth. Without Eleonore in their lives, neither Shaye nor Corrine would have been strong enough to handle everything that had happened. Eleonore was the backbone that they’d built upon, and even though she hadn’t been physically present the last couple months, every word she’d ever shared with them had.
“What do you think Jackson wants?” Corrine asked.
She’d been surprised by the phone call she’d gotten from Shaye’s detective friend, requesting a private chat and followed with promises to maintain secrecy. She’d tried to get information out of him, but Jackson hadn’t wanted to conduct the conversation over the phone. Given his involvement with Shaye and Eleonore’s description of the current state of unrest at the police department, Corrine figured Jackson didn’t want to be overheard, especially talking to her.
“I honestly have no idea,” Eleonore said.
“I know Shaye was going to see him when she left this morning.”
“She told you that?” Eleonore sounded somewhat surprised.
“Not exactly. I accidentally overheard her on the phone asking for Jackson at the station.”
“Accidentally overheard, huh? How does that happen in a ten-thousand-square-foot monolith?”
“Fine. I went to her wing of the monolith and heard her on the phone so I stopped outside her door and snooped. Are you happy?”
“I’d have been happier if you’d have turned around and left,” Eleonore said.
“I did that after I heard everything I needed to hear, then I went to my room and climbed back into bed. I didn’t even stick around to nag. You should be proud of me for that.”
“You’re jet-lagged and know that nagging Shaye is practically an invitation for her to do exactly what you don’t want. Don’t pretend you’ve reached some elevated consciousness in parenting.”
Eleonore stabbed a filet with a fork and plopped it on a plate.
“You don’t think it’s about Shaye, do you?” Corrine asked.
“Since he’s bringing Detective Grayson with him, I’m going to go out on a limb and say no.”
“I hate it when you bring logic into a conversation.”
“Then you must hate it every time I talk. Get over here. This is ready.”
Corrine tossed the magazine on the coffee table and shuffled to the counter, where Eleonore shoved a plate with the filet and a huge serving of mashed potatoes in front of her.
“This is enough for two people,” Corrine protested. “How am I supposed to eat all of this?”
“Well, your weight is down to that of half a person, so you’ll give it your best effort. Besides, I’m having the same serving and I am not interested in feeling guilty about it.”
Corrine put a forkful of mashed potatoes in her mouth and was surprised when her stomach growled. “This is really good.”
Eleonore sat a basket of bread and a plate of butter on the counter and sat down on the stool next to her. “You were expecting bad?”
“That’s not what I meant. I’ve been eating your cooking for years. Even your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are good. I just meant that I’m surprised by how much I’m enjoying it. I haven’t really given food much thought since…”
“I disagree.”
“With what part?”
“My peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are excellent, not just good.”
Corrine smiled. “I certainly thought so when I was twelve.”
“You thought so this summer when we ate them out by the pool.”
“Ha. True.” Corrine took a bite of the slightly charred steak and looked over at Eleonore. “So you and Jackson talked a lot while we were gone?”
Eleonore nodded. “He’s a good man. If you still have doubts about him pursuing a relationship with Shaye, don’t. Not that he’s likely to pursue her. He’s afraid to push, so he’ll wait.”
“If he’s waiting on Shaye to make a move, I’ll never have a son-in-law.”
“She may surprise you.”
“She usually does.”
The telephone linked to the security gate rang and Eleonore went to the kitchen wall to answer it.
“Dr. Blanchet,” the guard said. “I have a John Jones here with another gentleman. Says they’re scheduled to do some work in the backyard.”
“Yes. That’s correct,” Eleonore said. “Please let him through.”
She hung up the phone and looked over at Corrine. “That was the name Jackson said he’d use at the gate, right?”
Corrine nodded. “I’m anxious to find out what this is about.”
“There was a van from the local CBS station parked on the street in front of the gate when I got here,” Eleonore said. “I hope Jackson’s idea is good enough to fool them.”
“Let’s throw these plates in the oven and go see.”
They hurried out front as a pickup truck with a lawnmower, a ladder, shovels, and other garden tools pulled up and stopped. Jackson got out of the driver’s seat and waved. He was wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, a ball cap, and work boots. A sign on the side of his truck read Jones Landscaping.
Corrine smiled as Grayson climbed out of the passenger’s side, looking slightly uncomfortable in dress similar to Jackson’s. “I have to give you credit,” Corrine said. “When you go undercover, you go all the way.”
“It’s not hard. The truck is mine and I borrow the lawn equipment from a friend when I need to.”
“And the sign on the truck?” Corrine asked.
“Magnetic,” Jackson said. “It comes right off.”
“Genius,” Eleonore said. “No one looks twice at contractors.”
“Yes, well, you might want to pull around to the side entrance,” Corrine said. “They can see the front of the house with binoculars but not the side. I’ll meet you out back and let you in that way.”
Corrine and Eleonore headed through the house and into the backyard, where Corrine unlocked the gate to let Jackson and Grayson inside.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” Corrine asked as they entered the kitchen. She wanted to demand they tell her why they were there but even when she was stressed, her manners still won.
They both answered in the negative and Corrine invited them to sit.
“What’s this about?” Eleonore asked.
Corrine cast her friend a grateful glance. Leave it to Eleonore to get right to the point.
“It’s nothing to do with you or Shaye,” Jackson assured her.
Corrine relaxed a little and slowly let out the breath she’d been holding.
“We were hoping you might provide some insight into a person who’s come up in one of our investigations,” Grayson said. “Someone who moves in your social circles.”
“Oh. That sounds easy enough,” Corrine said. “Who is it?”
“Malcolm St. Claire,” Grayson said.
Corrine frowned. “I know Malcolm and his wife and son, but mostly through charity events. I wouldn’t call us friends. More like something beyond acquaintances.”
Jackson looked over at Grayson, then back at Corrine. “But you’d know the, er…gossip.”
“The police are resorting to gossip now?” Corrine asked.
“We’ve always resorted to gossip,” Grayson said. “We get leads that way. We just don’t like to admit it.”
Corrine nodded. “And in this case, I’m going to take a wild guess that you won’t be putting any leads I provide in your official report.”
Jackson looked down at the counter and Grayson’s expression shifted from serious to slightly guilty.
“It’s not really in our best interest to do so at this time,” Grayson said.
Corrine gave him a rueful smile. “Don’t worry about offending me, Detective. I understand the politics of this city better than most. I’m happier with my name out of things, although it certainly doesn’t appear that way.”
“Everyone who knows you knows better,” Jackson said. “And anyone who wants to think the worst wil
l, no matter what.”
“Listen to the man,” Eleonore said. “He’s right about that one.”
Corrine pursed her lips. “Okay, gossip. I’m not sure what you’re looking for exactly, so I’ll just dive in. Malcolm has been having an affair with one of his office clerks for the last two years. She got pregnant and we thought shit would hit the fan, but she miscarried. I heard he got a vasectomy shortly after. Not about to roll those dice again.”
Jackson and Grayson both stared.
“Does his wife know all this?” Grayson asked.
“Of course,” Corrine said. “Who do you think told me?”
“Why doesn’t she divorce him?” Jackson asked, clearly dismayed.
“Because she is a shallow individual who enjoys her lifestyle,” Corrine said.
“And the company of the pool boy,” Eleonore added.
Grayson opened his mouth, then closed it and shook his head.
“And she told you all of this?” Jackson asked, appearing somewhat confused.
“Not the pool boy part,” Corrine said. “We have the same pool boy. He offered me a similar deal.”
Both Jackson and Grayson looked slightly horrified and Corrine laughed.
“When you have money and status,” Corrine said, “you get all kinds of offers.”
Jackson cleared his throat. “I’d just like to make a blanket apology for all men.”
“That’s sweet,” Corrine said, “but not necessary. Anyway, those are the biggies on the personal end of things. On the business front, he’s cold, calculating, and pretty much a bastard to deal with. He tried pushing Pierce around a few times, but he couldn’t get anywhere. I’ve heard he treats his vendors and employees harshly, but the pay is good so most of them tolerate it.”
“What a nice guy,” Grayson said. “No wonder the people doing business with him won’t talk.”