The Cover Story

by Deb Richardson-Moore

  On either end of the field, gleaming bright yellow against the manicured green grass, were the goalposts. Mackenzie Broadus hadn’t mentioned which side she’d fallen from, so Branigan walked to the side with the scoreboard, pushing her way through waist-high shrubbery to get into the end zone. She stood beneath the crossbeam, which looked dizzyingly high from this angle. She imagined the beautiful college freshman, inebriated, attempting daring gymnastics in the dark, and felt a sudden chill.

  How many lives had that senseless accident affected? Two of the girls here that night were dead. One was paralyzed. And not only paralyzed but scared. What could Mackenzie be scared of that was worse than life in a wheelchair?

  Well, Branigan thought again, two of the girls here that night were dead.

  She felt a chill as a shadow passed over the football field, and looked up to see a scuttling cloud block the sun. For the first time in a lifetime of visits to the campus, the place struck her as foreboding, a pretty façade that hid a deep fissure.

  She headed back to her car.

  * * *

  Young men and women were out in the yards of almost all the Greek Row houses, many playing frisbee in the intermittent sunshine, music blaring from the porches. As she drove by the Kappa Epsilon Chi house, Branigan could see over the revelers onto the raised porch, and saw a familiar white head. She slowed. It was Sylvia Eckhart, and she had her arm around someone. Branigan slowed to a crawl, trying to see what was going on. The girl looked up, and Branigan recognized the Swan Song reporter, Anna Hester. Even from the car, she thought she could see the stubborn thrust of Anna’s chin.

  Dr Eckhart turned to see what Anna was looking at, then waved at Branigan. Branigan returned the wave and continued on to the Gamma Delta Phi house three doors down.

  Dr Eckhart hadn’t wasted any time in getting to the Kappa Ep house, Branigan mused. She wondered if she was asking the young women about Ralph’s videos. Or maybe warning them? After all, she had been a Kappa Ep herself.

  Unlike the other houses, the Gamma Delta Phi house stood closed and silent. No one was out enjoying the winter sun. Heck, thought Branigan, it may be against their rules to wear shorts or jeans in the yard.

  She climbed the porch steps and rang the doorbell. Emma Ratcliffe opened the door dressed in a draped blouse, close-fitting pants and knee-high boots. The dress code must relax on Sunday, Branigan thought.

  “Emma, can I talk to you and Marianne and Catherine again, please?” she said. “More questions have come up about the deaths of your sorority sisters.”

  Emma opened the door. “Sure. Let me get them, and we can sit in the library for privacy. Can I get you coffee or tea or water?”

  “No, thanks. I don’t want to trouble you.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  “Well then, sure, water would be great.” Branigan knew that if she could frame her visit as a social call, she could win more time with them.

  Six women were sitting in the parlor, and they looked at Branigan curiously. Emma didn’t introduce her, but showed her into a rather formal library separated from the parlor by double French doors. Branigan placed her purse on a stiffly upholstered armchair. While Emma disappeared, she took in her surroundings. The walls were lined with framed group pictures of sorority members dating back to the 1980s. She walked around the room, glancing swiftly over the pictures, stifling laughter at the nearly identical dark hair and slender build of those in the more recent classes.

  Back in the 1990s, there had been a little more diversity, she noted. A handful of blondes, some overweight girls, stylishly cropped hair, more interesting faces. To one side in all of the photos stood a slightly older woman whom Branigan assumed was a faculty adviser.

  The same woman was in several of the pictures from the early 1990s, then in 1996 there was a different one. Branigan stopped, peered more closely. That year’s adviser looked familiar. She moved on to 1997. There she was again. But not in 1998. Branigan moved back and looked again. The woman appeared to be in her early thirties with auburn hair, a warm smile, her arm linked with that of the co-ed on the end of the back row.

  Branigan imagined her with white hair, and then had it. It was Sylvia Eckhart.

  Emma Ratcliffe came into the library, followed by Marianne Thurman and Catherine Reisman, who carefully shut the door.

  “Dr Eckhart was your adviser?” Branigan asked, pointing at the picture where she stood.

  “Not that I know of,” said Marianne, coming closer for a look. Her eyes took in the picture, then the years engraved on a brass plate. “Yeah, that does look like her, doesn’t it? I guess it’s possible. I think she’s been at the school a long time.”

  “But she was a Kappa Epsilon Chi in college.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” Marianne said. “We have to have somebody from the college staff or faculty, and sometimes there’s no one who’s been a member. Like Dr Andrews, our adviser now. She wasn’t a Gamma Delt, but she agreed to advise us.”

  She took a seat at the game table. The young women looked at Branigan expectantly.

  Catherine was the first to speak. “I thought you finished this story before Christmas.”

  “We did,” Branigan said. “But the police have never caught Janie Rose’s killer.”

  “Okay,” said Marianne. “How can we help?”

  “I never got back to you ladies after the story came out about Mackenzie Broadus’s accident. I’m still confused about how that stayed so quiet. How no one in your sorority knew about it, especially when Janie Rose and Maylene left school.”

  The young women exchanged glances, and there was an awkward silence. Marianne cleared her throat. “Miss Powers, if you’re asking if we feel bad for not being more sympathetic or more alert to our pledges, the answer is yes. We feel awful.”

  “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I’m just wondering how it happened. I can see how Mackenzie didn’t talk, because apparently she left the night of the accident and never came back. But I can’t imagine that Janie Rose and Maylene didn’t tell someone something. Everybody talks to somebody.”

  Emma raised her eyebrows. “Maybe they talked to each other?”

  “Yeah, maybe. But are you sure no one in this sorority knew anything about Mackenzie falling?”

  All three women shook their heads, dark hair swinging. Emma and Catherine looked to Marianne. Finally she spoke. “It does sound strange, I know. But that was a year ago. If anyone knew anything, it would’ve come out by now. We never heard a whisper.”

  Branigan continued to press. “This campus is such a small community. It’s hard to believe that three girls left school and there wasn’t gossip. There wasn’t speculation. Especially when all three were in one sorority.”

  Catherine spoke up. “Sure there was speculation,” she said with a shrug. “Was Janie Rose pregnant? Did Maylene run off and join the Peace Corps? Was Mackenzie homesick? But no one knew the first thing.”

  “Why would you think Janie Rose was pregnant?”

  Catherine threw up her hands. “We didn’t really. People were just guessing. And when Dr Carlton said she had transferred to Georgia, we figured everything was all right.”

  Emma stepped in. “You have to realize that Rutherford Lee isn’t for everybody. It’s hard academically. Really hard. So freshmen leaving isn’t all that uncommon.”

  “But freshmen leaving without the administration knowing is uncommon,” Branigan said.

  Emma shrugged. Marianne spoke again. “We really don’t know what to tell you, Miss Powers. Were we properly looking out for our pledges? Clearly not. And we regret it and we’re trying to do better with this year’s class. But we honestly didn’t know what was up with those three. There’s no more to it than that.”

  Branigan looked thoughtfully at their poised faces. “Tell me about this year’s pledges,” she invited.

 
For the next ten minutes she listened as the three talked about the winter’s rush season, about the “excellent” pledge class they had recruited, about last week’s initiation ceremony. She asked a few innocuous questions, then inquired about the seniors’ post-graduation plans. Emma had applied for several jobs in Atlanta, and Catherine was headed to graduate school in psychology. Marianne explained that she had been offered a job with the national Gamma Delta Phi organization. Branigan tried to keep a straight face. Oh my, a lifetime of this, she thought. She glanced at the other two. Emma stared vacantly ahead, but something passed over Catherine’s face. What was that look? Did she find Marianne’s career choice as stifling as Branigan did? Or did she wish for it herself?

  Branigan made a show of gathering her purse, and stood. She took a shot in the dark.

  “Catherine, after two years as pledge chair, I’m surprised you aren’t looking for a national post too.”

  Catherine’s face colored. She started to answer, but Marianne jumped in. “They’d seldom take two from one chapter. They generally start with the president, and when I took it, that was that.” She smiled at Catherine – condescendingly, Branigan thought. She looked at Catherine again, but the involuntary flush was receding, and Catherine had a polite smile on her face.

  “Is there anything else you can think of that I neglected to ask?”

  The women, all smiling now, more relaxed, shook their heads.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” Branigan said. “The police found out that Ralph Batson, the man charged with killing Maylene, was taking videos of some fraternity and sorority parties in the hope of blackmailing students. He got money from the Robies, but the police aren’t sure if he ever approached anyone else. Did he approach you?”

  The women looked at each other, apparently puzzled. “No,” said Marianne. “And I think we’d have seen him if he’d been at one of our parties.”

  Emma and Catherine nodded. “I mean, wasn’t he kind of tattooed?” Emma asked. “And dirty?”

  Branigan laughed. “Well, yeah, I guess he would stick out. But he claims to have video of Janie Rose and Maylene.”

  She watched the women’s faces carefully. All were composed. Marianne swallowed. “He claims to have a Gamma Delt video? I don’t see how that’s possible. And he certainly never tried to contact us.”

  “He didn’t specify it was a Gamma Delt party,” Branigan corrected. “He just said a video with those ‘dead girls’.” She waited a few beats, but no one rushed into the silence. Emma and Catherine looked at Marianne, and Marianne held Branigan’s gaze.

  “Well, I’ve taken enough of your time, and you’ve been most gracious. I’ll let myself out.”

  She walked out of the library, wishing she could have left a bug to capture the conversation after her departure.

  She was trying to shake things loose.

  Chapter Six

  Malachi Martin dragged a rusting lawn chair out of the dim chill of the bridge’s shadow and plopped it in the February sunshine. He unzipped his insulated coveralls and pulled his arms out, letting the sleeves dangle at his waist. He hardly noticed that his view consisted of a knee-high mound of trash.

  Malachi wasn’t looking at his surroundings. He was looking at what wasn’t where it should be. He was having a hard time figuring out why so many things were missing in this case. And yes, he admitted to himself, he thought of it as a “case”. Miz Branigan seemed to be neck-deep in a murder case once again.

  First, there had been no diary or journal or personal writing of any kind in Janie Rose Carlton’s apartment. He knew the Grambling police would’ve gone through her luggage. And even though not terribly high tech, they would’ve been all over her Facebook page and laptop files. What kind of college girl didn’t write down something?

  Second, where were the family or friends who knew something? What kind of college girl didn’t tell somebody something? If she was being threatened by somebody her father knew, wouldn’t she tell him? Or her mom? Or a hall mate?

  Third, Ralph’s cell phone. Ralph said it showed the dead girls. And it showed them in such a way he thought it might make the po-lice think Ralph didn’t kill Maylene. So, what was on that video? Detective Scovoy should know by now. And where was it? Did the murderer go after it? That would mean he’d come right into Tent City, under Malachi’s nose. Or did a Tent City dude take it, not realizing what he had?

  Malachi turned to look at the tent where Ralph and Maylene had stayed – the tent where Elise lived alone, now that Slick had disappeared. Wait a minute. Was Slick missing too? Nah, he was always taking off and coming back, taking off and coming back. And Malachi knew how that would go down: the two would have a spectacular fight that everyone in Tent City would hear, then Elise would take him back into her tent.

  He returned to the bridge’s shadow and shook Elise’s tent flap. “Elise, it’s me. Malachi.”

  Elise’s head popped out, a yellow scarf sliding off her head, pupils huge, a sleepy smile on her face. Malachi knew she’d been smoking crack.

  “It just me,” he said. “No po-lice. You got Ralph’s phone?”

  “Nah, if I did I’da pawned it.” She cackled. “Mal’chi, you know good and well who done took that phone.”

  He stood silently, waiting.

  “Maylene done took it.”

  Malachi dropped to his haunches to bring his eyes down to Elise’s level. Her body was starting to weave. “How you know?” he asked.

  “Saw her do it.”

  “When?”

  “Aw, I dunno know, Mal’chi.” Elise smiled and stretched.

  “Elise. Think. How Maylene dig it up ’thout Ralph knowin’?”

  “Ralph warn’t here. He was off buyin’ beer or sum’pin. She dug it up, just like your po-liceman did, pretty as you peas.” She giggled. “Please. Pretty as you please.”

  Malachi stood and walked back to his rickety chair in the sun.

  Okay, so if the phone was on Maylene’s body, the Grambling police had it, and for some reason hadn’t looked at it. Or they’d sent it to her family in Gainesville. But no, Detective Scovoy was no slouch. He would’ve looked. So there was only one other solution.

  Maylene’s killer took the phone.

  And Maylene’s killer was supposedly Ralph.

  That was one more thing missing from this case, Malachi thought. Logic.

  Chapter Seven

  Branigan walked up the street to the Kappa Epsilon Chi house, curious to see what had transpired between Sylvia Eckhart and Anna Hester. But Anna was no longer on the front porch, and a conversation with some sisters in the yard revealed she’d gone to the Swan Song office.

  Branigan stood on the sidewalk trying to decide what to do. Beside the Kappa Ep house was a spacious side yard, then the beginning of the fraternity houses. The first was Rho Beta Iota. Branigan decided it was time to meet Jones Rinehart.

  A handful of frisbee throwers directed her to the front door. The young man who opened it – in a T-shirt, Bermuda shorts and barefoot – motioned her inside. A scarred pool table took up most of the living room, and neon beer signs with exposed cords dotted the walls. The room’s sagging brown sofas appeared to be Salvation Army rejects, and the once-matching carpet was worn and stained. Branigan doubted there was much dating between the Robies and Gamma Delts.

  “Could you find Jones Rinehart for me, please?” she asked the student who’d let her in.

  “Prez?” he asked. “Sure, he’s around here somewhere.”

  He bounded up the stairs hollering, “Rinehart! Some lady here to see you.”

  Branigan felt instantly older. He’ll ma’am me next, she thought.

  Sure enough, the young man called from the top of the stairs, “He’ll be right down, ma’am.” She shuddered.

  Seconds later, a good-looking young man with dark hair and Paul Newman eyes w
alked down the stairs, a beer in his hand. He was followed by a young woman who looked vaguely familiar.

  The woman spoke first. “You’re Charlie’s Aunt Branigan,” she said, sticking out her hand. “I met you at a Grambling East soccer game. Maggie Fielding.”

  “Of course. Maggie,” Branigan said, relieved at the introduction. “Liam told me you and Jones had visited Charlie.”

  “Can I get you a beer?” Jones asked.

  “No, thanks,” Branigan said. “Actually, I’m here about Charlie. Or rather, about Charlie’s wreck, and the deaths of Janie Rose Carlton and Maylene Ayers.”

  “Have a seat,” Jones said, slumping onto a couch. Maggie sat beside him, and Branigan sat carefully on the second couch, hoping the stains weren’t fresh enough to transfer to her pants.

  She wasn’t sure how to proceed with Maggie in the room. Finally, she addressed the girl. “Maggie, I need to ask Jones about some things he may want to keep private. I’ll need you two to decide if you should stay or not.”

  Maggie looked at Jones, who shrugged. “No problem,” he said. “She can stay.”

  “All right then.” Branigan pulled out a pen and notebook. “The man charged with killing Maylene Ayers told police that he blackmailed you over an incident that occurred last winter under the Garner Bridge.”

  Jones’s face went still. He placed his beer can on a side table and twisted to face Maggie. “Maggie, maybe you’d better leave after all. I think Miss Powers may have some of her facts wrong.”

  Maggie stood, looking confused. She started to say something to Jones, then thought better of it. “Call me when you’re done,” she said. “Miss Powers, good to see you.”

  After Maggie had left, all trace of Jones Rinehart’s politeness evaporated. He looked stonily at Branigan.

  She returned the look. “I believe you paid Ralph Batson to prevent him from releasing videos of you ‘rehabbing’ Max Brody,” she said.