Die Job (27 page)

Excitement pounded through me. It made sense. Braden had told Rachel he was trying to figure out whether or not to intervene in some situation. Well, if he suspected abuse, he might have wrestled with whether or not to tell someone. I’d been mulling it over myself, and I didn’t know Mark or his family half as well as Braden did. Was Mark trying to protect his family by pushing Braden? Closing the garage door behind me, I hurried to my apartment. Whether my reasoning was right or wrong, I definitely had to let Agent Dillon know about Mark and the sheet.

WHEN I PHONED HIM, AGENT DILLON SAID HE WAS AT Rothmere and I agreed to meet him there. I parked in the graveled lot fifteen minutes later, reflecting that I’d spent more time at Rothmere in the last few months than I had in the last twenty years. Until I attended a fund-raising ball there in May, I hadn’t been near the place since I left elementary school. I found Dillon in the detached kitchen, staring at a roughly drawn map of some kind as he surveyed the brick walls and gaping mouth of the original fireplace. The wind huffed down the chimney, sending a whiff of grilled meat into the room, perhaps from some long-dead ox or pig.

The door squealed when I closed it, and Dillon looked up. The marine blue of his eyes warmed as his gaze rested on me. His suit and tie looked ludicrously out of place in the
rough kitchen with its scarred wooden table and iron pots stacked on shelves.

“What’s that?” I asked, nodding at the page he held.

“Spaatz’s version of where everyone was—or was supposed to be—on Saturday night,” he said. “I compared it with yours.”

“Useful,” I commented, studying the page over his shoulder. Neatly labeled with last names, Xs showed where each pair of students had set up their ghost observation points. I could feel Dillon’s warmth through his jacket and see a tiny scar curving down from the corner of his mouth that I hadn’t noticed before. Discombobulated by his closeness, I stepped back a pace.

“Not as useful as one would hope,” Dillon said, “since almost no one stayed put.”

“Speaking of which . . .” I told him about my conversation with Lonnie and Lonnie’s assertion that Mark Crenshaw had come to Rothmere with a sheet stuffed in his backpack. “So did Ari Solomon and maybe some others.”

“Interesting,” he said when I finished. Moving toward the door, he held it open for me. “I’m visiting each of these sites,” he said, shaking the paper, “to see what was or wasn’t visible from each room.”

I followed him across the acorn-strewn lawn, through the front hall—with cables still stretched across the floor, but empty of people—and into the huge ballroom with its French doors looking out to the garden and the cemetery beyond. I remembered it as a peaceful view, but today the wind tore at the trees and angry clouds blocked the sky’s blue. “Those doors were open when I came in here Saturday night,” I said, gesturing to the French doors. “I felt a draft, but then the Lonnie and Tyler ghost show started and I forgot about them.”

“So anyone could’ve gone in or out without cutting through the hall and being seen,” Dillon said, strolling from one end of the room to the other.

I didn’t know what he was looking for, but I stayed silent while he made notes. Finally, he rattled one of the doorknobs and turned to me.

“So you think Mark pushed his best friend,” he said. “Any thoughts on why?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said, nettled by his tone. As I gave him my theory about Mark’s father abusing him and Braden feeling he had to intervene, Dillon kept his gaze fixed on my face.

His expression was grave by the time I finished, and he rubbed his forefinger against his slightly crooked nose. “That sounds almost plausible, Grace,” he said. “But I don’t know how we prove it. The Tandy girl has already said Mark was with her the whole evening, and I can’t see getting his mother to swear out an abuse complaint. She never has before, and if she does so now, she gives her son a motive for murder.”

“No mother would do that,” I murmured.

“Exactly.”

“What about Sunday night when Braden was . . . Was Lindsay at Ari’s party?”

“Supposedly. Only a couple of the kids who were here Saturday have solid alibis. Almost all of them were at the Solomon girl’s party, so no one really kept track of who was there or not, or for how long they stayed. Anyone could’ve ducked out, driven to the hospital, smothered McCullers, and slipped back into the party, all within an hour.” He crumpled the map in his fist. “It really gets my goat to think that a high schooler pulled this off and may get away with it.”

As he spoke, he gave the ballroom a final glance and headed toward the door. We walked in silence down the hall, but he grabbed my arm to steady me when I tripped over a black cable left by the TV crew. “You know,” I said when I regained my balance, “I’ve got an idea for how to get some proof.” Dillon’s hand slid down my arm to my hand and squeezed it, generating tingles that made me stutter. “B-but we’re going to need some help.”

“YOU WANT MY HELP? I’M FLATTERED,” AVALINE VAN Tassel said half an hour later when Dillon and I cornered her in the Magnolia House parlor. She lounged against the back of a rose-colored settee, her black hair and another white blouse striking against the rose velvet. A mischievous smile played at the corner of her lush mouth.

Was it my imagination, or was Dillon focused too intently on her lips?

Sitting near the window, I shifted uncomfortably on the upholstered chair with the brass studs that dug into the back of my thighs. My hand went to the fringed tassel on the drape tieback, and I let the silky strands sift through my fingers as Dillon talked. We’d agreed while still at Rothmere that Avaline would be more receptive to the idea if it were an official GBI request.

“But I don’t know that I can use my gift to trick our viewing
audience,” Avaline continued. She took a sip of the iced tea supplied by Vonda, Avaline’s throat working as she swallowed.

“We’re not asking you to use your gift,” Dillon clarified.

I gave him points for not stumbling over the word “gift,” since I strongly suspected he didn’t believe in Avaline’s—or anyone’s—ability to chat with ghosts.

“We need you to
pretend
to contact Cyril and pretend that he’s revealing the name of the person who pushed Braden McCullers. You’d be helping to bring a murderer to justice,” he added when Avaline hesitated. “You’ll invite all the people who were present last Saturday to attend the filming—some of them have evacuated, but most of the main suspects are still in town—and tell them that Cyril has let you know he has something important to reveal. Curiosity should get them all there.”

“And you won’t really air this episode,” I put in, “so you won’t be tricking anyone except the murderer.”

Tapping a ruby red nail against her iced tea glass, Avaline looked from Dillon to me. “We were going to tape the program tonight,” she said. “I don’t see how we’d have time to put on a bogus production for you and get the show done. On top of which, spirits are sensitive. Cyril might not choose to communicate with me if there are hordes of people clomping around the house, disturbing the atmosphere. And then where would I be? I can’t risk disappointing my fans.”

Dillon made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and leaned toward Avaline. “Miss Van Tassel, I can’t compel you to cooperate—”

“No,” she said sweetly, “you can’t. But you’ll have a better chance of persuading me if you call me Avaline.”

The sultry glance she sent Dillon made me want to gag. With
a quick “Excuse me,” I left the room, intending to track down Vonda in the kitchen. Dillon would have a better chance of talking the Spirit Whisperer into doing her civic duty if I wasn’t there. Crossing the wide entry hall with beveled glass on either side of the oak door and the grand staircase sweeping up to the second floor, I almost bumped into a man who blasted out of the dining room carrying a plate piled high with little meatballs, undoubtedly from the hors d’oeuvres spread Vonda and Ricky put out every afternoon for happy hour.

Two meatballs fell and rolled toward the front door when the man jolted to a stop. “Sorry!” he said. “Damn.” He tried bending to retrieve the meatballs but wasn’t going to be able to do it without spilling his plate or the drink in his other hand. As he looked around for somewhere to set the plate, I tweaked a toothpick from his plate and speared the meatballs.

“Thanks,” the man said, taking the toothpick from me with the fingers wrapped around the stem of his martini glass. “Ten-second rule.” He popped the meatballs into his mouth and chewed, his Vandyke beard bobbing up and down.

Yuck.

“Want one?” He held the plate out to me, and the diamond on his pinkie sparkled. His gelled hair had lost a bit of its spikiness and the points drooped slightly. Georgia humidity will do that.

“No, thanks,” I said. “Aren’t you the producer for The
Spirit Whisperer
?”

“Guilty as charged. Les Spaulding,” he said. “I’d shake, but—” He indicated the glass in his left hand and the plate in his right. “Didn’t I see you at the mansion?” He studied me from behind his gold-rimmed glasses. “You had something to do with the kid dying.”

“I wouldn’t put it that way,” I said, appalled.

He waved the martini dismissively. “Whatever. We’re filming the show tonight. Would you like to come watch? I can make that happen.” He put his plate on a stair behind him and patted his jacket pocket for a card.

“Actually,” I said, seizing the opening, “the police were hoping you’d help them catch a murderer.”

“Really? A murderer?” His eyes sparked with interest.

As succinctly as possible, I pitched him on the plan.

“I like it,” he said, stabbing at me with the martini. A drop of gin splashed my blouse. “It’s got ‘big’ written all over it. I think we could see a ten-point jump in the ratings with the right promo. Ava!” He shouted up the stairs.

“She’s in there,” I said, pointing to the parlor. I trailed him, standing back a couple of feet to avoid being christened with more martini.

Avaline shot me a poisonous glance as Spaulding told Dillon he wanted in on trapping the murderer. I tried not to feel smug and triumphant but didn’t succeed too well.

“I was just discussing that with John,” she said, an edge undercutting the sweetness of her voice.

“Great!” Spaulding said. “It’s settled. Let’s—”

“I think we ought to at least get John to agree to an interview in return for our help,” Avaline interrupted. She pushed to her feet, gaining a height advantage over Spaulding, who couldn’t have been taller than five-four. “Quid pro quo. Our show won’t be complete without the official Georgia Bureau of Investigation point of view.”

“I don’t—” Dillon started.

“No interview, no deal.” She bared her teeth in what would have passed for a smile if her eyes hadn’t been so cold.

Dillon’s jaw worked. After a long moment, he held out his hand to
Avaline. “Deal.” His eyes were as stony as hers and I could tell he didn’t like being blackmailed.

“Lovely,” she said, holding on to his hand longer than necessary. “I’ll look forward to getting to know you better. Much better.” The tip of her tongue flicked out to moisten her lower lip. “Friday night work for you?”

Dillon’s gaze flicked to me. “I’ve got plans—”

“I’m afraid it has to be Friday evening,” Avaline said, her eyes narrowing. “Since we’ll be helping you out tonight”—she put a delicate stress on the words—“we’ll have to film the real show tomorrow night and I’ve got other interviews scheduled all day Friday. And I’m on a plane out of Jacksonville first thing Saturday morning. So, Friday night it is,” she said as if it were settled. “Let’s say six thirty.”

Dillon looked at me again and I gave an infinitesimal shrug. We could always reschedule our date. Catching Braden’s killer was more important. I don’t know if he got all that from my expression, but he sighed. “Okay, Friday.”

AGENT DILLON LEFT MAGNOLIA HOUSE ALMOST immediately to organize his team and get someone started on notifying everyone who’d been at Rothmere that the ghost of Cyril Rothmere had told Avaline van Tassel he would name Braden’s assailant later that evening. Everyone was invited to watch the taping of the show. Spaulding, Avaline, and their crew left immediately after Dillon to finish setting up at Rothmere. Vonda caught me before I could leave and dragged me into the kitchen. The Magnolia House kitchen was disconcertingly modern, featuring stainless steel appliances and restaurant-caliber range and ovens. When she and Ricky bought the B&B, Vonda had stated in no uncertain terms that while period furnishings were
a plus in the bedrooms and common areas, under no circumstances was she cooking in an antiquated kitchen.

“Can I come?” Vonda asked when I told her about the plan.

From my seat at the island, I watched her mix up blueberry muffins for the morning. “I don’t see why not,” I said, swiping a finger inside the lip of the mixing bowl to snag some batter. “There’s going to be a cast of thousands as it is.” I sucked the batter off my finger. Yum.

“Do you think I’ll end up on TV?” She tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear, leaving a smear of batter on her cheek.