Die Job (10 page)

More trick-or-treaters arrived, and I had calmed down by the time they left with their bags a bit fuller of teeth-rotting booty. I handed out candy for another fifteen minutes, chatting with Mrs. Jones between waves of Hannah Montanas, stormtroopers, witches, ghosts, and Disney princesses. She was happily quizzing an aluminum-foil robot when I said good night and strolled toward my apartment. I hadn’t reached the door when a horn honked. I turned to see my friend Vonda Jamison’s old station wagon with its Magnolia House logo on the side panel. A vampire waved from behind the steering wheel.

“Vonda?” I approached the car and peered in through the passenger window. “What did you do to your hair?”

My best friend had had me dye her hair red a few weeks back after a spat with her ex-husband, Ricky, who was also her on-again, off-again boyfriend. Now, Vonda’s short hair was jet-black and spiked around her gamine face. Her heavily made-up eyes twinkled.

“It’s not permanent. I’m making a grocery run . . . we’ve run out of candy for the trick-or-treaters. Wanna come with?”
She lisped the words around a pair of plastic fangs.

Why not? I hadn’t talked to Vonda all weekend. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I said, sliding onto the station wagon’s bench seat and buckling up.

“I know. It’s just been crazy at the B and B this week. Which is a good thing, I guess. But I was missing my best bud.” She patted my hand. She and Ricky owned a twelve-bedroom B&B, Magnolia House, and lived on opposite sides of it so they could run the business and share custody of their son, RJ.

“You and Ricky . . . ?”

“We’re good.” She turned her head to grin at me.

“Good.” I was relieved. Vonda and Ricky belonged together, but they both had tempers and their arguments were the stuff of legend in St. Elizabeth. As Vonda slid the car into a slot at the Winn-Dixie, I told her about my weekend. “I should’ve kept a closer eye on the kids.”

She didn’t argue like I hoped she would. Giving me an incredulous look, she liberated a shopping cart from the train of them near the store’s entrance. “You chaperoned a ghost hunt? And Rachel’s boyfriend fell down the stairs?”

I walked fast to keep up with her as she charged toward the candy aisle, not distracted by the lopsided pyramid of pumpkins at fifty percent off. Several shoppers, their carts piled high with bottled water and canned goods, strolled the aisles. One man gave Vonda, sexy in her clinging black vampire dress with the plunging neckline, the once-over. She bared her fangs at him and he jumped back into a cereal display, knocking boxes to the floor.

“Or was pushed. Either way, it shouldn’t have happened,” I said, flinging a bag of Snickers into the cart.

Vonda pulled them out and restored them to the shelf. “No
chocolate. Only icky stuff. Otherwise, I’ll eat all the leftovers for breakfast and blow up like a blimp.”

Vonda was a petite slip of a thing, no wider than an angelfish, who’d never been two ounces overweight, and right now her focus on the candy was beginning to irritate me. I flung a couple of bags of caramels into the cart. Vonda added some gum and candies the size of ping-pong balls that advertised themselves as “so hot they’ll burn through the roof of your mouth into your brain.” Irresistible.

“So, do you think it was?” I prodded.

“Was what?” Vonda wheeled the cart toward a cashier.

“My fault.”

“No, especially not if he was pushed. Do you think he was?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Rachel said he was depressed.”

“Suicide attempt?”
Thunk, thunk
. Bags of candy landed on the conveyor belt. The bored-looking cashier scanned them without comment.

I shrugged. “I don’t know how anyone with an IQ over forty could think that a fall down a couple flights of stairs would be guaranteed fatal.”

“A gesture? A call for help?”

I hadn’t thought of that. “Possible.” I looped my fingers through the bag’s handles and walked with Vonda back to the parking lot. A man and a woman stood arguing by the open tailgate of a Chevy Tahoe. The man looked vaguely familiar . . . It took me a moment to realize he was the man who’d shown up at Rothmere looking for Mark Crenshaw. His dad? The couple wasn’t shouting, but their faces were mere inches apartment and I could tell from the rigid way they held themselves that they were quarreling.

“. . . last time,” the woman, dark-haired and petite, said in a louder voice.

As I watched, Crenshaw flung up a hand and stalked toward the grocery store. The woman hesitated only a second before jumping into the driver’s seat, gunning the engine, and pulling out recklessly, clipping a shopping cart with the rear bumper as she peeled out of the lot. Tottering over the asphalt, the cart crunched into a motorcycle. Crenshaw spun when he heard the SUV take off, chased it for a couple of futile steps, then kicked at a discarded soda can, using his whole leg like a World Cup midfielder aiming for a goal half a field away. It sprayed caramel-colored liquid onto his slacks before rolling off the curb and under a sedan parked in a handicapped slot. I watched to see if Crenshaw would retrieve the can, but he headed back toward the store, pulling a cell phone from his pocket as he walked. Glancing at Vonda, I saw she’d missed the whole byplay, busy putting the groceries into the backseat of the station wagon.

It didn’t seem worth mentioning, so we chatted about hurricane preparations as she drove back to my apartment. We arrived safely, not even clipping any of the trick-or-treaters dashing heedlessly across the road in search of enough candy to keep them on a sugar high until February.

“Sorry this had to be drive-by catch-up,” Vonda said as I opened the door. “Let’s do lunch later in the week. Keep me posted about Braden.”

“You bet.” I slammed the door shut and patted it twice. “Thanks for dropping by.”

She grinned her silly vampire grin and pulled away.

I went in and watched a bit of the Julia Roberts DVD but couldn’t get into it. Noise from the Halloweeners had tapered off, and when I peeked through the blinds, I didn’t see any costumed figures making the rounds. A dim glow to my left told me Mrs. Jones’s jack-o’-lantern was still on duty. I
went to bed feeling unsettled and a bit weepy, and I knew the morning’s conversation with Marty was driving my mood. It wasn’t like Marty and I had been dating for eons; we’d known each other only since May, and our relationship had always been a long-distance one, with him in Atlanta and me here. And I’d known from the start that his work was paramount to him. Still, I’d gotten used to thinking of him as my boyfriend, and he was the first man I’d slept with since Hank and I divorced and . . . Oh, hell! I punched my pillow.

I must’ve drifted into an uneasy sleep because a loud bang wrenched me upright some time later. I looked around, disoriented, and heard another bang—coming from the direction of Mrs. Jones’s house— followed by a cut-off shout and the squeal of tires. My bedside clock read 12:30 as I unwrapped myself from the sheet. The wooden floor was cold against my bare feet as I raced toward my door. Pulling it open, I peered toward Mrs. Jones’s house. A line of vertical light slit the darkness on her veranda—her door was open. Uneasy, I headed across the yard separating my apartment from her house. Acorns and twigs cut into my feet and I hoped I didn’t stumble into a fire ant hill in the dark.

“Mrs. Jones?” I called as I got closer.

Nothing.

I put my foot onto the bottom step and felt something sticky. Oh, my God! Blood? I scrambled up the steps to push the door wider but stopped when I saw a crumpled form lying across the threshold.

Mrs. Jones.

THE OLD WOMAN LAY HALF IN, HALF OUT OF THE door, a thin form in a floral flannel robe. I knelt beside her and groped for her wrist. A pulse hammered under my fingers. Thank God. I kicked backward at the door with one foot to open it wider and get more light. I didn’t see any blood. The sticky stuff on my foot seemed to be pumpkin, and now that I looked around, I saw chunks of pumpkin scattered across the veranda and steps. I didn’t have time to figure out what had happened; I was afraid Mrs. Jones had had a heart attack. I rose and was about to enter the house to call 911 when a hand closed around my ankle. I jumped.

“Grace?”

Mrs. Jones sounded confused and querulous. I knelt again so she could see my face.

“Yes, it’s me. I’m going to call nine-one-one. I’ll be right back.” I brushed a tendril of wiry hair off her face.

“Oh, don’t bother them,” she said, pushing up on one elbow. “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” I asked doubtfully. “Does your chest hurt? Your left arm?”

“I haven’t had a heart attack, if that’s what you’re worried about,” she said, reaching up a hand. “Pull me up, there’s a dear.”

I helped her to a sitting position, still unsure about what to do.

She gathered the robe around her. “It was just the suddenness of the explosion,” she said. “I admit it gave me quite a jolt. I must have fainted. I can’t think how I came to do that; I never do so.”

“Explosion?” I was anxious to know what had happened, but first things first. “Never mind. Let me at least help you into the house and make you a cup of tea. If you won’t go to the hospital, I think I should stay with you tonight, make sure you don’t have a concussion or something.”

“That’s sweet of you, Grace,” she said as I put an arm around her waist and helped her up.

For someone who wasn’t much more than a bundle of bones, she weighed a lot. I guided her to the pink damask sofa and steadied her while she sank onto it. Spotting a crocheted afghan on the nearby love seat, I spread it around her frail form.

“You don’t need to stay,” she said. “I can call my niece Varina and she’ll be happy to come over. She’s an RN, you know. And her son is just about your age. Have I told you about him? He’s an architect.”

Even injured she was still trying to fix me up. I smiled as I studied her face. She was paler than normal, but her blue eyes were bright and her pupils seemed to be the same size. “I’ll call her,” I said, reaching for the phone.

After the phone call, I traipsed through what seemed like half a mile of halls and rooms to reach the kitchen, where I poured water into a dented copper teakettle and set it on the gas range to boil. Ransacking the cupboards, I didn’t find any tea but came across envelopes of instant hot cider. I emptied one into a mug and inhaled the tangy apple steam when I added boiling water. Carrying the steaming mug back to the parlor, I found Mrs. Jones lying on the couch, a cushion under her head, fast asleep.

Varina, a short, no-nonsense-looking woman in her early sixties, arrived before I had to make a decision about whether or not to wake Mrs. Jones to make sure she was all right. “That cider will hit the spot,” she said, taking the mug from me. She gazed fondly down at Mrs. Jones. “Aunt Genny’s going to have to slow down one of these days, but I don’t want to be the one to have to tell her!”

I told her as much as I knew about what had happened and she nodded her gray head. “Halloween pranksters, no doubt. I raised three boys of my own and it’s a wonder they got to adulthood with all their parts still attached and no police record.” She took a noisy sip of cider. “Boys just don’t understand the damage some of their ‘funny’ pranks can do. You go on back to bed, Grace. I’ll take care of things here.”

I wasn’t so sure the exploding pumpkin had been a random prank, but I didn’t say anything to Varina about Lonnie’s semi-threat. It crossed my mind, though, that he might have thought I lived in Mrs. Jones’s house since he’d seen me handing out candy there. I trudged across the lawn, my mind fuzzy with lack of sleep and worry. I’d talk to Mrs. Jones in the morning and find out what had really happened.

[Monday]

THE SUN WAS CREEPING INTO MY BEDROOM WHEN something next jolted me awake. I lay still for a moment, trying to figure out what had awakened me.
Bam, bam, bam
. Someone was knocking—loudly—on my door. Maybe Varina needed something. I prayed that Mrs. Jones hadn’t taken a turn for the worse. Trotting to the door, I opened it.

A man, six feet of lean muscle, plus a slightly crooked nose, short brown hair graying at the temples, and posture that would make a Marine jealous, stood on my tiny stoop, wearing a serious expression and a handsome navy suit. Special Agent John Dillon of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. A little thrill lilted through me before I remembered I had morning breath, bed head, and was wearing my old red University of Georgia tee shirt, which showed way too much leg. Unshaved.

Dillon’s gaze traveled the length of me, starting with my Cherry Flambé toenails and working his way up. An almost smile dented his left cheek and lightened his grim look. “Good. You’re up,” he said.

“How could I not be with all the racket you were making?”

The serious expression returned. “Invite me in.”

“I’m not dressed.” I tugged at the hem of my tee shirt.

“I’ve seen you in less.”

Yeah, but only by accident, not because we’d ever even been on a date. He’d invited me to meet his horse once, but that hadn’t panned out and I’m not sure it would have counted as a date anyway.

“Grace!” Dillon recalled my wandering thoughts. “Invite me in. Offer me some coffee, or anything with caffeine, for that matter. This is official business and I’d rather not go into it on your doorstep.”