I remembered; I’d put it down to her usual drama-queen tendencies. Alice Rose was an awfulizer: if one of my nephews had a rash, she was convinced it was smallpox; if her CPA business had a slow week, she knew they would lose their home.
“Anyway,” Mom said, folding up the stepladder, “I think you should look into it, Grace.”
“What? You do? Look into Braden’s accident?”
She nodded. “Yes. If nothing else, it might help Rachel feel better about the incident, poor thing. Or, maybe you’ll find out that someone was on the landing and did see what happened. Knowing for sure that it wasn’t a suicide attempt would probably give the McCullerses real peace of mind. You could call John and see if the police know anything else.” She sent a sly smile my way.
John Dillon was the special agent in charge of Region Fourteen of the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, headquartered in Kingsland. Mom had a soft spot for him since he’d helped rescue me from a murderous Realtor in August. I fought to control the betraying heat that rose to my cheeks.
“The GBI isn’t involved with this case, Mom,” I said. “It’s strictly a local police thing.” Before she could say anything else, I added, “I suppose I could go back to Rothmere and look around. And maybe talk to Glen Spaatz and a couple of the kids who were there. I’ll be out at the school this week, anyway, shaving heads for the school fund-raiser. What could that hurt?”
IT WAS FOUR O’CLOCK WHEN I PULLED UP IN FRONT OF ROTHMERE.
A handful of cars sat in the small lot near the carriage house museum and I figured some off-season tourists were visiting the mansion. Crossing the oyster shell driveway, I pushed open one of the heavy oak doors and stepped into the hallway. Voices came from somewhere to my right, maybe the ballroom. The cadence sounded like a docent lecturing about the house. I stood for a moment, taking in the feel of the place. What must it have been like to own all this, to stride across acres and acres planted with tobacco and sugar? To entertain a hundred friends and neighbors in the ballroom? I could almost hear the notes of a Virginia reel if I strained my ears. To sit down to a family dinner in the glow of candlelight, waited on and pampered by servants? I made myself consider the less romantic aspects of plantation life: visiting the outhouse in all weather, dying in childbirth, women having no more rights than a dairy cow, the horrors of slavery. All in all, I’d take working for a living in the twenty-first century over the life of a nineteenth-century plantation owner.
Shaking off my fanciful mood, I strolled around the hall, not sure what I was looking for. I guess I was hoping that a moment of intuition would tell me why Braden climbed the stairs to the landing. I studied the oil paintings, as Braden might have, and tilted my head back to enjoy the sparkle of sunlight on the chandelier’s crystals. I avoided looking at the floor until I neared the staircase; then, I didn’t see any sign of the bloodstain. I let my breath out, not aware I’d been holding it. The old oak planks were so darkened, scarred, and stained with who knew what across the centuries that Braden’s blood had already blended with the mansion’s history. I tentatively put one foot on the lowest stair.
“What are you doing here?”
I jumped. The voice came from above me and I looked up to see Glen Spaatz peering over the railing, dark hair flopping across his forehead. “What are you doing here?” I countered.
“Same as you probably.” A slight smile banished the sternness from his face. “Come on up.”
I didn’t need his invitation. The rope that normally barred access to the stairs hung limply against the newel post, so I marched up the stairs until I was level with Spaatz on the landing. “Find anything?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Not really. I cast around up here, but I didn’t find anything out of place. Not that I know what I was looking for. Something to explain what happened, I guess. My ass is on the line here. My principal is not happy with, and I quote, ‘an incident so full of negative energy’ happening on a school outing.”
I felt a pang of sympathy for him. If I felt somehow responsible for Braden’s situation, how much worse must it be for him?
“I was just about to check that bedroom where Lonnie went out the window.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Has Lonnie turned up yet?”
“I don’t know.” He pushed open the door to the room and it squeaked. “If he has, no one’s told me. I did hear that they’re moving Braden out of the ICU, though. That’s got to be good news.” With a sweeping gesture, he invited me to precede him over the threshold.