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.”
I pulled the door wider in silent invitation and preceded him to my compact kitchen. In my search for a house, I’d learned that “compact” was Realtor-speak for “smaller than a gumdrop.” I’d also learned it was all I’d be able to afford, unless I was willing to settle for appliances that predated the moon landing and “mouse” holes in the walls big enough to admit a puma. I was afraid to ask what brought Dillon here; that’s why my mind kept leaping to inconsequential things. Nuking two mugs of water, I plopped Irish breakfast tea bags into them. It felt like I’d been making hot beverages all night. Okay, technically it was morning, but it still felt like night.
Dillon blew on his tea and took a long sip. Finally, I could stand it no longer.
“What?” I prompted, leaving my tea untouched on the counter. “Is Mrs. Jones okay? Is it about the exploding pumpkin? Because if it—”
“I understand you have evidence in a murder case. I need it.”
“Wha—Oh, no! Mrs. Jones died? She said she felt okay. Her niece was with her! She—” Tears started to my eyes.
“Whoa!” Dillon grabbed my shoulders and gave me a little shake. “Mrs. Jones is fine, as far as I know. It’s Braden McCullers.”
“He died?” My brain was swirling, trying to absorb the news. I paced around my kitchen, working out my agitation. “When? What happened?”
“Last night. Someone smothered him in his hospital bed.”
His grim tone shocked me into stillness. Grabbing up my mug, I held it to my chest, trying to absorb its warmth into my sudden coldness. “So you think his fall was a murder attempt, too,” I said, my brain beginning to function again. “You want the sheet. Hank told you about me and Spaatz finding the sheet.”
“Right.”
I tore a paper towel from the roll and dabbed at my eyes. I didn’t know Braden that well—hardly at all—but his death saddened me, largely because it would devastate Rachel. I wondered if she’d heard. “Do you have any leads on who did it?” I asked. “Surely, someone saw something in the hospital.”
“It was a werewolf,” he said.
I threw the crumpled paper towel at him, but it drifted ineffectually to the floor between us. “It’s not something to joke about!”
“Do I look like I’m joking? The nurse on duty walked into Braden’s room to take his vitals and saw a werewolf holding a pillow over his face. She grabbed at it, but it shook her off and bolted for the stairs. Whoever it was, was long gone by the time she tried to revive Braden and raised the alarm.”