“A Halloween costume,” I said, catching on.
“Right.” He drained his mug and set it on the counter. “The sheet?”
“It’s in the trunk of my car,” I said. “Let me get my keys.”
While I was in the bedroom fetching my keys, I pulled on a pair of sweatpants and ran a brush through my hair. A glance in the mirror told me it wasn’t enough, but it would have to do. Dillon was poking through the box on my table when I reappeared. I raised my brows at him.
“Occupational hazard,” he excused his snooping. “Are you switching careers? Changing from beautician to historian?”
I explained why I had the box.
“Interesting. My mom gave me some letters my great-grandfather wrote to my great-grandmother during World War I and they were fascinating . . . They made history more personal, somehow.”
Having found myself getting attached to Clarissa after only one letter, I completely agreed with him.
“I’ll need a statement about Saturday night,” he said as I led him out to my car.
“Okay.” Unlocking the trunk, I pulled out the sheet. “I’m afraid we probably messed up any evidence,” I apologized. “Spaatz and I both handled it, and we pulled it out of the drawer and—”
“Get over it,” Dillon said, flapping open a large plastic bag to contain the sheet. “This case isn’t going to go unsolved because of anything you did or didn’t do. You’ve been watching too much CSI. Hair and fiber and DNA evidence aren’t of any use until we have a suspect.”
“Thanks.” I smiled slightly. “Do you know who all’s been told about Braden’s death? I mean, some of the students—”
“We let the high school principal know. He’s making all the usual arrangements for grief counselors and what-have-you. No memorial, though; the parents have said they don’t want one for a while. In fact, the McCullers family has left town for a week or so to come to terms with their loss.” Dillon tossed the sheet onto the passenger seat of his brown Crown Victoria. “My investigators will need to talk to everyone who attended the ghost hunt to see what they might have observed, and to kids who were close to the vic.”
We made arrangements for me to give my statement later that afternoon and said good-bye. As he drove off, I walked toward my apartment to dress; I wanted to get hold of Rachel before she heard about Braden’s death on the news or, God forbid, via the public address system at school. I could hear it now: the Pledge of Allegiance would be followed by announcements about the lunch menu, an upcoming swim meet, and the death of a classmate. Not the way to learn that someone close to you has died.
“Grace!”
A voice brought my head around as I opened my door. Varina stood on Mrs. Jones’s veranda, waving. Darn, I’d forgotten to tell Agent Dillon about the exploding pumpkin.
“I made banana nut muffins,” she said, holding one up, “and Aunt Genny would like to talk to you if you have a mo.”
“Sure,” I said. “Just let me throw some clothes on.”
I approached Mrs. Jones’s house fifteen minutes later, showered and dressed in dark-wash jeans and a lightweight yellow sweater. I looked around, noting the large chunks of pumpkin strewn across the veranda and into the yard, as well as what looked like plastic bits from a soda bottle or something similar. What on earth had Lonnie and crew—if it had been them—used to make such a mess? Something thunked onto my shoulder. I brushed off a yellow orange clod. It was raining pumpkin. Looking up, I saw globs of the former jack-o’-lantern adhered to the veranda ceiling.
“I called the police this morning,” Varina said matter-of-factly when she opened the door. “TPing a few trees is one thing; this”—she gestured to the veranda and yard—“is something else. I didn’t quite get the extent of it last night in the dark. Aunt Genny’s lucky she wasn’t injured by the explosion—it had to be a pretty big one. Anyway, the police said it might be a few hours, but that they’d send someone over.”
She led me back to a breakfast nook off the kitchen where Mrs. Jones sat, dressed in neat navy slacks with a pink blouse. Her color was much better than last night and her eyes twinkled like usual as she greeted me. The scent of warm banana bread filled the room.
“I hate to eat and run,” I said, accepting a large muffin from Varina, “but I have to do something before work.” I told them about Braden’s death and my desire to break the news to Rachel.
“Oh, my, trouble certainly comes in threes, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Jones said. “That poor McCullers boy, and my incident last night, and now that hurricane is bearing down on us, they say.” She shook her head.