Mom cut into my lurid thoughts with her usual calm good sense. “You say she’s only been ‘missing’ for a couple of hours? I doubt anything’s happened to her. Maybe she had more homework than usual and skipped practice to do it, or maybe . . . was she close to Braden McCullers?”
“He was more my friend than hers,” the teen said, looking less tense than he had.
“Well, but she knew him. Maybe she just needs a little space to come to terms with his passing.”
Althea nodded in agreement. “Uh-huh. I’ll bet your gal’s holed up somewhere having a good cry.”
“You could be right,” he said, doubt and hope in his voice. “She was a real mess when we first got the news.”
“Have you checked at her house?” Stella asked, rocking back on her heels. Using a towel, she dried Althea’s feet.
“I called, but no one answered. Both her folks work. Maybe they’re home now.” He rubbed at a dark bruise that discolored his left cheek, then winced.
I could see why Alice Rose didn’t want to let my nephews play football. “You get hurt playing football,” she declared every time her husband, a second-stringer during his time at Auburn, tried to persuade her to sign six-year-old Logan up for a league.
“You’re right,” Mark said. “I’ll run over there. I’m sorry for interrupting.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Mom said to his back as he pushed through the door and pounded down the veranda steps.
“That young man is strung way too tight,” Althea observed. “If my William had fretted himself like that every time I was late or not where I was supposed to be, he’d have worried himself into an early grave and Beau Lansky wouldn’t have had the chance to murder him.”
“Now, Althea—” Mom started.
Althea had convinced herself that Georgia’s governor, Beau Lansky, with or without the help of the DuBois family, had killed her husband and his friend Carl. Their bodies had turned up in the old DuBois bank this past May, sealed into a wall, lending some credence to her obsession. Still, there was no evidence to tie Lansky to the crime, and Mom had tired of listening to her friend’s conspiracy theories.
“I’m just saying that boy needs to relax,” Althea grumbled.
Even though I agreed with her, I could see how it would be difficult to chill out when your best friend had been murdered in his hospital bed.
I said good night to Mom and Althea, who were planning to see the new Robert Downey Jr. movie, and to Stella, who was headed home to hem her daughter’s marching band uniform. “How’s it going with Darryl?” I asked Stella as we descended the veranda steps together. Beauty slunk behind us, stalking a mockingbird under the magnolia.
“One day at a time,” she said, but she sounded more happy than sad. “We’re still going to counseling; I guess we both had a lot of stuff to get out on the table.” She held her hair back against a gust of wind. “Funny how you can be married to someone for twenty years and talk all the time without saying the things that really need to be said. Or maybe we just weren’t listening. Either way, it helps that he’s got a job again.”
Darryl was a mechanic who’d been out of work for several months and he’d used his down time to have an affair. “I’m sure it does,” I said. I waved as she scooped up a frustrated Beauty and got into her car. I was about to head for my apartment when another car pulled to the curb. A white Corvette with California plates. The passenger-side window buzzed down. “Grace?”
The voice was familiar but I didn’t place it immediately. Curiosity warred with caution. I peered through the open window. Glen Spaatz leaned toward me, smiling. “Hey, I’m glad I caught you. The kids told me you were cutting their hair for free and I wanted to stop by and thank you.” He must have seen my puzzled look because he added, “I’m the senior class sponsor and I okayed the head-shaving fund-raiser.”
“Oh, well, you’re welcome,” I said. “Locks of Love is a great organization.”
“Do you have dinner plans?”
His question caught me off guard.
“Uh . . . no.”
He pushed the passenger-side door open. “Why don’t you join me? I’ve got a stack of exams to grade, but I was going to get a quick bite at The Crab Pot.”
Why not? He was attractive, single (I assumed), and I had nothing more exciting waiting at my apartment than a tuna sandwich or canned ravioli. “Okay,” I said, sliding into the low-slung seat. Leather. They must be paying teachers more than I realized. He put the car in gear and pulled smoothly away from the curb before accelerating well past the speed limit.