“I suppose it’s possible,” I said, rinsing out my bowl and putting it in the drainer. “But don’t forget that someone smothered him. If the fall was an accident, why would someone stalk him at the hospital and kill him? I’d been thinking that the murderer finished him off at the hospital because they were afraid he’d wake up and ID them.”
“That makes sense,” Mom said. She gazed at me over the lenses of her rimless glasses. “How much money would a pharmaceutical company have invested in a drug? If it’s a lot—millions—and a test subject had a potentially fatal accident because of it, mightn’t they want to cover it up?”
“With murder?” I laughed. “You’ve been watching too many thrillers, Mom. This isn’t that Rachel Weisz movie where the evil pharmaceutical company tested drugs on innocent Africans. What was it called? Something about a gardener. Corporations don’t run around killing people. Thanks for the soup. It hit the spot.”
“It was just out of a can.” Mom pursed her lips. “I still think you should follow up on the drug test thing. Maybe that boy who was here yesterday, Braden’s friend, could tell you more about it.”
“Mark Crenshaw.” I’d already planned to talk to him. “Maybe I’ll run over to the school and see if I can catch him before football practice. Then I’ll come back here in time to help with the Locks of Love cuts.”
“You should be resting.” Mom put her hands on her hips.
“I got wet,” I said, kissing her cheek. “It’s not like I was in a car wreck or something. I don’t need to rest.”
“Hmmph. You got pretty beat up. Look at the bruises on your arm.”
The sight of the bruises reminded me of what Rachel had said about Mark’s dad maybe abusing him and I told my mom. “Should I tell someone?”
“I don’t know how you can,” she said, tapping a finger on her lower lip. “You heard it from Rachel who heard it from Lindsay who noticed some bruises on Mark. That’s hardly proof of abuse. You don’t want to start rumors based on such flimsy evidence.”
“His mother had a bruise, too,” I said. “I noticed it this morning.”
“Well, if having a couple bruises is proof of parental or spousal abuse, anyone looking at you would toss me in jail quicker than I can say ‘Jack Robinson.’ ”
“Good point,” I said, eyeing my bruised and scraped arms. I hadn’t relished going to the police or anyone with those accusations and I was relieved to hear Mom didn’t think I should.
I gave her a hug. “Thanks for worrying about me.”
“It’s my job.” She sounded severe, but I caught the twinkle in her eye. “But the pay stinks and the hours are lousy.”
Arriving back at the high school, I headed around back to the practice field. Unless things had changed since I went there, the football team practiced last period and then for an additional hour or so after school. I hoped to intercept Mark Crenshaw before practice kicked off. Coach Peet, I knew, was unlikely to let me distract his players once practice got underway. The field, goal posts at either end, stretched greenly away from the back of the high school. A single section of rickety bleachers—once white, now a silvery gray where the sun and humidity had chewed away the paint—marked the fifty-yard line. A girl sat midway up, holding her long hair back with one hand and pressing the pages of a textbook open with the other.
I expected to see a steady stream of football players trickling from the exterior gym door onto the field; instead, two players in practice jerseys tossed a football back and forth in the middle of the field. Coach Peet was nowhere in sight. I crossed the field, behind the players, my low-heeled pumps sinking into the grass. I noticed “Crenshaw” stenciled on the back of one of the kids’ jerseys. The other player suddenly cut across the field, then zigzagged toward the middle. Mark brought his arm back and launched the ball in a tight spiral. The receiver snagged it with his fingertips and raced for the end zone.
“Mark?”
He turned, startled. “What? Oh, hi, Miss Terhune.” His eyes slid to his teammate down the field. He caught the football as the receiver lobbed it back to him.
“Do you have a moment to talk?” I asked. “About Braden?”
“I’ve got lots of moments,” he said. “No practice today because of the hurricane. Too many people have evacuated. Give me ten, okay, Josh?” he called to his teammate. “Then we’ll run some more patterns.”
Josh gave him a thumbs-up and joined the girl on the bleachers. I felt awkward standing in the middle of the field, but the bleachers were too small to allow for private conversation.