Die Job(49)

Mark’s eyes widened. “He said that? To Rachel?”

I couldn’t tell if he was more puzzled about what Braden might have meant or about his talking it over with Rachel. “Uh-huh.”

“I don’t know—He didn’t say—” His teeth worried at the cuticle and a fleck of blood appeared.

His mother was right—Mark was wound way too tight. I put a hand on his arm, but before I could say anything, the door on my side swung open, letting in a gust of sea-scented wind. A strong pair of hands grabbed my upper arm and yanked. I tumbled out of the seat, my feet getting caught somehow. My shoulder thudded against the door and then I was on the ground. Ow.

“You bitch! What the hell do you—”

“Lindsay!” Mark’s horrified voice cut through his girlfriend’s tirade.

“Oh my God! Miss Terhune! I’m so sorry. I thought you were—Are you okay?” Lindsay hovered over me, contrition on her face.

From my upside-down position on the ground, she looked like a young Amazon warrior with a really good haircut. Thank God she wasn’t carrying a spear. The driver’s door slammed as Mark scrambled out and came around to our side.

Pushing to a sitting position, I freed my foot, grateful I wasn’t wearing a skirt. I felt undignified enough as it was without my lavender Jockey hipsters on display. I massaged my twisted ankle for a moment, then stood, dusting off my slacks. Adrenaline still surged through me and my voice was tight as I said, “You attacked me.”

Wearing skinny jeans that made her look even taller than she was, Lindsay looked like she was going to cry. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were . . . were putting the moves on Mark.”

“You what?” Incredulity and anger flooded me and I felt my face flush. I was pretty sure I’d never “put the moves” on anyone, and I couldn’t imagine being interested in an eighteen-year-old. The idea made me faintly nauseated.

“Not you. I didn’t mean—I mean, I thought you were a girl, like, you know, a student here, and that you—she—was hitting on my boyfriend.”

I followed her disjointed sentence with difficulty. “Is that how you react whenever Mark talks to another student?”

“Of course not.” Mark jumped in to defend Lindsay. He put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him. “She misinterpreted the situation, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Pulling a twig from my hair, I gave the pair a level look. “You reacted like a kindergartner. At your age, I’d expect a little more impulse control.”

“I’m really sorry,” Lindsay whispered again. “You won’t tell, will you?”

Tell who? The police? Her folks? I could just see that conversation: “Hello, Mrs. Tandy? I’m calling to let you know your daughter pulled me out of a car—no, it wasn’t moving at the time—because she thought I was getting cozy with her boyfriend. Well, yes, I was alone in the car with him, but there was nothing going on. I was just grilling him about his best friend’s murder.” Not a conversation I wanted to have.

“I can’t afford detention,” Lindsay said. “Coach Adkins won’t let someone play for a week if they get detention.”

Ah, she was worried I’d tell Principal Kornhiser. Merle. Suddenly, I felt too weary to bother with this conversation anymore. I was tired from fighting the sea this morning, and being bounced onto the ground by Lindsay had awakened all the aches that two painkillers had put to sleep. “I’m going home,” I said grumpily. “If you think of anything else, Mark, or have thoughts about what Braden meant when he talked about ‘intervening,’ give me a call at Violetta’s.”

The kids exchanged a look I didn’t know how to interpret but said nothing. When the silence had stretched to thirty seconds, I turned and started toward Mom’s. Mark’s belated, “Will do,” and Lindsay’s, “Sorry,” floated after me.





Chapter Fourteen





I ARRIVED BACK AT MOM’s TO FIND FRED WILKERSON, Mom’s handyman, nailing plywood over the salon windows. Mom was starting to take Horatio seriously.

“Hi, Fred,” I greeted him.

“Gonna be a big blow,” he said, shaking his grizzled head. At least seventy, he wore denim overalls and work boots. A patch of stubbly white whiskers sprouted from his jaw where his razor had missed a spot. “I saw this morning that most of the boats have moved out of the marina.”

Leaving him to his work—whack, whack, whack went the hammer—I entered the salon. With some of the windows boarded up, it felt like a dim cave. “Are we closed?” I asked Mom, who was rearranging the bottles and tubes of Althea’s Organic Skin Care Solutions. The weather report played without sound on the television behind her. The swirly mass of clouds had moved closer to Georgia.