Althea and I stared at her. I liked Glen and didn’t want to visualize him pushing Braden or pressing down on his face with a pillow, but what Mom said made sense. Except, how could Braden have learned something about Glen that Hank, a cop, couldn’t dig up? The whole thing made my head hurt.
RACHEL BROUGHT ANOTHER SEVEN LOCKS OF LOVE girls to the salon after school let out. I cut and styled on autopilot, thinking through what I’d learned about Braden’s death. It saddened me to think that there would be so many suspects in the murder of a high schooler. Lonnie could have done it, either as revenge for Braden testifying against his brother or to become the starting wide receiver. It was almost incomprehensible to me that someone would kill for such a reason, but I’d seen reports of people killing for high-end tennis shoes or because someone walked on their lawn, so I knew it was possible. If Mark’s dad was an abuser, would he kill to keep that abuse a secret? Could that be what Braden had meant when he talked about needing to “intervene”? Very possibly. I could see where a sensitive kid like Braden would want to intervene to protect his friend. And then there was Dr. Solomon. What if Braden knew something about the Relamin study that would cost the doctor or the pharmaceutical company money? Or their reputation? And how could he “intervene” in such a case? Maybe he’d confronted the doctor, or threatened to go to the media.
“It’s really short, isn’t it?”
The girl in my chair, a plump sophomore with auburn hair, recalled me from my thoughts. She peered at her reflection unhappily. Per her request, I’d kept her hair as long as possible, but it still barely grazed the bottom of her ears after I’d taken the ten inches required by Locks of Love.
“It’s for a great cause,” I reminded her. “Look, how about if we part it on the side, like this”—I made a deep part on the left—“and sweep the bangs across.”
“That’s better,” she said, tilting her head this way and that to see the effect. “But it’s still really short.”
“It’ll grow back,” I promised. “Think how much easier it’ll be to take care of. You can sleep an extra twenty minutes every morning instead of getting up to use the curling iron.” I hated it when clients weren’t happy with their hair.
Her freckled face brightened. “That’s true. And it was worth it.” She sat still while I blew hair off the cape with the dryer and then she bounded away like a prisoner being paroled.
Mom was determined to keep the salon open until the normal closing time, despite the lack of customers, but she told me to go ahead when I said I wanted to track down Lonnie Farber.
“I’ll go with you,” Althea said, surprising me. When I looked a question at her, she added, “I know that boy’s aunt Loretta—she’s raising him—and that trailer park they live in is in a rough area. You don’t want to go there on your own, baby-girl.” She tucked her purse under her arm and said, “I’ll drive.”
I shot Mom a look—Althea drove like a moonshiner evading the law—but she just smiled and shrugged. Reluctantly, I followed Althea to her LTD. Once maroon, it had faded to an ugly pink. Getting in, I buckled my seat belt as Althea reversed out of the narrow driveway at Mach speed. She headed to the south side of St. Elizabeth, past the new housing development where quite a few navy families lived, and turned onto a sand and gravel driveway where a rickety sign proclaimed “Green Acres.” I didn’t know if it was a joke about the TV show or not, but I had trouble picturing Eva Gabor living in one of the dilapidated trailers that came into view as we rounded a corner. Although Arnold the pig would have felt right at home.
Twelve or so trailer homes in gray, white, and tan were planted higgledy-piggledy around the clearing, with one hot pink trailer standing out like a wedding guest at a wake. I guessed there wasn’t much in the way of HOA restrictions. Rusty old beaters squatted in front of a couple of the mobile homes. Several of the trailers looked deserted—not surprising with a hurricane bearing down. Hurricanes sometimes spawned tornados, which seemed to have a special affinity for trailer parks. Live oak trees created an almost solid canopy overhead, even at this time of year, and dripped with Spanish moss. A layer of browned leaves and acorns almost obscured the scraggly grass. Getting out of the car, I avoided a shallow, muddy ditch where tiny crabs scuttled for cover.
“Over there.” Althea pointed to a trailer that wasn’t quite as rundown as some of the others. Clay pots filled with bronzy mums stood on either side of the metal steps leading to the front door, and cheery red and white curtains hung in the windows. A new red pickup with jazzy hubcaps and a tool box fastened in the bed didn’t seem to fit with the rundown surroundings.