“Not a problem,” Les said. “We can pad the show if we have to, or maybe make it a two-parter. You know the ratings need a boost, darling, and doing it live—”
They moved toward the front entryway, out of earshot, and I wondered if Les was the show’s producer, who could make problems disappear by applying a little cash. I didn’t envy them trying to film the show during a hurricane and wondered if they had any idea how loud a hurricane was. When Dillon hadn’t appeared after a couple of minutes, I made my way back to the foyer—Avaline and Les were nowhere in sight—and stepped over cables to climb the stairs. The cameraman was gone from the landing and I headed down the hall toward the portrait gallery. Stopping in front of the painting Lucy had shown the high schoolers, I studied Clarissa Rothmere’s painted likeness. She looked happy in this picture, one arm around the waist of a taller, plumper girl seated beside her—an older sister, surely—and the other stroking the head of a spaniel with its paws on her knee. She gazed out at me without a shadow of self-consciousness or worry, and I wondered what had happened to turn this carefree girl into the anxious, sickly writer whose seemingly privileged life was a veneer over the rot of murder, adultery, and greed, just like some of the South’s historic mansions were no more than wooden shells hollowed by termites, weather, and union bullets.
“Friends of yours?”
Dillon’s voice came from behind me and I turned with a half smile. He stood a couple of paces away, hands crossed over his chest, gaze fixed on the painting. “Sort of.” I explained about my interest in Clarissa.
Dillon moved closer to study the painting and his shoulder brushed mine. “She looks like a nice kid,” he observed. “This guy, though”—he pointed to a blond young man with a narrow face—“looks like a weasel.”
I laughed. “Maybe that’s the brother who was in debt, the one Clarissa is afraid killed their father.”
“My money’s on the wife,” Dillon said. “She’s got that unsatisfied look that means trouble. Ever looked at a portrait of Henry the Eighth? Or Marie Antoinette? They had the same look. You can probably find it in cave paintings, too, for all I know. The ‘I want more’ look you see on the faces of shoppers at the mall.”
“Wow, you’re almost as good as Ms. Van Tassel,” I said. “Maybe you could get your own show—The Portrait Whisperer.”
“TV’s not for me,” he said shortly.
“Why not?”
He eyed me for a long moment and then said, “I don’t trust reporters.”
“Why not?”
“Because getting the story first is more important to most of ’em than getting the facts straight or keeping a murderer behind bars.”
“That doesn’t sound like a hypothetical situation.”
“It’s not. It wasn’t.” Before I could probe for more details, he took a step forward, and he gently touched the abraded spot on my cheekbone. “Should I be asking what the other guy looks like?”
His touch confused me and I didn’t want to talk about my dip in the Atlantic. Resisting the impulse to turn my face into his palm, I stepped back and his hand fell to his side. “Grace, zero. Ocean, one,” I said lightly. At his questioning frown, I gave him an abbreviated version of my morning’s swim. His brows arched toward his hairline, but I distracted him by recounting the story of Althea’s and my trip to the trailer park and our almost run-in with Lonnie. I downplayed the car chase, making it sound like nothing more than a Sunday drive down a shady lane, but he was still frowning by the time I got to the gun.
“Lonnie pulled a gun on you?” Anger and something else vibrated in his voice.
“Well, I’m not sure he knew it was Althea and me,” I said, “and he didn’t point it at us or anything. In fact”—I visualized the scene in my head—“he seemed scared. Frightened of something. And I don’t know why Althea or I would frighten him.” The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that Lonnie hadn’t realized who was trailing him.
Dillon flipped open his cell phone and issued an order to someone to pick up Alonso Farber for questioning. “He’s armed,” he said into the phone. “Let me know when you’ve got him.” He hung up and concentrated on me again. “You’ve had a busy day.” His tone didn’t lead me to think it was a compliment. “Anything else I should know?”
“Well . . .” I relayed what Hank had said about Glen Spaatz and what Mark had said about Braden’s involvement with the Relamin study.