Dillon received the news impassively and I couldn’t tell what he thought.
“Could Braden have been a threat to the pharmaceutical company somehow?” I asked.
“I think you’ve been watching too many whistle-blower movies,” he said.
“I guess I’d rather have Braden’s killer be a faceless corporation than some kid that Rachel goes to school with,” I said. I hadn’t realized it before, but it was true.
“That’s understandable.”
I hesitated for a moment, on the brink of mentioning my concern about Mark Crenshaw, but drew back.
“What?” Dillon asked, clearly sensing my indecision. “You’d better tell me.”
I shook my head, my hair whisking against my cheek. “No. It’s nothing.” I couldn’t justify siccing the police on Mark’s father with no more than an easily explained bruise and vague suspicions to go on. Maybe I could find an opportunity to talk with Captain Crenshaw myself and get a feel for the man. Or maybe I should approach Mrs. Crenshaw. To distract Dillon, who was looking at me with one brow quirked, I asked, “Where do you send Groucho when there’s a hurricane?” Groucho was his horse, a big black brute I’d only seen in photos.
“A woman I know owns a boarding farm a couple hours northwest of here,” he said. “I had Groucho taken up there a couple days ago.”
Conjuring an image of a svelte blonde in jodhpurs and riding boots, I suppressed a completely unreasonable sting of jealousy at the phrase “a woman I know.” “That’s good,” I said lamely. “I suppose he’s not used to hurricanes.”
“Nope. They’re few and far between in Wisconsin.”
I was suddenly overwhelmed with a desire to hear all about his life in Wisconsin, his life before he arrived in Georgia. I realized I didn’t know if he had been married before, if he had siblings or children, or what he liked to do in his off time, other than hang out with Groucho. “What—” I started.
Dillon’s phone rang. He answered it, raising one finger in a “hold that thought” gesture. “I’m on my way,” he said into the phone. “I’ve got to go,” he told me as he ended the call. “We’re still on for Friday?”
“Barring hurricane intervention.”
He grinned and strode away. I listened to his steps as he ran down the stairs and started thinking about what to wear Friday night. Maybe my halter-top dress with the leaf design. But that wouldn’t work if it was chilly in the aftermath of the hurricane. Possibly the blue . . .
A creaking sound, like someone stepping on a loose floorboard, pulled me out of my thoughts. Looking over my shoulder, I saw no one, just Clarissa and Cyril and the rest of the Rothmere family gazing at me from the oil painting. Was there a new urgency in Clarissa’s expression? I leaned closer to the painting and touched a finger to the painted fabric of Clarissa’s yellow gown, almost expecting the feel of silk under my fingertip. But the hundred-and-fifty-year-old paint was rough and dry. Too much talk of ghosts and spirit whisperers was getting to me. Or maybe it was the falling barometer making me feel so strange. Another almost creak—more a sigh of air compressed between two boards—goosed me out of the portrait gallery and closer to the stairs. Old houses make noises, I told myself, looking over my shoulder toward the shadowy passage that led out of the gallery in the other direction. And this house was full of people—cameramen and other people involved in Avaline’s show. Creaks and squeaks were nothing to worry about.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I reached the stairs and began descending them. Sunlight, muted by clouds, streamed into the foyer from the open door. It felt welcoming after the stingy light in the upstairs hall. At the bottom of the stairs, under the magnificent chandelier, Avaline stood talking to a woman who looked vaguely familiar. She turned as I stepped into the marbled entryway and I recognized the other chaperone from the field trip, Dr. Solomon. Dark brows arched toward the widow’s peak, and she looked as startled to see me as I was to see her.
The lines in her brow smoothed out as I approached. “Grace, right?” she said, extending her hand. “I guess you’re here for an interview about that night, too.”
I shook her hand, noting the somewhat stubby fingers with their bare nails filed short. The rest of her look was equally no-nonsense: smooth, olive-toned skin free of makeup; hair pulled back into a low ponytail like on Saturday; deep-set brown eyes and a wide mouth that pulled down a tad at the corners. I could definitely envision her in a white lab coat rather than the navy slacks and pinstriped oxford blouse she wore with a cardigan knotted around her neck.