Die Job(73)
“Just as long as you don’t think I hang by my heels from the ceiling and go hunting at nightfall.”
I laughed and hung up after he thanked me for the information and told me he’d follow up. Feeling pretty darn good about having discovered something that might actually help the police, I headed for home. My good feeling evaporated on the way as I realized that the information might implicate Mark in Braden’s death.
I noticed a pickup truck in Mrs. Jones’s driveway as I pulled to the curb, but I didn’t pay it much attention. My landlady had more relatives than your average rabbit—nieces and nephews and great-nieces and great-nephews and first- and second-removed whatevers—and I couldn’t possibly keep track of their vehicles. Probably just someone helping her batten down the hatches before Horatio hit. Someone moved on her veranda and I waved as I swung the car door shut.
As I started toward my carriage house, heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs leading down from Mrs. Jones’s veranda. I turned, ready to smile and exchange greetings, to see Lonnie Farber hurrying toward me, leather jacket open over a black tee shirt and distressed blue jeans. I stood still, unable to decide if it would be smarter to try and make it into my apartment or confront him out here. I doubted I could unlock the apartment, get inside, and rebolt it before he caught me up, so I stood my ground, looking around to see if any neighbors were working in their yards or pushing strollers down the walk. I couldn’t spot a single soul on the entire block.
“Miss Terhune. I’ve been waiting for you. Don’t you live there?” He nodded at Mrs. Jones’s house, puzzlement creasing his smooth brow. He stopped about a yard from me, feet planted a bit more than hip width, big receiver’s hands hanging at his sides. I didn’t see a gun. “You don’t gotta worry about me,” he said, correctly interpreting my look. “I’m not carrying.”
“What do you want?”
I couldn’t read his face as he stared down at the foot he was scuffing in a dry patch on the lawn. The black and silver training shoes he wore probably cost more than my monthly groceries. “My aunt Retta says I need to apologize to you and Miss Althea, for scaring you the other day. Even though you scared the crap outta me.”
His version of an apology sounded like my four-year-old nephew’s: “I’m sorry, but it was your fault.” Still, he didn’t look threatening and I felt the tension ease out of my shoulders.
“We didn’t mean to scare you,” I said. “We just wanted to talk to you about Braden and that night at Rothmere. Why did you take off like that?”
“I thought you were someone else,” he mumbled. “Someone I been doin’ some business with.”
“Hm. I guess you haven’t been out selling Girl Scout cookies.”
“I haven’t been selling anything,” Lonnie said swiftly.
Ye gods. Did he think I’d just accused him of dealing drugs? Once the thought lodged in my brain, it refused to go away. I hoped for Loretta’s sake, and Lonnie’s, that he wasn’t mixed up with drug dealers. “So, that night at Rothmere, what was the bit with the ghost costume all about?”
Lonnie flashed a grin. “It wasn’t about nothing. It was just for kicks. You’re pretty fast for an old chick. You almost caught me before I went out the window.”
His praise left me underwhelmed. “And the fireworks? Were those meant as a distraction so that someone could push Braden McCullers down the stairs?”
“Shit, no!” Lonnie’s wide nostrils flared with alarm. “Braden was my man. I wouldn’t set him up.”
“Really? I heard you were pissed at him for testifying against your brother.”
“We worked that out,” Lonnie said, but his eyes didn’t meet mine.
“You beat him up, you mean.”
“Shit, lady, he gave as good as he got.” Lonnie scowled. “We were cool.”
“So you’re okay with Braden getting your brother thrown in prison.”
“Juvie. Look, Randall’s got his issues, you know?”
I didn’t want to hear about Randall’s issues and Lonnie’s insistence that he wasn’t mad at Braden rang true. “So what about the fireworks?”
“The fireworks were just for fun, for livening up the party. Sittin’ around all night waiting for a ghost to show up didn’t sound like much of a party, you know? So me and some of the others made plans, if you know what I mean.”
“Who else? What kind of plans?”
Lonnie shrugged. “Well, someone mighta brought some beer, and maybe there was some weed—but I don’t touch that shit—and a coupla other kids brought sheets, although they chickened out of doing their Cyril impressions, I guess.”