Die Job(83)

A loud crack from overhead drew our eyes to the ceiling. The hurricane had hurled a large tree branch against the roof, I figured. We all froze as if someone had hit the “pause” button until it became clear water wasn’t going to start pouring through the ceiling.

“I think that’s enough, Mark.” Eric Crenshaw broke the silence, speaking for the first time. His voice was rough, like he’d gargled with glass. He leaned forward to put a hand on his stepson’s shoulder. “Maybe you shouldn’t say any more until we get a lawyer.”

He was a little late with that advice, I thought. Mark let his chin droop to his chest and covered his eyes with one forearm as he sobbed. I felt sorry for him, caught between the expectations of an abusive mother and a crippling depression.

It seemed pretty clear that Braden, having met Mark at Sandy Point where he was apparently recovering from a suicide attempt, was better at reading Mark than his parents or girlfriend were. He saw Mark’s increasing anxiety and depression—his mother saw it, too, I realized, but wrote it off as her son being a “worry wart”—and was going to take the only action he thought would save his friend. Talking to Mark’s folks certainly wasn’t going to do the trick, not with Joy Crenshaw so fixated on seeing her son follow in his father’s footsteps. So, Braden was going to get Mark’s appointment cancelled or rescinded or whatever they called it by telling the Academy about his mental health issues. No wonder he’d wrestled with whether or not to intervene! What a horrible choice for a teenager to have to make: destroy your best buddy’s college plans or watch him fret himself into another suicide attempt.

Dillon looked at me where I stood by the door. I saw weariness and a certain level of satisfaction on his face. “Grace, would you ask one of the officers to come in here please?”

I nodded and slipped through the door into the foyer. The storm’s noise was louder here, the rain drumming on the roof amplified by the open space, maybe. It felt like hours had passed, but in reality it had probably been only twenty minutes since we entered the parlor. Crewmembers from The Spirit Whisperer did things with cameras and lights. I glanced up at the landing but didn’t see Avaline.

“Do you know where the police officers went?” I asked a man fiddling with a camera.

“They were taking statements in the ballroom,” he said. “A lot of folks have left, though, so maybe they’re done? You might try in that woman’s office, the one who thinks she’s the reincarnation of Scarlet O’Hara or something.”

“Amelia Rothmere,” I corrected him, heading down the hall to Lucy’s office. The door was open and I heard voices as I approached. They were almost drowned out by the howling wind that rattled the old house like a terrier shaking a rat. I touched a hand to the wall, maybe to steady myself and maybe to assure myself it was sturdy. Pushing open the office door, I found Lucy, Mom, Althea, and Hank gathered around a small radio, listening to weather updates. Mom and Althea sat in chairs at the small dinette set that served as a conference table. Hank stood with his shoulders propped against the far wall, cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife while Lucy stared at him with revulsion from the chair behind her desk.

“Join the party,” Althea said when she spotted me. “Not that it’s much of a party.”

“Are you okay, honey?” Mom asked, looking at me with concern. “We waited for you.”

“Thanks,” I said, leaning down to give her a kiss. I straightened and looked across at my ex as he snapped the little knife closed. “Hank,” I said, “Agent Dillon needs you to take the Crenshaws down to the station while they wait for a lawyer, or something.”

“No can do, darlin’,” he said, shaking his head. “Horatio has heated up out there. Radio says it’s not safe to travel. It looks like we’re stuck here for the duration. I put dibs on the master bedroom for you and me.” He swaggered closer, thumbs tucked into his utility belt.

I rolled my eyes while Althea swatted him with a dried cattail she took from an arrangement on the table. It exploded into a cloud of fluffy seedlets, speckling Hank’s uniform, the table, and the floor.

“Now look what you’ve done, Althea,” he said, brushing at the tan flecks on his sleeve. They clung stubbornly.

“Maybe next time you’ll think before you open your potty mouth,” she said, pulling another cattail from the vase and waving it threateningly.

Mom hid a smile behind her hand as Hank stomped into the hall. I followed him, anxious to get back to the parlor. “There are worse things than being stuck together for the night in an old plantation home, right?” Hank said. “Remember that B and B we stayed at, over near Vicksburg? It was a lot like this place. We had ourselves a real good time there.” Hank waggled his eyebrows suggestively.