Die Job(86)

“Thanks.” He beamed. “I always had a flair for improv. Scripts are just too confining.”

“It was a trick?” Astonishment had startled Lindsay’s hiccups out of her. “You’re not really—?”

“A ghost?” Bruce laughed. “Not me, darling. Not for a good many more years, God willing.” He knocked on the wooden banister.

If looks could kill, Lindsay’s glare would have turned him into a ghost on the spot.

“I’ve got to tell Mom and Althea,” I told Dillon, who had extricated himself from Avaline’s clutches and was signaling to Officer Qualls to come take Lindsay off his hands. Residual anger bubbled up. “How could you?”

“Lie about McCullers being dead?”

“Yes! I blamed myself. I felt horribly guilty. And Rachel! How could you?”

“I’m not going to apologize for trying to save the kid’s life, Grace. It was obvious the murderer was going to keep trying until she succeeded. We picked the easiest and most effective way of stopping her. His parents went along with it.”

“You could have told me.”

Dillon looked at me and slowly shook his head. “No. Not anyone.”

I bit my lower lip. “I’m going to find Mom and Althea.”

He nodded. “You can tell them Braden is at a specialized facility outside of Atlanta. He regained consciousness yesterday and the doctors are hopeful that there won’t be any permanent damage.”

Despite my anger and hurt, a bubble of light floated up inside me and I almost ran down the hall to Lucy’s office, where I shared the wonderful news with my mom and Althea. Tears moistened Mom’s eyes when I finished, and Althea said, “Well, thank the good Lord.”

“We’ve got to tell Rachel,” I said.

“Her folks picked her up just before the hurricane got nasty,” Mom said. “Call her.”

I did, using the land line on Lucy’s desk when my cell wouldn’t connect. Rachel gasped when I told her that Braden was still alive and asked me, “Are you sure?” three times before seeming to accept my news with tears and laughter. “I’m going to see him, like, now,” she announced.

“Better wait until the hurricane peters out,” I said as her mom’s voice in the background said, “You’re not going anywhere in this weather, young lady.”

Hanging up, I sobered a bit as I related Lindsay’s story to Mom, Althea, and Lucy. “She didn’t exactly admit to trying to kill Braden,” I finished, “but I think the cops will be able to dig up the evidence now that they know where to look. And, of course, there’s always Braden’s testimony.”

“Hallelujah,” Althea said. “C’mon, Vi. I’m hungry. Let’s go see if those TV folk packed anything to eat. I know I saw a cooler.” She dragged Mom into the hall, leaving me with Lucy.

“The important thing is that Cyril’s been cleared,” Lucy said, folding her hands primly on her desk. “As if a Rothmere would be guilty of murder. Why, they’re a family that’s always known the meaning of the word ‘honorable.’ ”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” I said. I told her what Stuart Varnet had said about Cyril and maybe Clarissa being victims of poisoning.

“That’s ridiculous,” Lucy said, affronted. “Everyone knows Cyril died after falling down the stairs, and Clarissa died in childbirth five years after she married Quentin Dodd.”

The news broke over me like one of the waves that had smashed me to the sea floor earlier in the week. The air left my lungs and a sharp stab of sadness felt like a sword in my ribcage. I had so hoped that Clarissa had lived a long life and died in her eighties or nineties, surrounded by children and grandchildren. The news that she’d died so young almost brought tears to my eyes. I blinked rapidly.

Lucy watched me not unsympathetically. “You get attached sometimes,” she said simply.

I just nodded, feeling foolish. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Stuart says they would know for sure if they had a hair or fingernail sample to work with.”

Lucy hesitated, her lips working. Finally, she said in the voice of one goaded beyond endurance. “We do. For Cyril anyway. The funerary hair art, remember?”

“Would you—?” I hardly dared ask her to allow me to send a sample to Stuart for testing.

“Not if they have to cut it up or dissolve it or—”

“He said he could run the test on one hair.” I plucked a single strand from my head and waved the delicate filament at her. “One.”

Calculation gleamed in her eyes. “I suppose it would be okay . . . if you agree to be a docent.”