Die Job (18 page)

“The Relamin study? What about it?” He looked startled, then uneasy, bringing his thumb to his mouth to chew on his cuticle.

“What is it? When did he start with the study?”

Mark turned his head away to stare out the window. “It’s a new antidepressant. It’s supposed to work differently—better than the serotonin re-uptake inhibitors—but I don’t really understand the chemistry behind it.”

Sero-what? I quickly decided I didn’t need to understand how it worked, either. “Did you see any changes in Mark after he started the study?”

He thought for a moment. “Nah. Not really. He hadn’t been through a major depressive episode in quite a while, at least not that I knew about. And I don’t think I would’ve missed it. We spent a lot of time together. He could have been receiving the placebo anyway, in which case—obviously—he wouldn’t have side effects.”

It wasn’t obvious to me. “What do you mean?”

“In drug studies, there’s always a control group that receives a placebo instead of the new medication. You don’t know which group you’re in, so you might be getting the new drug, or you might just be getting a sugar pill.” His brows twitched together with a hint of suspicion. “Why are you asking about Relamin? Do you know something about it? Have you heard something?”

“Nothing. I was wondering about possible side effects, that’s all.”

He seemed to lose interest. “Dr. Solomon would know. But
she probably won’t tell you. These drug studies are very hush-hush; at least, that’s what Braden said.”

“Dr. Solomon?”

“Yeah. She’s the one running the study. You met her—she was at the ghost hunt.”

The short woman with the widow’s peak. A chill trickled down my spine. Was it mere coincidence that she was at Rothmere the night Braden fell? I bit my lip. I was letting Mom’s theory color my thinking; of course it was coincidence. I changed the subject, sensing that Mark was about to bail on me by the way his hand rested on the door handle. “Look, can you think of anyone who hated Braden or who might’ve wanted to hurt him?”

Mark was shaking his head before I finished. “No. Everyone liked Braden.”

“Even Lonnie?”

He paused and began gnawing on his cuticle again. “Oh, Lonnie’s okay. He was pissed at Braden after his brother got sent to juvie, but he’s okay with Braden now.”

Hm. Clearly, Mark wasn’t going to rat out a teammate, or probably anyone else. The culture of “don’t tattle” was alive and well in high school, even with a murderer on the loose. I tried to squelch my irritation; it must be incredibly hard to believe that someone you knew, someone who kind of
was
you—a high school senior looking forward to graduation and maybe college, who played ball and struggled with calculus tests—could kill someone. “He told Rachel that there was some situation he was dealing with, or aware of, and he was debating whether or not to ‘intervene.’ That’s the word he used. Do you know what he was talking about?”

Mark’s eyes widened. “He said that? To Rachel?”

I couldn’t tell if he was more puzzled about what Braden might have
meant or about his talking it over with Rachel. “Uh-huh.”

“I don’t know—He didn’t say—” His teeth worried at the cuticle and a fleck of blood appeared.

His mother was right—Mark was wound way too tight. I put a hand on his arm, but before I could say anything, the door on my side swung open, letting in a gust of sea-scented wind. A strong pair of hands grabbed my upper arm and yanked. I tumbled out of the seat, my feet getting caught somehow. My shoulder thudded against the door and then I was on the ground. Ow.

“You bitch! What the hell do you—”

“Lindsay!” Mark’s horrified voice cut through his girlfriend’s tirade.

“Oh my God! Miss Terhune! I’m so sorry. I thought you were—Are you okay?” Lindsay hovered over me, contrition on her face.

From my upside-down position on the ground, she looked like a young Amazon warrior with a really good haircut. Thank God she wasn’t carrying a spear. The driver’s door slammed as Mark scrambled out and came around to our side.

Pushing to a sitting position, I freed my foot, grateful I wasn’t wearing a skirt. I felt undignified enough as it was without my lavender Jockey hipsters on display. I massaged my twisted ankle for a moment, then stood, dusting off my slacks. Adrenaline still surged through me and my voice was tight as I said, “You attacked me.”

Wearing skinny jeans that made her look even taller than she was, Lindsay looked like she was going to cry. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were . . . were putting the moves on Mark.”

“You what?” Incredulity and anger flooded me and I felt my
face flush. I was pretty sure I’d never “put the moves” on anyone, and I couldn’t imagine being interested in an eighteen-year-old. The idea made me faintly nauseated.

“Not you. I didn’t mean—I mean, I thought you were a girl, like, you know, a student here, and that you—she—was hitting on my boyfriend.”

I followed her disjointed sentence with difficulty. “Is that how you react whenever Mark talks to another student?”

“Of course not.” Mark jumped in to defend Lindsay. He put an arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him. “She misinterpreted the situation, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” Pulling a twig from my hair, I gave the pair a level look. “You reacted like a kindergartner. At your age, I’d expect a little more impulse control.”

“I’m really sorry,” Lindsay whispered again. “You won’t tell, will you?”

Tell who? The police? Her folks? I could just see that conversation: “Hello, Mrs. Tandy? I’m calling to let you know your daughter pulled me out of a car—no, it wasn’t moving at the time—because she thought I was getting cozy with her boyfriend. Well, yes, I was alone in the car with him, but there was nothing going on. I was just grilling him about his best friend’s murder.” Not a conversation I wanted to have.

“I can’t afford detention,” Lindsay said. “Coach Adkins won’t let someone play for a week if they get detention.”

Ah, she was worried I’d tell Principal Kornhiser. Merle. Suddenly, I felt too weary to bother with this conversation anymore. I was tired from fighting the sea this morning, and being bounced onto the ground by Lindsay had awakened all the aches that two painkillers had put to sleep. “I’m going home,” I said grumpily. “If you think of anything else,
Mark, or have thoughts about what Braden meant when he talked about ‘intervening,’ give me a call at Violetta’s.”

The kids exchanged a look I didn’t know how to interpret but said nothing. When the silence had stretched to thirty seconds, I turned and started toward Mom’s. Mark’s belated, “Will do,” and Lindsay’s, “Sorry,” floated after me.

I ARRIVED BACK AT MOM’s TO FIND FRED WILKERSON, Mom’s handyman, nailing plywood over the salon windows. Mom was starting to take Horatio seriously.

“Hi, Fred,” I greeted him.

“Gonna be a big blow,” he said, shaking his grizzled head. At least seventy, he wore denim overalls and work boots. A patch of stubbly white whiskers sprouted from his jaw where his razor had missed a spot. “I saw this morning that most of the boats have moved out of the marina.”

Leaving him to his work—
whack
,
whack
,
whack
went the hammer—I entered the salon. With some of the windows boarded up, it felt like a dim cave. “Are we closed?” I asked Mom, who was rearranging the bottles and tubes of Althea’s Organic Skin Care Solutions. The weather report played without sound on the television behind her. The swirly mass of clouds had moved closer to Georgia.

“No.”

“But we might as well be,” Althea said, emerging from the bathroom, “for all the business we’ve had this morning. You might want Fred to have a look at the toilet while he’s here, Vi; I had to jiggle the handle again. Why are you limping?” She stared at my foot.

“Didn’t Mom tell you about my adventure this morning?” I didn’t want to talk about the Lindsay incident, so it was easier to let her think I’d twisted my ankle in the sea.

“Yes, she did, and let me tell you, baby-girl, that was the stupidest damn thing you’ve ever done. And also one of the bravest.” Concern and pride warred on her handsome cocoa face. “Why, you don’t swim much better than a cat.”

“Thanks,” I said drily, helping myself to a diet A&W from the mini fridge.

“Facts is facts,” she observed. “I’ve never been one to mince words.”

Mom and I laughed.

“What?” Althea gave us a mock glare.

The door swung open and I glanced over, thinking it was Fred, but a stranger stood on the threshold. Almost six feet tall, she had glossy black hair that draped from a side part, almost obscuring one eye, and fell to mid-back. Pale skin, pale blue eyes, and lush lips made a dramatic contrast with her hair. Designer jeans and boots emphasized long legs. She’d wrapped a spangly silver scarf twice around her neck and the ends dangled to her waist.

“Hello.” Her voice was warm and throaty. “I’m looking for Grace Terhune.”

“That’s me,” I said, setting my soda on the counter.

“That’s Avaline,” Althea suddenly said. “Avaline van Tassel.”

“Who?”

Mom and I looked from Althea to the newcomer. She clapped her hands together and I saw she was wearing at least one ring on every finger. Blue, red, and green stones—surely they couldn’t be real gems?—twinkled even in the low light. “That’s right. How lovely of you to recognize me. Are you a fan of the show?”

“What show?” Mom asked.

“She’s the spirit whisperer,” Althea said. “And, no,” she answered the woman’s question. “I wouldn’t say I’m a fan. I don’t believe in that nonsense . . . talking to spirits and all.” She jutted her chin out in her characteristic way. “Dead is dead, is what I say. Until the Second Coming.”

“A nonbeliever.” A small smile curved the corner of Avaline’s mouth. “That’s okay. The world is filled with disbelief, but still I carry on with my mission.”

“What mission?” I asked. “And why are you looking for me?”

“My mission is to communicate with the spirits,” she said, “especially ones tied to the earth by profound emotion—usually anger or sorrow—experienced at their deaths.”

I had a feeling I knew where this was going and wished I’d gone straight home from the high school.

“I understand you were present when the ghost of Cyril Rothmere pushed a local boy down a staircase. I want to interview you about that for my television show.”

The three of us looked at her with varying degrees of mistrust and discomfort. I didn’t know which part of her statement to disagree with first, so I asked, “Who gave you my name?”

“A Dr. Lucy Mortimer at Rothmere. She also gave me the name of the high school teacher who sponsored the trip, but he’s teaching and I can’t get hold of him.” She smiled winningly. “So I decided to start with you.”

I was going to kill Lucy. “Well, I appreciate your thinking of me,” I lied, “but I don’t want to be on your show.”

“Really?” She looked puzzled. “We have a viewership of almost twelve million. Friday nights at eight o’clock.”

“Twelve million? Really?” Althea sounded flabbergasted. “And I thought you had lame plans for your weekend nights, baby-girl. Can you believe there are twelve million people in this country with a sorrier love life than yours?”

“Leave her alone, Althea,” Mom commanded.

“I like my Friday nights the way they are,” I said loftily, “and besides—” I stopped short of telling them I was going out with Agent Dillon this Friday. Turning back to Avaline, I said, “I’m not interested. And anyway, I didn’t see the accident, but whoever pushed Braden wasn’t a ghost.”

“Well, we’ll let Cyril tell us about that,” Avaline said with a throaty laugh.

“Come again?” Mom said.

“That’s what she does,” Althea explained. “She talks to spirits. Or so she says.”

Avaline didn’t seem offended by Althea’s blatant skepticism. “That’s right. And I’ve got a feeling Cyril’s got a lot to tell our audience. From what Dr. Mortimer told me, he was murdered—maybe by a family member—and has haunted his old home ever since. Well, maybe once he gets a chance to tell his story on national TV, he’ll be free.”

Mom and I exchanged looks. Even if I believed in ghosts—which I didn’t—I had a hard time thinking they were hanging around in the ether, waiting their chance to appear on a talk show like the desperate, dysfunctional people who squabbled about family issues on
Jerry Springer
.

“Well, good luck with it,” I said. “Sorry I can’t help.”

Avaline didn’t take the hint. Running the spangled scarf through her
hand, she said, “Dr. Mortimer told me you have some documents that might shed some light on Cyril’s case. I’d like to use them—”

“There wasn’t anything interesting in them,” I said, determined not to let this woman get her hands on Clarissa’s letters. For some reason, it seemed like a gross violation of her privacy.

“Oh, you must let me be the judge of that,” Avaline said, narrowing her eyes. “Given the right spin, any historic document can be fascinating.”

I didn’t want her “spinning” Clarissa’s life. “Well, I’ll look for them,” I said with a false I’ll-get-right-on-it air. “Where are you staying?”

“Can’t you find them now?” she said, pointing to the ceiling.