Dead on the Delta

Nineteen



This is bad. “Blergh.”

Hitch sighs. “Exactly.”

“Cane’s sister, Amity … ” I push away the feeling that I’m betraying Cane with every word I speak.

I have to tell Hitch what I know. He’s trusted me with a lot of privileged information about this case. The only way to get Fern out of trouble is to return the favor. I can’t let an innocent man, a friend, stay in jail for a murder he didn’t commit because I’m afraid I might get my boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend or whatever Cane is to me now, in trouble.

“Amity and a friend of hers attacked me outside the police station this morning.”

“Attacked you? Physically?”

I nod. “I was getting my head smashed into the pavement a few minutes before you showed up.”

Hitch stops, turning to me with concern in his eyes that I try not to take personally. “Are you okay? Any dizziness? Nausea?”

“No, I’m fine.” And I am, mostly. My head doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it should, all things considered.

“Annabelle, more head trauma is the last thing—”

“Yeah, I know. I’m fine.” I wave away his concern and decide to keep my glasses on so he can’t get a good look at my eyes. “But Amity had Breeze injection marks under her arms and what looked like a fairy bite near her face.”

“That poor family.” Hitch crosses his arms. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out he’s thinking about his own family, but I know there isn’t anything I can say to make that old pain any less painful.

I press on in the name of giving us both something else to think about. “She also kept asking me where ‘it’ was. I’m thinking ‘it’ is probably the drugs that were missing from the fridge. The full amount that should have come from a Breeze operation the size of the one in that house.” I fill Hitch in on my scout of the Breeze house and environs, about the fridge that was missing, and the fact that I’m guessing the cat hair the police found is from my very own Gimpy. “So maybe Fernando is afraid to name his connection because she’s his arresting officer’s sister?”

“Could be,” Hitch says. “But that shouldn’t matter.”

My stomach drops. “No, it shouldn’t.” Not if Cane and Abe are playing fair.

“To be honest, I see an internal affairs investigation in the DPD’s future,” Hitch says. “I’m going to recommend Stephanie stop sharing information and put in a call to the review board in Baton Rouge. If the DPD planted that evidence, then—”

“No. Cane and Abe wouldn’t do that. I know them.” I pray my words are true. They might have bent the rules to get into Fern’s, but they want to find Grace’s killer. Her real killer. Sketchy methods in the name of justice, I can believe. Obstruction of justice and framing an innocent man, I cannot. “Someone else must have put it there. Amity, or someone else Fern’s afraid of.”

“Fern?”

“It’s a nickname.”

“It fits him.” Hitch smiles again, a real smile that makes it hard to breathe.

“It does. Jail, however, I’m sure does not,” I say. “But I might have another suspect to throw at the police. The man who attacked me last night was also very interested in where I put something he was looking for. I’m guessing he and Amity are both hunting for the drugs that weren’t in the fridge.”

“But why would they think you have them?”

“I don’t know. Maybe because I’m friends with Fernando? Or because I tied that woman up yesterday?”

“Or because you’re immune and it would be easy for you to hide a stash where very few people could find it.” Hitch bites his lip. “But if Amity and this man are both looking for drugs, then why would either of them plant the empty refrigerator in Fernando’s storage room?”

“I … I don’t know.” I shake my head, struggling to clear out the cobwebs. “Maybe the woman who attacked me yesterday planted it, to throw the other two off her trail? Or maybe there’s someone else we don’t know about yet. But I definitely think the man in the bayou could have something to do with Grace’s murder. The footprints outside her window and the ones I took pictures of this morning could be a match. Dom’s looking at them now.”

“You’ve been busy this morning.” Hitch turns left on Railroad and heads straight for Swallows. Thank God. He must still have his own caffeine dependency to attend to.

“I wanted to take pictures of the crime scene and the Breeze house before this afternoon. I … I thought maybe … ” I hesitate, wondering how honest I should be with the partner of the woman investigating my performance for the FCC. I trust Hitch to help me clear Fernando, but as far as my own life is concerned …

“You thought Stephanie might take it easy on you if you showed initiative?” He grunts. “That could work … or not. Were you careful not to contaminate the crime scene?”

“Very careful. I used gloves and the whole bit. I’m not a complete waste, you know.”

Hitch reaches for the door to Swallows, but doesn’t pull it open. “I know you’re not.” Tension spikes between us, and the morning air suddenly seems hotter, stickier. “So why did you quit?”

I swallow and stare at his white knuckles. I really don’t want to go over this again. “I’m not going to quit; I’m going to help the FBI any way I can,” I say, deliberately misunderstanding him. “Come on, let’s get a coffee. My treat.” I make a grab for the door, but Hitch doesn’t move his hand. Our fingers brush, the world slows, and I swear I can hear his heartbeat speed in response to my touch.

“You know what I mean,” he says. “Why did you give up?”

“I didn’t give up.” I pull my hand away.

“Sure looks like it. Your file was of the saddest things I’ve read in a while.” He leans closer while I hope someone will burst through the door and stop this before it gets any worse. “I know I was an a*shole yesterday … ” Hitch’s voice drops, low and intimate, touching things in me I don’t want to be touched. “But if any of this is because of us … because of the way things ended … ”

No, he isn’t going there. Not here and now, on the street in broad daylight.

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Screw playing it cool; I just want this conversation to end. Five minutes ago.

“Annabelle, you’re throwing your life away.”

I manage a disdainful laugh. “Spare me the melodrama, Hitch. I’m fine. I like my life. Things are going great.”

“Really? You were brilliant, near the top of our class. You could be saving lives. Instead, you’re a borderline alcoholic working a job a trained monkey could do,” he says, his words making my jaw drop. A trained monkey? “Is that great? Is that what you wanted to be when you grew up?”

“This from the guy who drinks a six-pack every night?”

“I’m not an alcoholic.”

“Neither am I, borderline or otherwise, and my job is a job that needs to get done.” I’m getting angry. Really angry. “And who the hell are you to pass judgment on my life, anyway?”

“Who am I?” He shakes his head. “I was your friend. For years. I cared about you. No matter how things ended, I don’t want to see you—”

“Give me a break.” My laugh is real this time. “Just how arrogant are you?”

His eyes narrow. “I’m not arrogant, I’m concerned.”

“It’s been six years, Hitch. Six. Years. I’m not ‘throwing my life away’ because I’m still carrying a torch for you, believe me.” My tone is so harsh I almost buy my own load of crap. “You think entirely too much of yourself.”

“Fine.” His jaw clenches and his left eyelid does that twitchy thing it does when he’s really angry. “F*ck me for giving a shit.”

“No, f*ck you for being an a*shole.”

“Right. F*ck me for being an a*shole.” His hands lift into the air as he backs away from the door. “But if nothing else, you need to wake up and realize how serious this review is. You could be fired or serve jail time if Stephanie—”

“Screw Stephanie,” I say. “Really, why don’t you go screw Stephanie and leave me the hell alone.” I sound jealous and immature and stupid, but I don’t care. I just want him to go away, to take the pity in his beautiful blue eyes and scram before I do something embarrassing. Like cry. Or apologize. Or cuss at him some more.

Or worst of all, give in to the temptation to tell him the truth …

What would he say if I confess I can’t remember how I ended up in bed with his brother? That the world went fuzzy after those first few drinks?

Last night in the dark, with the fear of losing him so close, maybe I could have said the words. I probably should have said them years ago, on the night he came home with the certainty of my guilt in his eyes. But I didn’t. He’d been so certain that I’d willingly slept with Anton.

And maybe I did. Maybe I told his brother I liked it rough and we went at it all night like bunnies on roofies, just the way he said. I still can’t remember. A few too many drinks coming off a triple shift pulling hurricane victims from the wreckage and I blacked out. I was craving oblivion and Anton had been there with a bottle of Jack and an easy smile.

Maybe, I said yes to that oblivion in all its forms … Maybe not … Either way, it doesn’t matter now. The past is the past and no amount of painful truth can change it.

“I’ll go.” Hitch’s soft voice doesn’t fool me. He’s still livid. “But keep your damned phone on. If Stephanie or I call you, I want you to answer on the first ring.”

“Yes, sir.” The sarcasm is so thick you could cut it with a plastic spoon, proving once again that I am a Mature Adult.

Hitch shakes his head, and smiles an ugly smile. “I should have known this was a dumb idea.”

“Yes, you should have. I don’t need to be saved. Not by you or anyone else.”

“Glad we cleared that up,” he says. “Just keep your mouth shut about what we discussed. If I find out you gave anyone on the DPD a heads-up about the pending internal affairs review or compromised either of our investigations, I’ll—”

“Don’t threaten me. Don’t you dare.” I swallow, torn between the urge to cry and punch Hitch in the gut. Instead I glare my best, skin-melting glare. “I want to find the man who killed Grace, I want to shut down those Breeze houses, and I want my friend out of jail. I want to help. I’ve been trying to help all f*cking morning.”

“Good. Then I’ll contact you this afternoon. I’ll suit up and we’ll go have another look at the Breeze house you found and the other three in the area. It will go faster with two people, and there may be places I can’t get to easily in the suit.” He looks as thrilled by the idea of spending the afternoon with me as I feel. “We’ll leave after your review.”

“I can’t. I have … a meeting.”

“Cancel it.”

“I can’t. I have to give Dicker my statement about last night,” I lie, determined to get to the Beauchamps and assure Libby they have the wrong man in custody for her sister’s murder. She should be on the lookout, careful and watchful for bad guys prowling around. Not to mention that I still want to get another look at those footprints under Grace’s window myself.

“Can’t it wait?”

“I’ve already put it off too long. I don’t think he’ll be happy if I tell him I can’t get around to it until tomorrow.” Which is why I’m planning to avoid Dicker or going home to check the messages he’s left on my machine until he’s off duty and it’s too late to call him back.

Hitch sighs. “Then we’ll go right after. If we leave by three there should still be enough time to make it through all the houses before dark. Bring your gun and your camera.”

“I can’t bring the gun.” I cast another longing look at the door. Why hasn’t someone come outside? Probably because half the town is watching me argue with the FBI agent through the glass. Damn sunlight. I can’t see anything in the window except a reflection of the street. “My license is expired. I’m not supposed to carry until I get it renewed.”

“Then why are you wearing it?”

“I just found out.”

“You just found out it was expired?” he asks, his expression achieving new levels of disdain.

“I just found out I’d be arrested if I keep carrying it with an expired license.”

“Your boyfriend is going to arrest you?” There’s something in Hitch’s voice, the barest hint of jealousy that makes me feel better about my “screw Stephanie” comment.

“He’s not my boyfriend … not anymore.” Is he? Is it really over? The thought makes my throat tight. “I don’t think so, anyway.”

“Oh.” Hitch looks down, as uncomfortable as I am. “Is that because of … ”

“There was a camera in the squad car.” I do my best not to squirm. “He saw what happened.”

“Oh … ” The word hangs in the air, strangling the life out of both of us.

“It’s fine. We’ll work it out.” I grab for the door. I reached my awkward limit ten minutes ago. “So I’ll talk to you la—”

“I can talk to him if you want,” Hitch cuts in. “Last night was a mistake, just a response to stress. We both know there’s nothing between us anymore.”

We do? I loathe this new Hitch as much as I ever loved the old one, but still … There was something in that kiss last night, and there’s something in the way he’s looking at me this morning. Surely this energy between us is more than “nothing?”

“I’m in a relationship; you’re in a relationship. We don’t even like each other,” he says, the confirmation that he can’t stand me hurting more than I expect. “It seems like you two are close. It would be a shame for you to lose something good because of one little … lapse.”

The irony of his statement is clearly lost on him, and it would be pointless and painful to remind him that one “lapse” was all it took to destroy everything we built in three years of loving each other.

“So, your girlfriend understands?”

“My fiancée,” Hitch says, twisting the knife another quarter-turn. He never asked me to marry him. We talked about “forever,” but he never went down on one knee. Maybe he always considered me a loser on some level, even before what happened with Anton, before I gave him a reason to cut me out of his life. “Stephanie knew before we got here that you and I had a past.”

Oh God. It’s Stephanie. It really is. He’s engaged to Stephanie. It makes me physically ill. I’ll probably yarf if I order that cappuccino I’ve been craving all morning.

“She knows life-and-death situations can make people do crazy things.”

“Crazy,” I echo, trying to laugh and failing.

“Crazy and stupid. Things they don’t even want to do.” His expression couldn’t be more serious if he was talking about shooting Breeze. I am a trashy, shameful habit he can’t believe he ever indulged. “Nothing like that will ever happen again. Ever.”

It feels like I’ve been slapped in the face. Worse, even. Amity’s wallop hurt, but it didn’t make me feel so small and misunderstood, so pathetic and exposed. Hitch hates himself for loving me and considers what happened last night a moment of insanity that was thankfully forgiven by the woman he really loves. Stephanie. Tall, beautiful, has-her-shit-together, FBI agent Stephanie with the dimples and the soft brown eyes. She’s the one he goes home to, laughs with, makes love to.

“I’ll see you this afternoon.” I pull the door open, but Hitch stops me from opening it all the way.

“I mean it. Assuming he isn’t charged with misconduct, if you want me to talk to Cane for you, I—”

“Close the door!” Theresa shouts from inside. “I’m not paying to air-condition the f*cking street.”

I slam the door, nearly catching Hitch’s fingers in the process. “I don’t want anything from you. I just want you out of town as fast as possible.”

“Then we’re on the same page.” He steps back with a businesslike nod. “Meet me at the gate near where the body was found at three. We can knock one more thing off the list before we go out to the houses.”

“See you at three.” I open the door and flee into the cool Swallows air, stalking past the usual stool at the front, needing more distance between me and the table full of men at the door. Judging from the harsh whispers that cease the second I step inside, Patrick and his cronies have seen—and maybe even heard—everything.

The backs of my eyes sting and my fingers itch. I can’t remember the last time I felt so embarrassed, so cracked open and leaky. Everything I’ve tried to become is crumbling all around me. The drama of the past few days has chipped away at my amiable apathy, making me care too much, worry too much, and feel, feel, feeeeel more than I ever want to feel again. My muscles ache from all the feeling as much as from my various scuffles.

I slide into a booth at the back and toss my glasses onto the table. I bury my face in my hands and struggle to draw long, smooth breaths. How am I going to make it through this day? How am I going to survive a review conducted by my ex-lover’s new fiancée? Let alone an afternoon with a family that just lost a child and an early evening spent hunting for serial killer mementos and crawling through Breeze houses with a man whose biggest mistake in life was giving a shit if I live or die?

The twin thunks of two glasses landing near my elbow make me jump and suck in a breath. I look up to see a glass of water, a gently sweating, thick and spicy Bloody Mary with extra celery, and a grim-faced Theresa.

“Looks like you could use one of these,” she says, wiping her hands on her apron. “It’s Saturday, right?”

I glance at the frosty glass with the liquid calm inside and think about my giant pupils and my review in less than two hours and the big day ahead and all the reasons I should tell Theresa to take the drink away and bring me a cup of coffee and a stack of pancakes. Instead, I wrap my fingers around the Bloody and pull it close.

“Make it two. And a plate of spicy sausage and toast.” Vodka doesn’t tell on the breath and the spicy sausage will finish the job of keeping my adult breakfast between me, Theresa, and the darkest corner of Swallows.

“Got it, honey. Out in ten.” Theresa bustles away, narrow hips twitching, as I tip the glass back and pour a little peace down my throat.

F*ck Hitch and his judgment and labels and holier-than-thou attitude. I don’t have a problem; I have a habit. A habit that holds the fear and sadness at a distance, a habit that keeps me from turning into one of the crazy folks who yell at invisible people on the street corner.

Invisible people. Shit.

I down the rest of my drink so fast my brain freezes, temples exploding with cold, agony flowing down into my neck. “F*ck, f*ck, f*ck,” I growl beneath my breath as I dig my fingers into my eyes, hunching my shoulders as I wait for the spell to pass.

The moment is so intense that I nearly miss the soft cry and the scuff of shoes on the tile floor. By the time I open my eyes, all I see is a flash of blue dress and tangled black braids disappearing out the back door. The girl’s moving too fast for a one hundred percent positive ID, but I can guess who was watching me wince and curse. There’s only one kid who comes looking for me and Marcy on Saturday mornings.

It’s Deedee. Percy’s daughter, Grace’s friend, and one of the only people who might have seen something that could lead the police to the real killer.

I bolt out of the booth and run, following the sound of dress shoes pounding on the pavement in the alley behind Swallows, ignoring the spinning in my head as the vodka and tomato juice hit my empty stomach and rush straight to my brain and the pain that jabs at my eyes as I realize I’ve rushed outside without my sunglasses.

None of that matters. Deedee matters.

She stops in the shadows a few feet away, eyes wide and shining, damp trails marking her cheeks with rivers of sadness.





Twenty



Hey.” I stop, giving Deedee some space.

She’s a cornered animal ready to bolt, and I really don’t want her to run away. Everything in me is screaming that those tears aren’t just for the friend she’s lost. They’re for herself, inspired by real and present danger. Deedee is terrified. She saw something, and has information that will lead to Grace’s killer, I’m sure of it.

Now I just have to figure out how to make her feel that she can trust me … the cussing, crazy woman squinting like a mole ripped from its hole.

“I’m sorry, Deedee. I didn’t see you or I wouldn’t have said that word. Especially not three times.” Or four times? How many times did I drop the f-bomb?

My short-term memory is getting cloudy as the vodka swims through my bloodstream, taking me from zero to intoxicated in a startlingly short amount of time. It’s just like last night. The alcohol hits me in a way it normally wouldn’t, impairing and aggravating instead of soothing. I have to fight to focus on Deedee, to keep from swaying on my feet.

“I … I’m sorry.”

“You already said that,” Deedee says, leaning back against the brick wall behind her and curling her chin to her chest. Her body language tells me to leave her alone, but her eyes peek at me through the braids that have slipped into her face. All isn’t lost, not if I can manage to act like a normal human being for a few more minutes.

I stand up straighter, willing away the clouds.

“Yeah, well it was worth saying twice. Marcy would kill me if she knew I was using swear words in public.” I figure reminding her that Marcy and I are tight can only help my case.

“She would not.” Some of the tension eases from Deedee’s shoulders though she stays glued to the wall. “She knows you swear. You swear all the time.”

From the mouths of babes … Time to shift gears. “Maybe, but I don’t think that’s what made you cry. Is it?”

Deedee doesn’t say a word, only shrinks back into herself.

“You can talk to me,” I say, voice as gentle as I can manage. “I promise. You can tell me what’s wrong and I’ll do my best to make it right.”

More silence, but, finally, she speaks in a whisper so soft I can barely hear her over the hum of the air conditioner kicking on behind us. “You can’t. Nobody can.” Barely heard or not, the words send a chill through me, lifting the hairs on my arms.

“Is this about Grace?” I ask. “About what happened to her?”

Deedee nods, once, twice, before her face crumples. “I took Grace’s necklace.” Her words end in a sob and fresh tears roll along the pathways already laid on her cheeks.

“You took her necklace?”

“The one with the unicorn.” Deedee holds out her hand, revealing a delicate silver chain with a charm dangling from the end. “I took it. I thought she was sleeping. And I stole the necklace right off of her.”

I can feel her shame echo along my skin, and it makes my heart melt for the kid. “Oh man, Deedee, come here.” I open my arms and, surprisingly, she comes to me, flinging her arms around my waist, pressing her tear-streaked face to my stomach. I hug her tight, amazed at how … okay it feels to hold this little person while she cries, relieved that this seems to be a child-sized hurt instead of something more sinister. “It’s okay. We all do things like that, things that we shouldn’t and we feel so bad about later. It’s okay.”

“I just … I just wanted it so bad, and Mama said we couldn’t afford one like Grace’s ’cause it was from Tiffany’s in New York, and Grace said it would look ugly on me anyway, ’cause I could never look like a princess like she did,” Deedee sobs. “I thought she was sleeping and wouldn’t know it was me. But she wasn’t, I shoulda known she wasn’t. She wouldn’t sleep in the barn.”

Relief bleeds back into foreboding as the full meaning of “thought she was sleeping” penetrates. Grace must have been dead when Deedee found her. But why was she in the barn? Her body unattended long enough for Deedee to find her and take the necklace? Why would the man with the big shoes leave the body in the barn only to move it outside the gate at a later date?

He wouldn’t. And neither would any other killer from the outside. They wouldn’t want to risk being discovered by the family.

“Grace was in the barn when you took the necklace?” I ask, needing to make sure I understand what Deedee is saying. If I do, and if it’s true, then the chances that the killer is someone Grace knew, maybe even someone from her own family, are about to skyrocket. “She was in the barn when you thought she was asleep?”

“But she wasn’t sleeping.” Deedee’s arms tighten around me.

“But she was in the barn? It’s important.” I lean back, trying to get a glimpse of her face, and failing when she tucks her chin tighter to her chest. “You have to tell me if Grace was in the barn when you took the necklace, Deedee, and what time it was if you can remember.”

“Please, don’t tell my mama,” she chokes out. “She’ll kill me.”

“She won’t—”

“I don’t want to go to jail!”

“I won’t tell your mom, and you’re not going to go to jail, sweetie.” I cup Deedee’s chin in my hand and urge her to look at me. “I promise, you’re not going to be in trouble. I just need you to tell me if—”

“What’s wrong with your eyes?” Deedee asks, arms loosening.

“Nothing. I got hit on the head and it made my eyes look funny.” I fight the urge to grab Deedee’s shoulders as she begins to back away. Forcing her to stay isn’t going to erase the fear creeping across her face or get her to tell me what happened the night she took Grace’s necklace. “You don’t have to be scared, just tell me if Grace was in the barn. I won’t tell anyone that you took the necklace.”

“You look like her.” Deedee stumbles back another step, fingers closing around the necklace in her hand. “Like she did after she got the magic.”

“Like who?” I ask, struggling to be patient. This is why I don’t deal well with children. Because they don’t make any freaking sense! Having a linear conversation with an eight-year-old is next door to impossible and down the street from exasperating.

“She was bad after she got the magic. She was really bad,” Deedee says, tears welling in her eyes again. “She didn’t deserve to get everything all the time. She was bad and—and—I’m glad I took her necklace!” She turns and runs, feet flying, disappearing into the sunshine at the end of the alley.

“Deedee, wait!” I call after her, but I know better than to give chase. I’m in no condition to go running after anyone. I’m so dizzy and … drowsy. If I let myself, I could lie down in the shade where Deedee just stood and go straight to sleep.

Pass out, you mean.

I close my eyes and suck in a breath of sour, trash-tainted air. No, I’m not going to pass out, not from one measly drink. I’m going to pull it together, go back inside, have some coffee and second breakfast, and try to make sense of a conversation that’s probably equal parts truth and fantasy. Deedee is obviously confused, but I believe that she found Grace in the barn and that Grace was probably dead when she took her necklace. Surely she would have woken up if she were alive.

Though … how many times have I watched Marcy pick a child up out of bed and hand him over to his parents without the kid so much as snuffling in his sleep? When kids sleep, they sleep hard. Maybe Grace simply drifted off in the barn, slept through Deedee’s theft, and was found by the killer sometime later? Maybe—

A sharp buzzing from my back pocket makes me jump. It takes me several seconds longer than it should to realize the buzz is my set-on-vibrate phone ringing, and several seconds longer to pull the thing from my jeans. By the time I get a look at the screen, the call has already been sent to voice mail.

Good. I wouldn’t have answered it, anyway.

It’s Jin-Sang. Probably calling to yell at me about something. Work calls on a Saturday are never good news. I’ll just wait and check the message. Later. Maybe much later. No need to pick up and actually talk to—

Before I can finish my thought, the phone buzzes again. This time, however, it’s someone I want to talk to. Marcy! She’ll be able to help me decipher Deedee’s kidspeak. I tap the screen.

“Hey, I’m glad you called,” I say. “I need to pick your brain.”

A moment of silence and then a long sigh from Marcy on the other end.

“Marcy? Are you okay?” A sick feeling settles in my stomach, the kind that always accompanies the certainty that bad news is on the way. “What happened? Is it Traynell? Is he—”

“Annabelle, I need to talk to you. In person,” she says, her voice thick with exhaustion. “Could you come by the house?”

“Um … sure.” It’s only a little after ten. I should have time to get to Marcy and back to the police station by twelve. “I’ll be over in a few. Do you want me to bring you anything from Swallows? Some pancakes or a hot chocolate or—”

“Just come on over. I’d like to get this over with.”

“Marcy, you’re freaking me out. What’s wrong? Are you mad at me? Is this because I snuck in and got the cat this morning?”

“This isn’t about you, honey, it’s about me. I’ll see you soon.” Then she hangs up. Hangs. Up. Without saying goodbye. For a woman who’s built her life on the Lord and good manners, it’s an unheard-of breach of etiquette. And it scares me. A lot.

Shoving my phone into my pocket, I hurry back into Swallows and drop a twenty on the table where my breakfast and a second Bloody Mary sit waiting next to my glass of water. I down half the water in one big gulp, but can’t seem to take my eyes off that second drink.

A little more alcohol might actually make me less sleepy. There’s nothing worse than one-beer syndrome for making you want to head straight to bed. If I have more, I might rise above the drowsy and feel sharper, more in control.

Or I might be slurring my words by the time I reach Marcy’s house. But then, it doesn’t seem like I’ll be doing much talking. Marcy has to tell me something, something that obviously has her terribly upset. But what?

Cancer. Breast cancer or ovarian cancer or maybe even lung cancer. She used to smoke. It doesn’t matter how many years ago she quit, it doesn’t matter that—

My hand goes for the Bloody Mary without my conscious approval, but I don’t try to stop it from lifting the glass to my lips. Instead, I open my mouth and pour half the drink down my throat, knowing there’s no way I’ll make it to Marcy’s without a little something. I can’t think about Marcy having cancer, about losing the only person I have left.

I finish the drink, grab my sunglasses, and head for the door, grateful for the soothing lap of vodka against the shores of my brain.

“Hey, do you want this to go?” Theresa yells after me.

“No thanks. I’m good.” I wave over my shoulder and hurry out into the sunshine, hoping my words will be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Assuming Gimpy will be fine lounging in the shade of the police station with my bike a little longer, I start toward Marcy’s on foot. Biking would be faster, but I don’t want to risk a run-in with Cane or Abe or Dicker or any other DPD employee except Dom, who still has my camera, an item I would do best to retrieve before my meeting with Stephanie.

Stephanie, who is sleeping with Hitch. Who is engaged to be married to Hitch. Who knows that I had my tongue in Hitch’s mouth and his hand up my shirt less than twenty-four hours ago.

“Who am I kidding?” I mutter as I cut through the Greers’ backyard. No matter how much kissing up I do, there’s no way Stephanie is going to give me a fair shake. Why couldn’t Hitch have waited a day or two to confess his sins? At least until Stephanie filed her report?

“Maybe he wants to see me in jail.” I kick at a tree root jutting up from the sidewalk and nearly fall on my face. So far, that second drink isn’t helping my coordination, but at least I don’t feel like passing out anymore. In fact, my senses are still sharper than usual, sharp enough that I hear a woman calling for Deedee a good minute before the battered blue Chevy Impala rounds the corner.

I slow, debating whether to jump into the bushes outside the Tremains’ house for a few seconds too long. Percy, the Beauchamps’ housekeeper, spots me and sticks a hand out the window, waving so hard that the fat under her arm ripples like there’s something alive under her skin. Looking at the way she fills the driver’s seat to overflowing, it’s hard to believe she gave birth to a wispy girl like Deedee. Percy’s a BIG woman. Tall and broad and on her way to being morbidly obese, so massive she has to pull her arm back inside the car in order to stick her head out.

“Mornin’, Miss Lee, I was just wonderin’ if you’ve seen Deedee today? She wasn’t supposed to leave the house, but when I went out to call her in for breakfast she’d left the yard.” Percy’s fear for her daughter is plain. Her chubby cheeks sag and a light sweat covers her forehead. “I know she pesters you and Marcy on the weekends, and I—”

“I saw her a few minutes ago,” I say. “Over at Swallows. She’s fine.”

“Thank God,” Percy sighs, her hand fluttering to her heart.

“But she ran off without telling me where she was going. Last I saw her, she was heading south on Hammer toward the park.”

“Oh, Lord. That girl. I’m just so glad she wasn’t … I’m just glad she ran off and nothin’ else.” Percy sighs again and then again, as if she can’t quite catch her breath. But then, worrying that your daughter’s become the next victim of a serial killer can’t be easy. “I’ll look for her over near Railroad, then, and I’ll see you later.”

“You will?”

Percy brakes. “Aren’t you coming over for tea?”

Tea. Great. Libby is apparently intent on feeding me like a good Southern hostess, no matter what I have to say about it. “Yeah. I guess so. I’ll definitely be by this afternoon.”

“Good. Miss Libby was working up a sweat in the kitchen when I left, makin’ a double batch of her special muffins.” Percy’s slight smile fades. “I know it’ll be good for her to have a visitor, someone to talk to.”

“Yeah, I hope so … How are you all holding up?” I ask, feeling obligated to pose the expected question, especially since I’m keeping secrets from Percy about her own daughter. But I promised Deedee I wouldn’t tell her mom, and I’m not going to break that promise. Just because she’s a kid doesn’t mean she doesn’t deserve her secrets.

“As well as can be expected with all the police and FBI roaming all over the house.” Percy’s frown makes her cheeks droop until she resembles a basset hound. “It’s hard enough for the family without being talked at like a bunch of criminals. It’s plain crazy, especially since they’ve got that man from the bed-and-breakfast in custody already.”

“Riiigght.” How did Percy know that? As of twenty minutes ago, the police hadn’t released Fernando’s identity to the public. Maybe Barbara Beauchamp shared the news with her maid, but not her daughter?

“But the Beauchamps are good people. With God’s help, they’ll get through this dark time,” Percy says, tears shining in her eyes. “We just need to bury that little girl and put this behind us.”

The way she says “that little girl” makes me think Grace wasn’t a favorite of Percy’s, either. Maybe she agreed with her daughter and thought Grace was bad. But how bad?

“Has the family set a date for the funeral?” I ask, nudging Percy’s name onto my list of suspects.

“Not yet. They can’t, not until the coroner is done with the body. But hopefully in a few days we’ll be able to put that sweet baby to rest.” Percy swipes her hand across her forehead, catching a bead of sweat that’s nearly dropped into her eye. “I better get. I need to find Deedee and head on back to the house.”

“See you soon. Good luck.” I wave to Percy as she drives away, her words troubling my gut. She seems too eager to move on.

Where is the vindictive rage people close to the victim of a violent crime usually feel? Why isn’t she more concerned with making sure Fernando is fried in the biggest, nastiest electric chair in Louisiana for what he’s allegedly done? Is it just her good Christian heart that knows an eye for an eye isn’t the way to inner peace and riches in the heavenly kingdom or whatever? Or is it something more?

Maybe she doesn’t want revenge because she knows who really killed Grace and it’s not someone she thinks should be punished. Maybe herself? Maybe one of the Beauchamps, whom she considers family after years in their service? Or maybe … maybe she suspects her own daughter took her dislike of Grace too far?

Shaking my head, I turn toward Marcy’s. I can’t believe Deedee would hurt Grace, not when she’s so devastated by stealing the other girl’s necklace that it’s breaking her heart. She doesn’t have it in her to kill. But maybe her mother doesn’t see her daughter the same way? Maybe Percy only seems suspicious because she’s trying to protect her daughter for a crime she didn’t commit.

The more I turn what I know over in my mind, the more confused I become. Maybe Marcy will be able to shed some light on the issue, or at least help me understand what Deedee meant by “since Grace got the magic.”

Is there some book or movie involving magic that’s big with kids right now? Some toy or game the girls would have fought over?

“Marcy?” I call, letting myself in the door to the screened-in porch. Marcy will know. She’ll help me sort this out … after she tells me whatever bad news she has to get off her chest.

I pause in the foyer, skin crawling with anxiety. It has to be bad news. There’s no other explanation for why Marcy’s house has exploded.

The sitting room’s filled with half-packed suitcases and every tidy corner of her immaculate front “visitin’ place” is piled with photo albums, plastic filing cabinets, and two of Traynell’s five toolboxes. Clothes sprawl across the couch and Marcy’s collection of ceramic babies is already wrapped in newspaper and tucked away in her biggest Tupperware container. The one with the handle.

For some reason, that handle makes me nervous, but not as nervous as the look on Marcy’s face when she appears in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing a dirty pink sweatshirt and a tragic expression.