Johnny dropped an arm over her shoulder and pointed at Cas. “Does he always bang rocks with blunt objects and glare like he wants to smash someone’s head?”
“Not generally.” She watched the whacks grow more and more aggressive. “He’s agitated. I should probably go over and talk to him. Alone,” she added before he said anything. “Find a beer, and keep an eye out for Ethan.”
“What? Oh yeah. Sure.”
She could tell he was distracted—possibly rattled by something Satyr had said, but it seemed unlikely. God knew she felt uneasy…about everything at this point.
On top of the call itself, there was the anticipatory way Satyr had spoken about her death. It wasn’t a conversation she expected to get over in a hurry. All the subtle and not so subtle innuendos, the open threats, the tacky references, the uncertainty as to what his boss James Mockerie might be doing. The whole thing had left her feeling disrupted inside and out.
But while she might not be, Johnny was used to all of that. Threats were nothing to him. So why the withdrawal after the call had ended?
“Boom, boom, boom.” Cas swung the bat and struck the rock under it with enough force to gain her attention. “Weasels are bad. Grandma says so.”
“Which grandma?”
“Mama’s ma.”
“Do you miss your mama, Cas?”
“Sometimes.” His smile was a wide spread of teeth. “Grandma went off to Orlando to ride elephants and see pirates.”
“You mean she went to Disney World,” Melia clarified. “Did she go alone?”
The smile became a scowl, and he banged the rock harder. “Don’t know. Maybe. Alone’s bad. Weasels live alone.”
“Some do,” she agreed. “Company’s nice, though, on a trip like the one your grandmother’s taking. Maybe you should’ve gone with her.”
“Other Grandma said no.”
“Mabel said no?” That surprised her.
“Said I should wait, go later. With her.”
“Oh, well, fair enough. How’s your dad doing?”
“Gets mad sometimes. Yelled last night.”
“At you?”
The boy frowned. “Don’t think so. Why?”
“No reason. I was just wondering why he yelled.”
A ferocious expression appeared. “Bad bastard,” he said hoarsely. “Go away. Water pistol won’t work. Pop, pop. I don’t like water guns, Dr. Mel. They’re too quiet.”
“I know, but real guns are dangerous. You need to remember that.”
He pouted. “Pa gets to have one. Everybody does. Why not me?”
“I just told you why. And everybody doesn’t have one.”
“Do you?”
“No.” Though she did have a rifle. Locked up, unloaded, and not part of that conversation.
“Pa has eight.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I saw where he put the key last night after he finished yelling.”
“Really? Who was he yelling at, Cas?”
“Don’t know. Yelled on the phone.” He mimicked the event. “Interfering bastard! So what? Stay out of my business!”
She was hearing more than she wanted to. And yet… “I didn’t realize your dad had a temper.”
“He don’t much like interfering people. Pop, pop. Weasels never go away.” Cas took a vicious swing at the rock. “My life, my business, my way.” The boy made an elaborate shushing sound. “Don’t tell anyone. Key’s hidden. All better now. No more yelling, son.”
Melia patted his hand. “That’s right, no more yelling. You keep a sharp eye out for gators, and I’ll make sure you get a nice juicy steak done just the way you like it.”
“Pop, pop,” Cas said and offered her his usual childlike smile.
Melia walked away from their chat with no clear idea of what she’d heard. She felt unsettled on a level she couldn’t access and wasn’t sure she wanted to.
But she had to, didn’t she? Because more than her life was at stake.
“Hey, lovely lady.” Steve Saxon intercepted her before she could locate Johnny in the growing throng of partygoers. “I brought three bottles of Madeira. You look like you could use a glass.”
She kept the hand he was reaching for out of range. “Probably better if I don’t drink tonight. But thanks.”
His eyes glittered, and Melia sensed it wasn’t with appreciation for her pale-blue sundress and high wedge sandals. She arched her brows. “Problem?”
“I’ve been thinking,” he admitted. “Rolling things over in my head. Your ex-husband thinks I’m a mad bomber, doesn’t he? He doesn’t believe I was buying feed the day your clinic went up in smoke.”
She laughed at his offended tone. “Is that why you look so cross? For God’s sake, the man’s a U.S. Marshal. He doesn’t believe anything anyone tells him.”
“I didn’t lie to him,” Steve insisted.
“I’m sure you didn’t. I doubt if he—”
“But I did see someone.”
“What?” Now she was interested. “Where?”
“At the clinic. Outside it. I think his granddad does stuff for you.”
“Harry?” Melia thought of her ninety-year-old handyman. He’d been in Georgia visiting his daughter since the day Johnny had arrived in Deception Cove. She hadn’t seen his comic book–reading grandson for at least three weeks and had never been quite certain about where he lived. Somewhere in the swamp, but how deep in…no idea.
“What was Harry’s grandson doing at the clinic?” Melia asked. She searched for Johnny and finally spotted him listening to Alice Mae, whose arms were waving wildly above her head.
Steve shrugged. “He was going through the trash cans. He found a bottle and could have been booze. Whatever it was, it must have appealed. He sat down between two cans and started drinking.”
“Well, yuck.”
“That’s what I thought. I was going to go in and tell you, but there was a guy staring at my truck outside the feed store, so I went over to see why. Turns out someone—not him—nicked the fender. We were talking about how I could fix the scratch, and that’s when the clinic blew.” Steve ran a hand through his hair. “I wanted to help, Mel, I really did, but the truth is… Oh hell, this is hard to say. The truth is, I’ve lost my nerve. There was a really bad fire back in Miami. Two of my friends died. I didn’t. I felt responsible. Result after intense therapy? Chicken farmer.”
Melia regarded him for a moment. She had no idea which part of what he’d said to address. The fire seemed to be the worst thing. “That’s…a lot to take in,” she finally allowed. “I’m sorry about your friends, Steve. It’s a tragedy and a trauma, and sometimes those things necessitate change.”
He waved her off. “I’ve been down the psychotherapy trail, Mel. The decision to buy a farm was mine, and I’m good with it. The grandson’s what I wanted to tell you about. He was poking around outside your clinic. He might’ve seen who snuck in and did whatever.”
She nodded. “I’ll talk to Johnny.”
“Better you than me,” Steve replied, and with a shrug turned for the house.
Melia watched him go. They all had their tragedies and their traumas to deal with. Death occurred in many forms.
Setting Steve’s problems aside, she focused on the other thing he’d told her. What was Harry’s grandson’s name? Since the answer eluded her, she settled for calling him Junior. A few seconds later, she was forced to tuck everything into the back of her mind as she was drawn into a conversation with Linda and one of the stylists from the local hair salon.
Johnny caught up with her close to seven o’clock. She drew him aside. “Ethan will be here soon, but I have news from Steve.”
“Yeah, I got the memo a couple minutes ago.” Johnny grinned when she eyed him doubtfully. “Relax, I didn’t browbeat the guy. We had a beer together after I managed to hand Alice Mae off to one of her fellow bikers. He told me about the trash cans and comic book kid.”
“Harry’s grandson’s not a kid.”
“Got that, too. Guy’s in his forties at least. How long can uncooked chicken safely sit out in ninety-degree heat?”
“I’d stick with the fruit and veggie platters if I were you. I’m not sure where he lives, Johnny. And his grandfather’s in Georgia right now.”