Saturday evening
Griffin hunkered down in Delsey’s room, alternately studying her face while she dozed, reading a biography online about Stanislaus, and keeping half an eye on the national news on TV. When he heard Savich’s voice, he jerked around, then realized his new boss was on TV, not in the room with him. Savich was standing in front of the Lincoln Memorial, thick swirling snow piling white on his black hair, talking about the murder of a young man. He spoke briefly, went into no detail. The clip looked to have been recorded that morning.
Griffin’s cell phone buzzed. He looked down at a message from Ruth.
Body found at Lincoln Memorial this a.m.—grandson of Palmer Cronin, ex-chairman of Fed, body staged for max effect—see YouTube.
Griffin stared at the message, then back to the TV, where a bundled-up Washington correspondent stood, mike in hand, in front of the Lincoln Memorial, finishing up his story about the murder victim found at Lincoln’s feet. The coverage switched back to the newsroom, where the anchor, trying to look properly somber but looking excited instead, gave the “just in” update that the dead young man had been identified as Thomas Malcolm Cronin, age twenty, the grandson of Palmer Cronin, retired chairman of the Federal Reserve Bank. The scene switched to a view of Palmer Cronin’s tall iron fence and gate in Chevy Chase, Maryland, where another reporter, her face under an umbrella in the heavy snow, spoke of the victim’s illustrious family.
Suddenly Delsey said clearly, “No, shut up! You can’t be, you can’t!”
He was at her side in an instant, saw horror on her face. “Delsey, wake up, you’ve having a nightmare. Wake up.”
But the nightmare didn’t let her go. She jerked straight up in bed and screamed in his face, “No!”
“Delsey!” He took her shoulders in his hands and shook her hard as her eyes flew open, blind and wild. She was panting, still terrified.
He sat beside her and drew her up in his arms and rubbed her back. “It’s all right, Dels. Hold on to me, you’ll be okay.”
He felt her slowly get herself together. Her arms fell away, and she leaned back in his arms.
“Tell me,” Griffin said.
He saw it was tough for her, and waited. Finally she whispered, “I dreamed I was in a small room—about the size of my bathroom—no windows, only white walls, but they weren’t plain white, Griffin, they were splattered with blood from the men lying dead on the floor. Then they all sat straight up and stared at me and I know they blamed me, and then they started screaming at me, but it wasn’t words, only sounds that didn’t make any sense. There was so much blood, fountains of blood—and it was thick and red and I was naked and I felt the blood splashing on me, streaking down the front of me. The blood was so hot, Griffin, and it was like the blood wanted to burn through me.”
Griffin thought her subconscious had torqued the truth of what had happened to her into a crazy dream, and he wondered whether what her subconscious had dished up might have a kernel of truth lurking in the craziness. He said, “It’s possible when the dead men sat up and looked at you, started screaming at you, that it was your dream trying to tell you that you’d seen or heard something more, Delsey. Get your brain together. Think about this.”
But she couldn’t reason yet, her brain was still frozen. “All those dead men in my dream, Griffin, all of them looked exactly like him, they were all the dead man in my bathtub. Who is the dead man, Griffin?”
“We’ll find out. Now, close your eyes a moment. Think—no, picture—your bathroom in your mind. Do you see or hear anything else?”
She was breathing fast, and he smoothed her hands to calm her. “Yes, that’s right, steady yourself.”
“Yes, now I realize there are two other guys there and one of them is yelling in Spanish, words, curses, I don’t know, but not jumbled sounds like from all the dead guys. Wait, I see one of them, Griffin—only a glimpse, really—a young Hispanic guy. And then something hits my head and I’m gone.”
“So one of the Hispanic guys struck you down. Were any of the dead men Hispanic?”
“No. Like I told you, they were all like him, Caucasian.”
He squeezed her hands. “It shouldn’t be much longer before we know the dead man’s identity.”
“So Anna didn’t know who he was?”
“Anna told Ruth she’d spoken to him only a couple of times, said he was friendly, but she didn’t know his name, or anything about him, only that he was new in town.”
“Where is Anna? Why hasn’t she come back to see me?”
“She’ll show up when she can. Tell me more about the men in your dream.”
“His face is here in front of my eyes, Griffin, all their faces, really, plaster white, like they aren’t real, but I can see dark whiskers on their cheeks. They won’t go away.”
“Tell me about their faces.”
“Their faces are full—well fed, I’d guess you’d say—boyish, and their eyes are open like his were. They look surprised, Griffin, their mouths open, too, showing their front teeth. But the blood, so much blood.” She fell silent, looking inward, then, “I told the sheriff I’d seen the dead man near Holcombe’s Bank and in Maurie’s Diner, but I remember now I might also have seen him on Breaker’s Hill, Griffin, three days ago, when Anna and I were snowboarding. Anna took a wild turn and went skidding toward the trees and fell on her butt. I was yelling at her and laughing, and I saw a man standing in the maple trees beside the trail and I remember wondering what he was doing there, since I didn’t see him holding a sled or a snowboard. He moved back, really fast, like he didn’t want anyone to see him. But Griffin, I think it could have been the dead man in my bathtub.”
Now, this was interesting. “In your dream, all of the dead men screamed something at you—think about this, Delsey. Can you now make sense of any of the sounds?”
She eyed him for a moment. “No, it’s just jumbled noise. You’re thinking the dream was a sort of message to me? You think they were telling me it was my fault the man was murdered?” She looked beyond him, at the drifting snow outside her window. How beautiful the scene outside looked from inside the warm hospital room. But the man in her bathtub wasn’t warm, not any longer.
He felt her corrosive fear and dropped it. “Nah,” he said, and gave her a final squeeze. He’d bet his favorite Rossignol skis the dead man in her bathtub had been the same man she’d seen in the woods on Breaker’s Hill. Was he following her? Surveilling her? It sure sounded like it. But why, for heaven’s sake? Because she saw something she wasn’t supposed to see, or overheard something she wasn’t supposed to hear?
Griffin eased her back down, patted her cheek. “You did good. Now, for a reward I’m going to get you pistachio-pineapple ice cream. Used to be the only flavor you’d eat. Can you get it in Maestro?”
“Look, Griffin, I’m being crazy, I mean, look at what my mind conjured up—a whole bunch of dead men. Why would I deserve a reward for that?”
“You’re not crazy, your mind’s trying to sort things out and make sense of them. You’ve got a great brain, Delsey. Hey, your brain and mine, together we could rule the world.”
“I don’t want to rule the world. I wouldn’t mind winning an Oscar for best musical score, though. That pistachio-pineapple ice cream sounds nice, too.”
Saturday evening
It was Anna Castle who showed up with Delsey’s pistachio-pineapple ice cream after Delsey had Griffin call her. It was Anna who’d convinced Maurie of Maurie’s Diner fame to put pistachio-pineapple on the menu, since the local grocery stores didn’t carry it. Anna grinned. “Maurie bitched and moaned, but Delsey gives him a good profit on every servin’, not to mention all the other converts she’s brought in. I think it tastes weird, myself, but there’s no accountin’ for taste, now, is there? At least Maurie’s a happy camper.”
Griffin watched Anna’s mouth while she spoke—A very nice mouth
, he thought—and enjoyed her drawl coming out of that mouth, enjoyed the way she dropped g’s. It was unconsciously charming. He found himself smiling back at her. He watched Delsey dig a spoonful out of the small carton, lick it slowly, and run her tongue along it to get every last bit off the spoon. Griffin had to laugh, because she looked like a happy little kid on her birthday.
Anna said, “One of the regulars, Ray Dunlap, saw her eatin’ the ice cream like that. I thought the poor guy was gonna hyperventilate and I got a paper bag ready, in case.”
“Maurie gets anything Anna asks him to,” Delsey said. “He’s got gumbo and boudin on the menu now, and bottles of Slap Ya Mama spice set out next to the salt and pepper shakers. Has he asked you to marry him yet, Anna?”
Anna peeled off her leather gloves and lightly patted Delsey’s arm. “Maurie loves his mama too much to ever consider sharin’ himself with any other woman, so not in this lifetime, sweetie.”
Delsey licked another spoonful of ice cream, then said, “I figure you say half as many words as I do, since it takes you so long to finish a sentence. It’s like you worship each syllable and want to stretch it out to infinity.”
Anna patted her arm. “Don’t be jealous, Delsey. Since you weren’t born in Louisiana, the land of the happy vowels, then you gotta sound like you’re sawing wood, no hope for it.”
Sawing wood? Griffin laughed.
Delsey said, “Anna, I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I’m glad to be here, too.” Anna turned to Griffin. “Hey, Mr. FBI, you got word on the dead guy’s name? And who clobbered Delsey?”
He shook his head.
“I had a horrible dream, Anna. I think I saw the man who hit me. He was very young and Hispanic, and there was another young Hispanic there, too, yelling, in Spanish, so I didn’t understand what he was saying.”
Griffin thought he saw a flash of something hard and angry in Anna’s eyes. What was that all about? He saw her pull back the anger. Well, he was mad, too. “That sure sounds scary, Delsey. I hope they find those guys. I’m so glad you’re looking better.” She looked at Griffin. “Thanks for clearin’ me in to see my favorite songwriter.”
Griffin said, “Not a problem. You’ve got a nice full voice. Do you sing?”
“Well, I did sing once to Maurie, thought he’d stick his head in the oven to escape it.”
“He’d try to escape me, too,” Griffin said. “Do you have a favorite? Song of Delsey’s, I mean.”
“Now, that’s a toughie, but the one about racin’ toward love and death on the San Diego 405, I love to sing that one in the shower.”
Delsey said, “I remember I started it sitting in a traffic jam with a new boyfriend. Anna, I asked Griffin to get you clear anytime you can come.”
“Great. There are a good dozen or so other folk, mostly Stanislaus students, who’ve asked about seeing you.”
“Not a problem. I’m going home tomorrow.”
“But isn’t your apartment still a crime scene?”
Delsey said. “Is it still a crime scene, Griffin?”
“Yep. Regardless, there’s no way you’re going back there, Delsey. Remember, there’s no working lock on your back door. And the cop sitting outside your door? For all we know you could still be in danger. I’m at Bud Bailey’s B&B on High Street. I want you to stay with me when you get out of here. I want to keep you close.”
Delsey rose up on her elbows. “Griffin, you know very well the Hispanic guy could have killed me if he’d wanted to, which means he didn’t want me dead. That’s good, isn’t it? Henry can get the lock fixed on my back door.”
Griffin said, “There’s no way we can know what the killer intended, who that second man was, or if they’ll start to worry that you’re a witness. You’re staying with me, subject closed.”
Griffin didn’t much expect for her to cave, since he could picture her going toe-to-toe with him when she’d been five years old and so he wasn’t surprised when she said, “You’re going to be out and about, Griffin. I doubt you’ll want to take me with you, so how about I stay with Anna? I’ll be plenty safe with her. Do you mind, Anna?”
Griffin saw something flicker over Anna Castle’s face. Alarm? Then her expression was smooth and easy again, and she leaned toward Delsey, smiling, her dark hair loose, curtaining her face. This musician/waitress, with her beautiful drawl and very nice mouth, could protect his sister? Sarcasm slipped right out of his mouth. “What did you say your instrument is—the violin? Are you going to hit these guys over the head with your fiddle?”
Anna swiveled about to look up at him. “Do you know, Agent Hammersmith, I might have to belt out a nice song with full vibrato for that bit of snark.”
Griffin hated being a jerk, hated having it slap him back in the chops. “Sorry for the comment. Please, not full vibrato.”
Anna patted Delsey’s hand. “I think your brother’s right, sweetie; it’s better you stay with him. I have to work, too, and he’s the big bad Fed with a gun.”
“But you’ve got a gun, too, Anna,” Delsey said. “She’s got a Smith and Wesson .44 Magnum,” she added to Griffin. “I saw it when I happened to barge in on her and she was cleaning it. When I asked her what she did with that sucker, she said she liked to shoot cones off the pine on Lone Tree Hill.”
Griffin laughed. “What are you doing with a .44 Magnum, and not a small handgun?”
Anna said, “It belongs to my mom. She insisted I take it since I was moving here to the boondocks. Like her, I also believe in self-protection, and yes, I can use it. I won’t shoot myself in the foot. And yes, I have a license for it. But, Delsey, that’s not the point. Despite his snark, I agree with your brother. We have no clue what the killer’s intentions toward you are. Those two men—they could have thought you were dead and simply left you on your bathroom floor. Tell me again, Delsey, you’re sure the man who struck you down was a young Hispanic? Do you remember enough about him to help give them a sketch?”
“I told Griffin I only got a quick look. He was young, younger than me, but I was terrified, Anna. It was so fast, it was really only an impression. As for the other man, I didn’t even get a glimpse of him, only heard him yelling.”
Anna turned to Griffin to see him staring at her, and stopped asking questions. Her voice became quiet and calm as the falling snow outside the window. “I know Bud’s B&B has a two-bedroom suite that’s usually available.”
The gun-toting violinist who served up boudin and Slap Ya Mama spice at Maurie’s Diner agreed with him? She thought Delsey could still be in danger? She never seemed to say what he expected, and it had nothing to do with her accent.
“You from New Orleans?” he asked her again.
“Nope, but nearby. Bosard is only about thirty miles from New Orleans. It’s a little flyspeck, even on a good map.”
Delsey said, “I remember once, when I told her about falling out of a tree when I was ten and landing on you, she told me how she shot her first alligator when she was nine. I couldn’t top that one, Griffin. We didn’t have anything cool like that in our childhood.”
Nurse Cotton appeared in the doorway. “Are you all right, Ms. Freestone?” From her look, it was obvious she’d overheard some of what they were saying. Griffin thought she’d probably like to see the back of all of them, including the guard outside the door.
Delsey smiled at her. “I’m fine.”
Nurse Cotton said, “That’s good, but I need to check your vitals.” She stepped right over, took Delsey’s blood pressure, checked her pulse, and took her temperature. “You have any dizziness when you went to the bathroom? No? That’s good. How about nausea? Headache? Okay, seems to me you may be good to go, but let’s see what Dr. Chesney has to say tomorrow morning.”
“Would you like the rest of my pistachio-pineapple ice cream? It’s wonderful.”
This offer got a smile an
d a raised eyebrow from Nurse Cotton. “You go ahead and finish it, you like it so much.” She looked at Griffin. “When Maurie added pistachio-pineapple ice cream to the menu, I thought it sounded strange, but after I tried it, I was a convert. Okay, guys, she’s had a big day. No more upsets for her. She needs a good solid sleep tonight. Hey, you really shot an alligator, Anna? When you were only nine years old?”
“Sure enough. I thought I was a goner. I was out lazin’ around where I shouldn’t have been. Good thing for me I had my brother’s shotgun. I said enough prayers to hold me in good stead until I was eighteen.”
Ruth appeared in the doorway. “Hey, Delsey, you look pretty good. How’s your head feeling?”
“Fine, Ruth, I’m fine.”
Nurse Cotton pursed her lips but didn’t say anything even though Griffin knew she wanted them out so Delsey could hang it up for the night. She nodded to them, a warning in her eyes, and left.
Ruth said to Griffin, “I wanted you to know Dix is getting Bertie—he’s an old hound who drools a lot—out tomorrow morning to see if he can track where they took that man’s body. I’ve rubbed a bit of blood from Delsey’s bathtub on a cloth to give him the scent. Hopefully there’ll be a trail for him. We’ll turn Bertie loose right outside Delsey’s apartment, both at the front and the back entrance.”
Griffin said, “There’s so much snow, if Bertie doesn’t find him, he could be buried until there’s a thaw.”
“The snow’s supposed to stop during the night; then, of all things,” Ruth said, “the sun’s supposed to come out tomorrow and warm us up to forty degrees.”
“Good luck to Bertie, then,” Anna said.
Breaker’s Hill
Maestro, Virginia
Sunday morning
Billy Boynton, third baseman on Maestro’s high school team and a good friend of Dix Noble’s older son, Rob, was on his knees, clutching his belly, still dry-heaving, since his stomach was empty. “He barfed his guts out,” his friend Jonah said. Jonah was green, his voice thin as a thread.
Bombshell Page 8
