by Stacey Jay
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 m
e 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.
Twenty-one
I’ve never seen Marcy look dirty, even after a twelve-hour day wrangling two-year-olds, even fresh from working in her garden. Dirt itself usually knows better than to mess with such an immaculate woman. But now … Her faded sweatshirt is covered in dust and greasy black streaks, her hair sticks up like clumps of steel wool, and her steady eyes are filled with fear.
I’ve never seen Marcy afraid, either. It’s even scarier than the dirt.
“What happened? What’s wrong?” My mind keeps screaming “cancer,” but cancer doesn’t explain the suitcases, and the wrapped-up knickknacks.
“Traynell and I are leaving,” she says, eyes shimmering. “Today. In an hour, maybe less if we can manage.”
“What?” Leaving? “Why? What’s happening? Are you sick? Is Traynell—”
“No. Traynell and I are fine.”
“Okay … ” She’s not sick. Then what the … “Is someone else sick? Or is there a family emergency? Because I know you’re not going on vacation right now, in the middle of an FBI investigation with a—”
