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  “And… the other?” Branigan scarcely knew how to ask about the trauma her nephew had suffered the previous summer.

  He shrugged. “It still sucks. Obviously. A few people picked up on the name when I said I was from Grambling. But it hasn’t been an issue. Getting out of the state was a good idea.”

  Branigan didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath. “I’m so glad.” She reached over and squeezed his knee, adopted her best German accent. “Yousa a goot kid.”

  Gathered around the dining room table, Branigan, Liz, Liam and Chan held hands as Liam prayed a blessing over the meal. While they passed the pasta, bread and salad, Liam said, “So tell me about this police guard at Charlie’s door. Thank you for that, by the way.”

  “Well, as I’m sure you know, Maylene visited Charlie yesterday and asked about what she saw on the day of the wreck – if she could see who was driving the hearse.”

  Liam nodded.

  “Then a nurse said Maylene was back a couple of hours before midnight, but Liz and Charlie said she didn’t return to the room. It started me thinking that she might be spying for Ralph. Maybe he was the driver.”

  Liam stopped his fork halfway to his mouth. “But you must suspect someone else if you asked the police to put a guard at the hospital.”

  “Actually, I didn’t have to ask. Detective Scovoy put that guard on her room as soon as he heard about Maylene’s visit. I think he and I both had a bad feeling, you know? It could be Ralph. But what if it was somebody else – somebody who doesn’t know what Charlie saw?”

  Liz spoke up. “Well, whatever, we’re glad. And grateful.” She paused. “Liam, tell her your news.”

  “Ralph called me today.”

  Branigan looked up from her plate. “What’s he want?”

  “A visit.”

  “Like a pastoral visit?”

  Liam nodded. “Yeah, I do that a lot. Obviously.” Branigan smiled to herself at how much Liam and Chan sounded alike.

  Liz jumped in. “But I think if there’s even a chance he ran Charlie off the road, Liam shouldn’t go. Won’t that confuse things if Ralph goes to trial?”

  “I have no idea about the legalities,” Liam said. “But as the pastor of Jericho Road, I feel I have to go.”

  “We’ll let you be the tie-breaker, Branigan,” Liz said.

  “Oh, no! I’m not getting in the middle of that. But…”

  “What?” they asked simultaneously.

  “What if you were able to ask Ralph questions? See what he knows.” Another thought occurred to her. “And maybe something else.”

  The other three waited, knowing that Branigan often worked out her thoughts aloud.

  “Maybe see if he was working for someone.”

  Liz was the first to grasp her line of thought. “Like someone out to get Harry Carlton.”

  Liam thought for a moment. “There you go,” he said to Liz. “You can’t object to that.”

  She nodded. “How soon can you see him?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Malachi planned his Sunday carefully. First stop, church at Jericho Road.

  Pastor Liam stood and said he wasn’t a stickler for Advent. Malachi was a little fuzzy on that, but it had something to do with Pastor letting the choir sing Christmas carols before Christmas. Whatever, the singers sounded good on “Mary, Did You Know”, “What Child Is This” and “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen”. It was the first time all season that Malachi missed his granny and pop.

  After the service, he helped drag the tables back into the dining hall to set up for a lunch of meat loaf, green beans, mashed potatoes and rolls. He wrapped his roll for later. He had a long day ahead and wasn’t sure he’d get supper.

  At 1 o’clock, Jericho Road’s clothes closet opened. It was a single room, way smaller than when Pastor Liam had arrived five years ago. Pastor talked a lot about helping people out of homelessness rather than making them good at being homeless. So in his first year, he gave most of the clothes to thrift stores. Those stores were creating jobs, he told the complainers. Now, the closet held two racks of coats, three racks of jeans and work uniforms, and a floor-to-ceiling shelf of work boots. The coats were because Pastor didn’t want anybody freezing to death. The work clothes and boots, he said, were for “helping a man to fish”. You had to have a job or a job interview to get them.

  Malachi usually went along with Pastor’s thinking. He’d seen enough drunks and addicts out there who used the do-gooders to support their habits. But today he needed something and he needed it quick. He might have to stretch the truth a bit.

  He peered into the clothes closet, located next to the prayer room. Luckily, Pastor wasn’t around, and it was being run by two old white ladies. Malachi didn’t recognize them, which meant they were probably from a partner church.

  He took off his stocking cap as he entered the room, his dreadlocks dangling to his shoulders. The ladies looked up, glad to have a customer. Malachi smiled shyly and explained that he had a job interview on Monday and wanted to dress to show the employer he was serious.

  “What’s the job?” asked one of the women, a grandmotherly sort with white hair and kind brown eyes.

  “Subcontractin’ for Shaner Steel,” Malachi answered, hoping it was vague enough to prevent further questions. It was.

  “So what do you need?”

  “Just a plain work shirt and pants. Navy or gray.”

  The other woman, pleasingly plump his granny would’ve said, jumped up to help him.

  “I think you’d take the smallest size we have,” she said, eyeing Malachi’s frame. “Try this.”

  She handed him an appropriately forgettable shirt, but the stitching above the pocket read “Earl”. Malachi laughed to himself. He hoped no one would get close enough to read the shirt, but if they did, he was no Earl.

  “Lemme see the next size, please,” he said politely. The woman held out a short-sleeved navy shirt. “John” said the name above the pocket.

  “That one’ll do,” Malachi said. The pants and shirt would be big on him, but that wouldn’t matter.

  “Do you need boots?” the first lady asked.

  Malachi looked down at his black tennis shoes. “No, thank you, ma’am. Mine’ll do fine.”

  Malachi slipped out of Jericho Road without running into Pastor Liam. He headed southeast toward the bus station, stopping in the back yard of a law office to change clothes. His gray hoodie, jeans and backpack were fine for disappearing in downtown Grambling. People looked away if they thought you were homeless. But where he was going, a homeless man would attract attention. So he stuffed his old clothes into his backpack, cushioning the tools he’d borrowed from Slick. He emerged into the alley beside the bus depot. All that remained of Maylene was a small circle of matted grass. If you didn’t know those blackened blades were bloodstained, you’d think a car had dripped oil in the alley.

  He paid for a ticket to Athens with money he’d squirreled away doing day labor, and was on his way by mid-afternoon.

  The Greyhound stopped a mile short of the university. Malachi pulled out a city map he’d printed at the library, and figured out where he was. It’d been more than a decade since the summer he worked maintenance at an apartment complex filled with students. He’d thought the job would last longer, but bourbon got in the way.

  The Rambler story had quoted a next-door neighbor of Janie Rose from Stone Hearth Apartments, a rich-ass complex that hadn’t existed back then. Miz Branigan had vouched for Malachi to Jody Manson, who’d given him the young man’s apartment number.

  Now he had only to figure out which “next door” was Janie Rose’s.

  Malachi sat on a bench that allowed him to see three separate entrances to Stone Hearth’s C Building. Then he waited. On the Sunday afternoon before Christmas, there wasn’t much foot traffic. He grew chilled s
itting in his work uniform, and wished he’d grabbed a coat too.

  Two girls went in the front entrance, but they were too quick for him. An older woman entered a side door, but he barely made it to the stoop before the door closed and locked behind her. After an hour, he saw what he was looking for: a man in paint-spattered clothes carrying a ladder out of a side entrance. He’d gambled that Christmas break was a time for repairs and painting, and he was right. Malachi gave the painter time to get the ladder halfway out before helpfully holding the door. The man gave him a nod, and propped the door open while he returned to get his paint cans.

  Malachi entered the ground floor hallway and then walked up the stairwell to the fourth floor. There was 405 C, the apartment of the young man. Malachi knocked on 406. No answer. Then 404. No answer.

  Every door on the hallway was closed, so Malachi knelt and pulled out his laminated ID card. With these interior doors, he wouldn’t need Slick’s tools.

  Sliding the card into a crack in the doorway of 404, he grabbed the doorknob to twist. To his surprise the knob turned easily. It wasn’t even locked.

  He eased the door open.

  The living room was a mess, but not the kind of mess a young lady would leave. Couch cushions were on the floor, and the shelves were swept bare. He glanced into the kitchen, but it looked untouched except for a pile of framed pictures on the table – most likely the contents of those shelves. He picked up one and saw a mother, father and teenage girl, the same girl as in the newspaper who rode home with Miz Charlie. Bingo.

  Malachi walked back across the gray carpet and into the bedroom. The mattress had been thrown off its box springs. Every book was tossed onto the floor, every drawer flung open and emptied, every under-the-bed storage box rifled.

  Someone had the same idea as Malachi. Only someone had beaten him to it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Branigan slept in on Sunday morning. She stayed in her pajamas, built a fire in the den fireplace, and made hot chocolate, alternating between reading a mystery and watching reruns of Law and Order: SVU.

  She and Cleo went for an abbreviated run late afternoon. It was long past dusk when she finally turned on her laptop and brought up the Gainesville newspaper’s website. Maylene Ayers’ death was the subject of the top two stories. Branigan skimmed the one about Ralph’s arrest, written largely from Grambling sources. Then she read more carefully the one that quoted Maylene’s aunt, who had apparently been appointed family spokesperson. It was fairly well fleshed out, with interviews from Maylene’s middle school principal and several high school teachers. Sweet girl. Lacrosse player. Star of the high school’s production of Oklahoma! and Grease. A volunteer for her church’s soup kitchen. Huh?

  And then there was something that made Branigan go back and read again. Freshman at Rutherford Lee College. Maylene had entered Rutherford Lee sixteen months previously. The story was unclear as to whether she completed her freshman year. It was equally unclear as to when and why she was living on the streets of Grambling. Her aunt expressed horror to learn that Maylene had been living in a homeless encampment. The last her family had heard, Maylene was in Atlanta. Though they were upset and confused by her dropping out of school and the subsequent lapse in contact, they never suspected she was homeless, and in fact questioned whether the Grambling police were mistaken.

  Branigan was still puzzling over the story when her phone rang. It was Bert Feldspar.

  “I guess you saw the stories from Gainesville?” he said. “That Maylene Ayers had gone to Rutherford Lee?”

  “I did. But did you also see that she’d volunteered in the soup kitchen at her home church?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t think anything of it. Why?”

  “It’s just strange that she went from helping the homeless to living with the homeless.”

  “Either way,” Bert said, “we’ve got the death of two affluent college girls in the same week. Janie Rose’s death is still unsolved. Maylene’s death looks pretty cut and dried, but why in the world was she living on the streets of Grambling? Lots of questions.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “So anyway, it’s all hands on deck tomorrow. Wanted you to know in case there’s anything you need to get out of the way tonight.”

  “Right. I’ll hammer out that homeless story.”

  “Okay. See you in the morning.”

  Branigan sat back for a moment, mind reeling. Then she called Liam’s cell. He assured her that he was taking a turn sleeping in Charlie’s room, and there was a cop at the door.

  She returned to her laptop, retrieved her notes and started writing.

  Being homeless at Christmas was horrible, she thought as she assembled her story. But for Maylene, it had been only the beginning.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The hearse was inches from Charlie’s car door, flying down the road beside her Jeep. To her right, Janie Rose was plastered to the seat, her face a mask of fright.

  Charlie was trying to scream, but nothing was coming out. She wanted to scream for her father, to tell him she’d tried the twenty-second rule for looking in her rearview mirror, but the hearse had come out of nowhere. Charlie peered into the blackness of the hearse’s window. She could see nothing. But wait… there was a shadow, a face turned toward her, no features visible. But the face was topped by some kind of fabric. A hat, maybe? A stocking cap with a ball on top?

  The scream she attempted came out as a whimper. Charlie struggled to open her eyes.Finally, they opened, and she saw a face topped by a Santa hat. This time she did scream.

  Maggie Fielding yanked the hat off with a yelp. “Charlie?” she cried. “What’s wrong?”

  Liam shook Charlie’s uninjured shoulder gently. “Charlie, it’s all right. Wake up, honey. You’re having a bad dream.”

  Charlie’s frantic eyes took in the room, her father, her old high school friend, and finally she relaxed.

  “Magpie,” she murmured. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, the idea was to cheer you up. But I think I’m failing.” Maggie Fielding had been Charlie’s “big sister” on the Grambling High East soccer team, two years ahead of her. Now Maggie played varsity for Rutherford Lee. “How you feeling, girl?”

  Charlie groaned. “About as bad as I look, I imagine.” She was having trouble sweeping away the cobwebs of the dream.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Maggie. “But I brought someone to meet you.”

  For the first time, Charlie’s eyes went to the far wall and noticed a handsome young man with black curls and electric blue eyes. “Hi, Charlie,” he said softly. “I was trying not to startle you.”

  “This is Jones Rinehart,” said Maggie, rather proudly it seemed to Charlie. “My boyfriend.”

  “Oh,” said Charlie. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. Sorry to look so ratty.”

  Liam stuck out his hand. “I’m Liam Delaney, Charlie’s dad.”

  “Sir.” Jones nodded politely and shook Liam’s hand. “I’m so sorry about the accident.”

  “Yeah, us too.”

  “Charlie, can you tell us what happened?” Maggie asked. “I read The Rambler, but it makes no sense. Someone stole our hearse to run you off the road?”

  Liam looked puzzled. “Our hearse?”

  “Maggie’s a Kappa Ep at Rutherford Lee,” Charlie told her dad.

  “Yes, sir, we held a big meeting right after we found out our hearse had been used. The police have been by to ask questions, but they seem to think anybody and everybody could have gotten hold of that key. It was on a wall in the kitchen.

  “Anyway, a few of the girls knew Janie Rose, but I was the only one who knew Charlie. So I said I’d come by and ask if there’s anything we can do.”

  Charlie shook her head gingerly. “Not unless you’re orthopedic surgeons. Or dentists.” She pulled her lower lip back to show Mag
gie her missing teeth.

  “Ouch.”

  “Or,” Charlie added, “you can find out who took your hearse.”

  “We’ll keep trying, but none of us paid much attention to that old wreck. It just sat out back unless we were using it for rush or homecoming or Halloween.”

  “Or engagements,” said Liam.

  Maggie and Jones exchanged a glance, and Maggie blushed slightly. “Yeah, that too.”

  The four chatted for a few minutes. Charlie asked Maggie and Jones how they’d met.

  “At a party,” he answered. “The Robies and Kappa Eps had a Bloody Mary party one Friday morning.”

  “The Robies?” said Liam.

  “Rho Beta Iota. It’s easier to say Robies. Anyway, that was two years ago, but we didn’t start dating until this fall. We’ve been together all semester.”

  Maggie smiled. Her friend was smitten, Charlie realized.

  They talked for a while longer about Charlie’s physical therapy and Christmas plans, until Charlie began to tire. Maggie noticed and stood to leave, kissing her young friend on the cheek. “You have a good Christmas with your family,” she whispered.

  “Don’t forget your Santa hat,” said Liam, tossing the red and white fur to Jones.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  It was dark by the time Malachi got back to the Grambling bus depot, plumb worn out. But since he had to walk back to his tent anyway, he figured he’d stop by St Joe’s.

  He passed a seedy convenience store, trash blowing across the parking lot in cold gusts. Inside the hot and crowded store, he bought a snack cake shaped like a Christmas tree. He figured Miz Charlie’d be tired of hospital food, and how stale could it be?

  When he reached the hallway outside her room, he saw a cop leaning back in a chair. He could hear voices through the open door. He held back, and the cop eyed his maintenance uniform and his dreadlocks.

  “You a friend of Pastor Liam?” he asked.

  Malachi nodded, and held up the snack cake. “Brought Miz Charlie a present. But I’ll wait.”