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  Funny how people in houses decided what the homeless needed. Not a toilet or a grill, which might’ve actually been useful. But clothes that grew mildew. Or soft drinks that rotted what teeth the crystal meth hadn’t got to. And, to everyone’s amazement, baby toys. Malachi had lived outdoors for the past fourteen years and had yet to see a baby out here. There might be some in the shelters or in Grambling’s home for beat-up women, but not here.

  Once he was out of the bridge’s shadow, Malachi could see by moonlight. He walked past the river birch that guarded the camp’s entrance. No one was around, so he unzipped his camo pants and peed. Careful to go far enough that he couldn’t be overheard, he pulled out the cell phone that the government lady had given him. She’d been at Jericho Road one day, giving phones to homeless folks for emergencies and jobs. Pastor Liam let you charge them in the dining hall.

  When Malachi gave Miz Branigan the news about the hearse in the woods, her voice rose and he heard her repeat it to someone. Then she was back in his ear, telling him she would come to his tent first thing in the morning.

  “No,” he murmured, keeping his voice low so all those nearby ears couldn’t hear him. “Come to the old Randall Mill.”

  He knew Miz Branigan would have the po-lice with her. Homeless people spent the majority of their time staying out of the po-lice’s way. He sure as heck wasn’t inviting them to the camp they called Tent City.

  No telling who had an outstanding warrant or an illegal weapon or a crack rock rattling around. No sense inviting trouble in.

  Chapter Ten

  Branigan let Cleo out and rushed from the farmhouse at first light, her breath blowing smoky in the cold dawn. Across the cotton patch, the barn and empty chicken houses loomed dark against the sky, only barely distinct from the winter horizon. She called Detective Chester Scovoy as she pulled out of her driveway.

  The detective was one of Jody’s sources on the police beat, and Branigan had gotten to know him slightly last summer. She hadn’t had occasion to talk to him since, as Jody handled the city’s police-related stories. And if she were honest, she didn’t relish being reminded of that time.

  This story, however, was squarely on his turf. Branigan told him about Malachi’s report of a hearse abandoned in woods near the Garner Bridge, and he agreed to meet her at the burned-out Randall Mill.

  As they pulled onto the cracked concrete that was once the mill’s loading area and later a makeshift skateboard park, they found Malachi, hands shoved deep in the pockets of a down jacket, cap pulled low over his ears and a gray sweatshirt hood over that. In the growing light, the mill’s sole remaining smokestack loomed, a tower of blackened brick.

  Once the pride of Grambling’s mill villages, Randall had burned in the 1980s. Now its surrounding four-room mill houses were home to drug dealers, prostitutes and bootleggers, and under the nearby Michael Garner Bridge was a homeless encampment.

  Malachi greeted Branigan with the slightest of nods, and looked warily at Detective Scovoy. The officer stuck his hand out.

  “Mr Martin? Good to see you again.” When he got no reaction, he added, “I was at Miss Powers’ barn last summer when you helped us solve the murders? Chester Scovoy.”

  “I know who you is,” Malachi said. Branigan saw the faintest frown cross his face. “Ralph and Maylene and the hearse down that way,” he pointed. “Prob’ly best if I don’t go wit’ you.”

  “That’s fine,” Branigan said. “Can you show us the way in?”

  Silently, Malachi led them across the road and into the woods. Branigan recognized the place from the previous summer, though the trees were bare now. With the sun up, they could make out a path the width of a car that led from the road to an encampment under the bridge. Malachi stopped.

  “Go ’bout another thirty feet, then go right down a little hill and you see it,” he told Branigan. “Be careful when you wake Ralph up. He sleep with a cutter.”

  “A cutter?”

  “Y’know. A box cutter.”

  Malachi left them, and Branigan and Detective Scovoy made their way through the quiet woods. Sure enough, after going thirty feet, they could see a break where something had cracked limbs and cut tracks in the loamy dirt. They pushed in a few feet further, and saw the back of a faded hearse.

  Scovoy whistled. “You were right,” he said. “When the patrol boys first started talking about a hearse, we thought their witness was hallucinating. Guess we were wrong.”

  “That witness was Charlie Delaney,” said Branigan. “She’s solid.”

  Scovoy rapped on the hearse’s rear window and raised his voice. “Ralph? Maylene? Grambling Police. Can you come out, please?”

  The hearse swayed as someone stirred inside. Scovoy called more loudly. “Ralph? Grambling PD. We need to speak with you.”

  The hearse’s back door swung open, and a stocky man of medium height, thirty-ish, his bare arms and torso sporting rudimentary tattoos of barbed wire and Confederate flags, looked out. His eyes swept from Branigan to the detective. He spat on the ground, barely missing the officer’s shoes. “Yeah?”

  “Detective Chester Scovoy. I’m here about a hearse that was reported stolen. This looks like it could be it.”

  Ralph’s face relaxed. “Don’t know nuthin’ about that, Officer. Me and my woman found it yesterday morning right here. We don’t know nuthin’ about it being stolen.”

  “What will I find if I run a warrant check on you? Anything to take you in for?”

  “No, Officer, not a thing. Got off parole last summer. Clean as a baby’s butt.”

  “A baby’s butt isn’t always clean,” the detective said mildly. “Before I run it, tell me about this vehicle.”

  “Ain’t nuthin’ to tell. Me and Maylene was living up under the bridge there.” He waved an arm toward the encampment. “We was walking yesterday to eat breakfast at Jericho Road and saw where this car done run down the bank a ways. Thought it’d make a warmer cat hole than that leaky tent. And it did.” He looked forlorn. “You gonna take it in?”

  “I’m sorry, but it may have been involved in a crime. So yeah.”

  A surprisingly young girl stuck her tousled auburn head out of a pile of blankets. Branigan felt Detective Scovoy stiffen. “Are you Maylene?”

  “Yeah.” She yawned.

  “Do you have some ID, miss?”

  “I’m nineteen, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’d still like to see some ID.”

  “Ralph, where’s my backpack?” She crawled on hands and knees through the sleeping quarters and pulled a faded maroon backpack from the front seat. She fumbled inside until she found a zip-lock bag and produced a laminated card. Branigan was startled to see that it was a real driver’s license, one that showed Maylene with clean flowing hair and a bright smile. According to Liam, almost all homeless folks had an inexpensive picture ID issued by the Department of Driver Services, but they didn’t have a driver’s license. Those were usually cancelled, suspended or carried heavy reinstatement fees.

  “See?” the girl said. “Nineteen.”

  Detective Scovoy studied the license, then handed it back reluctantly. “Do your folks know where you are, miss?”

  Maylene’s pretty face darkened, and she pulled a blanket tighter around her shoulders. “They don’t know and sure as hell don’t care. Ralph here is the only one who cares about me.”

  Branigan groaned inwardly. Detective Scovoy kept his face neutral. “Well, if you change your mind, Pastor Liam at Jericho Road can help you get home or into a women’s shelter. Meanwhile, a tow truck will be here in half an hour to haul this vehicle to the Law Enforcement Center. Leave everything inside and we’ll return your possessions to you later.”

  “What?” Ralph protested. “You can’t do that.”

  “Can and will. I’m sorry, but this vehicle was used in a crime.
Your coats and backpacks may have picked up fibers or other evidence. You can take your papers and ID, but leave everything else.”

  “The hell we will!”

  Chester reached for the walkie-talkie on his shoulder. “Scovoy here. Send a uni to Ricky’s Quick Mart on Estonia Street,” he told a dispatcher, using cop-speak to direct a uniformed officer to a shabby convenience store nearby. “I’ll guide him in to where I need him under the Garner Bridge.”

  Turning to Ralph, he said, “Your choice. Your stuff gets impounded or you do.”

  Ralph didn’t say another word – simply slammed the hearse’s back door.

  Detective Scovoy rapped on the window again, and Ralph shoved the door back open. His face was red as he fought to control his anger.

  “One more thing,” said the detective. “We’ll need to get your fingerprints so we can eliminate them when we dust the car. I can drive you down now or you can walk over. But I need you at the Law Enforcement Center before noon.”

  “We’ll walk,” said Ralph, pulling the door closed.

  Branigan turned to Detective Scovoy. “I guess you have to wait for your officer?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I don’t want Ralph pulling evidence out of the car. I’ll treat you to coffee in fifteen minutes if you want to wait.”

  Branigan’s face showed her surprise. “I would,” she answered, looking at her watch. “But I need to get to Rutherford Lee before exams start. Rain check?”

  “Sure. Is it about the sorority who reported the missing hearse?”

  “No, we talked to them last night. I want to follow up on something one of the girls said.”

  “Which was?”

  Branigan paused. “Nothing concrete. The Kappa Epsilon Chi president thought another sorority might have taken the hearse.”

  Detective Scovoy studied her for a moment. “As a prank?”

  “Or to keep them from getting a head start on rush.”

  The detective snorted, and Branigan could see him mentally dismissing the lead. “Let me know if you find something,” he said. “Meanwhile, we’ll run the prints and see if we get a hit.”

  The Gamma Delta Phi house was three houses away from that of Kappa Ep. Branigan’s knock was answered by a middle-aged housekeeper. When Branigan told her she wanted to see the sorority president, rush chair and pledge chair, the woman responded that it might be a while: the young ladies would have to get showered and dressed before entering the living area.

  Branigan tried not to let her amusement show, and thought she saw a flicker behind the woman’s eyes as well.

  “You are welcome to sit down and have some coffee,” she offered.

  “That would be great,” said Branigan. “And I have my newspaper with me.”

  The woman wasn’t kidding. It was a full forty-five minutes before three young ladies entered the living room in skirts, blouses, tights and jewelry. What? No white gloves? Branigan thought.

  She introduced herself. She was going to have to find something to tell these three apart. The Gamma Delts, it seemed, definitely had a type. All three women were thin and brunette and had straight white teeth. All three wore skirts that came to three inches above the knee. Their differences, as far as Branigan could tell, came in their eyes, noses and blouse colors.

  The president was Marianne Thurman, brown eyes, straight nose, severe gray blouse with white pearls at her throat. The rush chair was Emma Ratcliffe, vivid blue eyes, pug nose, white blouse, a cross necklace. The pledge chair was Catherine Reisman, hazel eyes, a slight bump in her nose that Branigan suspected would have a future date with a surgeon’s knife, tailored coral blouse, matching beaded necklace.

  The girls accepted coffee in cups and saucers from the housekeeper, thanking her in well-modulated voices.

  “I can’t imagine what this is about,” Marianne began. “What could The Grambling Rambler want to know about our sisterhood?”

  Branigan took a sip of coffee to hide her desire to laugh. What was the old Southern saying? A proper lady was in the paper only at her birth, marriage and death.

  “I’m here about a pledge you had during spring semester. Janie Rose Carlton. She was killed on her way home from the University of Georgia two days ago.”

  “Yes, we saw that. Such a tragedy.”

  Branigan let the silence stretch, knowing that most people would rush to fill it. After a moment, Marianne continued. “We really liked Janie Rose. We were sorry when she left school. But I don’t think any of us have seen her since last winter. I know I haven’t.”

  “The thing is, we’re not sure the wreck was an accident.” Branigan watched as shock swept over the girls’ faces.

  “What do you mean?” asked Emma.

  “The driver, another UGA student, said that a hearse forced them off the road. The police have found the hearse. It belonged to your neighbors, the Kappa Epsilon Chis.”

  Catherine’s mouth formed a perfect O. “Oh my gosh, we see that nasty thing all the time. They seem to think that getting engaged is a campus-wide sport.”

  Emma nodded. “I didn’t know they took it on the open road though.”

  “I don’t know that they did,” Branigan said. “Do you happen to know where they kept the key?”

  All three girls shook their heads. Finally Marianne hazarded a guess. “I suppose Sophie kept it.”

  “No, they kept it on a hook in the kitchen. Just about anyone had access.” Branigan let her comment hang, but the girls didn’t respond.

  She tried again. “I was wondering if someone from the college took it as a prank, maybe to keep the hearse from being used during rush. And then things got out of hand.”

  Marianne took charge. “I can’t imagine such a thing. We thought that hearse was ridiculous. Any rushee who thought it was impressive wouldn’t have been interested in Gamma Delta Phi and vice versa.” Emma and Catherine nodded solemnly.

  Okay, thought Branigan. No sense of humor here.

  “On another subject, I want to ask you about people who may have been interested in Janie Rose during the time you knew her.”

  The girls looked mystified. Again Marianne took the lead. “Interested? How do you mean?”

  “Well, Janie Rose was the only child of a wealthy father. Sometimes wealthy fathers make enemies.”

  Emma sat up straighter. “That man!” she said to Marianne and Catherine. “Remember the man who came? And we made so much fun of his accent?” She turned to Branigan. “After he left, of course. Not to his face.”

  Marianne looked dubious. “Yeah, I guess so. But that was what? January? February? That’s almost a year ago.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Well,” said Emma, warming to the memory, “rush started in early January, the day we got back from Christmas break. In fact, some of us – me, Catherine and other rush event chairs – came back even earlier to get ready. Pledge Day was February 1. That’s the day the bids went out. Janie Rose joined. Normally, the house is reserved for upperclassmen. Catherine and Marianne and I were juniors then. A couple of sophomores lived here. But that Christmas, one of our junior sisters got engaged and transferred to her fiancé’s school. So that left a vacancy.

  “Janie Rose came to us and said she and her roommate had had a falling out, and could she have the empty room? With her dad, we knew she had the rent money, so we moved her right in.”

  The other girls were looking at Emma.

  “Why are you telling her all this?” asked Catherine.

  “I’m getting there. So a couple of days later, this man showed up at the door asking for Janie Rose. Mrs Rochester answered the door.” Emma indicated the kitchen where the housekeeper was working. “But Marianne and I were here in the parlor. He had a real strong Yankee accent. We weren’t trying to listen,” Emma said primly. “We really weren’t. But his accent was so strong, and Janie Rose got
kind of wound up. So we couldn’t help hearing.”

  “What did he say?”

  Emma frowned. “That’s just it. That’s why I didn’t think of it until you mentioned her father. All the man said was, ‘Tell your father Roy said hello.’”

  “That was it?”

  “Well, actually more like, ‘Tell yo’ faddah Roy sed ’ello.’”

  Branigan choked on her coffee, and it threatened to come out of her nose. After taking a moment to gather herself, she coughed and said, “He was from New Jersey?”

  “New Jersey, New York, Long Island… who knows? I can’t tell those people apart. But Janie Rose got upset. She asked why he didn’t go and see her father himself. But the man didn’t say anything else.”

  Emma shrugged. “Finally Janie Rose slammed the door and ran upstairs. When we asked her about it later, she said it was nothing to worry about. We never saw him again.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  Emma closed her eyes. “Medium tall, maybe five foot ten or eleven. Thinning brown hair, kind of Brylcreemed back. A gray suit, I can’t remember the tie. Oh, and his face was pockmarked, like from acne.”

  Marianne and Catherine looked at Emma in wonder. “You’ve got a better memory than me,” Catherine told her.

  “Does that help?” Marianne asked Branigan.

  Branigan clicked off her digital recorder. “Maybe. You never know.”

  She closed her notebook and gathered up her coat. Then she posed the question she always asked at the termination of an interview: “Is there anything I’ve forgotten to ask that you think might be important?”

  The girls shook their heads.

  Branigan had another thought, remembering Charlie’s comment about Janie Rose’s anxiety. “Did you ever get the feeling that Janie Rose was scared of something?”

  “Well, maybe,” said Marianne slowly, “though I didn’t think of it at the time. She had this habit of looking out of the parlor window before she left the house. She’d go to that curtain and peek out before leaving. I assumed she was checking the weather.”