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  “Did that happen before or after Roy came?”

  Marianne thought for a moment, fingering her pearls. “I don’t know. She’d only lived with us for a day or so before he showed up.”

  “You ladies have been very helpful,” Branigan said.

  She walked out of their parlor feeling as if she were leaving a time warp.

  Chapter Eleven

  Malachi Martin watched as Ralph and Maylene slouched through the sliding electric door of Jericho Road. No matter how they fixed the place up, that door gave it away as a former grocery store.

  And Pastor Liam was constantly fixing it up. His newest addition was a Good Samaritan mural done in three parts. The first showed two men – a priest and a Levite, Malachi knew from his granny’s teaching – passing a bleeding man lying in the road. The second showed the Samaritan holding the hurt man’s head in his lap. The third showed the hurt man, thrown over a donkey, as the Samaritan handed coins to an innkeeper. What Malachi liked about the painting was that the colors went from dull grays and browns in the first panel to brighter golds and tans in the second, to happy reds and oranges in the third.

  Tiffany Lynn, a homeless artist who worked in Jericho’s art room, had unveiled it during church last Sunday. A triptych, she had said proudly more than once. It’s a triptych.

  Tiffany Lynn didn’t stay in the shelter; its eighteen beds were for men. But Pastor welcomed women at meals, church, the art room, all the stuff he had going on. If Malachi were a betting man, he’d bet on Pastor Liam building the women a shelter sooner or later.

  For now, Malachi was glad Pastor had got what he called his “biblically correct” painting. Malachi knew the one on the other wall, the one done by high school students, drove Pastor crazy with its mishmash of characters. As near as Malachi could figure, Adam and Eve, Daniel and his lions, Joshua, David and Goliath were all mixed up in one Old Testament mess. His Bible-loving granny would’ve whipped somebody’s butt. Pastor Liam sighed every time he passed it.

  Ralph and Maylene didn’t so much as glance at Tiffany Lynn’s new piece. They grabbed plates and coffee, heads down. Malachi speared his eggs while keeping an eye on the two, hoping they didn’t know it was him who told the po-lice about their hearse.

  Maylene slid into a seat directly across the table, and Malachi saw why she had been holding her face down: an angry red mark spread across one cheek, already purpling at the edges. He averted his eyes. That was the kind of thing you didn’t ask about on the street. Pastor could, and did. But not other street dwellers.

  After a moment, Maylene sought out his eyes and attempted a smile. “I walked right into the back door of that stupid hearse,” she said.

  “Yeah,” Ralph agreed, taking the seat next to her, “we had to get out fast when the police took it.”

  “Uh-huh,” Malachi replied.

  Ralph wanted to talk. “We gotta see the police after breakfast. They seem to think that ol’ car we found was dumped after a bank robbery or something.”

  Malachi didn’t correct him, and Ralph needed no response. “I hope nobody got our tent while we was away. You ain’t seen no Mexicans nosin’ round it, have you, Malachi?”

  Malachi didn’t bother to answer, for Pastor Liam walked up. He clapped Ralph on the shoulder. “Ralph, can you help us mop up after breakfast? And Maylene, can you help me in the kitchen?”

  Ralph wasn’t one to help. But no one turned Pastor down – not to his face anyway. “Sure,” he mumbled, looking none too happy.

  After breakfast, Malachi took his broom to the hallway just outside the kitchen. From there, he could hear Pastor Liam asking Maylene about her face. She insisted she’d walked into the hearse’s door, but Pastor wasn’t buying it. “I can all but see knuckle prints on your cheek,” he told her. “You know about The Anchor, don’t you?”

  Maylene nodded. Yeah, plenty of people would’ve told her about the city’s shelter for beat-up women by now.

  “But I don’t need that, Pastor,” she said. “I walked into the car door. I swear.”

  Pastor talked to her for a few more minutes, then gave up. “You are way too smart and way too young to get caught up in this, Maylene. Call me, or The Anchor, when you’re ready.”

  As he passed Malachi, the men shared a look, wondering how the Ralphs of the world got away with it.

  Chapter Twelve

  Branigan was going to have to interview Harry Carlton about Roy, the man who had visited Janie Rose at the Gamma Delta Phi house. It was possible that Janie Rose had got caught in the crossfire from some of her father’s ugly dealings.

  But since she was on campus, she decided to first swing by her grandparents’ house.

  Their home was in an area abutting the college that had once been part of a large horse farm. Even cut into smaller lots, the neighborhood intentionally kept its horsey feel, with wide grassy areas between houses and deep back yards bordering a small lake. Branigan pulled into her grandparents’ meandering driveway lined with the white slat fencing that defined many of the properties.

  She found her paternal grandfather, Ira Powers, right where she expected to – on his back porch with a blanket over his knees and a mug of strong black coffee. With the trees bare this time of year, he could see the lake. His view wasn’t that different from her own backyard view over a cotton patch and pastures that ended in a pond surrounded by blackberry bushes. The difference, she supposed, was in the owners. While Gran and Pa Rickman had farmed their land, Ira and Rudelle Powers were simply visitors.

  “Hi, Granddaddy,” she greeted him through the screened porch.

  Her grandfather expressed no surprise at her sudden appearance. “Branigan, how good to see you. Did you come to fill up your grandmother’s car?”

  “No, but I can.” She opened the porch door, and bent to kiss her grandfather’s cheek. “Got any more of that coffee first?”

  “I’m sure there is. Help yourself.”

  Branigan let herself into the kitchen with its stained pine cabinets and white appliances kept shiny by a once-a-week housekeeper. Her grandmother, white hair twisted into a bun, sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper.

  “Good morning, Grandmother.”

  “Darling, how are you?” She tilted a rouged cheek for Branigan to kiss.

  “Coffee-deprived. Okay if I steal some?”

  “Of course.”

  “Granddaddy said you need gas?”

  “Yes, would you be a dear?”

  Rudelle Powers refused to pump her own gas. Ever since Grambling’s stations had gone to self-service – years after the rest of the country – she had demanded that her husband, sons and grandchildren fill her tank. Branigan was so used to it that she no longer found it unusual.

  “Let me just talk to Granddaddy for two minutes, then I’ll get it.” She found a mug and poured coffee, then joined her grandfather on the porch.

  “I need to know about Shaner Steel,” she began.

  “Came down from Pennsylvania four or five years ago,” he said.

  “Seven.”

  “Has it been that long? Mercy.” He thought for a moment. “It was during the recession of 2008–2009, so I guess you’re right. From what I heard, they had already made the land purchase and committed to the move when the ground fell out from under them.”

  He placed his coffee on a tiled table next to his chair, and tugged the blanket to cover his thin shoulders. “They were in a classic pickle. They probably wanted to back out of the move, but they had too much invested. So they came anyway.”

  “Did they move south to escape the unions?”

  “That would’ve been part of it. Big savings on labor and personnel. But there just wasn’t much business in steel for a while. Neither in cars nor in commercial construction. I’m sure they had to borrow – and borrow big – to stay afloat.”

 
; Branigan thought for a moment. “Did they borrow from local banks?”

  “Couldn’t say. That sounds like a question for your father.”

  Branigan’s dad was president of Grambling First Bank, a multi-merged institution that had clung to its local name. Even newcomers wanted a bank with deep local roots. She mused out loud. “Even if they did borrow locally, I guess it’s possible they also had loans from up north. Some less than mainstream loans.”

  “No way of knowing that,” said her grandfather.

  “Oh, you’d be surprised,” she said with a smile. “Business writers in that area may know some gossip.”

  Rudelle Powers opened the kitchen door and stuck her head out. “Goodness, what are you two doing in the cold? Won’t you come in for a muffin, Branigan? Marisol baked this week.”

  “What kind?”

  “Cranberry with walnuts.”

  “Oooh, you bet. How ’bout you, Granddaddy?”

  “I’ve already had one. But I’ll come in with you.”

  Rudelle bypassed the kitchen table and set out a cloth napkin, plate and matching coffee cup and saucer on the dining room table. Branigan knew it was useless to protest, and allowed her grandmother to pour a fresh cup in the good china. She bit into the muffin.

  “Fabulous,” she said. “Marisol hasn’t lost her touch.” She turned back to her grandfather. “On a completely different subject, tell me about the college’s Greek life. Weren’t you chairman of some court or disciplinary council back in the day?”

  “After I retired. As you know, I still hold the professor emeritus title. So I dabble.”

  “But what was it, exactly?”

  “I was chairman of the Greek Honor Council, ‘honor’ being wishful thinking. We dealt with incidents involving underage drinking, hazing, sexual assault and so forth. Not pretty stuff.”

  “Even at hoity-toity Rutherford Lee?”

  “Even at hoity-toity Rutherford Lee. From what I hear from colleagues at other schools, no college is immune.”

  “Did you close down any sororities or fraternities?”

  “Yes. There was a bad incident that made the news about a fraternity, Kappa Rho Epsilon. A freshman died from alcohol poisoning during their pledge period. The college kicked them out and the national fraternity pulled the charter.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “You may have been in Detroit. It got a good amount of coverage in The Rambler and on TV. Horrible for the school, of course. The organizations straightened up for a while. But I’ve been hearing rumors that they’ve gotten worse lately.”

  “Do you know who runs the Honor Council now?”

  “Sylvia Eckhart in political science. She’s good. No nonsense. Why are you interested?”

  “I’m not, really. I’ve just been visiting Greek Row and it got me wondering. Apparently the Kappa Epsilon Chi hearse was stolen and involved in a wreck that killed Ina Rose Carlton’s daughter.”

  Her grandmother drew in a sharp breath. “I just read your story about Janie Rose Carlton. It didn’t say the hearse belonged to our college girls.”

  “That part is just developing,” Branigan said. “So you’ve seen the Kappa Ep hearse?”

  “Lord, yes! Those girls come whooping through the neighborhood every few months to announce an engagement. Which reminds me…”

  “It doesn’t take anything to remind you,” Branigan said. “And no, I’m not dating anyone.”

  Her grandfather laughed. “Leave the girl alone, Rudelle. Branigan, go back to the hearse. You say it was stolen?”

  “Yeah. I guess you saw in the story that Charlie Delaney and Janie Rose Carlton were returning from Athens for Christmas break. Charlie is injured pretty badly: broken leg, arm, ribs, lost some teeth. She told us that a hearse ran them off the road. The Kappa Eps reported their hearse stolen about the same time. The police found it this morning.”

  “My goodness!” said her grandmother. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Branigan stood and stretched. “In fact, I need to get back to it. Let me fill up the royal Buick before I head to the office.”

  “You know where the credit card is.” Her grandmother returned to the kitchen to reread Branigan’s front page story.

  Chapter Thirteen

  As soon as she had returned her grandmother’s Buick to its garage, Branigan phoned Jody and asked if he would join her at Shaner Steel to confront Harry Carlton.

  “Nervous about facing him alone?” Jody asked.

  “You better believe it. But my cowardice aside, I think it’d be good to have a witness. He seems like the kind to deny something later if he doesn’t like it.”

  “Okay. I can leave now. Where are you?”

  “Ten minutes away. Let’s meet in the parking lot.”

  Harry Carlton’s offices were in a building of tinted glass and burnished steel, unusual in a part of the state where businesses built headquarters to look like colonial mansions. But here alongside Interstate 85, it wasn’t as out of place as it would have been in Grambling’s downtown.

  Branigan and Jody took an elevator to the fourth floor, and were directed by a receptionist to Mr Carlton’s private secretary. Her boss kept them waiting thirty minutes, during which time she nervously offered the reporters coffee and water.

  When he finally flung open his office door to usher them inside, there was no smile, no greeting. He returned to the chair behind his desk and motioned for them to take the two hunter green armchairs facing it. It was an obvious statement of the power differential in the room.

  Jody started with condolences, which Carlton angrily waved aside. “Just tell me what you want,” he said.

  “As you know, Charlie Delaney said the girls were forced off 441 by a hearse,” Jody said. “Police have found the hearse, with red paint on the bumper, just as Charlie described.”

  “They’ve called me,” he said in a cold voice. “They asked if I knew anyone who would want to hurt me by hurting Janie Rose.”

  “Do you?” Branigan asked softly.

  “No. As I told them, that’s preposterous.” Harry Carlton looked like a man fighting to hold his temper.

  Branigan kept her voice intentionally soft, trying not to antagonize him more than necessary. “The girls who lived with Janie Rose at Rutherford Lee last year said a colleague of yours had visited her. Someone named Roy.”

  Harry Carlton stared at Branigan. Was that surprise on his face? Or contempt?

  “Roy?” he barked. He narrowed his eyes for a moment. Branigan could tell it pained him to ask, “When last year?”

  “I mean the last school year. So the first week or so in February of this year. Ten months ago.” Branigan’s nervousness was making her babble, and she forced herself to stop.

  He spun to his computer screen and tapped at his keyboard. Craning her neck, Branigan could see he was looking at a calendar. His back stiffened. He swung back to face the reporters. “Roy

  and his associates had no need to hurt me,” he said. “Nor the brass.”

  His words carried the same bark as before. But something had changed. His tone was different, icier. His mind was no longer on the reporters.

  “Are we finished?” he said dismissively.

  Branigan figured she had nothing to lose. “I know the steel industry has had some rough years. Probably debt. If not Roy, is there anyone who would try to hurt you through your family?”

  Harry Carlton’s face froze. “Young lady, you have crossed the line,” he said softly. “I won’t forget that.” He stood abruptly. “This interview is over.”

  Branigan and Jody left without a word. They didn’t speak until they entered the elevator. Jody leaned against the back wall. “Jeez, he’s got two moods – hacked off and outraged,” he said. “Did you notice how someth
ing shifted when he saw his calendar? I wonder if he realized someone was in Grambling that day who might have threatened Janie Rose.”

  Branigan shivered, unnerved by Mr Carlton’s attitude despite Jody’s presence. “I don’t know. I couldn’t tell if he’s a horribly grieving father or a world-class jerk.”

  Jody shrugged. “Probably both.”

  As they exited Shaner Steel headquarters, Branigan was surprised to see that it was only minutes past noon. Her day had started so early that it felt like 5 o’clock. She followed Jody to the newspaper office only to be ambushed at the elevator by Tanenbaum Grambling IV.

  “How’s that homeless story going?” he demanded.

  “It isn’t. I got sidetracked by the death of the college girl.”

  “Well, get un-sidetracked. I want that for Christmas Eve. The idea of Jesus’ family being homeless in a stable alongside the homeless today.”

  “Ah, so you’re going to write my lead?”

  “Don’t get sassy.” He pushed the elevator button, effectively dismissing her. She sighed and walked to her desk, lonely now in the cavernous newsroom. In what Branigan called the “old days” – when she’d come to The Rambler at twenty-two right out of the University of Georgia – she frequently had the luxury to pursue stories such as the one on Janie Rose Carlton. She had routinely spent one to three weeks on a single story when it was complicated and required both research and a dozen or more interviews.

  Those days were gone. At some papers, reporters were now called content providers. At least that indignity hadn’t been visited upon The Rambler staff yet. They were still called reporters. It’s just that they had to provide content for the Metro and Style sections in addition to any real stories they might be working on.

  Julie was waiting by her desk, but before she could speak, Branigan held up both hands. “I know. I know. Homeless for Christmas for the Style front. Eggs and Christmas baking weren’t enough for you.”

  Julie looked puzzled, and nervously tucked her blonde hair behind one ear. “I thought you wanted the homeless story.”