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  “I did. Sorry. It’s just that I really want to investigate this Carlton girl’s death too.”

  City editor Bert Feldspar spun around in his chair. “There’s more than what you wrote this morning?”

  “Yeah. Can you meet with Jody and me for a minute? You too, Julie.”

  The four of them gathered in the smallest conference room, which could have held three times their number. They bunched at one end of a mahogany conference table, one of many relics of the paper’s more prosperous days.

  “Whatcha got?” asked Bert. He was thirty-five and sported the ubiquitous shaved head of so many of his peers who didn’t want to deal with thinning hair.

  Branigan reiterated Charlie’s claim that a hearse had deliberately run her and Janie Rose off the road, and that the police had apparently found the stolen hearse abandoned in the woods.

  Bert looked from her to Jody. “I read your quote from Charlie Delaney, but not the rest of it. Are you saying it could be murder? Of a college kid?”

  Jody took up the story. “We don’t know yet. The police are interested now they know Charlie was telling the truth. Branigan and I just got back from talking to the dead girl’s father, Harry Carlton. Piece of work. There’s a possibility somebody was trying to hurt him. He’s just not talking. At least not to us.”

  “Branigan?”

  “That about covers it. Obviously, I’d love some time to work on it.”

  Bert turned to Julie. “You got any wiggle room?”

  Julie held her hands out, palms up. “I really don’t on the homeless story. Tan-4 wants it. But I can try to keep Branigan off anything else until after Christmas.”

  “That’s next week,” said Jody.

  “Best I can do.” She looked apologetic. “You guys know the pressure we’re under.”

  “Okay,” Branigan said, gathering her notebooks. “Homeless at Christmas it is.”

  “Jody can keep an eye on what the police dig up,” Bert said. “We’re not dropping the wreck story.”

  Back at her desk, Branigan placed two calls: one to Liam Delaney to set up a mid-afternoon interview for the homeless story, one to Detective Chester Scovoy.

  When the detective answered his cell, she didn’t waste time. “I’d like to collect on that offer of coffee. But can we make it a drink this evening?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Cop bar or lawyer bar?”

  Branigan laughed. The city’s lawyers congregated in the lounge of the Nicholas Inn with its rich dark woods, stained-glass lamps and baby grand piano. Police officers preferred Leigh Ann’s, a casual bar a block off Main Street that featured pool tables, dart boards and a juke box with beach music.

  “Zorina’s,” she said.

  “Hell, no.”

  She laughed again. Zorina’s was the reporters’ bar: a dark room with a sticky floor in a strip mall several blocks past the gentrified portion of Grambling’s South Main Street. Journalists liked it because it was open until 4 a.m., long past closing time for most bars, and necessary for reporters and copy-editors with midnight deadlines.

  “What have you got against Zorina’s?”

  “Besides food poisoning, warm beer and reporters? Do I need more?”

  “All right. Leigh Ann’s it is. See you at seven.”

  Branigan grabbed her coat and left the newsroom before Julie could forget her pledge and assign her another story. She had an hour before meeting Liam, and her energy was flagging. Leaving The Grambling Rambler office with its distinctive gold logo of an intertwined G and R, she turned right to walk the six blocks up Main Street to Bea’s. She grabbed a table by the window and ordered a turkey and Swiss on a wheat bagel, and a cup of hot chocolate.

  While she waited, she stared out of the window. Grambling’s downtown was an eclectic mix of small-town drugstores and home-cooking restaurants and bigger city fare such as vintage clothing stores, trendy bars and art galleries. She idly watched a man of indeterminate age sit down on a sidewalk bench. His quilted black jacket was worn and dirty, and the soles of his tennis shoes appeared to be separating from the shoe tops. His face wore gray stubble, and even from here she could see the swollen nose of a longtime drinker. He pulled a ring-tab can of ravioli and a plastic fork from his backpack, along with a bottle of water with the blue and white label of Jericho Road.

  The waitress brought her sandwich and hot chocolate. “Don’t move this,” Branigan told her. “I’ll be right back.”

  She took out a business card and approached the man. Even up close, she couldn’t tell his age, but could see that his nose was bumpy with burst blood vessels and his eyes were red.

  “Excuse me,” she said softly. He looked up without speaking. “I’m Branigan Powers with The Grambling Rambler.” When she got no reaction, she added, “Our local newspaper.”

  “Yeah, I know.” His voice was reedier than she’d expected.

  “I’m working on a story on homelessness in Grambling, and what that means at Christmas. I’m on my way to Jericho Road.” She nodded at his water bottle.

  “Yeah, I know Pastor Liam,” he said.

  “Are you staying there?”

  “Nah.”

  “Well, I’d love to include you in the article.” She handed him her card. “It’s got my phone number at the office. I could meet you here at Bea’s or Jericho Road or at my office, or anywhere you like.”

  He handed it back. “Don’t have a phone.”

  “Oh. Well, I could interview you right now.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes. She thought about her hot chocolate waiting for her and shivered in the chilly air. He ignored her and stuck his fork into his ravioli can.

  She tried one last time. “I’d ask things like how you became homeless, what it’s like in the winter, whether it’s worse at Christmas, what help is available, what you’d need to not be homeless. Things like that.”

  He looked at her directly now, irritated. “Lady, it’s bad enough being homeless without telling the whole world about it.” He went back to his food.

  “Oh, okay,” she said, feeling her face flush. “Sorry to have bothered you.”

  She went back to her turkey sandwich and hot chocolate, but for the first time at Bea’s had trouble finishing her meal.

  Half an hour later, she entered the familiar parking lot at Jericho Road. The flower beds were filled with winter pansies planted and tended by the homeless men who lived at the shelter. Inside, Dontegan sat at the receptionist’s desk. Branigan waved, and he called out, “Make sure you sees the Samarian paintin’!”

  She stopped and looked around. Dontegan, smiling broadly, waved her into the dining hall.

  “Oh my!” she called back to him. “This is extraordinary.” She stood in front of the three-paneled painting that took up almost an entire wall of the dining room. She felt Liam come up beside her.

  “I come in five times a day to make sure I didn’t imagine it,” he said.

  “Liam, it’s your crowning achievement,” she said, jabbing him with an elbow. “This is glorious.”

  “Well, I didn’t paint it, you know.”

  “It was Tiffany Lynn, right?”

  “Yep. What a talent.”

  “And living on the street.” Branigan shook her head. “Hard to believe.” She caught herself. “Oh, and how is Charlie? And did Chan get home?”

  “Charlie is sore. Sleeping a lot, which the doctors say is good. They think she can come home by Christmas. Chan made it home and spent last night at the hospital. He and Liz are taking turns.” He shrugged. “We’re doing pretty well, considering. We’re very lucky.”

  “So Charlie can’t come to Janie Rose’s funeral tomorrow?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll come. I’m not sure about Liz and Chan, but at least I’ll represent the family.”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  He nodded
and changed the subject. “Come on in. I believe you wanted to talk about homelessness in the winter?”

  “Yeah, being homeless at Christmas, what you professional types are doing, how the community can help, et cetera.”

  “Okay, but I have a favor to ask in return.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “You’ve done stories on The Anchor, right?”

  Branigan nodded at mention of the city’s domestic violence shelter.

  “I have a young girl who needs to be there. Her boyfriend is working day labor today, so I told her she could use our computer room to stay warm. I want to get her away from him, but she won’t listen to me.”

  “Liam, she’s not going to listen to me. I’m no counselor.”

  “Our social worker hasn’t had any better luck than me. I’m hoping that since you know so much about The Anchor’s operation, you can tell her more.”

  She looked doubtful. “I can try, but don’t get your hopes up.”

  “Let me put you two together before she bolts. Then I can talk as long as you need me to afterwards.”

  Liam led her to the shelter’s computer room, which was empty except for a young girl with long auburn hair. When she turned, Branigan was surprised to see the girl who’d been sleeping in the hearse. She was not surprised to see a huge bruise covering one cheek, with black and purple reaching up to one swollen eyelid.

  “Maylene?” she said.

  Liam looked from one woman to the other. “You know each other?”

  “Not really,” Branigan answered. “We met this morning.”

  Maylene gave her a weary smile. “So you’re going to have a run at me now?”

  “Well, I’m working on a story about being homeless at Christmas,” Branigan said truthfully. “I can use your help. I’m guessing this could be your first Christmas on the street?”

  Maylene was silent, and Liam left them, quietly closing the door.

  Branigan waited. When Maylene didn’t fill the silence, Branigan tried the chatty approach.

  “Last Christmas I did a story on The Anchor. I talked to a lot of women who had finally left their abusers. And they told me amazing stories of how many times they’d tried – for some it was their third, fourth, fifth try. Only one woman was in there for the first time.”

  Maylene was looking at her with mild interest, so Branigan continued.

  “They talked a lot about how holidays always seemed to bring on a crisis. Whether it was more drinking or more disappointment or more noise from the kids, it was hard to say. But they all had stories of previous Christmases when they’d had dinners thrown on the floor, or black eyes they’d had to hide from their families, or kids thrown against the wall on Christmas morning.”

  Maylene finally spoke. “And you think I’ve been there?” Her tone was mocking. “You think you know me?”

  “No, I don’t think I know you at all. In fact, you look way too young to have been through much of that yet – unless your family of origin was violent.”

  “It wasn’t,” Maylene snapped.

  Branigan shrugged. “There has to be some reason you’d put up with Ralph.”

  “And it couldn’t simply be that I love him?”

  “I suppose it could. But you’re attractive and articulate. I don’t understand why loving someone has to include homelessness. I’m guessing one or both of you are addicts?”

  “I wouldn’t say we’re addicts. We like to smoke a little crack.”

  “And I guess Liam has talked to you about rehab?”

  Maylene tossed her head in irritation. “I thought you wanted to know about being homeless at Christmas?”

  “I do,” Branigan said, pulling out a notebook. “What can you tell me?”

  “It sucks.” Maylene pulled out cigarettes and a lighter.

  Branigan knew that smoking wasn’t allowed in Jericho Road, but she didn’t want to stop Maylene from talking. She watched the young woman light up.

  “It sucks because you know your family are talking about you and how badly you’ve screwed up, and you want to go home, but if you do…” She trailed off.

  “If you do, what?”

  Maylene blew a blast of smoke. “Nothing,” she said flatly.

  “Look, I’m no counselor,” said Branigan. “And you’re right – I have no idea what you’ve been through. All I’m saying is that letting someone beat you up isn’t going to help anything. It’s going to make things worse. And there are people to help you. That’s all.”

  “I’m not stupid.”

  “I’m sure you’re not.”

  “I went to college.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Branigan said, though it did. “But smart people make bad decisions all the time. You’ve got too much going for you to keep making this particular bad decision.”

  Maylene was silent, stubbornly so. Branigan could see her face had closed to further conversation. She laid a hand on the girl’s jeans-clad knee. “If you change your mind, Liam is here. The Anchor is open 24/7. And here’s my number.” She handed her a business card, and walked toward the door.

  Maylene stopped her before she reached it. “There is one thing I’d like to ask you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “This morning, when you came with the police to get that car we were sleeping in, the detective said it had been used in a crime. What happened?”

  “Two college girls from UGA were run off the road. One was killed.”

  The unbruised side of Maylene’s face paled. “Who were they?”

  “Two girls from Grambling. Janie Rose Carlton was killed. Charlie Delaney was driving, and she got banged up pretty bad.”

  Maylene swallowed hard. Branigan thought her face paled further, if that were possible.

  Finally the girl spoke. “Pastor Liam’s daughter? I heard she was in a wreck, but nothing about that hearse.”

  “Do you know Charlie?”

  Maylene shook her head. “I’m not from here.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Gainesville.”

  “You haven’t come far then.” Gainesville was only forty-five minutes from Grambling.

  “We have a farm outside town,” Maylene said. “My parents raise cattle.”

  “That’s what my grandparents did.” Branigan watched the girl for a moment. A little color had come back into her face, and she thought she saw a trace of wistfulness there. “You know, The Anchor’s not your only option. I bet Liam would buy you a bus ticket if you wanted to go home.”

  This time Maylene didn’t argue. She just hung her head. “Yeah, maybe.”

  Branigan left the room in search of Liam.

  She flopped into the green-upholstered rocking chair in Liam’s office. “I think I failed,” she said.

  “Could you figure out why she’s so resistant to leaving him?”

  Branigan hesitated. “You know, I’m not so sure it’s Ralph in particular. She doesn’t sound like she’s madly in love with him. It sounded more like she’s painted herself into a corner with her family, or something like that. But I’m guessing. She said almost nothing.”

  “Well, we tried.”

  “At the very end, she did seem to open the door to going home. There’s an outside chance she could ask you for a bus ticket to Gainesville.”

  Liam’s face lit up. “You think? That’d be even better than The Anchor. Good work, Brani G.”

  “Don’t get too excited. I said ‘an outside chance’.”

  “Better than I’ve done. Now how can I help you?”

  For the next hour, Branigan questioned Liam about homelessness during the holidays, about the churches and individuals who called Jericho Road wanting to serve a meal, give away turkeys, adopt a family. He told how he tried to channel the outburst of giving into more helpful avenue
s – storing up blankets and sweatshirts to last through early spring, designating money to hire another mental health counselor, mentoring a family throughout the year rather than piling on gifts at Christmas.

  He told about the Christmas Eve service his gospel choir was putting on. It would showcase the talent of homeless singers while raising an offering for the church’s ministries.

  “And, thank goodness, Christmas Day is on a Friday this year,” he added. “So I’m off. With Charlie’s situation, that will help.”

  “And the staff can run the shelter?”

  “Oh, sure. We’ll have two churches in to prepare lunch and dinner that day. Our guys will cook their own breakfast. And we’ll have volunteers in to sing carols. We try to keep it simple.”

  Branigan shut her notebook, stood and stretched. “Okay. I thank you, my friend. Tell Chan I’m looking forward to seeing him. How did his finals go?”

  “All right, I think. He didn’t know anything about Charlie then, so he should’ve been able to concentrate.”

  “I’ll try to get by the hospital again before you take Charlie home.”

  “Thanks. I know she’ll be glad to see you. I guess I’ll see you at the funeral tomorrow.”

  “You’re not taking part, are you?”

  “Heck, no. I imagine I’m the last minister in Georgia the Carltons would ask.”

  “Yeah, I suppose so.” She smiled sadly and slipped an arm around his waist for a quick hug. “I’m so glad Charlie’s okay,” she whispered.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Branigan spent the rest of the afternoon at her desk, checking in with the Salvation Army and the Grambling Rescue Mission about their Christmas plans. She assigned a photographer to get pictures of the encampment under the Michael Garner Memorial Bridge and at the evening’s pizza dinner at Jericho Road, cautioning him to ask before photographing anyone’s face. Liam had impressed upon her the need to respect the privacy of those who might not want to be labeled homeless.

  She then returned to Jericho Road. She went from table to table, interviewing some of the people she remembered from last summer and meeting new ones. She looked around for Malachi Martin, but didn’t see him. Nevertheless, within an hour, she had plenty of material for her Christmas Eve story.