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  The congregation stood as four of Ranson’s somber-suited employees rolled the casket to the front of the church, followed by Harry and Ina Rose Carlton and a dozen wet-eyed people Branigan took to be extended family members. Ina Rose was rubber-legged and leaned heavily on her husband, looking as though she might pass out at any moment. Harry Carlton walked stiffly, awkwardly, his body rigid with a barely contained anger.

  While she was standing, Branigan looked around for police detectives, and spotted two in plain clothes. She couldn’t find Chester, and didn’t know if he was simply out of her sight line or tied up with Maylene’s murder.

  The congregation were invited to sing “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” and then to recite the Lord’s Prayer. When they were seated, the church’s youth minister rose to speak. She talked with warmth and first-hand knowledge about Janie Rose.

  After another hymn and a Scripture reading, the senior pastor stood. Clearly, he knew the family, including Janie Rose, which always made a huge difference in funeral services, Branigan thought. This pastor too generated warmth and sincerity, and acknowledged that it was all right to experience doubt and confusion and even anger over the death of someone as young as Janie Rose. Branigan thought of Harry Carlton and wondered if the minister had been on the receiving end of his heated tirades.

  Near the end of his talk, the pastor extended an open invitation to friends and family members who’d like to speak. A woman who introduced herself as Janie Rose’s aunt did so, as did two members of the church youth group.

  Branigan saw movement among the Gamma Delta Phi members, heads turning, shaking. Finally, a young woman rose, and Branigan recognized the sorority president, Marianne Thurman.

  Marianne made her way to the podium, more poised than the youthful church members had been. She looked out over the congregation, and gripped the podium tightly.

  “Good morning. I am Marianne Thurman, a sorority sister of Janie Rose when she attended Rutherford Lee. I just wanted to say…” She swallowed and looked at her feet. She waited a moment, appeared to regain her composure, and started again. “I just wanted to say what a great girl Janie Rose was. Kind and thoughtful and sweet.” Branigan heard sniffling and looked at the Gamma Delta Phi rows. The sisters were passing Kleenex and crying openly.

  Marianne told a funny story about rush, when Janie Rose was in great demand by three competing sororities. “We’re not allowed to ‘guarantee bids’,” she continued. Her smile was self-deprecating, as if to say she recognized how silly rush and bids sounded out in the real world of death and funerals. “But Janie had three guarantees. Wink. Wink.” The congregation laughed politely. “She was the kind of girl everyone wanted to be around. Our loss was UGA’s gain.”

  Chan stirred next to Branigan. She turned to find him rolling his eyes. The minister helped Marianne off the podium, and she walked back to her pew. Another brunette stood, as if to make room for Marianne to pass. But then she took a step toward the front of the church. Branigan saw Marianne’s arm snake out and grab the other girl’s arm. The girl staggered, then slid back into the pew row and landed heavily. Marianne placed an arm around her shoulders, and even from a distance Branigan could see the girl’s shoulders quaking. She wished she could see her face, but all those Gamma Delts looked alike from this angle.

  The service concluded with a final hymn. The crowd stood as the coffin was wheeled out and the family passed by. Ina Rose kept her eyes on the carpeted aisle, but Harry Carlton’s eyes darted over the funeral-goers. They landed on Liam and Branigan, and remained for a moment, hard, furious. Then his wife stumbled. He caught her and moved on.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Branigan decided not to accompany the funeral procession to the cemetery. It would be a much smaller affair, and she didn’t want to set Harry Carlton off.

  Alone in the church parking lot, she reached for the newspaper she’d grabbed from her driveway that morning. Removing its protective plastic bag, she was surprised to see a picture of Maylene at the bottom of the front page alongside her abbreviated story. Bert must have made a prodigious effort to find the photo before deadline. She looked at the credit line: Courtesy of The Times, Gainesville, GA. Okay, he’d followed up on her information that Maylene was from Gainesville. Given the prominence of the Ayers family, Branigan knew it’d be an even bigger story there – especially when reporters figured out the girl had been living on the street in Grambling. They’d probably be swarming in today.

  She looked out of the Civic’s window onto North Main, half expecting to see unfamiliar reporters prowling, notebooks in hand. All she saw was Christmas shoppers. She needed to do some Christmas shopping herself and get groceries and wine for tonight’s dinner with Liam, Liz and Chan. She wanted to get in a run with Cleo. But first she’d swing by the hospital to see Charlie.

  When she arrived at St Joe’s, she met Liz coming out of Charlie’s room. They hugged. “I’m going for coffee,” Liz said. “Can I bring you some?”

  “Sure. Take your time if you need a break. I’ll stay until you get back.”

  Liz hesitated. “I do need to run to the grocery store. You’re coming for dinner, right?”

  “Yeah, but I told Chan I’ll bring the salad, bread and wine.”

  “That’d be great. I’ll make pasta and we’ll call it dinner. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  “Take your time,” Branigan said again. “Don’t worry about us.”

  Branigan entered the hospital room to find all the lights on and Charlie sitting up in bed, her leg in a cast, but out of traction. She was working on a yogurt topped with granola, her red-gold hair pinned on top of her head – by her mother, no doubt. The swelling was beginning to recede from her face. She attempted a smile, and her missing teeth reminded Branigan of the snaggle-toothed grin she’d had as a first-grader. “It’s hard to eat with one hand,” Charlie said, by way of greeting. “The carton keeps sliding.”

  Branigan tossed the newspaper on the bed. “Your left hand at that. I can hold it steady for you.”

  But Charlie’s attention had shifted to the newspaper. “Ah, civilization,” she said. With her good hand she lifted the paper. When her eyes fell on Maylene’s picture, they widened. “What happened to Maylene?” She scanned the brief story and looked at Branigan in disbelief. “Maylene is dead?”

  Branigan hardly knew what to say. “How could you know her?”

  Charlie’s face was flushed, and she looked near tears. “She came up here yesterday.”

  “To your hospital room? When?”

  “Late afternoon? My mind is foggy on time. She said you told her about my accident, and she wanted to meet me.” Charlie reread the story, shaking her head, her bruised face crumpling. “I can’t believe this, Aunt Branigan.”

  Branigan sat down on the recliner beside Charlie’s bed, trying to remember her conversation with Maylene. Charlie interrupted her thoughts, her voice choked. “She was beaten to death? Is that right?”

  “Yes,” Branigan said softly. “Honey, the reason your dad had me talk to her was to try to help her, to get her away from that boyfriend, Ralph. But she wouldn’t listen.”

  “And he killed her?”

  “That’s what it looks like.” Branigan waited a moment. Charlie’s tears remained unshed, though her face kept its shocked expression. “Charlie? Can you tell me what Maylene said?”

  Charlie nodded. “She told me she knew Dad. And you. And how she was sorry for my accident. Then she asked me questions about the wreck.”

  “What sort of questions?”

  “Mainly if I’d been able to see who was driving the hearse.”

  Branigan sat back. “How odd.”

  “She said she’d lived in that hearse for a day or two, and the windows were tinted real dark. But she could see the woods and trees through the windows. She wanted to know if I could see in the windows – from my car.�
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  “What’d you tell her?”

  “Same thing I told those patrolmen – that I couldn’t see anyone inside.”

  “Why did she want to know?”

  “I don’t know.” Charlie paused. “But she asked if Janie Rose knew who was driving.”

  Branigan was more confused than ever. “Did she know Janie Rose?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think she ever said, exactly.”

  “Try to remember her exact words,” Branigan said.

  Charlie closed her swollen eyes. “She said, ‘Think, Charlie. When you were driving, did Janie Rose call out a name?’” Charlie’s eyes flew open. “Aunt Brani, could Maylene’s boyfriend have been driving the hearse, then brought it to the woods for them to live in?”

  Branigan thought for a moment, then spoke slowly. “I suppose so.”

  “So maybe she was trying to find out if I could identify him?”

  Branigan stiffened, her mind reeling at the possibilities Charlie’s question opened. Before she could answer, a nurse in St Joe’s green scrubs walked in wheeling a cart to check blood pressure. She placed the cuff on Charlie’s arm, a thermometer under her tongue. “How’s Miss Charlotte today?” she said with practiced cheer. Her eyes fell on the open newspaper in Charlie’s lap, and her cheeriness dropped abruptly. “Oh, no. Isn’t that your visitor from yesterday?”

  Charlie nodded, the tears finally beginning to spill.

  The nurse took the paper and read it quickly.

  Branigan spoke up. “Do you remember what time she was here?”

  “Which time?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The nurse checked her computer screen, then turned to Branigan. “Well, I saw her the first time when the aide brought Charlie’s supper around 5 o’clock. But then I saw her leaving again maybe two hours before my shift ended at midnight.”

  Charlie took the thermometer out of her mouth. “Maylene didn’t come back,” she said. “Or I was asleep if she did.”

  The nurse looked thoughtful. “Ask your mom. Wasn’t she here? I’m sure it was the same girl I saw out by the elevators.”

  Branigan was puzzled. Why was Maylene at the hospital thirty minutes before she died? And did she confront Ralph about driving the hearse that killed Janie Rose?

  Then Branigan had a thought that drove everything else from her mind. Or did Ralph send her to find out if Charlie could identify him?

  Chapter Eighteen

  Branigan made an excuse to leave Charlie’s hospital room and wait in the hallway for Liz. When Liz arrived, Branigan pulled her further down the hall, keeping the doorway in view.

  She relayed what the nurse had said about Maylene coming back around 10 o’clock the night before. Liz shook her head emphatically. “I met that poor girl around suppertime,” she said. “Her face looked nearly as bad as Charlie’s. But no one came in after Liam left at nine.”

  “That’s so strange,” mused Branigan. “The nurse is sure she saw her by the elevators and assumed she’d been back in Charlie’s room.”

  “No,” Liz repeated. She made a move to return to the room. Branigan laid a hand on her arm.

  “Wait a minute. I don’t want Charlie to hear this. But it sounded like Maylene might have suspected her boyfriend, Ralph Batson, of driving the hearse when it hit Charlie’s Jeep.”

  Liz’s eyes widened, then darted to her daughter’s doorway. “And then he killed her?”

  Branigan nodded.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Liz breathed. “You think Maylene came back to hurt Charlie?”

  “I don’t know. Hurt her or warn her. We may never know. What I wanted to tell you, though, is it never occurred to me that Charlie might be in danger. You guys have somebody with her at all times, right?”

  Liz nodded, her face tight. “But Chan and I have gone down to the cafeteria and left her when the nurses came in.”

  “You might not want to do that any more.”

  “But Ralph is in jail.”

  “Yeah. But Maylene could’ve had the right idea, just the wrong guy.”

  Liz turned abruptly and strode back into her daughter’s room.

  Branigan gave up on the idea of Christmas shopping, and headed home. On the way, she called Chester Scovoy and left a message on his voicemail about Maylene’s visit to Charlie. “I’m not sure, but it sounded like she suspected Ralph was driving the hearse when it hit the girls’ Jeep. You might question him on that while you’ve got him.” She cringed as she disconnected. He didn’t need her telling him how to do his job. She started to call back, then decided that would be worse.

  Jody would be working on Maylene’s murder today, and presumably probing into Ralph’s background as well. Meanwhile, she needed a run to clear her head.

  Cleo bounded out of the dormant cotton field when the Civic pulled into the driveway. Branigan patted her head. “Run?” she said. Cleo barked excitedly and ran to the side door. “You’ve been awfully patient. Let’s get you some exercise.”

  Branigan pulled off her skirt, sweater and tights, and exchanged them for mismatched sweatpants and T-shirt. She pulled a UGA sweatshirt over her head, planning to shed it halfway through the run. It was a little too cold to start without it. Grabbing a hair tie, she pulled her hair into a high ponytail and locked the side door, a habit she’d gotten into last summer.

  Cleo raced ahead on the well-worn path that traversed the cotton patch and emptied into the barnyard. Branigan walked between the barn and empty chicken houses, then rolled under a barbed wire fence and into the pastures her grandfather’s farm shared with Uncle Bobby’s. She held up the slack lowest wire for Cleo, and the shepherd obediently dropped to her stomach and shimmied under it. Branigan set out at a fast walk, crossing the broad expanse of pasture grass until she reached the fence and treeline that bounded the far side. Then she broke into a run.

  Usually she lost herself in this landscape, the blue-green lake and gray-brown woods, the vine-covered cabin where her grandfather’s poker buddies had once gathered. The land was now reclaiming the old shack. Another summer, and a green mound would be all that remained. But today, appreciation for northeast Georgia’s ceaselessly moving topography was crowded out by worry. Worry about bruised and cracked Charlie, lying defenseless in a hospital bed. It wouldn’t matter that Charlie hadn’t seen the hearse’s driver. It mattered only what the driver thought she saw.

  But Ralph was in jail. That should take care of it, right?

  She remembered Harry Carlton’s hard eyes as he left the funeral service. What if it weren’t Ralph after all, but the original thought she and Malachi had had: an angry associate of Janie Rose’s father? Then Charlie could still be in danger.

  Branigan stopped abruptly, and Cleo ran back to check on her. She took a moment to catch her breath and allow her sides to stop heaving, then pulled her cell phone out of the deep pocket of her sweatpants. She dialed Chester Scovoy’s number. This time he answered.

  “I’m sorry to keep bothering you,” she began. “Did you get my earlier message?”

  “Branigan?”

  “Oh, sorry, yes. It’s Branigan Powers.” She didn’t know what was sillier: giving her last name or expecting him to know her voice.

  “Yeah, we’ll be questioning Ralph again in a few minutes,” Detective Scovoy said. “I’ll ask about him taking the hearse to begin with.”

  “There’s something else,” Branigan said. “I’m not sure it’s going to make sense. It’s about Charlie Delaney.”

  “You want a guard on her?”

  “How’d you know? Ralph can’t get to her. But what if we’re wrong about Maylene and Ralph, and somebody else suspects she saw something?”

  “I sent a uni over as soon as I got your message,” he said.

  Branigan breathed a sigh of relief. “Gosh, that’s great. I didn’t kno
w if I was letting my imagination run wild.”

  He laughed. “I can’t speak to that. But I had the same thought.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Detective.”

  “You’re welcome, Miss Powers.”

  Cleo barked and Branigan raced to catch up.

  Branigan could sense the tension as soon as she walked into the Delaneys’ home in a gentrified neighborhood west of downtown. She unloaded her bread and salad in their fashionable red, black and white kitchen, and poured a glass of the cabernet sauvignon she’d brought. Then she and Chan tiptoed to the living room, leaving Liam and Liz to their argument.

  “It’s about that homeless guy who killed the girl,” Chan whispered. “He wants Dad to visit him in jail, and Mom says he might be the one who hit Charlie.”

  Branigan nodded. “Got it. We’ll talk about it over dinner. But for now, I want to hear all about Furman.”

  For the next fifteen minutes, Chan told her about his classes, his roommate from Savannah, his decision to play intramural soccer rather than try out as a walk-on for the varsity. “Man, Furman’s hard. I don’t see how those varsity guys practice that much and stay in school. Finals about did me in.”

  “When will you know your grades?” she asked.

  “They’ll be posted by early next week.”

  “But you do like it? It’s the right place for you?”

  “Oh, yeah. I really do like it. I’m already looking at study abroad semesters. Maybe Spain. Maybe Australia.”

  “Wow.”

  “The funny thing is, when people find out where I live, they ask why I’m not at Rutherford Lee. Apparently everybody who looks at Furman also looks at Rutherford.”

  “And you tell them, ‘Duh, because it’s in Grambling.’”

  He laughed. “Exactly.”