know.” She glanced up at Mark. “Tell your Mamaw goodbye for me, sugar pie.” She turned to Lorna. “You be glad that man’s dead, miss. He was nothing but trash through and through.” Lorna didn’t answer. I didn’t look up as the front door closed behind her. I was still staring at the thousand dollars at my feet. Lorna had more presence of mind than I did; she picked it up using a towel and dropped it in a paper bag.
“Junebug’ll probably want it,” she said. I nodded, hating Greg, hating myself, and wondering if I should let Lorna keep a hold on that money.
I took the bag from her and said, “I’ll keep it for him.” She nodded and went back into the kitchen. Mark had vanished upstairs. I went to go lie down on my bed. I closed my eyes. Try not to think about Clo.
The sharp sting of betrayal still hurt. Was I being unfair? Could I forgive her? I rubbed my eyes through closed lids. If Candace was right, Lorna was betraying me in a way possibly worse than Clo-yet I’d given Clo, who had confessed, a tongue-lashing, and I’d given Lorna, who hadn’t, a peanut-butter cookie. I wasn’t being entirely fair by being understanding toward one and damning toward the other. I rolled over and called the police station. According to Junebug, the Boston police had found an address for a Doreen Miller, but she apparently was no longer in residence. They were still looking for her. He had not offered an opinion about the passworded and destroyed Intraglobal computer files. I could only imagine what he would make of Clo’s tale.
I tried to be analytical. Greg wanted me to look like the bomber. Why?
What was his connection to the bomber? I drew two quick blanks, discarding the notion that he considered me a serious rival for Lorna’s affections. Unless he’d been madly in love with her and we hadn’t known it. Had he planned on blackmailing me into selling my land? That wouldn’t have worked, him using some manufactured secret against me. It made no sense. My black eye hurt and I resisted the urge to rub it. Greg asking Clo to plant phony evidence against me had nearly eclipsed my misadventures with Parker, Dee, and Jenny (I’d never seen a whole family of suspects before, but then I’m not a cop) and Candace’s accusation against Lorna. Not to mention that Tiny Parmalee, with all things considered, was the only person vicious enough to do these crimes anyway and could not be eliminated from the running; and neither could his probable puppet master, Nina Hernandez.
And how did poor Freddy Jacksill, getting blown to smithereens in Greg’s room, tie in? He must’ve known something about Greg and gotten killed for it. Something Greg did here in town and no one wanted known-was there a reason not only that Freddy got killed, but that he was murdered in Greg’s room? My headache was not ebbing with all this arduous speculation. I kept thinking about Lorna and those files. A rap at the door interrupted my completely chaotic train of theories.
“Uncle Jordy?” Mark stuck his head in. “Lorna wants to know if you want some dinner.” “Yeah, I guess. I’ll come down in a minute and fix something.” “You better. She’s talking about cooking something called bread dressing, but it doesn’t have cornbread in it Sounds real gross.” “It is, trust me. It’s not like dressing you’re used to. I’ll be down in a minute.” A stray notion, hovering on the edge of my speculations, crowded to the front of my brain for attention. The odd phone number in Greg’s room that I’d traced to the Johnson family.
“Hey, Mark, do you know two kids at the high school named Brice and Becca Johnson? A little older than you?” Mark nodded. “Brice is a geek. He’s going off to major in chemistry at A amp; M this fall.”
Chemistry. Interesting major. You could blow up a lab if you’re not careful. I shook my head, chastising myself for chasing at shadows.
“What about Becca Johnson?” Mark shrugged. “She’s real pretty, usually nice. She can be a little stuck-up.” I bit my lip. “You ever see either of them with Jenny Loudermilk?” It might make sense; she was the only other teenager in the stew. “Oh, yeah. She and Jenny Loudermilk are best friends. They’re always hanging out together.” I rolled over and reached for the phone. I drummed my fingers against my cheek and then decided. I dialed the Johnsons’ number. It barely rang before it was answered. A young man’s voice, slightly nasal: “Becca?
Is she okay?” I was taken aback. “Um, no, this isn’t Becca. I take it she’s not there.” “No, she’s not.” The boy hesitated. “Who’s calling?”
“Um, Brice?” “Yeah?” “This is Jordy Poteet. I was calling for Becca because I’m a friend of Jenny Loudermilk’s and-” “They’re all at the hospital. I’m manning the phone here in case folks call.” “The hospital?” “Yeah. Hey, sorry to be the one to tell you. Jenny took an overdose-they think it’s Valium and booze. She’s in the hospital.”
“Oh, my God! Is she okay?” I gripped the phone harder. Mark stared at me, his dark eyes wide. “I don’t know. I don’t know if she’s going to make it or not. Becca’s down there now.” “Thanks, Brice. Thanks very much.” I hung up without further ado. In the middle of this sweltering evening, I felt cold down to my bones.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The crowd to watch over Jenny Loudermilk’s life had gathered in front of the malfunctioning television in Mirabeau Hospital’s second-floor waiting room. Mostly teenagers, with a scattering of parents, sat watching the distorted colors on the screen. You could see the shameful thought in the adults’ faces: Thank God it’s not my child. The kids themselves looked numbed, as though shocked at the thought of their own mortality. Parker and Dee were not there. I wavered in the doorway that led into the waiting room, hesitant to intrude on their grief. I felt terrible. That girl-her drinking, her attitude, it was all a cry for attention, a cry for help. I could have tried harder to talk to her. Instead, I taunted her, watched her mother slap her, and left. I didn’t know a soul in the room; believe it or not, I don’t know every person in Mirabeau.
Gingerly, I approached one of the parents, a portly woman who kept wringing her hands, as if wanting to rub the flesh off her fingers.
She watched me walk toward her; no doubt I looked a sight with my slinged arm and my black eye. “Excuse me, is there any news on Jenny?”
I asked softly. The woman shook her head, the corners of her lips tugging downward. “I’m afraid not. Dee is in with the doctor now.
We’re just hoping that Dee found her in time.” “Could you tell me which of the girls is Becca Johnson?” She nodded and pointed at a girl sitting on the dingy plaid sofa, a People magazine open and unread in her lap. The girl rested her chin on her hand, staring off into space, ignoring the other kids around her. She was strikingly pretty, with a thick mane of black hair and wideset green eyes that penetrated like light shining through an emerald. Her skin was flawless, the kind that most teenagers only dream of, and her lips were full without being comic. She was already beautiful and had the promise of even greater, deeper loveliness as she aged. I could almost wish to be sixteen again, looking at her. I thanked the woman and knelt by Becca. She nearly jerked, startled out of her reverie by me, who looked more like a patient than a visitor. On closer inspection, I saw she looked exhausted. “Becca? My name is Jordan Poteet. I wondered if I could talk to you privately for a minute. It’s about Jenny.” “You’re not a doctor, are you?” she asked. “No, I’m not. But I need to speak with you about Jenny. Please, it’s important.” She watched me with those spectacular eyes. I guess I wasn’t found wanting; she tossed the magazine to one side and got up, telling one of the other girls that she’d be back in a few minutes. We went silently to the cafeteria, where I offered her a cup of coffee. She opted for a Diet Pepsi instead and we sat down at a glaringly orange plastic table. I don’t know why hospitals, filled with the injured and the worried, buy furniture in colors designed to shock and nauseate. Becca sat across from me. Folding her hands rather primly, she left her soda untasted and watched me. There wasn’t just beauty there; a keen intelligence gleamed from her. There would be no kidding around with this girl. “I understand that you’re Jenny’s best friend,” I said. “Yeah. We’ve been close since the second grade.” “Good. Then I’m sure you’re very concerned about her.” “Yeah. So what did you want to talk about, Mr.
Poteet?” I plunged ahead, telling her in detail my adventures at the Loudermilks. At no point did she interrupt or ask for clarification; but I could see that she was shocked. When I finished, she tapped a fingernail against the garish tabletop before answering. “Wow, Mr.
Loudermilk gave you the shiner? He’s-he’s got a temper.” “I believe Parker’s got a violent temper.” “And you think Jenny was hiding something about him?” Becca watched her polished fingernails instead of my face. “I don’t think. I know. And I think you know, too.” Green ice looked into my face. “What do you mean?” “I was there right after Greg Callahan’s body was found at the Mirabeau B. Your phone number was written on the notepad by his phone. I’ve also heard tell that Greg might have been romancing both Jenny and her mother. That could have given Parker or Dee a potent motive to kill Greg.” I wasn’t about to suggest to Jenny’s best pal that Jenny might be a murderer as well.
“Now Jenny’s turned to drinking and taking Valium. There are some connections here, Becca, and I want to
