Wave Good-Bye (11 page)

“I thought your supervisor made it clear that this is my investigation. What part of his instructions didn’t you understand?”

“Uh, no, sir. I mean, yes, sir. I understood, sir. I mean, Officer Qualls and I canvassed the neighborhood like you said and learned that Ms. Terhune here had been seen in several places nearby so naturally—” Hank’s face turned bright red.

“Naturally you should have talked to me or written it in your report and made me aware of that finding. That’s procedure, right?” Marsh eased down into a chair and leaned back against the doorjamb, with his hands in his pockets. Even though his posture was relaxed, he still managed to look ticked. Hank shuffled his feet. Qualls shivered.

“Yes, sir, but this case—” Hank sputtered.

Dooley cleared his throat.

“Special Agent in Charge John Dillon,” he said as he extended a hand toward Dooley.

Dooley took it, returned the shake, and introduced himself, adding, “Ms. Terhune’s legal representation.”

“Ms. Terhune? Nice to see you again. Not particularly
surprising, either,” said Dillon. He didn’t offer me his hand. I was glad. I didn’t want to turn into a puddle on the floor.

“Parker? Qualls? Don’t you two have more canvassing to do? Interviews? Statements to take? What are you waiting for?”

They scampered like a couple of gray squirrels when the neighborhood cat is loose.

“Ms. Terhune, may I talk to you? In private?” Marsh asked. As his eyes locked on mine, my heart sped up.

I looked at Dooley and shrugged. He looked at me, back at Marsh, and back at me again. “You okay with that?” he said. “You two look like you, um, know each other.”

“I’m fine with that.” I reached up, put my arms around Dooley’s neck, and gave him a big hug. With my arms still around him, I looked up into his eyes, and said, “Thanks so much for coming. The haircuts are on me for the rest of your life.”

Marsh’s eyes turned steely hard, and a muscle twitched in his jaw.

Dooley let go of me, stepped away, and laughed. “Anytime, Grace Ann. That was fun.” As he picked up his briefcase, he ran slender fingers down his purple silk tie to straighten it. “I remember what a jerk Hank was to me in school. Kind of nice to get his goat. Call me if you need me. I hope you won’t, but if you do…”

Dooley’s exit left me alone in the room with Marsh Dillon, who promptly pulled out the chair next to his and gestured for me to sit down. Unlike Hank, whose belly bumped the table’s edge, Marsh was trim, lean, and…

I grabbed my imagination by the ponytail and yanked her back into some semblance of restraint.

“Nice to see you again, Grace Ann.” His tone was husky as he smiled at me. I gave him a nod of hello.

A five-o’clock shadow rimmed his jaw, his eyes were
ringed in tired circles, and his normally crisp shirt draped limply on his body. But he still looked good. Really good. And smelled even better. There was a whiff of musk and a green, clean fragrance in his cologne.

But suddenly, there wasn’t enough air for me to breathe, and it had nothing to do with the fragrance Marsh was wearing. For one sick moment, I thought I would hyperventilate. Or suffocate. My body couldn’t decide which. I also couldn’t decide where to look. I knew I didn’t want to stare into those cold blue eyes, so I made a big production out of tracing a pair of initials someone had carved into the wooden tabletop years ago.

“You always so affectionate with your attorney?” Marsh sounded gruff.

“Yes.”

“Natty dresser.”

“I think so.”

“Doesn’t exactly look like he belongs. Here, I mean.”

“No.”

“Can I get you a Coke? Or a Coke Zero?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Want to tell me about Lisa Butterworth?”

There wasn’t much to say. Dooley would have told me to hold my tongue. However, I trusted Marsh. I’m not a big gut-instinct person, but I knew I could tell him what happened and that he wouldn’t ever turn it against me. Even as I traced the initials with my thumb, I felt sure he’d be on my side.

“She tricked me.” My throat seized up with emotion and to my horror that last word came out as a gasp.

Marsh’s right hand reached across the span of wood. His index finger tapped mine. “Grace Ann? You all right?”

No, I wasn’t all right.

My bottom lip trembled. I studied the carved names in
the tabletop. “Just for the record, Special Agent Dillon, I am not stupid. I mean, you’re the law and I’m in here without an attorney, so…so that’s all I’m saying.” Keeping my gaze on the wood, I raised my hand to pantomime zipping my mouth shut. Then I swallowed hard. Really hard.

With a sigh, he pushed back his chair, walked over to the blinds covering the two-way window, and stood there, letting his presence fill the space between us.
Scritch-scritch-scritch
came the sound of him cranking the blinds shut. His shoe leather slapped the tile floor as he walked around to his side of the table. Once there, he reached under the table and fiddled with something, something that finally went
click
.

“It’s just you and me,” he said, softly. “We’re off the record. What’s going on here?”

“I really don’t have anything to say.” I repeated this to myself, as a sort of mantra. In the beauty shop business, you hear all sorts of secrets. Part of being a professional is learning to keep your mouth shut. I could do that.

He rubbed his jaw. “Right. I can’t blame you. But I need a few answers.”

I chewed my bottom lip.

He sighed. “Lisa Butterworth tricked you. She took all the information you’d collected over the years on your clients and—”

“Who told you that?” I nearly jumped out of my seat.

“Your mother.”

Chapter Seventeen

“I STOPPED BY HOPING TO TALK WITH YOU. SOMEONE reported seeing you and Ms. Butterworth having a disagreement at the Walk-Inn Foods shop. A loud disagreement. Now she’s dead. I need to know what happened so I can clear you from my list of suspects.”

“My mother blabbed to you? Why would she do that?” I blinked in surprise.

“Probably because Officers Parker and Qualls had just loaded you into their car and taken you away. Your mother loves you and she was worried, so when I walked in, she told me what happened.” The way he spoke, it sounded so reasonable, and indeed, it made sense, but still…Mom usually kept her mouth shut. Why now, of all times, had she decided to blab to Agent Dillon?

He must have read my mind because he said, “She trusts me. I hope you do, too. I bet your mother doesn’t make many mistakes when it comes to judging character.”

Years of working with people one-on-one, listening to them tell their stories, has given my mother excellent people skills. But even so…it was surprising that she’d shared Lisa’s trickery with this GBI agent, because Mom has always been tight-lipped. When Alice Rose and I were younger, she used to wag a finger at us and say, “Girls, it takes a whole lot less effort to keep quiet than it does to mop up a wet spill in Aisle Six, and if you don’t believe me, I’ve got a floor you can practice on.”

“I want to clear you from the list we’re developing. The one detailing people of interest. In fact, I not only want to clear you, I will clear you, with or without your help. Obviously, your help would mean less wear and tear on both of us. I could wrap this case up faster.”

“And get the heck out of Dodge.” I aimed for funny, but my joke landed flat. Every time I saw him, I wanted more time with him, I felt drawn to him, and the intensity left me incredibly vulnerable.

He chuckled and moved his chair so close to mine that our knees bumped. “Not exactly, but I would be able to move on. Let me clear your name.” His voice was husky.

He wasn’t pleading, but his tone had turned softly persuasive. Sitting shoulder to shoulder beside me, his posture fostered an odd sense of intimacy—odd because the pastel green concrete block walls and the gray brown linoleum floors magnified every human sound, of which there was a gracious plenty. You could hear everything from murmuring voices, to the clicking of heels, to the hum of office machines. The hubbub outside this little room emphasized that while the rest of the world went on about its business, Marsh and I were here together in a gathering pool of
silence. He reached over and took my hand, cradling it in his.

“Grace Ann? It’ll be all right. Trust me. I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. We both know you didn’t kill Lisa Butterworth. All I need to do is find the person who did.”

It took all my courage to look into his eyes.

“When you talked to Mom…did she tell you I ruined her business? That she’s leaving town because of me?”

To my surprise, he gave my hand a gentle squeeze before letting it go. “I don’t believe that for a second. I don’t think you do, either. Not in your heart of hearts. She did tell me about Ms. Butterworth stealing your client list. How she tricked you. But I’d like to hear your version of what happened. After all, if Ms. Butterworth did that to you, she could have done the same thing to Chez Pierre.”

I nodded. In fits and starts, I explained how Lisa had presented herself as a bona fide expert in social marketing, which she probably was, and as a good choice for helping us, which she wasn’t.

Marsh nodded. “Makes sense that anyone would jump at the chance for that type of help. You probably should have asked her to sign a confidentiality statement, but since you two went to high school together, you had no reason not to trust her.”

“How’d you know we went to high school together?”

He shrugged. “Part of my job. I’ve been checking out who was connected to Ms. Butterworth and how. Besides, I was the one who had to inform her parents that their daughter died.”

“Oh,” I said. “How…how awful.”

“Definitely the worst part of my job. After a couple of
hours, they gave me permission to look through Ms. Butterworth’s things so I could get a better sense of the woman. You know that she still lived with them? Moved back here from Atlanta recently. Saving money to buy a house. Had her eye on an old Victorian. Wanted to fix it up. She loved antiques.”

A lump formed in my throat. So Lisa had been trudging down the same track I was. Even though I’d been looking for a place to buy, I hadn’t found anything that both matched my wish list and my budget. Unlike her, I did have my own place, a small apartment that I rented.

“Lisa Butterworth hung on to all her high school yearbooks. I flipped through them and noticed your photo. You haven’t changed much over the years, but she had.”

I shrugged. “Took her a while to figure out how to make the most of her features. Style her hair in a way that was flattering. Clear up her skin. Probably had braces, too. I guess you’d call her a late bloomer.”

“How was high school for her? Is it possible someone here still holds a grudge? Is that what might have happened?”

“I seriously don’t remember much about her. See, she and my sister, Alice Rose, were in the same grade. I was two years ahead.”

“All right. Let’s move on. What can you tell me about Wynn Goodman?”

Chapter Eighteen

I ADMITTED TO MARSH THAT WYNN AND I HAD ONCE been a couple. I explained how Wynn trained all the newbie stylists, and that he’d taken a particular interest in me. Of course, I fell for the man. Who wouldn’t have? Wynn was ten years my senior, bronzed, chiseled, and blue-eyed. The iconic California golden boy turned hair guru. Think Laird Hamilton with a pair of scissors instead of a surf board. Before Wynn turned thirty, he’d been touted as one of Hollywood’s best and brightest. His movie-star good looks added to his skill with scissors gained him a constant stream of invitations to the hottest, hippest parties.

As a traveling stylist for Vidal Sassoon, he was a twenty-first-century global nomad, collecting passport stamps from exotic locations. After the head instructor at Sassoon’s
Atlanta studio died of a heart attack at age thirty-five, corporate dispatched Wynn to fill the void, at least until a permanent replacement could be found.

That’s where we met. Because I’d been in the hair business my entire life, my skills outpaced the other stylists’. It wasn’t that they weren’t good; they were. But I grew up in a salon. They hadn’t. I couldn’t remember a time when I wasn’t a part of the beauty industry.