“A fool’s venture.”
Having dazzled at warm-up, I yielded the floor to Ramsey as planned. While my ears took in the conversation, my eyes roved the room.
Bronze sconces jutted from walls papered with green and beige stripes and trimmed with dark-stained baseboards and crown molding. A chandelier hung from the ceiling above us, encircled by an ornate bronze medallion.
Beyond the parlor, through double wooden doors, I could see a wallpapered hallway shooting left. Roses, not stripes. Across the hall was what appeared to be a very large kitchen. Nothing else was visible from where I sat.
Over Hoke’s shoulder, the corner hutch was a shrine to all things Catholic. A large crucifix stood at center stage, thorns, stakes, and corpus carved and painted in vivid, though inaccurate, detail.
A cast of supporting players was also present, some in sculpture, others framed and under glass. Our Lady of Something, palms spread, heart pumping red. Francis of Assisi, feet hidden by bunnies and lambs. Thérèse of Lisieux, head veiled, arms laden with roses. The rest, though vaguely familiar, I couldn’t ID.
Jesus stared down from a patch of stripes between the hutch and the fireplace, eyes saying he had no qualms about reading my mind. And that he smelled trouble.
The various tables and shelves held not a single personal photo. No baby in a silly hat. No kid in cap and gown. No dog asleep in a patch of sun.
I refocused on the interview. Ramsey was ignoring Hoke, directing his comments solely to Grandma. The priest was maintaining a poker face. But I could tell his mind was working and he was listening carefully.
The old woman’s hair, a dull yellow-white, was pulled back and secured in a complex arrangement of braids. The hem of her dress skimmed the tops of black oxfords planted firmly and close together.
“It’s a pity we haven’t met prior to this, ma’am.” Ramsey was still laying thick the country boy charm.
“I don’t go out much.”
“That’s Avery County’s loss.”
Hoke raised a brow and feigned amusement. “Martha is eighty-two, Deputy. Still, she never misses a Wednesday or Sunday.”
“Does your granddaughter drive you? Susan Grace I believe is her name?” Affable, but letting both know he’d done his homework.
“She does.”
“She still lives with you, then?”
“Is this about my grandson? If so you’re wasting your time. I can tell you right up. Mason’s gone and there’s no two ways about it. Stole my money and run off with a woman.”
“Cora Teague.”
“Yes, sir.”
Though her answers were firm, it was clear the old woman was terrified. All clenched fingers and jittery eyes.
“Where did Mason attend school?” Ramsey used an old interview trick. Switch topics to keep your subject off-balance.
“I homeschooled the boy.”
“Why?”
“Mason’s different.”
“Different how?”
“Different enough so’s I couldn’t send him to public school.”
“Meaning?”
“Unnatural.”
“Do you know where Mason and Cora have gone?” Another sharp-angle turn.
“I do not. Nor do I wish to.”
“He’s your grandson.”
“He’s evil made flesh.” Spit with such bile it startled me.
“Ma’am?”
“Mason’s soul belongs to the devil.”
“What makes you say that?”
The man-glasses whipped to Hoke. The priest dipped his chin without turning his head. The dim lighting shadowed his face, making it impossible to read his eyes.
“Mason’s never looked right, never acted like a boy’s supposed to act.”
“What does that mean?” I couldn’t help blurting.
“He carries the mark of Satan.” A blue-veined hand made the sign of the cross, forehead, sternum, then shoulder to shoulder.
Because he’s gay, you ignorant old bat? I felt a rush of anger, twisted and jumbled with feelings from now and from long ago. Ramsey intervened before I could fire off another question.
“Do you have a picture of your grandson?”
“I do not.”
“Not one little old snapshot?” With a sweet-talking grin.
“Burned every one.”
“And why is that?”
“Father G said I should.”
Hoke leaned sideways and asked the old lady in a whispery voice, “Have I permission to share a confidence, my dear?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Thoughts of Mason are very disturbing for Martha. She was having nightmares, not sleeping. I thought the exercise might prove beneficial. A sort of purging.”
Ramsey’s eyes stayed on Grandma, but he said nothing. Another interview trick. Allow silence, hoping the interviewee will feel compelled to fill it.
We’ll never know if the ploy would have worked. Before Grandma had time to succumb, wood juddered softly. We all turned.
A girl stood by one of the hall doors. She was tall, with a linebacker’s build, but a softness to her body that suggested future weight issues. Thick black bangs covered the upper halves of her eyes. I guessed her age at around sixteen.
“Susan Grace.” Hoke did his sunny priest bit. “How nice. Please join us.”
The girl held her shoulders hunched, her arms wrapping her ribs. A frozen moment, then, “Why are they here, Grandma?”
“Do you have homework?” Ignoring her granddaughter’s question.
“Are they asking about Mason?” Susan Grace’s voice was deep and low, almost masculine.
“Homework.”
“Will they find him?”
“Susan Grace. You know you mustn’t meddle in grown-up matters.”
“Does anyone even try?”
“Young lady!” Loud and sharp. “Do not allow yourself to be hostage to Satan.”
Susan Grace blinked, and her bangs did a round-trip on her lashes. “I have ballet class tonight.”
“I don’t like you out driving alone in the dark.”
“Pray to the Lord Jesus for my safe delivery.” Flat.
Hoke and Grandma twitched in tandem, like puppets whose shoulder strings had been lightly jerked.
Susan Grace regarded us a very long moment, half eyes utterly devoid of expression. Then she turned and disappeared down the hall.
The atmosphere in the room was suddenly ice.
“My, my, my.” Hoke’s chuckle was casual, but edged with something not previously there. “Kids.”
“I’m sorry, Father.” Grandma kept her gaze on the gnarled old hands tightly clenched in her lap. “She knows better.”
Ramsey gave me a sideways flick of a glance. His chin lifted ever so slightly. I nodded understanding, ignoring a melancholy pang. Ryan and I had used the same signal dozens of times.
The deputy and I rose. So did Hoke. Grandma stayed where she was, eyes meeting no others.
Seconds later Ramsey and I were outside in the late afternoon sun. Inexplicably, I was hearing that warning ping in my head. Not a full-throttle signal of danger, but a subliminal dispatch suggesting alertness.
“Was the kid being sarcastic?” I asked.
“A subtle zinger for Grandma? Maybe the priest?”
I raised my brows.
Ramsey raised his.
“Think something’s off?” I asked.
“Maybe.” Ramsey was again staring at the house.
“Can’t you get a search warrant? Two. One for here and one for the Teague place?”
“Based on what?”
I was about to comment on the inconvenience of the Fourth Amendment. Stopped, realizing how much I’d sound like Slidell.
—
I got to Heatherhill just in time for dinner. The menu was loin of lamb, green beans with slivered almonds, parsleyed spring potatoes, pistachio mousse. The food was good on the plate, not just in print.
Not so for Mama. She was listless and ate practically nothing. I tried to draw her into conversation, got mostly shoulders for my efforts. Even those responses were lame—limp little lifts, more hitches than shrugs.
Still, Mama’s hair and makeup were flawless, her cashmere jogging suit perfectly matched to her tan Coach sneakers. I vowed to buy a small gift for Goose, already gone when I’d arrived.