Chapter Twenty-Eight. Grace #2
I can feel the weight of everyone’s gaze. They all think I did this.
I have a motive. More of a motive than the sheriff knows.
I glance at Rose. She saw how frightened I was yesterday. She knows it would be better for me if Stan couldn’t bad-mouth me all over town. She knows I tried to stab him before. I broke Cooper’s nose. I attacked Dad.
Rose’s eyes are like wide watery blue pools.
“It wasn’t me, I swear!” That’s for her benefit, not Callaway’s.
I didn’t do this. The ghost wasn’t here last night. When I went inside, I felt calm. Tired. Resigned. And Stanley was still on that lounge chair, alive.
But if I didn’t do it, who did?
Dad points at Rose. “It was her!” He looks unhinged, two bright spots of color burning on his pale cheeks as he accuses the boss’s pretty, poised daughter.
Maybe it’s not that far-fetched. Rose hates Stanley. (Hated.) And she’s loyal. If she was down here at the pool because she couldn’t sleep, and he said something ugly …
Could she have done it?
Could the ghost have made her do it?
“That’s ridiculous,” Mrs. Langford says. “Rose was in bed by nine o’clock.”
Dad looks across the pool at Cooper. “Maybe she snuck out to meet somebody.”
“No, sir.” Cooper looks scandalized at the thought.
“That’s a pretty serious accusation, Joe. Have you got any proof?” Callaway asks.
Of course. When it comes to Rose, they need proof.
Against my will, my gaze drifts down to Stanley. They’ve closed his eyes, but his face is so pale … He’s not going to get up and say this is all a prank.
He’s not going to get up ever again.
Stanley is dead.
Maybe he can find some peace now. At least he’ll be with Vic.
My eyes go hot with tears. I swallow them, throat aching. I won’t cry in front of everybody. I will not be a blubbering mess like Magnolia.
“I know what she’s capable of,” Dad mutters darkly.
Rose has gone all flushed and flustered. Does she doubt me? Or does she doubt herself?
“No. I wouldn’t—I didn’t care for Stanley. I’m sorry, Mr. Grotowski … But I went to bed with a book after dinner, and I slept till my little sister woke me up at six thirty.”
“What was the book, Miss Thorpe?” Callaway quizzes.
She smiles at Cooper. “The Maltese Falcon.” His favorite.
“Look at her hands!” Dad says. “Her nails. You’ll see.”
Rose holds out her dimpled hands, each finger tipped with a perfect tomato-red oval. There isn’t a broken nail in the bunch.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Dad snarls. “She’s a liar!”
“That is enough. I won’t have you slandering my niece,” Mrs. Langford says sharply.
Callaway turns back to me. “Was Stan’s face already scratched up when you met him?”
I could lie. But if the timing didn’t add up, if the sheriff or Mr. G. could prove me wrong, then I’d look guiltier.
“No,” I admit. “Stanley was fine, except for being soused.”
“So, you’re saying some other person came out to the pool last night after you went back inside, and they argued with Stan,” Sheriff Callaway concludes. “You’re saying you aren’t responsible for the scratches on his face.”
I look him in the eye this time. “I’m not.
See?” I hold up my hands. My nails aren’t as pretty as Rose’s.
They’re varnished a pale pink, to match my toes, and they’re short because I’m always breaking them helping Ma in the garden or the kitchen.
But none of them are jagged; none have Stanley’s blood underneath them.
“The only thing I hurt was his pride. He wasn’t broken up over me.
He even said he could get another girl.” I see Callaway’s next question coming.
“And no, I wasn’t mad about that. I told him he should treat her better. That was it.”
Ma leaves Magnolia to stand next to me. “Curtis, that’s enough for now. We woke Gracie up and told her Stanley was dead. She didn’t even have time to get dressed. If you have more questions, can’t they wait until later? After she’s had time to grieve?”
Callaway looks at me and my dry eyes dubiously, but he relents. “All right, Martha.”
Does he really think I did this?
I look at Cooper. What did you do, Grace? Does my brother think I’m guilty, too?
Someone scratched Stan across the face last night, and I’m the obvious choice. Only … it wasn’t me. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me this time.
Mrs. Langford makes her way over. “I’m terribly sorry for your loss, Grace. If you need anything—”
“We’d like to mourn privately,” Dad interrupts, suddenly at my side. “Without any outsiders poking their noses into our business.”
Rose looks as though she wants to object, but Mrs. Langford takes her by the elbow.
“Of course. Come on, darling. Let’s let Grace be with her family now.
Martha, you’ll let me know if there’s anything we can do to help, won’t you?
And please, don’t worry about coming up to the hotel today. We’ll manage.”
Rose’s gaze meets mine. She bites her lip the way she does when she’s nervous. Is it because she feels guilty—or because she thinks I am?
“Thank you, Joan,” Ma says. “Let’s go inside, girls. You go ahead and get dressed, and I’ll make breakfast.”
Magnolia struggles to her feet. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen.
Is she overemotional because of the baby? Or because she’s a dramatic dingbat?
Or could there be another reason she can hardly breathe for sobbing?
Magnolia flirted with Stan every chance she got. And when I woke up last night, she wasn’t in her bed. What if she saw him stumbling around when she got up to use the bathroom, and she decided to offer him a little comfort? And then things got out of hand?
What if Magnolia is the one who killed Stanley?