Die Job by Lila Dare

told about Braden’s death? I mean, some of the students—”
    “We let the high school principal know. He’s making all the usual arrangements for grief counselors and what-have-you. No memorial, though; the parents have said they don’t want one for a while. In fact, the McCullers family has left town for a week or so to come to terms with their loss.” Dillon tossed the sheet onto the passenger seat of his brown Crown Victoria. “My investigators will need to talk to everyone who attended the ghost hunt to see what they might have observed, and to kids who were close to the vic.”
    We made arrangements for me to give my statement later that afternoon and said good-bye. As he drove off, I walked toward my apartment to dress; I wanted to get hold of Rachel before she heard about Braden’s death on the news or, God forbid, via the public address system at school. I could hear it now: the Pledge of Allegiance would befollowed by announcements about the lunch menu, an upcoming swim meet, and the death of a classmate. Not the way to learn that someone close to you has died.
    “Grace!”
    A voice brought my head around as I opened my door. Varina stood on Mrs. Jones’s veranda, waving. Darn, I’d forgotten to tell Agent Dillon about the exploding pumpkin.
    “I made banana nut muffins,” she said, holding one up, “and Aunt Genny would like to talk to you if you have a mo.”
    “Sure,” I said. “Just let me throw some clothes on.”
    I approached Mrs. Jones’s house fifteen minutes later, showered and dressed in dark-wash jeans and a lightweight yellow sweater. I looked around, noting the large chunks of pumpkin strewn across the veranda and into the yard, as well as what looked like plastic bits from a soda bottle or something similar. What on earth had Lonnie and crew—if it had been them—used to make such a mess? Something thunked onto my shoulder. I brushed off a yellow orange clod. It was raining pumpkin. Looking up, I saw globs of the former jack-o’-lantern adhered to the veranda ceiling.
    “I called the police this morning,” Varina said matter-of-factly when she opened the door. “TPing a few trees is one thing; this”—she gestured to the veranda and yard—“is something else. I didn’t quite get the extent of it last night in the dark. Aunt Genny’s lucky she wasn’t injured by the explosion—it had to be a pretty big one. Anyway, the police said it might be a few hours, but that they’d send someone over.”
    She led me back to a breakfast nook off the kitchen where Mrs. Jones sat, dressed in neat navy slacks with a pink blouse. Her color was much better than last night and her eyes twinkled like usual as she greeted me. The scent of warm banana bread filled the room.
    “I hate to eat and run,” I said, accepting a large muffin from Varina, “but I have to do something before work.” I told them about Braden’s death and my desire to break the news to Rachel.
    “Oh, my, trouble certainly comes in threes, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Jones said. “That poor McCullers boy, and my incident last night, and now that hurricane is bearing down on us, they say.” She shook her head.
    “What, exactly, happened last night?” I asked, sliding into a chair. Real butter tempted me from a china butter dish, but I passed it up. I’d been doing well with diet and occasional gym visits since helping out at the Miss Magnolia Blossom pageant in August and I didn’t want to undo all my hard work. The muffin was evil enough.
    “Well, I don’t know what time it was because I was asleep,” she said, “but the doorbell rang. I couldn’t think who it might be at that hour, but I got up to answer it.”
    Varina shook her head at her aunt’s foolhardiness.
    “Don’t look at me like that, Varina. I’d like to know where you’ll find a safer town than St. Elizabeth.” Mrs. Jones took a swallow of orange juice. “When I opened the door, there was no one there. Just as I was closing the door, my