Last Chance Christmas (Last Chance #5)(12)
Author: Hope Ramsay

“People like Nita Wills?”

Liz rolled her eyes. “Well, duh. Of course Nita Wills. And a lot of the African-Americans who live in town, and even some white folks, too. Granddaddy’s just mad because of what happened to my great-grandfather. He needs to have someone to blame.”

Lark gazed at the kids at the counter. “You know, it seems to me that Last Chance is doing an okay job of trying to get over its history. I’ve been sitting here thinking that it’s probably wrong for me to shake things up. I’m not like my father, you know.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think it’s time for someone to shake things up a little more. Like, for instance, some of us are tired of going to a school named Jefferson Davis High. I mean it’s historical and all, but for some it’s totally offensive.”

“I see.”

“And don’t get me wrong, there’s a group of kids who want to rename the school Obama High, but that’s not going to happen either. My thought was to just call the place Last Chance High. I think it has a ring to it, don’t you?”

Lark couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess it does.”

Liz leaned in. “Did your father tell you anything about those times? About how it felt to walk in here when Clyde Anderson used to own the place?”

“I’m afraid not. In fact, I was completely surprised when Pop asked me to have his ashes scattered here. I didn’t know anything about what happened in 1968 until I got here. Can you tell me anything? I know you weren’t born yet, but what stories have you heard?”

Liz shook her head. “Not many, only the ones from my grandfather, who thinks Abe was a troublemaker.”

“Well, for what it’s worth Pop was a troublemaker. He loved controversy. Maybe that’s why he wanted me to bring him back here. He just wanted to stir the pot a little more.”

“You think?” Liz’s gaze wandered away toward her friends and a certain brown-eyed boy. Lark could almost see the wheels turning in the young girl’s head.

“I’m afraid that’s the most likely explanation,” Lark said.

Liz turned and peered at Lark from behind her bangs. “So, uh, before my father runs you off, I was wondering if maybe I could schedule a time to interview you for the school paper?”

“You’re a writer?” Lark asked.

Liz’s eyes sparked with passion. “I’d like to be. I thought it might be cool to get an interview with you because, you know, we don’t get Pulitzer Prize–winning photojournalists in town very often. And I think the kids in school would be totally interested to hear about what it’s like to be a journalist in a war zone. And I read that you were in Libya during the revolution when that TV Journalist, Jeb Smith, was killed.”

A sudden swift headache knifed through her temples. Please, no flashbacks. She sucked in air and forced herself to focus on Lizzy’s young and innocent face. She grabbed her soda with both hands to keep them from trembling.

Man, she was screwed up.

“Uh, I don’t want to talk about Jeb,” she managed to say.

Lizzy nodded. “I understand. But it would still be cool if you could talk about what it’s like to be embedded with our troops.”

No, it would not be cool.

She wanted to grab the kid by her sweatshirt and shake some sense into her. But that wouldn’t be a smart move, given that her father was chief of police. Besides, the kid was only curious, the way all kids were. At her age, Lark had been curious, too. And professional photographers had helped her along in her career. Jeb had been one of them. Jeb had been a mentor way before he became a friend and colleague.

With that thought firmly in mind, Lark nodded and said, “How about tomorrow? We can meet here, if you like.”

Liz nodded and smiled. “Cool. But let’s meet at the doughnut shop across the street, next to the Cut ’n Curl. It’s quieter there.”

“Okay. What time?”

“Quarter to four. And if you don’t mind, I’m going to bring one of the photographers from the paper, too. He totally wants to meet you.”

Lark nodded, not at all eager to be interviewed. But maybe it was a good way to face her fears. She needed to stop hiding from what had happened to her in Misurata.

Stone cruised down Palmetto Avenue late in the afternoon. The weather hadn’t yet turned, the town was quiet as a tomb, and he was thinking about this morning at the river, talking with Lark.

And wouldn’t you know it? Just as she popped into his mind, there she was—coming out of the Kountry Kitchen engaged in a conversation with Lizzy. Lizzy appeared to be hanging on every blessed word the woman was saying.

Damn. What was it about that woman? He had kind of hung on everything she’d said this morning, too.

But, even so, Lizzy was supposed to be at the Cut ’n Curl helping Jane and Momma with Haley.

He pulled to the corner and rolled down his window. “Lizzy,” he said in his best daddy voice, “didn’t I tell you that I didn’t want you hanging around the Kitchen after school? Your granny and Aunt Jane expect your help with Haley.”

Lizzy’s sharp chin got just a little more stubborn, and she rolled her eyes.

“Besides, I don’t want you bothering Ms. Chaikin.”

“What you really mean is you don’t want me talking to her because you want to run her out of town.” Lizzy flipped back her mane of dark hair and gave Lark one of those wiseass-teenager looks that she’d gotten so good at lately. “You shouldn’t let him push you around.”

Lark gave Lizzy one of her mischievous smiles. It was hard not to like Lark when she smiled like that. “I don’t ever let guys in uniform push me around.”

The slight arch in Lark’s brow sent a spiral of heat through Stone. Then Lizzy smirked at him as if to say, See, you’ve met your match. Stone knew right then that he would be in deep trouble if Lark and Lizzy ever really bonded.

“Lizzy, I told you to go check in with your grandmother. When I tell you something, I expect you to do it.”

Lizzy didn’t lose the smirk, and he got another eye roll. But, hallelujah, his daughter finally turned and headed down the street toward the Cut ’n Curl. She gave Lark a wave and said, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” as she departed.

Stone watched Lizzy for a moment as she crossed the street, walking in that loose-jointed shamble that every teenager in town seemed to have adopted. Then he turned toward Lark.

“What was that all about?”

“She wants to be a journalist. She made an appointment to interview me tomorrow.”

“Well, you can just unmake that appointment.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Stone, don’t be an idiot. I’m not going to harm your daughter.”

“No? You’re going to talk to her about what you do. And I don’t want you painting some glorified picture of combat for her.”

“Glorified? Is that who you think I am?” Was he imagining something or did she sound disappointed in him?

He paused a moment. No, of course not. He’d seen Lark’s photos. They didn’t paint any kind of picture that glorified war. It was worse than that. They showed the truth.

She stepped up and leaned on the cruiser’s roof. “You know, I get that you were once a warrior. So you know the truth. I know the truth. And knowing that, you can rest assured that I’m not going to make it sound like a picnic, and by the same token I’ll try not to scare the crap out of her either.”

He looked up into those deep and somber eyes. She’d seen too much war, he realized. And he’d just been an insensitive idiot. Again.

“Uh, look, I apologize. I just want to keep my daughter safe.”

“I know,” she said with a nod.

What was it about this woman? She seemed to be able to look right through him, right into his deepest self.

Just then, his radio crackled to life and saved him from saying something really stupid and embarrassing. The dispatcher’s disembodied voice said, “Alpha 101 to Lima 101, we’ve got a signal-8 out at Hettie Marshall’s place.” Signal-8 meant a missing person. They got signal-8s every time old man Anderson wandered off, but never associated with anyone in the Marshall family.

“I’m not happy about Lizzy talking to you. But I guess that’s not your fault,” he finally said to Lark. It sounded really lame.

Lark backed away from his cruiser. “I admire the fact that you want to keep her safe. But I promised Liz I would talk to her. I’m not going to break that promise.” She turned and headed up the sidewalk with a purposeful stride.

She wasn’t wearing fatigues anymore, and her butt looked cute in jeans. He really had to admire her. She was a woman who kept her promises, come hell, high water, or idiot fathers and cops.

He let go of a long sigh and toggled the radio. “I’m on my way,” he told the dispatcher. He gunned the engine as he pulled out onto Palmetto Avenue. And then the adolescent urge to floor the gas pedal came over him. He flipped on his lights and hit it. The Crown Vic made a satisfying roar as he sped through town with lights ablaze. It took real fortitude not to look back to see if Lark Chaikin was watching him.

Five minutes later, he was feeling kind of foolish as he pulled into the long, circular drive that led to Jimmy and Hettie Marshall’s house. The place wasn’t nearly as old as Lee’s mansion house. Nevertheless, it possessed an impressive number of columns and a portico.

He recognized Lee’s Town Car in the drive, alongside Hettie’s Audi. Jimmy’s Mercedes was missing.

Well, it sure looked like Jimmy had finally decided it was time to move on to greener pastures. Between his wife and his daddy and the problems down at the chicken plant, Jimmy’s life had been pretty crappy lately.

Stone bounded up the brick steps, and the front door opened even before he could ring the bell. Violet Easley answered. Violet was his deputy’s mother, and she’d all but raised Jimmy Marshall, too. She’d been a housekeeper for the Marshalls nearly forever.

“Oh, Chief Rhodes, I’m so glad you’re here. Miz Hettie is so upset, and Mr. Lee is about to have a fit and a half. They’re in the parlor.” Violet stepped back and directed Stone through the foyer and into the parlor containing antique furniture upholstered in a shiny yellow fabric. Good Lord, how did people live in a room like this? He’d be afraid to touch anything for fear of soiling or breaking it.

He snatched the hat off his head and turned to face Lee Marshall, who had ensconced himself, with his gouty foot raised, on a gigantic couch that dominated the room. He looked just as old and unkempt as he had on Saturday.

“Have you run that woman out of town yet?” Lee asked.

“That’s not why y’all called me out here. There was something about a missing person?”

Hettie sniffled from her place in a small wing chair that sat beside a thirteen-foot, impeccably decorated Christmas tree. The tree was festooned with golden ornaments and ribbons, its lights twinkling happily as the afternoon light faded from the front windows. “Jimmy’s missing. He hasn’t been home for two nights,” Hettie said, true emotion ringing in her voice.