“She saw the whole thing! I was amazed when she told me. Can you imagine someone selling dangerous drugs like that here in Knoxville?”
When the other woman only stared, Maggie pressed on. “I was absolutelyaghast” – ha, Ghost would have loved that – “when Ava told me about the whole thing. I even heard a child in the next countydiedfrom taking it.”
Carina’s hand flew to her throat, nearly spilling her wine. “Died?”
“And the police – what are they going to do?” Maggie made a frustrated gesture to the air. “They have no leads and no theories. Useless, like always.”
Carina, more than half-tanked, struggled visibly between her natural contempt for anyone of Maggie’s social standing, and her desperate need for a sympathetic ear. One of the household staff had been sitting vigil over little Mason at the hospital. “The Missus is at home,” the girl had said, her disgust thinly veiled. “Said the smell of the hospital was making her lightheaded.” Maggie had shared a knowing look with the poor maid. She knew Carina’s type: the country club mothers for whom a child was just another merit badge on the Girl Scout vest of life, who turned to the bottle the moment their “precious darlings” needed anything more than a patented proud smile. Carina wasn’t worried about Mason, Maggie knew – after all, the doctors had said he was out of the woods as far as the whole dying thing went – but was worried about her social standing now that her son had almost killed himself with a party drug.
It was the reputation that mattered. It was the reputation Maggie planned on exploiting.
“My car got broken into last month, and they never caught the bastard,” Carina said with a scowl. “Useless.” She nodded. “You’re right.”
Maggie kept her smile to herself. The alcohol was sliding things in her direction; on a sober day – which was rare – the queen of the Stephens household would have called her a whore and tossed her out on the street. Now she was getting agreement.
“Well, here’s why I came by,” Maggie said, leaning in closer, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. She briefly lamented her refusal to join drama club in high school; she was damn good at this. “My husband, while not as powerful as yours, I know” – little nod from Carina – “he still has a certain standing in the community. His club has a bit of a reputation for controlling the unsavory elements around here.
“Just a few weeks ago,” she continued, “the club helped Harold Winn catch the peeping tom who was spying on his daughter. The sicko was in cuffs by the end of the night.”
Carina’s brows jumped.
“So I wanted to assure you that Kenny and his boys” – Kenny! she’d exclaimed when Ghost had finally told her his real name after three weeks of sleeping tangled on his old futon. Your name’s Kenny! – “they’re taking this business with your son very seriously. They’re turning over all the right rocks and asking all the hard questions. They will hand deliver this dealer to the precinct steps, I can promise you.”
Carina’s bloodshot eyes widened behind a glossy sheen of tears. “They can do that?”
Maggie offered her a reassuring smile. “They do that all the time. Trust me: all the club boys have families. They’re dying to get hold of this creep, and people will talk to them who won’t talk to the police. It’s amazing what you can do when you aren’t scaring the life outta people with a badge and a gun.”
Carina stared at her a long, unblinking moment, then dissolved into tears. “Oh, thank you! Thank you! My friend Melissa, she was so wrong about you.”
Maggie felt her smile turn brittle. “Most people are.”
She spent another fifteen minutes consoling the woman, then topped off her wine, patted her hand one last time, assured her the oh-so-righteous Lean Dogs MC was on the case, and took her leave with a stolen dollop of artichoke dip on a Tostito.
She waved to the staff on her way out of the mansion as she licked dip off her thumb and hit Ghost on her cell’s speed dial.
He answered as she walked to her car in the brick-paved driveway. “What kinda trouble are you out stirring up?”
“Aw, nice to hear your voice too, baby.” She slid behind the wheel and took note of all the security cameras aimed at her as she shut the door. “And for your information, I was saving your ass with the Knoxville DAR, that’s what.”
As she turned around alongside the fountain and its cherub statue, she filled him in on her conversation with Carina Stephens.
“By this time tomorrow, that bitch’s clique will think you’re Doc Holliday.”
He snorted.
“The rumor mill’s gonna churn,” she said, “I’m just feeding it what needs grinding.”
He must have been by himself, because a smile colored his voice as he said, “I married a smart kid, didn’t I?”
“You bet your ass.”
From the Stephens’ ultra-elite neighborhood of gates and brick pillars, she drove through the heart of the city and across to the other side, to their modest, sleepy little subdivision of one-story houses and flat, gentle yards. She hung up with Ghost after the little routine of what-do-you-need-at-the-store-tomorrow and what’s-for-dinner, parked alongside Ava’s truck, and entered through the kitchen door.
She saw the beer first. The three empty bottles, the three left in the cardboard case, all sitting on the kitchen table with Ava’s stacked schoolbooks.
“Have a little drink with lunch?” she called as she shelved her shoes.
There was no answer.
