One Deadly Sin (11 page)

“Never proved, mind you. He died before it could come to trial. And frankly, I had trouble believing it at first. But you never know, do you? Innocent men don’t do themselves in.” He sat back abruptly. “You’re not going to write about this, are you? It happened so long ago. Don’t want to dredge it all up again. Terrible time. Terrible.”

She flashed him a sympathetic smile. “I can only imagine. Must have been pure chaos here. Schedules just go out the window when something like that happens, don’t they?”

He nodded. ”Mrs. Garvey was in a complete frenzy, if I remember correctly.”

Her attention focused. An unfamiliar name. A new lead? “Mrs. Garvey?”

“Hannah Garvey. The department secretary.”

“How can I get in touch with her?”

“Oh, she passed, too. They’re all going, the old ones.”

She tried not to show her disappointment. The one lead he’d given her, and it was a dead end. Literally.

“Even Mr. Butene, the plant comptroller,” Mayborne mused.

Her heart squeezed. That was a name she recognized. “Oh?”

“Died a few months after poor Hannah. Fell off a ladder. Did you know how high a percentage of fatal accidents take place in the home?” He shook his head. Sighed. But Edie only hugged her pen tighter.

Another name crossed off, but this one for good. Three names gone and she was no closer to uncovering the truth. When would she catch a break? Disappointment turned into annoyance. Waste of time. Total waste of time.

Then again, maybe not. She’d passed a mailroom on her way to the accounting department, hadn’t she? An idea began to form.

“You must have seen a lot of changes in the plant and the town,” she prompted, and while Mayborne talked about his years at the plant she had time to firm up her idea.

When Mayborne wound down, she said, “You must like it at Hammerbilt to have been here so long.”

“Plant’s been good to me. And, well, to be honest, not much else to do in Redbud.”

She rose to go, extended a hand. “Thank you for your time.”

“Happy to do it. You send me a copy of that article, now.” He gave her a card with his name and address on it. She pocketed it, and he came around the desk.

“No need to see me out. I know the way.”

He waved her off, and she put her plan into action, heading back to reception with a bit of a detour. She’d been going to do this on her way back from the plant, maybe take a ride over to the next town. But how could she resist using Hammerbilt to send her next little package?

She slipped into the mailroom. A woman was sorting mail, but she didn’t look away from the wall of cubbyholes she was filling. Edie spotted the container marked “outgoing,” and dropped the small padded envelope from her purse into the basket.

Just in case, she kept her head down and gazed at the floor as she swept out of the mailroom. Gazed down and smiled.

Then she raced back to Red’s and arrived in a party mood, humming as she ran up the iron steps to her room. She knew exactly what she would do to finish off this glorious afternoon.

She flung open the door, stripped off the confining clothes she’d worn to see Arlen Mayborne, and shoved on a pair of cutoffs and a tank. Got her headphones and flipped through her CDs for the one she wanted to listen to. With a pail of water borrowed from Red, a sponge and her bike cleaner, chrome polish and wax, her terry-cloth towels and chamois, she was all set.

Back in the alley, she smiled silently to the bike. Hello, Beauty.

The water was cold but that was fine in the warm summer air. She sponged down the bike, then sprayed it with Showbike and cleaned out the grunge. After the dirt was gone, she started on the chrome, buffing and polishing the handlebars and down those gorgeous legs. They were going on a little trip tonight, and she wanted the bike to look its best, all shiny and new like the metal had captured the sun and couldn’t help but glow.

God, she felt free. She’d been inside the monster, right there in the heart of Hammerbilt. Even used the plant to send her latest little bomb. And it felt good. So good.

She pictured the recipient. Would he quake and stagger when he opened the package? Would his heart go off on him, like Lyle’s did? And Runkle? What had he done? She hoped he’d trembled with fear, desperate to know who planted his little missive. She wanted to shake them all up, the guilty and the innocent—the whole town if need be. Then maybe the truth would stumble, tattered and worn, maybe, pale but alive, into the light.

For the past twenty-five years Runkle Real Estate had worked out of a small storefront two blocks off the town square. Over the years the business had expanded and outgrown its original space, but it wasn’t until a prime location near the new west side condos opened up that Runkle thought seriously about moving.

When Holt arrived at the old storefront off Main he found it a mess of boxes and files, stacks of books and papers, phones and computer wires that created a minefield of junk to negotiate.

Marydell Figgis, one of Runkle’s agents, greeted Holt with swollen red eyes. “I just can’t believe it.” A large, middle-aged woman, Marydell came with a full bust, plump cheeks, and short blond hair inexpertly fixed. A hundred years ago she would have looked at home in a farmyard, a wide apron over her ample chest holding grain for a flock of chickens. Now she squeezed into a pantsuit and sold the land her ancestors once farmed.

She blew her nose loudly. “Another week and we’d be moved.” She shook her head. “I just can’t believe he’s… he’s gone.” Her voice cracked and Holt shifted uncomfortably under the emotion.

He cleared his throat. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

She inhaled a shaky breath. “Of course.” Glanced around for a place they could sit. Couldn’t find one. “All the chairs are already gone,” she said lamely and looked as if she was going to burst into tears again.

“That’s okay,” Holt said quickly. “This won’t take long.” He plunged right in. “Do you know what Mr. Runkle did yesterday? Did he have any appointments?”

“Oh, I’m sure he did.” She scanned the room again. “He keeps his own schedule. We all do.” She fished through some boxes. Came up empty-handed. Crossed to the other side of the room and dug around some more. “I’m sorry. I can’t seem to find…” She straightened. “We have a sign-out board and the schedule is usually posted. But with the move and everything…”

Holt spied a couple of PCs on the floor. “What about a computer? He keep his schedule there?”

“Oh, no. He was very old-fashioned. Wrote everything down in a book.”

“And the book is…?”

“Should be here.” She gave him an apologetic looked. Dabbed at her nose again. “Somewhere. I do know he was going to show the old Bellingham house on Dogwood.”

Where Holt met Edie yesterday. “I’m interested in what he did after that.” Holt took out a card, handed it to Marydell. “I’d appreciate you making a special effort to find that appointment book. My number’s on the card. Let me know when you do.”

Marydell held a hand to her heart. “I’ll do whatever I can.” She sniffed. “I just can’t believe…” He left her shaking her head, a round apple of a woman in the core of the mess.

Back in the car, he drove around to Red’s. The bar was closed, but he wasn’t interested in the bar, only the bartender. He made his way around the back to the alley and stopped dead.

Edie was wearing a skimpy pair of overalls cut way above midthigh. Some kind of stretchy sleeveless thing covered the exposed areas below the bib but the rest was as God had made her—golden skin covering her arms and legs and shoulders and neck. It was a sight to take a man’s breath away.

She was busy when he got there, her back turned so she didn’t notice him. Her bike was out, a pail of water, a couple of chamois strewn around. Her hair was piled on her head but as always some of it had floated down her neck giving her that sexy bed head look.

She was working like a demon, scrubbing the body of the Harley with a sponge the size of her, headphones square on her head. They were large, not those little iPod doohickeys. Hers looked like the noise-canceling kind, which meant he could probably shoot off his weapon and she wouldn’t hear him.

So he stood there, enjoying the view. She leaned over the bike to get every inch and her ass, as sweet and ripe as any he’d ever seen, stuck out and pulled in, out and in.

He swallowed. Or tried to.

She turned to squeeze out the sponge over the pail and saw him. Jumped ten feet. Flipped the ’phones off her head. Glared at him.

“How long have you been here?”

He grinned. “Long enough.”

She frowned, hands on curved hips. “See your fill?”

“Not by a long shot.”

She tossed the sponge into the pail. Came toward him. “What can I do for you, Chief?”

If she only knew. “Heard you were at the library the other day.”

“So?”

“So you don’t seem like the bookish type.”

“You shouldn’t go by what people look like. That’s stereotyping. Not what we want from local law enforcement.”

“Uh huh. What were you doing there?”

She eyed him. “I like history,” she said finally. “Just wanted to know a little more about the town. Didn’t know it was illegal.”

He smiled. “Not illegal. Just not efficient. I’ve lived here all my life. You got questions, I probably know the answers.”

She gave him an arch look. “That some kind of invitation?”

Holt blinked. Realized it was. “Yeah,” he said, warming up to the idea. “I can show you around.”

She thought it over. Returned to the pail and the bike without answering. He followed. Nodded toward the headphones.

“What are you listening to?”

Another playful look. “What do you think?”

He shrugged. “Metallica? Nine Inch Nails?”

She laughed. “Now what is it about me that makes you think all I listen to is heavy metal?”

“I have no idea.”

A mischievous expression crossed her face. “Want to find out what I’m really like?”

He should have resisted the opening, but didn’t. Slowly, he ran his gaze down her body and all the way up. “You mean beneath the tattoos and what little else you—”

“Yeah, Chief,” she said dryly. “Beneath everything.”

He leaned against Red’s back wall, crossed his arms, and cocked his head.

“I’m going to a concert tonight,” she said. “Come with me.”

He straightened, not sure he’d heard right. “You asking me on a date?”

“A date?” She picked up the chamois and returned to polishing the bike. “Just a return of favors. I take you to a concert, you fill me in on the ins and outs of Redbud.”

Briefly, Holt watched the swan on her shoulder jiggle as her arm moved up and down. “You got a deal,” he said. “Meet you outside the office.”

She stopped and shot him a wide-mouthed smile. “Pick you up at seven,” she said, and went back to work.

Holt was almost at the car before he realized he hadn’t asked her what he’d come to ask in the first place. He jogged back. Her headphones were back on, but he managed to position himself so she saw him before he scared her again.

She thumbed the ’phones off her head and they curled around her neck. “You’re making a pest of yourself.”

“About the other day. At the house with Runkle. He say where he was going after he left you?”

“No. Why?”

“I’m trying to trace his steps those last few hours.”

“Last few hours?”

“You haven’t heard? He ran his car smack into a pole.”

She inhaled a sharp breath. “Is he all right?”

“Only if you call dead as winter all right. Found another black angel, too.”

She paled. Stumbled a little and grabbed the handlebars to steady herself.

“You okay?”

She nodded. “I just… just saw him. How could… I mean…” Her voice trailed off in a tone of disbelief.

“Yeah, I know. It’s been a shock all around. Sure he didn’t say anything?”

She shook her head.

“All right then. See you tonight.”

Edie watched Holt leave through a fog. Quickly, she finished the bike, doing a half-assed job of it, but no longer caring. She gathered her things, ran up the stairs, shut the door, and leaned against it.

Water splashed on her leg. She looked down. Her hands were shaking.

She set the pail on the floor. Thought of Runkle’s sharp, tanned face and practiced smile. A little while ago, she’d been gloating. Hoping the guy was shaken up. Now…

Dread circled around her. Was some unseen hand weighing in on her search for justice? Who knew what she knew? What secrets she kept? Her heart was beating hard enough to rip through her chest.

It had to be a coincidence. Two elderly men—the chance they’d kick it one right after the other had to be high. Right?

And anyone could crash into a tree. It had nothing to do with her. Nothing.

She crawled onto her bed, wanting to crawl under the covers and hide. Let the world go on without her.

Then she remembered. Holt. The concert. Her big plan to pump him for information. She groaned. The last thing she needed was a night of fencing and flirting with the town police chief.

She should call him. Cancel.

But how to explain? I can’t come because the two men I sent those black angels to—ha ha—turned up dead?

Her stomach swirled. She rolled over on her side. Drew her knees up to her chest.

Two men. Two black angels.

And the third one. Already on its way. Too late to take it back. Too late. Too late.

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