One Deadly Sin (16 page)

And realized, suddenly, and with a huge burst of panic, what she’d done. Lost control. Lost herself. Lost her purpose. And as suddenly, she remembered.

He doesn’t know.
Not about her. Not about anything.

And God, he’d felt so good.

His touch sent a shiver through her. “What’s this?” He caressed the spot just over her right breast.

“Ink,” she said without looking. She knew what he was circling. The tiny perfect apple, scarlet and bright, a dark serpent coiled around its heart. “Temptation.”

“Temptation, huh?” He moved from the tattoo to her nipple, softly massaging the tip. A breeze she hadn’t noticed before wafted across her bare legs. She closed her eyes, drifted into the night, the bud between her legs still buzzing with the bloom of him inside her.

They dozed and woke, drank more wine, and by the end of the second bottle, the past had happened to another person, a sad little girl who bore no resemblance to the woozy, loose-limbed woman who lay on a blanket staring up at the endless stars.

She leaned against him, caressing his shoulder with the back of her head. “You know, when I imagined this, I—”

“You imagined this?”

She smiled into the night. “Oh, yeah. But I figured on a bed.”

“A bed, huh?”

“I know where we can get one.”

In half a second they were packed and heading to the car. Minutes later, he was pulling into the alley behind Red’s. They ran up the metal stairs, breathless and laughing. He kissed her at the door, making it impossible to find her key and insert it in the lock. When she finally did, they tumbled into her room, lips locked. He kicked the door closed and they fell into the bed.

He stayed until just before dawn, when he kissed her breasts, then her mouth, and her chin. And her mouth again. “Gotta go,” he whispered. “Want to be home when Miranda wakes up.”

She stretched, then propped her head on one arm to watch the muscles shift in his thighs and ass and ripple across his back as he picked up his clothes and got dressed. It was sad to see him cover up all that splendor.

But she was a big girl. “No problem.”

“When will I see you again?”

“When do you want to see me again?”

“In an hour?”

“Can you make that twenty minutes?”

He sat at the side of the bed, and she slid over so her head was in his lap. He stroked the hair back from her forehead. “My folks always have a party for the All-Star game. It’s Tuesday. Can you get the night off?”

“National League or American?”

“Are you kidding? There is only one league. National.”

“Ah, the loser.”

“The underdog. And be careful with that word around the Drennen house. We’ve been known to arrest people for disparaging our boys.”

“I’ll risk it.”

“So you’ll come?”

“Will you drive me home afterward?”

“Only if you let me stay a while.” He bent down and kissed her. Sighed. Stood. Let himself out.

The clang of his feet on the stairs faded into silence. She plopped back down, closed her eyes, ran a hand down her naked body. Feeling full and replete, she caressed her mound, swollen with the remnants of sex and desire. She smiled to herself, remembering Holt’s big hands there.

She was in trouble. Real trouble.

And what was worse, she didn’t care.

18

T
he next few days floated by. Edie tried to put weight on her feet, but nothing seemed to keep her on the ground. No one died, no one blamed her for those who had. And when she saw Holt—mostly at Red’s, and in the alley behind Red’s and the room above Red’s—she couldn’t stop the sunspot that exploded inside her.

Lucy noticed it and didn’t even try to leave it alone. “What’s with you and the chief?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, I can see that nothing all over your face.”

Edie just laughed.

And in the downtime, when she should have been investigating, she put it off. No more deliveries. No more questions. The past was over, wasn’t it? As dead and buried as those final names: the one from her list—plant comptroller Alan Butene—and the one she’d heard from Arlen Mayborne, department secretary Hannah Garvey. It seemed a sign. A note from the universe telling her it was time to take Aunt Penny’s advice and move on.

Then she got a phone call. Seems Hannah Garvey had a daughter, Ellen, and Arlen Mayborne had been talking Edie up to her at church.

“To tell the truth, no one’s expressed interest in Mother since she died.” Ellen Garvey’s voice was elderly but clear. “Of course, she’d been sick for so long, and people do forget an old woman…” She drifted into a sigh. “I haven’t had the chance to entertain often, but I’d be happy to tell you whatever I can. And I make a wonderful chicken salad.”

She seemed so wistful, Edie didn’t have the heart to refuse. They agreed on a time, and for the next few days a distant alarm rang in her head. She got her orders mixed up, and bit Lucy’s head off when she complained. Edie was so restless that Holt wanted to know what was bothering her. What could she tell him? That she had a feeling something awful was about to happen? That their time together was just the lull before the hurricane hit? That some old woman Edie had never met could change everything?

Not likely. So she just shrugged and denied. And stalled.

And at the appointed time, found herself back on the side of town near her grandmother’s, staring up a small hill at the wide, rambling structure that dominated it. On the east and west sides a sharp set of wings jutted out. In one corner, a round turret gave it a fairy tale touch. Edie tried to imagine a fantasy childhood there, with lost princes in the tower and herself to the rescue, cardboard sword in hand. But whimsy was never her thing. Besides, did anyone have that kind of childhood anymore? Maybe it was as much a fantasy as the fantasy of having one.

A long series of steps led up from the street, and a pulse thrummed insistently in Edie’s throat as she climbed up. Did Ellen know anything? Did her mother leave notes behind? A secret diary, a scheduling book, something that would point a finger at someone or something? Edie cursed, not sure she wanted to know.

A bramble of shrubbery formed a wild, improvised arch that created a dark tunnel and obscured the front door. Edie paused. It seemed like the passageway between now and then. Between happy and unhappy. She’d made peace with the past, hadn’t she? What good was the truth now?

She turned around. She’d call Ellen Garvey. Say she was sick or something.

She stopped. Turned back again.

Hell.

She gritted her teeth. Plunged into the cool dimness, then out the other side into sunlight again. Face to face with the house front, she saw sadly that the shutters were falling off, the porch was rotting, and ivy had climbed the walls and cracked the stone in places.

Another old house in need of a loving hand.

Ellen Garvey answered the door so quickly Edie wondered if the other woman had been standing behind it waiting. She looked… old. Could she be seventy? Older? The skin on her elbows and upper arms sagged in the short sleeves of a dark blue dress with a wide sailor’s collar trimmed in white. A lunch at the country club type thing. And so girlish, it looked out of place on Ellen’s shrunken frame. But she’d clearly made an effort to look nice—there was even a small bow in her gray hair.

Despite herself, Edie was glad she hadn’t disappointed the older woman.

“Come in, come in.” Ellen swept aside to let Edie pass. “Everything is just ready,” she said brightly. “I hope you like tea punch?”

The enthusiasm took Edie aback, more comfortable with an ironic air that allowed everyone to keep their distance. Dutifully, she followed the older woman into a formal room with a long, dark table and large, heavy chairs. Two plates were already set on one end. White china trimmed in gold, linen napkins, and heavy silver utensils. Ellen had gone to a lot of trouble. Did that mean she had something important to reveal? Edie clutched her hand into a tight fist, squeezing out uneasiness.

Ellen, too, seemed unsettled. She flicked a nervous glance at Edie. “I set us up in here. The kitchen is cozier, but I haven’t had much occasion to use the dining room. You don’t mind?”

Although the two of them jammed into one end of the massive table was a little bizarre, Edie found herself wanting to be kind. “Of course not.”

Reassured, Ellen beamed. “I’ll just get the salad.”

While she was gone, Edie noticed a cracked arm on one chair. A chandelier hung over the table, but had neither candles nor bulbs in it. Paint was chipping off the walls.

But Ellen apologized for none of this. She came back with a platter of chicken salad and deviled eggs. A pitcher of tea punch and a plate of tiny, ladylike biscuits that were still warm and so tasty they broke through the sawdust in Edie’s mouth.

Her hostess glowed when Edie complimented her. “Did you enjoy them? I’m so glad.” She sighed happily. “I haven’t entertained in a long, long time. Mother was too ill, you see.”

The first mention of Hannah Garvey sent a buzz through Edie’s chest. “Yes, you mentioned taking care of your mother.”

Ellen sighed wistfully. “She depended on me. She raised me and sister on her own after my father died when I was a baby. Sister left to marry, so all we had was each other.”

No wonder Ellen seemed starved for company. “And your mother worked at Hammerbilt?”

“For forty years. She was dedicated. Gave her life to that plant.”

“So you’ve lived in Redbud all your life.”

“Right here in this house.” She leaned closer, dropped her voice. “Oh, I had a beau. Don’t let folks tell you I didn’t. I wasn’t a wallflower.” She fiddled with her hair, patting it with shaky fingers and a sigh. “But things didn’t work out. Alvin got transferred, and… well, Mother needed me, you see.” She gazed around—almost obsessively, Edie thought. “So, here I am, in the house I grew up in. Not very fashionable these days, I suppose. But it’s home.”

What was that like? To live in the same house, the same town all your life. How differently would Edie have turned out had disaster not struck and her father not died, her mother not gone mad? Would they all have lived happily ever after in Redbud? She’d avoided checking out the old homestead. Avoided the sight of it altogether. Her grandmother’s house was close enough. But here was a woman who knew about roots. Knew what it was like to be planted, to grow and thrive in the same soil year after year. A wave of envy ripped through Edie, and she found herself finally asking the question she’d managed to avoid.

“Do you remember anything about the Swanford family?”

Edie held her breath, but Ellen frowned. “Swanford?”

“Charles Swanford. He died tragically years ago. Took his own life.”

Ellen gasped. “The man who threw himself into the old quarry? My goodness, yes, I remember. What an awful time that was. Mother was so upset.”

“Did she—” Edie took a breath. “Did she ever say anything about why he did it or give any indication that she knew anything about it?”

As hard as it was for Edie to ask, the answer came easily enough for Ellen. “Not that I recall, but it was so long ago. And if I remember correctly”—she paused to think—“I believe she retired shortly thereafter. And then, she got sick…”

Edie licked her lips. “Did she… have any papers from Hammerbilt?”

“Papers?”

“Maybe… a scheduling or appointment book. A steno pad?”

“No.” Ellen shook her head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Could I… would you mind if I looked at her things?”

An unusual request, no doubt, but Ellen only looked sorry she couldn’t grant it. “We sent everything off to the Goodwill. There was a box of Hammerbilt things, but I threw it away. It was mostly good luck cards and little mementos she’d been given when she retired. Nothing important to anyone but Mother. Certainly no appointment book.”

“Are you sure?”

She gave Edie a kind smile. “You’re welcome to look in her room. Of course, she was down here for the last ten years. Couldn’t climb the stairs, you see.”

Ellen showed her to a large room at the end of the upstairs hallway. It was clean and neat with empty drawers and a closet full of old shoes and winter clothes.