One Deadly Sin (20 page)

“It’s nothing. Just two uptight people, that’s all.”

“What
is
that woman doing?” She looked beyond Holt to Edie.

Holt explained, and a frown settled over Mimsy’s face. “I just got that darned thing cleaned off.”

Holt put an arm around his mother. “I know. But look at Miranda.” His daughter’s face glowed. “How can that be wrong?”

Mimsy sighed. “I suppose you can’t argue with happiness.”

Holt gave his mother’s shoulders a squeeze. “Thatta girl.”

Mimsy shook off the embrace and shook a finger at Holt. “You make sure we have a chance to visit, now. I want to get to know that woman.”

“Her name’s Edie.”

“Yes, I know. Edie.”

“Or you could call her the swan lady.”

Mimsy gave her son a long-suffering look. “I’ll stick with Edie.”

As if summoned, Edie finished the last tattoo. Holt beckoned, and she joined Holt and his mother.

Mimsy gave her an appraising look. “Are you trying to corrupt my grandchild?” And she was only half-kidding.

Holt winked at Edie, who smiled archly. “I’m doing my best.”

“Well, I don’t know how I feel about that,” Mimsy said.

Holt slipped a hand into Edie’s and squeezed encouragement. But Edie seemed to know instinctively not to take Mimsy seriously. She continued to smile. “I hope you’re not against a little fun.”

“Nannie, look!” Miranda ran up, breathing excitement. “It’s a heart.”

Mimsy’s eyes crinkled in the corners. “That’s because you’re my sweetheart.”

Miranda giggled and ran off.

“Well, you’ve certainly made a hit,” Mimsy said. “Are you always so popular with children?”

Edie’s smile faltered, but only for an instant. “I don’t know. I don’t know many. ”

“But you like children?”

Holt sensed an interrogation coming up. “Mother—”

“I like Miranda,” Edie said.

“I think we need to get something to eat.” Holt tugged Edie away. Undeterred, Mimsy tagged along.

“And your parents? What do they do?”

Holt groaned, but Edie answered. “They’re both dead,” she said flatly.

That knocked him and his mother silent. But it made Holt wonder what else he didn’t know about her. It seemed a lifetime ago, but something at the quarry had upset her and she’d dodged his questions. Then again, how much had he told her about himself? He hated talking about Cindy.

“I’m sorry,” Mimsy said at last.

Edie plowed on, her face blank. “My mother died ten years ago. My father ten years before that.”

“How awful. You must have been so young. Was he sick?”

She stiffened, and Holt tried to spare her. “Mom, that’s enough.”

“He died in a… a freak accident,” Edie said. “My mother never got over it.” They’d arrived at the long table laden with bowls and plates of food. Mimsy took Edie’s hand and patted it.

“I’m sorry for all the losses you’ve had.” Mimsy turned to Holt. “You make sure she eats, now.”

“You know I will.” Holt gave her a pointed look.

“I’m going. I’m going.” She scurried off, still talking. “I’m glad we had a chance to talk, Edie. We’ll do it again.” A threat or a promise? Either way, he felt his girl had passed her first test.

Edie watched Mimsy Drennen shuffle off, leaving her alone with her son. Although they were surrounded by a swarm, she felt that solitude like an energy shield, walling her and Holt off from the rest. She looked through the barrier. Didn’t see James, but felt his presence anyway. Hard to believe the loving family man could be the bomb that exploded her life.

But she’d vowed to take that power away from him, hadn’t she? She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Saying she’d spill and actually spilling were suddenly two entirely different things. Besides, Holt looked happy. Relaxed. She hated to ruin that.

Yeah, right.
Coward
.

Holt handed her a plate. “Hungry?”

“I better be. Or I’ll have your mother on my ass.”

She was too agitated to eat, but she walked down the buffet anyway, plopping spoonfuls of food she didn’t want onto a paper plate encased in a straw holder. Potato salad and coleslaw. Ambrosia. The standard fare for every American backyard bash. It was all so normal. Everyone was tricked out in summer colors. Yellow, turquoise, white. Kids running around in bathing suits, grass stuck to their bare feet. Why would any of these happy, normal people want to harm her?

Revenge was a two-way street, she realized. She wanted to find out what had happened to her father, but face it, she also wanted payback. Had come to town to exact it no matter the cost. Except she hadn’t expected the cost to be life. Hers included.

She shivered in the heat, her jaw tense. Who was out there? Someone who wanted his own retaliation? Or someone who just wanted… her?

Mimsy broke from a circle of women and hurried to greet someone coming out the back door. James, carrying a couple of six-packs. Edie stiffened as Mimsy led him to the food table, where he dumped the beer into the coolers at either end.

Was it him? Was James the one after her? Her pulse sped up, and she tried to maneuver herself and Holt away, but Mimsy caught them.

“Have you met Edie?” she asked her husband.

Edie held her breath, waiting for some indication that James was out to harm her. But nothing in his face signaled anything but civility. He straightened, lifted the Braves ball cap, and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “Sure I have. Nice to see you again, Edie.”

To keep up the pretense, if it was pretense, Edie forced politeness out her mouth. “Looks like you’ve got quite a crowd for the game.”

He nodded, looked around, came back to her. “Just the usual suspects.”

Another casual reference or something with deeper meaning? Her heart was beating fast enough to fly, but no one else seemed to notice anything untoward. Holt was fishing in the cooler and Mimsy was fussing with the bowls on the table.

Another woman joined them. “James? Can I speak with you?”

“Sure, Amy.”

But before she could, Mimsy said, “You know my son, Holt.”

“Of course,” the woman named Amy said. “He was so kind the night of Fred’s death.”

The name extinguished Edie’s attempt to calm down. But surely there was more than one Fred in Redbud. More than one dead Fred?

“And this is Edie,” Mimsy said. “Edie, this is Amy Lyle.”

Edie greeted the woman, staring at her pale blue eyes and faded blonde hair. She didn’t look like the wife of a town big shot. She wasn’t wearing the latest Dana Buchman, but something she’d unearthed years ago from someplace like L.L. Bean. Some old faded thing she’d thrown on because she couldn’t be bothered worrying about what she looked like. And what she looked like was frail and tired and sad.

A stab of guilt went through Edie. A stab of guilt she had no business feeling. Fred Lyle’s death wasn’t her fault. She wanted to cry it to the sky.
It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t. Leave me alone, whoever you are! Leave me alone!

Instead, she found herself saying the most unexpected thing. “I’m sorry about your husband, Mrs. Lyle.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Was James drilling a hole through her with his gaze? Or was it just her imagination?

Before she could decide, Fred Lyle’s widow turned to the former chief of police. “James?”

“Why don’t we go into the house,” he said, and ushered her away.

With the house between her and James, Edie breathed a little easier. Mimsy left to greet another newcomer, and once more, Edie was alone with Holt.

Which only got her heart pumping again. Now. Do it now. Take the damn plunge down that black pit, and tell him. She heard the words in her head.
I’m the black angel, Holt darlin’. But those two dead guys—they really were accidents. I had nothing to do with them. I swear on my poor dead father’s grave. Oh, and your daddy? The one you love so much, respect so much? Well, he may have tried to kill me.

And if he believed that…

Uh huh.

“You all right?” Holt asked.

She nodded, unable to make her mouth work.

“You sure? You’re not taking that grilling from my mother too seriously, are you? Here—” He held up a bottle of Bud, and she washed away the words stuck in her throat with a long, cold hit.

“Better?”

“I’m good.”

And maybe she was. Maybe everything would turn out all right. After all, whatever James knew, he wasn’t telling. Yet. She’d just have to keep her distance. And check her bike every hour on the hour. Thank God, no one had died in the last few days, and hopefully—please, please, please—she’d seen the last of the black angels.

She took another swig off the bottle. The knot in her stomach loosened, and she thought about eating something.

Before she could pick up her plate, Holt’s cell phone went off. He checked the number. “Gotta take this.”

His face grow serious. Her hand started to tremble, and she abandoned her plate again.

“When?” Holt said into the phone. “Call Doc Ferguson. Okay, I’ll be right there.” He disconnected. Turned to Edie. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“What happened?” Her voice was tight, her shoulders taut.

“It’s Reverend Parsley.” He started off at a fast walk, and Edie pursued, her heart halfway up her throat.

“What about him?”

“Looks like he’s dead.”

24

W
hen Holt arrived at the Redbud Community Church, a small crowd had already gathered. Sam had called the Police Auxiliary, and Galen Crews was on guard duty outside the front door.

“What’s going on, Chief?” someone called from the pack as Holt made his way up to the front door.

“That’s what I’m about to find out.” He bounded up the church steps two at a time and nodded to the gangly eighty-year-old who sat in a folding chair in front of the doors, tapping one long foot to some rhythm heard only by himself. He struggled to his feet, but Holt waved him back down.

“Any problems?” Holt asked.

“No, sir.”

“Good. Don’t let anyone in.” Holt entered the church and met Sam inside the chapel. Without a word, she took him around the side, through a dressing room marked “men,” and then out to the ramp leading down to the large baptismal pool. Reverend Parsley’s wide bulk floated face down in the water, almost filling the space.

“Another heart attack?” Sam whispered.

“Could be.” A bleak feeling took hold of Holt. “Who found him?”

Sam paused before responding. “Terry Bishop. His aunt is church secretary. Evidently he came to pick her up.”

“Where are they?”

“Preacher’s office. She was… well, she’s old, and didn’t take the news well.”

Holt understood. The secretary was probably hysterical. “Pictures?” Holt asked.

Sam nodded to the camera the department had bought and never used except in training. It sat on a chair dragged into the pool area from somewhere else. “Got ’em.”

“Every angle?”

She nodded.

“Okay. Get over to the office and make sure the two inside stay put.”

After she’d gone, he examined the scene in front of him. The pool was at the back of the chancel where a small stained-glass window let in a stream of weak light. The water was an eerie sea green, reflecting the paint on the bottom and sides. It gave the pool a spooky air. Then again, maybe that was the purpose of a baptismal pool. To make you think you were washed with the spirit of God. And that was spooky, wasn’t it? Except this one was full of the spirit of death. Calm. Quiet. No traces of blood in the water. Clear, clean, and final.

Holt took out a notepad, made his own sketch of the scene, and finished just as Doc Ferguson strode in.

“My God,” the doctor said when he saw who it was. “What happened?”

“Hoping you could tell us.”

The doctor was already examining the body. “Can I move him?”

“We’ve got our pictures.”

They grabbed his feet, and between the two of them managed to turn him face up. Lividity had started, the blood pooling in the chest. Holt had seen a couple of drowning victims in Memphis. An accident and a suicide. Typically the body curls up in a partial fetal position with lividity in the face and neck. The preacher was in a dead man’s float, which could mean one of two things. He hadn’t drowned or he hadn’t drowned in the pool. Rigor hadn’t set in. Which meant he hadn’t been dead long.