One Deadly Sin (22 page)

E
die disconnected the phone. She should leave Holt the hell alone, but patience had never been her strong suit. What had happened to Parsley? Had someone discovered the black angel she hadn’t found? She leaned against the side of the Drennen house. Sweat filmed under her arms, and it wasn’t from the heat. Had the angel of death struck on her behalf once again?

She shuddered. Why hadn’t Holt answered his phone?

“Hello, Edie.”

Edie’s pulse shot up and she whirled around. She didn’t know what she expected to find. The angel himself? The devil? Instead, Holt’s father had come around the corner and was approaching her. With him was Fred Lyle’s widow.

“Having a good time?” James Drennen said to Edie.

She nodded, her mouth too dry to answer.

“You remember Amy Lyle?”

“It’s a nice party,” Amy said.

Edie had to drum up some spit. “Yes, it is,” she said at last.

She was aware of the blandness of their exchange, and the sharpness of everything left unsaid. Sorry about your husband. Sorry about whatever part I might have played in his death. Sorry, sorry, sorry.

The black angel rose in her mind, an effigy come to life. It swooped down on godzilla wings, the whoosh of their movement a thundering earthquake. The sound inside her head was so loud, she could barely stand it.

“Excuse me.” She fled. Literally ran for her bike, scanning the skies as if any minute the huge black monster would appear, snatch her up and soar with her, higher and faster and faster and higher. Until she disappeared and only revenge was left.

Sam was surprised Holt didn’t go back home after leaving the church. She usually took first shift with the paperwork. But this time, he followed her back to the office, jumpy as hell.

Not her. She always knew there was something funny with that woman. Eager to follow up on Terry’s story, she asked Holt about bringing Edie into the office. He didn’t answer.

“I’m happy to question her if you can’t do it yourself,” she said.

“I can do it just fine,” he snapped. “If it was necessary. Which it isn’t.”

“But Terry said—”

“I know what Terry said, and Terry Bishop is a loud-mouthed drunk. Not much that comes out of him is worth listening to.”

“Yeah but—”

“No buts, Sam.”

“But—”

“I said—”

“Okay, okay.” She hadn’t expected him to be so stubborn. Had that witch gotten deeper into Holt than she’d thought? Hard to believe he’d let his sex life run his cop life. No, not hard to believe. Impossible. “You gonna call the staties?”

Another silent response.

“We got three mysterious deaths, Holt. And Redbud doesn’t have the resources to pursue this kind of broad investigation.” She waited, again got nothing. Jeez, you’d think he’d had a brain freeze. “I could call them if you want.”

“No one’s calling anyone,” Holt barked. He threw down his pen, pushed away from his desk. “Enough for one night. We can finish up in the morning.”

Sam stared. Wasn’t like him to throw things. “That’s okay. I don’t mind staying.”

“You gonna give me an argument about everything tonight? I said, we’ll finish up tomorrow.”

She shrugged, trying to hide her disapproval. “Sure, boss. Whatever.”

He stalked out, not waiting for her to follow, and she sat there like a stupid grunt.

As far as flash-bastings go, she’d heard worse. Delivered worse if truth be told. But never from Holt. Being chewed out like that kind of hurt her feelings. Especially since she was just doing her job. And better than he was right now.

But she’d never disobeyed an order in her life. So she straightened her desk, set the paperwork neatly on top, then shut the lights.

Maybe a decent night’s sleep would set his head back on his shoulders. Yeah, that’s all he needed. A good night’s sleep. Tomorrow he’d come in and do the right thing.

She locked up and headed for her car. Knocked herself upside the head for doubting him even a second. Holt always did the right thing. Her chest swelled a little, thinking about him. She was proud to be working beside him. Damn proud. He’d never let her down, and he never would. Especially not for some biker chick who’d probably never seen an iron in her life and wouldn’t know what to do with one if she did.

After he left the office, Holt drove around aimlessly. He wasn’t ready to go home. Needed time to cool down. Digest what Terry had said and what it implied.

He found himself heading for the cemetery and the black angel itself. The huge sculpture loomed over the Swanford headstone, its mammoth wings spread over the two graves on either side. Menacing ropes of thick hair swept back from a high forehead.

Holt stared at the fierce face. The eyes seemed to follow him everywhere.
Angel
seemed the wrong word, with its overtones of soft, womanly comfort. Nothing gentle or feminine about this creature. It emitted pure muscular fury.

An avenging angel.

He gazed up at the face like a supplicant at the foot of some fierce god. Who was it avenging? The answer seemed obvious. But what did Lyle, Runkle, and Parsley have to do with Charles Swanford? Lyle had run the plant, so that connection was clear. But the rest?

He gazed at the name on the headstone. It set something off inside him. Some familiar tug he didn’t want to acknowledge. Swanford was damn close to Swann. Too damn close. For half a second he let suspicion ricochet around his head. What if Edie…?

No, he wasn’t going there. He was being ridiculous. How could she? Why would she? He was just letting Terry Bishop get to him.

He shut down those doubts all the way home. Paused a moment before getting out of the car to gaze at his parents’ house. The house he grew up in. The house his daughter was growing up in. It didn’t seem possible that something dark and evil could be walking the streets of his hometown.

Gloom settled over him as he walked in. His mother was in the kitchen cleaning up with a couple of other women.

“Well hey there, Holt.” She shot him a smile as she wiped her hands on a dishtowel. “You hungry? You didn’t get to eat much.”

“I’ll grab something later.” He barely paused to greet the other women before heading into the den where his dad was picking up empties and dropping them into a plastic trash bag. The beer cans made a tinny rhythm as they clanked against one another.

“Miranda here?”

He shook his head. “Sleepover.”

Holt nodded and sank into the couch.

“Trouble?”

Holt nodded. “Reverend Parsley.”

“What?” The clanking stopped.

“Drowned in his own baptistery.”

“My God.” James sat beside Holt.

“Terry Bishop found him.” And before he knew it, he was telling his father everything, including what Terry had said about Edie.

“I don’t know what to think, Dad. It could all be a load of crap. Something Bishop said to get to me.”

“But you’re worried.”

“At the very least, I have to ask her about it.”

“I think that’s a good idea. Look, when it comes down to it, what do you really know about her? She comes into town, makes friends with the local law, and suddenly people start dying.”

Holt’s earlier doubts resurfaced, but he didn’t want to face them. “Dad, come on, you make it sound like Edie’s some kind of crazy killer.”

“Maybe she is.” His dad paused and gave him a grave look. “I wasn’t sure I was going to tell you this. Frankly, I didn’t know how to tell you. Looks like I have no choice now.” He paused for barely a breath. “Did you know Amy Lyle approached me about some private detective work? Seems Fred had a strange codicil to his will. A large bequest to one Eden, last name… Swanford. I’d bet the whole shebang that Edie Swann is really Eden Swanford.”

Holt heard his father’s words and didn’t hear them. “That’s… impossible.” But now his suspicion at the cemetery reached in and gripped his heart like a fist.

“Is it?” James rose and led Holt to the back room that served as an office and Mimsy’s ironing room. They made their way past the laundry basket, the ironing board, and the shirts on hangers waiting to be put away. Things he’d seen many times before, but now looked odd and out of place. James unlocked the top drawer of the desk jammed against one wall. He handed Holt a document. “Came yesterday.”

A copy of a court order from the state of Pennsylvania, acknowledging a name change from Eden Swanford to Eden Swann.

Holt stared at it, the fist inside his chest squeezed so tight he had trouble taking in air. But even if he doubted the reality of the document, he couldn’t doubt the evidence on her own skin. The serpent-entwined apple over her heart wasn’t temptation, it was Eden. And the bird on her shoulder? A swan. Eden Swann.

Edie’s emotional reaction at the quarry made perfect sense now. The story she’d told his mother. Parents dead, father of a freak accident. Some accident.

It killed him to give Terry Bishop any credit, but the image of the ominous black angel rose in Holt’s mind. It loomed over the grave of Charles Swanford as well as the more recent deaths of Reverend Parsley, Dennis Runkle, and, of course, Fred Lyle.

The words blurred on the page, and the document began to tremble in his hand. He parked it quickly on the desk. “Fred Lyle had a heart attack. Are you saying Edie arranged it somehow?”

James put a hand on Holt’s shoulder. It was strong and firm, a bulwark of reassurance. “I’m not saying anything, son. Just that now there’s a connection. A human connection.”

And though James didn’t say it, Holt knew his dad was thinking it, because the thought was there in Holt’s head, too. He didn’t just have a connection. Now he had a reason. And if revenge wasn’t enough, money was as good a motive for murder as any.

27

E
die couldn’t think. She could hardly breathe. She sped back to Red’s chased by a shadow so dark and expansive it blocked out the stars. She barely braked the bike before she hopped off and vaulted up the iron steps to her apartment door. She fumbled with the key, her hand shaking. Finally, she made it inside, and collapsed against the door in a quivering heap.

What was happening? Had she awakened some murderous demon in Redbud? The same demon that took her father?

She held her head in her hands. That was crazy talk. Devils, demons, angels of death. Insanity. She knew it, but couldn’t stop the train from running on. Lunacy ran in her family, didn’t it? Instability. Weakness. Was it her turn now?

Nausea circled in her gut, twisting and tightening and rising into her throat. She sprang up, ran for the tiny bathroom, flipped up the toilet seat. Vomited.

It caught her hard, pulsing and exploding out of her. The retching went on and on, but it didn’t stop the terror. Even when she was bled dry, exhausted and drained, she still shook, still sweated. Still didn’t understand how anyone could know what was in her heart. And carry it out.

Was someone watching her? Following her? And did that someone know every detail of her past and all her secrets? She looked around wildly, as if whoever it could be was lurking in the shadows. But there was nothing. No one. Half-demented, she flung open the plastic curtain around the shower, metal holders screeching against the rod. Empty.

What was happening? Who was next? She hadn’t delivered that last black angel to James. Would Holt’s father be next anyway? Or would whoever was arranging these deaths let Holt know that his lover was responsible for those black angels?

She froze. Terry Bishop had seen her at the church. He’d blab to Holt, for sure. Oh, God. Would she rot in jail instead? Either way her life was over.

The thought shattered whatever calm she had left.

Only one thing to do. Get out. Now. Before anyone else died. Including her.

She staggered out of the bathroom, pulled the duffel down from the shelf and tossed it on the bed. Threw in her clothes, not bothering to fold anything. Piled on shoes and bras and jeans. She didn’t even bother checking for what she might have left behind. Toothbrush, socks—whatever she missed, she’d replace when she got to wherever she was going.

She jerked the zipper, couldn’t get it to close, jiggled the lumpy contents and when she still couldn’t get the zipper up, yanked out whatever was on top.