One Deadly Sin (26 page)

“I want you to arrest me.”

His face congealed. He ran his tongue over his lips. “You’re confessing?”

“No.”

The freeze softened. He came to life, frowned, plowed ahead, and unlocked the door. “But you want to go to jail.”

“No.”

“Edie—”

“I don’t
want
to go.”

He opened the door to the police department, turned on the light, and threw his keys on the desk. They clattered into the quiet, a jangling, impatient sound that echoed the look he shot her.

“I have nowhere else to go.”

He sat on a corner of the desk, crossed his arms, stared at her balefully. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No.”

“Something wrong with Red’s?”

“He kicked me out.”

“He kicked you—”

“Fired me first, of course. And since it’s your fault for dragging me off in handcuffs in front of the whole damn town, I figure you owe me. And hell”—she laughed shortly—“it’s where everyone thinks I belong anyway.”

Holt took his time responding. Unraveled himself from the desk. Stood. Stepped closer. Pondered her thoughtfully.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Are you?”

He shrugged.

“You find my bike keys?”

“Not yet.”

“Lock me up, then.”

“Edie—”

“It’s jail or a park bench. And if it’s a park bench you’ll only arrest me for loitering, which means I’ll end up back here anyway. Why don’t we just cut out the middle step?”

He sighed. Grabbed a set of keys from a desk drawer. “Just for tonight.”

She followed him into the cell room. “My keys going to turn up tomorrow?”

“We’ll see.”

Translation: not likely.

She threw herself on the cot, and he stood inside the cell leaning against the bars. “You stop by the church on your way to my house the night of the party?”

Oh, God, not this again. “You know I didn’t. Why?”

“Parsley was murdered, Edie. And I can prove it. The first one that can’t be explained away as an accident or natural causes.”

The news sent her bolting up. “I thought…” A wave of dizziness rattled her, and she put a hand to her head to steady herself. “I thought he drowned.”

“Only looked like it.” Holt eyed her coldly, accusation all over his face.

Oh, God. Tears ached in the back of her throat. Holt was close enough to touch, but farther away than the other side of the world. “I didn’t do it, Holt.”

“Do what?” His voice was soft, sad.

“Whatever. Whatever whoever did to make it look like he drowned.” In her head she was pleading with him.
Believe me, Holt. Believe.
“Isn’t it possible this death isn’t connected to the others? Maybe they were what they appeared to be—a heart attack and a car wreck. And if that’s true, why would I kill Parsley?”

“He was on your list. You sent him an angel. You even seemed to know something would happen.”

“Suspected,” she reminded him.

Silent now, he searched her face as if something there would determine her guilt or innocence if only he could probe deeply enough. Unable to face his doubt and that searing examination, she turned away.

“What do you know about Alan Butene?” he said at last.

She expected more hectoring, so the question took her by surprise. “Who?”

“Alan Butene.”

It took a minute to register. “Just a name on a list, Holt.”

“And you don’t know anything about him?”

“I know he was the plant comptroller till he retired a couple of years ago. I know he’s dead. Why?”

“Do you know how he died?”

“No.”

“He fell off a ladder.”

“So?”

“So he was the first accident.”

“The first—oh.” Possibility opened inside her. “No black angel either. What does that mean?”

“Means you weren’t around. Means it was an accident. Means—I don’t know what it means.”

Silence settled between them again. Holt seemed to be examining the tile in the cell floor, and once again, she had the opportunity to stare at him. This time, she let the ache come. It was a yearning she must have been born with, she’d felt it so long—for acceptance, for arms to enclose her with esteem, for a place that was truly hers and not just a pull-out bed in the corner.

And then, when the longing threatened to become unbearable, she did as she always did. Set her jaw, raised her chin, placed the chip on her shoulder, and silently dared anyone to knock it off.

By that time, Holt had lifted his eyes and was studying her again.

“Maybe it means I had nothing to do with the others either,” she said softly.

He looked directly at her. “Maybe.”

“Do you know Mrs. Butene?”

“I do.”

More silence. Edie didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to risk an answer she wouldn’t like. But desperation shoved like a bull at her back.

“So… does this mean”—she cleared her throat, the words sticking there—“that you believe me? That you don’t think I killed anyone?”

Holt’s mouth twisted. “It means I want to believe you, God help me.”

Everything inside her wanted to whoop and holler, except something in his face stopped her.

“But?”

“But I have to prove it first.”

32

E
die didn’t know where Holt spent the night, except that it wasn’t with her. Which was fine. After their conversation, he could be in Bangalore and she would have felt closer to him than she had in weeks. And this time when she woke inside Redbud’s single jail cell, she wasn’t staring at the scrubbed face of Deputy Fish, but at the green eyes of her boss.

“Rise and shine,” he said.

She moaned and sat up. Rubbed the sleep from her face. “Is it noon yet?”

“It’s just after six.”

She slid into her shoes. “You’re kidding.” He opened the cell door and she passed in front of him on the way out. “Where am I supposed to go at six in the morning?”

“At least you can get more sleep. I’ve got work to do. And,” he added casually, “a meeting with Hally Butene to arrange.”

She stopped, eyes widening, and was tempted to fling herself into his arms. But he had a gleam in his eyes as if he knew it, so she yawned instead. “Great. When’s it gonna be? Where does she live?”

He gathered his keys, checked his cell phone, patted his pockets for whatever else he never left without. “Let’s go. I want to stop at Red’s and get your stuff.” He ushered her out of the office and into his car. This time she sat in the front.

“I don’t need my stuff.”

He shot her a glance. “You’re going to live in those clothes forever? How about your teeth? Ever going to brush them again?”

“I can get whatever I need later.” She paused. “Where are we going, by the way?”

“Highway 6.”

Her brows shot up. “We’re not meeting Hally Butene somewhere on Highway 6?”

He slowed, pulled into the alley behind the bar. “Not exactly.”

He got out, and short of sitting there pouting, she had no choice but to get out, too. He tromped up the steel steps and she followed. He stopped when he saw the graffiti on the door.

“The smile is mine,” she said.

He grunted, but whether in approval or condemnation she couldn’t say.

Despite Red’s demand, she still had her key. She unlocked the door and went inside.

The last time she and Holt had been there together, he’d arrested her. The anger and hurt of that encounter lingered in the corners as she stuffed her possessions into the duffel he’d thrown across the room. Neither one of them spoke. He perched himself in front of the door, as though he needed to guard it. His big body filled the room, and the stillness made his presence even larger. Everywhere she went—the small bathroom, the tiny closet—she was aware of his gaze following her. The accommodation they seemed to have come to the night before disappeared into the silence.

When she was done, he helped carry her bags down the stairs and threw them in the backseat of the car. Holt headed due east and onto Highway 6. Ten minutes later, he pulled up to the Cloverleaf.

“You’re kidding,” she said. “Mrs. Butene lives here?”

“No, but you do.”

She stared at him.

“Look, you need a place to stay. I need to know you’re not wandering the streets or disappearing into the sunset. And you can’t sleep at the jail every night.”

“At least give me back my bike so I won’t be stranded.”

“Come on, it’s not like you’re in the middle of the wilderness. There’s a Waffle House half a mile up.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’ll be safe. No one knows you’re here. No spray-painting bogeymen to bother you.”

“I can always rent a car to take me out of town.”

“True. But an innocent woman doesn’t run. You want to get to the bottom of this as much as anyone, right? Can’t do that long distance.”

She growled. “Whatever gave me the impression you were a nice guy?”

It took Holt all of five minutes to install her in one of the rooms. Seems he’d arranged it all before dragging her out there.

“Gotta run,” he said when all her bags were inside and scattered around the dingy room. “Mrs. Butene will probably be more receptive if I shower and shave.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

“Don’t be so grumpy. I brought you a deck of cards and a crossword puzzle book.” He nodded over to what passed as a dresser. A paper bag lay on top. “And there’s always
General Hospital
.”

When he was gone Edie plopped backward onto the bed. She would have screamed if she wasn’t too tired to open her mouth. She didn’t even bother checking the sheets. Just closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.

33

H
olt mused about his decision on the way home. He understood Edie’s desire to believe in her father’s innocence. The need to believe in hers was an unrelenting jackhammer inside him. He gnawed at the evidence, or lack thereof: He couldn’t place her at the scene in any of the deaths. Even the explanation of her presence in Parsley’s office made sense. Plus, it was hours before he died. And Holt would stake his life on her ignorance of Fred Lyle’s will. But it all hinged on faith, and that was in the mind of the beholder. If he couldn’t find some other suspect in Parsley’s death, or some other explanation for the other two, Edie was still his only solid lead.

The first thing he heard when he got home was from Mimsy, who heard it from Carol Ann Baker, who heard it from Betsy Caldwell, who had kept Amy Lyle at her house after her disastrous foray into Red’s the night before.