One Deadly Sin (27 page)

“Poor thing,” Mimsy murmured, and Holt was pretty sure she didn’t mean Edie.

The earliest Hally Butene could meet with him was that evening. All day, during neighborhood patrol, checking on the speed demons on the highway into town, behind his desk, wherever he was, Holt’s skin prickled with anticipation. Something Mrs. Butene knew or said could be the key to freeing Edie.

By the time he finally pulled into the long driveway leading up to the Butene house he’d blocked out all possibilities except success. Somehow, some way, he was going to get what he needed from Hally Butene. This whole nightmare with Edie would be over, and they could go back to where they had left off.

On the way up, he couldn’t help noticing the grounds needed mowing, the shrubs trimming—a far cry from when Holt had been there a year ago after Alan died. The property was built on a huge swath of Tennessee farmland. Probably too much for Mrs. Butene to keep up, especially with her Parkinson’s.

At the moment, though, Hally appeared well able to care for herself, if not the homestead. As she’d been when she came to help Amy Lyle after her husband’s death, she was well dressed, her chin-length white hair smoothed under, an ivory cardigan around her shoulders. The sight buoyed him. He needed her sharp and present.

She offered her hand, and he felt the tremor as she slipped it into his. Her head shook slightly, and her voice held the same gravelly precision he remembered. “It’s good to see you again, Chief. And under much happier circumstances. Can I get you something to drink? Ice tea?”

He was itching to get started, but lubrication, even the nonalcoholic kind, gave them both something to do and would lower any lingering awkwardness. “Sure. Thank you.”

He followed her into the kitchen, where tile and granite covered walls and counter, and watched her fill a tall glass with ice and tea and lemon. Her hands were shaky but capable.

“I see the grass needs cutting,” Holt said as she poured a second glass for herself. “I could get someone out to do it, if you like.”

She waved his offer away. “Oh, I’ll get around to it. Alan thought nothing of lavishing money on the lawn. I’m afraid I’m a little more thrifty.”

She led the way to a graciously furnished living room. A baby grand piano sat in one corner; a painting hung on the wall. Not your usual Redbud style of Wal-Mart and hand-me-down furnishings.

“Now, Chief Drennen, over the phone you mentioned something about my husband.” She lifted her glass with dignity, despite the constant tremble, and took a sip, her gaze direct over the glass.

Holt plunged right in. “Your husband was comptroller at the Hammerbilt plant. He oversaw production, made sure the financials worked, that kind of thing. So he knew Charles Swanford.”

A wary stillness overtook her, even as the tremors continued. “Swanford. Yes, of course. The embezzler.” Holt bit back impatience as she looked down, picked at a small rip in the arm of the couch, then covered it with her hand. He assumed she’d “get around” to that, too, one of these days. “Poor man killed himself, didn’t he?” she finally said. “Alan had been so shocked and upset. We all were. And not only for the personal tragedy. There was talk of consolidation and plant closings and everyone was on pins and needles waiting to see which factories would be shut down.” She shuddered. “Not unlike now. Awful, awful time.”

“I didn’t realize there were corporate complications.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard the story a million times now. What are they calling it? Globalization? Profits are faster and costs cheaper overseas. Everyone was worried. Especially after the whole Swanford mess.”

“So, maybe it was a good thing he died.”

She looked shocked. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“No truth to it?”

She sighed. “I don’t know. I suppose… the cost of a trial, the publicity. Maybe in the long run it was better for the plant, but I can’t think anyone would have said so at the time.”

“Charles Swanford worked for your husband. Do you remember Alan talking about meeting with him?”

“I’m sure they met all the time.”

“But nothing specific?”

“It was over twenty years ago. I wouldn’t trust my memory.”

Disappointed, Holt nodded and took another tack. “I know you and the Lyles were friends, but how well did your husband know Dennis Runkle?”

“Dennis? Oh, I’m sure they knew each other, but they didn’t interact socially. Maybe a golf game here and there, but not on any regular basis.”

“What about Reverend Parsley?”

“Well, we went to St. Edwards, the Episcopal church in Springfield, so I’m not sure Alan had much to do with him. But the community church was quite active in town, so I saw a lot of Ken.” She shook her head in that wobbly fashion. “Hard to believe they’re all gone. They say bad things come in threes. I’m not naturally superstitious, but still…”

A pinprick of panic touched Holt. He needed something, could not walk away without some tiny bit of information that would change everything. “Are you sure your husband didn’t have business with all three of these men?”

“Business? No. Why?”

Holt was sweating, but he ignored it, hopeful that his next question would get Edie off the hook and worried it would implicate her further. He licked his lips. “Swanford had a daughter, Eden. Did your husband ever mention her, especially around the time he died? Might he have seen her or spoken to her? She goes by Swann now. Edie Swann.”

A concerned expression crossed her face. “Edie Swann?” She frowned. “Isn’t that the person who Amy Lyle—oh, my goodness.
She’s
Eden Swanford?” Another wobbly head shake. “No, Alan never mentioned her. Why would he?”

“She has a list that contains the names of all the men who died. Including your husband’s.”

“A list?” She stared at him. “Are you saying there’s some connection between these deaths and Alan’s? But Alan fell off a ladder.”

“And Fred had a heart attack, Runkle a car wreck, Parsley drowned. All accidents. Or made to look like them.”

“Made to look—” A disturbed look crossed her face, and she rose. Ambled to a side table where she picked up a framed wedding photo. Her younger self next to a younger version of her husband. The couple smiled out from the frame. “I don’t understand. How could—” She looked back at him. He saw tears in her eyes. “Are you telling me this Edie killed my Alan?”

“No.” He held up his hands. “No. At least, that’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Well, I’m sure I would remember if Charles Swanford’s daughter had suddenly showed up.”

Holt took a photograph from his shirt pocket and placed it on the coffee table. It wasn’t a great picture of Edie, but it was the only one he had. He’d taken it from the one Miranda had shot with his phone camera. That day at Claire’s seemed a century ago.

“Recognize her?”

He didn’t know he was holding his breath until Hally returned to the couch, scrutinized Edie’s picture, and answered. “No. I’m afraid not.”

He exhaled a huge breath. “You’re sure?”

“I don’t think I would have forgotten that remarkable face.”

“And this?” He took one of Edie’s angels out of his pocket. Handed it to Hally. “Have you ever seen one of these? Maybe in your husband’s things?”

She rolled it around in her palm, examining it. “I heard about these, of course, but seen one here? Never.”

“Did he mention receiving anything like this, or talk about Charles Swanford or the black angel?”

“No, Chief, absolutely not. Until all this crazy mess with the black angels I hadn’t heard his name in years.”

“What about your husband’s behavior in the days before his death? Did he seem unusually agitated or secretive?”

“No, he seemed fine. His usual self.” Her eyes welled up again. “I’m sorry.” She took a tissue from the sleeve of her sweater and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s been more than a year, and I thought I was over crying about Alan. But I still miss him.” She got herself under control. The tissue disappeared and the solid gravel of her voice returned. “I’m afraid I haven’t been much help.”

Holt rose, excitement stirring. “More help than you know.”

She brought herself to her feet. Smiled wistfully. “You know, when my husband got the job at Redbud, I thought he was dragging me to the ends of the earth. But there’s something special about a small town.”

“Not planning on selling, then?”

“Oh, no. Not if I can help it. I only hope my health holds out. And the money, of course. Illness is expensive, unfortunately.” She gave him her hand again and walked him to the door.

“If you remember anything else, call me.” He handed her a card. “Even if it seems small or unimportant.”

She stood at the doorway and pulled her sweater closer as he drove off.

Was what she told him enough? God, he hoped so. No one could place Edie in Redbud at the time of Alan’s death. And if she wasn’t connected with it, maybe she wasn’t connected with any of them. Maybe the deaths weren’t even connected to each other. Or they were all connected, he just couldn’t see how yet.

Except for Charles Swanford.

And Edie’s angels.

34

I
t was after five when Edie woke. Her body clock still on bar time, she’d slept the entire day. Now, she stretched, sat up, stared at the motel room. She’d known a lot of motel rooms in her adult life. Drifting from town to town, staying in one sleazy place after another until she could find a job, rent a room, even occasionally an apartment. The tacky chipboard dressers, cheap all-in-one showertubs, the thin sheets with their lingering smell of cigarette smoke. It was all too familiar.

She thought about the ruin of her grandmother’s house. What a little money and a lot of sweat could do. She could mow the swamp of a lawn, for one. Trim the bushes. Fix the tire swing. A couple of coats of paint could transform the exterior. And inside? She ticked off the tasks: refinish the wood floors, new wallpaper, new kitchen sink. Paint. Would it really take that much? A little love and care could work a large miracle, couldn’t they?

She plopped back against the pillow. Congratulated herself on being the dumbest woman this side of Memphis. Her next home would probably be the state women’s prison.

Besides, if she had the cash to buy a piece of property, Redbud should be the last place on earth she’d go. The town had gobbled up her father and was about to do the same to her.

And yet. And yet.

Miranda was in Redbud.

And Holt.

She punched the pillow. She should be planning her escape, not mooning over a life that would never happen. In a town she’d spent her whole life hating. And that now hated her.

She threw off the covers and jumped into the shower. Turned the water up hot and let it seep into every strand of hair, every inch of skin. And then, to make sure she was sharp-edged and straight-thinking, she turned off the hot and stood under the cold. Made herself count to ten before getting out. Shivering, she dried off, soaking the handkerchief that passed as a towel. By the time she was finished she buzzed with awareness, awake and ready for anything.

She rummaged in her duffel, pulled out a T-shirt, and dragged it over her head. Stepped into her denim skirt. Her cell rang as she zipped up.

Holt checking up on her? She didn’t recognize the number, and the voice was female.

“Edie?”

Lucy.

“None other,” Edie said.

“You doing okay?”

Bless her.

“What do you think?”

“Would I be asking if I knew?” There was genuine concern in the older woman’s voice, and instantly Edie capped the sarcasm.

“Sorry. Little touchy these days.”

“Can’t hardly blame you. Where’d you go last night? I checked your room after we closed and you weren’t there. You didn’t spend the night wandering around, did you? After I checked the upstairs room I ran by the park. Didn’t see you.”

“I was safe and sound. In jail.”

Lucy gasped. “Chief arrested you again?”

“Not exactly. But I made him put me up. Figured it was his fault I was suddenly homeless.”

She snorted with what sounded close to awe. Or dis-belief. “Edie Swann, you are something, you know that?”

“Yeah, whatever that is. An idiot?”