One Deadly Sin (36 page)

R
edbud had been collecting the minutes from city council meetings since 1947, so there were boxes and boxes of them, stacked in the basement of the municipal building. The centricity made it easier to get to, especially with Holt there. No one questioned his right to explore city documents, and no one said a word when he ushered the prime suspect in the Black Angel murders and the wife of one of her victims with him. Amy Lyle put a possessive arm around Edie’s shoulders as they passed the city clerk, flashed her a cordial smile, and sang out, “Good morning, Barb. Choir practice this evening.”

Barb nodded, gaze flicking back and forth between Amy and her companion. “S-see you there,” she said.

Then they disappeared behind the basement door, the worst over with.

“Let’s see how fast that gets around,” Amy whispered to Edie as they descended.

Concrete floor and walls shielded the underground room from the summer heat. It was cool down there. Industrial shelving marched across the underground room, row upon row of similar boxes. But Holt led the way to the council shelves easily.

“Reorganized when I had to make room for my case files.” He cruised the boxes along one shelf, then stopped. “Pretty much know where everything is.” He hauled down the boxes labeled 1980–1989.

Council met once a month, which meant twelve sets of minutes. But there were eighteen in 1989. Six additional meetings seemed to give further proof that something monumental had taken place in Redbud that year.

Holt divided up the file, handing each of them a small stack of pages, and they retreated to a corner where Holt had set up a card table and chairs.

Edie glanced down at the papers but the words blurred in front of her. She glanced over at Holt because she couldn’t help it. The memory of the night before had stayed with her, a loving cocoon she didn’t want to leave. Inside that space she was safe and warm. Protected. A false security maybe, but one she grabbed at anyway.

Holt looked up, caught her staring at him. Her heart expanded. That liquid electricity shot through her chest and between her legs.

“Amy, will you excuse us for a minute?” Holt asked, still staring at Edie, who couldn’t tear her gaze away either.

The older woman began to rise. “Of course.”

“No, no, don’t go anywhere,” Holt said, then leaned over and kissed Edie. The contact charged her body, filling and swelling her. She grabbed his shirt, holding on, drawing out the feel of his lips.

When they broke off at last, his mouth twisted into a crooked grin. “Thought I’d better get that over with or we’d never get anything done.”

Her face heated. She hadn’t blushed in a long, long time. Which only made her blush even more. She cleared her throat, peeked at Amy. The other woman’s eyes had welled with tears.

Instantly contrite, Edie apologized.

Amy shook her head. “Don’t you dare.” She rummaged in her purse, pulled out a crumpled tissue. Tamped her eyes with it. “It’s just—I remember that.” She gave Edie a watery smile that included Holt. “Lucky you.”

Amy returned her tissue to her purse and they all returned to the twenty-year-old pages in front of them.

But not for long. A few minutes later, Holt threw down what he was reading. “Wait a minute.” He looked at Edie, then Amy. “Who do you have present at your meeting?”

They read through the list of names. Four council members and a secretary to take the minutes. Three of the members were the three men connected with the Black Angel murders. The fourth was the previous mayor, now deceased. But in those six extra meetings there was a fifth: James Drennen.

“Your father?” Amy said.

Edie sat still as possible, hoping ridiculously that Holt would forget she was there.

“He was the chief of police,” Amy added. “Of course he would be at the meetings.”

“No.” Holt shook his head. “That’s not true. I mean, it’s not normal procedure. I only attend those meetings twice a year. And that’s to give a brief crime report.”

Holt and Amy frowned, puzzled.

“Maybe in your dad’s day it was different,” Amy said.

“I don’t think so,” said Holt. “And even if it was, this is six times over the course of”—he shuffled through the reports—“a month.”

Amy leaned forward, excited. “Look, whatever the reason, this is good. We don’t have to go through the minutes. We can just ask James.”

“The thing is,” Holt said slowly, then stopped. He looked at Edie. That gaze seared her like a brand.

“The thing is what?” Amy asked.

“The thing is, you’ve been looking for a connection between these three men for a while now,” Edie said softly.

Holt said nothing.

“Holt, it was years ago,” Amy said. “Your father probably forgot.”

“I’m sure that’s all it is,” Edie said. She put a hand over his, but he slid it away. She saw denial in his face, but also something else. Fear.

“Who is…” He stopped. Licked his lips. Started again. “Who’s on your list?” he asked Edie.

“What list?” Amy said.

“You know who’s on it,” Edie told him. “Parsley, Runkle, Lyle, Butene.”

“And?” Holt said.

Edie clenched her hands below the table. She looked down at the council minutes, unable to look at Holt.

“
And?
” he repeated. They all waited, the silence like dread.

At last Edie looked into the clouded green eyes of the last man in the world she wanted to hurt.

“And Drennen,” he said to her. “Right?
Right
? Say it, damn you.”

“Yes, Drennen. Okay? Yes, he’s on the list.”

“The only one left,” Holt said with disbelief. “No wonder you didn’t want to stay at my house.” He pushed away from the table. “Oh, my God.” How many times had he discussed the murders with his father? James had been the only one he’d told about Edie staying at the motel, too. A swirl of sickness overtook him. He grabbed on to the steel limbs of a bookshelf to steady himself.

What had his dad done?

And now, sweet Jesus, what was he going to do about it?

His brain swirled, making him dizzy. He was falling down, down, down, into an endless abyss, and as the black hole swallowed him up, his phone rang.

“I got those garages you wanted me to check,” Sam said briskly.

“What?” His brain was too thick to make sense of what she said.

“The full-sized pickups? Remember? You asked me to check all the garages in the surrounding counties. Think I found what you’re looking for. Black pickup over in Berding.”

The shelving he was clutching bit into his hand even harder, but he couldn’t feel anything. His father had a black pickup. And last he heard, it was in a garage in Berding. “You sure that’s the only one?”

“Yup. Why? Something wrong?”

He could have laughed out loud. “No. Thanks.”

“Want me to check it out?”

“No, I got it.”

“Anything else?”

His hand was shaking. “Just,” he swallowed. Sweat made the phone slippery. “Just keep me posted on what Lodge is doing.”

A hand on his back made him jump. He whirled. Edie stood in front of him. Blood hammering in his head, he couldn’t figure out how she got there. Where they were. What they’d been doing. But the confusion only lasted a moment. He glanced over her shoulder. They were alone.

“Where’s Amy?”

“She made a tactful retreat to the ladies.” She slipped her arms around his waist, put her head on his chest. But he only stood there, rigid against the comfort.

“Holt, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

He disentangled himself. “I gotta go.” He was halfway across the basement before she could open her mouth, let alone respond.

“Okay,” she said to the now-empty room. “No problem.” She sank into one of the metal chairs at the card table. Drooped her head into her hands.

She should have told Holt.

Shoulda, woulda, coulda. Best-laid plans and all that crap.

Of course she’d held back. Easy to see why. The way he’d ripped himself away from her. As if she was poison. Or some contagious disease.

Well, she’d wanted the truth to come out. She just wished it hadn’t slapped her so hard in the face when it did.

“Everything all right?” Amy Lyle’s soft voice was at Edie’s shoulder.

“I doubt it.” Not if the look on Holt’s face was any indication. She had a pretty good idea where he was going. Just didn’t want to think about what would happen when he got there.

She turned to Amy. “Can you give me a lift?”

46

H
olt drove like a demon chasing hell. He poured into the drive on the left side of the yellow and white house he’d grown up in, brakes squealing.

He slammed into the house. “Dad!
Dad!
”

His mother appeared from the kitchen wiping her hands on an apron. “What in the world? He’s out back,” she said.

He raced past her, through the kitchen and out the screen door, its habitual squeak like a scream in his head.

His father was painting the tool shed. Built in the thirties, it had been falling down until James had carefully restored it. Holt remembered helping on the weekends, sanding and hammering. Painting. Mimsy had insisted it match the house, so they’d given it a butter-yellow coat with white trim. It was the trim James was working on when Holt strode across the lawn.

His father shielded his eyes, saw him, and went back to painting.

“Early lunch?” James said.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were on the city council at the same time as all the victims?”

The hand holding the paintbrush paused, but for so brief a time Holt wasn’t sure it had stopped. “I didn’t want you to know.”

Not the answer Holt had hoped for. Fear tightened his belly. “Why? What happened back then?”

James was silent.

Holt broke through that wall with a battering ram. “Did you kill Edie’s father?”

But his father reacted by not reacting. As if the question was usual, expected even. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

“What way, then? Dammit, Dad, what did you do?” He grabbed the paintbrush out of his father’s hand. White paint spattered their shirts and the yellow wood below the trim.

James gave him a hard, sad look. “I’ll tell you what I didn’t do, son. I didn’t kill Runkle or Parsley, and that’s all you need to know.”

“What about Lucy Keel?” Holt snapped.

“What?”

“The truck that attacked Lucy and Edie on their way back from Nashville. Big black pickup. Just like yours.” He looked at his father. The man he’d always respected. Whose son he’d always been proud to be. Now a pained expression crossed James’s face. An expression that cut through Holt as well. He’d just accused his father of murder. The man who taught him how to be a man. “What did you do, Dad?” He raked his hands through his hair. “I can’t believe we’re even having this discussion.
Dad, what did you do?
”

Before James could respond, Edie’s voice came out of nowhere. “Holt! Wait!”

He whirled. She was running around the side of the house, rushing down the lawn to them. How the hell did she get here?

“Get out of here,” Holt told her. “This is none of your business.”

“The hell it isn’t.” She tugged on his arm, but he didn’t move. “Leave it, Holt. Forget it. It’s only going to break your heart.”

“Too late,” Holt said. “Tell her, Dad. Tell her what your everyday ride is.”

James said nothing.

“A black pickup,” Holt supplied. “Full-size. Guess where it is? In the garage.”

Edie gasped. Covered her gaping mouth with her hands.

“Still want me to forget it?” Holt asked. Edie said nothing. Only stared at James with reproach, her eyes wide with disbelief. “Yeah, didn’t think so.” Holt turned on his dad. “Where were you the afternoon Dennis Runkle wrecked his car?”

James looked down at the grass. Dots of white paint had landed there, too. “Here. Working on the shed. Hardware, buying paint. Supplies. Still got the receipts if you want them.”

“And Parsley?”

“I was at the party—you know that.”

“No—not the whole time you weren’t. You disappeared. Went for ice.”

“That’s right.”

“By way of the church?”

“By way of Myer’s,” James said quietly. “Ask him. I bought four bags of ice and we talked about the game because he was listening to it on that little TV he has in the corner and Chipper Jones had just hit a home run to tie the score.”