One Deadly Sin (13 page)

When he and Miranda arrived, a girls’ soccer game was in full swing in one corner of the park. Holt followed Miranda to the sidelines, where she watched intently. Next year, she’d be old enough to join the league. He tried to imagine his blond baby out there kicking the ball.

“Hey, Holt.” Bunny Carter smiled at him. A divorcée, she had pride of place on his mother’s list of suitables. Bunny dressed well, kept in shape, worked at the plant, and had the requisite fluff of light hair. Plus she had two kids, a girl and a boy. The girl was a couple of years older than Miranda, and was out there on the field, legs pumping. “Getting Miranda ready for next year?”

He returned her smile. Despite what he knew about the town’s machinations regarding his marital status, and the fact that a smile would be telegraphed and interpreted and discussed over tea and whatever Redbud’s constantly dieting female population ate with it, he couldn’t help himself. In fact, he seemed to be smiling an awful lot this morning. “I don’t know. She seems interested. We’ll see.”

Bunny eased closer, lowered her voice. “Terrible about Mr. Runkle. Figured out what happened?”

“Not yet.”

“Is it true you found another black angel?”

He suppressed an impulse to glare. She was ruining his buzz. “It’s true.”

Either he didn’t do a good job of keeping his feelings off his face or she was unusually intuitive. She stepped back. Smiled. “You should bring Miranda over. Brittney would love to give her a few pointers.”

Uh huh. Not to mention Brittney’s mom.

“Thanks,” he said, friendly enough. “Maybe we will.”

“How about this afternoon?” Man, she went for the kill.

“I’ll see how the day goes.” He tugged Miranda away, and Bunny waved.

He bolted to the swings.

“Too fast!” Miranda said.

Instead of slowing down, he hoisted her to his shoulders. “There’s a swing opening up. Better grab it before someone else does.”

He helped her climb on, then pushed. As always, he began slow, and as always, she urged him to go faster and higher. He complied to the point of safety, but not with his full attention.

What was Edie doing right now? He pictured her tousled black hair, that wicked smile, the dare-you look in her eyes. Now there was a black angel.

Instantly, his thoughts leaped and soured. Two dead men. Two black angels. Where the hell did those things come from? And who was sending them?

The obvious explanation jumped to the top of the list. But a serial killer? In Redbud?

The idea seemed preposterous. Ridiculous. And yet… A feeling of foreboding ran through him.

But… both deaths were easily explainable. A heart attack and a car wreck. Not exactly the usual script for a serial killer. First off, the two men died in very different ways. A serial killer doesn’t change the way he takes out his victims.

Unless… maybe Runkle lost control of the car because he had a heart attack, too. That at least would connect the deaths.

And why these two men? What did Fred Lyle and Dennis Runkle have in common? Runkle was a native, but Lyle had come to Tennessee as an adult, to run Hammerbilt. They were both wealthy by Redbud standards, but they weren’t exactly friends. Lyle had been married to the same woman for decades. Runkle had run through three wives that Holt knew of. All much younger than Amy Lyle and none too interested in the community work Mrs. Lyle did.

Only one thing linked them. The black angel.

Holt knew about the local legend. The black angel that would turn white when a guilty man was proven innocent. But what did it have to do with Runkle and Lyle? The details were fuzzy, but wasn’t the guilty party connected to Hammerbilt? If so, that could involve Lyle, but not Runkle.

Or maybe it had nothing to do with either of them. Maybe someone was using that ghost story to throw him off. Those thugs running the drug ring he’d cleaned out had spread a story that the house they’d set up their operation in was haunted. Kept people away for months. Was someone doing the same now?

Miranda was at the height of her swing, and getting a little too wild. He opened his mouth to tell her to slow down, when all of a sudden she did the craziest thing.

She jumped off.

“Miranda!” He ran to where she’d landed in a heap. His heart was racing and the taste of fear curdled in his mouth. “Are you all right?” He ran his hands up and down her arms and legs. One knee was scraped, and she seemed dazed, but unbroken. Relieved, he hugged her swiftly to him, then anger overtook the relief and he pushed her back. “Are you nuts? What is wrong with you? You could have broken your neck.” He grabbed her shoulders and steadied her. Her eyes were wide and solemn, and she looked right into his. “Why did you do that?”

“I wanted to see if I could.”

He gaped at her, speechless. Then, “Well don’t. You do that again, we won’t come back here for a month. Understand?”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“Enough swinging,” he grumbled. “Come on.” He held out his arms. “Let’s get us some ice cream.”

Scolding forgotten, she leaped into his open embrace, and he swung her around while she squealed. The possibility of a maniac loose in Redbud suddenly seemed both foolish and remote.

Claire’s closed early on Saturday, so there was always a rush at lunch. A favorite place for the postsoccer set, the small space was crowded.

“You’ll have to wait,” Darcy, the owner, called over to Holt as he stood by the door. She hurried past, menus tucked under her arm. A wide-mouthed blonde with a low-cut blouse that showed off an impressive chest, she wore earrings the size of Texas that swung above her shoulders as she galloped by. Someone named Claire must have owned the place once, but who or when was lost in the fog of time. As long as he could remember, the place had been called Claire’s, and no matter whose name was on the deed, he guessed it always would be.

Holt stooped to scoop up Miranda. “Hey, darlin’. Come on up here so we won’t be in the way.”

She didn’t protest, sitting high in his arms to look around. Her gaze caught on something.

“What?” he said.

She pointed.

An old-fashioned soda counter ran down one side of the rectangular space. Opposite it was a string of ancient booths. Seated in one was Edie. She was eating a hamburger, a perfectly normal event. Yet he was struck dumb by the sight of her. In the middle of Claire’s the memory of their moonlit kiss rose high and fast with a rush of unexpected heat. Standing like a statue, he couldn’t keep Miranda under wraps. She scrambled out of his arms and hurtled to the booth.

He got there in time to hear Edie say. “It’s a honey.”

“What’s a honey?” Holt tried not looking at Edie, fearing he wouldn’t be able to stop, but it was impossible.

“My fattoo,” Miranda said proudly. “I did it myself.”

“I can tell.” Edie shot Holt an amused look. “Great job.”

Miranda slid into the booth next to Edie.

“Whoa there, Miranda,” Holt said, wishing he’d thought of that. “Anyone ask you in?”

“It’s fine,” Edie said.

“We don’t want to ruin your lunch.”

“She’s finished,” Miranda turned to Edie. “Aren’t you?”

“When you’re right you’re right,” Edie said. “Sit down, Holt.”

He didn’t need a second invitation.

“This is my daddy,” Miranda announced.

“I know,” Edie said.

Darcy strode up to the table. “See you found a seat,” she said to Holt.

“I have a fattoo,” Miranda said. “Wanna see it?”

“Never mind the fattoo,” Holt told his daughter. “What kind of ice cream do you want?”

They got the orders placed, and Miranda settled down to do exactly what Holt was doing: stare at Edie. Edie caught Holt at it, but appeared not to notice the heat flooding his face. Which was good because he was beginning to embarrass himself.

“I had a great time last night,” he said.

“Me, too,” Edie said.

“Do it again?”

“What’s that?” Miranda pointed to Edie’s head.

“What’s what?” Edie felt around her head for what Miranda could be interested in.

“That.” Miranda touched a hair pin.

Edie slid it out. “A bobby pin.” She tugged a few strands of Miranda’s hair back and pinned it back.

“I wanna see,” Miranda said, and Edie fished in a purse—more like a leather backpack—for a mirror.

Miranda admired herself, looking pleased. “Take a picture, Daddy.”

Edie raised a brow at him, but he dug out his phone and snapped a photo, handing the phone to Miranda to see. She giggled, then held up the phone and took one of Edie.

Holt watched her endure Miranda’s chatter. She was a good sport to put up with all the manhandling. He’d never seen his daughter so taken with anyone. Would she have been this way with her mother? Interested in all the girly things she did, like bobby pins and fattoos?

Not that Cindy would ever in a million years have had a tattoo.

But still she would have had a lot of girly things to pass on. For a minute a clutch of sadness hit him that Cindy would miss out on all that. Bobby pins, lipstick, bras… Panic overrode the sadness. How the hell was he going to handle that when the time came?

Darcy appeared with Miranda’s ice cream, a huge hot fudge sundae she always ordered and never finished, and put his coffee in front of him. The caffeine had a calming effect.

“Eat slowly,” he said as his child dove into the confection.

In two seconds her mouth was full, her face dotted with whipped cream.

He took advantage of the silence to repeat his question to Edie. “So… how about it? My turn to show you all of Redbud’s secrets.”

She shot him a wry look. “Didn’t know the town had any.”

He waggled his brows. “You know what they say about small towns, don’t you? Smaller the town, bigger the secrets.”

“My daddy found a baby angel,” Miranda said, wielding the long sundae spoon with ungainly enthusiasm.

Alarm fled across Edie’s face. “Another one?”

He shook his head, and suddenly the mood seemed to solidify. Darken. And though he loved his child beyond life, he wished she could have kept that little bombshell for another time. “She must have overheard me talking.”

“It was black,” Miranda said. “Teeny tiny. It’s evidence.” Except she pronounced it “ebidence.”

“That’s enough, Miranda,” Holt said. “Eat your ice cream.” Miranda was trying to pick up a dollop of ice cream that had plopped onto the table. “With your spoon.”

Edie touched his hand across the table. The contact sent a sizzle through him. “What’s it mean?” Worry lines scored her forehead. He wanted to reach out and smooth them away.

“I don’t know. Nothing, I hope. A prank.”

“Any idea why both men were found with…” She shifted her gaze to Miranda and back to him. “… with one?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Uh oh,” Miranda giggled as she dropped ice cream again, this time on her shirt. Half her face was streaked with chocolate but Holt knew it would get worse before it got better, so he refrained from reaching over with a wet napkin to clean her off too soon.

“I have to shove off,” Edie said abruptly, and made a move to go.

Miranda’s face fell. “You can have my ice cream.” She offered the sundae, a sticky, messy bribe to make her stay.

“Thanks, but I’ve got stuff to do. You enjoy it. Give your dad some.” She leaned in and said in a low voice loud enough for Holt to hear. “He’s been eyeing it.”

Miranda looked at Holt dubiously.

“Come sit next to me.” Holt slid the sundae to his side of the booth and Miranda followed it.

Edie got out, started to head in the direction of the door, but Holt wasn’t going to let her run away. He reached behind Miranda to grab Edie’s wrist as she passed. “When’s your day off?”

“Wednesday, but—”

“Pick you up at eight.”

He saw rejection plain in her face, and the words getting ready to spill out her mouth.

“Eight.” He squeezed her hand. “No arguments. We had a deal, remember? I owe you one.”

She acquiesced, gracefully if reluctantly. “But nothing fancy.”

“Hey—it’s not every day a guy has to compete with Brahms.” He let her go.

“Can I get some bonny pins?” Miranda said when they were alone again.

“Sure, darlin’. Finish your ice cream first.”

But she pushed it away. “I’m full.”

Same old, same old. He cleaned her up, not really paying attention. His mind was too full of other things. Black angels of all kinds.

Edie sped straight to her room over Red’s. She yanked down her duffel and jerked out the package of angels hidden there. She’d begun the day in a swirl of elation, hung over from the night before. That glorious, unhinged night of music and man. She’d even walked all the way to Claire’s, reveling in the sun and the sight of the town enjoying a day off. She’d thought of Holt and that amazing kiss, wondered when she’d kiss him again, and whether it would be as improbable, incredible, and extraordinary. And never once did she think about death or black angels.

And now, God, now.

She didn’t want to think about kissing Holt. She didn’t want to think about the panic that threatened to erupt out of her throat. Did she truly have an avenging angel on her side? And if she did, when would Holt find out?

She stared at the tiny black figures. She’d wanted to stir people up. Catch everyone off guard so they’d be distracted enough to tell her what she wanted to know.

But she’d never know now.

She realized this just as starkly as she realized something else. Something more sinister and frightening than anything she could have thought up herself.

She was marking people for death.

It was crazy. Insane. No, that was her mother. Not her. Not Edie Swann. She was strong. Her own woman. Making her own destiny.

But still, gazing at the black angels, she couldn’t help feeling a ripple of horror. Something was happening in Redbud. She didn’t know what. She didn’t know why. And she didn’t know who.

But one thing she did know. She wasn’t in control anymore.

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