One Deadly Sin (6 page)

But mostly Holt was on his own. At first, that had unsettled him, but he’d grown used to it. He’d grown used to a lot of things. And Edie Swann was starting to unravel that cozy blanket he’d wrapped around himself after Cindy’s death.

At least he wasn’t a one-man force anymore. Before the bottom dropped out of the market, rumors that the plant was in line for expansion had fueled development, which would have generated more people and more traffic. Holt had used that to talk the council into funding a full-time deputy’s salary.

“Show the governor we’re not only committed to growth, we’re committed to planning for it,” Holt had said in his presentation eighteen months ago.

Six months later he’d hired Sam. Newly separated from the army after two tours in Iraq, she had the seriousness and stability the job required. Sometimes a little too serious, maybe—going by the book was a religion with her. But she grew up in Corley County, so small towns were familiar territory. If he ever moved on, she’d make a good replacement. And for now, she provided backup. They switched off weekends, working every other Saturday. Which was why he had been in the alley behind Red’s a few hours ago, his uniform on, sniffing at Edie Swann’s door.

At least a fling with Edie would break the routine. And when was the last time he had sex with anyone but himself?

His phone rang, the sound piercing the early morning quiet. He checked the time. Six. Like every other work morning since Miranda had learned to dial.

“Hey, pumpkin. Sleep well?”

“Yup.”

“What are you doing?”

“Eating Froot Loops.”

“With milk?”

Silence.

“You have to have milk, baby doll.”

“I can’t lift it.”

“There’s a glass in the fridge. I poured it before I left.”

More silence. “Okay.” He heard the pout in her voice.

“Good girl.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“Me, too. Don’t wake Nannie.”

“I won’t.” At least, not on purpose.

He hung up with the sweetness of her voice in his ear and the rightness of his life back on track.

He pushed off his chair and headed for the back room. For years Redbud had gone without a jail. If Holt’s dad needed to arrest someone, he called the state police or the county sheriff. A workable solution, given the crime rate, but an inconvenient one. Part of Holt’s expansion of the police department included a new jail cell in what used to be a storage room off the one-room police department. The single office was right on the square in the Redbud Municipal Building along with the mayor’s office, the Chamber of Commerce, the city clerk, and anything else of an official nature.

Currently, Terry Bishop was the jail’s only occupant. He sat on the edge of the cot inside the cell, head hanging low over his knees. His ponytail had come undone and hair stuck out all over his head. He looked as bad as he probably felt.

“Morning,” Holt said.

Terry jumped. Groaned. “Jesus, Chief, you don’t have to shout.”

“Think you can behave yourself?”

“I could use a cup of coffee.”

Holt unlocked the cell. “Claire’s is open,” he said, referring to the coffee shop on the square. No way he was letting Terry have so much as a glass of water on the city’s dime.

Terry grumbled, but managed to shuffle his way out of the cell.

“I were you, though, I’d skip the café and head straight home. In fact, if I were you I’d stay there the rest of the weekend. Think about the right way to conduct yourself in public.”

Terry took the hint and headed for the door.

Holt grabbed his uniform jacket. Time to take a ride and check the traffic into and out of town. Saturdays weren’t as busy as the weekdays, but it never hurt to make sure folks going somewhere knew to keep to the speed limit.

Edie didn’t sleep much. A couple of hours and she was awake again. By six she was dressed and out. Ten minutes later she parked the bike off the central square where she could see the front of the municipal building, but where anyone coming out might not see her. She leaned against a tree and yawned. Like anyone, she liked her sleep. But she figured she could rest later. When everything was over and done.

Half an hour later Terry Bishop stumbled down the steps of the building. When he reached the sidewalk he stopped to stretch and rub the back of his neck. He looked grubby and tired. With all that beer and a night in jail he probably smelled bad, too.

What the hell. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t smelled worse. She started the bike. Caught up with Terry on a side street a block away.

He slowed when he saw her coming. Put a hand to his forehead to shield the morning sun.

“Need a lift?” she asked him. He stared at her. “You don’t remember me.”

“Should I?”

“Yesterday. At the picnic. You, me, and the chief…”

“I was wasted.”

“I know. I was there.” She stuck out her hand. “Edie Swann.”

His handshake was flabby. “Terry Bishop.”

“I know who you are.”

“Yeah? So why do you want to give me a lift?”

“I thought you had some interesting things to say yesterday.”

“About—”

“Fred Lyle. Hammerbilt.”

He scowled and started walking.

Quickly, Edie parked the bike and ran after him. “Wait a sec! Hold up!”

He continued walking and she kept time with him. He shot her a suspicious look. “You trying to set me up?”

“Why would I do that?” Edie said. “I’m interested. Really.”

“You a reporter or something?”

“No. Like I said. Just an interested citizen.”

“No one’s interested in me.”

“Look, let me give you a ride home. We can talk better there.”

That seemed to alarm him even more. “I don’t think so.” He picked up his pace, and with her shorter legs, she could barely keep up.

She stopped trying. “You change your mind,” she called, “I’m over at Red’s. Stop by. I’ll buy you a beer.”

He neither accepted nor rejected the invitation. Didn’t even acknowledge it. Just kept walking.

Edie watched him go, back hunched, hands stuffed in pockets. For all she’d gotten out of him she could’ve stayed in bed. She headed back to her bike. He was mouthy enough the day before with a few beers in him. If nothing else, there was always Red’s.

On his way out of town Holt spotted Terry racing away from someone. Holt slowed. Recognized Terry’s companion. Now what did Edie Swann and Terry Bishop have to say to each other?

Maybe she was apologizing for getting involved in Terry’s business yesterday. Holt smiled. From the little he knew about her, Edie wasn’t the apologizing type. He stowed the question in the back of his mind. One of these days he’d ask her about it.

Which meant, he realized, that he was going to see her once more.

Sure he would. Next time he went to Red’s…

He grinned again, mostly at his own self-delusion, then continued out of town. Traffic was slow for the first half-hour, but picked up. Wal-Mart was an hour west, and people were getting a jump on their Saturday errands. He watched them slow down when they saw him, and after a half-hour or so, he headed back to the east side where he got his second surprise of the morning. His dad coming back into town.

Holt waved him down.

“What are doing over here, Dad?” If Redbud had a wrong side of the tracks, this was it. All the development had taken place on the west side, leaving this older section to crumble. Not much out here but the old quarry.

James got out of his truck, stuck his hands in his pocket. “Nothing. Driving.”

“Something worrying you?”

“Just restless.”

“Want your old job back? I can deputize you any time. Just say the word.”

James smiled. “I’m fine, son. The sun’s up. Gonna be a beautiful day. Just wanted to see it start.”

“Miranda okay?”

“Pretending to drink that milk you left her.”

They exchanged smiles, both acknowledging and accepting the way the little girl manipulated her men.

“Well, don’t let me keep you.” James clapped Holt on the back. “See you later?”

“You bet.”

James gave a thumbs up as he got back in the truck. If the man had been upset about something he sure looked fine now. He was right. It was a fine morning. Gonna be a fine day.

8

A
my Lyle never could be sure what woke her that Sunday morning. She was usually a heavy sleeper, but then so was Fred. Thirty-five years sleeping next to the man, and he was rarely restless. So maybe it was some kind of wifely sixth sense that had her eyes wide open at two in the morning, made her hurry out of the room without her robe when she saw his side of the bed empty. Or maybe it was the worry she couldn’t seem to shake. Fred had not been himself these last few days. Something was bothering him. She hoped to God it wasn’t his heart again. The doctor had been clear about the toll stress could take on him, but whenever she asked, Fred always told her he was fine.
Fine.
Was there ever a more feeble word?

Maybe there had been a noise, some kind of sound that had penetrated the walls of their home. The place where they’d celebrated anniversaries and birthdays. Raised their children. The place she’d been racing to leave. So busy looking ahead she’d never stopped to see where she was.

And now she was here, in the kitchen with the police chief, while Fred lay still and silent in the den. Both waiting for the ambulance to arrive. Not that Fred would need an ambulance. Not anymore.

“And you didn’t hear him leave the bedroom?”

Amy looked blankly at the man in front of her. Chief Drennen. There’d always been a Chief Drennen in Redbud.

“Mrs. Lyle?”

“Yes?”

“Did you hear your husband leave the bedroom?”

“No.”

“But something woke you.”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t remember what it was?”

“No.”

He seemed to want something more from her, but she had nothing more to give.

“Do you recognize this?” He held up some kind of plastic bag with a tiny angel inside. All black with spread wings. Amy’s eyes welled up again. Fred could have used an angel tonight. “I found it in your husband’s hand, Mrs. Lyle. Have you seen it before?”

She shook her head, bewildered. “It was in Fred’s hand? But… why would Fred be holding an angel? Especially if it didn’t”—she stopped to gather her control—“didn’t help him. Look out for him.” Her voice broke.

“I don’t know.” The sheriff’s voice was gentle and sympathetic. He handed her a tissue. “I’m… I’m very sorry for your loss.”

She dabbed at her eyes. “Thank you.”

“Just a few more questions. Are you sure you’ve never seen this angel before? In your husband’s desk or study? On his dresser?”

She shook her head.

“Does it mean anything to you?”

She shook her head again.

“Some religious significance, perhaps?”

“Fred wasn’t a very religious man.”

A woman ambled into the room, and Holt stepped back to let her grasp Amy’s hand. He was relieved she’d come. Hally Butene had lost her own husband a year or so ago, and the Lyles had rushed to be there with her those first wrenching hours. Now it was Hally’s turn.

“I am so, so sorry, dear,” Hally said in her trademark gravel of a voice. A tall, slim woman, she wore classic clothes that hung well on her slender frame. Her white hair was cut short and chic and her large horn-rimmed glasses looked fashionable as well as functional. Her husband had been the plant comptroller until he died, and even in the throes of grief Holt had never seen her look disheveled or dowdy. Even now, in the middle of the night, her slacks and shirt were well pressed and she carried herself with quiet dignity.

She wrapped Amy in a tight embrace that hid the constant trembling in her hands and the slight quiver of her head.

“Can I take her upstairs?” Hally asked Holt. She spoke the words with raspy precision, as though she fought to pronounce each one. The Parkinson’s might have taken a toll on her body, but sharp intelligence still glittered in her eyes.

“Yes, we’re done for now.”

Hally nodded, wrapped an arm around Amy, and led her away.

Holt walked to the den where Sam was finishing her pictures. A couple of EMTs from the county hospital and Doc Ferguson, the county coroner, stood on the sidelines waiting. Doc had already given an opinion as to time and cause of death—heart attack most likely; it was Lyle’s second—and there wasn’t much else to do. Except for that strange little angel.