“I hope you aren’t here thinking I need aid and comfort, Rufus.”
Rufus closed his eyes with pleasure as he bit into one of his cookies. “Mmm. Delightful.” He took his time chewing, wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Actually, I’m here for someone else. You remember Amanda Garcia?”
An image of a pretty, plump woman with warm brown skin and shoulder-length black hair flashed through Sam’s mind. “Amanda’s a good woman. She was one of my dutiful Bible class teachers, back in the day, not to mention a welcome source of humor at some of our more painful committee meetings. Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“You could say that, if you call being arrested for murder trouble.”
Chapter Three
Sam rubbed his eyes wearily. Murder? Amanda? It sounded preposterous, but no more so than sitting here having coffee with Southern Socrates.
The last time he’d seen Amanda had been his last Sunday at church. At the time, he’d been so sure he was doing the right thing. Now, he was simply ashamed of the whole messy affair, having realized that his public martyrdom was just the flip side of pride—a humiliating drama he’d worked out with himself as the centerpiece. He’d told himself he was being a good example, showing other struggling couples that they weren’t alone, but what he’d really been doing was making one last desperate—and failed—attempt to keep Melanie from giving up on him.
As it turned out, publicly embarrassing your wife wasn’t the best way to keep her.
He’d shaken hundreds of hands that day and seen hundreds of faces, but the reason he remembered Amanda was because she’d had her arms around a stiff-backed Melanie as she led her out of the foyer and into the nursery, away from all the curious eyes. Amanda had glanced back at him, her own eyes full of tears and anger. He remembered that, because everyone else had been so appropriately sympathetic.
Of course, that hadn’t lasted. A pastor with a sex addiction, even a repentant one, was too discomfiting to face Sunday after Sunday. He suspected Amanda’s anger had lasted, though.
Sam shook his head to clear it. He looked at Rufus, a thousand questions flooding his mind, but all he could manage was, “Who?”
“Amy Randolph.” Rufus regarded him shrewdly.
“No way.” Sam spoke flatly.
Rufus shrugged and spread his hands. “I agree, it seems unlikely, but of course I hardly know—knew—either woman.”
“What’s the story? Why haven’t I heard about this? Their shop is right down the street from here.”
“It only happened last night. At the shop, as a matter of fact. All my details come from Amanda’s husband, so I don’t know much myself. Apparently Amanda is the one who called the police, and when they showed up, she was the only one there with Amy’s body. With the gun in her hand, I might add.”
“They were best friends. Not to mention that Amanda was hardly a violent person. She’s a mom, for Pete’s sake! Her kid is what—three? Four? Five?”
“Four.”
“What possible motive could she have had? Amy and Amanda have been best friends since high school. That’s the whole schtick behind their shop. Double A Textiles. Amy and Amanda. Best Friends Forever. Amanda would never have hurt Amy. They were inseparable.”
Even as he spoke, Sam doubted the veracity of his own words. What was anyone capable of, really? He knew firsthand what secrets could lurk behind the most innocuous of facades. As a preacher, he’d heard plenty of confessions of murderous hate. Maybe something had pushed Amanda over that line. After all, didn’t they say that given enough of the right sort of provocation, any person could become a murderer?
The doorbell chimed as another customer entered, but Sam didn’t turn his head. Instead, he stared into the other man’s eyes.
Rufus held his gaze without any sign of discomfort, his eyes only slightly bleary with age. Sam wondered uneasily if Rufus could see into his soul. You don’t want to go there, old man. It’s black and bloody, a place you can get lost in and never emerge again.
“Why are you telling me this?” Sam demanded testily.
“Raul tells me that Amanda isn’t talking to anyone. Not to him, not to the police. He’s working on getting her a lawyer, but I thought maybe you could try to talk to her. Maybe she would trust you. Whether she did this or not, she needs our help.”
“Our help? I don’t think we play for the same team anymore, Rufus. You should listen to more gossip.”
Rufus smiled, his teeth whiter than any coffee drinker’s had a right to be. Sam wondered how much of the old man’s persona was theater trappings and how much was reality—he wondered if Rufus himself remembered what the difference was between the two.
“I don’t think the gossips are the ones who get to pick the teams. And hey, maybe it won’t do any good at all. But I sure would appreciate it if you would consider paying her a visit. She should be back from court sometime this afternoon. Arraignment was this morning.”
Rufus hefted himself out of the cushiony chair. “Oh.” He laid a small paper rectangle on the table. “In case you want to get in touch. All my contacts are there.”
Reluctantly Sam picked up the business card and turned it over. Email, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram…Rufus Ffaukes might look like a good ol’ boy, but he was cannier than he gave out to be.
Rufus quirked his brows as if reading Sam’s mind. “Strange days,” he murmured. Then he turned and walked out of the coffee shop, one leg ever so slightly slower than the other.
Sam stayed seated a moment, tucking the card into his pocket and turning over Rufus’ words.
“Sam?”
The voice coming from behind him was quiet—steady—but its ragged undertone was unmistakable. The scents of cinnamon and vanilla filled Sam’s nostrils. In a coffee shop, maybe those aromas would seem commonplace, but Sam knew that particular fragrance of warm skin and sugar could only come from one person.
He cleared his throat and tried his damnedest to quell the trembling that had started up in his hands.
“Melanie.”
Chapter Four
Somehow Sam propelled himself to his feet and turned to face his wife.
The hope that had unfurled in the pit of his stomach withered as soon as he met her gray eyes. If possible, they were even colder than the last time he’d seen her. Her thick black hair hung nearly to her waist, framing her wide cheekbones and highlighting the dark flecks in her grim regard. She was wearing scrubs: pink, with blue elephants dancing garishly over them. Scrubs weren’t a sexy look even for supermodels, and Melanie was too tall and too curvy to be a supermodel. At 5’10, she’d been the perfect match to his own height but too tall for most men’s comfort level. And she was no slumper, his Melanie. She wore her height and its proportional weight like an Amazon queen. Proportional in Sam’s eyes, at least, although probably heavier than what some magazine would claim as the “perfect weight.” Even in those horrible cotton sacks nurses had to wear, though, she was gorgeous.
Sam wanted to hold her. He wanted to pull those scrubs off of her. He wanted to melt the ice in her eyes and in her veins. But he only held his arms at his sides and waited.
“I saw you were talking to Rufus. He must have already told you about Amy and Amanda.”
“You know Rufus?” Of all the questions he wanted to ask her, that had to be the most inane. He flushed with frustration at himself.
“Yeah.” Her flat tone offered no explanations. “I’m sure he asked you himself, but I’m here to ask you, too.” Her expression made it plain she would rather be anywhere else in the world, but after a sighing exhale, she went on.
“Will you go see Amanda? Try to get her to talk to you? She needs help.”
And there it was. Melanie might rather shave her head than speak to him, but she was a sucker for anyone—or any critter—she thought was in trouble.
Sam searched her gaze for any sign of softening in his own direction but found none. “I think I’m the last person she’d want to talk to, Melanie.”
“I’d think so too, but she certainly isn’t talking to anybody else. The worst that can happen is that she’ll refuse to speak to you, too. And we both know the odds are good that she actually will talk to you. You may suck at being a human being, but people still tell you their secrets. God only knows why.”
The words didn’t even sting.
“If you want me to try, I’ll try.”
Even to his own ears, the phrase was too familiar, and he felt rather than saw Melanie’s invisible flinch.
“Don’t do me any favors,” she told him bitterly. “I’m asking for Amanda. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here. Whatever happened, I know it’s not what it looks like.”
Sam opened his mouth and closed it again, having no idea what to say. Before he could summon up a decent response, Melanie was gone, the sultry afternoon air wafting through the shop door behind her.
“So the princess deigned to honor us with a visit?”
Dani was leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed.
“Dani.” A low-voiced warning.
“What? I’m tired of her injured routine. It’s been over a year. She can either treat you like a human being or move on with her life. I don’t appreciate the way she keeps you dangling.”
“I’d really rather not she move on.”
“Believe me, I know. That’s pretty much the whole reason I hate her. What did the nurse of death want, anyway?”
Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation. Melanie was a hospice nurse, and Dani took a little too much pleasure in the fiction that Melanie made it a practice to hasten natural events along a bit.
“One of her friends, a woman we went to church with, has been arrested for murder. Melanie wants me to go talk to her.”
“Oh. Right. Because you’re the murderer-whisperer. That’s just great. And what’s in it for you? Will Melanie acknowledge your existence for an extra day or two? Maybe murmur your name into her pillow at night?”
Anger flared. “Dani, I know you’ve had a shitty day, but don’t take it out on me.”
Dani capitulated immediately, dropping her arms and crossing the space between them to wrap Sam in a fierce hug. “You’re right, Sam. I’m so sorry. It’s just…I know how hard it is for you to see her, and it makes me crazy. But this is your marriage, not mine. Thank God. You know I’ll support whatever you need to do.”
Reluctantly Sam patted his obnoxious sister on the head. “Well, this has nothing to do with my marriage. Or lack thereof. But I guess if there is a chance that I can help Amanda, I should at least try. Apparently she isn’t talking to anyone, not even her husband. It can’t hurt to go see her.”
Dani pushed back and looked up at him. Her crooked smile dimpled her cheek. “You’re too nice to be a Christian,” she told him. “Those people don’t deserve you.”
“Ha. I think they’d argue that point.”
“Let ‘em.”
“How’s the brat?” Sam gestured up the stairs, ready to change the subject.
“Ugh.” Dani flounced over to the book cart and began sorting discards to reshelve. “Who knows? Too bad you’re not the brat-whisperer instead. I could really use an inside track.”
“Can you see his carpet yet?”
“Actually, yeah. Most of it, anyway. But he’s used his bed to build a blanket fort against the wall, where he’s currently hiding and reading. I don’t have the heart to tell him to take it down. Reading is good, right?”
“Better than running away to join the Hell’s Angels.”
Dani laughed shortly. “Are those my only two options?”
“Seven-year-olds grow up fast these days.”
“I guess I’ll let him keep the reading fort, then.”
Sam forced his lips to smile, picked up a stack of books, and moved into the aisles. He didn’t want to stand under Dani’s shrewd gaze any longer than he had to. Seeing Melanie, hearing her voice, smelling the heat of her skin…he could only pretend at equanimity so long. Inside, he could feel himself cracking open, breaking into all the jagged pieces he kept trying to glue together.
Chapter Five
Even as the stars emerged overhead, the sticky heat of the September day rose from the pavement as Sam’s feet pounded along Monon Trail. Trail was a generous term for the strip of pavement running through Indianapolis where train tracks once studded the ground. Rails to trails, they called the improvement program. At least it was a relatively safe corridor for pedestrian travel, compared to the crowded city streets. Here the dangers were homeless people, gangbangers, and suburban moms pushing jogging strollers rather than cars and trucks and exhaust fumes. Sam wasn’t too worried.
He tried to focus on the sound of his running shoes, on the familiar rhythms of the city evening. Voices rose from backyards, cars rumbled, the White River rushed along its courses, but none of these sounds could block one voice from his ears.
“Sam?”
His mind kept replaying that moment before he’d turned around and seen the cold disdain in his wife’s eyes. That moment when her soft voice clung to his ear, that moment when anything was still possible. When he might have turned and seen something completely different burning in her regard. Something warm and familiar and hopeful.
He knew it was pathetic.
“Sam?”
He ran faster.
Sweat dripped down his back. He remembered burying his face in Melanie’s neck and breathing in that hot cinnamon-vanilla musk while she laughed and pushed him away. “It’s too hot!” she’d protest. He’d throw off the blankets and cover her with his length, still damp from lovemaking, while she howled in mock dismay and punched at his shoulders.
He missed the sound of her laughter. He missed the flavor of her on his tongue. He missed the Melanie who didn’t hate him…
…But that Melanie was gone. He’d as good as buried her himself. Somehow he had to make peace with this cold creature wearing her skin.
Somehow he had to let her go.
Nausea roiled at the unbidden thought. He swallowed the bile.
Sam took the familiar spur to the 24-hour gym where he spent most nights. Eleven o’clock was the perfect hour, he’d decided. All the day-shifters were gone by now, and the night folk hadn’t shown up yet. Sam didn’t need the distraction of all the spandex-clad females stretching and preening or the meatheads posturing as they fought to outdo each other in the mirrors. The few people who straggled in at the same late hour as he did were there for themselves, not for show. Sam was here for the sleep.
The twin bed his sister had offered him in her spare bedroom had become his hell. He didn’t know what was worse: the hours lying awake, or the dreams that came when he finally slept. He’d taken up first running, then the gym, simply in an effort to wear himself out. Even his prayers seemed to stop at the ceiling. Sheer physical exhaustion had become his only refuge. The only thing worse than lying in that bed without Melanie beside him was dreaming she was there.
He used his key card to open the gym door. They didn’t staff the place at night, relying instead on the security cameras and the integrity of their members to keep the riffraff out. Sam didn’t think they ever looked at the camera footage, though, unless there was some kind of complaint. Last winter, he’d taken to letting an old homeless guy named Cotton come in and hang out in the warm, dry gym while he was working out, and no-one seemed the wiser.
Cotton might have been of Mexican descent, or he might have been Native, with iron-gray hair, a short, stout build, and the fluffy white grizzle that Sam assumed had given him his name. He usually had a newspaper tucked under his arm and liked to rant at Sam about the day’s book reviews. Sam didn’t think the fellow ever read any actual books—just the reviews. But any conversations were a welcome diversion from Sam’s own thoughts. Not to mention he didn’t have the heart to walk into the warmth and security of the gym and leave an old man shivering alone in the wet and the cold.
What was it Jesus had said about feeding him when
he was hungry, visiting him when he was imprisoned, and generally being a decent human being?
After all, Cotton always gathered up his papers and trailed out of the gym after Sam when he left, and the old fella caused no trouble. At least, that was how Sam saw it, and nobody had said boo—yet.
But tonight was a balmy autumn evening without a hint of rain, and Cotton was nowhere to be seen. Sam had no idea where he went or how he survived. He seemed self-sufficient, in a half-barmy kind of way, and Sam felt it would be disrespectful to question him. After all, you wouldn’t ask a soccer mom or a businessman where she was sleeping or how he was eating. Just because someone was homeless didn’t make the details of their life public domain. Sam did his thing, and Cotton did his, and occasionally, on cold, wet nights, they shared space for a while.
Tonight, though, Sam’s space was entirely his own. He turned down the volume on CNN. Why, exactly, did gyms always seem to play the news channels? Did people run faster when they felt like they were being pursued by reporters and politicians? Sam snorted and plugged his MP3 player into the speakers instead.
Chris Stapleton’s whiskey-and-cigarettes voice rumbled across the empty gym. Sam grinned to himself. Dani hated country music with a passion most people reserved for liver and onions. But on nights like this, when he had the gym to himself, Sam could blast all the redneck tunes he wanted without compunction. He couldn’t stand the pop stuff they alternated with CNN during the day here. Real country music—not the boy band bilge that was dominating Nashville these days—had just enough of a dispossessed edge to fuel his weight training.
Tonight was arms and chest. He had to check his notebook over and over and still managed to lose count of his reps. His mind kept drifting back to Amy and Amanda and the mad possibility that Rufus had insisted was a reality.
Amy Randolph was dead. And her best friend of twenty years or more, Amanda Garcia, had supposedly done her in.
Sam wasn’t grief-stricken exactly—he hadn’t been close to Amy, but the weight of her absence in the world seemed far heavier than the barbell in his hands. She’d been one of the cool and collected sort, as he’d thought of them—the successful moms juggling home and work and husbands, all with their nails perfectly done. She’d sat through his sermons with her eyes politely fixed in his direction, but she kept her mouth closed during Bible classes, and Sam had no idea what she’d really thought about anything besides pitch-in suppers and the price of gas.
Preacher Sam Page 2