by Ann Yost
“She was kneeling,” Letty blurted. “In front of him.”
Eleanor knew exactly how to compartmentalize. She decided to focus on irritating the old bat.
“Maybe she was praying.”
Letty turned chartreuse. “What is the matter with you, Eleanor? She was most certainly not praying. She had her mouth open and, oh botheration!”
Eleanor waited while Letty sucked in a fortifying breath and delivered the coup de grace.
“He was putting it in there.”
“Putting what? In where?”
“Oh, great heavens! How can you be so obtuse? She was giving him a blow job!”
Eleanor was speechless. It was almost worth the destruction of Denny’s career, and her life, to hear the wicked old spinster use those words. Almost. She still refused to give Letty any satisfaction.
“Eleanor, let me spell it out for you. Your husband, the reverend of St. Michael’s parish is a sinner!”
“That’s enough.”
Eleanor’s tone was stern, and Miss Letty paused. She soon took up the cudgel again.
“A sinner cannot preach the gospel.”
“We’re all sinners, Letty. I challenge you to find anyone, preacher or no, who hasn’t sinned.”
Letty’s nose lifted. “I’m sorry for you, Eleanor. You will, necessarily, be tainted by association.”
“It isn’t necessary, Letty. Not if you don’t speak of this to anyone else.”
“Impossible.”
Eleanor was not above begging. “Wait, then. Until after the pageant. Surely you don’t want to ruin Christmas for the rest of the town.”
Unfortunately, that was just what Letty Appleby wanted.
“It can’t be helped. The man must not be allowed back in the pulpit.”
Eleanor felt her control begin to crack. Fury at Denny seeped through the fortress she kept around her heart. She needed to get away from Letty’s self-righteous vitriol. She had to figure out damage control. She must have looked upset because finally Letty’s face reflected her satisfaction.
“I know this is painful, Eleanor, but consider John 8:32. ‘The truth shall set you free.’”
Eleanor stared at the smug smile. “Matthew 7:1,” she said, softly, “judge not lest ye be judged.”
Letty looked startled but only for an instant. The kettle whistled, and she nodded at it. “I believe I’ll take green tea. It’s good for the digestion.”
It was a ridiculous thing, a tiny, insignificant detail, but Eleanor couldn’t resist. “I’m out of tea,
Letty. How about some hot cocoa?”
****
So far the sleuthing expedition was going very well. Jessie had managed to slip in the side door and up the stairs to the second floor. There was just one small problem she hadn’t anticipated. Storm clouds shrouded the moon, blackening the windows.
She couldn’t see a thing.
She stood in the second floor stairwell waiting for her eyes to adjust. If only she’d brought a flashlight! In her own defense, she hadn’t expected this opportunity to arise. If she were going to solve this alleged crime, she’d better get prepared. Blanche’s white parka was soaked. It was also holding the moisture in, and she was getting cold. She stripped off the heavy garment as she tried to remember what Miss Marple wore on her investigations. Since there was little else she could do, she pressed a tiny knob on her gold watch. The face lit up, a tiny circle of light in the pervasive dark. She was surprised to find it was only eight forty-five.
It felt later. But then it had been a full day.
Her wedding day. And this was supposed to be her wedding night. She pictured a king-sized bed in a breeze-swept island room, and heat flashed through her followed by a stab of horror. The imaginary groom holding her body against his wasn’t tall and blond. Green eyes glittered at her in an unsmiling face. Good grief.
She had to stop thinking about that kiss. She was here in Mystic Hollow to recover, regroup, to find the Jessie that had somehow been lost in the chaos of the Maynard family’s struggles.
Finally, the darkness started to thin. She put her hand on the cement-block wall and started, cautiously, down the darkened corridor toward what she hoped was Prendergast’s office. She wondered if the door would be locked. Would he really be so careless as to leave clues sitting around? She wasn’t sure what she hoped to find.
A pouch of marijuana? A briefcase full of small, unmarked bills?
A sudden loud crash cut off her thoughts and her breath.
“You okay?” A gravelly masculine voice drifted up the stairwell. It did something to her insides.
“Fine,” another male voice responded.
She sucked in a little air. It was Luke and Zach returning the furniture. There was no way they’d know she was there. She just had to hold still until they finished their business and took off.
****
“I’m gonna take off.”
Luke looked up from the table he was drying off with a paper towel from the kitchen.
“Give me thirty seconds. We’ll get a beer.”
Zach didn’t bother to answer. He threw up a hand, strode across the social hall, and out the side door. Luke realized he was disappointed. And worried. He didn’t want to be alone in Blanche’s house with the elf. And he wondered what the hell had happened between his buddy and Francine. He’d bet his new start-up it involved Bobby Ray. Mystic Hollow’s golden boy had always been full of the devil.
Luke shook his head. It wasn’t his problem. He was done with this town and everyone in it. He slid the table into a storage closet and slammed the door then he crumpled the paper towel and lofted it toward a trash can.
“Two points,” he murmured.
He killed the lights, dug his keys out of his pocket, and headed for the side door. A small, unmistakable sound made him freeze with his hand on the knob.
It was a faint, ladylike sneeze.
Damn it all to hell. Someone, and he was pretty sure he knew who, was upstairs snooping around. Blanche’s posse must have floated their murder theory. It didn’t take a sixth sense to know Jessie Maynard would jump at the chance to get involved. She was a born meddler.
He expelled a long breath. It didn’t concern him. It wasn’t his problem. She wasn’t in danger here in the empty church. He felt the knob turn under his hand.
Someone was on the other side of the door.
With the sure coordination that had aided him in football and saved him in the war, he vaulted up the stairs.
****
The private security alarm hidden in his office let off its disturbing beep. Dennis’s hand stilled, and his heart lurched. He wasn’t expecting anybody tonight, but it wasn’t like he controlled his schedule. His gut twisted, and heat surged into his lower body. Shit. Double shit. The sense of uneasiness that had become his constant companion nearly overwhelmed him. It was getting harder and harder to pretend everything was all right. He wished for the thousandth time he hadn’t made a pact with the devil.
He released his erect shaft, removed his hand from his soft, warm sweatpants, and snapped off the tantalizing image on his computer screen. With an irritated grunt, he bent to unlock his bottom desk drawer and grabbed his pistol. He didn’t bother to check for bullets.
The gun was cocked and ready.
Like him.
****
Jessie inhaled the scent she’d noticed earlier at the witch hat house. Pine, maybe, and leather? Definitely testosterone. She heard the downstairs door open and then the clack of stilettos.
Stilettos? Before she could move, a warm hand clapped across her mouth, and an arm came around her waist and tightened. Like a boa constrictor.
She made a little sound.
“Quiet.” The low growl released the rest of the butterflies in her stomach. The ones that hadn’t escaped with Luke’s scent and touch. She suppressed a nervous giggle as she wondered if they were squashed by his powerful arm. Between the overpowering sensation and her collapsed lungs,
she was having trouble breathing.
Suddenly her mouth was free, but she felt herself slung up into the air. One arm flew out to her side in an instinctive effort to catch her balance. Her hand grazed fur and she yipped.
“What?” His voice was a hiss.
“Dead animal,” she whispered.
She felt his washboard stomach ripple against her. The jerk was laughing at her! His voice was so quiet she had to strain to hear it.
“It’s a sheep. This is where they keep the costumes for the Christmas pageant.”
The explanation softened Jessie’s heart. Not only because he’d bothered to make it but because of what it told her about him. He’d been involved enough in this church to know where the camels were kept. He’d come here with Blanche.
In that instant she understood the extent of his loss.
The clack of high heels came closer. Who on earth was it? Not the murderer. Not Prendergast. Unless he was a cross dresser. Jessie had no time to contemplate that concept. A husky voice sliced through the dark.
“Hey, sugar. Is that a gun in your hand, or are you just happy to see me?”
At the sound of a masculine curse, Luke’s muscled arm crushed Jessie’s diaphragm.
“Christ almighty. I almost shot you.”
Jessie’s heart jerked. That had to be Prendergast. And he had a gun! She refused to think about the strong probability that he’d been here the whole time she’d been making her way down the corridor.
“Don’t pretend you’re not happy to see me, baby,” the woman purred. “You’re already hard as a rock.”
“Lois.” There was a low, masculine groan of need. “Yeah, okay,” the preacher gasped. “Harder. Yeah. Like that.”
Lois. Prendergast’s wife’s name was Eleanor. Was the good reverend conducting an affair? Jessie felt a surge of sympathy for the pastor’s plain wife.
“Let’s go to your office, sugar.”
Jessie wilted in relief, but thanks to Luke’s arm she didn’t fall. Thank God for small mercies. At least the dynamic duo weren’t going to carry on in front of them.
“No,” Prendergast puffed. “In here.”
The breathing got louder, harsher, and she heard the rattle of hangers nearby. The fumbling lovers had stumbled into the closet! She couldn’t see anything and surmised they were hidden by some kind of a board or a wall. Maybe part of the stable.
The breathing got heavier, quicker. Jessie prayed they’d talk.
Naturally that prayer went unanswered. Prendergast moaned, and she heard the faint sound of a zipper.
“Pull me out,” Prendergast growled. “Suck me.”
Heat exploded in Jessie. She prayed for a swarm of locusts, an earthquake, one of those rare Virginia monsoons.
Naturally that prayer went unanswered, too.
“You taste good, baby,” the woman said. “Big and warm and hard.”
Another hot flash. This time the embarrassment was mixed with something else as she felt Luke’s muscles clench against her body, and she felt his hot breath on her neck.
“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” the preacher crooned.
Jessie felt her breasts graze the top of Luke’s arm. She smelled his excitement, felt the involuntary response of Luke’s body against hers, and she shuddered as she heard a moan rumble through his chest.
For the first time in her life she felt sympathy for a murderer. This was more than wanting. It was needing. She arched back against him and felt his free hand unfasten her slacks. Then it was on her skin, warm and soothing at first then ticklish and rhythmic. She sucked in her breath as those fingers sought and found the sensitive spot between her legs. She sucked in some more. She wondered at what point she’d black out. And then the rubbing got faster and harder, and she didn’t care.
Jessie couldn’t hold still. She was still imprisoned in his arms, but she twisted against them, against him. Tension piled upon tension until she felt like a rubber band stretched beyond its capacity. She was a rocket about to launch.
“Now,” she whispered.
“Shh,” he said.
He stroked once more. Fireworks. Bursts of sensation pummeled one another until she lay limp in his arms. When it was over, she discovered she still couldn’t breathe.
Once again Luke had his hand over her mouth.
She edged backward and discovered he had a full-scale erection behind his zipper.
Chapter Five
Dennis crumpled on the mauve-and-blue striped sofa like a used condom. He groaned as he felt the cushion depress. Lois. Why didn’t she go home?
“Denny.”
“Hmm?”
“What’re we gonna do about Miss Letty Appleby? She’ll have it all over town tomorrow. Mort’ll kill me.”
Damn. Damn. Damn. “I’ll take care of it.” He said it to shut her up. He just wanted her to leave.
“There’s something else I want to talk to you about.”
“Can it wait? I’m beat.”
She slipped a finger into the waistband of his slacks. He wanted to bat it away. She’d stroked and sucked his flesh until he was sore.
“Do you love me?”
Ah. An easy question. One he’d fielded dozens of times. “’Course I do, sweetheart.”
“Have you thought about the future?”
He couldn’t think about anything but the future. At least the next eight hours of it. He longed for the oblivion of his bed.
“Because I think we’re good together.”
“Uh-huh.” Where the hell was this going?
“I, well, I’m thinking of leaving Mort.” Her laugh was brittle. “Not that he’d notice. He’s only interested in women if they’re dead.”
“Mmm.” Dennis didn’t want to hear about Mort.
“He doesn’t care what I do,” she whined. “In fact, to be truthful, he kind of scares me.”
Dennis could relate.
“He’s unisexual, ya know?”
“Asexual,” he corrected. Like Ellie. He stared at his lover’s heavily made up face. Foundation caked around the crow’s feet around her eyes. Her lipstick was gone, used up on his cock. She looked like what she was: a woman trying to look twenty years younger. The illusion worked pretty well in a bad light.
“You’re just imagining things, honey.”
“Let’s go away together. You’ve got plenty of money.”
He didn’t now, but he would soon. Thanks to his deal with her husband.
“Denny.” Her face was only inches away. He could smell onions. He struggled to push himself off the sofa. He held out a manicured hand and helped her to her feet.
“Come on, honey. It’s late. We’ll sort this out tomorrow, okay?”
“I’ll be working.”
He hid his distaste. Even though the funeral home was housed in the old manse and connected to the church, Dennis gave it a wide berth. Not that it mattered. He’d have his hands full tomorrow morning trying to deal with the Miss Letty crisis.
“Sure,” he lied. “Yeah.”
He’d gotten awfully damn comfortable breaking the commandments. Of course, he’d been doing it for a long, long time.
****
Eleanor Prendergast stretched out in the king-sized bed she shared with her husband. The giant mattress allowed them to pretend they still shared the physical relationship that had been over for years. She’d managed to overlook the affairs, but when she’d discovered her late father had “bought” her a husband, she’d discontinued the sex.
Denny’s greed had merely annoyed her.
Her father’s betrayal had nearly killed her.
During her childhood it had been Eleanor and her father, Felix Mooney, living on the top floor of the Mooney Funeral Parlor. Eleanor helped with everything from bookings to embalmings, from playing the small organ to serving punch at the wakes. She’d been enough for Felix until Gloria Fineman showed up to bury her husband, and the longtime widower fell hard. After that, nothing was the same, and when Denny had asked for her
hand, she’d agreed. It was only later she found out the nuptials had been arranged, and paid for, by Felix himself.
Eleanor’s guts writhed as if it had been yesterday instead of a quarter of a century earlier. She cut off the familiar pain the way she’d turn off a faucet. There was more to concern herself with than ancient history, like Miss Letty’s eyewitness account of Denny’s most recent indiscretion.
Just for a second, for a fragment of a second, she wanted to erase her husband, his lover, and her tale-carrying neighbor from the face of the earth. But only for an instant.
She heard the door open and close. She heard Denny’s quiet footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs. She turned on her side, closed her eyes, and retreated to a happy place: the embalming room in the basement of the Mooney Funeral Parlor some forty years ago.
****
Silence filled the truck cab as Luke drove the half block between St. Michael’s and Blanche’s house. He wished he were any place else. He wished she were any place else. There was no way to open a discussion of the incident without bringing sex into their odd situation.
Hell. Sex was already between them like the proverbial elephant in the room. An elephant with a still hard cock. He shifted in the seat. He’d never been out of his mind like that from just touching a woman. If he didn’t know how inept they were, he’d think Mabel Ruth and the girls had cast a spell on him.
It was abstinence. Had to be. Abstinence with a little chemistry thrown in.
He turned down the alley that ran behind the houses on Cobblestone Lane, and then he pulled into the double driveway behind the house. He thrust the truck into gear, and Jessie yanked on her door handle. It was too high. She’d lose her footing.
“Hang on. I’ll come around.”
“No thanks,” she said, as she pushed open the door. “I’m tired of being treated like a backpack.”
He clamped fingers around her wrist and stared at her. The sun-streaked curls had begun to dry. They formed little “c’s” all over her head.
She looked like a poodle.
“What’re you talking about?”
Her eyes flashed. In the cab’s interior light, they looked like peat water.