The Book of Judges

by Traci Tyne Hilton

  The Book of Judges

  A Maura Garrison Mystery

  Traci Tyne Hilton

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  The Hands of a Woman

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Rick was just going through a thing. That was my number one takeaway from the staff wives’ retreat. Just a thing that forty-five-year old men go through. The man was brilliant, compassionate, and looked like Don Draper, so temptation was his daily battle. I had to have a little sympathy, didn’t I? After all, I knew he was a flirt when I married him.

  And, as the other wives kept reminding me, neither his midlife crisis, nor Izzy’s internship would last forever. I had no reason at all to freak out or start talking to lawyers or anything like that.

  After all, nothing had happened.

  It was all in my head.

  This too shall pass.

  For better or for worse.

  Rick would never cheat. Not the Rick they knew.

  I kicked off my shoes at the front door and made my way to the kitchen.

  I had no reason to overreact. Getting away and getting some perspective had been the right thing to do but getting home early was even better.

  Right?

  The light was on in our little kitchen, and the room smelled like his special stash of hazelnut coffee—that was one thing I had always liked about him. His early-rising ways meant I never had to wake up to an empty coffee pot. I glanced at the microwave. It was already eight. I had left a day early and first thing in the morning so I could see him before work. I had to make it good.

  I yawned, then filled a cup.

  The patient wisdom of our head pastor’s wife had assured and reassured me. After twelve years it was reasonable to experience boredom, or even a feeling of neglect, but I didn’t have to live with it, and being bored didn’t mean he’d stray. Not Rick.

  “Maura, I’ve been there. A lot of us have. It doesn’t feel fair to have to put effort into something when you feel neglected, but I promise you that if you reach out to him, you will find him. He’s right there, just as lost as you are, trying to find a way to make love last forever. It’s hard to be the one to take the first step, but you won’t be sorry if you do. Be creative,” she told me. “Be flexible.”

  That was the “word” I had been given. Flexible. Bend like a reed, don’t let my marriage break like a dead tree.

  How best to do that this morning? There was always the detective outfit…definitely his favorite part of my line of work. I gulped down my coffee and hit up the coat closet for my fedora and trench coat. It took a minute to shift out of everything else. The Spanx I wore to impress the ladies on the retreat were hard to peel off, but I got it done. It was a pity my garter harness was up in the room with him.

  I slipped into the coat, red-faced and heart racing. It had been too long since we had just been silly together. I tiptoed up the stairs, skipping the squeaky one all-together. A day early and naked under the coat. If this wasn’t putting in a little extra effort and being creative, I didn’t know what was.

  The door was open a crack. I stood to the side, so he couldn’t see me. How best to surprise him? Coat open or shut? Off one shoulder or tightly wrapped? I tilted the hat over one eye and dropped the coat to the floor. I stifled a giggle. I felt like a fool but held out my finger like a gun and kicked the door open.

  “Freeze!”

  “Oh!”

  Izzy.

  Half-naked.

  On my bed.

  Painting her toenails.

  My feet were cemented to the threshold, my jaw welded shut. A cold breeze across my chest reminded me I was stark raving naked.

  Izzy stared at me, her eyes wide, doe-like. Freaking adorable.

  My face was steaming hot—blistering—I made to cross my arms over myself, but I couldn’t, too naked. Too exposed. Too much wanting to strangle Izzy. My fingers twitched as I stared at her long, pale neck.

  “Oh!” Izzy’s mouth made one of those cute round shapes, like a cartoon.

  I closed my eyes. I took one deep breath—round breathing. I needed to do the round breathing. It would help with the thinking and the freezing in one spot. I couldn’t exhale.

  Dear God, I prayed.

  Prayed?

  It jolted me, this instinctive action—this habit I had formed in high school youth group. I lunged forward. “Get out. Get out. Get out.”

  Izzy jumped to her feet, standing there in her underpants, staring at me. “I-I-I—”

  “Get. Out.” I wanted to scream obscenities, but my jaw wouldn’t let me. I wanted to run but my feet wouldn’t let me. I wanted Izzy to get out, but I stood between her and the door. She stared, and then jerked her head back up to my face.

  I tried not to stare at her and her tiny pink lace underpants.

  My coat, on the floor, was too far away. I couldn’t reach it. I wouldn’t reach it. I squared my shoulders and faced her: “Get out.”

  Izzy jumped off the bed, standing bare foot on the antique rug, the lid of the nail polish bottle hovering there, in her shaking hand, ready to drip. “I-I-I—Rick—he’s coming right back. Just getting donuts.”

  “Get. Out.” I wanted to scream some kind of war cry and grab her by her thin shoulders and shake her. I wanted to ask her what her mother would think of what she was doing. I wanted to cry on Rick’s shoulder and tell him I was having a horrible nightmare.

  Her eyes kept wandering behind me, to the open door, like she was hunting for a way to escape.

  I didn’t want her to escape. I wanted her to never have existed.

  I took one deep breath, and stepped away from the door, slow motion, my feet like blocks of cement. “If you do not get out of my house right now…” my flow of words stopped as suddenly as they started. My jaw quivered like a bow string after the arrow was let to fly, but I knew the words had missed their mark, because a half smile replaced the confusion and fear on her face.

  “Yes, right. Of course,” she murmured as she grabbed a something black and strappy that hung off the edge of the night stand and clasped it to herself. Her eyes, messy with last night’s mascara searched the room, possibly for the rest of her clothes.

  The room I had moved into twelve years ago as Pastor Rick Style’s new, young, kind of scandalous wife. My room.

  No, his room.

  His house.

  Always his. He had had it before I came along and would have it...would have it...I couldn't say it, not even in my head.

  Everything had always been his, and about him. And I had been along for the ride, swept up in the excitement of being with him, his charismatic personality, his groundbreaking theories, the crowds of people who attended his conferences. I was one among the many people mad about Rick Styles. Just like Izzy.

  Izzy reached a long slender arm for a pair of jeans puddled on the floor. She slipped them on like they were no big deal. Like she was perfectly comfortable. She pushed her red hair out of her eyes with a pale hand. But her lips trembled, just a little.

  His house.

  His bed.

  His lover.

  His midlife crisis was
not all in my head.

  I took a step backwards, my foot catching on the belt of my trench coat. I wobbled, then steadied myself against the wall. I reached for the coat, the smooth fabric slipping as I tried to cling to it.

  My feet came unstuck and I ran, right down the stairs and outside.

  I stood barefooted on the concrete step, coat clenched to my front, and prayed I could get control of myself.

  Prayed. What a joke. I had prayed and been prayed over more this week than ever before in my life and look what it had gotten me.

  I shimmied into my coat, closing my eyes to the staring windows of my neighbors’ houses. They had seen my husband bring his lover home while I was away. Nothing they saw now was worse than that.

  Rick’s black cat was asleep on the still-warm hood of my car. I scooped her into my arms. She purred and nuzzled, her warm body calming me even though I wanted to be angry. He loved this cat like a baby.

  I told him cats made my asthma act up.

  He told me her glossy black fur reminded him of my hair.

  I popped open the car door and carried the cat in with me.

  If he got Izzy, I got Rhoda.

  He could have a broken heart, too.

  Rhoda curled up on top of my overnight bag in the passenger seat.

  The heavy clouds that hung over our tree-lined street burst, and rain pounded the windshield as I drove away. I circled the block twice.

  Go back. Claim my territory. Kick her out. Confront Rick and his donuts.

  But going back might be dangerous.

  I couldn’t afford another assault charge.

  I went to my office across town, instead. My own office, that I paid for with my own income. The place where I could go when I didn’t want to be “Pastor Rick’s wife.” The place I was known as “Maura Garrison, Private I

  * * *

  I lugged my rolling overnight bag up the staircase of my office building, each thump my mother’s voice, echoing in my head: But you’re too young to get married. But your daddy and I don’t trust him. But why does a man his age want to marry a nineteen-year-old girl? But what about your dreams and your future? I had been so mad at my parents, so determined to show them how perfect he was.

  I was even angrier now.

  I shivered, the cold coming from deep within as I pictured him coming home to Izzy, box of donuts in hand, that half-smile of his, with one dimple in his cheek. I bashed the suitcase against the last step to banish the image of his face from my mind.

  The office was dry but freezing. I clicked on the little wall heater and hoped it would warm up enough for me to live through a long day. Rhoda wove between my feet, tail snaking around my ankles, her purrs reminding me I wasn’t alone, and that I’d have to get a cat box.

  I yanked down the blinds on the office door and stripped off my wet coat. Pastor’s wife. Ha. He was no more a man of God than I was a submissive little wifey.

  I hung my coat from the hook by the door and got my robe out of my suitcase. At least I had a roof and a bathroom. I wasn’t on the street. I would only be here long enough to call the lawyer and find a real place to live. That would be simple once my little detective business was back in the black. One sticky divorce case would solve my cash flow problem.

  The closest thing I had to a bed was the lumpy little love seat I had insisted on getting. Like a premonition. When we bought the desk and chair, the computer and phone, I had known I would need this little guy. I curled up in the corner of my lumpy little love seat and stared at my phone.

  Facebook wanted to know what I was feeling. How would I describe my feelings right now? …abandoned? horrified? gutted? I itched to post that Pastor Rick Styles, popular family and marriage psychologist was a cheating snake so that I could ruin his life forever, the way he had just ruined mine.

  Maybe Facebook wasn’t a good idea right now.

  I switched to the news.

  Elections. Syria, Afghanistan. Marijuana. The usual.

  A local body found in the Columbia River Gorge at a popular scenic viewpoint. The identity of the body hadn’t been released to the press yet. Cause of death not known. Big toes and thumbs chopped off.

  I shuddered and pulled my robe tighter. That was the last crime I’d want to investigate. Sicko killers were the worst. Give me a cheating husband to follow any day instead.

  Though one cheating husband, as it turned out, was more than enough.

  I pressed my hands to my eyes. My head wasn’t enjoying this day at all. Rhoda jumped to the couch and settled at my feet.

  I petted her with my toes, but then gently nudged her to the floor. She could live with me, because she deserved better than Rick, but she couldn’t sleep with me. Not if I wanted to keep breathing.

  I exhaled, slowly. Despite my life-long cat allergies, Rick had insisted on getting Rhoda. He didn’t want a dog. Or a fish. Or anything I could live with comfortably. As it turned out, he didn’t want me, either. Too bad it took him twelve years to figure it out.

  A border of wallpaper circled the room. Yellow roses. I hated yellow roses. I hated Rick for picking it out and putting it up. I hated myself for not stopping him.

  I got up and used the narrow back of the love seat as a step stool. “No, thank you.” I spit the words out. “Yellow makes people anxious. I want them to be calm in my office.” I scratched at the bottom edge of the border until it lifted, then I pulled. A long, thin strip peeled away. I let it flutter to the ground and scratched at the wall again. One long strip after another. I sidled along the love seat frame ripping a piece all the way to the door. I leaned to the side, on my tiptoes, and kept pulling.

  Rhoda jumped up with me and put herself between my feet, purring.

  I gripped the door trim to stabilize myself and stepped around the cat, balancing on one foot, on my tip toes, just as my hip started to vibrate. Elvis Costello’s “Watching the Detectives” blared. I wobbled. I clutched at the door trim, but it caught my fingernail and ripped it as I fell. My hip bashed the doorknob, sending a shot of pain up and down my side. I landed on my seat, a thud to the tailbone that shivered up my spine. I gulped for a breath.

  I kicked the door with my bare foot.

  I kicked it again, but it wasn’t enough.

  The door wasn’t Rick.

  I scooted across the floor and leaned against my desk. The phone had stopped ringing, but I pulled it out again anyway and checked my new message.

  “Maura? This is Linda from Metro. I hope you aren’t busy. I’ve got another job for you. Did you hear about the body in the Gorge? He’s one of ours, and I need you to learn what he did that got him killed.”

  I banged my head against the desk. The corpse was a Metro guy. Mutilated by a sicko and he worked for the city.

  No, I did not want this job. Not in the slightest.

  Too bad I needed it.

  * * *

  I pulled myself together as fast as I could and met Linda Smith at a crowded coffee shop downtown. It was still early morning, and the shop was full of people on their way to work. “Safety in numbers?” I thought I’d lighten the mood, but it didn’t work.

  Linda was a short, round woman. She had the dimpled cheeks and big eyes that made you think in a few years, she’d be the favorite grandmother, but she wasn’t smiling today. “Safety…that's about right. I wanted to see everyone who might be listening to us.” Her dark hair was soaked, and her face was ashen. She took her coat off and hung it on the back of her chair, doing her best to keep it from dripping on the seat.

  The shop was warm, almost steaming, and the stink of people in wet wool battled with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. The coffee wasn’t winning. Rain smeared windows let very little light into the long, dark café, giving us a sense of privacy though we were surrounded by people.

  “This morning the medical examiner called me to identify the body they found at Crown Point. It was…” she choked on her words. “It was my friend Adam DeMarcus. They called me because I was the last cal
l on his cell phone.”

  “Do they suspect you were involved?”

  She lowered her voice. “The medical examiner didn’t say anything one way or the other, but the police asked a lot of questions.”

  “Were you involved?” I had known Linda for a while, but I didn’t know her well enough to assume she was innocent. After this morning’s run-in with Izzy, my ideas about who could be driven to murder had altered.

  “Not at all. Adam and I have been working on a program we are incredibly passionate about.” She struggled for words—her lips trembling. “I can’t even begin to believe he is gone.” Linda’s eyes looked stricken, but her pretty face was still, as though Botox was preventing her from grieving. “Our program is one of those things that we had to fight for. Adam’s murder…it was gruesome. People don’t do that just for kicks.”

  I nodded. I had to agree. Mutilating a body was a next-level kind of killer.

  “If Adam was involved in something that got him killed, I need to know. This death is going to be all over the news, and I can’t have our work derailed.” She pressed a napkin under her eyes, dabbing gently.

  “What do you mean?" I wasn’t following her well, but maybe the distressed state of my mind was at fault. Was she hiring me to catch the killer or not?

  "If Adam Demarcus was involved in some kind of illicit activity that got him killed, we need to know.”

  That seemed obvious to me, motive being one of the main things we private investigators looked for, but the way she bit her bottom lip made it look like she had something else in mind.

  “And we need to put a spin on it, fast. There are people who would do anything to stop our work. If they plaster his sins all over the media, they will finally get what they have been after."