One Deadly Sin

by Annie Solomon

  “I heard it had something to do with trouble at the plant.”

  “Look, are you going to believe the bunch of old ladies here?”

  “C’mon, Lucy, give.”

  The older woman sighed. “Oh, all right. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She settled herself against the bar, sipping her drink. “Years and years ago, they say someone got in trouble over at Hammerbilt. Money trouble. Embezzling. Cooking the books. Something like that. Some said he was innocent, but most were sure he wasn’t. Then he proves them right by killing himself.”

  No fun to hear her own history played back as if it belonged to a stranger. But she urged Lucy on. “And that ties in to the black angel—how?”

  “The family—his wife, mother, who knows, they buy this angel for the grave. And overnight the thing turns black.”

  Edie laughed. “Get out of here.”

  “I told you it was nonsense.”

  Red leaned in. “You can go out to the cemetery and see for yourself. Big old black angel, like a devil’s messenger standing over the grave.” He gestured her in closer. “They say it’ll turn white again when he’s proven innocent.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes. “They also say only a virgin can survive its touch.”

  “Guess that leaves you out,” Red said, and Lucy whacked him.

  “Hey—Edie!” To her left, someone signaled an order. She hustled over to the other side of the bar and served a couple of beers to her regulars—Russ Elam and Howard Wayne.

  “You heard about the black angel they found with Fred Lyle’s body?” Howard asked.

  “Nothing but,” Edie said. “Not to mention a lot of stuff about a dead man’s grave.”

  “Gives me the creeps,” Howard said. “Could be some kind of devil worship that backfired.”

  “Shut up, Howie,” Russ said. “It’s too early for Halloween.”

  “Yeah, but I’ve seen that grave,” Howard said. “And the black angel standing over it.”

  “Well, keep swilling that beer, you’ll see a whole bunch of black angels,” Russ said, and everyone nearby laughed.

  Edie twisted her mouth into a smile, but she wasn’t laughing. Fred Lyle got what he deserved, didn’t he? The ruckus his death provoked was only justice doing its work.

  She scanned the bar, seeing who else she could pump for reaction. Someone new had arrived.

  Holt Drennen. He wore his uniform, or what consisted of his uniform. Those sexy jeans and the black T-shirt with the chief’s star over his breast. About the closest thing to a uniform was the hip-length black jacket with the star on the sleeve and his name on the front. And if she was in doubt about who he was, there was always the handcuff case attached to his waist at the back. And the utility belt with whatever else a cop carried these days. Asp. Mace. Ammo. Holster.

  “I’m here to collect that coffee you owe me,” he said to her when she sidled up to him at the bar.

  She put a cup in front of him and poured it from the carafe Red kept hot. She put sugar and milk in front of him, but he sipped it black and eyed her over the rim of the cup.

  Holt could see she was in her element—wiseass smile at the corners of her mouth and a wink for everyone. He’d seen her laughing with the guys from the plant. He liked the look of that grin on her face. Black hair falling into her eyes and over her shoulder. Half of it up, the other half wild and sleep-tossed.

  But he hadn’t come for the look of her. Okay, not just for the look of her. He’d come to see what the town telegraph was saying about Fred Lyle’s death. He’d had hints of it all day. The dismissive look in Sam’s face when she came back from lunch. Scoffing at rumors but buying them, too. Hedging her bets on the afterlife and messages from beyond the grave. If feet-on-the-ground Sam was shaken he could only imagine what the rest of the town was saying. Red’s was the perfect place to find out.

  “So what’s the big talk tonight?”

  She washed a couple of glasses. “Fred Lyle. Black angels. Did you know there’s a angel over a grave somewhere, turned black overnight?”

  “Yeah, I heard that.”

  “Is it true?”

  “Well there’s a black angel in the cemetery. But I have a feeling there’s a logical explanation.” He paused dramatically. “Oxidation. I hear it happens. Naturally.”

  “You don’t believe in magic?”

  “Not so much.” But he remembered finding the black angel in Fred Lyle’s hand. An uneasy shimmer ran through Holt.

  “They’re talking devil worship, too.”

  Holt frowned. That’s the kind of talk he was hoping to avoid. “Seriously?”

  Eddie shrugged. “Just passing it on.” She grabbed a bar towel and began to dry the glasses she’d washed. “So what’s Lyle’s death going to do to the town?”

  “Besides give everyone something to talk about for a while?”

  “Lyle was heading up the ladder. Didn’t that put the plant on the map? What will happen to Hammerbilt without Fred Lyle to lobby for it?”

  Holt ran a finger around the rim of his coffee cup. Her question implied a deeper interest in the town than he thought she had. And a deeper understanding of the connections between Redbud’s various economic sectors. So maybe she was serious about putting down roots. Oddly, the thought depressed him. Like caging a wild bird. “There’d been talk of expansion and Redbud was ready for it. Lyle’s promotion might have put the town at the top of the list. Now, with the economy in the ditch, it’s anyone’s guess.”

  “Seems like the town’s betting on it. I saw someone’s building a country club on the north side.”

  “Why not? Golf course, pool. Even us hicks need our relaxation.”

  She gave him an ironic smile. “You play golf?”

  “I like a game with a bigger defense.”

  “So what’s your poison? Football? Basketball?”

  “Why—you going to challenge me?”

  “Maybe.”

  He laughed. Downed his cup and rose from the bar stool. “Thanks for the java.”

  “Any time, Chief. Want to keep the law happy.”

  “I’ll remember that.” He gave her a mock salute and sauntered out.

  And Edie watched him go. All the way to the door and out into the night. Didn’t his back view look just fine.

  9

  Two days later, the town buried Fred Lyle, and in honor of the funeral, Red closed the bar. Edie used the day off to visit the Redbud Public Library.

  All copies of the Gazette had been stored, but issues before the turn of the new century were still on microfiche. The librarian led Edie to a back room, showed her how to search the shelves for the dates she wanted and how to use the microfiche machine. Edie thanked her, waited for her to go, then pulled out the box dated July 5, 1989.

  She didn’t have to do much searching. The article was right there on the front page. Familiar words burst out at her. Charles Swansford, Accounting Manager, Hammerbilt. She skimmed them, searching for the unfamiliar. But it wasn’t until July 8 that she found it.

  Arlen Mayborne, accounting assistant, was quoted as saying, “He was a nice man. Easygoing. I never would have suspected a thing.” And the comptroller, Alan Butene: “This is a tragedy on many levels. For me personally, I’ve lost a friend and a colleague.”

  What did it all add up to? She could never get her mother to talk about the day her father died. Where had he gone? Who had he seen? And had any of it forced him to the edge of despair? What had happened between leaving the house that morning and throwing himself over the edge of the old quarry that afternoon?

  If she could only figure that out, she would have the answer to the biggest question of her life: why? Why did he step off that ledge? Was he guilty of mismanaging plant funds, as everyone said? A coward? She didn’t want to believe that. Her mother never did. But what else could she conclude?

  She was staring at the microfiche machine when she felt a presence in the room. A child stood in the doorway gazing at her. One of those bea
utiful kids, with perfect features and silky blonde hair cut bluntly at her chin.

  “What’s that?” She pointed to Edie’s shoulder, and Edie looked down at the tattoo emblazoned there.

  “A swan.”

  “Why do you have a swan there?”

  “It’s my name. Edie Swann.”

  The kid took that in, continued staring at her intently.

  Edie never saw herself as the family type. Kids made her nervous with their innocence and trust. This one looked really young. Five? Six? Edie swallowed, not knowing what to say, and wished the kid would go away.

  Instead, she walked in, right up to Edie’s chair. “Can I touch it?”

  Geez. “Uh…”

  The little girl took that grunt for permission, and before Edie could stop her she’d climbed up on her lap. Tiny fingers traced the outline of the blue and gold wings. “How did you do that?”

  At least this was easy. Informational. “It’s called a tattoo. You go to a special store and they use needles and ink.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  Truth or lie? Experience had taught Edie that kids were too sheltered by half. “Yeah,” she said. “It does.”

  “So why’d you do it?” Her wide green eyes seemed to peer right into Edie demanding an answer.

  “You ever do something you know might hurt but you do it anyway because it’s fun or because you want to see if you can take it?”

  “I jumped off the swings in the park once.”

  “You hurt yourself?”

  She nodded solemnly, and Edie shrugged as if to say, “See what I mean?”

  “What’s that?” The girl pointed to the pinup below the swan.

  “Betty Boop.”

  The kid giggled. “Betty Poop.”

  “Very funny,” Edie said dryly. But couldn’t resist a smile.

  “Miranda!” A small, compact woman with a head of short blonde curls, messy yet attractive, stood in the doorway where the kid had first stood. The mother? Edie took a closer look. Youthful, but not young.

  “Good Lord, Miranda, what on earth are you doing? You know you’re not supposed to wander off.” The scolding seemed to roll right off the little girl. She didn’t budge. The woman turned to Edie. “I am so sorry she bothered you.”

  “I didn’t, did I?” Miranda asked Edie.

  “Uh… no.” What else was she going to say? And besides, Edie realized, it was true.

  “Come on, now, get down.”

  Miranda hopped down from Edie’s lap. “Can I have a swan on my shoulder, too?” Miranda asked the older woman.

  “What?” The woman looked confused.

  Edie pointed to her shoulder. “I think she means this.”

  “A tattoo?” The woman laughed. “Miranda Drennen, you never cease to amaze me.”

  The name caught Edie off guard. “Drennen?”

  “Oh, yes, bless your heart. I’m sorry. I’m Mimsy Drennen. Miranda’s my granddaughter.” She extended a hand.

  “Edie Swann.” Mimsy’s grip was firm and brief but not unfriendly. “Any relation to the chief?”

  “That’s my daddy,” Miranda said.

  “Your… daddy?” It never occurred to her that Holt might have a child. She gave the kid another look, trying not to stare. Holt’s green eyes looked back at her.

  “Do you know my son?” Mimsy asked.

  “He’s the chief of police, isn’t he? I’d guess most people know who he is.” Edie said it lightly and hoped Mimsy wouldn’t see the answer for the dodge it was. Interest in Holt was bad enough, but his mother and his kid? That had to be a full-fledged disaster. But before she could figure out a way of avoiding it, Miranda intervened.

  “I want a swan on my shoulder,” she demanded.

  “Absolutely not,” Mimsy said.

  “Why?”

  “Tattoos are for grown-ups, that’s why.”

  “I want to be grown up,” Miranda said.

  “Don’t I know it. And much too fast if you have anything to say about it.” Mimsy lifted the girl up. “Come on, child, we’ve got to get home.”

  Miranda waved over her grandmother’s shoulder, and against her better judgment, Edie found herself waving back.

  She returned to the microfiche thinking of Holt. Lately she’d been doing a lot against her better judgment, hadn’t she?

  10

  Fred Lyle’s funeral left Redbud quiet all over town. Holt sent Sam to direct traffic into and out of the small town cemetery, which would overflow with family, friends, and plant workers. While the rest of the town was burying one of its own, Holt ran a street patrol. No better time for a robbery than when half the town was away.

  But Redbud was silent and calm, its houses small and tidy. And on the east side they were shabbier, strewn with automobile parts and kids’ toys. But he saw no broken windows or signs of vandalism that hadn’t been there before. Nothing out of the ordinary until he got to one weedy yard. Leaning against a detached outbuilding that was once a garage stood a motorcycle.

  Holt knew the house well, had cleaned up several drug operations there. He’d have to talk to Runkle again. The grass needed mowing, the house needed painting. It looked forlorn and abandoned. No wonder one scumbag after another thought it the perfect place to set up shop.

  He parked. Got out of the car and crept up the front steps. The door was locked, the curtains drawn. Slowly, he eased his way around back.

  Someone was sitting on the back stoop, turned away from him. But he’d recognize that head of hair anywhere.

  “Edie?”

  The surprise on her face mirrored his own. “What are you doing out here?” she asked.

  “Just what I was going to ask you.” He crossed to the stoop, stood with a foot on one step.

  “Meeting a real estate agent. Dennis Runkle.”

  Holt’s eyebrows rose. “Real estate? This place?”

  She shrugged. “It’s affordable.”

  “Not when you look at the repair bills.”

  “It’s criminal the way this place has been neglected. You definitely should be arresting someone.”

  “I did. Cleaned up a drug gang here. Saw the bike out front. Thought someone was starting it up again.”

  She raised her hands. “Not me. Just looking for a place to live besides Red’s.”

  “So the bike’s yours?” He glanced at her curiously. Jealously even. “Nice ride you got there.” He let that float away. Gestured to the run-down house. “So… planning on staying a while?”

  Edie scanned the yard. She’d come straight from the library, not knowing what she’d find, but not expecting this. The grass had given up fighting with the weeds, which were knee high in some places. Her grandmother’s house was riddled with neglect and abandonment.

  “I don’t know.” She rose, pushed through the weedy thicket to the elm tree in the south corner. “Maybe.” A souvenir of better times, remnants of a tire swing hung from a branch. The thick rope her father had used to fasten it had been replaced by blue nylon. While most of the tire was gone, that indestructible nylon noose hung on. She pushed the piece of black rubber still attached to it. Squeals of laughter echoed in her memory.

  Holt joined her. “Wouldn’t be hard to fix. New tire, new rope. Back in business.”

  If only fixing the rest was as easy. A wave of sadness rolled over her and she turned back to the house. White paint peeled off the back wall and rust spotted the metal edges of the screen door.

  “Don’t think I’ll be needing it,” she said. Maybe this was a bad idea. Too much memory could drown her.

  Well, drowning was always a risk. Wasn’t that why Aunt Penny never brought her back here?

  “Why can’t you leave the past where it belongs?” she always complained, even in those last days.

  “Because it’s with me. Always,” Edie had replied, handing her a glass of water with a straw. Her aunt had shriveled to almost nothing, stopped eating, barely drank anything. She wanted to die, and it made Edie furious. As
if egging on the anger, Penny waved the glass away, shifted in the hospice bed, and turned her face to the wall.

  Edie gritted her teeth. “Please,” she begged. “You’re the only person who can tell me now, the only one left.” Her voice cracked. Tears of anger and frustration began to sting, and Edie swiped at her eyes.

  With a grunt of pain, Aunt Penny turned to face her niece. “You’ll be all right, cookie,” she whispered. “You’re strong. You’ll be fine.”

  “Easy for you to say,” Edie said. “You’re not the one who’ll be alone.”

  Her aunt managed a choked cackle. “I’ll be the one dead.”

  “You and everyone else.”

  Her aunt patted the bed weakly. Edie sat, and her aunt took her hand. “Why do you tramp through the world with your fists up? Don’t you know there are some things can’t be changed? No matter how hard we wish for them.”

  “I just want to know what happened. Please.”

  “All right. Don’t have the strength to battle with you anymore. Though I don’t think it’ll bring you much peace.”

  And after all the times she’d asked, Penny had finally given her what she wanted. A week later she was dead. Edie stayed to see her buried, packed up the apartment, gave away her clothes. A month after the funeral she pulled into Redbud. Alone, adrift, and ready for payback.

  “If you’re serious about buying, I’m sure you could do better than this.” Holt pushed the tire remnant, and they watched it swing.

  “If I had the cash, you mean.”

  “If you had the brains,” Holt corrected.

  Just then the voice called out, thick with false cheer. “Halloo?”

  “Back here,” Edie shouted.

  A small, energetic man with a golf course tan emerged around the corner. He wasn’t young, but he was well-preserved. Expensively dressed. And the hand he extended to shake had a thick gold bracelet on it.

  “Miss Swann? Dennis Runkle.” A wide smile accompanied Runkle’s outstretched hand. He looked from her to Holt. “Nice to see you, too, Chief. Problem?”

  Holt shook his head. “Just making sure you don’t sell Miss Swann a bill of goods.”