One Deadly Sin

by Annie Solomon

  He kept his distance, eyeing her. “Why?”

  “I want you to arrest me.”

  His face congealed. He ran his tongue over his lips. “You’re confessing?”

  “No.”

  The freeze softened. He came to life, frowned, plowed ahead, and unlocked the door. “But you want to go to jail.”

  “No.”

  “Edie—”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  He opened the door to the police department, turned on the light, and threw his keys on the desk. They clattered into the quiet, a jangling, impatient sound that echoed the look he shot her.

  “I have nowhere else to go.”

  He sat on a corner of the desk, crossed his arms, stared at her balefully. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No.”

  “Something wrong with Red’s?”

  “He kicked me out.”

  “He kicked you—”

  “Fired me first, of course. And since it’s your fault for dragging me off in handcuffs in front of the whole damn town, I figure you owe me. And hell”—she laughed shortly—“it’s where everyone thinks I belong anyway.”

  Holt took his time responding. Unraveled himself from the desk. Stood. Stepped closer. Pondered her thoughtfully.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Are you?”

  He shrugged.

  “You find my bike keys?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Lock me up, then.”

  “Edie—”

  “It’s jail or a park bench. And if it’s a park bench you’ll only arrest me for loitering, which means I’ll end up back here anyway. Why don’t we just cut out the middle step?”

  He sighed. Grabbed a set of keys from a desk drawer. “Just for tonight.”

  She followed him into the cell room. “My keys going to turn up tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Translation: not likely.

  She threw herself on the cot, and he stood inside the cell leaning against the bars. “You stop by the church on your way to my house the night of the party?”

  Oh, God, not this again. “You know I didn’t. Why?”

  “Parsley was murdered, Edie. And I can prove it. The first one that can’t be explained away as an accident or natural causes.”

  The news sent her bolting up. “I thought…” A wave of dizziness rattled her, and she put a hand to her head to steady herself. “I thought he drowned.”

  “Only looked like it.” Holt eyed her coldly, accusation all over his face.

  Oh, God. Tears ached in the back of her throat. Holt was close enough to touch, but farther away than the other side of the world. “I didn’t do it, Holt.”

  “Do what?” His voice was soft, sad.

  “Whatever. Whatever whoever did to make it look like he drowned.” In her head she was pleading with him. Believe me, Holt. Believe. “Isn’t it possible this death isn’t connected to the others? Maybe they were what they appeared to be—a heart attack and a car wreck. And if that’s true, why would I kill Parsley?”

  “He was on your list. You sent him an angel. You even seemed to know something would happen.”

  “Suspected,” she reminded him.

  Silent now, he searched her face as if something there would determine her guilt or innocence if only he could probe deeply enough. Unable to face his doubt and that searing examination, she turned away.

  “What do you know about Alan Butene?” he said at last.

  She expected more hectoring, so the question took her by surprise. “Who?”

  “Alan Butene.”

  It took a minute to register. “Just a name on a list, Holt.”

  “And you don’t know anything about him?”

  “I know he was the plant comptroller till he retired a couple of years ago. I know he’s dead. Why?”

  “Do you know how he died?”

  “No.”

  “He fell off a ladder.”

  “So?”

  “So he was the first accident.”

  “The first—oh.” Possibility opened inside her. “No black angel either. What does that mean?”

  “Means you weren’t around. Means it was an accident. Means—I don’t know what it means.”

  Silence settled between them again. Holt seemed to be examining the tile in the cell floor, and once again, she had the opportunity to stare at him. This time, she let the ache come. It was a yearning she must have been born with, she’d felt it so long—for acceptance, for arms to enclose her with esteem, for a place that was truly hers and not just a pull-out bed in the corner.

  And then, when the longing threatened to become unbearable, she did as she always did. Set her jaw, raised her chin, placed the chip on her shoulder, and silently dared anyone to knock it off.

  By that time, Holt had lifted his eyes and was studying her again.

  “Maybe it means I had nothing to do with the others either,” she said softly.

  He looked directly at her. “Maybe.”

  “Do you know Mrs. Butene?”

  “I do.”

  More silence. Edie didn’t want to ask. Didn’t want to risk an answer she wouldn’t like. But desperation shoved like a bull at her back.

  “So… does this mean”—she cleared her throat, the words sticking there—“that you believe me? That you don’t think I killed anyone?”

  Holt’s mouth twisted. “It means I want to believe you, God help me.”

  Everything inside her wanted to whoop and holler, except something in his face stopped her.

  “But?”

  “But I have to prove it first.”

  32

  Edie didn’t know where Holt spent the night, except that it wasn’t with her. Which was fine. After their conversation, he could be in Bangalore and she would have felt closer to him than she had in weeks. And this time when she woke inside Redbud’s single jail cell, she wasn’t staring at the scrubbed face of Deputy Fish, but at the green eyes of her boss.

  “Rise and shine,” he said.

  She moaned and sat up. Rubbed the sleep from her face. “Is it noon yet?”

  “It’s just after six.”

  She slid into her shoes. “You’re kidding.” He opened the cell door and she passed in front of him on the way out. “Where am I supposed to go at six in the morning?”

  “At least you can get more sleep. I’ve got work to do. And,” he added casually, “a meeting with Hally Butene to arrange.”

  She stopped, eyes widening, and was tempted to fling herself into his arms. But he had a gleam in his eyes as if he knew it, so she yawned instead. “Great. When’s it gonna be? Where does she live?”

  He gathered his keys, checked his cell phone, patted his pockets for whatever else he never left without. “Let’s go. I want to stop at Red’s and get your stuff.” He ushered her out of the office and into his car. This time she sat in the front.

  “I don’t need my stuff.”

  He shot her a glance. “You’re going to live in those clothes forever? How about your teeth? Ever going to brush them again?”

  “I can get whatever I need later.” She paused. “Where are we going, by the way?”

  “Highway 6.”

  Her brows shot up. “We’re not meeting Hally Butene somewhere on Highway 6?”

  He slowed, pulled into the alley behind the bar. “Not exactly.”

  He got out, and short of sitting there pouting, she had no choice but to get out, too. He tromped up the steel steps and she followed. He stopped when he saw the graffiti on the door.

  “The smile is mine,” she said.

  He grunted, but whether in approval or condemnation she couldn’t say.

  Despite Red’s demand, she still had her key. She unlocked the door and went inside.

  The last time she and Holt had been there together, he’d arrested her. The anger and hurt of that encounter lingered in the corners as she stuffed her possessions into the duffel he’d thrown across the
room. Neither one of them spoke. He perched himself in front of the door, as though he needed to guard it. His big body filled the room, and the stillness made his presence even larger. Everywhere she went—the small bathroom, the tiny closet—she was aware of his gaze following her. The accommodation they seemed to have come to the night before disappeared into the silence.

  When she was done, he helped carry her bags down the stairs and threw them in the backseat of the car. Holt headed due east and onto Highway 6. Ten minutes later, he pulled up to the Cloverleaf.

  “You’re kidding,” she said. “Mrs. Butene lives here?”

  “No, but you do.”

  She stared at him.

  “Look, you need a place to stay. I need to know you’re not wandering the streets or disappearing into the sunset. And you can’t sleep at the jail every night.”

  “At least give me back my bike so I won’t be stranded.”

  “Come on, it’s not like you’re in the middle of the wilderness. There’s a Waffle House half a mile up.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “You’ll be safe. No one knows you’re here. No spray-painting bogeymen to bother you.”

  “I can always rent a car to take me out of town.”

  “True. But an innocent woman doesn’t run. You want to get to the bottom of this as much as anyone, right? Can’t do that long distance.”

  She growled. “Whatever gave me the impression you were a nice guy?”

  It took Holt all of five minutes to install her in one of the rooms. Seems he’d arranged it all before dragging her out there.

  “Gotta run,” he said when all her bags were inside and scattered around the dingy room. “Mrs. Butene will probably be more receptive if I shower and shave.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that.”

  “Don’t be so grumpy. I brought you a deck of cards and a crossword puzzle book.” He nodded over to what passed as a dresser. A paper bag lay on top. “And there’s always General Hospital.”

  When he was gone Edie plopped backward onto the bed. She would have screamed if she wasn’t too tired to open her mouth. She didn’t even bother checking the sheets. Just closed her eyes and let the darkness take her.

  33

  Holt mused about his decision on the way home. He understood Edie’s desire to believe in her father’s innocence. The need to believe in hers was an unrelenting jackhammer inside him. He gnawed at the evidence, or lack thereof: He couldn’t place her at the scene in any of the deaths. Even the explanation of her presence in Parsley’s office made sense. Plus, it was hours before he died. And Holt would stake his life on her ignorance of Fred Lyle’s will. But it all hinged on faith, and that was in the mind of the beholder. If he couldn’t find some other suspect in Parsley’s death, or some other explanation for the other two, Edie was still his only solid lead.

  The first thing he heard when he got home was from Mimsy, who heard it from Carol Ann Baker, who heard it from Betsy Caldwell, who had kept Amy Lyle at her house after her disastrous foray into Red’s the night before.

  “Poor thing,” Mimsy murmured, and Holt was pretty sure she didn’t mean Edie.

  The earliest Hally Butene could meet with him was that evening. All day, during neighborhood patrol, checking on the speed demons on the highway into town, behind his desk, wherever he was, Holt’s skin prickled with anticipation. Something Mrs. Butene knew or said could be the key to freeing Edie.

  By the time he finally pulled into the long driveway leading up to the Butene house he’d blocked out all possibilities except success. Somehow, some way, he was going to get what he needed from Hally Butene. This whole nightmare with Edie would be over, and they could go back to where they had left off.

  On the way up, he couldn’t help noticing the grounds needed mowing, the shrubs trimming—a far cry from when Holt had been there a year ago after Alan died. The property was built on a huge swath of Tennessee farmland. Probably too much for Mrs. Butene to keep up, especially with her Parkinson’s.

  At the moment, though, Hally appeared well able to care for herself, if not the homestead. As she’d been when she came to help Amy Lyle after her husband’s death, she was well dressed, her chin-length white hair smoothed under, an ivory cardigan around her shoulders. The sight buoyed him. He needed her sharp and present.

  She offered her hand, and he felt the tremor as she slipped it into his. Her head shook slightly, and her voice held the same gravelly precision he remembered. “It’s good to see you again, Chief. And under much happier circumstances. Can I get you something to drink? Ice tea?”

  He was itching to get started, but lubrication, even the nonalcoholic kind, gave them both something to do and would lower any lingering awkwardness. “Sure. Thank you.”

  He followed her into the kitchen, where tile and granite covered walls and counter, and watched her fill a tall glass with ice and tea and lemon. Her hands were shaky but capable.

  “I see the grass needs cutting,” Holt said as she poured a second glass for herself. “I could get someone out to do it, if you like.”

  She waved his offer away. “Oh, I’ll get around to it. Alan thought nothing of lavishing money on the lawn. I’m afraid I’m a little more thrifty.”

  She led the way to a graciously furnished living room. A baby grand piano sat in one corner; a painting hung on the wall. Not your usual Redbud style of Wal-Mart and hand-me-down furnishings.

  “Now, Chief Drennen, over the phone you mentioned something about my husband.” She lifted her glass with dignity, despite the constant tremble, and took a sip, her gaze direct over the glass.

  Holt plunged right in. “Your husband was comptroller at the Hammerbilt plant. He oversaw production, made sure the financials worked, that kind of thing. So he knew Charles Swanford.”

  A wary stillness overtook her, even as the tremors continued. “Swanford. Yes, of course. The embezzler.” Holt bit back impatience as she looked down, picked at a small rip in the arm of the couch, then covered it with her hand. He assumed she’d “get around” to that, too, one of these days. “Poor man killed himself, didn’t he?” she finally said. “Alan had been so shocked and upset. We all were. And not only for the personal tragedy. There was talk of consolidation and plant closings and everyone was on pins and needles waiting to see which factories would be shut down.” She shuddered. “Not unlike now. Awful, awful time.”

  “I didn’t realize there were corporate complications.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ve heard the story a million times now. What are they calling it? Globalization? Profits are faster and costs cheaper overseas. Everyone was worried. Especially after the whole Swanford mess.”

  “So, maybe it was a good thing he died.”

  She looked shocked. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

  “No truth to it?”

  She sighed. “I don’t know. I suppose… the cost of a trial, the publicity. Maybe in the long run it was better for the plant, but I can’t think anyone would have said so at the time.”

  “Charles Swanford worked for your husband. Do you remember Alan talking about meeting with him?”

  “I’m sure they met all the time.”

  “But nothing specific?”

  “It was over twenty years ago. I wouldn’t trust my memory.”

  Disappointed, Holt nodded and took another tack. “I know you and the Lyles were friends, but how well did your husband know Dennis Runkle?”

  “Dennis? Oh, I’m sure they knew each other, but they didn’t interact socially. Maybe a golf game here and there, but not on any regular basis.”

  “What about Reverend Parsley?”

  “Well, we went to St. Edwards, the Episcopal church in Springfield, so I’m not sure Alan had much to do with him. But the community church was quite active in town, so I saw a lot of Ken.” She shook her head in that wobbly fashion. “Hard to believe they’re all gone. They say bad things come in threes. I’m not naturally superstitious, but still…”

 
; A pinprick of panic touched Holt. He needed something, could not walk away without some tiny bit of information that would change everything. “Are you sure your husband didn’t have business with all three of these men?”

  “Business? No. Why?”

  Holt was sweating, but he ignored it, hopeful that his next question would get Edie off the hook and worried it would implicate her further. He licked his lips. “Swanford had a daughter, Eden. Did your husband ever mention her, especially around the time he died? Might he have seen her or spoken to her? She goes by Swann now. Edie Swann.”

  A concerned expression crossed her face. “Edie Swann?” She frowned. “Isn’t that the person who Amy Lyle—oh, my goodness. She’s Eden Swanford?” Another wobbly head shake. “No, Alan never mentioned her. Why would he?”

  “She has a list that contains the names of all the men who died. Including your husband’s.”

  “A list?” She stared at him. “Are you saying there’s some connection between these deaths and Alan’s? But Alan fell off a ladder.”

  “And Fred had a heart attack, Runkle a car wreck, Parsley drowned. All accidents. Or made to look like them.”

  “Made to look—” A disturbed look crossed her face, and she rose. Ambled to a side table where she picked up a framed wedding photo. Her younger self next to a younger version of her husband. The couple smiled out from the frame. “I don’t understand. How could—” She looked back at him. He saw tears in her eyes. “Are you telling me this Edie killed my Alan?”

  “No.” He held up his hands. “No. At least, that’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

  “Well, I’m sure I would remember if Charles Swanford’s daughter had suddenly showed up.”

  Holt took a photograph from his shirt pocket and placed it on the coffee table. It wasn’t a great picture of Edie, but it was the only one he had. He’d taken it from the one Miranda had shot with his phone camera. That day at Claire’s seemed a century ago.

  “Recognize her?”

  He didn’t know he was holding his breath until Hally returned to the couch, scrutinized Edie’s picture, and answered. “No. I’m afraid not.”

  He exhaled a huge breath. “You’re sure?”