One Deadly Sin

by Annie Solomon

  “That’s my problem, not yours. You have nowhere else to go and you’d be safe there.”

  “That’s what you said about the motel.”

  “I doubt anyone’s going to waltz into the chief’s house and start throwing paint around.”

  She shuffled her feet. Looked down, then back up. Evaded his glance. “It’s your family home. Your parents. Miranda—”

  “Would die of excitement if the fattoo lady came to stay.”

  She stared past his shoulder. He saw yearning in her face, temptation. And caution, too. What was she afraid of?

  “What?” he asked. He wanted to take her chin, turn her to face him. Rub his thumb along that stubborn jaw, kiss those obstinate lips, and force her to confess whatever was bothering her.

  A thought occurred. It heated his face and he held up his hands. Took a step back. “I’m not going to touch you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Now she did look at him. But instead of being reassured, she scowled. “Thanks. Nice to know I’m so resistible.”

  “I only meant—”

  “Yeah, I know what you meant. Things are a mess and we shouldn’t screw them up even more by screw—”

  “Chief!”

  Sam ran over waving a piece of paper, Prewitt following.

  “Mr. Prewitt here gave me that list of names.” Sam was breathless—from her run over or from excitement. “Guess who’s on it?” She handed the paper over to Holt. He scanned the short list.

  Three names. The last one? Terry Bishop.

  36

  Bring him in,” Holt said grimly.

  “Yes, sir!” Sam saluted, blushed to the tips of her ears, and jolted off. But not before eyeing Edie with a less than friendly look.

  “This mean I won’t be able to get the mess cleaned up?” Prewitt thumbed over his shoulder at Edie’s room.

  “Just for a day or two,” Holt said. “And don’t be handing out tickets or keys,” he warned. “In fact, why don’t I take any spares you have, just to make sure.”

  With a resigned shake of his head, Prewitt shuffled off, leaving her alone with Holt.

  “So… we all set?” he said. “I can drop you off at the house before heading over to the office to talk to our mutual friend.”

  “Terry Bishop isn’t my friend. Clearly.”

  “You had any run-ins with him besides at the church?”

  She reviewed her association with Terry Bishop, couldn’t see the harm in telling Holt everything. Nothing she’d said to Terry should have provoked this kind of violent response, but then, most people didn’t like their secrets probed. And maybe Terry had his share.

  “He was a regular at Red’s.”

  “You piss him off there?” Holt said dryly. “Too much foam in his beer?”

  “I know how to draw a beer, Holt.”

  “So—not the beer. What else?”

  “I might have…”

  “What?”

  “Pushed him a little too hard.”

  “Pushed him how? You pack a wallop, I’ll give you that, but you’re still just a girl.”

  “I think—thought—he knew something about the plant. Some, I don’t know, some dirt, I guess. I wanted him to tell me about it. I might have gotten a little… aggressive in my demands.”

  “You hit him?”

  “No.”

  “Threaten him?”

  “Not in so many words. But just asking about what he knows might be threat enough. If what he knows is personal. Or dangerous.”

  “Or both.” They stared at each other, implications erupting between them like gunshots.

  In the silence Prewitt ambled up. “There you go.” He plopped two keys in Holt’s hand. He indicated Edie. “She’s got the last.” Prewitt ambled away, and Holt closed up the room leaving the police tape intact over the doorway.

  “Ready?” he asked when he finished.

  “For what?” Edie said, knowing well enough what he wanted her to be ready for. But she wasn’t going anywhere near his house. Or his father. Especially his father.

  Before Holt could answer, his phone rang.

  She exhaled. Reprieve.

  Holt answered. Listened. Nodded. “Good work. No, I’ll be there in half an hour. Gonna drop off Edie first. Any way you have to. Right.” He disconnected, gave Edie a wry glance. “Seems Terry isn’t too happy about his visit with the city’s finest.” He shoved the phone into a holder on his belt. “Come on. I’ll call my mother on the way and have her set up the sofa bed in the den.”

  She braced herself. “I’m not going to your house, Holt.”

  He frowned. “I promise it’s a lot more comfortable than the jail. Or a park bench.”

  “I’ve got another option.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  The fewer people knew where she was, the better. “I’d rather not say.”

  Holt’s frown deepened. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what you’d rather not say. You’re not going anywhere I don’t know about.”

  She shrugged. Remained silent. Why say anything? He’d only argue with her.

  “I can cuff you to the sign over there.” He nodded toward the motel sign. “Least I’ll know where you’ll be all night.”

  “Like I believe that. Empty threats, Holt. Beneath you.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Dammit, Edie, I can’t let you go off on your own.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know why not.”

  “Because I’m a person of interest in your murder case?”

  “That, too.”

  “Because you’ll miss me?”

  “Because I’ll worry about you.” He crossed his arms, looked at her defensively. “Okay? You happy now? I said it. And I’ll tell you another thing. I’ll be damned if I let you put me through that. Lying awake wondering if you’re hurt. Dead. I’ve been there. And I’m not going back.”

  She gazed up at the concern in his face. A warm flush of feeling jittered through her. Nice to have someone worry about her. Nice to have him worry about her.

  “I’m going to Lucy’s,” she said.

  “Lucy.”

  “From the bar. I think she’ll put me up. Even if it’s on the floor.”

  “You think?”

  “Okay, I know she will. I just haven’t asked her yet.”

  “For God’s sake…”

  “Look, I’m calling now, okay?” She already had her phone out. Punched in the number from Lucy’s earlier phone call. Explained her situation to the older woman.

  “Well, hell, girl,” Lucy boomed in Edie’s ear. “Come on over. It ain’t the Biltmore but I’ve got a couch you’re welcome to.”

  “Thanks. One last favor.”

  “Name it.”

  “Can you pick me up?” She told Lucy where she was and disconnected.

  Holt looked at her. “I would have taken you over there.”

  “Yeah, can’t think of anything less noticeable than the police chief driving up and dropping me off.”

  “I want an address and phone number.”

  “Okay. Fine. Whatever.”

  He grabbed her shoulders. “You are one stubborn witch, you know that?”

  Like a live wire, his touch ignited her. She gazed up at him. His eyes glinted down at her.

  “You just wanted me in your house,” she said. Your bed, she wanted to say.

  “Would that have been so bad?” His large, strong hands slid up her shoulders to her neck. “I could think of worse things.” This while his hands smoothed over her jaw, gilded her cheeks, and finally, finally, finally found her lips.

  Her mouth dried. Her whole body liquefied.

  His thumb traced the line of her mouth. His gaze tracked the path of his thumb. She gasped. A little surprised breath.

  Her own gaze stuck, too. On the sweet curve of his upper lip. The way the day’s stubble speckled above it and across his cheek and jaw.

  Was she breathing? She couldn’t tell. Didn’t care.

&
nbsp; “Are you going to kiss me or what?”

  “Mmm. Thinking about it.”

  “Less thought. More action.”

  He smiled. That curve grew sweeter. He pulled her around the corner, out of sight. Pushed her against the motel wall. His hands traveled up. They skimmed her face. Glided into her hair. His fingers swept the stuff away, and his hands, God, those hands, cupped the back of her head.

  “I do love a woman who knows what she wants,” he murmured. And said no more. Couldn’t because his mouth was too busy elsewhere.

  Oh, those sweet, sweet lips. That delicious throb of want pulsing deep inside. A universe of craving. She pressed against him, tighter and tighter, and he clutched at her body, desperate, like her, for more. He lifted her. High and up, way above him into the dark heavens, where all creation encircled them beneath the stars.

  It took her breath away. Softened every bone. And, at the last, brought her to tears. Not out-and-out sobs, but a swift, unexpected swell.

  Still holding her above him, he saw. “What?”

  She shook her head. Couldn’t speak.

  He let her slide down his body, a slow, gorgeous glide that set off lovely explosions—pop, pop, pop—in her chest, her stomach, and lower.

  When her feet were back on earth, his hand stroked her wet cheek. “Didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  She smiled through the tears. “You didn’t. It was just…” she swallowed. “So beautiful. You are”—she stuttered—“so—so beautiful.”

  “Hey, that’s my line.”

  She laughed, and cried harder.

  “Aw—it wasn’t that bad, was it?” he said softly.

  She shook her head. “I think…” She shuddered, looked helplessly around, then unable to escape, back at him. “Oh, God, I think…”

  “What?”

  “I think I’m in love with you.” She clamped a hand over her mouth, like the words had leaped out without permission.

  “Oh.”

  She gulped. Stared at him, tears still blurring her sight. “Is that it? Oh?”

  “Oh, that.”

  She whacked him with the back of her hand. He grabbed it. Kissed her palm. She shuddered.

  “It’s okay to love me, Edie.”

  “No it isn’t,” she wailed. “You think I killed three people! How can I love someone who thinks I could do that?”

  “Every couple has their issues.”

  “You think this is funny? It’s not funny! It’s a disaster! It’s—” She stopped. Realized what he’d just said. “You think we’re a couple?”

  He pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “A weirdly strange one maybe.”

  “But—”

  “You think I’d invite you to my house, to live with my daughter, if I didn’t believe in you?”

  “But the black angels—”

  “Yeah, they kind of stick in my craw. But I’m in love with you, so I’m not exactly objective.”

  She gasped.

  Slowly, without trying, a wide grin spread across her face. He wagged a finger at her. “You disappoint me again, I’ll take it back.”

  She whooped into the night.

  Leaped, wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist. And kissed him hard just as Lucy drove up.

  37

  Holt wasn’t happy about letting Edie go. He would have felt better with her at his house knowing his dad was there to look out for her. But she was adamant.

  “I’m going with Lucy.” They sat on the open back of Lucy’s ancient pickup, and Edie squeezed his hand. Her legs, so much shorter than his, swung back and forth in the night. Lucy had politely made herself scarce, sitting in the truck cab with the windows closed while he and Edie hashed things out. The faint strains of Lynyrd Skynyrd drifted from the radio.

  “I don’t like it,” Holt said.

  “Yeah, you told me. About a thousand times.”

  He slung an arm around her shoulders. Something was going on with her. Something he couldn’t put his finger on. “You sure you’re telling me everything?”

  She ducked her head. “I’m telling you I’ll be fine.”

  He hugged her closer; the hug turned into a clinch. “Might have to hurt you if you aren’t.”

  She pushed him away, jumped off, and he followed her to the cab.

  “Be careful,” he said when she’d settled into the seat.

  “I’ll take real good care of her,” Lucy said. She handed him a scrap of paper with her address and phone number on it. “You can always reach me at Red’s.”

  “Thanks.” Holt pocketed the paper. He closed Edie’s door and watched Lucy drive off.

  He spent the ride back to town trying to get Edie out of his head so he could concentrate on Terry Bishop. If he could wrangle a confession out of him Edie would be cleared.

  But his thoughts kept circling back to his woman. Her wide, soft mouth, her wild, soft body. The smell of her, spice and rain and exotic promises.

  He had no business offering his home to her. She was the main suspect in a series of murders he was investigating. Talk about conflict of interest. But he couldn’t help himself.

  Hell, he didn’t want to.

  There it was again. That danger. If he kept this up, his job, his entire life in Redbud could be in jeopardy. And it wasn’t just his life. Uprooting Miranda would be more than unkind. Children needed stability.

  He pulled up to the square and parked in front of the municipal building. Sat with wrists draped over the steering wheel. Shook his head.

  Would you look at him? Thinking about a future with a woman who might not have one. Unless, of course, he could figure out who killed three of Redbud’s most prominent citizens. And it wasn’t her.

  Holt heard the wailing while he was still in the municipal building’s hallway. Piercing, off-key, irritating. The awful sound grew louder when he stepped into the office.

  Terry Bishop sat in the middle of the room cuffed to a chair, howling like a dog who’d lost his tail. A floppy shirt hung over a wrinkled T-shirt, and his hair was pulled back into a grubby queue, which bounced as he sawed back and forth in the chair, drunk and loopy.

  He grinned when he saw Holt. “Hey, Chief! How’s your tattooed lady?” He laughed, and Holt exchanged a glance with Sam, who shrugged.

  “Been like this since I picked him up,” she said.

  “Where was he?” Holt asked.

  “Red’s.”

  “How long?”

  “Couple of hours, according to Red.”

  “And before that?”

  “Home. His aunt verified. Said he was at the Cloverleaf earlier today.”

  “Hey—I’m right here,” Terry interrupted. “And I ain’t deaf neither.”

  Holt turned to him. Terry wanted to talk, Holt would let him. “What were you doing at the motel?”

  “Working. Running the vacuum. Like always.”

  “What time did you leave?”

  “I don’t know. When I was done.”

  Sam came around the desk and perched on the edge. “Morning, afternoon, evening, Terry.”

  Terry responded, but sullenly. “Morning.”

  Holt drummed a finger on the back of his chair. So Terry could have seen Holt drop off Edie.

  “Did you see Edie Swann there?”

  “Maybe.” He grinned. “A little love nest for you and the tattoo—”

  “Shut up.” Sam kicked at Terry’s legs, unbalancing him. “Stick to the topic on hand. Did you go back to the motel tonight?”

  He glared at her, straightened himself. Suddenly didn’t seem as drunk as he had a minute ago. “Why should I?”

  “Did you go back to the motel?” Holt repeated the question with more force.

  Terry eyed Holt. “No.”

  Holt had had enough. He pushed his chair back and stood, towering over the prisoner. “Take off your shoes.”

  Terry looked as if Holt had asked him to take off his head. “What?”

  “You heard him,” Sa
m said. “Take off your shoes.”

  Terry grumbled, but used his toes to push his heels out of one, then the other of his cheap sneakers.

  Sam picked one up, turned it over. Showed it to Holt. The run-down sneakers had a tread on the bottom. Holt examined the crevices. Found what he was looking for in the second shoe. Buried inside a cranny were dried streaks of red.

  He looked from the shoe back to Terry. “You sure you don’t want to tell me where you were before Red’s?”

  Terry looked between Holt and Sam and back to Holt.

  “Did you go back to the motel, Terry?” Sam asked.

  Terry remained silent.

  “There’s red paint on the bottom of your shoe,” Holt said. “I bet we send it to the lab, it would match the red paint in Edie Swann’s motel room.”

  Terry’s face fell.

  “Did you go back to the motel?” Sam asked again.

  “I didn’t do it,” Terry said.

  “Didn’t do what?” Holt asked.

  “Anything! Wreck her room. I found it that way. I swear. I was just going to talk to her. Knocked on the door and it opened.”

  “Convenient,” Sam said dryly. “And you just had to go in.”

  “I thought she might be hurt or something.”

  Sam snorted. “Look at you—a regular good Samaritan.”

  Terry glowered at her. “I didn’t do nothing.”

  “I wouldn’t call criminal trespass nothing,” Sam said.

  That shut him up.

  But Holt needed him talking. “What did you want to speak to Miss Swann about?”

  Terry swung his gaze over to Holt. The glower was gone. He shrank in his chair as if trying to disappear. Which told Holt he was on to something.

  “You said you wanted to talk to her. That’s why you went over there, right? What about?”

  Terry licked his lips.

  Holt took his shot. “Something about Hammerbilt, maybe? Something important about the plant?”

  Terry’s eyes opened wide. “How did you—” He recovered himself. Straightened a little. Pressed his lips together.

  Holt leaned in. “What’s the deep dark secret, Terry?”

  They waited. Gave Terry a few moments to think about answering. He didn’t.