Sam threw up her hands. “I don’t think he knows anything. I think he went over there with his mean streak and a can of paint.”
“Shut up,” Terry said to her. “You don’t know nothing about it.”
“I know you,” Sam continued. “I been arresting you on and off for over a year now.”
“What is it, Terry?” Holt said. “Did you go over with paint or with information?”
“Don’t bother,” Sam said to Holt. “We got him for trespassing. Paint on his shoes, we can make a case for the rest.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
“That’s the song you always sing,” Sam said. “You’re a drunk, Terry. A drunk and a screw-up.”
“Shut up.”
“He’s got nothing,” Sam said to Holt, and to Terry, up close and in his face. “He is nothing.”
“Shut up!” Terry cried. “I got plenty! And I want something for it! That’s why I went over there, okay? I know she’s got money. She’s been hounding me about the plant. She wants something, she can pay for it.”
Holt exchanged a look with Sam.
“She’s a bartender,” Holt said. “How much money could she have?”
Now that he’d blurted it all out, Terry was like a deflated balloon. “She got money from Lyle. Some kind of big cash thing. The whole town knows. Mrs. Lyle came to the bar and said so.”
“And you were going to extort some of this cash from her in exchange for… what?”
Terry shuffled in his seat. Set his jaw. Holt was tired of the runaround. He grabbed Terry’s chin. “For what?”
Terry yanked his head out of Holt’s grasp. “I don’t know!” He shot Holt a surly look. “I was just going to take the money and get out of town.”
“A drunk and a weasel,” Sam said.
“And how about at the church, Terry? You do nothing there, too?”
Terry stared at Holt. A flash of surprise and fear crossed his face.
“Maybe you knew something about the reverend, too. And maybe he didn’t want to pay you.”
Terry shook his head. Violently. “No.”
“You swear this time, too?” Sam said.
“It was her,” Terry cried. “The black angel. She did it. Everyone knows.”
Holt reined in his annoyance. “You see her do it?”
“No,” he admitted.
“So it could’ve been you just as much as Miss Swann.”
“But—”
“Wonder what they’d say at Red’s if they knew you were there, too.”
Terry’s gaze darted around the room. He looked like a trapped rabbit.
Holt stood and nodded to Sam, who uncuffed Terry from the chair.
“You believe me?” Terry was astonished. He rose, rubbing his wrists.
“I don’t know,” Holt said. “I need some time to think about it.”
Sam grabbed Terry’s hands and recuffed him again. Terry yowled. “What the—”
She shoved him toward the back room and the jail cell. “Just making sure we know where we can find you.”
He cursed all the way. Didn’t even shut up after the cell clanked shut. Sam returned, pulling the door between the office and the cell room closed. She could still hear Terry going at it, but the noise was muffled enough to live with.
She checked her hands. No telling where Terry Bishop had been. She went to her desk, found the hand sanitizer, and drenched her hands with it. She was pleased with the way she and Holt had double-teamed Terry. Surely Holt would understand what she’d done on the way over. She’d done it for him. For the team. He’d see that. But despite the assurances to herself, what she’d done was sitting on her like a two-ton mortar.
She bit her lip, looked over at Holt. He was lost in thought, staring at nothing. “So? What do you think?”
His gaze shifted to hers as if he’d heard her voice but not her words. She repeated her question.
“As you so ably put it,” he said, “Terry’s a drunk and a weasel. He could have gone to the motel for the money, like he said, got pissed she wasn’t there, and then wrecked the room.”
Sam nodded. “Wouldn’t put it past him.” She hesitated, not sure how to broach the subject, then just came out with it. “And about the reverend? You weren’t serious, were you? You don’t really think Terry could have killed him?”
Holt rubbed the back of his neck. It had been a long, exhausting day, and he looked it. “I wish I knew, Sam.”
See, she said silently. You need help. “What happened with Mrs. Butene?”
Holt recapped his conversation with Hally Butene. It sounded like a lot of nothing to her. “So you’re no closer to figuring out what happened?”
“I’m close enough to eliminate Edie from Butene’s death.”
“But you don’t even know if that’s connected to the three we’re dealing with.”
Holt sank into the chair behind his desk. Leaned back in his usual position but seemed far from relaxed. “No.”
Sam nodded. Opened her mouth. Closed it again. Her heart was suddenly doing a crazy jig inside her chest.
“Something on your mind?” Holt asked.
How did that man always know what she was thinking? Not much of a poker face where he was concerned. “Not sure you want to hear it.”
He gave her a resigned nod. “Might as well, Sam. Shoot.”
She licked her lips, rolled herself toward Holt. Leaned forward. Told herself it was all for his own good and that he’d thank her. “Leaving aside what happened at the motel, why would Terry have anything to do with killing Reverend Parsley? As far as jobs go, Terry’s not exactly the town workaholic. The reverend goes, maybe so does one of Terry’s few means of employment.”
“So he has no motive.”
“Not from where I’m standing.”
“What about the blackmail scenario?”
“What blackmail scenario? That’s you reaching for something and coming up with smoke. If you don’t mind me saying. Besides I can see Terry trying to extort cash out of a town newcomer, especially one who’s become a pariah, but a minister? Someone well connected, with position and the power that goes with it? Terry’s not brave enough. And what about Runkle and Lyle? There’s no connection between Terry and either of them.”
Holt jerked his chair to an upright position. Picked up a pencil and started tapping it on its eraser against the desk. Not a good sign.
“So, what are you saying?”
She took the plunge. “There’s only one person connected to all three deaths. Only one person with any kind of motive in all three deaths. You know it. I know it. The whole town knows it.”
“We don’t make cases based on what the town ‘knows’ or thinks it knows.”
Sam shook her head. Didn’t want to say it, but had to. “You’re too tied up with her. You’re not thinking straight.”
“All we have is circumstantial.”
“Better than the big nothing we’ve got on anyone else.”
He jolted to his feet. Shoved hands in his pockets. Paced away. She knew she could get him to see what was right in front of his face.
“Mayor called while you were out. He scheduled an emergency council meeting tomorrow. He wants you there to report on your progress. And he wants you to call in the state.”
Holt stopped. Looked over at her as if an IED had exploded inside him. “The hell I will!” In two steps he was at her desk, braced against the edge, looming over it at her. “She didn’t do it.”
Sam remained motionless. “And you know this because…?”
“Because…” He threw up his hands. “Because I just do.”
She looked at him sadly. “Not good enough. And if you weren’t so tangled up with her, you’d see it wasn’t good enough either.”
“I’m not calling in the TBI and that’s it.”
Sam crossed her arms. Raised her chin and stared him down. Her whole life she’d never gone against a superior officer. But this was different, she reminded himself. This
was for his own good. “I figured you’d say that. So I did it for you. They’ll be here tomorrow. Ten o’clock.”
38
At ten, Lucy pulled her pickup into the No Parking zone in front of the building in downtown Nashville where Cole and Tyrrell had offices.
“Sure you don’t want moral support?” she asked Edie.
A summer thunderstorm had threatened all the way in, leaving the sky a smear of charcoal. Skycrapers blocked out the little light left, turning the morning into eerie night. But it suited the mood. The mystery behind the strange bequest, the plunge, once more, into the muddy past.
Behind them, traffic hummed the way it never did in Redbud. For half a minute Edie pictured losing herself in the heavier flow of people inside the dark city. Wouldn’t be hard. She’d wave good-bye to Lucy, enter the building, count to thirty, and exit again. Poof. She’d disappear.
But she’d leave behind too many things. Her innocence, for one. And for another… her mouth tingled with the remembered feel of Holt’s kiss.
You’re a fool, Edie Swann.
“Thanks,” she said to Lucy. “But I wouldn’t want to rob you of a perfectly good shopping opportunity.” She got out and plunged into the heart of the building.
The lawyers’ offices were on the twenty-fourth floor. Her ears popped in the elevator, and she stared down at her feet. Her clothes had been trashed at the motel, leaving her with the denim mini and the T-shirt she had on the day before. But she’d been able to replace the flip-flops with a pair of sandals from Lucy, so at least her feet were presentable.
The office doors were thick and weighty. Entering them was like stepping into an inner sanctum. Puffed and stuffed, richly carpeted, the air leaden with silence. Bulky leather armchairs were trimmed with brass studs, and paintings of people in red hunting habits hung on the walls.
The receptionist was equal to the rest of the place. Not exactly a stuffed head on the wall, but the well-formed suit over her ample body, the heavy gold earrings and matching gold necklace did give the impression of red-faced jowled men gorging on roast beef.
Edie gave her name, and although the woman said nothing, she managed to look Edie over, taking in the short skirt, the rumpled shirt, and lingering ever so slightly on the pinup girl embossed on her arm.
Edie grinned. “I don’t think he’s expecting me.”
She waited while the receptionist went to inform her boss that his ten o’clock had shown up after all.
Bradley Cole proved to be a big man, his girth made more so by the suit and vest he wore. He rose the minute she stepped into his office. Came around his desk, ostensibly to greet her.
But Edie stopped dead. Bradley Cole was not alone.
Sitting in the chair across from his large cherry desk was Amy Lyle.
Fred Lyle’s widow looked at Edie coldly.
“You said you’d call,” Cole said.
Impulsive, brash Edie. When would she learn? “Sorry,” she said to no one in particular. Then turned to go. To run. To find a place—anyplace—where she could breathe.
“Stay.” It was the first time Edie had heard Mrs. Lyle’s voice since that night at the bar. A repeat wasn’t exactly what Edie had in mind.
Her hand behind her on the doorknob, Edie scrunched up her nose. “Probably not a good idea. Too early in the day for physical violence.”
Mrs. Lyle had the grace to look ashamed. She straightened in her chair, reshuffled her grasp on the purse in her lap. “I apologize for that,” she said stiffly. “I wasn’t myself.”
“Still—”
“Amy, dear,” Cole said gently, “maybe it would be better if we did this another time.”
Amy dear looked directly at Edie. “Is that what you’d prefer, Miss Swanford?”
Edie recognized a challenge when she heard one. She dropped her hold on the knob, pulled her shoulders back. “It’s Swann. And I’m fine if you are.”
Silence. Then with a regal nod of her head, the widow indicated the other chair in front of Bradley Cole’s desk. Slowly, Edie took the seat.
Cole himself regained the outsized leather chair behind his desk. Cleared his throat. Swiveled to reach for a stack of papers. Perused one.
“You are Eden Swanford, daughter of Charles and Evelyn?”
“I am. I was. Like I said, it’s Swann now.”
“And this is the court record of that name change?” He showed her a copy of the official document she had stashed away in a safety deposit box in Memphis.
“Yes.”
“And you have some kind of proof of this?”
“I can produce the original. And there’s always my driver’s license.”
“That will be fine.”
She dug in her pocket, found the card, handed it over.
“Why did you change your name?” Amy Lyle spoke for the first time.
Edie shot the other woman a sideways glance. What did she owe her? All Edie had done was deliver a message. If Fred Lyle keeled over because of it, how was that her fault?
Uh huh.
“I didn’t want to be Eden Swanford anymore,” she said.
Amy’s gaze bore into hers, asking without asking.
Edie sighed. “My father killed himself. My mother died in a psych ward. Swanford seemed like too big a package to carry around. Okay? That satisfy you?”
“I didn’t know about your mother.” The other woman’s voice and body softened slightly.
“Not something I like to trumpet around.”
“Miss Swann,” Cole began, but Mrs. Lyle held up a hand.
“Tell me about her. Was she dark-haired like you?”
Edie gaped at the other woman warily. “Why? What difference does it make?”
“Indulge me.”
“No, she was fair. My father was the dark one. Welsh, they tell me.” Amy looked confused suddenly. “What?” Edie asked her.
She shook her head. “So you look like your father?”
“I guess.”
She cleared her throat. “Did your mother ever… did she ever indicate… maybe not in so many words, but… hint perhaps that—” Amy turned to the attorney with a helpless wave of her hand and an imploring look.
Edie turned her attention to the lawyer.
“What Mrs. Lyle is trying to ask,” Cole began, “is a question of… paternity. Did you ever doubt or did your mother or any other relative ever give you reason to doubt that your father was, well, your father?”
Edie blinked. What the hell…? “No. And believe me, there were plenty of times growing up when I would have loved to know he wasn’t”—she looked away, embarrassed to admit this—“you know, wasn’t mine.”
Another silence settled over the room. Broken, at last, by Mrs. Lyle.
“Then why—?”
Edie looked from her to the lawyer. “Why what?”
Bradley Cole clasped his hands over the stack of papers on his desk. “You know Mrs. Lyle’s husband mentioned you in his will. I drew up the codicil myself.”
“So?”
“So why did he do it?” Amy burst out. “If you weren’t his—his child, why—”
“His child?”
“He declined to take me into his confidence when he asked me to add this to his will,” Cole said. “Mrs. Lyle has no idea why her husband would leave so much money to a complete stranger. The natural assumption is—”
“Oh.” Understanding dawned. “I see. A love child. Your husband and my mother.” She nearly laughed. “No, my parents were devoted to each other. My mother completely fell apart when my father died. I mean unhinged. Entirely.”
“And… you?”
“Me?”
“Were you and my husband…” She clutched the arm of the chair. Anguish edged her voice.
“No, no,” Edie rushed to assure her. “Absolutely not. No. Never. I didn’t even know him.”
“Then why?” Amy Lyle cried. “Who were you to him?” Hurt and anger and frustration showed on her face.
A ru
sh of unwanted compassion flooded Edie. She turned to Cole. “How much are we talking about?”
“A quarter of a million dollars,” the lawyer replied succinctly.
The words hung in the air, suspended in disbelief. Edie opened her mouth, but only uttered a strangled squeak. Cole quickly poured a glass of water from a pitcher on a stand and handed it to Edie. She gulped it down.
“You had no idea,” Amy Lyle said.
Edie shook her head. Found she could breathe again.
“And you have no clue why?”
“I have a theory,” Edie managed to say at last. “But you’re not going to like it. In fact, you should probably stick to the whole love child thing.”
“I want to know the truth, Miss Swann.” Amy kneaded her purse. “I need to know it.”
“Okay, then. Here goes. I think Mr. Lyle had something to do with my father’s death.”
Bradley Cole’s brows rose. Amy Lyle’s gaze sharpened. “No,” she said. “Impossible.”
“What other explanation makes sense? It’s blood money, Mrs. Lyle. Payoff for a guilty conscience.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“You’re saying my husband…” She shifted in her seat. Tried again. “You’re implying that Fred—”
“Murdered my father. Yeah. That’s it.”
39
Edie and Lucy headed back to Redbud just as the storm finally broke. Rain fell in gulps that splattered on the windshield. Lucy had packed the crawl space behind the seats with bags from Ross and TJ Maxx, and Edie used the packages to put off the inevitable questions. It wasn’t that she wanted to keep her meeting private, it was that she wasn’t sure how she felt about it yet. So she thumbed over her shoulder at the parcels.
“You buy out the town?”
“Hell, yeah,” Lucy said. “Not much point in coming all the way in without making a dent in the old bank account.” She regaled Edie with a list of bargains, giving her a chance to think about Amy Lyle.
The woman’s whole world had been flung upside down, and Edie couldn’t help feeling… sorry. If anyone knew what losing their world was like, it was Edie. And she didn’t wish that on anyone. Okay, maybe on the people responsible for taking hers.
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