One Deadly Sin

by Annie Solomon

  But, as he pointed out, they’d gone that way for twenty years. Charles Swanford’s suicide played right into the conspirators’ hands. Between the mayor and the rest of the council they persuaded James to cover up the fraud. For the good of the town.

  “I did it, son,” James told Holt in that same room at the police department. “I made the best decision I could. This town would have dried up and blown away if Hammerbilt had left.”

  “So you let Edie’s family bear that burden.”

  “I wasn’t proud of what I’d done, but I weighed the cost of the whole town against one family.”

  Hannah Garvey was part of it, too, the only one Alan trusted to keep track of the discussions at the council meetings. When Holt took a closer look, her name was there as secretary on every copy of the minutes.

  Of course she wasn’t as trustworthy as she must have appeared if she was blackmailing Butene. “I think she’d already started to get sick,” James said, “and was frightened of not having the money to pay for medical care.”

  No wonder Alan Butene hadn’t stewarded his holdings well. They were being systematically drained.

  But how Ellen got the twisted idea that Alan was her father, Holt could only speculate. Probably couldn’t imagine any other possibility. An analysis of Ellen’s bank account revealed a huge dent in her income after her mother died. Alan must have figured the bleeding could stop, but Ellen had gotten used to the extra cash. She needed some reason to get the payments reinstated, so maybe she invented one. It wasn’t so far-fetched. Hadn’t Amy Lyle also thought the same thing about Edie?

  And the arsenic could have fried her brain anyway. She’d been breathing and ingesting it for years as it flaked away from the paint on the walls. It’s what she had used in the tea and cakes she prepared for the lethal tea party. Ground it up fine as dust.

  On a hunch, he’d had Hannah’s body exhumed. Sure enough, an autopsy revealed she’d died of arsenic poisoning, not the cancer everyone assumed. Her mother had been Ellen’s first victim.

  Closing in on the gravesite he’d come to see, he braced himself. Refused to get emotional. Plenty of time for that later. Instead, he busied himself with the details of the inspection. Walked around, examined everything. Was satisfied with what he found. The angel looked, well, like it was supposed to. And the newly turned earth of the Garvey graves was well away on the other side of the cemetery.

  One last look, then he started back. He hoped he’d done the right thing. Hoped wherever they were the Swanfords would be pleased.

  55

  Holt had been right: the day did turn into a scorcher. But despite the heat, cars lined the road up to the cemetery and people streamed through the gates. Traffic was so bad, he called Sam out.

  “Get your butt over to the cemetery, Deputy. Fast. We need traffic control.” He turned on the siren and it burped on and off; a path parted for them. He drove through the gates, cruised slowly up to the site.

  Unlike this morning, it was filled with people. Not just the expected, like Amy Lyle, but Andy Burkett, who had closed his garage and come, and Darcy, who had done the same with Claire’s. Red was there, along with a group of regulars like Russ Elam and Howard Wayne, their Hammerbilt hats in their hands. The mayor was there, white hair glistening in the sun. He saw his mom’s knitting pals, her book group, her poker players. And lots more he couldn’t name. Except, of course, for Miranda, who was waving and jumping up and down in front of Mimsy. And James.

  He stiffened at the sight of his father. Wasn’t right, him being there. He felt his father’s eyes on him, even through the windshield and across the distance. Sadness mixed with the fury and made Holt look away. Maybe James’s presence was the most right of all.

  He parked, sat for a moment, scanned the crowd. Said a small prayer that this would all be okay, then turned to his passenger. “You can open your eyes now.”

  Edie breathed out, nervous about what Holt was up to. He’d picked her up at the hospital, and the minute she was settled in the car he told her to close her eyes.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Go on. You like surprises, don’t you?”

  But after everything that had happened, a nice long series of predictable would be a relief. Had Amy cooked up some kind of welcome-home thing for her? She pictured balloons and a “Welcome Home, Edie” banner scrawled by Miranda. Edie had gotten plenty of her get-well cards during the weeks she’d been in the hospital. The nurses had taped them to the hospital walls, the portable tray, even the IV stand until she didn’t need it anymore. When she was conscious finally, and then not only awake but aware, they cheered her. So if Amy and Miranda had planned a little something for her, Edie didn’t want to disappoint them. She closed her eyes.

  The drive seemed to take longer than it should have to get to Amy’s house, and she used the time to relax, or try to. She was still weak, had lost like a hundred pounds, and the littlest thing tired her out. But she was alive. Had to be grateful for that.

  “Edie,” Holt said at last. “You can open your eyes now.”

  She blinked them open.

  No balloons. No “Welcome Home Edie” sign. No house at all. Just wall-to-wall people. All turned toward…

  “What’s going on? Why are we at the cemetery and what are all these people doing here?”

  “They’re here for you.”

  “For me?”

  “Come on, I’ll help you out.”

  She leaned on his arm and walked through the crowd. As they passed, people reached out to pat her back, touch her arm. And there were greetings, too. From complete strangers.

  “Good to see you back.”

  “Glad you’re well.”

  Red winked at her. Amy hugged her. Mimsy squeezed her hand, and Miranda insisted on being picked up.

  “Not yet, darlin’,” Holt said and swooped her up instead.

  The only somber face in the crowd belonged to Holt’s father. Holt paused in front of him, bristling, and James stepped back, silent and shamed.

  Holt put Miranda on his shoulders, took Edie’s hand. “Come on. I’ve got something to show you.”

  He led her to the one place in the cemetery she knew. This time her father’s headstone was clean, and there were daisies and zinnias on his grave. Those weren’t the only differences. The black angel was shrouded, covered with a thick tarp. She stared at it, then at Holt.

  Mayor Crocker stepped forward, and the crowd hushed. “Miss Swann, you and yours have been wronged by this town, and we don’t like that about ourselves. Can’t change what happened, can only look forward with wiser eyes. We know it was your mother’s dearest wish to clear your father’s name. You have now done so. And the town thought, in honor of your father and to right our wrong, we would complete your family’s wish. We took up a collection, and…” He nodded, and a couple of men pulled the tarp down.

  Edie gaped.

  “Oohh,” Miranda said. “Pretty.”

  The angel was pretty. All snowy and pale and light. Gone was the fierce, angry gargoyle. In its place was a face softened by kindness and compassion. Wings curved to embrace and shelter the wounded.

  Edie didn’t know what to say. She thought of her mother, and her awful inhuman scream.

  The crowd was silent, all eyes on her. Expecting… what? Something. But what did she owe them? Any of them?

  Holt put an arm around her. “You okay?” he whispered.

  “This your idea?” she whispered back.

  “Town hatched it up, like the mayor said. I only said okay when they came to me with the idea.”

  She glanced up at the white angel. Smaller. Gentler than the previous one. An angel of tenderness. Of pity in its highest form. Carved into the folds of her robe was a single word: mercy.

  As if her mother had touched her hair and whispered, thank you, the scream in Edie’s head merged into a sigh of contentment. She looked out into the crowd and saw people who’d scorned her, but also people who’d stood by her. For their
sake as well as her own, she repeated her mother’s words.

  “Thank you.” She smiled, and a cheer went up.

  Later, she stretched out in the gazebo with Holt, her head in his lap, her eyes closed. Miranda and Amy were in the cutting garden, and she could hear the music of Miranda’s high-pitched voice as she chattered with the other woman.

  Holt stroked the hair back from her forehead “You know, I never thanked you for saving Miranda’s life.”

  “Mmm,” was all she said.

  “Guess this means you’re sticking around.”

  She cracked open an eye, looked up at him.

  “You save someone’s life you’re responsible for them,” he said mildly.

  She closed her eye.

  “Now that there’s no… barriers in the way,” he continued. “No careers to lose, no more scandals to weather. No excuses.”

  “There is one thing,” she murmured.

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  Miranda squealed and Edie sat up. She nodded to the side of the house where Holt’s father was coming round the corner. “That.”

  “Pawpaw!” Miranda threw her arms around her grandfather’s knees, but Holt rose and moved to the gazebo’s entrance, stood there tense and rigid like a palace guard.

  “Sit down, Holt,” Edie said mildly. “I asked him to come.”

  He whipped around to face her. “You what?”

  “You heard me.”

  His father gazed up at him from the yard. Amy whispered something to Miranda and pulled her toward the house.

  And James began the tramp across the lawn toward the gazebo.

  Holt was still positioned at the front, so James couldn’t mount the two steps to enter.

  “Hey, Edie.” He nodded in her direction. “Holt.” His gaze caught with his son’s, and neither moved.

  Edie watched them feel each other out. She didn’t suppose she’d ever be a big fan of James Drennen’s, but she wasn’t going to blacklist him, either. Much as she’d like to. Ought to.

  Holt might stick his chin out and hold on to stubbornness, but he was also sick at the breakup of his family. And what about Miranda? Edie couldn’t bear the thought of Holt’s child growing up with her world split in two as Edie’s had been. Miranda needed her Nannie and Pawpaw as much as she needed her father.

  “Come on up, James,” Edie said. “Holt, get your butt out of the way.”

  Holt remained for half a second, then reluctantly gave way. He plunked himself down beside her and took her hand possessively, as if making sure James couldn’t get close enough to chop it off.

  James removed his ball cap, sat on the other side, tossing the hat nervously between his knees. No one said a word.

  Geez. She was the injured party, wasn’t she? If she could manage détente why couldn’t they?

  “Look, this is not going to work,” Edie said finally. “I’m not going to be the reason you two never speak to each other again.”

  “No way is it your fault,” Holt said.

  “I’m not blaming you,” James said at the same time.

  “Well, I’m blaming myself. I know what you did hurt me,” she said to James. “It was wrong. But the truth’s out now—”

  “Only because we forced it out of him,” Holt said.

  “I’m sorrier than I can say,” James said. “To both of you. I know I can’t change what’s been done, but—”

  “It’s over,” Edie said. “And everyone’s paid a high enough price.” She looked at Holt. “Do you really want to keep shelling out those dues?”

  The two men eyed each other. Finally, James stood. “Thanks for trying, Edie.” He tumbled down the gazebo’s two steps to the yard.

  Edie whacked Holt. “Don’t let him go.”

  James turned at the bottom, gazed up at his son. “Oh, that’s okay, Edie. One of these days he’ll forgive me.” His mouth twisted into the same crooked smile she’d seen on Holt’s face. “Got to. No living with his mama if he won’t.” He put his hat on, pulled it low. “See you later?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Edie said.

  Holt turned to her. “What’s he mean? What’s happening later?”

  “Your mama’s cooking dinner for us.”

  Holt scowled. “I’m not having dinner with him.”

  “What about Miranda? You going to keep her from her grandparents the rest of her life?”

  Holt said nothing, only set his jaw tighter. Well, she’d played the Miranda card, and that didn’t work. She had one more ace left.

  “You want me to stick around? Well, I can’t do that if it means you’ll always cross the street when you see your folks coming. I’ll be like a pebble under your shoe—always a reminder of why the road between you isn’t smooth. I won’t do that. I won’t hurt Miranda that way. Or you.”

  Holt’s mouth compressed into a grim line. He looked at his father. James shook his head.

  “She don’t mean it, son.”

  “Don’t I?” Edie said. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Don’t,” James said. “Please. I’m in enough trouble without you threatening to leave because of me.” He stuck his cap on his head. “Look, I’m going. No one has to come for dinner tonight. We got time to work things out.” He started across the lawn.

  But Edie continued to look at Holt. “What’s it gonna be, Chief? A life with grudges or a life with me?”

  “You’re a damn pain in the ass,” Holt said.

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Holt sighed. Bounded down the steps. “Dad! Wait up!”

  She watched Holt jog over the grass toward his father. They spoke briefly. Shook hands. She closed her eyes in relief. Collapsed against the gazebo bench, suddenly sweating from effort. Man, peacemaking was hard work.

  Holt returned, and lurked in the entrance. “Happy now?”

  “You?”

  He grunted. “But I’m still not going to dinner.”

  Edie sighed. “Yeah, you are. Because I’m still all weak and wobbly and if you don’t I’ll be stressed out, and it’ll hamper my recovery.”

  He scowled at her.

  “You don’t want to hamper my recovery, do you?”

  “How long you think that trick’s gonna last?”

  She shrugged happily. “Long as it has to, I guess. Come on, now. Sit back down and fiddle with my hair again. It’s not easy being poisoned.”

  Miranda came out of the house and clambered up the steps, an ice-cream bar dripping down her shirt. “I want another ride.”

  “Mmm,” Edie said, “me, too.”

  She turned to her daddy. “Can we?”

  “Soon,” he said, and hauled her up beside him.

  “How soon?”

  Edie drifted off to the sound of father and daughter negotiating. A couple of days and Edie figured she’d be ready to get on the bike again. Feel that rumble of power beneath her. She even knew where she’d go for that first ride.

  She hadn’t told Holt yet, hadn’t told anyone. But she’d used some of the money Fred had given her as a down payment on a broken-down house with an old tire swing in the yard. Miranda was going to love that swing.

  And she and Holt would fix up the house. Clean out the old memories and make new ones. She’d take off her shoes and plant her feet. Feel what it was like to finally have her roots.

  If that got too confining? She and Holt and Miranda and whoever else came along could hop on their bikes and go for a nice, long ride. And when that was over, something would always be waiting at the end of the road. Home.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This book was inspired by the legend of the black angel in Oakland Cemetery in Iowa City. For more on the legend, see Ghosts of the Prairie—Behind the Legends at http://www.prairieghosts.com/oakland.html. For more on how the legend evolved into One Deadly Sin, visit my Web site at www.anniesolomon.net.

  Dear Reader,

  Have I got something to share with you. It’s the story of Mitch Hancock, a
man living on the run, his identity so lethal its discovery could unleash a nightmare of horror on himself and his innocent daughter, Julia. Unfortunately, since Mitch is in one of my books, things don’t go the way he planned. Which is lucky for you, because that’s only the beginning of what I hope will be a page-turning story of love, sacrifice, and murder.

  To whet your appetite for my next book, here’s the event that kicks everything off.

  The day Sarah Jean Miles jumped into the For-bidden River was sunny and warm for October. The trees along River Road were splashed with crimson and rust, and even as she stood on the bridge staring down at the dark, swirling water, Sarah Jean knew it was a glorious day.

  She just didn’t care. Glorious days were for the other eighth-grade girls. The ones who knew how to put on eyeliner and flatiron their hair. Who could giggle with the boys without blushing. Who wore bras and had MySpace pages with lots of friends.

  Sarah Jean would never be one of those girls. She would never be anything.

  She realized this in a moment of clarity on the bridge.

  She would never be anything. Not because she couldn’t be, but because she didn’t want to be. She only wanted the sun to go away and the blackness to come and cover her.

  And the water was so very dark. It swayed and circled around itself, beckoning like a pair of open arms. It made her drowsy. She could hardly take her eyes away.

  Except that a sound jolted her. It came from a distance, slowly penetrating like the heart of a dream. She looked over her shoulder, a reluctant, gradual slide, as if her head was still tethered to the water below.