More praise for
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH
“In addition to a smart mystery, readers will enjoy humorous takes on running a church, owning a dog, and dealing with father-daughter angst. The clever structure, remarkable dialog, and subplots result in a wholly satisfying read.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Packs a considerable punch. . . . Readers will look forward to seeing more of Bear, with his formidable intellect, tart sense of humor, and resolute sense of justice.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Well-delineated characters, including the self-deprecating hero, drive this first-person account, which is strengthened further by the perceptive examination of family relationships and the portrait of the life and work of a minister.”
—Booklist
“Bear is a wonderful amateur sleuth.”
—The Mystery Gazette
“Extremely readable with great characters that you love and hate (even when it comes to the ‘holiest’). In addition, the author certainly teaches readers about the vibrant attitudes, policies, loyalties, and entertaining attitudes that dwell in the Lone Star State. It will be very interesting to see this series continue. Enjoy!”
—Suspense Magazine
“[A] warmhearted and clever detective story.”
—M. C. Beaton, author of Hiss and Hers
“Praise be! A new series with a soul, a heart, and a down-home Texas twang. Preacher Bear Wells is an entirely original sleuth and author Stephanie Jaye Evans is that real rarity: a debut writer with dead-on dialogue, winning characters, and—mirabile dictu!—nimble plotting.”
—Susan Wittig Albert, author of the China Bayles Mysteries
“Stephanie Jaye Evans’s marvelous debut sets the traditional village cozy smack-dab in the middle of today’s suburban planned community. Evans’s gift for colorful characters enlivens Faithful Unto Death, while her assured writing propels it forward. I love her reluctant clerical sleuth, the Reverend Walker ‘Bear’ Wells. Bring on the next Sugar Land Mystery!”
—Julia Spencer-Fleming, New York Times bestselling author of One Was a Soldier
“Unexpectedly magnificent . . . Faithful Unto Death is not only a brilliant murder mystery, but also a well-thought-out provocative tale of family secrets . . . Enthralling . . . I never thought a book about a preacher could be so much fun . . . Faithful Unto Death is a humorous and splendid murder mystery worthy of ten stars!”
—Fresh Fiction
SAFE FROM HARM
Stephanie Jaye Evans
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
USA / Canada / UK / Ireland / Australia / New Zealand / India / South Africa / China
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.
This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.
Copyright © 2013 by Stephanie Evans.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
BBERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Berkley Prime Crime trade ISBN: 978-0-425-25346-5
eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-61961-2
An application to register this book for cataloging has been submitted to the Library of Congress.
Cover photographs: Storm Clouds © Dudarev Mikhail/Shutterstock; Trailer © Lara Solt/Dallas Morning News/Corbis.
Cover design by Judith Lagerman.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content..
For Richard Allen Box.
He knows why.
Acknowledgments
Malice Domestic awarded me their 2010 William F. Deeck-Malice Domestic Award for Unpublished Writers—the award and the organization have made such a difference in my writing career. Harriette Sackler and Arleen Trundy have been invaluable mentors.
Trevor Pinkerton and Father Brian Barron gave me invaluable information on converting to Catholicism. Both were generous with their time. Jo’s feelings are her own, but I couldn’t have gotten it right without their help.
Captain Stuart Denton of the Sugar Land Police Department answered endless e-mailed questions and finally agreed to meet me for lunch so I could ask all my questions at once. I’m sure he thought that would make the e-mails stop, but it didn’t and he patiently continued to respond. The man has some great stories!
Sarah and Gabe Cortez helped me with questions regarding the Houston Police Department’s policies, and about Texas gun law. Sarah, author of How to Undress a Cop, one of my favorite books of contemporary poetry, remains a writing mentor forever.
George Copeland (author of Leverage, my new favorite noir novel) and Bill Enyart (who takes my son Charlie hunting and has kept the boy from shooting off a body part, thank you, Bill) coped with many tedious questions regarding firearms. George has made the serious mistake of promising to teach me how to shoot various guns. One of us is looking forward to that.
Samira Fitts, one of my spiritual heroes, allowed me to use one of her stories.
Carol Dilley and Pam Allan have been invaluable allies in getting out the word about Faithful Unto Death, the first in the Sugar Land Mysteries—I am so grateful to them both.
Anne Kimbol, John Kwiatkowski and McKenna Jordan of Murder By the Book (the very best mystery bookstore I have ever had the privilege to linger in for hours and hours and hours) have been so supportive. I can never repay them. In fact, none of us in the mystery community can ever repay them.
Thank you to Karla Hodde of Katy Budget Books, one of my favorite independent booksellers. She hosted such a fun reading for me—cookies and tea, too! And I got to make a bloody handprint for their wall.
With Safe From Harm, I had the assistance of two of The Berkley Publishing Group’s finest editors, Faith Black and my own beautiful Shannon Jamieson Vazquez. Unless you have ever had the help and attention of a truly brilliant and committed editor, you cannot know how they transform a book. I had two. I thank them from the bottom of my heart.
By the grace of God (there’s no other way to explain it) I am represented by Janet Reid of FinePrint Literary Management. There isn’t a better agent on earth. There can’t be. I am her devoted fan forever and ever amen. If she ever needs a kidney, I’m her girl.
I am so grateful to the many readers and reviewers who contacted me. You can’t know how encouraging I found your words and support.
Dwain and Barbara Evans and Lisa and Michael Nicholls are always there for me—questions regarding real estate, Houston history, whatever I need—they are there.
Drs. Hank Venable, Tim Sitter, Fae Garden and Adam Garden, Les Schoppe, and George Boyle assisted me in my fictional murders. Thank you, all.
The Pinkertons, the Phelps, the Sitters, the Marnoys—these couples hold me up with their sto
ries and advice and encouragement.
Jay, Christina, Evans and Charlie, Adam, Larissa, Mackenzie and David, you feed my heart and forgive me my failings. Thank you.
Always my thanks to my husband, Richard Box. He puts up with more than any man should be called to. Janet Reid says Richard is the perfect writer’s spouse. She’s right. He’s that, and so very much more.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Prologue
No one was there when she let herself into the dark house, the preacher’s house, her friend’s house—she was alone, alone and empty, and there was only this house where she could come, when she wanted, if it was empty, if they were gone, she could come and let herself in with her key, it was her key, it was. Her key to this house.
She dropped the key on the floor.
The dog was a dog and he didn’t care. He was used to her visits and he came and pressed his head against her side and walked with her to the kitchen. She didn’t put a light on. She didn’t need to. She knew the house.
She straightened the frame of the family portrait when she passed. Too dark to see it and she knew the faces anyway. The mom, dad and older sister, tall and blonde and blue-eyed, and the slight, dark youngest sister who wore a secret smile. No place in the picture for another sister, who could be dark or blonde, whatever they wanted.
The cool, dark kitchen smelled of, what? Bergamot. Earl Grey, maybe. Names she had learned here in this house. Her hand found a mug in the sink and she touched her tongue to the rim, then tilted the cooled tea into her mouth. Milky and sweet and smoky.
They had had tea. The family had sat around the table, and they had drunk tea, together, like a family, sweet, milky tea like a family in a book. She drank the tepid tea dregs from the three cups, rinsed the mugs and put them in the dishwasher.
The fridge was filled with cartons of milk and juice, a Ziploc with carrot sticks, another with celery, plastic containers filled with blurred mysteries. She rested her head against the cool, polished steel and looked for a long time. She pulled a container out and popped the top. Cookie dough. She scooped some out with a trembling finger and tasted it. Ginger. With lemon. She gave the dog a pinch of dough. She carefully sealed the carton and put it back in and chose another. This held a vegetable casserole that had started to fur. She dumped the contents into the sink and ran the disposal. Rinsed the plastic carton out and put it in the dishwasher, too.
She wiped the counters down and the smell of the cleaner made her gag. She leaned over the sink and waited; nothing came up. She stayed that way a minute, resting her hot cheek against the cool granite. The dog snuffled at her ankles and she stood. Rinsed and dried the sink. Dropped the dishtowel into the basket on the floor of the laundry room. All without turning on a light.
The bed in the parents’ room was made, but mussed. Someone had taken a nap without moving the bedspread. She smoothed the wrinkles, and tucked in a sheet corner that peeked out from under the spread. She tried a spray of the mom’s perfume. Spritzed her wrists and rubbed them together and then sniffed. It smelled clean, astringent. She sprayed a little at the base of her throat, too. She put a hand down for the dog to smell and he sneezed, then licked her hand and nudged his head underneath it. She rubbed the velvet of his ears.
In the dark family room, she drew her hand over the backs of the couch and the chairs, feeling the rough and the smooth. She sat in the preacher’s chair and the leather creaked. His Bible was open over the arm of the chair and she picked up the heavy, limp book, the cover as soft as the dog’s ear, and turned a few of the whisper-thin pages. The pages crackled under her fingers. She couldn’t see the words in the dark. She found the frayed ribbon that marked his place and tied a loose knot in it. A message, if he could read it.
For a long time, she sat there, the dog resting his big head on her knees.
The stairway was lined with the daughters’ pictures, shadowy and vague in the dark. One blonde head, then one brown head, then the blonde again, and then the brown, the girls in the pictures growing younger as she climbed the stairs to the room where her old friend, no longer a friend, slept each night.
The room glowed dimly from the big goose-shaped lamp that held a five-watt bulb in its expansive belly, the light on, day or night. There were trophies in the bookcase and dried corsages on the bulletin board that held dozens of pictures of the dark-haired girl with her friends, her family, her guy. A pair of worn-out toe shoes hung from the end of the ballet barre fixed to one wall. Clothes spilled from a dresser drawer. Twin brass beds stood side by side, a homemade quilt draped over a brass rail. It had the alphabet appliquéd on it. For the letter J it said, “J is for Jo,” and there was a little girl in a pinafore and a bonnet, carefully stitched in.
She wanted to sleep here tonight. She wanted to take a hot bath with pink bath salts and a bar of soap that would float if it slipped from your wet fingers. She wanted to dry off with a thick, white towel, and put on pajamas, cotton ones, laundered thin, with flowers sprinkled over the top. And elastic-waist bottoms that came all the way down to her toes.
She wanted to curl up with the quilt on the little brass bed. The mom would bring her a cup of tea, hot and sweet and milky. The mom would read to her. “In the great green room, there was a telephone, and a red balloon, and a picture of—the cow jumping over the moon . . .” The mom would smooth her hair off her face, and kiss her right here, the exact spot the tear had reached. And hear her say her prayers. And tuck her in.
She wanted to lie down on that soft, warm bed, and close her eyes, and go to sleep.
And never wake up.
One
Annie Laurie and I had long since finished dinner at Gina and John Redman’s house. It had been dusk when we arrived and now it was full dark out on their back porch where we’d all eaten Gina’s wonderful dinner by the light of oil lamps. The Gulf Coast of Texas had at last cooled and the October night was brisk for an alfresco meal, but John had called ahead to warn us to dress warmly. In jeans and sweaters, we were comfortable and the dinner had been a delight. Our older daughter, Merrie, was back at Texas Tech, starting her sophomore year, our fifteen-year-old, Jo, was at a friend’s. It was nice to have an adult evening.
It was time to go, but we were enjoying the conversation, and the excellent pinot noir, and the companionship of really good friends.
As a preacher, I get plenty of dinner invitations. Preachers, like politicians, are treated like dignitaries, even if, in my case that would be a minor dignitary. A dinner invitation from the Redmans, though, was not a command performance; it was a privilege. John and Gina are both close to sixty, more than ten years older than me and Annie Laurie, more than fifteen years for Annie. But the age difference has never affected our relationship. The Redmans had welcomed us to our new congregation from the beginning. When I found that John had played football for Texas A&M, a rival of my own alma mater, the University of Texas, that sealed it. John liked to joke that he had played running b
ack, a brain position, whereas I had played offensive lineman, a brawn position, but we both know that without my position, his position would be turf jam. I’d gotten my nickname, Bear, from playing offensive lineman—my real name, Walker Wells, sounded too leisurely for a guy who was powering two-hundred and fifty pounders off their feet.
My cell phone pinged to tell me I had a text message. It was from Jo, our youngest daughter. The message said, “Come home.” Nothing else. Not a lot of information there. Just enough to make a dad worry.
I called Jo’s cell, but she didn’t pick up. I called the house and let it ring until the voice mail picked up. Did it again. I told myself everything was fine. Jo was fine.
I handed my phone to Annie Laurie so she could see Jo’s text, and we made our goodbyes, accepted a bag of Gina’s homemade rolls, said the next time was our turn and got in the car. Annie Laurie pushed the Call button six times every minute of the ten it took us to get home.
The house was dark, as we’d left it, except for the lamp on the foyer table. Our Newfoundland, Baby Bear, wasn’t there to greet us and Jo didn’t answer when we called her name. My heart was cinching up inside me and I put a hand out to keep Annie Laurie back, but she pushed past me and ran up the stairs to Jo’s room. I was on her heels.
Jo sat cross-legged on the floor of her dark room. Baby Bear sat next to her and leaned his heavy, hairy frame against Jo’s thin back. His breath came out in little whistling cries and his tail made anxious, uncertain sweeps. He glanced from me to Annie Laurie and gave a pleading yowl, then pushed up firmer behind Jo and panted in her ear.
Jo’s waist-length hair was loose, and tented over the body of the loose-limbed girl she rocked back and forth in her arms. The girl’s long, lanky legs stretched out awkwardly, and her head lolled against Jo’s shoulder, her eyes open and sightless, the pupils like pinpricks. It was Phoebe Pickersley, Jo’s friend who had not been a friend.
As my fingers dialed 911, my head started saying, Please God, please God, please God without any help from me.
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