by Nene Adams
“Sure, I can tell him that.”
Noah cleared his throat. “That’s good, Lune. If Ezra wants help—”
Lunella’s eyes flashed gold. “We don’t need your help, Deputy,” she snapped, suddenly not shy at all. She pronounced his title like a dirty word.
Seems like a bit of a family feud going on there. Annalee knew better than to get involved. Interference in domestic matters usually ended in tears, if not outright bloodshed when the combatants invariably closed ranks against an interloper. She had no intention of putting herself in the middle. “We’d best be on our way, Deputy Whitlock. Miz Skinner, it was a pleasure meeting you,” she said.
“Yeah, sure, Sheriff, likewise,” Lunella replied, giving her sidelong glances that she found simultaneously amusing and kind of endearing. In fact, her face ached from the effort not to grin like a goof at Lunella’s sheer cuteness.
She stopped that thought in its tracks. There was no misery like a hopeless attraction to a straight girl, unless it was compounded by the fact that the girl was her deputy’s cousin. Hell, yes, she was attracted. She wasn’t made of stone and Lunella was her type. Very much her type, but she wouldn’t act on that attraction, especially since a little lesbian liaison would probably spell the end of her law enforcement career if it ever became public knowledge. The county Bible thumpers would be all over that like flies on crap.
She loved her job, but more importantly, she needed to remain in the sheriff’s office until she solved her father’s murder and brought whoever was responsible to justice. After that accomplishment, the county commissioners could kiss her ass if they were so inclined. Besides, when she desired intimate company, there was always a weekend trip to Atlanta to ease her itch, a visit to the clubs and bars where she was just another stranger meeting other anonymous bodies. Or I could just have another dream like the one last night. Weird though it had become at the end, the dream had also been incredibly arousing and about the best sex she’d ever experienced. Just remembering it made damp heat bloom between her thighs. She resolutely turned her mind away from the shadowy fantasy lover of her imagination, only to find her thoughts returning to the subject of Lunella Skinner.
Despite her resolution to show no interest, she remained curious. Wouldn’t hurt to find out a little more, she told herself, recalling the golden glint in the woman’s eyes. Lunella’s instantaneous switch from shy to snappish was intriguing. She’d always preferred women who struck sparks. There was also the nagging feeling that she knew Lunella better than their brief acquaintance suggested. In high school, they’d barely spoken two words to each other and lost touch since graduation day. She couldn’t explain the sense of recognition.
In the patrol car on the way to Lassiter’s house on the other side of Huntswell, Annalee tried for a casual tone and asked Noah, “What happened to your cousin Lunella after our high school graduation? I don’t remember seeing her around.”
“She went up to Canada for a spell,” Noah answered.
“To Canada? You sure?” She wasn’t aware the Skinners had connections outside Daredevil County, let alone the country.
“Some family thing,” Noah said, fiddling with the brim of his hat. “I can’t really tell you about it. I mean, I don’t know the whole story.”
“Fair enough.” She decided to ask Minnie Hawkins later. The dispatcher was a veritable font of gossip who could dish the dirt on damn near anybody.
The drive continued in silence.
Reverend Lassiter had lived in the wealthy neighborhood known as Nob Hill, although when she was a kid, Annalee and her friends had called it “Snob Hill.” Each of the houses was a different architectural style, some whimsical—like the A-frame glass pyramid owned by the CEO of a string of grocery stores—and others classical, like the Tudor-style home given to Lassiter by a devoted congregant of the Honey in the Rock Church.
The reverend’s widow opened the door after Annalee rang the bell.
Ruth Lassiter was a well-preserved brunette, her hair backcombed, sculpted, teased and sprayed into a puffy bouffant ’do that resembled a helmet. She wore a lavender knee-length skirt and matching cashmere sweater. The string of pearls around her neck was discreet and tasteful and no doubt real. Ruth smelled like Chanel No. 5, but when she opened her mouth, Annalee was nearly overwhelmed by the sharp odors of mint and menthol underlain with alcohol. It seemed Ruth was a closet drinker. From the fumes, she thought bourbon was the woman’s poison of choice.
“Can I help you, Sheriff?” Ruth asked, her voice slightly slurred.
Sunlight wasn’t kind to her, revealing patchy places where foundation, powder and rouge had been too hastily applied. Blots of mascara darkened her eyes. Her blue eyeliner was crooked, and there was a smear of coral lipstick on her front teeth. While some rather obvious cosmetic surgery had helped erase many of the signs of encroaching age, at that moment Ruth looked like a barfly on the wrong side of fifty on the morning after a monumental debauch.
“I’d like to speak to you about your husband, Mrs. Lassiter,” Annalee said, taking off her hat and tucking it under her arm. “May we come in?”
“Of course.” Ruth stood aside, allowing her and Noah to pass into the foyer.
The temperature was much cooler inside the house. The atmosphere was hushed, the curtains drawn at all the windows, the interior dim. As Annalee followed Ruth into the living room, she noticed a hall mirror covered with a cloth, the sort of thing local people did after a death in the family. It surprised her, this evidence of superstition in such a deeply—at least publicly—Christian household.
The significance of the covered mirror struck her and she frowned. She’d made no official notification of Lassiter’s murder to his surviving family yet, but somehow Ruth already knew. She blamed Abner Cutshall. He must have called the widow after his son Ron showed up with the news that we’d found the body. Nevertheless, she would follow protocol and do the notification properly.
Ruth settled on one of the impractical white leather sofas, her hands folded in her lap, her posture rigid, her lavender leather pumps precisely aligned on the shag carpet.
Annalee and Noah sat opposite on another white sofa. The cushions were far too soft, giving under their weight until she and Noah slid together to a mutual slumping halt in the middle, their knees and shoulders rubbing together—a damned awkward position that made her back ache, but each time she shifted, the leather creaked with a sound like a dry fart, so she made an effort to remain still.
“I’m very sorry to tell you, Mrs. Lassiter, that we found your husband’s body in Yellow Jacket Pond,” Annalee said softly, watching the woman’s reaction. Ruth didn’t seem shocked. Her carefully plucked eyebrows raised a trifle, but that was all. Well, that don’t mean much. Grief takes people differently, and besides, this can’t be news to her. On the other hand, looks like the surgeon screwed her face so tight if she tried to pull an expression, her nose might pop off. She continued, “He was shot, ma’am. We are investigating his death as a homicide.”
“I see,” came the calm reply. “Thank you, Sheriff.”
Annalee waited a moment, but Ruth’s mouth compressed into a thin line. The widow didn’t seem to have anything further to add and was certainly volunteering no additional information. She saw no point in beating around the bush. She took the envelope from Noah, opened the flap and slid out the photograph of the silver chain found in the pond. “Does this piece of jewelry belong to you or your husband?” she asked.
Ruth’s gaze flickered to the photograph and back to Annalee. She hesitated, licking her lips, and finally answered in a reedy voice, “Yes.”
“Do you have any idea how the clasp was broken?”
“No.”
Annalee held the photograph loosely between her fingers, tilting it back and forth. “Your husband took colloidal silver pretty regularly, didn’t he?”
Again, Ruth hesitated. “He had an allergy,” she said at last.
“To what?” Annalee’s interes
t was piqued by Ruth’s odd behavior.
Ruth’s gaze cut to Noah, and she sat up a little more rigidly, the toes of her pumps denting the carpet. The pearls she wore had a subtle gleam, like beads of ectoplasm wrapped around her stringy neck. “John was allergic to dogs,” she enunciated clearly.
“And was he under a doctor’s care?” Annalee asked.
Ruth ignored her. She went on speaking to Noah, grating words out between her lipstick-smudged teeth. Her eyes were cold, her features tightened to a mask of hatred. “Filthy, disgusting animals with filthy, disgusting habits,” she pronounced, her hands clenching into fists. “‘Give not that which is holy unto dogs.’ They are worthless scavengers, shit eaters that licked Jezebel’s blood from the street and returneth to their vomit! ‘And whatsoever goeth upon his paws, among all manner of beasts that go on all four, those are unclean unto you.’ Unclean! Do you hear me? Unclean!” She was shaking with fury, spittle flying, her face mottled crimson.
Annalee feared the woman might blow an aneurysm or give herself a heart attack.
Noah shot to his feet, leaving her toppled over and struggling to extract herself from the sofa’s clutches just as a man entered the room.
Ruth stopped speaking, her mouth closing with an audible snap.
Annalee managed to get up without further humiliating herself. She clamped a hand around Noah’s forearm as a precaution. He was clearly fuming. Although she was confident he would behave in a professional manner, she wanted to remind him that their business here was official. Personal indignation could wait.
She assessed the newcomer with a practiced glance. His mane of salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, emphasizing a broad, unlined forehead. He had an expensive-looking tan and manicured fingernails and wore what could only be an Armani suit that fit his toned body beautifully. She had an inkling that, like Ruth, the man’s unnaturally smooth facial features were the result of Botox and cosmetic medical procedures. What is wrong with aging gracefully? she wondered. It seemed to her that the more money someone had, the more desperately they sought to retain the appearance of youth—a ridiculous endeavor and ultimately doomed to fail, but she supposed plastic surgeons had to make a living.
“Ruth, my dear, I understand we have callers,” the man said, flashing a smile that had probably cost him more than Annalee’s monthly salary. His air of bonhomie was fake, but the Patek watch strapped to his wrist seemed genuine. “Will you make the introductions?”
Annalee decided to make no pretense of social niceties. Unless the man was blind, he could see they were in uniform, and unless he was stupid, he knew about Lassiter’s death. “Sheriff Crow,” she said, not offering her hand. “And you are, sir?”
His professional smile didn’t falter. “I’m Aiden Thompson, senior partner at Thompson, Thompson, Camp and McElwee. Our firm is based in Atlanta. Mrs. Lassiter is not only a client, but a personal friend of mine. I flew down to see her last night.”
His statement confirmed Annalee’s suspicion that Ruth had already been informed of her husband’s murder, but if they wanted to play it cool, she’d go along with it.
Ruth got up from the sofa and walked over to Aiden, moving with the exaggerated grace of a secret drunkard. The man shook a cigarette from a crumpled pack taken out of his jacket pocket and lit it with a Zippo lighter. Ruth pressed herself against his side, an arm around his waist. The glance she gave Noah was scathing.
Annalee didn’t understand the animosity. As far as she was aware, Noah had never met Reverend Lassiter or his wife.
“The sheriff has been telling me that John was murdered,” Ruth said.
“Really?” One of Aiden’s eyebrows jerked higher. He gave Ruth a sympathetic glance that Annalee felt was the one thing not feigned about this situation. “Oh, honey, that’s terrible news.” He put an arm around her shoulders. The cigarette smoldered between the first and second fingers of his free hand. Thin tendrils of smoke curled towards the ceiling “Do you need anything?” he asked Ruth, his attention focused solely on her. “A sedative, perhaps? Should I call a doctor?”
“No, I’m fine.” Ruth patted his arm. “John was called home.It was the will of God,” she said. “I’m so glad you’re here to help me carry this burden.”
“I’ll be here as long as you need me,” Aiden said, smiling down fondly at her.
“Mrs. Lassiter, I need to know if your husband owned a shotgun or if you have a shotgun in the house,” Annalee said, breaking up the mutual love fest before she started gagging. Was Mrs. Lassiter having an extramarital affair with Aiden Thompson? If so, had her husband known? Did the obvious bond between them have anything to do with the murder? Most victims knew their killers, which was why close family members were always the priority suspects in a homicide.
Aiden pulled Ruth closer against his side. A weight of ash crumbled off the end of his cigarette, soiling the carpet near his brightly polished wingtips. “Sheriff, Mrs. Lassiter has just learned she is a widow. Have you no compassion? Can’t your questions wait?”
“I’m very sorry for your loss, ma’am, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t pursue every avenue of investigation.” Annalee wasn’t going to be intimidated by some high-falutin’ legal eagle from Hotlanta. “Did your husband share your feelings about dogs?” she asked the woman, ignoring Aiden’s questions.
“He hated them,” Ruth muttered.
Annalee made a mental note to check Lassiter’s record and find out if he had ever been accused of, cautioned against or arrested for animal cruelty. “Since your husband was allergic, do you have any idea how dog hair could have gotten caught on his silver chain?”
“No.”
“Did your husband own a shotgun?” Annalee repeated.
“Yes, he did. It’s in his den. You can have it,” Ruth said, her expression disdainful and her tone clipped. Aiden bent his head to murmur in her ear. She shrugged and continued, “I have nothing to hide, Sheriff. Take the shotgun, much good may it do you.”
Annalee nodded. “Do you mind telling me where you were last Wednesday evening?”
“Sheriff!” Aiden exclaimed. “Such a question at such a time!”
“I remind you again that I’m doing my job, counselor.” Annalee tried hard to keep any hint of hostility out of her voice. It wouldn’t be productive to rile the man into doing anything beyond expressing professional indignation on his client’s behalf. She turned to the widow. “Mrs. Lassiter, I know you want your husband’s killer brought to justice,” she said. “We have to eliminate people who had nothing to do with the case so we can focus our efforts where they’ll do the most good. Will you please tell me where you were last Wednesday evening?”
Ruth didn’t answer. Her lips remained stubbornly pressed together.
“Really, Sheriff, I must go on record as protesting this most unreasonable and insensitive interrogation—” Aiden began, but Annalee interrupted him.
“Your client can answer my very reasonable questions here, in the comfort of her own home, or she can do so at the sheriff’s office,” she said. “It don’t make no never mind to me.”
Aiden grimaced. He held a whispered conference with Ruth that lasted about sixty seconds. When their conversation ended, he glanced at Annalee and said, “You may question my client, Sheriff, but I warn you, if I don’t like what I hear, I will end the interview.”
“On your head be it.” Annalee wondered if the widow had something to hide, or if the lawyer was just being obnoxious because he could. “Okay, Mrs. Lassiter, for the third time, where were you last Wednesday night?”
“At Abner Cutshall’s house in Huntswell,” Ruth answered after Aiden’s nod granted permission. She went on, “We were having dinner with some of the congregants, and afterward there was a prayer session.”
“I’ll need a list of the other dinner guests,” Annalee said.
“You’ll get it, solely for the purposes of establishing my client’s alibi. I trust you’ll be discreet, Sheriff,” Aiden replie
d.
“I’ll try. Next question: did Reverend Lassiter have any enemies?” she asked.
Aiden squeezed Ruth’s arm in apparent warning, flicked ash from his cigarette and answered the question himself. “John Lassiter was a soldier of God engaged in a war against evil,” he said. “The reverend fought sin and corruption wherever he found it. The enemies of the Lord were his enemies too, Sheriff Crow.”
Annalee pursed her lips. “I had in mind something a little more secular, Mr. Thompson. For example, did the reverend owe anyone money? Was he a gambler? Had he done anything that might open him up to blackmail? Please don’t be offended, ma’am. Believe me, if there’s anything to be found, if we don’t uncover it, a defense attorney will, should we make an arrest. There ain’t no secrets that won’t come to light eventually.”
Ruth’s mouth worked as if she might spit. “My husband was a good, kind man whom I loved dearly,” she said at last, “and I repeat, I have nothing to hide.”
“That’s it, Sheriff,” Aiden said, frowning. “I really must insist you go now.”
“After we collect those shotguns, if you don’t mind.” Annalee didn’t think the guns had been used to kill Lassiter, but she would have them tested anyway to cover all the bases. “Once they’ve been examined, they’ll be returned to you, provided we don’t need ’em for evidence.” She returned the photograph to the envelope, taking her time just to needle him.
Aiden looked mulish, but he waited her out without protest.
She asked for directions to the study and made a point of having the lawyer present while she and Noah bagged three twenty-gauge shotguns from an unlocked, glass-fronted case. The room was very masculine, decorated in dark woods and subdued colors, with hunting prints hung on the walls and shelves full of leather-bound books that looked as if they had never been cracked open. An oversized, elaborately bound Bible, open to Leviticus, stood on a gilded stand. The overly sweet scent of vanilla pipe smoke lingered in the air, threatening to give her an instant migraine.
“If we have further questions, I trust you’ll be available?” Annalee asked on the way out of the house.
