Raul came out from behind one of the vehicles to greet Sam, wiping his hand on a red rag before extending it to Sam. He looked a little better than he had the other day, Sam reflected. Now that the shock had worn off, he could focus on moving forward.
“Thanks for coming over, Preacher. Sam,” Raul corrected himself. “I can’t afford to get away, but I needed to talk to you.”
“Sure,” Sam said. “I don’t know that there’s anything I can do to help, but I’m glad to try. What can I do for you?”
Raul motioned Sam to a seat on a metal garden bench that stood against the inside wall of the garage as a nod at hospitality for waiting customers. “Mind if I turn a wrench while we talk?”
“No, of course not. Do what you gotta do.” Sam folded his long legs under the bench as he sat down. There was something comforting about the smell of gas and oil, he reflected. Something that implied progress, function, forward motion. Work you could accomplish with your own hands and see the results. Not so insubstantial, say, as an afternoon spent counseling partners in a crippled marriage or running down a study on an ancient Aramaic word.
Silence stretched on for a few minutes, broken only by the sounds of Raul working on the car. Finally, Raul spoke.
“Preacher, you know Amanda would never do this. I’m not angry about that. I’m angry that she doesn’t trust me.”
Sam hadn’t thought about it in quite those terms. “What do you mean?”
“There’s no question Amanda was there. She’s the one who called it in. She’s the one who was sitting covered in blood with Amy in her lap when the cops showed up. I know she knows exactly what happened. If there’s some reason she can’t tell the cops, I get that. But I don’t get her not talking to me.”
Sam remembered what Rufus had said about rumors going around that Amy and Amanda might be closer than anyone realized. “Crazy question, Raul, but…is there any chance that Amy and Amanda were having an affair? Maybe this was a lovers’ quarrel, and she’s afraid to tell you.”
Sam heard Raul laugh humorlessly from under the car. “In my dreams, Preacher. I mean…just kidding. I’m sorry. But Amanda was definitely not into that. You know Amy probably spent more nights at my house than she did at her own. Her girls are like sisters to Tomas. If anything had been going on, I’d have seen it.”
“So, you and Clay must be pretty close, too, huh?”
“Nope. Amy spent a lot of time at our house, but mostly on her own. Clay worked a lot of evenings. Sat at home a lot of evenings. For a salesman, he’s not that sociable. Any maybe you haven’t noticed, but he and I don’t exactly have a lot in common.”
There’s an understatement, thought Sam. Raul was former Army. Sam thought he’d served for eight years or so before getting out and opening his own shop. Sam was pretty sure the man had seen combat, but he’d never asked and Raul hadn’t volunteered. Down to earth but with a much harder edge than the suburban salesman whose only venture outside of Indiana had been a senior trip to Cancun, Raul had been the voice of practical application in Bible classes. When Clay had spoken up, he’d kept his comments purely in the range of what other people should do.
Not to mention, Raul and Amanda always seemed to have a pretty equitable partnership. Amanda had taken on many traditionally wifely roles, but that had been a choice of her own, not one laid on her by her husband. And Raul had been a staunch supporter of his wife’s own business. Amy, on the other hand, had appeared to feel the pressure of living up to her husband’s expectations when it came to appearances—her own, her children’s, her home’s. Not to mention that Clay’s barely-masked disdain for his wife’s “fabric hobby” was well-known.
Sam grimaced slightly. “Yeah, I get that. Have you seen him since all this?”
There didn’t seem to be a better way to refer to the murder.
“Hell, no. But I hear Amanda has.”
A definite note of bitterness.
“That’s what I mean. What could she possibly have to say to that buffoon when she won’t talk to me at all?”
“That she’s sorry?”
“I’m telling you, Preacher, she didn’t do it.”
“Then what do you think she had to say to him?”
Sam heard wheels rolling as Raul pushed himself out from under the vehicle. Short and stocky, Raul was nonetheless pure muscle. A man would be a fool to underestimate him, Sam thought. Maybe there is another reason he is so sure Amanda didn’t do it. Maybe he’s the person Amanda wants forgiveness for.
Still, he couldn’t see the man shooting a young mother, much less his wife’s best friend. If Raul killed you, it would probably be with his bare hands.
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be talking to you.”
Sam had to ask anyhow.
“I don’t guess there’s any chance that the reason she isn’t talking is because she’s protecting you, is there, Raul?”
Raul gaped at him in uncharacteristic surprise. “Have you lost your mind? What possible motive could I have?”
Sam talked fast, letting the thoughts roll off his tongue before he had time to taste them. “Maybe you and Amy were the ones having an affair. She threatened to tell Amanda—or Clay—and you killed her.”
“Two things, Preacher. First of all, I’ve never had a taste for skinny little blondes with no mind of their own. Second, I’d be the one dead, not Amy. Amanda would kill me faster than you can blink if I stepped out on her.”
Sam nodded, lifting his shoulders apologetically. “That does have the ring of truth to it.”
“No shit. I asked you here because I need help for Amanda, not so you can try out your crazy theories on me.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Raul. Have the police given you any idea what kind of motive they are looking at?”
Raul shook his head, his face relaxing. “They seem as confused as the rest of us. They took her computer, of course. So maybe some kind of financial motive? But the shop was doing all right. Not going to be on the Forbes list or anything, but they were making more than they were losing, and doing a little better every year. Besides, you know Amanda. She’d never hurt Amy. The biggest fight they ever got into was when Amy wanted to get a boob job.”
Sam tried not to laugh, with mixed results. “Had Amanda said anything to you lately, seemed upset about anything or anyone? Clearly whatever happened, it wasn’t a stranger, or Amanda would be talking. This had to have grown out of something.”
“I know that she was angry lately. About two weeks ago, the girls had a sleepover. Clay was out of town at some conference or something. Something changed after that, but Amanda kept insisting nothing was wrong.”
“Changed how?” Sam couldn’t help but think that Amanda being angry after spending time with Amy would not be helpful information for a defense.
“I don’t know, exactly. I asked her about it, but she just said she would explain everything to me later. Honestly, I didn’t think much of it. She’s always getting worked up about something or other.”
“What about Amy? How did she seem?”
Raul shook his head. “I always felt sorry for Amy. She was anxious all the time, you know? You’d have thought she was a battered wife or something, but I don’t think Clay paid enough attention to her to smack her around. Not to mention that Amanda would have hauled Amy’s ass out of there if anything like that were going on. Anyway, Amy didn’t seem wound any tighter than usual, but I didn’t see much of her after that, either. She went to see her parents out in the country for a few days. Pulled the girls out of school and everything. I think that day…that day must have been her first or second day back in town.”
“Did she and Amanda usually work the same schedule?”
“No, they traded off during the week so they could spend as much time at home as possible. Weekends they both worked, unless one of the kids had some event. But it wasn’t strange that they were both working that night, since Amy had been out of town. They needed to catch up.”
Sam leaned for
ward on his knees, staring into the rainbow sheen of an oil pan as his mind struggled to pull all the pieces together.
“What aren’t you telling me, Raul?” he finally asked. He didn’t look up. Sometimes a confession was easier when you only had to face yourself.
A long sigh. “I wish I had a secret to tell you, Preacher. I wish I were the one carrying around the key that would unlock this whole thing. Unlock my stupid wife from the jail she’s put herself into for God knows what reason. But I don’t. The only thing I know for sure is this.
“Amanda did not kill Amy. And she and I have an understanding—if there’s ever a circumstance where we can only save each other or save Tomas, we would each save Tomas. There’s no man on Earth for whom she’d risk losing our son.”
“Then what is she doing?”
Raul walked over to stand in front of Sam, who raised his gaze. The shorter man’s eyes were blazing. “No man on Earth,” repeated Raul. “But she loves those girls like her own daughters. And she knows Tomas is safe with me.”
“What are you saying?”
“The only reason I can think of that Amanda would put Tomas through this is if she thought she was saving Amy’s daughters from something worse. And I heard Clay sent the girls to stay with their grandparents.”
“Did you tell the police this?”
Raul laughed shortly. “Sure I did, and they were polite enough not to laugh in my face. They told me it was very common for a grieving spouse to ask for help from family to deal with children. And they didn’t say—but clearly thought—it was equally as common for the husband of a murderer to grasp at straws to try and prove her innocence.”
Sam couldn’t argue with either of those points himself.
“Just…please try to talk to her again. I know she saw you the other day. I can’t reach her right now, but maybe you can.” Raul’s eyes went to his son, still watching TV in the office and oblivious to the drama playing out behind him.
“I’ll try,” Sam said, standing up and offering Raul his hand. “She didn’t have much to say to me last time.”
“I understand,” Raul said. “Just do what you can. And tell her…tell her I love her and I’m fucking furious with her.”
Chapter Fourteen
As an unexpected bonus—if Sam wanted to call it that—Raul had asked Sam if he’d mind taking over the books for the garage and at least try to take a look at the textile shop accounts, once the police released the computer. Raul hadn’t even blinked when Sam launched into his customary disclaimer about no Internet access and the extra time it took him to get things done. The former military man had accepted Sam’s explanation with a short nod, as if it made perfect sense to him. And maybe it did. Who knew what accommodations the man made for himself, to find a way for a warrior to camouflage himself as nothing more than a suburban grease monkey?
Still, Sam couldn’t help comparing Raul’s reaction to everyone else’s. Initially, the few people who’d known about his decision had supported him, lauding the “spiritual strength” it took to make that choice. Even Dani had been patient at first. But pretty quickly, the inconvenience of the unconnected life became unacceptable. His short client list consisted of a handful of friends who were simply doing him a favor and a few old people who took pride in never having joined the modern world.
The bright side of getting started on the Garcia accounts was that he might have it all in order by the time tax season rolled around. Sam suspected that two married business owners had more than their fair share of complications. From what Sam had heard, Amy had been the more practical side of the Double A. Which meant that Amanda’s record-keeping was likely less than ideal. Still, work was work, especially these days. Sam had no intention of free-loading off his sister. Eventually, he was going to have to come up with an actual plan. As a safety net, the CPA thing had turned out to be mostly rotten with holes in the middle.
He’d told Raul he’d come back tomorrow and start sorting through files. Raul and Amanda had always struggled through their own taxes in the past, reluctant to share their hard-earned cash with an accountant. But with Amanda in jail, Raul had his hands full. He had to keep the garage open and take care of his son, while trying to negotiate a graceful closure of the Double A with the man whose wife had been murdered by his own. What a mess.
But maybe Sam could help. As Raul’s accountant, he could play go-between with Clay. Although it sounded as if the police had all those records right now. Sam supposed money was one of the most common motives in murder, but he didn’t think it could have anything to do with what had happened here. Still, he understood the police had to cover all the bases. In the meantime, Sam would do what he could to take some of the pressure off Raul.
His whole life, he reflected, had become a stopgap measure. He was Dani’s stopgap for help at the shop, Parker’s stopgap for a dad, Cotton’s stopgap for a shelter, Amanda’s stopgap for a confessor, Rufus Ffaukes’ stopgap for a sidekick. He didn’t belong in any of these roles. When his mooring broke and he drifted out of place, any other stopgap would do as well. He needed to figure out exactly who he was and what he was doing.
Sam’s mouth twisted bitterly. That sounded so angsty and mid-life crisis-y. It was just plain embarrassing. He’d thought for so long that he knew exactly who he was. He’d been lucky for a while, he guessed. He’d fallen into his own happiness and imagined himself its architect. Many people, maybe even most people, wound up settling in life. Doing what they had to do and no more to keep their heads above water in the muddy, stagnant pool into which they’d slid. But he’d been doing what he loved, what he believed in, nearly all his life. He’d studied theology in college, gone on a few mission trips, apprenticed himself under a couple of outstanding preachers he really respected, and then found a growing, active congregation of his own to devote himself to. He’d had a beautiful, intelligent, passionate wife whose faith had been the whirlwind that fanned his own flames. And he’d thrown it all away.
It was too ugly and pathetic to think about. He was on a different road now, and he would keep his feet to it, no matter how many stones lay in his path—or were thrown in his path.
With an effort, Sam wrenched his thoughts away from Melanie and the crippling addiction that had brought him here. He couldn’t change the past. But maybe he could make a difference now, in the present. He didn’t want to ask Dani for help again, though. She didn’t mind as much as she pretended, but she still couldn’t resist any opportunity to make another dig. It was a little sister thing. Sam wasn’t in the mood.
So he drove to the jail and made an appointment in person for Amanda Garcia’s next visiting day. The woman at the desk made no secret of her annoyance at Sam’s lack of connectivity, but she helped him set it up all the same. Two days from now, at eleven in the morning.
Drat. Right before the lunch rush. He’d have to make it up to Dani somehow. He could at least get as much prep work done as possible so that it wouldn’t be a complete nightmare.
Sam wondered if he could get Tony to meet him tonight for dinner somewhere. Rufus’ updates were well and good, but Tony Bromiglia had been a fixture in the church for years. Not a particularly devout fixture, but a steady one, at least. And his wife Chelsea was the undisputed champion of church gossip, particularly as it related to the women in the congregation.
Of course, Chelsea would rather pull out her fingernails than spend an evening with Sam. Or with Melanie, for that matter. She’d never approved of Melanie in the first place—a little too independent, a little too cavalier with social norms, for Chelsea’s taste. And she’d found Sam’s confession nothing short of horrifying. Her husband’s continued friendship with him was a source of great irritation to Chelsea, but for all her influence elsewhere, she couldn’t budge Tony when he put his foot down. Sam didn’t figure anybody could. Tony was laid-back and downright unflappable most of the time, but he was also as unmovable as Denali once he’d made up his mind.
Tony had made up his mind that
he and Sam were friends when Sam first showed up at the Broad Ripple Community Church six years ago, and as far as Tony was concerned, Sam being a screw-up didn’t change that in any way. If anything, Tony liked him better than he had before.
Sam pulled out his phone and called Tony. Of course, Tony didn’t answer. Sam had quickly learned that since the advent of texting, answering a phone call produced the same sort of visceral terror as the sound of a cellar door opening in the night. Leaving a voicemail was not an option, since everyone just checked Caller ID and staunchly refused to listen to voicemails. No, he’d just have to wait until Tony saw he’d called and screwed up his nerve to call him back.
Instead, a text scrawled across Sam’s tiny screen.
Dude. When you gonna communicate like a person again?
Sam grinned to himself. He could practically hear Tony’s voice in his ear. But no way was he going to try texting back, shuffling through the three letters or so assigned to each number on the keypad. Nope, Tony was going to have to call him back.
And Tony knew that. He was just poking at Sam for the hell of it.
A few minutes later, as Sam was parking his car in the alley behind Meats & Reads, the phone rang.
“Hey, Tony.”
“You’re a very high-maintenance friend, you know that?”
Sam laughed. “Because you actually have to talk to me?”
“Among other things. Tell me you’re going to make yourself useful for once and get me out of this committee meeting tonight.”
“I’d hate to drag you away from your responsibilities.”
Tony groaned. “Let’s be clear. These are Chelsea’s responsibilities. I am not a member of the funeral arrangements committee.”
“Yikes. That does not sound fun.”
“It doesn’t, does it? Apparently, food prep and flowers get way more complicated when the dead person was murdered. If you have any reason at all for me not to find out how, exactly, I’d be eternally grateful.”
Preacher Sam Page 7
