by Sylvie Kurtz
"Let's make sure it stays that way. Do I need to remind you of your duty—"
"No, ma'am, that won't be necessary."
She gave a sharp nod. "If anything untoward should happen to this witness, I will hold you personally responsible." She didn't wait for a reply, but left, heels clicking away on the hallway tile. There was no mistaking her threat—produce or vamoose.
"Yeah, sure. No problem. The impossible is my specialty."
Needing to move to help himself think, he decided to pay Halloran's Ice Cream Parlor a visit. Rumor had it that Mike Bishop, Angela's music partner, was in town and back at work. Shielding his eyes against the bright sun with glasses, he headed for the shop, which was located only a block down in a strip mall that also contained the Winn-Dixie, a dry cleaner, a video rental store, and a card shop. As he opened the door, the bell above it clanged. At ten-thirty on this Monday morning, the place was empty. Mike, his light brown hair tied in a short ponytail, wearing a white apron over his jeans and T-shirt, looked up from the table he was wiping.
"In for your regular iced coffee?" Mike asked, smiling genially.
Grady removed his glasses and stuck them in his shirt pocket. "For starters."
Mike nodded, stuffed the cloth into the pocket of his apron and rounded the counter. "Kerry Merrill said you'd probably want to talk to me."
"You understand I have to ask these questions." Grady took a seat on one of the striped stools in front of the counter.
"I know. I want to help Angie's case. I'll do anything I can."
With eyes as clear and bright as a puppy's, delicate peach fuzz on his chin, and his slight frame, Mike looked more like a fifteen-year-old boy than a man of twenty-four.
"How'd your trip work out?"
"I did okay for the first time out. Two stations were gonna play our song." The brightness on his face melted away. "Not that it matters now."
"When did you get back?"
Mike grabbed a glass from the mirrored shelf. "Last night around nine or so."
"When did you last see Angela?"
The glass in Mike's hand hovered an inch from the counter. "Around six the—that night. I stopped to get the publicity information she'd gotten printed out for us."
"Then what did you do?"
"I got some gas, and started driving. Toward Nashville." Mike released the glass, then fumbled through his pockets and pulled out several receipts, which he slipped across the counter. Grady noted the hesitation, the nervousness. He'd let it go for now and return to it later. "This one's from the Texaco across the street. It says I got gas at six thirty-three. This one's from the motel in Arkansas where I spent the night."
Grady examined the receipts and handed them back, saw the relief in Mike's eyes as he stuffed them into his pocket. His gut told him that although Mike was speaking the truth, he was also holding something back.
"Were you and Angela romantically involved?"
A bright red flush crept up Mike's face. He shoved a scoop into the ice bin and let the cubes clank into the glass. "No, of course not."
"Do you know if she was involved with anyone else?"
"She wasn't." Coffeepot in hand, he spun to the far end of the counter and the small fridge that held the cream. "Tommy Lee's leaving really hurt her and she wasn't ready to try again."
"Do you know of anyone who would have a reason to want to hurt her?"
"Everyone loved her." Mike finished mixing the drink with choppy motions. It took him two tries to stick the straw into the glass. He searched the counter, then finally found the cloth he was looking for in his apron. He wiped the dribbles from the glass, then handed it to Grady.
Grady let the silence stretch, knowing human nature abhorred a vacuum. He sipped at his drink, never taking his gaze off the nervous young man as he busied himself with cleaning up his mess. Broom in hand, Mike rounded the counter and swept the restaurant floor. Grady swiveled on the stool, keeping watch. Mike's movement became choppier and choppier until he collapsed into a chair at a nearby table.
"What's wrong, Mike?"
"It's my fault." Mike dropped his head into his upraised hands. "It's all my fault."
"What's your fault?"
He shook his head sadly. "She tried to warn me, but I thought she was just exaggerating. You know, one of those things people say, but don't really mean. I told her I'd keep her safe, but I never thought I'd actually have to. That he'd actually do it." He swallowed hard. "I let her down."
"Who did what?" Grady asked, tension buzzing through him at finally getting somewhere on this case.
"The reverend." Mike looked up at Grady, his eyes filled with anguish. "Angie said if her father ever found out about what she was doing, about her singing with my band …." Mouth moving like a fish out of water, Mike swallowed a mouthful of air. "He'd kill her."
Chapter 12
Melinda dreaded going home that night to see what new surprise awaited her. She walked out of The Essential Gardener and looked around for Grady's black truck. When she didn't see it, she walked to the live oak near the warehouse entrance and sat in its shade. The sky was eye-squinting blue; the heat, dry and blanketing despite the constant breeze. The scent of parched grass and dust wafted to her in spurts. She pulled several blades of yellowed grass and absently braided them. Leaning her head against the tree trunk, she thought back over the week and wondered if she'd ever get a good night's sleep again. Waiting for something to happen was proving worse than whatever might eventually come to pass.
On Monday she'd found a dark-haired, Barbie-like doll wearing only a gag in her mailbox. The intended message to keep quiet had been obvious.
Grady had spent the night in his truck outside her house.
Tuesday, a message had waited for her on her answering machine. "Calumnies are answered best with silence," the voice had said. It could have been a man or a woman; there was no telling from the static. Again, the message's intent had been clear.
Grady spent the night patrolling the grounds.
Wednesday, she'd found a page torn from a Bible on her kitchen counter. The passage, "Let your women keep silence; for it is not permitted unto them to speak," had been highlighted in lime green. How had the messenger gotten in? How had he sneaked by the patrols Grady had set up? How had he known this simple intrusion would stir more fear in her than a direct confrontation?
And though she hadn't shared her growing restlessness with Grady, he'd insisted on spending the night prowling the inside of her home.
As much as she hated to admit it, she'd been glad to know he was right there, glad she didn't have to face the fear alone. But this dependence on him also stirred feelings of weakness, of inadequacy.
She glanced at her watch, then scanned the road for his black truck. There was nothing in sight, except the red-and-white Office Master van pulling in for its regular delivery. Since the first incident, Grady had insisted on dropping her off at work and picking her up. Today, he was late. She'd give him five more minutes, then she'd head home on her own. Handling whatever little surprise awaited her on her own would do her good. After all, she'd received no physical threat, just simple intimidation calculated to bring on fear—which was working much too well—and silence—which was easy to comply with because the memories were still like a mud-stirred pond; nothing was clear.
Being so dependent on Grady wasn't good—for either of them.
At the sound of churning gravel, she jerked her head up. The Office Master van barreled past the warehouse doors. As if the world suddenly ran in slow motion, Melinda realized the silver bumper was heading straight at her. The sun caught the bumper's rounded edge, glinting like a headlight, and like some helpless deer, she sat mesmerized.
Then her heart hammered, loud and insistent. Her blood whooshed frantically past her ears. Adrenaline flooded her bloodstream, screaming for action.
Instinctively, she rolled to one side. Looking over her shoulder, she placed her feet beneath her to jump up. The van blurred past her
back. The material of her dress whipped madly, stinging her skin.
As she leaned forward to run, hands on the ground for balance, the van crashed into the tree. The creak of crumpling metal boomed in her ear. She lunged forward; boomeranged back, falling in a heap on the ground.
Then everything sped forward. A door grated open. Footsteps rushed away. Others raced forward. Voices shouted.
"Melinda? Are you all right?" Grady kneeled beside her and checked her limbs for damage. Dolores and most of the staff peered anxiously over his shoulder. "I thought he'd hit you."
"I'm fine." Except for the uncontrollable shaking of her body.
One of the warehouse workers raced over to Grady. "Sorry, he got away. Had a truck waiting for him a ways down the road."
"Did you catch the tag number?"
Resting his hands on his knees, he breathed hard and shook his head. "Too far back."
"Thanks." Grady spoke the information into the radio strapped to his shoulder, then turned back to Melinda. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Melinda nodded and tried to sit up, but something tugged at her waist. The hem of her dress was crushed between the metal bumper and the tree. The tiny white flowers on the burgundy material were pressed painfully into the bark. Gently, she tried to extricate the challis from its prison. When she couldn't, she yanked on it, tearing a rip that would reach from knee to ankle. She stroked the frayed edges over and over. A few more inches and it could have been her leg. A few more, her torso. A few more …. The dire possibilities mushroomed into a full-blown horror picture show in her mind.
Deliberate, deadly intention. She shuddered.
Eyes narrowed, Grady shifted his gaze from the shredded material crimped in her fist to her face. "That's it. I'm taking you some place safe until this thing is resolved."
She wanted to argue, but couldn't find her voice. She let Grady deal with the chaos around her, let him take her shaking hand, let him lead her to his truck. When he drove her home and ordered her to pack a bag, she complied without a word. Sitting tensely beside him as he drove, she tried to ignore her awareness of his frequent glances in her direction, of the questions he wasn't asking, of the tension growing palpable between them.
She was angry with herself for being aware of him; angry at the fear that was making her once more dependent on his strength; angry about her weakness. She wanted to hate him for opening doors that had long ago slammed shut, for shattering the illusion of safety she'd worked hard to create for herself, for making her feel again. But she knew she couldn't. All of it was long overdue. And by not facing it sooner, she had brought these consequences onto herself.
His profile was grim and tight-lipped; angry, but in control. She found resentment building in the pit of her stomach. Did his control ever crack? Was his self-assuredness ever shaken? Did he ever have a moment of weakness? Just once, she'd like to see that. But she knew he wouldn't let it happen. So she needed to let the resentment flower, needed it to find her own strength.
And as much as she would like to wait and pretend the whole situation didn't exist, she would have to force a confrontation between herself and the mysterious messenger. Only then would the truth come out. Only then would she be free … to live.
She glanced at Grady's fierce profile.
And maybe to love.
* * *
Melinda just sat on the living room sofa, not moving. Something about her too-quiet manner troubled Grady. She should be upset, alarmed. Instead, she showed no emotion at all. She avoided his gaze. Her answers to his questions, when she even bothered, were clipped, one-word replies. He could almost hear her mind churning and wanted to calm her worries, but she kept a thick wall around her as if he were somehow responsible for her situation.
And maybe he was. He'd pushed her and pushed her and hadn't let her draw back into the illusion of comfort she'd created for herself. He'd held a mirror and forced her to look into it. He couldn't expect anything, least of all gratitude. Not when he'd allowed her life to be placed in danger. But he couldn't just stand by and watch her spirit ebb out, either.
Then he remembered how she'd brought the outside into her house, and he thought of the horses in their paddock and the fields and wooded hills behind his house. His suggestion of a ride brought a visible relaxation of her shoulders and a puff of relief, as if she'd been holding her breath. Within a few minutes she changed into an oversize rust-colored silk camp shirt and a pair of faded jeans at least a size too big, and in the time it took to brush and saddle the horses, a bit of color had returned to her cheeks.
She sat on Red as if it were the most natural thing in the world, following the mare's movements with unconscious grace, and doing things to his body he never thought such a simple sight could do. Shifting in the saddle to ease his discomfort, he scanned the horizon, then checked the barbed wire along the fence they followed—anything to distract his attention from Melinda's gently swaying hips.
"It wasn't an accident, was it?" she said, breaking the silence.
"Doesn't look like it." Her face told of dull acceptance, and Grady wasn't sure he liked this harder edge etched into her delicate features. "It wasn't the regular driver. His van was stolen when he stopped for a soda."
"Was the other driver caught?"
They reached a gate and Grady hopped down to open it. "He got away. We're working on it."
She nodded, indifferent.
As he mounted again, the saddle leather creaked. They ambled along, the rhythm of the horses' hooves on the dry grass creating a relaxing shushing sound.
"A penny for your thoughts," Grady said as they crested a hill and stopped to watch the sun's still-bright rays paint the pond's surface in a living watercolor.
"I'm trying to put the pieces together." She twisted in the saddle and glanced at him. "That's what you do, isn't it? Take pieces and try to make a whole. Nothing seems to make much sense."
"No, it doesn't," he agreed, the frustration of it tensing his muscles. He squeezed his calves, urging Ironsides into a walk again.
Melinda trotted Red to catch up, then let the mare's gait slow to match Ironside's. "Angela had no enemies. Everyone liked her."
"Which doesn't rule out anybody. With the murder weapon being a knife, it's likely the murder wasn't premeditated. It might have been a simple impulse, not planned. It could have happened in the heat of passion."
"She didn't have a boyfriend."
"They're not the only ones who can kill."
"I know. I'm trying to picture the … suspects and think of any possible motive." Her fingers fiddled with the reins. "Tommy Lee, her ex, didn't have a reason. She let him go without any obligation on his part."
"He was helping his new wife deliver their child at the time Angie was killed."
They skirted the pond's edge. When they reached a narrow trail heading into the woods, Grady took the lead.
"Mike was a friend, but they weren't involved," Melinda continued. "She was worried about crossing her father's wishes, but excited about the prospect of singing the songs of her heart."
"Watch out for the branch," Grady said as he ducked beneath the low-hanging oak limb. The reverend's dislike of country music was common knowledge, but had Angela really thought her father would kill her for singing it? He'd checked and rechecked the alibi. It seemed solid. Neat. Tidy. "Mike's holding something back, but we can place him away from the scene at the time of the crime."
"He doesn't seem like the type, anyway."
"They never do."
The woods opened onto a field where a dozen head of cattle grazed. Knowing Red's fear of the horned beasts, Grady let Melinda come up alongside him, putting a barrier between Red and the cattle. The mare's ears perked and swiveled, her eyes grew wide. She snorted. Melinda reached for the mare's neck. Petting the chestnut hide in calming circles, she crooned to the horse. They passed the danger, and Red relaxed once more.
"Kerry was Angie's best friend," Melinda said. "They had a good relationship. In th
e evening, I'd often hear them gossip and giggle in Angie's yard. There's no motive there."
"That's the way it looks."
"Her father …"
"Was leading a youth Bible group."
"Her mother?"
"Babysitting Angie's sister's kids."
"Siblings?"
"All accounted for."
"A total stranger?"
Grady shrugged. "Seems unlikely. The evidence points to the fact she knew her killer and let him in willingly."
"A hired killer?" Melinda suggested, but her voice held no conviction.
"Would have used something neater, more efficient, less personal."
The frustration knotting her brow mirrored his own. This whole case was a mess; and with no progress, and further complications growing like warts on a toad, Brasswell would put a call in to the State boys. Tomorrow, he'd have the dismal pleasure of sharing his failure with someone who, like Ely Amery, regarded him as no more than a bumbling country cop.
"But someone killed her," Melinda said in a thin voice. "Someone who's afraid I saw something. If it was a crime of passion, not premeditated like you say, could he really kill in cold blood?"
"Hard to say. People react to fear in strange ways. We can't rule it out."
They'd come onto a wide-open space with a long line of electric towers. The sand between the posts and the good care provided by the electric company made the footing safe. What Grady needed to release all this sticky tension was a good run. "Want to race?"
A smile lit her face. "Where to?"
"There's a stone wall with a gate up a ways, but you'll see it in plenty of time to stop."
Sensing the coming excitement, Ironsides bobbed his head and pawed at the ground. "Ready?"
She nodded, and taking a more forward stance, she gathered up her reins. At his signal, Ironsides burst into a gallop. Red followed.
As they reached the gate at the top of the hill, a single shot rang out. Something hot slashed at his jeans. Beside him, Red's hindquarters hunkered down. She whinnied in terror, then bolted sideways toward the woods, away from danger.
