by Edie Claire
So she had left. Walked away from the bodies, into the Ford, and left. Then she had gone quietly home, cleaned up the car with a wash rag, and waited. The horrendous hit-and-run crime was the talk of the county for weeks, but no one had ever come to get her. The Ford had so many dents in it already that not even her father had noticed the new ones. No one had seen the accident. And no one saw her driving again. Not for years.
Even now, she only drove when she absolutely had to. And she never took any chances. Life was just too precious.
No one could accuse her of not keeping her promise to the boys. She had done nothing but work ever since that day, and every scrap of money she could spare went to their parents. Sometimes she sent flowers and gifts, but mostly cash. Always from a different place—she was very careful about that. But she didn't think the families were looking for her any more. Not since the letters. It had taken her years to get the courage, but she had finally confessed.
Anonymously, of course. She told the families that she would never, ever have left their sons to die if they had still been alive. And she made the promise to them that she had made to herself—that she would spend the rest of her life making up for her horrible mistake. Not that she expected her crime would go unpunished. She knew that some day she would have to deal with God's justice. But she would rather leave her fate in His hands than that of the state. Nothing on the other side could be as bad as going to prison. Shut away from the sun and the flowers, forced to spend idle hours with truly horrible, soulless people. Unable to do anything good for anybody. Unable to atone. No—she couldn't bear it.
And that's why she had to do this, too. At first she had been so excited. Reginald Humphrey seemed able to see straight to her soul—and speak right to her heart. He could tell how burdened she was. He could see the weight of guilt that dragged down her every breath. And he seemed to want to help. He did help. He convinced her that sharing her deepest, darkest secret would set her free. That she could start to live again. That God would forgive her if she could learn to forgive herself.
He might have been right about that. From the moment she told him her story, her heart did feel lighter. And she began to truly believe that maybe—just maybe—she wouldn't burn in the hell her father had told her about. Her whole world seemed brighter.
Then it had all gone dark again. She had volunteered to work in the church office, knowing her bookkeeping skills were sorely needed. She didn't understand how badly until the day she had managed to wrest the books from Reginald Humphrey's care.
It was then that the disillusionment had begun. He was stealing—stealing from everybody. She understood then why he resisted a formal pledging system—why he preferred a collection plate full of cash. He was embezzling. A little here, a little there. But given the relatively small size of the church, not a fortune anywhere.
She couldn't understand it. He took home a decent salary, and the money he stole wasn't making him much richer. But when she confronted him with the evidence, she began to understand that it wasn't money that drove him. It was power.
And power was what he had—in spades. He had respect; he even had hero worship. Ironically enough, he was an excellent preacher. And to members like Reuben, he could even appear to be a good friend. But when the opportunity arose, he couldn't resist taking that next horrible step. She watched helplessly as one by one, people began to fall under his thumb. Betty, Sam, Merry. He targeted the board members, yes, but he was happy to fry any fish that happened into his net. No sooner did a church member lose the sparkle in their eyes than they found themselves recommended for a position on the board. And then he threatened them into playing by his rules, just like he had threatened her.
She was to doctor the books, not noticing how much cash disappeared between the plate and the bank. She wasn't to question the funds that were going out to "missions," or the inflated cost estimates for designated gift projects. She was to do her job with a smile, and not ask pesky questions. If she didn't, she would go to jail.
She often wondered if that would be the better hell for her. Better than sitting by and watching all the people she cared about be swindled—or even worse, be blackmailed just like her. But her going to jail wouldn't help the others. He could still ruin them, too.
Then the awful day had come. The day her husband had come home from church with the sparkle gone from his own eye. She had wanted to die then. She didn't know what horrible secret he had just confessed, and she didn't want to know. She didn't care. He was the best thing that had ever happened to her, and there was nothing he could have done that she wouldn't forgive. And she couldn't let him suffer the way she had been suffering.
Humphrey had to die. It was the only way. As long as he was alive, none of their secrets were safe. Even if she could somehow force him to leave the church and leave them alone, he would only pull the same scam somewhere else. But if he was dead, the secrets would die with him. And if she was careful, most of her friends would never know they'd been had.
The more she had thought about it, the more sense it made. Murder was a sin—she knew that. And unlike the last time she had killed, this would be premeditated. If there was a hell, she had no doubt she would burn. But that was a risk she was willing to take. If her soul was damned anyway, better she should shoulder the responsibility than someone else.
She had planned very carefully. And her years in various doctor's offices had proved quite helpful. When she saw the padded brown envelope in the church's mailbox, she knew exactly what it was. Reginald Humphrey had been seeing an allergist. It was her idea, in fact. From back when she had cared. He was terribly afraid of bees—he had almost died once from a sting, he claimed. So she had told him about hyposensitization. When she had worked in the allergist's office, she had seen several patients with bee allergies come in for their injections. They started off with a very tiny dose of bee venom, then got a little more each time. Eventually, their bodies were taught not to respond. It would take time, but he could finally beat the curse and get over his fear.
She had talked him into it, and he was pleased. And when she held the envelope with his next vial of bee venom firmly in her hands, she was pleased too.
Because she knew how she could do it. She wouldn't even have to inject the stuff. He would do that himself.
She held on to the envelope, and waited. He had to be almost done with his current insulin bottle, and she had to have access to the spare. When the parsonage burned, everything seemed to come together.
She knew the boarding house where he was staying. He had left her an address and phone number, and she had been careful not to share it with anyone else. She had even lifted and copied his key. He could die quietly there, and she could cover her tracks before anyone else knew he was dead. The fact that it would happen before Joy's wedding was regrettable. But she didn't feel she had any choice. His insulin bottle had been almost empty, and if he started the new one, her plan wouldn't work. She had to go for the first opportunity she had, because the next one could be a while.
At the rehearsal dinner, she had her chance. Humphrey had excused himself to the men's room before the meal was served, undoubtedly to give himself a shot. After they had eaten, he had gotten up to schmooze and left his kit on his chair. She worked fast. All she needed was his insulin bottle. She slipped it out and excused herself to the rest room. Using a syringe she had filched long ago from the waste can in his office, she carefully suctioned the small amount of remaining insulin out of the bottle and forced it into the vial of powdered bee venom. She had watched the nurses in the allergist's office dilute the venom with a larger, carefully measured volume of solution, but she wanted to concentrate it as much as she possibly could. Death would not only be more likely, but also quicker and less painful. She hated the man, it was true, but she still didn't want him to suffer. Once the powder had dissolved, she transferred the mixture back into the insulin bottle, relieved that the color remained clear. Humphrey would have no idea.
Replacing the bottle back into the kit had been no problem. The problem had come later. She had expected him to go home after the rehearsal, to take his last dose of insulin right before bed, or first thing the next morning. But no—the glutton had stayed late in his office. And not only that, but thanks to a donation from the youth in Fellowship Hall, he had had pizza and donuts at his desk. Humphrey had given himself another insulin shot, and had dropped dead right there at the church. The night before Joy's wedding.
She had come close to panicking then. It was sheer luck that she found him first, curled up on the floor, his hands at his throat. She hated herself at that moment—but she knew what she had to do. Pulling on her driving gloves, she switched the insulin bottle on the floor with the extra one he kept in his office refrigerator. The old bottle, the syringe he used, and the new bottle's packaging all went into her purse. Pulling another old syringe from the wastebasket, she drew up a few doses out of the new insulin bottle and squirted them into her purse too. Then she left the syringe on the floor where the other had fallen.
It would ruin the wedding, and she felt badly about that. But there was nothing she could do. She had waited anxiously the rest of the evening for someone else to find Humphrey dead. But no one did.
No one until Ted. She sighed, and turned from the kitchen window to listen to the sounds of ESPN emanating from the family room. Her husband was home safe, and that was all that mattered now.
She wouldn't have let him go to prison. Not ever. She would readily have agreed to spend the rest of her life behind bars in order to spare him, and she had been ready to confess several times. But she had kept her head, because she knew the truth would hurt Ted more than her silence. If she ever confessed to poisoning Humphrey, no jury in the world would believe they hadn't done it together.
But they hadn't, of course. Ted had no idea what had really happened. And now it looked like no one else ever would, either. She didn't know that much about forensics, but she did know that bee venom isn't something toxicologists screen for. It wouldn't be found unless they knew to look for it. And why on earth would they—in the middle of a Pittsburgh winter?
Ted would be proven innocent. She had been sure of that. And she was right.
So all was well. Joy and Tim had come back glowing with contentment, learning of Ted's ordeal only when it was safely in the past. The Harmons had thrown a fabulous welcome-home party for the newlyweds, with W. Jim Harmon II looking fit as a fiddle. And she had never seen Warren look happier. He and Bess's niece made such a lovely couple.
It was a happy ending all around. Noel and Humphrey's noxious brother were taken care of, and Reginald Humphrey himself would never swindle, manipulate, or blackmail anyone ever again. Most of the people in the congregation would never know what an evil person their founder really was, and they'd be better off that way. Bess had convinced the board to hire her pastor friend, and the church would soon be building steam again—this time legitimately. As for herself, she would redouble her efforts with the volunteerism. Maybe even convince Ted to give some money to a real African mission. There were lots of things she wanted to do.
"Honey?" Ted said from the doorway. "You coming back? I'm getting lonely in here."
She smiled, turned out the kitchen light, and walked into his outstretched arms. She had made a promise to those two boys on the road. And she was going to keep it. As for the fate of her soul, she'd just have to wait and see.
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Enjoy all five mysteries in the Leigh Koslow Mystery Series: Never Buried, Never Sorry, Never Preach Past Noon, Never Kissed Goodnight, Never Tease a Siamese, and coming in 2012... Never Con a Corgi! Also included in the series is a short story, "Never Neck at Niagara," which takes place chronologically right after this book.
To find out more about these and other books by Edie Claire, including her novels of classic romantic suspense and comedic stage plays, visit her website http://www.edieclaire.com/ or Facebook page http://www.facebook.com/EdieClaire; or email the author at [email protected]. If you would like to be notified when new books are released, you can sign up for her newsletter at http://eepurl.com/g7THQ. Thanks for reading!
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Acknowledgments
First off, I would like to thank my editor, Joe Pittman, who is not only a fabulous editor, but an all-around great guy. I also owe continued thanks to Siri Jeffrey for her priceless wisdom of police procedure, and to Joe Jeffrey for his expertise in fraud investigation. Other individuals who selflessly lent their knowledge include Lawrence Caliguiri, MD, Jan Barber, RN MSN, Ann Kinzler, Earl Marsh, and Tom Interval. And last but certainly not least, a special acknowledgment goes out to Reger's Asteroid Destiny, April 1987 - July 1999, who will live on forever as the spirit of Mao Tse. I miss you, Aster.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue
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