"I think I see the table where we're supposed to drop these off," Noah said, sounding more enthusiastic than he felt. "And the lemonade stand is right next to it. I think we better have some of the sisters' homemade lemonade before it's sold out for the day."
"Wemonade!" Mallory hung on to Noah's hand, skipping beside him. "I wike wemonade!"
* * *
Snowden watched Noah walk past the front porch, holding Mallory's hand, Mattie trudging behind him.
Delilah glanced over her shoulder, and when she saw who he was looking at, she picked up her paper cup of lemonade and raised it to her lips. "What?" she murmured.
"Him. Noah Gibson. Something about him." Snowden shook his head. "I don't know. He's got an arrogance about him that a man who's done what he's done shouldn't have."
"He paid his debt to society, Chief. As long as he stays off the Jack Daniels, he's as harmless as the next man."
Snowden settled his hands on the gun belt on his hips. "He knows about Pam Rehak and Johnny Leager. He may very well have information that could lead us to the killer, but he won't talk. Why won't he talk?"
"You don't think it really is because of this whole privacy thing between a man and his priest?"
"They're dead. How much privacy do they need?" As Noah disappeared into the crowd, Snowden shifted his gaze back to Delilah.
She looked good in civilian clothes. Cute and younger than she did in her uniform. Young enough that standing here talking to her made him feel a little uncomfortable. Anyone walking by could see them talking, wonder what their relationship was beyond police business. Wonder if there had been any truth to the pornography that had been painted on the ball field dugouts when she'd first joined the force. It didn't matter that there was no personal relationship; people in small towns just liked to talk. Liked to conjecture.
Delilah swirled the ice cubes in her paper cup, watching them turn in the whirlpool of lemonade. He could tell by the look on her face that she didn't agree with him.
"What if it really is about principle?" She looked up at him with those big brown eyes of hers.
Snowden was beginning to realize that Delilah Frances Swift was a good deal more than the little blond package first suggested.
"Noah Gibson, a man of principle?" He met her gaze, unsmiling. "How many men of principle you know get into a car drunk and kill a mother and father of a two-year-old?"
"I know what you're saying, Chief. But it's not the same thing." The tone of her voice was almost dismissive.
Snowden couldn't decide if he was annoyed or amused by her. She wasn't intimidated in the least by him—the way his other officers were. The way most women in general were. "Not the same thing, how?"
"All I'm saying is that you and I know, anyone with half a lick of sense knows that alcoholism is a disease. Under the influence of whatever his poison of choice was, he made a bad decision. One that cost two people their lives. Maybe cost him his own life." She shrugged a suntanned shoulder. "That makes him a person who made a bad decision, not a cold-blooded murderer."
In the tank top and shorts, Snowden could tell Delilah had been out sunbathing. When she turned a certain way and the yellow shirt shifted on her shoulders, he caught a glimpse of white skin from a bathing suit strap. He wondered if she went to the beach. It would certainly make sense. They were less than ten miles from Cape Henlopen State Park. Or did she lie out in a chair around the pool in her townhouse complex? He wondered why he cared.
She caught him looking at her, and he glanced away.
"You're just pissed because he won't play your game," she said with amusement. "Maybe pissed because he's still a man of principle, somewhere beneath the skin of a struggling alcoholic." She sipped her drink. "Makes him a complicated man."
Snowden frowned. "You're missing the point."
"I don't think I am. You dated his wife, didn't you?"
"Ex-wife," Snowden corrected.
His radio went off with a hiss of static and then the voice of one of his officers on duty, but almost to his disappointment he didn't need to respond. He was monitoring the channel, as he often did on a day like today, when they had fewer officers on duty. Everyone had wanted off so they could come to the picnic, drink homemade lemonade, listen to the local talent on the makeshift stage, and talk with neighbors and friends. Snowden had been happy to pick up some of the slack and work a Saturday, because he hated these kinds of gatherings.
Delilah waited patiently for him to reply to her comment concerning Rachel Gibson. She swirled her lemonade.
"That was a while ago," he said.
She smiled smugly. "Good-lookin' woman, but anyone can see she's only got eyes for her husband. 'Scuse me, ex-husband."
He looked at her to find her grinning, and it was all he could do not to grin back. She had him that time.
They were quiet for a minute, except for the sound of swirling liquid and the click click of ice cubes hitting. "The good news," Delilah said after a moment, "is that even though it may take us a while to find who killed them—and we will find him—I don't think we have to worry about this nut job doing anyone else in. It was obviously personal. The killer had a beef with the two of them, with what they apparently did."
Snowden had been thinking the same thing. It didn't change the fact that he needed to solve these murders and do it fast if he wanted to retire from this police department someday, but at least he didn't have to worry about the safety of the townspeople he'd sworn to protect. "I best be getting back on the road, and I need to stop by the lemonade booth and say hello to my mother. I think she's taking a shift this afternoon."
"It's delicious," she told him. "You have to buy a cup."
"No doubt she'll force one on me whether I want it or not." He started for the porch steps that led down to the lawn. "Have a good day, Delilah," he said quietly enough so that no one else would hear him.
"You too, Snowden."
He didn't look back for fear someone would see them. See the attraction that he was trying hard to deny and not feeling very successful with at this moment.
* * *
Azrael did not expect the voice. Not here. Not now. It had never come in the daytime. In public. Before, it had always come at night. In private.
The sunlight seemed to brighten and then darken, but Azrael could tell by the faces of the townspeople that no one else could hear the voice, could see the light of the sun that was suddenly shadowed.
"Azrael."
Azrael wanted to turn away from the voice. To deny it. At least here, here in the warmth and brightness of the day. For some reason, it didn't seem as if it belonged here.
But there would be no denying the voice of God. Azrael knew that all too well. No matter what the voice said, what the voice told Azrael to do, God's will had to be done. It was not up to a mere mortal to understand the ways of God. God's punishment.
"It's time," the voice of God echoed in the Angel of Death's head.
"No." Azrael could feel the blackness swirling, but everything on the grassy lawn seemed the same. Neighbors laughed and talked in small groups beneath red, white, and blue streamers strung overhead between the outbuildings, fluttering in the warm breeze. The bluegrass band played a lively tune. Children ran through the grass, chasing each other, playing tag. All oblivious to the mighty presence of God.
Only Azrael. Only Azrael was blessed.
"That's right, you are blessed," the voice said.
In Azrael's ear? Or perhaps it was in Azrael's head. It made no difference, did it? It was still the voice of God.
"It's time," God repeated. "There is another who has sinned. Who must be punished."
"I must punish the sinner in your name," Azrael murmured silently. The fear was subsiding, and somewhere inside a confidence began to build. A confidence of such strength Azrael had never felt before. "If God is with me," Azrael mouthed silently. "Who can be against me?"
"Be prepared," God warned.
I'll be prepared to bring righteo
usness to the sinner, Azrael thought Prepared to do God's will, my duty. And through duty to God brings cleanliness of the soul. By doing the will of God, I will wash myself of my sins.
The epiphany, brought by God's voice, no doubt brought an overwhelming sense of joy, of relief, to Azrael.
The sunlight seemed to dim for a moment again, a chill rippling over Azrael, and then God was gone and the brightness returned. God's voice was gone, and there was nothing left but the sunshine, the warm embrace of friends, and the sweet tart taste of homemade lemonade in Azrael's mouth.
Chapter 16
"Rachel, long time, no see!"
She turned around in line at the lemonade stand to see Ellen Hearn standing behind her. Stylish short hair bleached blond by the sun and sporting a dark tan and expensive designer polo and shorts, Rachel was taken aback by how put together Ellen looked. It had probably been at least six months since she'd seen her, maybe closer to a year. Two years ago she'd been appointed a Superior Court judge in the county, quite an accomplishment for a Stephen Kill girl.
Though two years older than her and Noah, Ellen had attended high school with them and then gone on to Georgetown University, where she'd graduated with a law degree. She'd returned to her hometown and entered into private practice in the Rehoboth Beach area, but had never forgotten her small-town roots. She still gave time as a volunteer for charities and good causes like Maria's Place, where she served as a board member.
"I've been around. Guess you need to start hanging out with us commoners at the preschool at St. Paul's or at the Five and Dime on Main Street," she teased.
Ellen smiled. "I haven't sold Mom and Dad's house on Main Street," she defended.
"I always loved that house." Rachel passed the big Victorian every time she drove into town. Ellen's parents had lovingly restored and preserved it, making it one of the best examples of late nineteenth-century architecture in the county.
"I'm still there a couple nights a week. I like being home when I can. Brings me back down to earth."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Rachel waved her off, teasing her. "Just admit it. Too good for us these days. You being a fancy judge now, name appearing in the News Journal all the time. Got yourself a condo in Rehoboth, right on the beach, I hear."
"Technically it's in Bethany, and it was an investment," she defended good naturedly. "Though I'll admit it is nice to relax on the balcony after a long day in court."
"Oceanfront, I would say so." They moved up in the line. The sisters were ladling chilled homemade lemonade as fast as they could, but there were so many people coming back for seconds and thirds that the line hadn't gotten any shorter in the two hours since Rachel had arrived.
"Seriously, it's good to see you." She lowered her voice. "I saw that Noah had been released last month. How's that going? I understand you're still staying at his parents' place."
"Guess it's Noah's now," she answered a little awkwardly. When Noah had been arrested, Ellen had been one of the first people to call her, telling her, obviously, she couldn't use her position to aid him in any way, but offering to explain anything to her she didn't understand regarding the legal process. From day one, she'd been nothing but understanding and supportive, unlike many in the town. "He's good." She nodded. "Attending AA meetings, working hard in the vineyard." She lifted her chin to meet Ellen's steady gaze. "I'm glad to have him home," she murmured.
"Then I'm glad for you." They moved a little closer to the lemonade table. "I know these last years have been hard for you, had to be."
"Not as hard as they had to have been for him." She looked away, blinking, again relieved she was wearing her sunglasses so no one could see the moisture in her eyes. "So how about you?" She gave Ellen a playful push. "Don't tell me you're still single."
"Yup. Don't know that marriage is in the stars for me."
"But I thought I heard you were dating someone. Some fancy attorney in D.C. or something."
Ellen shrugged. "For a while, but this job..."
"I know," Rachel said when the judge didn't finish her thought. "It's probably all-consuming."
"Can I help you?"
Rachel turned from Ellen to find she was next in line at the table. Monica Dryden, the only full-time paid employee at Maria's Place, smiled shyly. She'd come to town less than a year ago, apparently after a bad divorce, and was hired as general manager for the home for unwed mothers. The job entailed everything from paying the bills and washing dishes at the house to sitting up all night with scared teens in labor at the hospital.
In her late thirties and attractive in a wholesome, no makeup, simple clothing kind of way, Rachel had always wondered what the whole story was—where she came from, what had brought her to Stephen Kill, of all places. She'd gotten the impression Monica was running from something, maybe the ex-husband. But she never asked, of course. Interrogation of newcomers was strictly the Bread Ladies' responsibility.
"Yes, thanks," Rachel said smiling across the table at her. "Three more lemonades. I swear, I think Noah's already drank a gallon of this stuff himself," she told Monica and Ellen, with a chuckle.
"Three lemonades, that will be six dollars, please."
"Two bucks a piece," Ellen declared. "We're being robbed by nuns!"
Rachel fished warm, folded bills from the cute little pocket on the hip of her sundress. "All for a good cause, though, isn't it?" She laughed with her.
"Sister Julie is in the kitchen making more lemonade with the girls as we speak." Monica accepted the money with plastic gloved hands, but even in the gloves, the burn scar Rachel had noticed before was still visible. Rachel had wondered if the burn was a result of an accident or abuse, but had never asked.
"You can pick up your lemonade to my left. Sister Margie, three more lemonades and a carrier," Monica called to the sixty-something nun wearing knee-length, frayed jean shorts and a purple T-shirt that said "Support Life."
"Three lemonades with a carrier, coming up," Sister Margie sang.
"Listen, it was good to see you." Rachel turned to lay her hand on Ellen's arm again. "I better get this lemonade to Noah. He's on bouncy-bounce duty and has been for the last two hours."
Ellen half waved, half saluted. "Say hello to him for me."
"Come over and say hello yourself." She reached out to steady the brown cardboard carrier Sister Margie was loading up with cups of lemonade. "I know he'd be tickled to see you."
Ellen checked her expensive wristwatch. "Unfortunately, I have to run."
"That's too bad." Rachel picked up the carrier of paper cups filled to the brim with ice and lemonade. "Have a great day."
"You too."
"Thanks, Sister," Rachel called over her shoulder as she dodged a little boy with a large bubble wand, trying to keep the full-to-the-brim cups from splashing over.
As Rachel wound her way through the crowd, she took in her surroundings: friends, neighbors, husbands and wives, children. Everyone seemed in such a festive mood that their excitement was contagious. Just watching Mr. and Mrs.West, who had celebrated their fiftieth wedding anniversary this week, dance across the makeshift dance floor, made her smile. But as she halted in the side yard, tray of drinks in her hand, sunshine on her face, she got the strangest feeling. It was almost as if beneath the laughter and the glimmer of the summer sun, something lurked. Something dark. Something... evil.
Someone touched her shoulder and she whirled around, splashing lemonade over the sides of the cups.
"Whoa, there. Easy. Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
She looked up to find Jeremy Cary, the local dentist. Widowed more than a year ago, word at the diner, in line at the post office, and at the hardware store was that Dr. Cary was actively dating, and was more than a little interested in going out with Rachel.
"No, it's all right. You didn't startle me, I just..." She laughed, not bothering to finish her sentence, not knowing what the heck she was saying.
Jeremy, dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and a lavender pol
o, was a nice-looking guy in his early forties. He and his wife and two children had moved to Stephen Kill a few years back to take advantage of the inexpensive real estate inland and the business he could bring in from the high economic beach population only a few miles away. His wife had died in a drowning accident while the family was vacationing in the Carolinas, but he seemed to be picking up the pieces.
"So, nice day," Jeremy said.
"Yeah, great." She glanced around them. "This kind of thing is always fun, though. You know, the whole community getting together for a good cause."
"Right. Right. And great lemonade." He pointed to the cups she was balancing.
She looked down at the tray, then up at him and chuckled. "Definitely great lemonade."
"Well, I can see you're headed somewhere, so I'll let you go." He looked down at her through tortoiseshell sunglasses.
"But maybe... I was thinking you might... I don't know, like to grab a bite or catch a movie sometime."
Even knowing he was interested Rachel hadn't been expecting an outright invitation. Well, it wasn't a specific invitation, but still... She wasn't sure what to say. Not sure how she felt. She'd been dating on and off occasionally the last few years, but nothing had ever gotten close to serious, except with Snowden. "I... Sure." She gave a nod. He was a nice guy. Smart, fun. Why wouldn't she go out to dinner or to a movie with him? It had been ages since she'd seen a movie in the movie theater with anything higher than a G rating. "I'd like that," she said smiling up at him.
"So, I'll call you?"
"Sure. That'd be great. I'm in the phone book."
"Have a good day," Jeremy said walking away.
"You too." Rachel paused for a second to catch her breath and then made a beeline for the backyard. She found Noah still on duty at the bouncy-bounce with no visible sign of Mallory, though she could tell by the gleeful shrieks coming from inside the lurching attraction that her daughter wasn't far. Mattie was seated under a tree up close to the house, and Father Hailey, the priest who had replaced Noah at St. Paul's, was leaning over speaking to him. She looked back at Noah. "Is she still in there? How many tickets did you buy?" She offered him the tray.
Unspoken Fear Page 19
