Читать книгу The Wife - BEVERLY BARTON, Beverly Barton - Страница 11

Tasha Phillips parked one of the two Spring Creek Missionary Baptist Church vans carrying the church’s preschoolers, and her husband, Dewan, pulled the second van up beside the first. Three SUVs followed, each carrying the same precious cargo. Every year on the final Tuesday prior to the Wednesday evening church services where the little ones participated in a graduation ceremony, the minister and his wife hosted a picnic at Spring Creek Park. As the director of the church’s preschool and day-care programs, Tasha took great pride in her accomplishments—not that they equaled Dewan’s, of course. Since they had come to Dunmore nearly ten years ago, the local church had flourished under her husband’s charismatic leadership. The once small, floundering congregation now boasted over two hundred members, a large number in a town of less than eight thousand residents, with only 10 percent of those African-American.

Mothers and fathers carrying picnic baskets and coolers emerged from their vehicles, and the teachers lined the preschoolers up and counted heads.

Once the group had congregated at the arched entrance to the park, Dewan raised his hands and called for a moment of silence. To a person, every man, woman and child quieted instantly. The murmur of the warm spring breeze and the trickle of springwater flowing over the nearby streambed provided background music for the prayer.

“Almighty God, creator of all things, benevolent and understanding, we come before You this morning asking for Your blessings for these our beloved children and thanking You for this fine day.”

Tasha bowed her head and closed her eyes as she listened to Dewan’s booming, authoritative voice speaking directly to the Lord. She was as mesmerized by him today as she had been twelve years ago when they had been introduced by mutual friends. For her, it had been love at first sight. She had never met anyone like Dewan Phillips, a man so sure of his calling to preach, a man who could have been anything he wanted and yet chose service to God and his fellow man. And when given the opportunity to be an assistant minister at a large church in Birmingham, he had chosen instead to accept the job as pastor of a needy church in the small North Alabama town of Dunmore.

At the end of Dewan’s prayer, a resounding shout of “Amen” signaled the children that they could laugh and talk, which they immediately did.

As the teachers and parents entered the park, Tasha slipped her arm through her husband’s and smiled up at him. At six-three, Dewan towered over her by a good ten inches. He leaned down, kissed her forehead and then laid his big hand tenderly over her slightly protruding belly. After ten years of marriage, ten years of praying for a child, they were, at long last, expecting a little boy in three months. They had already decided to name him after their fathers, Sidney Demetrius Phillips, but they couldn’t agree on what they would call him. She preferred Sid, after her dad, and he preferred Demetrius, after his dad. She suspected that, in the end, Dewan would win her over. He always did.

“You go on in,” he told her. “I need to get those folding chairs out of the back of the van.”

Tasha joined the others in the park, following the mothers as they walked directly toward the tables near the rose garden. There was more shade in that area because of the enormous old oak trees growing nearby. The teachers herded the children toward the play equipment suitable for their age groups while the parents busied themselves with picnic preparations. When Mariah Johnson pulled a red-checkered tablecloth from her basket and unfolded it, Tasha grabbed one end and helped her spread it across the nearest table.

“The day couldn’t be more perfect, could it?” Mariah said. “It’s as if the Lord is smiling down on us.”

While chitchatting happily, they retrieved another tablecloth from Mariah’s basket. Then, just as they lifted the cloth over the next table, a loud, terrified scream shattered the adults’ cheerful conversation and the children’s beautiful laughter. Tasha stopped dead still, the ends of the tablecloth clutched in her hands. Two of the fathers, Eli Richardson and Galvin Johnson, ran toward the screaming Monetia Simmons, who stood stiff as a granite statue, her wide eyes fixed on something lying on the ground behind the concrete tables at the far side of the rose garden. As the men neared Monetia, they paused when they saw what had made her scream.

Dewan came racing toward Tasha. “What’s wrong? I heard someone screaming.”

Eli went over to Monetia and put his arm protectively around her trembling shoulders while Galvin hurried toward Dewan. He said in a low, calm voice, “Call the police, Reverend Phillips. There’s a dead man over there. It looks like he burned to death.”

“Merciful Lord,” Tasha gasped.

Dewan gripped her arm. “You and the other ladies gather up the children and take them back to the church. I’ll contact the police, and the men and I will stay here until they arrive.”

Jack stared at the photographs of Mark Cantrell’s charred body. Autopsy photos. What kind of person could douse another human being with gasoline and set him on fire? Someone completely devoid of any type of normal emotions—someone incapable of empathy or sympathy?

His own body retained the scars left from an explosion, scars no surgeon’s scalpel could ever completely erase. But he had been in the middle of a war zone when he’d been severely injured. And he had survived. Casualties were expected during a war. Mark Cantrell had been living in a small, quiet Alabama town. He had been a minister, a man of God, someone who taught love and compassion and forgiveness. His death had been unexpected and horrific in nature.

What must it have been like for Cathy to have watched her husband burn to death, knowing there was absolutely nothing she could do to save him?

Jack set aside the Cantrell file and picked up the file containing the copies of the Athens police department’s report on the death of Charles Randolph. Six months after Mark Cantrell’s vicious murder, the forty-nine-year-old Randolph, a Lutheran pastor, had been covered with gasoline and set on fire. His wife had heard his screams and rushed into the backyard. She had found him burning to death in the alley, where he had gone to place their garbage for the next day’s trash pickup. Randolph had lived less than twelve hours after being rushed to the hospital. In his condition, he had been unable to tell the police anything. And neither his wife nor any of the neighbors had seen or heard anything suspicious.

Jack shoved aside the files, leaned back in the swivel chair at his desk, lifted his arms behind him and cupped the back of his head with his entwined fingers.

Other than the fact they were both clergymen, the two victims had nothing in common, nothing that would link them to each other or to the same killer.

These files told only part of the story, the official part, and that’s all that should concern him.

“Less than a week after Pastor Randolph’s murder, Cathy Cantrell had a nervous breakdown,” Mike had told him. “She spent several days in the hospital here in Dunmore, and then her mother drove her down to Birmingham, where Cathy checked herself into Haven Home, a mental-rehab center.”

Jack knew a little something about post-traumatic stress. During his recuperation from the bomb explosion, he’d gone through his own psychiatric treatment. And even now, there were times when he got the shakes and occasionally had nightmares. He hated to think about Cathy going through the torment of the damned.

Since seeing her yesterday afternoon, he had thought of little else. He was a damn fool. Whatever had been between Cathy and him had been over and done with long ago. When he’d been a kid of twenty, he had thought he was in love and had believed she felt the same. But shortly after his leave ended, his Rangers unit had been sent to the Middle East and he had wound up spending six months as a POW in Iraq before escaping.

And Cathy had married someone else.

A sharp knock on the door snapped Jack out of his musings about the past. Mike opened the door, stuck his head in and said, “I just got a call from Wade Ballard, Dunmore chief of police. A group from a local Baptist church went to Spring Creek Park this morning for a picnic and found a dead body. Looks like the victim burned to death.”

Jack shot up out of the chair. “Any idea who the victim is?”

“They found a car at the park they believe belonged to the victim. The church folks said the car was there when they arrived. Wade ran a check on the license plate. The car is registered to Brian Myers, a Catholic priest from Huntsville.”

“Son of a bitch,” Jack grumbled under his breath. “Victim number three.”

“Yeah, it could be. We’ll know more when the crimescene guys finish up and after we get a look at the autopsy results.”

Jack kept up with Mike’s hurried pace as they exited the sheriff ’s office complex and headed toward Mike’s heavyduty Ford pickup.

“There were six months between murders one and two. Why wait a whole year before striking again?” Jack might be jumping to conclusions, but his gut told him that whoever killed the priest was the same person who had murdered Charles Randolph and Mark Cantrell.

Someone was killing clergymen. What was their motive? And why had they chosen such a gruesome way to execute their victims?

Lorie gift wrapped the set of coasters and the matching placemats that Mrs. Webber had purchased for her grandniece’s bridal shower. She took extra care with this gift, choosing the most expensive paper and ribbon she kept on hand at Treasures. Margaret Webber was one of their best customers and one of the grand old dames of Dunmore society. If someone such as she could accept Lorie, even as a lowly peon, there was hope that someday a lot of other people in her hometown would also accept her. Maybe even Michael Birkett.

After placing a Treasures of the Past gold sticker on the gift, she inserted the beautifully wrapped box into one of their largest bags with handles and offered it to Mrs. Webber.

“Here you are,” Lorie said. “And please give my best wishes to your niece.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

“Have a nice day.”

“And you, too.”

Just as Mrs. Webber headed out the door, Lorie’s cell phone, which lay on the glass checkout counter, jingled. Before answering, she checked caller ID. She did a double take when she saw the name. What an odd coincidence. Michael Birkett. Her heart stopped. Why on earth would Mike be calling her?

With an unsteady hand, she picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Lorie?”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, this is Lorie Hammonds.”

“Mike Birkett here. Is Cathy there with you?”

“She’s here, but she’s in the stockroom doing some endof-the-month inventory. Would you like to speak to her?” Why the hell hadn’t he called the store phone? Why her cell phone? And just how did he get her private number? He’s the sheriff, she reminded herself. He can get anybody’s number.

“No, I don’t want to speak to her. I called you directly because I didn’t want to risk Cathy answering the store phone. There’s no easy way to say this…” His voice trailed off as if he was having a difficult time with whatever news he had to share.

“You’re scaring me. Has something happened to Seth?”

“No, nothing like that,” Mike assured her.

“My God, whatever it is, just tell me.”

“There’s been another murder. The pastor, his wife and some members of the local black Baptist church found a body at Spring Creek Park this morning when they went there for a picnic.” Mike paused. “The victim burned to death. Andy Gamble says that it looks like he was drenched in gasoline. And one more thing—we’re pretty sure the guy was a Catholic priest from over in Huntsville.”

Sour bile rose up Lorie’s esophagus and burned her throat. “Damn! How can I tell Cathy about this? You know what happened when that Lutheran pastor over in Athens was killed last year.”

“You don’t have to tell her. I’ll do it. But word’s got out already, and I thought I should warn you before somebody comes into the shop and blurts it out.”

“Oh God, oh God.”

“Pull yourself together,” Mike told her. “Jack and I will be there in twenty minutes or less.”

“Jack? Why bring him?”

“Jack’s one of my deputies, and since I put him in charge of the department’s old cases, including Mark Cantrell’s murder, he’s been exchanging info with the detectives in Athens who headed up the Randolph murder. With this third murder, we’ll probably be calling in the Alabama Bureau of Investigation and forming a task force. I’ll be assigning Jack to work with the other law-enforcement agencies involved with this new murder investigation.”

“Cathy is going to have a hard enough time today hearing the news about another murder similar to Mark’s. She doesn’t need to have to deal with Jackson Perdue at the same time.”

“You’re overreacting, aren’t you? Jack and Cathy’s little romance lasted what? Two weeks? And that was nearly twenty years ago.”

“No, Cathy and Jack’s little romance wasn’t quite that long ago,” she said. “It ended about the same time ours did, right after I left Dunmore and went to LA.”

Silence. Mike didn’t make a sound.

Why on earth had she brought up their past history? Now was not the right time. Actually there probably never would be a right time.

“Sorry,” Lorie said. “We weren’t talking about us, were we? But then there is no us and there’ll never be an us, not ever again.”

“Do what you can to keep Cathy from finding out about the murder before I can talk to her.” Mike ignored her comment about the two of them. “And…uh, I won’t bring Jack with me.”

“Thanks. I’ll lock the front door and put up the CLOSED sign. When you get here, come to the back door.”

“All right.” He ended their conversation abruptly with those two words.

Mike had been right to ignore her outburst. It wasn’t as if she had any hope whatsoever that he would ever forgive her for what she’d done. Even if she would settle for the two of them being nothing more than friends, he wasn’t interested. He didn’t want to have anything to do with her, and he’d made that abundantly clear more than once in the years since she had returned to Dunmore, tail tucked between her legs and her reputation in tatters.

Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

You have to take care of Cathy and help her not to fall apart when she hears the news about the priest’s ghastly murder.

Lorie removed the keychain from the drawer beneath the counter, walked across the shop and locked the front door. After flipping the OPEN sign to where it read CLOSED, she went to the back storeroom, where Cathy stood at the top of a stepladder.

“Need some help?” Lorie asked.

Cathy glanced down at her. “Who’s looking after our customers?”

“Mrs. Webber just left, and the place is empty. You know that Tuesdays are never very busy. Besides, it’s nearly noon, and I thought we could go ahead and take our lunch break.”

Cathy stepped down off the ladder. “Since Tuesdays are slow days as a general rule, maybe we should think about doing something special to draw in customers every Tuesday. We could have a sale day on certain items or serve refreshments on Tuesdays or—”

“It all sounds great. We can discuss your ideas over lunch.” She draped her arm through Cathy’s. “Come on. You take those tuna-salad sandwiches you made this morning out of the refrigerator, put on a pot of fresh coffee and I’ll run back out front and get us a box of those sinfully rich McTavish shortbread cookies.”

Cathy eyed Lorie suspiciously. “Are you all right? You’re acting kind of funny.”

“I’m okay. Just hungry.” She gave Cathy a gentle shove toward the hallway that led from the stockroom to the kitchenette. “Feed me and I’ll be fine.”

Lorie hated being less than honest with Cathy, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell her about this new murder, another death so similar to Mark’s. Maybe Cathy was emotionally strong enough to hear the news and deal with it, but what if she wasn’t? What if she fell apart again?

It was best for Mike to tell her, just in case.

Mike parked his truck in the alley behind Treasures of the Past, but instead of getting out immediately, he killed the engine and sat there collecting his thoughts. He hadn’t dreaded anything this much in a long time. He had known Cathy since she was a kid. He’d grown up with her, gone to church where she went, lived on the same block. And he had been crazy in love with her best friend for as far back as he could remember. There hadn’t been anyone else for him except Lorie Hammonds, from elementary school through high school and his first two years at the junior college. He and Lorie had often double-dated with Cathy and whatever friend of his he could talk into taking Cathy out. It wasn’t that Cathy hadn’t been cute, but she’d been shy and bookish, and all the guys knew they wouldn’t get past first base with her.

And then Jack Perdue had noticed Cathy. He’d been home on leave from the army and visiting Mike and his family. From the minute Jack had asked Cathy for a date, the two had been inseparable for the remaining two weeks of Jack’s stay in Dunmore.

If he’d ever seen two people in love…

Mike didn’t know what had happened between them, why things hadn’t worked out. All he knew was that less than three months later, Cathy married Mark Cantrell, and shortly after that he’d accepted a preaching position at a church in another state. And that same year, Lorie had won a talent contest and flown off to Los Angeles to become a Hollywood star.

Mike slammed his fist down on the steering wheel.

It had taken him a long time to stop loving Lorie, but eventually he’d met someone else, a sweet girl named Molly. They’d had six great years and two fabulous kids together before he’d lost her. When Lorie had finally come back to Dunmore, he’d been too busy caring for his dying wife and his two small children to take much notice.

The sound of a car horn coming from the nearby street jerked Mike out of his memories and reminded him of where he was and why he was here.

Stop putting things off. Go do what you have to do.

He got out of the truck, walked over to the back door of Treasures and knocked. Ordering Jack to stay at the scene of the crime had been the only way to keep him from coming along.

“I need you here at the park,” Mike had told him. “I’m making you the liaison between the sheriff ’s department and the police department on this murder case. If you want to help Cathy, then do your job and help us find the killer.”

Jack hadn’t put up an argument. Instead he had said, “Yeah, sure. There’s no reason for me to go with you. There’s nothing I can do for her.”

Mike hated to admit that Lorie had been right—Cathy didn’t need to deal with Jack, not right now. He hadn’t wanted to believe that there might still be some unresolved feelings between Cathy and Jack, because if he did, he’d have to face the fact that he still had some unresolved feelings for Lorie.

When no one came to the back door, he knocked again, louder and harder.

“Coming,” Lorie called.

He took a deep breath.

Lorie opened the door and looked up at him with those big brown eyes that had haunted his dreams for years. “She’s in the kitchenette. I got her to eat a bite, because I figured once she hears the news, she’ll lose her appetite.”

When Lorie moved aside, allowing him to enter, he asked, “Have you said anything to her?”

Lorie shook her head. “No, but I’ve been so jittery that I think she knows something’s up. She’s asked me a couple of times if I’m all right.”

“How is she? I mean really, how is she? Can she take this news without cracking up?”

“She’s been doing better than fine since she came home. She smiles and laughs, and she’s been holding her own against Elaine and the Cantrells. She’s the same wonderful Cathy she always was, only better. She’s stronger and more self-confident.”

“So you think she’ll handle this okay, then?”

“God, I hope so.”

“I thought you said—”

“This news will force her to relive the day Mark died. I don’t know how she’ll cope with that. I think she’ll do okay, but…Damn, bad things just shouldn’t happen to good people like Cathy.”

“Bad things happen to good people all the time.” Molly had been one of the finest women he’d ever known, and yet she had suffered unbearably for the last year of her life.

Cathy came out of the kitchenette. “Hey, is that you, Mike?”

“Yeah, it’s me.” He moved past Lorie and went straight to Cathy.

Lorie came up beside him. Cathy looked from one to the other.

“What’s wrong? What’s happened? It’s not Seth…?”

“Seth is fine,” Lorie and Mike said in unison.

“Then what is it?”

“Why don’t we go sit down,” Mike suggested.

Cathy shook her head. “No. Whatever it is, tell me now.”

Mike sucked in air and blew out a frustrated breath. “We’ve had a homicide in Dunmore. Andy—you know Andy Gamble is the county coroner now—anyway, Andy thinks the man was killed sometime last night.”

Cathy stared at him, her blue-green eyes wide and her lips slightly parted. Lorie grabbed Cathy’s arm.

“How was this man killed?” Cathy asked.

Mike grimaced. “It looks like he was set on fire.”

Cathy staggered. Lorie tightened her grip and held fast.

“I wanted to tell you before you heard it from somebody else,” Mike said. “We don’t have an official ID yet, but we believe the victim was Father Brian Myers, a Catholic priest from Huntsville.”

“Another clergyman was set on fire.” Cathy reached out and clasped Lorie’s hand. “It’s the same person who killed Mark and Reverend Randolph, isn’t it?”

“We aren’t sure, but yeah, we think maybe it is.”