A Touch of Grace (10 page)

Even if his insinuation was true, she could still do her job and do it better than anyone else.

“You’ve had a rough few weeks,” Mike said quietly. “If you need some more time off—”

“I don’t! This has nothing to do with my sister.”
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
The old playground rhyme danced in her head. She hoped the lie didn’t show in her expression.

“The minister then? He’s young, single.”

That was enough to stiffen her spine. “I resent that implication.”

A beat passed. The room was uncomfortably quiet. No one stirred, but Gretchen felt every eye watching her. Did they all think she was going overboard? Did they think she had a thing for Ian? Or a vendetta?

Mike broke the silence. “Then stop beating a dead horse, Gretchen. Unless you have something newsworthy, wrap up Isaiah House and move on. Today.”

With a sinking feeling, Gretchen nodded. She grabbed her folders and ducked out of the meeting.

Was he right? Was she stuck on the little mission for more than professional reasons? She didn’t want to think so, but Carlotta accused her of being fixated on Isaiah
House because of Maddy. David said she was getting fixated on Ian Carpenter.

They didn’t understand.

She was fixated on the truth, whatever and wherever she found it.

An odd sort of confused discontentment shifted through her. She’d been searching for the truth all her adult life, and she still didn’t have a clue what that was.

Gretchen heard a saxophone.

She quietly shut her car door and stared up at Isaiah House. Someone was playing the jazz saxophone as smoothly as a pro, only the melody was a very old spiritual.

Movement on the second-floor balcony caught her eye. Ian Carpenter, saxophone in hand waved at her. “Come on up. I’m practicing for a gig later on.”

A gig? He played gigs?

She hurried up narrow wooden stairs that had become as familiar as her own apartment building. Ian’s office resided on this floor, along with his private quarters. Not that she’d ever seen those.

Following the rich resonating melody through his office, she exited onto the balcony. When she stepped into view, Ian executed a rapid arpeggio, ending with a flourish and a cocky little grin.

“Hi.”

“You’re a musician.” She slapped a hand onto her hip. “You didn’t tell me that.”

Breathless from the jaunt upstairs her tone sounded way too chummy. Not good. Not good at all.

Eyes twinkling, Ian trilled another fast run on the keys. “Quick. Call your news station with the shocking news. The preacher buys sheet music.”

In spite of her resolve to be tougher and get some final questions answered today, Gretchen grinned. Okay, so she liked the Isaiah House director. Good or bad, he looked great in T-shirt, jeans and backward ball cap, had a killer smile and played a mean saxophone. Better yet, he exuded nice. None of which would keep her from doing her job.

Even if she had to investigate on her own time, she planned to discover the real Ian Carpenter, whoever he was.

She plopped down in one of the metal lawn chairs. “I’m surprised I guess. You’re good.”

“You’re surprised I play or surprised I’m good?”

No false modesty. She liked that in a person. “Both. It doesn’t seem to be a minister sort of thing to do.”

He leaned the sax against a third chair and perched opposite her. He removed his Saints cap. Put it back on. His forehead puckered.

“Tell me something, Gretchen. Do you attend church?”

Whoa. Where had that come from? Her pulse kick-started. “No.”

“Did you ever?”

“Why are you asking?” If he was planning to recruit her, he was in for a big surprise. She would never be that stupid again.

“Because sometimes I wonder where you got this idea that preachers are not normal human beings.”

“That’s not what I think.”

Blue eyes probed as if they could see inside to the faith that had been shattered. “Isn’t it?”

Memories rose inside, dark and bitter. She fought and failed to keep the anger out of her voice. “I know all too well how very human a minister can be.”

All the more reason to ferret out the facts and motives behind every religious organization. Nobody should have to experience what she and Maddy had.

“What happened, Gretchen? What made you suspicious of religion? Who turned you off to God?” Ian leaned forward, face intense and earnest.

She was immediately suspicious. False concern was so typical of cultish groups. Yet nothing in Ian’s manner seemed false. The conflict unsettled her.

Oh, what was she saying? Every minute around Ian was unsettling.

“Asking questions is my job,” she said. Though right now she couldn’t think of much beyond a churning need for personal resolution. Ian Carpenter was messing with her mind.

He steepled his fingers and bounced the thumb knuckles against his chin in the way she’d seen him do a dozen times. He really had that quiet prayer thing down to a fine art. That, and the gentle compassion that both comforted and annoyed all at once.

She feared he was messing with more than her mind.

“If you ever want to talk about it—”

“I’ve told you before,” she snapped. “I’m not one of your runaways.”

“Aren’t you? Running from something, I mean?”

The soft question stabbed her in the heart, all the more painful because she thought he might be right.

“I had a bad experience. Let’s leave it at that.”

But he didn’t. “With God or man?”

The question startled her. “I’m not one of those ‘mad at God’ people if that’s what you mean.”

“Then why did you stop going to church?”

She jumped up from the chair and walked to the balcony, her boss’s words echoing in her ears. This conversation was getting too close for comfort.

“Look, Ian. I don’t want to talk about my private convictions, okay? That’s not why I’m here.”

“But you want to talk about mine.”

“Exactly.” She refused to see the contradiction in that. She wanted a story, not a shoulder to whine on.

Behind her, Ian was silent. She could imagine him bouncing those thumb knuckles again in prayer. No one had prayed for her in a long time. Not real prayers for her benefit, anyway.

Below, a horse-drawn carriage clopped past, the chatter of the passengers rising on the wind. Gretchen let the silence on the balcony linger while she regrouped.

So far, all she’d unearthed about Ian or the mission were a few innuendoes, a handful of complaints and a bunch of unhappy neighbors. In the process, she’d started to like the preacher more than was sensible and to enjoy hanging out with him a little too much. But even though Ian
seemed
nice enough, she couldn’t let go, she couldn’t just walk away from the place where her sister had died.

If that was outside the realm of journalism, so be it.
She still couldn’t shake the thought that something had gone wrong here before Maddy’s death.

Hoping to catch Ian off guard, she sucked in a breath of hot, grass-scented air and whirled around. “Are you having an affair with one of the girls?”

Metal rattled against the wooden deck as he sat straight up, frowning in shock. “I can’t believe you asked me that.”

She couldn’t believe it, either, any more than she believed him guilty of an affair, but that was one angle she hadn’t pursued.

“Are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why can’t I talk to Chrissy?”

“I’ve promised to protect her privacy.”

“For her sake or yours?”

His head dropped back. He stared up at the giant oak leaves hanging above them. The faint darkness where his beard grew outlined his jaw. She couldn’t look away from the masculine image.

“You’ve been following me around for days. Have you found anything to indicate this ministry is less than honorable?”

“I’ve heard complaints.” Allegations, gripes and innuendoes, but nothing hard and fast.

“So have I. The food’s lousy. Water pressure in the showers is lousy. This morning one of the boys said I was too strict and he would rather live in a trash can.”

“What did you do to him?”

“Something vile and disgusting,” he said, the glitter of humor back. “I assigned him to clean toilets.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You
are
cruel.”

But a kid’s complaint about toilet duty wouldn’t get her a spot on the ten o’clock news.

“We all pull our weight around here. Including a turn at the toilets. The mission can’t function unless everyone pitches in.”

“What? No room service?”

His short bark of laughter said he appreciated the joke.

“No service at all,” he said. “Just hard honest work and good wholesome living.”

Honest. Wholesome. Good. Three words that seemed to fit Ian to a tee.

Her heart thumped once, hard.

It was definitely time for her to move on.

But she didn’t want to. And she was terrified that her reluctance to pull off the story had little to do with her job, or even with Maddy, and a lot to do with Ian Carpenter.

She glanced up as he crossed one foot atop his knee. The bottom of his handsome pair of joggers was unsoiled. Another sparkling new pair of shoes.

Gretchen frowned.

Lots of women had shoe obsessions, but a man? And a preacher at that? “Is that another new pair of shoes?”

He grimaced. “Guilty.”

And he really did seem to feel guilty about the purchase. She narrowed her eyes. Interesting.

“What was wrong with the other pair?”

“Nothing.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear the same shoes twice.”

Great. Now she was angling for a story on his shoes.
Boy, was she straining. As Mike said, she had to stop beating the dead horse.

He plopped the foot down onto the wooden terrace. “Is this TV report going to be about my footwear?”

She laughed. “Only if you spend all the ministry’s money at shoe stores.”

“I don’t. I spend my own.” He pumped his eyebrows. “Wanna go shoe shopping with me? My treat. I know all the best places.”

“Well,” she said, pretending to think. “I’ve always wanted a pair of Prada shoes.”

Eyes round, Ian whistled. “I couldn’t interest you in something slightly less…”

“Expensive?”

He tapped his lip once, then pointed at her. “That’s the word.”

“I don’t know where I’d wear Prada shoes anyway.”

“So it’s a deal? You and me. The Riverwalk. If we go early, I’ll even spring for coffee and beignets.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you? You’d actually take me shoe shopping?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Guys hate shopping.”

“Tsk, tsk. Stereotypes. Blowing them out of the water is so much fun.”

“You
are
good at that. But seriously, Ian, where do you get that kind of money? I’ve seen the mission’s books.” Roger had gone over the finances with her and answered her questions, albeit a little too carefully for her tastes but still he’d answered them.

“You don’t accept much of a salary from your
board of directors. How do you afford to hand out twenty-dollar bills on the street and buy hundred-dollar shoes?”

If he was surprised that she knew about the handouts, he didn’t show it. “I’m not into anything illegal, if that’s what you’re implying.”

The idea had crossed her mind, though she’d found nothing to substantiate it. Still, a mission set up to help teenagers was the perfect cover for an illicit drug operation. Money had to come from somewhere.

“No implication, just questions.” She kept her tone light, teasing. “After all, you’re buying my next pair of espadrilles. I have to be sure I’m not taking funds from the hungry.”

He tilted back in the chair, folding tanned arms across a white novelty T-shirt. “Your conscience is safe. When my Dad died, he left me some money. If I’m careful, I can get by on the interest. It drives my mother crazy.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m her only child, her baby boy.” He smiled at the admission, and Gretchen could well imagine his mother and any other woman succumbing to those blue eyes and sweet smile. “She wants me to have everything.”

“Did you have everything growing up?”

“Everything I needed, I guess, and lots of extras. Life was good.” His athletic shoulders lifted. “Still is.”

Gretchen envied the way he said that. He saw the deepest despair of humanity and could still think life was good. She’d long since lost that naiveté.

“Your mother lives in Baton Rouge, right?” Gretchen wondered what a chat with the mother might turn up.

“Yeah. I want her to move down here with me, but she won’t. She’s too busy. I think the entire city would close up if she left town.” Pride and love lit his face. “Mom’s in her seventies, but says she has to stay in Baton Rouge to take care of the old people.”

Gretchen allowed a smile. “Sounds like a great lady. Is she the one who got you started playing the sax?”

“I wish I could say yes, but that would be a lie.” He shifted in his chair and gave a self-conscious laugh. “I learned to play for a shallow, totally male reason.”

“To impress some girl?” she guessed.

He grimaced. “Please don’t put that in your story.”

She laughed. “Your secret is safe with me.”

But she
was
curious about the kind of girl who could interest Ian that much.

“Was she impressed?”

“’Fraid not. She went for the drummer instead.”

“Fickle females.”

“My exact response. Lost the girl. Got the saxophone. A good trade if you ask me.”

“It’s a beautiful horn. I’ve never seen one quite like it.”

He hoisted the sax, handling the gleaming brass instrument with obvious affection. “A vintage Selmer. Dad bought it for me. I never dreamed he’d spend that kind of money.”

“Special occasion?”

His face took on a wistful look. “My sixteenth birthday.”

“Most boys that age would ask for a car.”

Ian’s eyes twinkled. “He
wouldn’t
have bought that. Dad was old-school. He said, ‘If you’re responsible
enough to drive a car, you’re responsible enough to hold a job and pay for it.’”

“Did you?”