The Hero’s Sin (9 page)

“You’re living in her house. That makes her part of it.”

“I’m only living there until—”

“You shouldn’t be here. In this town. On my property.”

“But I—”

“Get out!” Coleman yelled. “Get out before I call the police!”

Michael hesitated, torn between getting far away from Coleman and staying to explain he’d leave town if Aunt Felicia got to keep her house.

“Get out!” Coleman yelled again, his voice booming.

Michael backed away, realizing he couldn’t reason with a drunk man. Coleman didn’t have the capacity to understand his interference at the bank had prolonged Michael’s stay in town instead of shortening it.

“Don’t come here again!” Coleman shouted.

Michael kept walking, helpless to stop the onslaught of angry words or to prevent Coleman’s neighbors from hearing them.

It was a Saturday afternoon like any other with a fair number of people outside enjoying the warm, summer day.

A couple of kids on the sidewalk straddled their bikes, leveling twin stares. A woman kneeling in front of a flower bed at the house across the street looked up from her gardening. A man next door stood by a lawn mower, his gaze riveted. Michael recognized him. It was Kenny Grieb, whose parents were long-time neighbors of the Colemans.

“You hear me, Donahue!” Coleman shouted. “Next time I’ll have you arrested!”

Shame rose up in Michael like the Lehigh River water during a storm, although he’d done nothing wrong.

Not this time.

He felt the cold stares of Kenny Grieb and Coleman’s other neighbors and turned deliberately away from them only to see Sara rushing toward him. Her car was parked directly behind his.

The tide of humiliation almost knocked him over. Having Sara there, witnessing the ugly scene, made it so much worse.

“You shouldn’t have followed me.” His raw emotions made his voice hoarse.

“Of course I should have. You hired me to be your aunt’s lawyer, remember?”

“That’s right!” Coleman was standing at the foot of the driveway, still shouting. “Get out!”

Michael continued to his car, Sara keeping pace with him. “Let’s go have a cup of coffee and talk about this.”

He opened the door to his car and slipped inside before he looked up at her. He saw the last thing he wanted from her—pity.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said. “Coleman didn’t admit to anything.”

“We could still have that coffee,” she offered.

“No thanks.” He pulled the car door shut.

She looked as if he’d slapped her, striking his conscience a blow, but any conversation they had would only result in Sara offering to talk to Coleman. That might be the wisest course of action, but this wasn’t Sara’s problem to solve. It was his.

Whenever Coleman sobered up, Michael planned to make another stab at reasoning with him.

For his aunt’s sake.

And maybe for his own, too.

“T
ELL ME
everything about you and Michael Donahue, no matter how small the detail,” Penelope demanded of Sara on Saturday night, her eyes shining with anticipation.

After Penelope had offered an unnecessary apology for not getting together sooner, they’d grabbed the last table at the Blue Haven Pub, a neighborhood hangout almost free of tourists. Conversation flowed around them, competing with the soft rock music coming from the jukebox and the sound from two small televisions above the bar showing a Phillies game. Penelope’s husband had excused himself to get them drinks.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Sara said with little hope Penelope would drop the subject. Her old high-school friend had turned into a matchmaker the instant she’d donned a bridal veil.

Penelope did an exaggerated eye roll. “Oh, come on! Johnny said you and Michael were an item. Besides, I saw you at the wedding. Do you really expect me to believe you’re not interested?”

“I make it a policy not to be interested in men who aren’t interested in me,” Sara said.

Penelope frowned. “What does that mean? And talk fast before Michael gets here.”

“Michael’s coming here?”

“Should be here any minute.” The huge smile that suddenly wreathed Penelope’s face telegraphed to Sara that Johnny was approaching the table from behind Sara. Penelope didn’t smile like that at anyone else. “Isn’t that right, Johnny?”

Johnny set three long-necked bottles of beer on the table before kissing his wife enthusiastically on the
lips as though they’d been apart for five days instead of five minutes. “Isn’t what right, Pen?”

Penelope sighed with contentment before replying. “I was just telling Sara that Michael’s joining us.”

Johnny grimaced. “Not anymore. He canceled.”

“Why would he cancel?” Penelope cried as though she was the injured party. “You told him it was going to be the four of us, right?”

“He didn’t say.” Johnny avoided the question, but the answer was obvious. Michael wasn’t coming because he knew Sara would be there.

“Okay.” Penelope was already canvassing the bar with her eyes. “Then let’s see who else we can match Sara up with.”

“Penelope, stop!” Sara said. “I didn’t move to Indigo Springs to find a man. I’m here to start a law practice.”

“Who says you can’t do both?” Penelope asked tartly, her gaze still sweeping the room. The good-looking man with the healthy tan who’d been best man at Johnny’s wedding walked into the pub. “There’s Chase, but we all know he’s not available.”

“I’m still asking him to join us,” Johnny said with a laugh, motioning the man to their table. Sara remembered somebody saying he was some sort of park ranger. He looked the part, tall and rangy with the appearance of a man who spent a lot of time outdoors.

Chase met Sara’s eyes and said all the right things when Johnny performed the introductions, but something was obviously troubling him.

“Have any of you seen Mandy?” he asked without
sitting down, his eyes making the same scan of the bar as Penelope’s had. “She left her son with my dad…”

His voice cut off, and Sara followed his line of vision. The woman he was living with, the one who’d yelled at Sara during the job interview, was emerging from the restroom. The short skirt she wore with a sleeveless black top was an attention-getter, but not as much as the bottle of beer she held.

“Excuse me,” Chase said, then moved quickly through the maze of tables to intercept her.

“Isn’t she pregnant?” Sara asked.

“I think Chase is about to point that out to her,” Penelope said as they watched him lower his head to Mandy’s, his body language telegraphing his disapproval. “But I’ve heard them have this out before. Mandy says the occasional beer doesn’t hurt anything.”

“And she has another child?” Sara asked.

“A little boy,” Johnny said. “About a year old.”

Mandy threw up the hand not holding the beer, headed straight for the bar and set down the bottle so hard liquid sloshed out of it. Then she stalked out of the bar. After a moment, Chase followed her.

“That little scene should put my wife off romance. At least for tonight.” Johnny put an arm around Penelope, running his hand up and down her bare arm. “She’s a shameless matchmaker.”

“Me?” Penelope protested. “It was your idea to get Sara together with Michael. You said maybe some of her love for Indigo Springs would rub off on him.”

“I don’t understand,” Sara said, focusing on Johnny.

“Michael got the official word today that he was approved for another assignment, this time in Ghana,”
Johnny said. “He has ten days to decide whether to accept it.”

Sara tried not to show the prospect of Michael taking off for a west African country halfway around the world bothered her. “So?”

“So most people have had enough of the Peace Corps after two years,” Johnny said. “Michael’s been a volunteer for six.”

“Then he must like it.”

“He won’t admit it, but he’s burned out. It’s time for him to get on with his life.” Johnny took a pull from his beer and put the bottle down on the table with an audible thunk. “It’s time for him to come home.”

“He doesn’t think of Indigo Springs as home.” Against her good judgment, Sara let herself get pulled into the conversation. “He told me he’d never live here again.”

“Because of Quincy Coleman.” Johnny sounded disgusted. “That man should just leave Michael be.”

“Then you heard what happened this afternoon?” Sara asked.

“Who didn’t?” Johnny said. “Kenny Grieb was there, and he’s the biggest gossip in town.”

“I was also there,” Sara said. “If someone yelled at me the way Coleman was yelling at Michael, I’d have a sour feeling about the town, too.”

Johnny took a drink from his beer while he considered her statement, then slanted her a significant look. “Maybe you can convince Michael it’s not so bad here.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Me? Why me?”

“Michael likes you.”

“If Michael liked me so much,” Sara retorted, “he wouldn’t avoid me.”

“Not true,” Johnny said. “He’s staying away so he won’t cause you any trouble.”

“I’ll tell you what I told him. I don’t let anyone dictate who my friends are.”

Johnny’s face creased into a smile. “Then the four of us can have dinner together tomorrow night. I’ll make sure Michael shows.”

“I’ll make a reservation,” Penelope offered.

“Make it a reservation for three, because I’m not coming,” Sara said firmly.

“Why not?” Johnny seemed genuinely confused. “You just said you don’t care if people talk.”

“I don’t,” Sara replied. “I also don’t care to be set up with a man who doesn’t want to be set up.”

“But—” Johnny began.

“Give it a rest, Johnny,” Sara interrupted. “I won’t change my mind.”

If Michael wanted to have dinner with her, he could ask her himself. Even then, she should tell him no.

The chances of either of those things happening was exactly nil.

K
ENNY WAS TRYING
to drive her insane.

Laurie couldn’t come up with any other explanation. Why else would he place that ridiculous ad in the
Indigo Springs Gazette
and then virtually ignore her?

After making the asinine suggestion that she call him to arrange to get together—yeah, right!—she hadn’t heard one word from him.

She almost understood the silence on Friday. He was waiting her out, trying to see if she’d capitulate and call him.

But how to explain his standoffishness today? Had he lied about his willingness to give up alcohol? Was that it? Had he gone off somewhere and gotten so stinking drunk he’d forgotten his quest to win her back?

No sooner had she arrived at the theory than she was driving by the Blue Haven Pub, the place where Kenny had once spent most of his nonworking hours.

She happened to know it was still his favorite hangout because the butcher at the corner market revealed as much when she casually brought up the subject.

She parked her car at a curb two blocks down from the Blue Haven, hearing the rumbling of thunder in the distance when she got out of the car. The sky was darker
than it should have been given that it wasn’t yet sunset, and the air was heavy with the threat of rain.

She ought to get back in her car and drive home but she was already here. She walked casually toward the pub, encouraged that someone had left the door ajar.

It wouldn’t hurt to peek inside.

She scanned the bar for Kenny, but her eyes fell on the reddish brown of her employer’s hair. Sara sat at a table with Penelope and Johnny Pollock, the town newlyweds.

Laurie jumped back out of view, although she wasn’t sure why. Sara wouldn’t guess she was at the Blue Haven searching for Kenny. Nobody would.

“Hey, Laurie. You looking for Kenny?” The man seated at the bar stool nearest the door called. It was Mr. Gilroy, who lived three doors down from her mother. His wife had paid a visit yesterday toting her copy of the
Indigo Springs Gazette
in case Laurie wanted an extra copy of the ad. She hadn’t, but Mrs. Gilroy had left the newspaper behind anyway. “’Cause Kenny hasn’t been by in maybe a week,” Mr. Gilroy continued.

“Not looking for anyone,” Laurie insisted. “Just passing by.”

She waved to underscore her declaration, then hightailed it back to the car.

Just because Kenny wasn’t at the Blue Haven didn’t mean he wasn’t drinking, but Laurie wasn’t up to checking out all the bars in town after that close call. Besides, the weather was worsening by the second. The wind was gusting so hard she could hear it whistling, and the sky had darkened even more.

She guessed it was possible that Kenny wasn’t out
on the town but holed up in the little house on Harrison Street they used to share.

She was barely aware she’d decided to check out her theory when she found herself driving slowly down the block that had once held such charm for her.

It still did.

The tall, shady oak trees. The small, tidy houses. The wide, quiet street.

On the left the brick house she’d so loved was approaching, its front yard contained by a wood fence that a medium-sized white dog was hurdling.

Could that be Valentine, the shaggy-haired puppy she’d bought for Kenny their first Valentine’s Day together?

Yes. It had to be. She recognized the black patch of fur on the dog’s head, the tongue hanging from the side of her mouth that meant she was happy.

She was also on a suicide mission.

The dog dashed into the road, right into the path of her car. Laurie slammed on her brakes, her tires screeching on the pavement, narrowly avoiding her precious pet.

Her hands shook and her heart pounded as she pulled the car over to the curb. Keeping Val in her sights, she got out of the car on shaky legs.

The dog was already halfway down the block, joy in her prancing gait.

“Val!” she yelled above the whoosh of the wind. A paper fast-food bag blew into the street, tumbling end over end. “Valentine!”

The dog stopped, turned, one ear cocked.

“Come here, girl!” she yelled again.

Val took off for her at a gallop. Laurie crouched down and the dog launched herself into Laurie’s arms, nearly knocking her over. She laughed and felt tears dripping down her face. Or were those raindrops?

“I’ve missed you, too, girl,” she said as she hugged the dog. “How could Kenny let you jump the fence like that?”

The answer came to her as clearly as the black patch on her beloved dog’s head. He wouldn’t. Kenny loved Val too much to leave the dog unattended in the yard if he knew she wasn’t safe.

“What am I gonna do with you?” she asked the dog even though she already knew the answer.

She hurried across the street, Valentine in her arms, barely making it to the porch before the sky opened up, delivering sheets of rain.

“Don’t think for one minute I’m here because of you,” she said after Kenny opened the door and before he could get a word in. “I almost hit Valentine when she dashed in front of my car, and I wanted to let you know she can jump the fence.”

She set Valentine down and the dog barked as though seconding her story.

“Valentine jumped the fence?” The cocky look that had been on Kenny’s face when he greeted her disappeared, replaced by shock. He wasn’t drunk. He wasn’t with another woman. He was a man concerned about his dog.

Valentine took off, and Kenny followed her, catching up to the dog in the family room. Laurie trailed him, anxious to assure herself he’d handle the problem and make sure Valentine never ran into the path of an oncoming car again.

Kenny knelt down, running his hands over the dog’s fur and examining her for injuries.

“Val’s fine,” Laurie said. “But you have to watch her more carefully to make sure she doesn’t get away from you again.”

He turned, his eyes meeting hers, his expression intense. She mentally replayed what she’d just told him. He stood up, his eyes fastened on hers as he advanced. She told herself to retreat but her feet didn’t move.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Laurie,” he said. “I let you go once, but this time I’m gonna hold on.”

He was within a foot of her when the lights went out, plunging the house into darkness. She felt familiar arms reach for her and tried to steel herself against his touch. She reminded herself he’d started a drunken fight with Mike Donahue over Chrissy Coleman a mere week ago.

But she smelled his clean, male scent instead of alcohol, and she didn’t want to think about the origin of the grudge he still held against Michael.

Then he was kissing her exactly the way she liked to be kissed, and she was kissing him back, telling herself he was no longer hung up on Chrissy Coleman because she desperately wanted it to be true.

The darkness enveloping them made everything seem surreal. Like a dream. As she lost herself in sensation, though, she felt as if she’d finally awakened from her seven-year nightmare.

M
ICHAEL’S
second visit to Quincy Coleman’s house in less than twenty-four hours started the same way as the first, with no one answering the front door.

He took an identical path to the back of the house, acknowledging the differences. The ground was wet from last night’s storm, the hour early enough that most of the neighbors were at Sunday services instead of in their yards and his eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep.

His determination to confront Coleman hadn’t wavered, but his mission was more clear. He’d spent the previous evening alone in Aunt Felicia’s house, lighting candles when the power went out, trying to read when the electricity came back on. But his mind had been on his problem rather than the latest edition of
Baseball Digest.

If he’d figured out anything during his nearly sleepless night, it was that Coleman didn’t understand the situation. Michael needed only a few minutes to explain that Coleman’s sabotage of his aunt’s loan had backfired.

If Coleman let the loan go through, Michael would leave town.

As simple as that.

Hell, he’d even promise never to come back if that made any difference.

He wondered if it would make any difference to Sara.

Thrusting her out of his mind, where he couldn’t afford to let her be, he continued to the back of the house. The soles of his shoes made squishing noises in the wet grass.

He climbed the three wet wooden steps that led to the back porch, and stopped, surprised to see the back door ajar. A puddle of water had collected inside the house. The rain had stopped at around ten the night
before, with the power being restored an hour or so later. Could Coleman’s door have been open since then?

Michael pushed the door, the hinges squeaking as it slowly opened wide. A mourning dove cooed nearby, but inside the house the silence seemed deathly.

“Mr. Coleman?” Michael raised his voice. “Mr. Coleman, are you home?”

No answer.

His narrow view of the kitchen included a corner of the table and a portion of the counter. A bottle was overturned, amber liquid spilling from it.

Was that whiskey?

He inhaled and caught the scent of alcohol, looked down and spotted broken glass on the floor.

He stepped across the threshold, into the house. He briefly considered that Coleman could rightfully shoot him dead for trespassing, but he didn’t turn back.

Something wasn’t right here.

The smell of alcohol got stronger as he walked deeper into the kitchen. A shattered glass and broken plate were on the floor, along with what looked like the remnants of a hamburger and potato chips. Chairs had been upended and a thin streak of blood stained one wall.

“Mr. Coleman?” Michael called again.

Again, no answer.

Michael circled the counter, expecting to see the older man lying motionless on the floor, but nothing was there except another broken bottle and one more smashed plate.

“Mr. Coleman!” Michael moved swiftly through the house, steeling himself to find an injured—or worse—Quincy Coleman around every corner.

However, the downstairs was deserted. Michael headed upstairs, taking the steps two at a time, calling the other man’s name as he went. He barreled down the hall, checking each bedroom. Every one was empty, the beds neatly made with no indication they’d been slept in the night before.

When he was sure the house was empty, he picked up the phone on a bedside table in what looked to be the master bedroom. The line was dead, not entirely unexpected. Last night’s storm had also knocked out the phone service at his aunt’s house.

He dug in his jeans pocket for his cell phone, clicked it on and waited for a signal.
No Service
flashed on the screen in red letters. Cursing the fickle nature of his phone’s reception, he hurried down the stairs, out the rear door and into the backyard, his cell phone in hand.

Still no service.

He jogged to the front of the house as a late-model Chevrolet was pulling to the curb. He recognized Jill Coleman instantly when she got out of the car, even though her brown hair was now streaked with gray and she’d lost so much weight her dress hung on her thin figure.

She stopped dead and stood rigidly in the driveway, her face whitening as though she was looking at a ghost. At another time, Michael would tread gently, but with his cell phone still showing no service, he had no time for caution.

“Mrs. Coleman, do you have a cell phone on you?” he asked.

She gaped at him, as though appalled he dared speak to her.

“A cell phone,” he repeated. “Do you have one? We need to call the police.”

“The police!” That yanked her out of her stupor. She dug in the black handbag that matched her high-heeled shoes and produced a phone.

Relieved to see her phone had two bars of service, he pressed in the numbers 911.

“Why are you calling the police?” she asked.

The voice of the dispatcher came over the line, and he held up his index finger, silently asking Mrs. Coleman to wait. “I’d like to report a possible crime. I’m at the Quincy Coleman residence at 89 Oak Street. It looks like there’s been a struggle.”

“A struggle?” Mrs. Coleman choked out while the dispatcher asked if anybody was hurt.

“I’m not sure,” he answered. “The house is empty, but there’s blood on the wall.”

“Blood,” Mrs. Coleman repeated, then went into motion, running awkwardly in the wet grass, her heels sinking into the mud.

“Please stay on the line—” the dispatcher began, but Michael had already clicked off the cell phone.

“Mrs. Coleman!” he yelled, giving chase.

He’d handled this all wrong. He should have calmly explained what he’d seen in the kitchen before dialing the police. A few more minutes wouldn’t have mattered. There was no pressing need for an ambulance when the potential victim was missing.

Ahead of him, Mrs. Coleman was climbing the porch steps and bursting through the back door.

“Quincy!” she called.

Michael followed, catching up to her as she was sur
veying the chaotic scene in the kitchen. Her face was even whiter than it had been when she’d spotted him. She rushed from the kitchen to the living room, yelling her husband’s name.

“He’s not here, Mrs. Coleman,” Michael said in a gentle voice.

She whirled on him, her manner turning from concerned to suspicious. “How do you know that?”

“I already searched the house,” he said. “Upstairs and downstairs.”

“What right did you have to be in the house?” She advanced on him, her eyes wild, reminding him of the way her husband had looked at him the day before. “What were you doing here?”

He forced himself not to flinch in the face of her rage. “I needed to talk to Mr. Coleman.”

“Like you talked to him yesterday? When he told you to get off his property and never come back?”

He swallowed. Even though the Colemans were separated, he should have anticipated that she’d heard about his run-in with her estranged husband.

“Why did you come back when he told you to stay away?” she demanded. “Where is he?”