“Of course I am,” she said. “I just know Cale’s all by hisself. Not like George.”
“Why do you say that?” Nick asked, and she knew he was trying to make a point.
“Okay,” she said, giving him his little victory. “Because of his church, that’s why. He has all them folks rallyin’ ’round him, bringin’ him food, keepin’ him company, offerin’ him hope and comfort. He won’t be shunned like Cale will.”
“Shunned?” Mark asked. “Why would Cale be shunned?”
“Because he ain’t one of you.”
Nick looked down at his Bible for a long moment, then began to nod. “Thank you, Aunt Aggie,” he said. “You’ve just given us a challenge. We need to make Cale one of us, even if he wasn’t before. We need to bring him into the fold and love him and minister to him, just like we would to George. That’s what Jesus would do.”
Aunt Aggie smiled and turned back to her food. She hoped they would do just that, even if she didn’t believe in Jesus or heaven or any of those other things. There were some good things about church. It had done a lot to heal Celia, her niece, after some great tragedies in her life, and she’d seen more than once how it embraced members of the community in times of crisis, and helped them through it. She knew they could help Cale. False hope, she supposed, was better than no hope to people at some points in their life. She didn’t begrudge anyone the chance to lessen their grief.
Mark kept standing beside her, staring down at the counter with pensive brown eyes that almost broke her heart. She looked up at him and asked, “What is it, Mark?”
He seemed to shake out of his reverie. “Nothing,” he said. “I just hate that I’m coming across as a hypocrite. I admit things haven’t been quite right since my marriage broke up, but my beliefs haven’t changed.” He turned back to Nick. “You realize that, don’t you, Nick?”
Nick looked as if the day was getting too heavy for him. “There are a lot of dynamics going on in your life right now, Mark. I understand that.”
Whatever that means, Aggie thought with disdain as she turned back to her cooking. That was why she didn’t trust preachers. They could never be counted on to say the right thing.
Patting Mark’s hand, she put on her biggest smile. “Quit worryin’, Mark, darlin’. You’re as fine a Christian as anybody walkin’ the streets of Newpointe.”
But she could tell that her words didn’t do anything to improve his mood as he pushed off from the counter and left the kitchen.
Outside, Mark found a tree stump and sat on it, looking out over the bayou that snaked through the back lots of the city property. It was a well-maintained bayou, not like the serpentine swamps covered in algae that characterized so much of south Louisiana. In the summer, a stretch of it further down was used for water skiing, but in this part, fishermen often drifted down the narrow channel in their boats, seeking both a catch and a little solace.
Mark glumly scanned the trees draped with long Spanish moss and tangled with catalpa webs, and watched a squirrel run from one of them up toward the city jail on the other side of the police station. Several hundred yards down, from the windows at the top of the basement cells of the city jail, he could hear inmates yelling and cussing. The jail was overcrowded because they’d brought in so many lawbreakers from the roadblocks the night before, and now they didn’t know how they were going to process them all. Eventually, he suspected, they would have to let most of them go.
Funny that he felt as imprisoned as them, even though his separation from Allie was supposed to have given him freedom. He’d never felt so constrained, so much in bondage. He’d never had such anxiety, such dread, such hopelessness.
And now Aunt Aggie’s comment had dragged him even deeper into his abyss of self-pity and self-deprecation. She hadn’t called him a hypocrite, had even gone out of her way to deny that she’d meant that. But the comment about his church attendance from someone who watched from a distance-it had shaken him, made him realize that maybe he had fallen farther than he’d imagined. Were there others out there-other nonbelievers—who were watching his example, seeing him in the bars, following his marriage woes, recording his transgressions? Were they using him as an example of their conviction that Christian zeal was a temporary thing, that it always faded eventually, that it was an emotional exercise that waxed and waned as seasons changed?
Was he being punished for all of that?
The thought, itself, seemed so arrogant, so selfish, that he hated himself all the more. All of this intended as punishment for him? As if God would take two women so that Mark’s resulting fears and anxieties would bring him back into step. There were bigger things going on here, and he doubted God even had time to notice his insignificant little lapses.
He heard the back door squeak open and looked over his shoulder to see Ray Ford coming toward him. “Aunt Aggie sent me to get you. Said it’s time for lunch.”
“I’m not hungry,” Mark said. He looked up at his friend, whose dark skin was impressed with lines that hadn’t been there days before. “Ray, the truth, no holds barred. What do you and Susan think about me these days?”
Ray looked genuinely surprised by the question. After a moment, he dropped down on the dirt in front of a pine tree across from Mark and looked him in the eye. “Where’d that come from?” he asked.
“Just wondering,” Mark said. “Allie’s opinion might be contagious.”
“If we caught an ‘opinion,’ Mark, it was from you, not her.”
Mark felt himself tensing, growing angry, even before Ray had answered the question. “And what would that opinion be?”
“That maybe, just maybe, you’ve forsaken your first love.”
It wasn’t an indictment, wasn’t even said in bitterness, but still Mark reacted defensively. “The separation wasn’t my idea, Ray. She threw me out over something I didn’t even do. She’s not interested in counseling; she doesn’t want to talk about reconciliation-I don’t know what she wants, Ray. Maybe blood. But don’t condemn me because of things I can’t control.”
Ray only stared at him for a long moment. “How long since you been in the Word?”
Mark rolled his eyes. “What’s that got to do with it? I’ve been busy, okay? Things haven’t exactly been smooth sailing lately.”
Ray nodded and got back up, dusted off the back side of his uniform. “Maybe that’s why,” he said, and started back up to the firehouse.
“What does that mean?” Mark called after him. “Really—what does that mean?”
Ray spread his arms innocently, then motioned for him to come on in. “It means I love you, bro, and I think you know better. Aunt Aggie’s waiting.”
But Mark didn’t go in. He had no appetite.
Chapter Seventeen
The morning of the funerals, Blooms ’n’ Blossoms buzzed with activities as patrons stopped in or telephoned by the dozens to send flowers to the church for both families. Allie had called in everyone who had ever worked part-time for her during Valentine’s or Mother’s Day—all three of them-and had them running deliveries for her or taking orders, while she worked feverishly in the back to finish in time for Mark to pick her up.
She heard the front door open and the bell jingle, then Jill Clark appeared in the doorway of the back room. “I had a feeling you’d be up to your elbows in funeral sprays.”
“You were right.” She put the finishing touches on the spray she was working on, attached the card, then moved it to the side of the room where five other sprays waited to be loaded onto the van. “I figured you’d be up to your elbows processing all those reprobates they threw in jail the other night.”
“You were right, too,” Jill said, leaning against the doorway. Allie looked up and realized that Jill looked more exhausted than she’d ever seen her. It seemed that everyone in town had aged a decade over the past few days. “I was interviewing clients all night at the jail, and I’ve been in court all morning, but fortunately the judge wants to go to the funerals, so he re
cessed for the rest of the day. I just wondered if you wanted to ride with me.”
Allie stopped what she was doing and stared down at the flowers in her hand. “Can’t. I’m going with Mark.”
“With Mark?”
Allie looked up again and saw the surprise in her eyes. “Yeah, he asked me to go with him. I’m not sure why, but it seemed like the right thing to do.”
“Well, that’s interesting.” Jill came further into the fragrant room and leaned on the table, which was covered with cut stems. “You think he’s coming around?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “He’s in this protective mode, all of a sudden. Acting real concerned about me, worrying…” She let the words trail off, and released a long sigh. “It’s kind of confusing.”
Jill considered that for a moment. “Well, maybe it took the murders to make him realize what he was giving up.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Allie said. “I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
Allie met her friend’s eyes and saw that she was smiling. But Allie couldn’t muster a smile of her own. “Jill, if we got back together out of fear over a couple of murders, how long do you think that would last?”
Jill got quiet. “I don’t know, Allie, but you didn’t get married out of fear. There was something else there.”
Allie’s face softened, and she looked back down at the flowers. “We got married because we couldn’t stand to be apart. No matter where I was or who I was with, I would rather have been with him.”
Jill leaned back against the door casing and smiled. “I remember when he announced your engagement, back when he was leading our singles Sunday school class. He said, ‘In one of the greatest acts of kindness known among humans, that beautiful lady in the back has agreed to marry me.’”
Allie almost smiled, but refused to let herself get nostalgic. “Yeah, Mark’s always had a way with words. I’m sure Issie appreciates it. I ran into her the other day, you know. She was all smiles. No remorse at all. Superior, like she knew she’d won.”
Jill frowned. “Allie, he’s not just a bowling trophy or something. She can’t win if he doesn’t let her.”
“But he has. That’s just it.”
Jill shook her head. “I’m not buying that, Allie. Not yet. I’m just not convinced that Mark can so easily set aside his Christian—”
“People justify their sins all the time, Jill. And that serpent is just waiting, saying, ‘Surely you will not die.’ Mark’s lost his focus. As Nick would say, he believes the lie.”
Jill looked disturbed. “Still—if he liked her better, how come he’s taking you to the funerals?”
Allie went back to working on her spray. “You act like he’s taking me on a date.”
“He didn’t have to ask you, Allie. He could have gone alone.”
“He’s trying to nip the gossip in the bud.”
“Too late for that. Everyone in town already knows you’re separated.”
Allie breathed a sardonic laugh. “Thanks, Jill. You always know what to say.”
“You can’t keep secrets in Newpointe. I say he’s taking you because he wants to be with you. You said yourself that he’s been worrying about you. All symptoms of love, Allie. Not the signs of a man whose heart is somewhere else.”
Allie closed her eyes, trying to sift through the signs and signals—and the contradictions.
Just then, Jesse Pruitt, a retired teacher who had come in to help her this morning, breezed into the room, slightly out of breath and sweating. “You ready for me to take these?” She started gathering up the funeral sprays Allie had finished.
“Yes,” Allie said. “Two are for Martha, the rest for Jamie.”
As Jesse began moving them out to the van, Jill asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Allie looked down at herself. “I had hoped to change clothes before Mark picked me up, but it doesn’t look like I’ll get to.”
“You look fine,” Jill said, then smiling slightly, added, “and you smell like the Garden of Eden.” Jill touched her friend’s cheek, a look of concern on her face. “I would say ‘cheer up,’ but under the circumstances, I won’t. I’ll see you at the funeral. Call me if you want to talk afterwards.”
Allie waved good-bye, then went into the rest room and looked at herself in the mirror. Would Mark see the fatigue, the depression, the despair on her face, or would he see whatever it was that he used to like about her? Did it really matter? And should she even think about such things when they were on their way to bury the wives of two of Mark’s friends?
She got her purse, dug into it for her lipstick, applied some, then powdered and tried to lighten the dark circles under her eyes. But even as she did, she felt the futility of it.
She wasn’t sure there was any hope for the two of them.
Chapter Eighteen
When Mark pulled into the parking lot, Allie was just putting the “Closed” sign in the window. He thought of waiting in the car for her, but then decided against it. When they were dating, she had refused to come out unless he came in to get her. To not do so today would seem like an insult, and he didn’t want to annoy her now, not when their emotions were already so frayed. Besides, he liked going into the shop. It was fresh and bright, and it smelled like Allie, and he never went through the doors without remembering the way they had dreamed of it and worked for it, and finally made it a reality. It had been as much his dream as hers—a great supplement to his insubstantial fireman’s salary, and a place to work on his off-days.
But now it wasn’t his anymore. Not really. He supposed that, if there was going to be a divorce, he would let her have the shop in the settlement. She could run it just fine without him—she had for the past two months—but he couldn’t run it without her.
He went through the front door, making the little bell ring, and saw her across the floral arrangements. “You ready?” he asked.
“Just a minute,” she said, looking preoccupied at the cash register. When she’d finished locking it, she got her purse. “Okay, I guess I am.”
He stood there looking at her for a moment, wanting to tell her that she looked like a million bucks, that the blue in her dress brought out the stark blue of her eyes, but something stopped him. Was it pride? Fear of more rejection, like he’d suffered with her the night of the murders? He honestly didn’t know.
His perusal seemed to make her feel self-conscious. “I didn’t want to wear black,” she said, her voice strained and hoarse. “Martha was a Christian, and we’re not supposed to grieve as those who have no hope.”
“No, we’re not,” Mark said.
“But then I thought of Jamie, and I wasn’t sure if I’d be offending Cale if I didn’t wear black.”
“You’re fine,” he said. “I’m sure Cale won’t be offended.”
“But his parents…”
“If you’d feel more comfortable changing…”
“Do you think I should?”
“There’s not much time, but if you want…”
She checked her watch and shook her head. “No, no. That’s all right. I’ll just wear this.” Finally, she met his eyes. “I guess I’m just stalling.”
He didn’t blame her.
“Let’s go,” she said. She closed the shop’s door behind them, set the dead bolt, and followed him to the car.
A steady stream of cars threaded into the already crowded lot at Calvary Bible Church. They saw Patricia Castor, the mayor, getting out of her car and shaking hands with others as they headed for the door.
Mark pulled into a space beside Ray Ford’s car, then sat for a moment, straightening his tie.
“This is awful,” Allie whispered. “We’re supposed to say good-bye to old people and those who’ve been sick. Not healthy women in the prime of their lives.”
Mark gave up on his tie and took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “I guess we’d better get in there.”
She nodded, and glanced at the car ne
xt to theirs. “The Fords are already here.”
He took her hand as she got out of the car, and like nervous children who borrowed from each other’s strength, they walked into the church where they had been married four years before. Ray Ford met them at the door, acting as usher, and Allie reached up to hug him. “Where’s Susan?” she asked.
“She’ll be here shortly,” Ray said. “I came early to usher.”
“We’ll save you a place,” she said. “Just point her to us when she gets here.”
But several minutes later there was still no Susan, and the organist began playing. As the church filled up, Allie had to surrender her saved seats to those pressing in. By the time the service began, she assumed that Susan had found a seat of her own further back in the crowd. Forgetting Susan for the moment, Allie concentrated instead on this quiet moment of closeness in the midst of grief—Mark was sitting beside her, and he was holding her hand.
Across town at the Ford house, Susan’s phone rang, waking her up. She had sat down for just a moment to rest before getting ready for the funeral, but sleep, which had seemed so scarce lately, had overtaken her. She looked at the clock on the wall, and gasped when she realized the funeral had started long ago.
Just then she heard the side door open.
“Ray?” she called. “Ray, I fell asleep. I’m so sorry.”
There was no answer.
She started for the kitchen, then felt a chill come over her, and fear traveled through her veins like a drug. Someone was in the house, and it wasn’t Ray.
Turning, she bolted toward the back of the house. She took one quick look back over her shoulder—and a muffled gunshot whoofed through the air. Her back exploded with scorching, ripping pain. The impact threw her forward, and she hit the floor. I’ve been shot, she realized in terror. But I’m not dead. Not yet.
She lay motionless in her own blood, face down, afraid to make a sound for fear that he would finish the job.
And then she heard him crying. At first it was a soft whimper, then it grew louder, more sloppy, more anguished, until the killer was sobbing. She heard him moving around her as he did; she smelled the gasoline…