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  “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 Mc-Tavish 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 Fa
ther 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.”

  Chapter Seven

  Jack stood off to the side talking to Chief Ballard while Andy Gamble’s two-person crew carried the body bag out of the park. Jack had gone to school with the lanky, red-headed Andy, who’d been a senior when Jack was a freshman. Burly, bald Wade Ballard was ten years older than Jack, but everybody in Dunmore knew he’d been the local high school baseball star who had gone on to play for the Atlanta Braves for five years until a car wreck had messed up his pitching arm.

  The crime scene had been effectively closed off by a ring of tape, but the entire park was temporarily off-limits to all except authorized personnel. A single entry and exit route had been marked off in order to manage the number of people who had access to the scene.

  “The ABI guys are on their way,” Wade said. “Mike and I agree that it looks like we just might have ourselves a serial killer, considering this was the third preacher set on fire in the past eighteen months.”

  “Technically, this is your case since the park is in the city limits,” Jack said. “But with this crime possibly connected to the Mark Cantrell case, we would appreciate your allowing us to join forces with your team.”

  “I figure I need all the help I can get. I put in a call to Chief O’Dell over in Athens, where that other preacher was killed last year.” Scowling, Wade threw up his hand and hollered, “Where the hell did that dog come from? Get him out of here. I want this crime scene as pristine as possible for the state boys.”

  While two uniformed policemen chased off the stray dog, Wade grumbled under his breath. Heaving a deep sigh that expanded his massive chest and beer belly, he turned back to Jack. “Reverend Phillips swore that no one in his party got anywhere near the body, but Lord only knows how they might have accidentally contaminated the site.”

  “I’d say other than finding an eyewitness to the crime, which is highly unlikely, the most important thing is to get the answers to a few questions. Did the victim die from his burns? Was he doused with gasoline? And can we, with some degree of certainty, connect this crime to the deaths of Mark Cantrell and Charles Randolph?”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Wade nodded, then settled his gaze directly on Jack’s face. “Tell me something. What kind of person would do something like this?”

  “I’m far from an expert, but my guess would be that it’s someone who hates clergymen.”

  Wade grunted. “Yeah, but why burn them to death? Why not just shoot ’em?”

  “Figuring that out is probably a job for a professional profiler,” Jack said.

  “Well, we sure don’t have one of them on our payroll, and I don’t know if the ABI boys have got one, either.”

  “I think I might know someone who can pull a few strings and get us a former FBI profiler.”

  Wade’s beady brown eyes widened with interest. “Tell me more.”

  But before Jack could respond, he caught a glimpse of the coroner meandering toward them, seemingly in no hurry. Andy’s long legs created a slow, easy stride. “Hell of a thing to see, a man burned like that,” Andy said as he paused alongside Jack. “It’s enough to give a person nightmares.”

  Jack understood only too well how the sight of something so atrocious could embed itself in a guy’s mind and haunt him for years. Even the most seasoned soldier never became completely immune.

  “Any preliminary findings you’d like to share?” Wade asked.

  Andy shrugged. “I’d say our victim was doused with gasoline, but the lab folks will make a definite determination. I’ll make sure any pieces of clothing that didn’t burn up are stored in an oven bag.”

  “Oven bag?” Jack asked.

  “Yeah. An oven bag is a polyinylidene bag used for the proper storage of volatile accelerants, especially those that evaporate easily,” Andy explained.

  Wade rubbed his meaty fingers across the back of his thick neck. “Can you say for certain that he wasn’t killed first and then set on fire?”

  “I can’t say anything for certain officially, not yet, but from my routine exam here at the scene, I’d say he died from his burns. The burns covering the body had inflamed edges where the red blood cells worked to fix the damage.”

  “How soon will you be able to give us a positive ID?” Wade asked.

  “Depends on how soon we can get hold of Father Brian’s dental records,” Andy said. “That will be the quickest way to ID him, assuming the car that y’all found belonged to our dead guy.”

  “We’re ninety percent sure,” Jack said. “Father Brian is missing. No one has seen him since late yesterday evening.”

  “Jack here thinks he can get us a professional profiler to compare the three murders.” Grinning, Wade clamped his hand over Jack’s shoulder. “Of course, the city can’t afford any kind of big fee.”

  “How about for free?” Jack looked at Andy. “You remember my kid sister, Maleah? She works for the Powell Agency, and they keep a profiler on retainer.”

  “Yeah, I remember Maleah,” Andy said. “Do you think she can pull a few strings with her boss and get this guy involved?”

  “Maybe,” Jack replied.

  “It would sure help if we had some idea what kind of person is doing the killing, assuming all three murders were committed by the same perpetrator,” Wade said.

  “Whoever the hell he is, he’s one sick puppy.” Andy glanced at the area near the rose garden—the scene of the crime.

  Maleah could barely keep up with Nic as they jogged along the dirt trail by the lake. The problems between Nic and Griff were still unresolved. She had suspected as much the minute Nic called her last night and asked her to come to Griffin’s Rest, not on an assignment but as a friend.

  “You’ll be on the payroll,” she had assured Maleah. “But without someone other than Barbara Jean to talk to, I’m going to wind up doing something stupid.” Barbara Jean, the wheelchair-bound girlfriend of Griff’s best friend and right-hand man, Sanders, worked full time at Griffin’s Rest. Since Nic’s marriage to Griff, the two women had become close friends.

  “Barbara Jean advises me to be patient and understanding with Griff and accept the situation with Yvette,” Nic had said last night. “She doesn’t question Sanders’s past or present friendship with Yvette. But that’s the way she handles things. I can’t do it her way. I’m on the verge of exploding.”

  “I’ll be there first thing in the morning,” Maleah had promised.

  She had left her Knoxville apartment at five this morning and arrived in time for breakfast with Nic and Griff. It had taken her less than five minutes to ascertain the situation between her boss and his wife had gotten worse. They had each carried on a conversation with her, but hadn’t said two words to each other. And when Griff left for a business trip, he’d kissed Nic on the cheek. That was a sure sign of trouble in paradise.

  So here Nic and she were this afternoon, running like madwomen for the second time today. She hated to tell Nic that all this physical activity wasn’t a cure-all for her troubles.

  “Good grief, hold up, will you?” Maleah called to Nic, who was at least fifteen feet ahead of her.

  Nic slowed her pace, then stopped and turned around to face Maleah. Perspiration dotted her face and soaked her white T-shirt and gray cotton shorts. “What’s wrong?” She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. “Have you got a cramp?”

  “No cramp.” Maleah gasped the reply, then leaned over and sucked in large gulps of air. “Let’s sit down and talk. I’m worn to a frazzle.”

  “We’ve been talking, but it hasn’t helped much. I’m still pissed as hell.”

  Pulling herself up straight, Maleah walked over, lifted her arm and put it around Nic’s shoulders.

  “Let’s sit down over there b
y the lake. If you don’t want to talk, we won’t, but I’m exhausted. I can’t run another twenty feet, let alone another mile.”

  “Okay.” Nic offered Maleah a halfhearted smile. “Sorry that I’ve been putting you through this marathon. It’s either this or pack my bags and leave again.”

  “What’s leaving going to solve?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

  Nic followed Maleah to the edge of the lake, where they found a grassy spot to sit. Nic bent her knees, circled them with her arms and pulled her legs toward her body.

  Maleah removed her running shoes and thick cotton socks, then immersed her feet in the cool lake water. “Are we talking or sitting quietly?”

  “What is there left to say? I’ve talked your ear off today. I’ve ranted and raved and gone over the same crap time and again.” Nic laughed, the sound hollow and unhappy. “I feel as if I’m spinning my wheels and going nowhere.”

  “Haven’t you talked to Griff and told him what’s going on with you?”

  “I’ve tried several times this past week to have a conversation with him about how I feel, and his solution is to drag me off to bed and screw me.”

  Maleah grinned.

  “Don’t you dare laugh,” Nic said. “It’s not the least bit funny.”

  “Sorry. I was just thinking how many women would love to have Griffin Powell drag them off to bed and screw them.”

  Nic buried her face in her hands.

  Maleah patted her back. “I really am sorry. I shouldn’t make light of your problems. I understand. I wouldn’t be happy if I felt as if I were sharing my man with another woman. If I had a man, which I don’t have and do not want.”

  “I know Griff loves me, and sex has never been the problem. My insecurities and Griff’s unwillingness to share the whole truth about his past are the problems. And that past includes Yvette and Sanders.”

  “If trying to talk to Griff doesn’t work, talk to Yvette,” Maleah suggested.

  Nic snapped around and glared at Maleah. “And just what do I say to her? Do I ask her why there’s so much secrecy surrounding this project Griff is helping her with? Or do I ask her why she and Griff haven’t been totally honest with me about their past relationship?”