sucked in the scent of decaying funeral wreaths.
“I don’t want him here.”
He’d phoned her twice, though she had no idea where he’d gotten her number. Once to offer his services and the chapel for the funeral. Another time to ask if he could do anything to help her. Right. As if she would allow that.
She knew his kind. Smile kindly, talk softly, and lure the lonely and needy into a web of deceit under the guise of religion.
The sad, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach was replaced by a slow-burning anger. He had no right. And anger was easier to bear than raw, scalding grief.
Carlotta gave her a funny look. “Who is he?”
“Ian Carpenter. He runs the mission where Maddy was—” The horrible image of her sister lying lifeless on the dew-drenched grass returned with a vengeance. She, who could report the most heinous crime or natural disaster with aplomb, couldn’t seem to keep her emotions in check this time. She supposed that was normal, though she hated the weakness.
Carlotta gave her hand an encouraging squeeze.
“He must feel awful that she was so close to his mission and he wasn’t able to save her.”
“I think he feels guilty.”
From behind the cover of her shades, Gretchen glared at the preacher. He stood alone beneath the green funeral home canopy, quiet and unobtrusive, one hand in the pocket of his black slacks.
If she’d been in any condition to notice such things, the preacher was easy on the eyes. She’d bet a special report scoop that he put those looks to good use for the cause of his mission.
Medium height. Medium build. Medium brown hair. Everything about him was medium, except for the eyes. They were startling, a brilliant aquamarine made even more dramatic by his blue dress shirt.
Was it those hypnotic eyes that had attracted Maddy?
“Gretchen. Come on,” Carlotta chided, her words tinged with both sympathy and exasperation. “Guilty for what? For not knowing Maddy was out there in the middle of the night?”
But Gretchen wasn’t ready for simple answers. She wanted to probe deeper.
“Why was she on the mission grounds? Why not inside? She was supposed to be a resident there, getting help, getting clean. But she wasn’t. Did someone at Isaiah House hurt her? Scare her? Cause her to run away again?”
She’d been mulling over the idea for the past two days. Maddy was vulnerable, easily wounded. Someone who liked to play mind games could do a lot of damage. And weren’t mind games what religion was about?
“Not every ministry is dirty, Gretchen.”
“His is.” Gretchen shot Ian one more glare and turned away. “I just know it.”
Carlotta sighed and shoved her glossy, black hair over one shoulder. She had an amazing capacity to look cool and fresh in the worst of New Orleans’s heat.
“All right, honey. Whatever you think. I’m not going to argue with you today. Are you sure you don’t want me to drive you home?”
“No. You go on.” Gretchen wasn’t quite ready to leave Maddy here alone.
“All right. Call if you need me.”
Carlotta left, her long legs moving with grace and speed across the narrow patches of grass to her sporty car. Gretchen refused to think another thought about Ian Carpenter. For all she cared he could roast.
Taking yet another tissue, she approached the mausoleum that held her sister’s body. She hadn’t wanted to bury Maddy here in a place where tourists prowled the tombs in search of macabre thrills. But she hadn’t much choice. California was too far away. And Mom and Dad didn’t want her there anyway.
“Oh, Maddy. Why couldn’t I help you get over the hurts? Why couldn’t you ever heal?” Fragile Maddy had been broken by the same evil that had made Gretchen strong. No one would ever fool her again. She would spend her career ferreting out the wolves in sheep’s clothing like Brother Gordon and the Family of Love.
She reached out to touch the white stone. Suddenly, the childhood Maddy was alive and well inside her head. The blond princess in pink ballet slippers. At six, Mama had auditioned her for commercials because she was so pretty. That was when they’d met Brother Gordon. He’d invited them to what he called the common man’s Bible study. And none of them was ever the same after that.
She stood there in front of the tomb for a long time, remembering, regretting, wishing for another chance. At one point she glanced back and noticed with relief that Ian Carpenter had disappeared. Good.
She didn’t know what to make of him. He’d been kind the day of Maddy’s death and she’d been too distraught to see that. She didn’t want to be unfair, but she feared men like Ian. Preachers, as she well knew, wielded power over their followers, whether for good or for bad.
Which was Ian Carpenter?
She remembered one of her last conversations with Maddy, two weeks before her death. She’d seemed so full of hope, excited to be attending classes at the mission. Thrilled to see her sister happy, Gretchen hadn’t asked what kind of classes, though a cold fear had snaked down her spine that day. She’d warned Maddy to be careful. Had even begged her sister to let her find a more conventional rehab. But Maddy had assured her that Ian Carpenter was the real deal. He could help her get her life together. She would make it this time.
But she hadn’t.
Now Gretchen needed to know. What exactly went on inside Isaiah Mission?
The afternoon sun angled from the west casting shadows over the rows and rows of pale tombs. As much as she hated leaving her sister behind, Gretchen was too tired to stay any longer. Carlotta would be calling soon, wondering where she was, if she was all right. And she’d promised to be back at the news station tomorrow morning, bright and early. She desperately needed some sleep.
She leaned her cheek briefly against the vault and whispered, “I love you,” and turned to go.
A long human shadow touched her toes.
She jerked her head up.
Ian Carpenter came toward her, a tall soft drink cup in hand. “You look like you could use this.”
As parched as she was, Gretchen balked at the idea of taking anything from him. Brother Gordon had been nice at first, too.
A near smile softened the edges of a very nice mouth. “Go ahead. I promise it’s only lemonade, not cyanide.”
Did he have any idea how not funny that was?
She took the cup and drank deeply, the tart citrus cutting the terrible dryness in her throat.
All the while, she watched him over the rim of the cup. His electric eyes held hers, steady and quiet, studying her.
He had a serenity about him that was almost eerie.
“Thank
