Saturday morning Henry remained lethargic. He slowly walked out onto the deck when Holt opened the door but didn’t navigate the steps to go down into the yard. Instead, he was content to spend his time watching his world without interacting with it. Sitting on the deck and drinking a cup of coffee, Holt decided on a plan of action.
He went back inside the house and put on a T-shirt, jogging shorts, and running shoes, then loaded Henry into the car. The dog wasn’t up for a run, or even a slow jog, but there was a place Holt could take him that might stimulate the dog without taxing his strength.
In the middle of the most affluent section of Paxton was a neighborhood park that included a rose garden, a playground made from treated redwood, and a series of short walking trails beneath large shade trees. Normally, Holt wouldn’t consider taking Henry to the park because the dog wanted to run, not walk. But like a retirement home resident recovering from hip surgery, Henry’s exposure to the outdoors needed to be parceled out in small bits. Holt parked in a shaded spot beneath a large sugar maple tree.
Henry sniffed the air and wiggled his body. He didn’t pull on the leash but waited for Holt. They walked toward a rose garden planted around a sundial. The sun wasn’t high enough in the sky to cast a shadow, but Henry located an interesting smell at the base of the sundial, and Holt waited while the dog sniffed around the area. There was the sound of footsteps on the pea gravel walkway, and Holt turned around.
It was Angelina.
“What are you doing here?” he blurted out.
“I needed a quiet place to walk and think before going to the salon,” Angelina replied. “Is there anything wrong with that?”
“No, it was a stupid question.”
“I didn’t think smart lawyers asked stupid questions.”
“This one does.”
Holt waited for Angelina to move on, but she stayed put. Henry inched forward stiffly and sniffed her foot.
“He’s moving slow this morning,” Angelina observed.
“He has five or six good reasons.”
“What happened to him?”
Holt told Angelina about Henry and the copperhead. Angelina’s eyes got bigger and bigger, which made Holt’s heart ache. He stretched the story out as long as he could.
“I’m glad he’s okay,” she said when Holt finished. “How are you doing?”
“Right now, I’m feeling very sorry that I hurt you.”
“Is that an apology?”
Holt thought about the difference between repentance and regret. “Not a good one,” he replied. “But I’d like to do it better.”
Angelina glanced down at the path for a moment. “Did you know the blond deputy came by the salon and talked to me?”
“Not until after she did it.”
“It was very strange. She flashed her badge to Brittany and forced me to leave a customer. Then she claimed there was nothing between the two of you and wanted me to talk you into letting her continue to work on some kind of case. When she showed up, I thought something horrible had happened to you, and they’d sent someone from the sheriff’s office to tell me.”
Holt winced. “I’m sorry—”
“No,” Angelina interrupted. “It showed me that I still cared. And after meeting the deputy, I knew she wasn’t your type.”
“You’re my type,” Holt said.
“How sure are you about that?”
“Enough that I hope you’ll give me a chance to prove it.”
Angelina smiled slightly.
“Is that a yes?” Holt asked.
“Maybe. Although the fact that I followed you all the way over here from your house should tell you something.”
“You did?”
Angelina nodded. “I was coming to see you and saw you pull out of your driveway.”
They sat on a bench and talked until it was time for Angelina to leave for work.
Sunday morning Holt returned to Bishop Pennington’s church. Knowing what to expect helped him enjoy the service. As soon as the minister finished the sermon, Holt slipped out and returned home. There was an unfamiliar car with its hood raised parked in front of his house. Holt slowed down. The driver turned and Holt saw his face.
It was Cecil Burkdale.
Holt pulled into his driveway. Getting out, he walked over to Burkdale’s vehicle, an older car with multiple dents and faded paint on the trunk. Burkdale lowered the window as Holt approached.
“Do you want me to call a wrecker?” Holt asked.
“No, there’s nothing wrong with my car. I didn’t want anyone who drove by to think I was waiting for you.”
“Why are you here?”
“We need to talk.”
“I’ve shut down my investigation into Mr. Meredith’s death,” Holt interrupted. “It’s over. There’s nothing for us to talk about.”
“Yes, there is,” Burkdale replied, looking into his rearview mirror. “And unless you want someone else to die, you need to listen to me.”
Holt leaned closer to the vehicle. When he did, he saw a pistol lying on the seat beside Burkdale.
“Why do you have a gun in your car?”
“I have a permit. Are you going to talk to me or not?”
Holt hesitated. Seventy-five percent of his mind wanted to send Burkdale on his way. The other twenty-five percent lobbied for the chance to evaluate the strange man’s story one last time. As with politics, the majority doesn’t always rule.
“Okay, but I have a sick dog and can’t waste an afternoon listening to you vent about losing your job with Meredith Enterprises.”
“Meet me in fifteen minutes at the farm equipment store on the Madison Highway. I’ll be parked behind one of the big combines.”
“Why there?”
“It’s closed on Sunday, but it’s not unusual for people to stop by and check out the machinery without a salesman on hand to hassle them. Are you coming?”
“I guess so.”
“Lower the hood? I don’t want to get out.”
Feeling like that quarter of his mind had convinced the rest of him to go temporarily insane, Holt walked around to the front of Burkdale’s vehicle. The engine was dirty; the battery posts corroded. If Burkdale didn’t start taking care of his car, he wouldn’t have to pretend to be disabled on the side of the road. Holt shut the hood with a thud. Burkdale started the engine and took off, coming dangerously close to Holt’s feet. Holt jumped back and stared at the rapidly disappearing car.
When Holt looked into the backyard, there was no sign of Henry on the deck. Holt quickly scanned the open grassy area and didn’t see the dog. His concern for Henry immediately took precedence over Burkdale’s wild claim that someone’s life was in danger.
“Henry!” Holt called out. “Henry!”
A few seconds later, a faint woof came from the rear of the yard. In a couple of seconds, Henry emerged from the thick bushes along the back fence line. He shook himself and trotted over to Holt, who squatted down to pat the dog. A quick inspection revealed nothing out of the ordinary.
“Don’t be going into the bushes looking for trouble,” Holt scolded the dog. “You don’t know what might be in there.”
As soon as the words were out of Holt’s mouth, he knew that was exactly what he was about to do.
Trish and Keith sat next to each other in Sunday school and the church service that followed. Now, in the eyes of the whole congregation, they were officially a couple, a fact that Trish was becoming more and more comfortable with.
They’d spent Friday evening together at Trish’s house. After supper, Marge pretended to be tired and went to her bedroom so they could be alone. Trish chuckled as her mother shut the door.
“She’s not going to sleep,” Trish said. “She’ll often stay up and watch a baseball game until after midnight, even if it goes to extra innings. I promise she’ll listen to the game on the radio in her bedroom.”
“Should we leave so she can see it on TV?” Keith asked.
“No, it’s fun for her to make a small sacrifice for someone else’s happiness.”
“That’s neat,” Keith said and then looked at Trish. “Does being with me make you happy?”
Trish could finally give him an answer without a tortured inner debate.
“Yes, it does.”
Keith stayed for several hours. Much of that time he asked Trish questions. She didn’t mind talking about herself but wondered why he kept directing the conversation back to her. Finally, she asked him.
“Why do you want to talk about me all the time?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
Trish felt herself blush. “Well, I want to talk about you for a while.”
It was the first time Trish had intentionally stepped into Keith’s world. She already knew a lot about his family, but as he talked, more and more came out, especially about his relationship with his father. Jack Pierce rarely came to church. Like Keith, he traveled in his job. Everybody said they were alike in many ways.
“Yeah, last month my father rented an apartment in Cartersville,” Keith said.
“Why would he do that?”
“His company made a big sale to a carpet company, and he’ll be in charge of installing the equipment. It will take about a year to finish, and he didn’t want to run back and forth all the time.”
Trish felt sad for Bonita Pierce, who was such a cheerful woman. Keith’s little sister was attending college in South Carolina, so with Keith on the road, it meant his mother would be alone most of the time.
“I’ll probably stop by and see him when I’m in the area,” Keith said.
“Won’t he come home on the weekends?”
“No, for the first month it’s a seven-day-a-week commitment.”
Keith seemed momentarily lost in his own thoughts.
“Hey,” he said, shaking his head, “would you and your mother like to drive over to the Wayfarer for dinner after church?”
“I’ll ask her, but I’m sure she’ll say yes.”
Sunday afternoon they stopped at Trish’s house to drop off Keith’s car before traveling together to the restaurant. Keith sat in the passenger seat with Marge behind him. Trish glanced in the rearview mirror. Her mother had a contented look on her face.
“Do you wish we were going to the new steak house?” Marge asked as they neared the turnoff for the new restaurant.
“No, one birthday party a year is enough for me,” Trish said.
“Yeah, that biological clock is ticking,” Keith added.
Trish gave him a startled look, but Keith was looking out the window.
The Wayfarer was a popular place for families to eat after church on Sunday, and the parking lot was full.
“There may be a wait,” Keith said. “Is that okay?”
“Most of the county got here ahead of us,” Trish replied, turning toward her mother, “but I don’t mind, if it’s all right with you.”
“We’re here now,” Marge replied. “Let’s stay.”
The teenage hostess’s prediction of a twenty-minute delay turned out to be optimistic. Keith constantly checked his watch, and as soon as twenty minutes passed, he began checking with the hostess. After the fifth time he talked to the girl, Trish spoke to him.
“There’s nothing she can do about it,” she said. “Why don’t you leave her alone?”
“Nothing upsets me more than someone who doesn’t do what they’ve promised to do,” he said irritably. “If I’m supposed to meet with a prospect on a sales call at two o’clock, I don’t show up at two thirty.”
Trish looked at her mother. “Am I always on time?”
“I’m not talking about you,” Keith cut in. “I’ll be fine once we’re seated.”
Less than a minute later, the hostess tentatively approached. “Your table is ready, sir,” she said to Keith. “Please follow me.”
“How often does someone call you ‘sir’?” Trish asked Keith.
He didn’t respond. Trish maneuvered Marge’s wheelchair around the tables.
Lunch was a dreary affair. Trish and her mother made attempts to jump-start the conversation, but Keith didn’t seem willing to participate. After they finished the main meal, Marge saw a woman she knew at another table and rolled her chair over to see her.
“Why are you in such a bad mood?” Trish asked Keith. “I thought you wanted to come here. You knew it would be crowded for Sunday dinner.”
“It’s not the restaurant or the meal,” he said, sighing. “My mom got a call from my father this morning before I left the house for church. He’s going to divorce her. The move to Cartersville I told you about on Friday night was a setup.”
Divorce was common in most places but not in Trish’s world.
“Keith, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, it’s shaken me up. My mom is a total wreck.”
“So it wasn’t a headache that kept her home from church.”
“Partly, but mostly it’s a broken heart.”
It was silent in the van as they drove away from the restaurant. Trish could tell that her mother was puzzled by the lack of conversation, but an explanation would have to wait until they got home.
“How do you think the dealership is doing?” Marge asked as they approached the business where Trish’s father had worked for so many years. “Clayton always thought the place would shut down if he wasn’t there to tend to it.”
The farm equipment business came into view on the right-hand side of the road. There was a row of shiny tractors and multiple implements lined up in front of the main building. A car they were following stopped and waited for oncoming traffic to clear so the driver could make a turn.
“Business looks good if Mr. Henderson can sell all the stuff he’s brought in on his floor plan,” Keith said. “The carrying charges can eat up—”
“That’s Holt Douglas’s car behind that combine,” Trish interrupted. “What’s he doing there?”
While they watched, Holt got out of his car and approached a short bald man who was leaning against a beat-up reddish vehicle.
“He’s talking to Cecil Burkdale,” Keith said.
“What do you know about him?” Trish asked.
“He’s been trying to convince Gerald Pickett to hire him to keep the books for the auto parts store. Gerald was talking to me about him the other day. Burkdale runs an accounting business out of his house. Gerald felt sorry for him, but I told him that’s no reason to hire someone for something as important as keeping track of the store’s finances.”
Trish only half listened to Keith. She was wondering what Holt Douglas was up to.