One Deadly Sin by Annie Solomon Page B

to go faster and higher. He complied to the point of safety, but not with his full attention.
    What was Edie doing right now? He pictured her tousled black hair, that wicked smile, the dare-you look in her eyes. Now there was a black angel.
    Instantly, his thoughts leaped and soured. Two dead men. Two black angels. Where the hell did those things come from? And who was sending them?
    The obvious explanation jumped to the top of the list. But a serial killer? In Redbud?
    The idea seemed preposterous. Ridiculous. And yet… A feeling of foreboding ran through him.
    But… both deaths were easily explainable. A heart attack and a car wreck. Not exactly the usual script for a serial killer. First off, the two men died in very different ways. A serial killer doesn’t change the way he takes out his victims.
    Unless… maybe Runkle lost control of the car because he had a heart attack, too. That at least would connect the deaths.
    And why these two men? What did Fred Lyle and Dennis Runkle have in common? Runkle was a native, but Lyle had come to Tennessee as an adult, to run Hammerbilt. They were both wealthy by Redbud standards, but they weren’t exactly friends. Lyle had been married to the same woman for decades. Runkle had run through three wives that Holt knew of. All much younger than Amy Lyle and none too interested in the community work Mrs. Lyle did.
    Only one thing linked them. The black angel.
    Holt knew about the local legend. The black angel that would turn white when a guilty man was proven innocent. But what did it have to do with Runkle and Lyle? The details were fuzzy, but wasn’t the guilty party connected to Hammerbilt? If so, that could involve Lyle, but not Runkle.
    Or maybe it had nothing to do with either of them. Maybe someone was using that ghost story to throw him off. Those thugs running the drug ring he’d cleaned out had spread a story that the house they’d set up their operation in was haunted. Kept people away for months. Was someone doing the same now?
    Miranda was at the height of her swing, and getting a little too wild. He opened his mouth to tell her to slow down, when all of a sudden she did the craziest thing.
    She jumped off.
    “Miranda!” He ran to where she’d landed in a heap. His heart was racing and the taste of fear curdled in his mouth. “Are you all right?” He ran his hands up and down her arms and legs. One knee was scraped, and she seemed dazed, but unbroken. Relieved, he hugged her swiftly to him, then anger overtook the relief and he pushed her back. “Are you nuts? What is wrong with you? You could have broken your neck.” He grabbed her shoulders and steadied her. Her eyes were wide and solemn, and she looked right into his. “Why did you do that?”
    “I wanted to see if I could.”
    He gaped at her, speechless. Then, “Well don’t. You do that again, we won’t come back here for a month. Understand?”
    “Okay, Daddy.”
    “Enough swinging,” he grumbled. “Come on.” He held out his arms. “Let’s get us some ice cream.”
    Scolding forgotten, she leaped into his open embrace, and he swung her around while she squealed. The possibility of a maniac loose in Redbud suddenly seemed both foolish and remote.
    Claire’s closed early on Saturday, so there was always a rush at lunch. A favorite place for the postsoccer set, the small space was crowded.
    “You’ll have to wait,” Darcy, the owner, called over to Holt as he stood by the door. She hurried past, menus tucked under her arm. A wide-mouthed blonde with a low-cut blouse that showed off an impressive chest, she wore earrings the size of Texas that swung above her shoulders as she galloped by. Someone named Claire must have owned the place once, but who or when was lost in the fog of time. As long as he could remember, the place had been called Claire’s, and no matter whose name was on the deed, he guessed it always would be.
    Holt stooped to scoop up Miranda. “Hey, darlin’. Come on up here