home.”
Miranda waved over her grandmother’s shoulder, and against her better judgment, Edie found herself waving back.
She returned to the microfiche thinking of Holt. Lately she’d been doing a lot against her better judgment, hadn’t she?
10
F red Lyle’s funeral left Redbud quiet all over town. Holt sent Sam to direct traffic into and out of the small town cemetery, which would overflow with family, friends, and plant workers. While the rest of the town was burying one of its own, Holt ran a street patrol. No better time for a robbery than when half the town was away.
But Redbud was silent and calm, its houses small and tidy. And on the east side they were shabbier, strewn with automobile parts and kids’ toys. But he saw no broken windows or signs of vandalism that hadn’t been there before. Nothing out of the ordinary until he got to one weedy yard. Leaning against a detached outbuilding that was once a garage stood a motorcycle.
Holt knew the house well, had cleaned up several drug operations there. He’d have to talk to Runkle again. The grass needed mowing, the house needed painting. It looked forlorn and abandoned. No wonder one scumbag after another thought it the perfect place to set up shop.
He parked. Got out of the car and crept up the front steps. The door was locked, the curtains drawn. Slowly, he eased his way around back.
Someone was sitting on the back stoop, turned away from him. But he’d recognize that head of hair anywhere.
“Edie?”
The surprise on her face mirrored his own. “What are you doing out here?” she asked.
“Just what I was going to ask you.” He crossed to the stoop, stood with a foot on one step.
“Meeting a real estate agent. Dennis Runkle.”
Holt’s eyebrows rose. “Real estate? This place?”
She shrugged. “It’s affordable.”
“Not when you look at the repair bills.”
“It’s criminal the way this place has been neglected. You definitely should be arresting someone.”
“I did. Cleaned up a drug gang here. Saw the bike out front. Thought someone was starting it up again.”
She raised her hands. “Not me. Just looking for a place to live besides Red’s.”
“So the bike’s yours?” He glanced at her curiously. Jealously even. “Nice ride you got there.” He let that float away. Gestured to the run-down house. “So… planning on staying a while?”
Edie scanned the yard. She’d come straight from the library, not knowing what she’d find, but not expecting this. The grass had given up fighting with the weeds, which were knee high in some places. Her grandmother’s house was riddled with neglect and abandonment.
“I don’t know.” She rose, pushed through the weedy thicket to the elm tree in the south corner. “Maybe.” A souvenir of better times, remnants of a tire swing hung from a branch. The thick rope her father had used to fasten it had been replaced by blue nylon. While most of the tire was gone, that indestructible nylon noose hung on. She pushed the piece of black rubber still attached to it. Squeals of laughter echoed in her memory.
Holt joined her. “Wouldn’t be hard to fix. New tire, new rope. Back in business.”
If only fixing the rest was as easy. A wave of sadness rolled over her and she turned back to the house. White paint peeled off the back wall and rust spotted the metal edges of the screen door.
“Don’t think I’ll be needing it,” she said. Maybe this was a bad idea. Too much memory could drown her.
Well, drowning was always a risk. Wasn’t that why Aunt Penny never brought her back here?
“Why can’t you leave the past where it belongs?” she always complained, even in those last days.
“Because it’s with me. Always,” Edie had replied, handing her a glass of water with a straw. Her aunt had shriveled to almost nothing, stopped eating, barely drank anything. She wanted to die, and it made Edie furious. As if egging on the anger, Penny waved the glass away, shifted in the
Miranda waved over her grandmother’s shoulder, and against her better judgment, Edie found herself waving back.
She returned to the microfiche thinking of Holt. Lately she’d been doing a lot against her better judgment, hadn’t she?
10
F red Lyle’s funeral left Redbud quiet all over town. Holt sent Sam to direct traffic into and out of the small town cemetery, which would overflow with family, friends, and plant workers. While the rest of the town was burying one of its own, Holt ran a street patrol. No better time for a robbery than when half the town was away.
But Redbud was silent and calm, its houses small and tidy. And on the east side they were shabbier, strewn with automobile parts and kids’ toys. But he saw no broken windows or signs of vandalism that hadn’t been there before. Nothing out of the ordinary until he got to one weedy yard. Leaning against a detached outbuilding that was once a garage stood a motorcycle.
Holt knew the house well, had cleaned up several drug operations there. He’d have to talk to Runkle again. The grass needed mowing, the house needed painting. It looked forlorn and abandoned. No wonder one scumbag after another thought it the perfect place to set up shop.
He parked. Got out of the car and crept up the front steps. The door was locked, the curtains drawn. Slowly, he eased his way around back.
Someone was sitting on the back stoop, turned away from him. But he’d recognize that head of hair anywhere.
“Edie?”
The surprise on her face mirrored his own. “What are you doing out here?” she asked.
“Just what I was going to ask you.” He crossed to the stoop, stood with a foot on one step.
“Meeting a real estate agent. Dennis Runkle.”
Holt’s eyebrows rose. “Real estate? This place?”
She shrugged. “It’s affordable.”
“Not when you look at the repair bills.”
“It’s criminal the way this place has been neglected. You definitely should be arresting someone.”
“I did. Cleaned up a drug gang here. Saw the bike out front. Thought someone was starting it up again.”
She raised her hands. “Not me. Just looking for a place to live besides Red’s.”
“So the bike’s yours?” He glanced at her curiously. Jealously even. “Nice ride you got there.” He let that float away. Gestured to the run-down house. “So… planning on staying a while?”
Edie scanned the yard. She’d come straight from the library, not knowing what she’d find, but not expecting this. The grass had given up fighting with the weeds, which were knee high in some places. Her grandmother’s house was riddled with neglect and abandonment.
“I don’t know.” She rose, pushed through the weedy thicket to the elm tree in the south corner. “Maybe.” A souvenir of better times, remnants of a tire swing hung from a branch. The thick rope her father had used to fasten it had been replaced by blue nylon. While most of the tire was gone, that indestructible nylon noose hung on. She pushed the piece of black rubber still attached to it. Squeals of laughter echoed in her memory.
Holt joined her. “Wouldn’t be hard to fix. New tire, new rope. Back in business.”
If only fixing the rest was as easy. A wave of sadness rolled over her and she turned back to the house. White paint peeled off the back wall and rust spotted the metal edges of the screen door.
“Don’t think I’ll be needing it,” she said. Maybe this was a bad idea. Too much memory could drown her.
Well, drowning was always a risk. Wasn’t that why Aunt Penny never brought her back here?
“Why can’t you leave the past where it belongs?” she always complained, even in those last days.
“Because it’s with me. Always,” Edie had replied, handing her a glass of water with a straw. Her aunt had shriveled to almost nothing, stopped eating, barely drank anything. She wanted to die, and it made Edie furious. As if egging on the anger, Penny waved the glass away, shifted in the
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