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  Nate shrugged. “Everybody’s different, but we’re talking about you. When I asked you about your former employment, you implied you left town on good terms. You resigned simply to spare someone on the police force embarrassment. You weren’t fired, and no charges were brought by internal affairs.”

  “All true, but plenty of men on the force are still resentful about my promotion to detective.”

  “Jealousy exists everywhere people work. I’m sure even Avon ladies squabble over territories and advancements.”

  “Yeah, but most Avon ladies aren’t accused of sleeping their way up the ranks.”

  “That’s what was said about you?”

  “By some in the department, yes. And just for the record, it wasn’t true. I never had an affair with the boss or anyone else for that matter.”

  Nate nodded his head. “Often rather innocent work situations are misconstrued by those with corrupt minds.”

  “Yes, but this wasn’t completely misconstrued. The chief had been my mentor, and we became friends…close friends. I would have moved heaven and earth to marry the guy. When he saw where things were headed, he stopped spending time with me. See how good that mentoring relationship worked?” She forced a laugh.

  “You fell in love with the chief of police?”

  “I’m a bit of a cliché. He liked me, and we both liked working together, but in the end I made a first-class fool of myself.”

  “People often behave irrationally when their hearts take over.”

  “Yes, but my promotion had been lined up before I started flirting with the boss.”

  “Workplace romances seldom turn out well.”

  “I wasn’t worried at first. After all, we were just friends. Then I fell head over heels in love.” Beth dropped her face into her hands. “I was raised to be a nice girl, and I behaved foolishly.” Beth pressed on her stomach, which roiled from far too much coffee.

  “If you say nothing happened, then I believe you. Eventually, everyone whose opinion matters will too.”

  “Boss, you should moonlight as a shrink when business gets slow.”

  Nate rose to his feet with a laugh. “Isabelle would probably disagree.”

  “I don’t know why I’m spilling my guts to you other than my pastor is six feet under.” Beth burst into tears.

  Nate waited patiently for her composure to return. “I don’t mind hearing your confession, Beth, but why would you ask for a job knowing we often work with local law enforcement?”

  It was a logical question. Unfortunately, her answer was as lame as her rationale for bad behavior. “Because I couldn’t bear the idea of never seeing him again. I didn’t come to my senses until I’d been in Vicksburg for a while.” She forced herself to meet his eye. “Honestly, I’m over my infatuation, but I’m not sure if Natchez PD is willing to work with me. How effectively can I train Michael if my presence hobbles the investigation?”

  “We’re back to where we started. For the next three weeks, throw yourself into the case. Give it your best effort. When I get back, we’ll have a better grasp of the future. Maybe you’ll want to keep working for me and maybe you won’t. Just try not to kill Michael while I’m gone.” Nate glanced at his watch. “Right now, I need to get my oil changed and tires rotated. We’re hitting the highway first thing in the morning. Call me tonight after you’ve talked to Mrs. Dean.”

  Beth followed him out the door. “Thanks, for your faith in me. I haven’t exactly been employee of the month in the cooperation department.”

  “That’s for sure.” He smiled to soften the words. “Give Mike a chance, will ya? He might just surprise you.”

  “Have a good time with Isabelle,” Beth called as they separated in the parking lot. “Watch out for jellyfish, don’t get sunburned, and take plenty of pictures.”

  With a wave Nate drove away. Beth stared into space long after he left. Was she completely over Christopher McNeil? And more to the point, could she work with her former nemeses in Homicide if Pastor Dean really had been murdered?

  Ready or not, she was about to find out.

  FIVE

  Michael arrived at 782 Bennett Avenue by eleven thirty. Habitual about punctuality, he usually arrived early. This particular trait should prove advantageous in his new career. Today it gave him a chance to evaluate the neighborhood of his first client, the widow of the late Reverend Dean. As houses went, this one surpassed the others by a wide margin. It was hardly the traditional abode of a minister of a small church in Mississippi. Multistoried, with rambling wings and porches, the house must contain fifteen rooms, with a landscaped yard that could rival any on the cover of Southern Living. Michael spotted a gardener trimming the hedge alongside the cobblestone driveway. What other Baptist preacher has a gardener and uses cobblestones in Natchez?

  Michael rang the doorbell, fully expecting a butler wearing white gloves to appear. But instead, the immaculately attired, perfectly coiffed Mrs. Dean opened the door with a slight frown. His mother spent Saturday afternoons in capris and cotton T-shirts, with Crocs on her feet and gardening gloves up to her elbows. Margo Preston didn’t own suits like that or heels that high.

  “Mr. Preston, correct? I was expecting you and Miss Kirby at noon.” Mrs. Dean glanced at the diamond-encrusted watch on her wrist. “You’re a tad early, but if you can give me five minutes, I’ll be right with you.”

  Without waiting for a reply, she walked through the double doorway into a large living room. Sunlight streamed from floor-to-ceiling windows, giving the room an inviting feel despite the ultra-contemporary decor. “Would you like to have a seat?” Mrs. Dean pointed a long-nailed finger at the sofa before vanishing through another door.

  Instead of sitting, Michael inspected the framed photographs on her gallery table. The largest was a black-and-white of Mrs. Dean, perhaps on her college graduation day. Even without makeup and designer clothes, she was an attractive woman. And the last dozen or so years hadn’t diminished her beauty.

  When he picked up their wedding picture, he blinked. As pretty and vivacious as Mrs. Dean was, Mr. Dean was not. Bald and spectacled, the reverend looked as exciting as graham crackers with a warm glass of milk. He was at least ten years older than his wife and needed to put on twenty pounds.

  Picking up a recent school photo, he examined the couple’s daughter, a child he’d only glimpsed at the funeral. Unfortunately, Katie Dean took after the paternal side of her family.

  “Mr. Preston?” Mrs. Dean’s voice from behind nearly made him drop the photo. “Your partner has arrived.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, replacing the photo. Michael preferred the term “partner” over “trainer.” He’d been elevated to equal status.

  Judging by her scowl, Beth Kirby didn’t agree. “I thought you might be early, so I came early too,” she said to him. “But I didn’t think you’d arrive in time for breakfast.” She sat on the couch and pulled a legal pad, pen, and tape recorder from her tote.

  “I didn’t think it would be a problem,” he murmured.

  Mrs. Dean peered from one to the other. “It wasn’t a problem. Would either of you like coffee?”

  Before Michael could open his mouth, Beth answered for both of them. “No, thank you. We’re fine. Shall we get started?”

  Michael took the chair next to the widow and allowed his mentor to take the lead.

  “First, I’d like permission to record our conversation. Rest assured this will be kept strictly confidential within our agency.”

  Mrs. Dean paled but nodded approval. “What would you like to know?”

  Beth switched on the device. “I’d like you to walk us through the sequence of events on the day your husband died. Please include everything you remember. Although we will obtain photos from the Natchez police, it will be helpful if you describe each detail.”

  Michael reached for the tablet and pen to take notes as the widow began to talk.

  “I returned home from bridge with friends around four, an
d I entered the house through the garage. It was later than I usually get home, but the house was empty. I called up the stairs several times for Katie, but she didn’t answer. Then I found a note from her on the kitchen counter about studying with a friend.”

  “Did your daughter do that often?” asked Michael.

  “Yes, once or twice a week. I thought nothing of it. But I was surprised Paul wasn’t here—”

  “Was his car in the garage?” interrupted Michael.

  “Yes. It was parked in its usual spot. That’s what was odd. Paul didn’t usually visit the neighbors at the dinner hour.”

  “So what did you do?” he asked.

  Mrs. Dean’s forehead creased as though trying to find her place in the narrative. “I decided to telephone him.”

  “What happened next?” he asked, scribbling furiously.

  When she flinched, Beth switched off the recorder. “Why don’t we reserve our questions for the end so that Mrs. Dean doesn’t keep losing her train of thought?”

  “Certainly. I beg your pardon.” Michael felt like an admonished child.

  “I heard a cell phone ringing in the dining room and started to panic. Paul always kept his phone with him, but there it was, on the dining room table. So I looked for him in the basement and then went upstairs. From our bedroom window I saw that the shed door was open. We seldom used that spidery old space. I wanted to tear it down, but Paul insisted it had historical value.” Mrs. Dean took a handkerchief from her sleeve to dab her eyes. “I ran outside as fast as I could and then found him…hanging from the rafters.” She paused, her voice cracking.

  “Shall I get you some water?” asked Beth. “Do you need a break?”

  “No, let’s just get this over with.” She blew her nose and continued. “The gardening stool was on its side. Paul’s feet were only inches from the ground. I remember thinking that if the rope had been longer, he would still be alive.” She looked at each of them, her hands clasped in her lap. “I called his name two or three times, but he was gone.”

  “Did you check for a pulse, Mrs. Dean?” asked Michael.

  “No. I could tell he was dead.”

  “Did you attempt to lift him, to take his weight off the rope?” asked Beth.

  “No. I’m terrified to get close to death. I’ve never approached an open casket in my life or even helped bury the family pet.”

  Taken aback by her statement, Michael spoke without thinking. “But this was your husband, the father of your daughter.”

  “I know that, but your disapproval of my phobia won’t help find Paul’s murderer.”

  “We’re not here to judge, Mrs. Dean. Please continue.” Beth cast Michael a withering glare.

  Mrs. Dean focused on a vase of flowers. “I went into the house and called 9-1-1 on Paul’s phone. I forgot that mine was in my pocket. I waited on the porch, and they arrived within minutes.”

  Beth inched forward on the couch. “Everything that happened from the time the police showed up will be in their report. But please explain what made you think Paul hadn’t taken his own life.”

  Mrs. Dean’s gaze moved to a portrait on the wall, her eyes glassy and vacant as a porcelain doll’s. “The rope,” she whispered. “It had one of those nooses you see on TV. How would Paul know how to tie one of those? He’d never been a Boy Scout or gone camping in his life. And he was wearing his best suit. If Paul were going to kill himself, he would put on an old one and save his newest to be buried in.” Her face contorted as her composure cracked. “I know my husband would never take his own life.”

  “Did you find the suicide note that Reverend Dean supposedly wrote?” Beth asked.

  “No, I left the shed quickly. What if Katie came home and the killer was still nearby? When the police showed me the note later, I knew Paul hadn’t written it.”

  “Why is that, ma’am?” Michael tried to sound respectful.

  “Paul didn’t use slang. He utilized only proper speech as an example for our daughter and the congregation. Many of them could use lessons in English grammar.”

  Beth shifted on the couch. “If we are to investigate the death as a potential homicide, we’ll need written permission to delve into your personal life, including financial matters. One of the reasons the police ruled this a suicide is because money is missing from the church account. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I know Paul would never steal from the building fund. A new Christian school for the community had been his dream for years. He spearheaded the initiative, spent hours studying various designs, and organized fund-raisers for years. His dream would have become a reality when the contractor broke ground next spring.” A tear dropped onto her silk jacket.

  “I would imagine we’re talking a couple million dollars,” Michael said. “That kind of money might be hard to resist, even for a man of the cloth.”

  Beth cleared her throat in protest. “Hold on a minute—”

  Mrs. Dean didn’t let her finish. “Were you raised a Christian, Mr. Preston? If you were devout, you would never make such a comment. Paul put his congregation, especially the children, before anything else.”

  “I apologize for the implication, but I noticed your family lives much better than the average Baptist preacher.”

  “Hey, partner, Mrs. Dean is our client, not the suspect. Could you ratchet down your—”

  “It’s all right, Beth. He’s not saying anything I haven’t heard before.” Mrs. Dean lifted her chin and moistened her lips. “I received substantial wealth from my father’s estate. Paul insisted I keep the inheritance separate from our joint assets. I bought this house when we married, and I buy my own clothes, car, and pay for Katie’s private education. Paul pays…paid for groceries, utilities, and insurance. Things like that. That’s how it was in our marriage. Although my husband was content living modestly, he didn’t want me to suffer because he chose a poorly paid vocation.”

  Even Beth’s jaw dropped with that comment.

  “Sounds like you didn’t share his calling,” said Michael.

  Mrs. Dean didn’t flinch, but her voice took on a hard edge. “That’s not true. My faith is strong, and I was content as a pastor’s wife. But is it really necessary to walk around in sackcloth and ashes to find a place in heaven?”

  Beth switched off the machine. “Maybe it isn’t necessary, but we’re getting a little off track here, Mrs. Dean.”

  “Alice, please. Are you sure you won’t have some coffee or tea?” She directed her inquiry solely at Beth.

  “No, thanks. I would, however, like to outline how we’ll proceed during our investigation.”

  “Do you believe my husband didn’t kill himself?”

  Their entire case seemed to hang in the air with her question.

  Beth hesitated only a moment, her pen hovering in the air. “I have no reason not to believe. You knew him better than anyone.”

  Alice nodded. “Then you may proceed.”

  “First, we’ll review the police report for omissions or misinterpretations which might have led to their conclusion. We’ll also study the church’s finances. Because your husband had no reason to steal, I’m betting someone else did—someone with access to the account.”

  “Then start with Ralph Buckley. The finance director had full access to the building fund.”

  “Of course. We’ll speak to Mr. Buckley soon.” Beth jotted notes on her pad.

  “Did Reverend Dean have any enemies?” asked Michael. “Did anyone have a grudge against him?”

  Mrs. Dean’s lip furled slightly. “Absolutely not. Everyone loved Paul.”

  “What about you?” Michael tapped his pen against his briefcase. “Did anyone want your husband out of the picture for personal reasons?”

  Her eyes took on a wicked glint. “Do you mean was I having a torrid affair behind Paul’s back? Then my lover decided to remove our obstacle once and for all? The answer is no, Mr. Preston. Sorry to disappoint.”

  Beth jumped to her feet. “Ok
ay, everybody just chill. Please excuse my partner, Mrs. Dean. He’s new and hasn’t learned proper interview techniques. Michael, why don’t you wait on the porch while I finish up in here?” She pulled the agency’s standard contract from her tote.

  “Of course,” he said. “I apologize for offending you, Mrs. Dean.” Michael nodded politely at their client and walked out the door.

  He hadn’t meant to be rude, but something about Alice Dean had crawled under his skin. Correction, everything about the arrogant woman rubbed him the wrong way. He was familiar with the type—women who thought their wealth and beauty gave them carte blanche to say and do whatever they pleased.

  But if he let his aversion to arrogance ruin his chances at Price Investigations, he was a fool. He really liked his new job. The day he’d packed up his stapler and yellow highlighters at Anderson Accountants was the best day of his life. You should be able to learn plenty from a seasoned veteran like Beth. Nate’s advice ran through Michael’s mind like a radio jingle for toothpaste. If he had a lick of his Mensa-level intelligence, he would keep his mouth shut and his ears open. Because it was unlikely he would ever get a chance like this again.

  SIX

  Do you have sawdust for brains?” asked Beth, the moment she stepped onto the Deans’ front porch. “We gain nothing by infuriating our client, while we exponentially increase the risk of getting fired. Would you like to be the one to tell Nate? He and Isabelle should be finished packing the car by now.”

  “Did Mrs. Dean fire us?” Every drop of blood drained from Michael’s already pasty complexion.

  Beth contemplated stringing out his agony to teach him a lesson. But what if he started crying? If that got back to Nate, she would be the one in trouble. “No, not yet, but she’s not inviting you back for coffee and Danish.”

  Michael crossed his arms over his starched shirt. “I know I was out of line, but she didn’t act like a grieving widow. Every one of her answers seemed somehow off.”

  “Off—that’s the best scientific conclusion you can draw? I thought you earned two master’s degrees.”