Dead Giveaway

started flicking at the corner of my business card with a fingernail, his other hand balled into a tight fist. ' 'Remember those who are in prison, as though you were in prison with them.' Hebrews 13:3. I sense your distrust, a certain distaste, and I am sorry for that. Your spirit is admirable, however. Like you, I perform my duties and am glad to do so. If it helps your cause, the black boy and I prayed together, but he told me nothing about his crime... nor did I ask.'

'He may have spent years in jail for a murder he didn't commit. Will your duty to God help me find the truth? Perhaps free an innocent man?'

He smiled, folded his hands in front of him. 'God has guided you here, brought your precious light, and I would never refuse you anything if only I could remember more. I simply can't.'

But despite his calm tone, I noticed his face had reddened. Maybe he had a blood pressure problem— or my light had given him a sunburn.

'What would help you remember?' I asked. 'Pictures of Lawrence after his arrest? I could bring one.'

'You simply do not understand, Abby Rose.' His sanctuary voice had reappeared, his loud voice. Great for a Sunday service, a little much for an office. Obviously the guy was coming unglued—which, now that I thought about it, might not be a bad thing. Maybe he'd let loose with something unexpected.

'Think hard, Pastor. Tell me what Lawrence said to you in Huntsville. Tell me about the night of the murder. Help me learn the names of the kids he hung out with. Tell me—'

'Stop.' Rankin covered his face with his hands. 'You don't understand.'

All of a sudden he was crying big old crocodile tears. If I wanted to drive this man crazy, it would be a short trip. 'What is it that I don't understand, Pastor?'

He took a deep breath to compose himself. '1987 was the worst year of my life, Abby Rose. We had to deal with tragic events that had nothing to do with the black boy's troubles.'

I wasn't sure I felt comfortable asking what those events were, and turns out I didn't have to.

He said, 'We lost our daughter that year. The pain is fresh even today and supersedes any memories of prison visits or youth counseling or anything else from back then.'

'I'm really sorry, but even though it was a horrible time—'

The door opened and I smelled an overpowering perfume before I saw the woman. 'Andrew, I heard you— oh, my heavens. I knew something was wrong.'

She rushed to Rankin's side, bent and held his face. 'What's happened?' She looked my way. 'What's going on?'

'I'm a private investigator and I came to ask a few questions about a case I'm working—one that dates back to 1987. I seem to have dredged up some bad memories, and for that I apologize.'

'We lost Sara that year,' the woman said softly, rubbing tears off her husband's cheeks.

'I really had no intention of upsetting the pastor.'

She straightened, tugging at the short purple jacket that matched her skirt. She was shapely, and though I could tell she was in her fifties, she had aged well.

'I'm sure you had no idea about our child,' she said. 'How could you possibly know?'

Rankin said, 'She came about Lawrence—you remember the black boy? But all of a sudden my thoughts leaped to Sara and—'

'Shh, Andrew. It's okay,' said his wife. She looked at me. 'Perhaps you should leave for now. Call me later. I'll try to help you, but right now, my husband needs me for reasons I don't need to explain.'

'Certainly.' I stood. 'Sorry to have caused a problem.' I was happy to go, because if I heard him say 'the black boy' one more time, I might have had to slug a man of God, tears or no tears.

Mrs. Rankin smiled sadly. 'Forgive me... forgive us. When you lose a child, the pain never goes away.' She rested a hand on her husband's cheek again. 'Andrew is a very sensitive man; so strong for others, but when it comes to Sara, well...'

'I'll ask for you when I call, Mrs. Rankin,' I said.

She came around the desk, extended her hand and then rested her other over mine when we shook. 'It's Noreen. And you're?'

'Abby.'

'Abby Rose,' said the pastor, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. He blew his nose. 'Isn't that a beautiful name? Perfect for a spirited, glowing young woman. I have never before seen light surround someone like it does you, Abby Rose.'

Mrs. Rankin glanced at her husband, and though she tried to mask her confusion, she failed. 'Andrew, what are you talking about?'

'You can't see it? Maybe Sara has returned, resides in Abby Rose and—no, no. That's not right. I'm a little dizzy, Noreen. Where are my pills?'

Oh, yes. Find the pills right away, I thought.

'Please excuse us, Abby.' She smiled, showing off bleached, perfect teeth to match her smooth, lovely skin —the kind you can only get from plenty of pampering. She was concerned, however, and I didn't blame her.

I picked up my purse and left, closing the door as softly as I could. That whole interview had been bizarre, and what had I learned? Zip. I was about to head back in the direction I'd come in when I saw a sign pointing the opposite way that read CHURCH LIBRARY. I decided this little visit wasn't over yet. The library in the church I'd attended as a child kept a history of everything, so maybe this one did, too.

When I entered, I was immediately reminded of the Hearst Castle library. There were shiny, walnut floorto- ceiling shelves, a ladder on a slide to reach items on the top, thick pale peach carpet and soft overstuffed chairs where you could sit and read. Above me was a stained glass dome that, if I'd been paying attention, I could have probably seen from the parking lot. Guess I'd been too dazzled by gold roofs.

The library was magnificent and peaceful. But I hadn't come here for peace. I closed the door behind me and began scouring the shelves. I soon found what I was looking for in books that had been bound in identical leather volumes with gold engraved numbers—all the saved copies of newsletters, prayer lists, articles about special members of their congregation, church trip journals. I even got to climb that cool ladder. A few minutes later I found the years I wanted—'86 and '87. The volume with an '86 newsletter had a picture of a very young Pastor Rankin and his wife flanking their youth group.

I climbed down and laid open the book on a study table and took out my phone. I'd only clicked off one picture before the door opened.

It was Mrs. Rankin. She flashed her brilliant smile again and definitely looked more relaxed than when I'd left her. 'I thought you'd gone, but I'm so glad you found the library. Isn't it wonderful?'

'The whole building is amazing, but I think this room is my favorite.'

'Did you find anything helpful?' she asked.

I closed the book. 'A photo of Lawrence. Funny how he hasn't changed all that much since he was sent to Huntsville.'

'You've seen him recently?'

'Yes.'

'He's the one who hired you, then?'

'No, not Lawrence.' I wasn't sure she needed to know about Will. Not right now, anyway.

'You're keeping a confidence,' she said. 'That's something we understand very well here. I have prayed for Lawrence often over the years and am so glad he has an advocate. This is a sign God doesn't want us to forget what happened.' She stepped toward me, still smiling, her diamond stud earrings blinking in the sunlight coming through the tall velvetdraped window behind me. 'Did he seem in good health when you visited?'

'As far as I could tell.'

'He always said he didn't kill that girl, and frankly, I believed him. Told the police as much. Even though he was a very competitive young man, an athlete, you know, he had a soft spirituality about him. We were so lucky to have known him.'

I came around the study table to stand between two armchairs. 'But you haven't gone to see him?'

'Andrew went to the prison, then I tried, but Lawrence struck everyone from his visitor list quite early on.'