Fatal Connections

Chapter 37

Reverend Leland accompanied Calhoun and me across the church foyer to the front door. He hung back as we proceeded outside.

"My sincerest condolences, ladies." In other words, bye.

"Would you happen to have a card?" I asked before the door closed.

I caught a ripple in his expression. Mild curiosity? Annoyance? "Sure," he said. He produced a standard-issue business card holder from somewhere on his person and withdrew a plain business card. Almost as plain as his office.

"Thank you," I said. By this time, Calhoun looked like she was ready to make a run for it. "How long did you know the Harcourts? I mean, how many years have they been involved with the church?"

Leland shrugged. "Three, four years maybe."

"I'm sorry if I seem nosy, but . . . ." I stopped and looked at Calhoun. "Please don't feel you need to wait for me. This probably wouldn't interest you."

Calhoun looked stunned, but she recovered with apparent ease. "Well, perhaps I can help."

That was about the last thing I expected her to say. But if she wanted to hang around, fine by me.

"What sorts of things did they volunteer to do?"

"I could count on them to organize our annual Easter event every year," he said.

"Oh, okay. So that would involve . . . I'm just guessing here . . . an Easter egg hunt, refreshments, entertainment?"

"Right, right." He nodded with each word.

"And the refreshments . . . would they be catered?"

"No, of course not," the Reverend said. "Our members make the refreshments."

"And the entertainment?"

"All volunteer." The Reverend gave his watch a not-so-discreet glance.

"I'm so sorry," I gushed, my voice catching. I'm going to make myself sick if I keep this up. "It's just that one minute, they were clients, and the next . . . I find them . . . ." I flashed back to the moment I'd found the Harcourts and put every bit of my horror into the words. "It was a shock."

Reverend Leland extended a hand and gripped my shoulder. "Have faith. And stay strong." And then he shut the door. By the time the Reverend had called "cut" on our little scene, Calhoun had hurried off. But not quite fast enough for me to miss seeing her in the passenger seat of a car cruising toward the exit. With Ryan Douglas at the wheel.

I silently cursed my late arrival. Had I parked closer in, I could have followed them. And speaking of following, I noticed a plain brown sedan parked right across the street—with a dent above the driver's-side door, just like the one I thought was following me yesterday.

I took a closer look at the car, which was parked in the shade of a tall, dense hedge of arborvitae. I could just barely make out the silhouette of someone behind the wheel.

"Fuck this," I muttered. Maybe fifty feet separated us, but coming straight at the vehicle wouldn't be the smartest thing to do. I desperately wanted to know who was behind the wheel, but I also knew I could not approach the car without being obvious. It was possible that the driver was a stalker, someone I'd pissed off, unknowingly or otherwise.

I strolled across the street without stopping. My gaze swept past the driver's side window but failed to make out enough detail to describe the car's occupant. From what little I could see, I gathered that the driver was a male with short hair. The rear of the brown sedan came into view, and I noted its tag number. The alphanumeric identifier played on auto-repeat in my head.

Once I had the plate number, I power-walked toward the Fiesta, which now seemed to be parked a hundred miles away. Unfortunately, my would-be stalker had other ideas. The roar of his car engine told me he wasn't planning to stick around. I sprinted toward my car, adrenaline surging through me. By the time I slid behind the wheel, the brown car had disappeared, its engine noise fading into the murmur of distant traffic.