Melissa MacNeal - Beyond Redemption

And now Lucy was dead. And Billy-and I, by association-were being held responsible, despite the absurdity of Harold Legg's accusation. I was the only one who could get to the bottom of this; the only one who could clear Billy's name. But as I strode from the overheated jailhouse into the night, I knew better than to ignore Virgil's bluster completely: if I, as Alex Moore, got thrown into jail on such trumped-up charges, justice would never be served. I would have to outfox Judge Legg at his own game…take advantage of the grief and emotions that overrode his legal expertise, to gather some irrefutable facts about how and when his daughter had died.

I drove to my office and parked the buggy behind the false-fronted building, so I could slip in through my back door. I had a lot to think about in a very short time, for if Lucy's funeral was tomorrow-allowing no time for the customary condolence calls and prayer vigils-any evidence I might find on her body would soon be buried. And while a woman in love might do some mighty outlandish things to prove her young stud innocent, grave digging went beyond my limits.

Something smacked of concealment here. What father would rush his beloved daughter into her coffin, denying himself those final, precious hours of her presence…unless he didn't want folks looking her over too closely?

Had Harold Legg learned his beloved little girl was pregnant? Had he killed her in his wrath-or to uphold his reputation in this repressive little town?

My stomach rumbled uneasily at the thought, for this seemed a much more logical motive than Billy Tripplehorn had. And the magistrate's authoritarian temper was legend, while the young man he'd jailed might have gone along with Lucy's scheme-at least until he tired of living with a peevish young mother and her squalling infant. Even then, I couldn't believe he'd strike out in anger. Not after the way he'd handled me in bed.

Whatever the case, I couldn't simply knock on the Judge's door and demand an explanation, straight up. My chances at the truth were better if I didn't run across Harold Legg at all-at least until I'd seen Lucy's body and mulled over all the possible scenarios for her demise. While I'd always thought her shallow and conniving and rotten beyond redemption, she was merely a girl who'd tried an age-old solution for an untimely pregnancy. She didn't deserve to die for it! Nor did Billy need to be her scapegoat.

As I mulled these things over, I was slipping out of Alex's suit and sideburns, to put on a simple dress I kept hidden in my little back room-it saved Andrea countless trips to the mansion when she needed to shop for orphanage supplies or food. I had to concoct a careful story, however, because the overseer of so many young children had no valid reason for being in town at this hour. The clock on my office mantel was striking twelve as I brushed my long hair over my shoulders. A few quick swipes of a wet cloth removed the masculine shadow along my jaw, and the small mirror pronounced me female again. Female, and plain enough not to attract attention as the shepherdess of Redemption's little lost sheep.

Could I pull the wool over Legg's eyes? Or, more importantly, could I convince the undertaker, Nathaniel Dammet, I had a legitimate reason to see Lucy? These days, the mortician's art had taken on a secretive side akin to black magic; things that went on in his embalming room rendered the dead viewable for years-not to mention more pleasant to be around on hot summer days. Much more complicated and formalized than dusting the skin with cornstarch and putting heavy coins on the eyelids, for visitation in the family's own parlor. I was hoping the hurried nature of Lucy's funeral would mean Nat was still working on her- And the light glowing through the downstairs curtains of the huge old home, which sat like a sentinel at the gates of Redemption Cemetery, told me it was my lucky night. If one could consider a midnight visit to a mortician lucky.

I approached the back door, my heart thumping hard. What did one say to a man who prepared the dead for a living? Bad enough that Nathaniel Dammet had been cursed with such a name, by a mother prone to flights of fanatical fantasy. The poor man was also deformed…a victim of his mother's Old Testament philosophy of "if your eye offends you, pluck it out."

Seems that when Nat was about twelve, she caught him on a snowy day practicing his penmanship before an audience of admiring girls, and the sight of that yellow ink in the snow drove Miranda Dammet over the edge. After that, nobody questioned why her husband had disappeared, years before. She'd whacked her son's offending member! Had a neighbor not rushed him to the doctor, Nathaniel might've died!

No doubt, over the years, he was wishing he had, since his name couldn't be mentioned without a reminder of his mother's affront to his manhood. Everyone in Redemption believed he took up taxidermy as a hobby just to irritate her-and then, as the final blow to her fragile sanity, he'd attended embalming school. Dammet was the wealthiest man in town, but what did that matter when everyone whispered about his…deformity, and the unspeakable acts he probably performed on a corpse? Rumor had it that when Miranda passed on, Nat preserved her in some gawdawful pose and relegated her to the bowels of this house-although no one had actually seen this monument to his final revenge.

Such thoughts gave me pause as I stood at the back door. Maybe Billy should come up with his own defense, considering how he'd sneaked away from my bed without even a weak excuse! Maybe Alex Moore should be rescuing his legal career, rather than prying into the questionable affairs of a magistrate whose promiscuous daughter had started all this. Amazing, how my world had been upended these past thirty-six hours-and all because I couldn't keep my eyes off the cock of a randy young man who was nothing but trouble.

My resolve faltering, I stepped away-but then a movement caught my eye, through the curtain of the nearest cellar window. I blinked. A gap between the fabric and the rod gave me a bird's-eye view of Mr. Dammet's work table, where Lucy Legg lay naked, bathed in the low light of perhaps two dozen candles. They flickered around her as though paying tribute to her ethereal beauty… the soft blonde hair brushed over shoulders and ripe young breasts…the face enhanced with careful cosmetics, to emphasize lips closed in a serene smile like she'd never worn- But wait-her breasts were jiggling! I stuck a fist in my mouth, to keep from crying out at the thought of her body convulsing with the youthful lust that had led Billy astray. But no-curiosity drove me to step closer. And that's when I saw Nathaniel Dammet on his knees, straddling her. He was naked, too-a firm, virile figure for a man somewhat older than I, except for that pathetic nub between his legs. He was fondling himself, aiming it toward Lucy's- Before I could think clearly, I rushed through the door and toward the table. "How dare you defile Miss Lucy's-? When Judge Legg hears about this-"

I suddenly realized I'd made a grave mistake! I wheeled around to leave, fighting the urge to vomit and scream at the same time. The fragrance of those candles didn't quite mask the furtive odor of formaldehyde, and in the back of my mind I realized this whole scene had been witnessed by a silent, nude woman enthroned on a chair. Had she really been smoking a stogy and wearing buckle-front galoshes?

"Wait! Don't you dare tell Harry-"

Viselike fingers closed around my upper arm just as I reached the door, which Nat Dammet closed by throwing himself against it. He gasped for breath, clutching me in a death grip while trying to figure out who the hell I was. Plainness, and the social invisibility that went with it, had its advantages at such moments. Thank goodness being intellectually cornered in the courtroom had taught me how to think in a tight spot, because as the mortician regained his composure-except for his dink, which shriveled into a little knot above his balls-his rational thought returned, too.