Melissa MacNeal - Beyond Redemption

"You'd better have a damn good reason for breaking into my house, Miss-"

"I was Lucy's nanny, after her mama died!" I protested in a pathetic voice-a plausible story, since the demanding little girl and her overbearing father had gone through at least a dozen such women, back then. "I was coming to pay my-"

"-or by God, Judge Legg'll be hearing your case for-"

"-respects, because I can't come to the funeral tomorrow."

Dammet's brow furrowed. "Who told you about that?"

Aha! So it was a secret. "Virgil Furmeister," I replied, my voice ringing with truth. I pushed a bit farther. "I wouldn't dream of telling the magistrate what I saw here-for we know how we'd both suffer for that! Seems a small favor, to grant me a few moments alone with this poor girl who's met such an untimely end."

As Alex Moore, I would've had better leverage-could've threatened this pervert with exposure of his evil deeds. As a woman, however, I was in no position to bargain-nor did I want to call enough attention to myself that Dammet would learn I'd my faked my employment with Judge Legg. I held the mortician's gaze for several moments, struck by how handsome he'd become in the years since I'd seen him peeing his name into a snow bank.

He relaxed at last, perhaps regretting his unacceptable behavior. "Five minutes-no more!" he snapped. "Bad enough that I've had to hurry my work on her."

"And how did she die, then?" I mused aloud, approaching the nude beauty on the table. In the ambiance of those candles, Lucy looked lush and…almost alive.

"Foul play, that's for sure!" the mortician replied. "I'm guessing she and that Tripplehorn had a squabble, and he obviously won. Good thing the judge caught them in the act, so there's no doubt about who needs to swing from a rope. Sooner than later, if you ask me!"

Well, I hadn't asked him-and I still didn't believe Billy killed her. But I kept my mouth shut, wishing Nat would leave. "I suppose that explains the bruises around her neck? And the swelling?"

"Yep. Which is why Legg wants a quiet, private service. No need to air dirty laundry-or have people's last thoughts of Miss Lucy be of violence. She could be an ornery little twat, but she'd never hurt anyone." Dammet challenged me with a direct gaze. "I'll return in a few minutes. You'd better be gone by then."

I nodded, praying he didn't recognize me as a woman associated with the orphanage. We didn't need him coming around asking questions-or calling in a marker for the favor of forgetting this confrontation. I followed his progress toward the stairs, and then wished I hadn't looked up: there, seated so she watched over this work table, sat Miranda Dammet-or at least her perfectly preserved remains. And yes, her legs were crossed in an open, masculine manner that placed her snatch at eye level on the edge of her thronelike chair. Her arms were bent behind her head, which thrust her breasts into lewd prominence, and those black, buckle-front galoshes mocked her as much as the cigar sticking out of her mouth.

Nathaniel Dammet was more warped than I thought.

I couldn't let this disturbing onlooker deter me, however. As quickly as my queasiness allowed, I lifted the soft, golden strands of Lucy Legg's hair away from her neck and studied the skin carefully. Poor girl had been manhandled, for sure…got her neck broken, judging by its odd angle. Revulsion arose in me again, and I steadied myself by studying the rest of her body. Nothing else-except that telltale roundness of her belly-gave a hint of the whys and wherefores leading to her death. Every hair on my head was quivering with the conviction that the judge had done this-that Billy Tripplehorn wasn't capable of such savagery.

But then I saw markings that stopped my heart. Two little puncture wounds, nearly invisible in the swirling purple bruises around her neck.

"Jesus, no! How could-?" I stepped away, then gazed around the morbid laboratory as though expecting a trio of bats to be fluttering in the shadows of that lime-encrusted cellar. The cloying odors of Dammet's preservatives was now more than my stomach could stand, and without bothering to smooth Lucy's hair into place, I fled the undertaker's lair.

Fresh air had never felt so good. Instinct pointed me back toward the deputy's office, for as my mind cleared I realized I had no case against anyone unless I could prove the approximate time Lucy Legg had died. My best bet was to coax Virgil Furmeister into a chatty mood-see what he'd relate about Judge Legg's story of catching Tripplehorn with his daughter, as opposed to what Billy himself would say.

All sorts of questions danced madly with all manner of answers in my mind as I approached the jailhouse, but two things were certain: those fang marks were made before Lucy gave up the ghost, and after the sun had set. And masculine hands had left those broad bruises on a neck that had snapped in a death grip.

It didn't add up. The Sisters-and Billy-had been in my room most of the night. Yet Harold Legg would've had no need to strangle Lucy if she'd already been drained. And none of this evidence even approached the issue of why.

My train of thought was again derailed, however, because when I opened the door to Furmeister's office, giddy laughter and tambourine music wrapped themselves around me. My God, the little room reverberated with the energy of three raucous Gypsy dancers, scantily clad in transparent silks of crimson and candy pink and teal-all of them circling the overstuffed deputy as he gawked at them from his chair!

I could not recall the last time Pandora, Pink, and Perfidia had come into town: years they'd remained ensconced in the mansion, happy to let me do their legwork. But then, so much had happened in these past several hours that I now realized how woefully uninformed I was about a lot of things. I could only hope that by pretending not to know them, they would in turn protect my true identity until Furmeister wasn't within earshot.

But then, why would he leave? He was seated in his swivel-backed desk chair, ogling the three Gypsy beauties as they wiggled their hips to the beat of Pink's tambourine, while lightly dragging their veils over his face. The deputy, in turn, was feeling them freely-cupping their unfettered breasts and letting his fingers drift over their lush curves as they circled him, the centerpiece of their erotic dance. Any one of them could've seduced the obese, sexually-desperate lawman with the merest come-hither wag of her finger, but with all three of them gazing playfully his way, Virgil Furmeister didn't stand a chance. What man would?

I hoped they weren't thinking to spring Billy by sinking their teeth into the deputy. Even Nat Dammet wouldn't remain quiet about a second victim to land on his table with puncture wounds in his neck. And then all hell would truly break loose in Redemption!

"Which of us would you like to fuck first? I especially like taking it up the ass," Perfidia whispered, turning to wiggle her silken-clad backside at him, "while the raven-haired lady behind you has a cunt so tight it'll suck your dick dry and leave you helpless, panting for more. Our girlie with the tambourine gives organ concerts, too. Your organ, her mouth, that is."

Virgil's eyes widened with the enormity of such a decision. While young Billy would've simply taken all three of them on, this old bucksnort had neither the stamina nor the agility to manage that-especially since the ladies seemed intent on keeping him in his throne on wheels. While they knew damn well I was watching from the doorway-just as they'd known where I was when they sashayed in to waylay the lawman-they kept Furmeister's attention riveted on their own assets. They were also remaining nameless. A good sign, that.

Perfidia's proposition gave me the perfect opportunity to slip back to Billy's cell for a quiet conference, yet I lingered…to see who Virgil chose, and to see how many seconds it took him to come. The bulge in his crotch would've been visible to a blind man, and it had to be hurting him.