the frigid air.
“The VFW rent out their building for wedding receptions and banquets,” Jillian said. “That’s the bulk of our business so they gave us a key to the back door to make our deliveries without needing someone there to let us in. But half the time we can’t get through because Nash parks his truck in the alley. Randi finally called the city council to complain. I don’t think he was very happy when he found out.”
“Yeah, I can imagine.” Lynne shook her head in disgust, all too familiar with Nash’s belief that the world was created to make his life easier. At the same time, she tucked away the knowledge that Nash had a reason to be angry with Randi.
The evidence was certainly building against him.
“Anyone else?” she pressed.
“I don’t think so.” Jillian glanced around as the organ warmed up and the choir joined in to spill music through the open doors of the church. “I should get going.”
Lynne held on to the woman’s arm. She wasn’t done with her questions. “Are you working this morning?”
Jillian nodded. “Randi had a standing order with this church to deliver fresh flowers for the altar every Sunday morning.”
Lynne lifted a brow. Fresh flowers in the middle of winter seemed an extravagant cost for a tiny congregation. “Every Sunday?”
“Yep.” Jillian’s lips twisted. “Until now. The pastor just said he wanted to cancel the order.” She looked momentarily angered by the loss of business, then heaved a resigned sigh. “I guess I don’t blame him. I have no idea what’s going to happen to the shop now that Randi’s . . . gone.”
“Did you have to do the delivery every Sunday?”
Jillian waited for an elderly couple to shuffle past them before she answered. “Actually, I never did them.” She lowered her voice. “Randi said the good pastor insisted that she personally bring the flowers.”
Lynne swallowed a curse. Maybe Kir wasn’t so nuts to suspect both Nash and Pastor Bradshaw. “Why?”
Jillian shrugged. “He said he hoped to convince her to attend his church, but Randi assumed he had a thing for her. Of course, she thought every guy had a thing for her.” She halted, her eyes widening with distress. “Oh. That was a terrible thing to say.”
“None of us are saints, Jillian,” Lynne assured her, a genuine sincerity in her voice. She worked intimately with families in the community. None of them were as perfect as they wanted people to believe. “And it was no secret that Randi could be vain.”
“I guess,” Jillian conceded.
“Do you think Pastor Bradshaw wanted more than flowers from Randi?”
“He’s a guy even if he is a man of the cloth. And Randi knew how to turn on the charm when she wanted something.” There was an edge in her voice that suggested Jillian might have been jealous of Randi’s popularity. “That’s why she was such a good businesswoman.”
“Do you think they ever . . .”
Jillian shook her head in a sharp denial. “No way. Randi used to make fun of him all the time. She called him a dweeb.” The church doors closed with a loud snap, obviously indicating the service was starting. Jillian shook off Lynne’s hand. “Look, I really gotta go. My kids are home alone.”
“Be careful,” Lynne urged, watching as the woman climbed in her van.
She hated the sensation that the killer was a lurker in the shadows, stalking unsuspecting women. Like a guillotine hovering over the town of Pike, just waiting for the opportunity to execute the unwary.
Chapter 13
Madeline Randall woke, swallowing a scream as she realized she was still in the dark basement.
Or maybe it was hell, she grimly acknowledged.
When her mother had warned that she was going to end up in the fiery pits if she didn’t obey her commands, she’d imagined it would be filled with horned devils and putrid lava. Instead it was frigid darkness interrupted by brutal bouts of violence. She never knew when they were going to happen. She would drift off and awaken to a painful assault. For terrifying minutes she would huddle in a tight ball as the attack exploded through her.
It was never the same.
Sometimes there would be vicious kicks to her back. Other times her hair would be yanked out in bloody chunks. She’d been smacked by something that felt like a tire iron. And burned with a cigarette.
Every inch of her body had been tortured in one way or another. Her muscles ached, she had at least one broken rib, and she suspected