Lena Jones 02 - Desert Wives

girl down
there
ain’t right, even if you are the prophet. Sin is sin. Now, I know Brother Howard doesn’t like Sister Lena much, but I thought he’d still do something about the little girl. Him saying Lena needed therapy, well, that was just pure nastiness. None of the men around here wouldn’t ever let their females get that kind of help. They’d be too scared of what might come out.”
    Whoever said still waters run deep had undoubtedly met Sister Ruby.
    I sat down heavily. “I’ll be damned. Not only do you believe me, you actually care.”
    She looked at me with no more affection than before. “I think you’re a terrible, pushy woman, Sister Lena, and you don’t know your place. But you don’t lie about anything important.”
    That night I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering what to do next. My cover was well and truly blown and I still didn’t know who’d killed Prophet Solomon. Sheriff Benson, whose ties to Purity proved stronger than his ties to the law, had told Davis who I was and what I was doing in Purity. Not that it made any difference anymore. Before Benson had left, he’d said his deputy had called from Scottsdale, promising to return Esther in handcuffs the next day. As a parting shot, Benson told me her murder trial would probably begin before the first snowfall.
    Rebecca was beyond help.
    Just before dawn, I finally fell asleep.
    A harsh light filled the bus, tinting my mother’s face almost as yellow as her hair. The gun she pointed at my head looked to my four-year-old eyes the size of a cannon.
    “I’ll kill her!”
she cried.
“I’ll kill her now!”
    “No, Mommy!”
I screamed, just as her foot nudged me in the stomach. Then I heard the rattle of the bus’s door opening. But why? We hadn’t slowed down.
    “See! I’m killing her! Right now!”
    Someone grabbed my mother, moved the gun. There was a struggle.
    Then the gun went off. With a scream, my mother kicked me in the stomach, sending me flying toward the open door.
    Just before I lost consciousness on the street outside, I heard my mother scream again.
    “I failed, God forgive me, I failed!”
    I awoke screaming the same words.

Chapter 21
    “God forgive me, I failed.”
    As soon as the words tore from my throat I recognized them as lies. No. I hadn’t failed. Not yet. I still had one more day left in Purity, a day to find out who murdered Prophet Solomon. A day to return Rebecca to her mother.
    Yes, my mother had failed. Maybe she had even seen my eyes still open as I tumbled from the bus and into the loving arms of the Mexican woman who saved me.
    But I
wouldn’t
fail.
    This wasn’t my past. This was the here and now, and I had enough time to find a murderer. Yes, remaining here now would be more dangerous than ever, but so what? I’d faced down danger before and won, starting at the ripe old age of four.
    The problem was, almost everyone in Purity had a solid motive for murdering the Prophet. His wives didn’t love him, his children feared him, and he’d intimidated the Circle of Elders for years, living in splendor while they grubbed around in slums. I crawled out of bed and headed for the shower, thinking hard. While I fiddled with the taps, I tried each person’s motive on for size.
Cui bono?
Who benefited from Prophet Solomon’s death? Who had motive, means and opportunity?
    I showered in cold water, hoping the shock would help me think. As I scrubbed away my goose bumps, I revisited my belief that the new prophet of Purity remained the most likely murderer. With his father out of the way, Davis inherited the Purity Fellowship Foundation’s tax deductible millions. But if Solomon hadn’t died in the canyon that night, would the power shift have eventually changed? Earl Graff, leader of the Circle of Elders, desired the more tractable Meade to be named prophet. Possibly an aging Solomon, pressured by more threats of blackmail, might have finally caved in, designating Meade his spiritual heir whether the boy liked it or not.
    Earl Graff could murder without a qualm, of that I was certain. But how had he benefited from Prophet Solomon’s death? He was the chief proponent of the Meade-for-Prophet-Party, and the old man’s death had ended his dreams. Then again, someone had taken a shot at Davis recently, too. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Earl’s finger had pulled the trigger.
    Purity swarmed with murder suspects. In one of his Alzheimer’s fugues, Jacob Waldman could have