Prologue

July 4, 2004, 9:00 a.m. – Marigold, Maryland – on the Eastern Shore.

Sheba Davis sat in the back seat of her twin Ernie’s snazzy black Porsche, just behind Martina Solomon, who was a good friend to both of them. Martina’s daughter, Kaya, sat behind Ernie and from time to time looked at Sheba and smiled. Kaya was nine and often commented on Sheba’s burgeoning belly. Five months pregnant, Sheba often touched her body where her baby had begun to move. Now she thought sorrowfully that her late husband, Scott, would have loved watching his child grow, touching his wife ardently the way he did. They were so in love. She felt the start of acid tears behind her eyelids.

Kaya moved closer to Sheba as Ernie and Martina chatted merrily, laughing the way they often did when they got together. Were they closer now than she was used to seeing them? Sheba wondered. Since Scott’s suicide she had been living in another world; in hell, really. So much of life was passing her by, and felt like she had just enough energy to grow and bring Scott’s baby into the world. And what then? She had always felt herself to be a survivor. These days, she no longer knew.

Kaya was saying, You know, Sheba, I wish Scott were here. She sounded like an old soul. He would’ve made a great dad, don’t you think?

Sheba couldn’t help smiling a little. I’m sure he would have, honey.

And from a sonogram, you know the baby will be a girl. That’s wonderful.

Sheba touched the child’s light brown hair and looked into the dark blue eyes. Her own eyes were a sparkling brown and her skin the color of dark honey. Kaya and her parents were white and Sheba was African American, but she didn’t wonder at the fact that she felt almost as close to them as to her own family. Her grandfather and Kaya’s grandfather had always been close, and often hunted and fished together. Life was strange. Now Sheba sometimes felt she hated anyone who was still alive when Scott was dead.

Kaya touched her. I’m gonna help you mother the baby, she said gently.

That’s sweet of you. I’d like that very much.

A happy smile spread across Kaya’s face and she wriggled her slender shoulders.

It was then that Sheba felt her vision quickly pulled into several directions. First she was aware that Martina sat closer to Ernie, that they were laughing hysterically at something and Martina swayed even closer to him. Then she was riveted to the orange-red pickup truck that was headed into Ernie’s side of the car. What made her look dead into the eyes of a monster the whole town knew? Punch Motherwell. The hatred mirrored on his face terrified her and she opened her mouth to scream, but the heavy pickup truck ploughed ruthlessly into the Porsche. She heard Martina scream and Sheba moved to protect Kaya, but the savage onslaught was too much and she couldn’t breathe as blackness enveloped her.

Within minutes, sirens were screaming and people who had come to town for the July Freedom Festival were running to the scene of the accident. Two policemen who had been passing in their squad car came quickly; one radioed for help and the other assessed the scene. Fortunately, the gas tank didn’t seem damaged. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a tall, blonde man run away and a red light immediately flashed through his brain. The officer was an African American guy and Punch Motherwell was known as a sly, mean and well-connected bigot. That was his orange-red pickup. What the hell? Well, there wasn’t time to think about that now; the ambulance was there and so was his lieutenant, who quickly took over.

Looks bad, the lieutenant said. Already the passengers were laid out on the grassy lawn of the nearby Motherwell Community Center. Looks real bad.

The ambulance crew was checking methodically. Four bodies or four patients? Likely a mix, one cop thought. And he thought, too, that this was the worst accident they’d had in years. The black cop moved closer, hearing an attendant say that the driver and the kid were dead and that one of the women was dead. The other woman was still breathing.

The black cop ran then to the culvert, where he’d seen Punch Motherwell go; the big guy was there, seated and leaning against the culvert, looking as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

That’s your truck. It was accusation and statement.

Yeah. Who’s alive and who’s dead?

You keeping tabs, buddy?

Maybe. You didn’t answer me.

The cop’s next question came from someplace deep inside him, but he wasn’t quite sure where. Was it an accident? Or did you do it on purpose?

Wouldn’t you like to know?

I’m taking you in. The black cop’s fists itched to flatten this monster because he felt so deeply that it was a hate crime. He'd seen the victims around and he recognized them. Good-looking black man. Pretty white woman. Marigold was a fairly liberal place, but Punch Motherwell lived there and plenty more like him. The cop steeled himself. Suppose this bastard chose to resist? The cop was fit, but the other guy was bigger.

Sure, Punch said, almost meekly. He stood a few inches above the cop and turned for the cop to handcuff him without being told.

The cop ached to do something he had no business doing. Punch was a town character just crazy enough to kill and get away with it, but sane enough to stay outside of mental hospital walls. The cop shook his head. He longed to go back to a time when arresting officers roughed up criminals and nobody dared complain about it.

Chapter 1

Crazy Jackass! Sheba Solomon muttered, half under her breath. She had just stared again into the malevolent eyes of Punch Motherwell and her stomach was tying itself into knots. Had it been three years ago?

What did you say, honey? her husband, Marty Solomon, asked before he belatedly got her comment. I’m afraid I was thinking the same thing. I guess it’s not very Christian of either one of us.

For a moment they both fell silent as he drove their black Lexus along Marigold’s Main Street and neared the Church of the Holy Redeemer, where Marty was senior pastor.

It was July 1, 2007, l0 a.m. Slow heat was already building, heralding a lazy, laidback summer, like most Eastern Shore, Maryland summers.

Sheba always thought that she had passed up possible fame and fortune to stay in Marigold, and she knew very well that it was also a desire to stay near Papa Joe. It was such a quiet, peaceful place with well-tended farms, including a Christmas tree farm. At one end of the town, Marty’s father, Rob Solomon, headed Solomon’s Gold, a thriving cosmetics manufacturing firm that employed hundreds. The Chesapeake Bay was a mile and a half east of town.

At the other end there was the Motherwell Community Center, once the old Motherwell Stellar Care Hospital; it was a lofty name for a place that treated the mentally ill. The community center was the hub of Marigold’s social activities. The town of 20,000 served as a bedroom community for those working in Baltimore. There hadn’t been a murder in twenty years, well, if you didn’t count what Punch Motherwell had done three years ago.

The police chief often said he felt like backing up for his pay, but there were domestic fights and quite a few of the townspeople drank more than they should and had to be carried home from the town’s ten thriving bars.

About the biggest thing in Marigold was the July Freedom Festival that drew many people from all over the U.S. and Canada. Folks always said it was something else. The marigolds were in full bloom then. Quite ordinary in gold or red or yellow, Mother Nature was really strutting her stuff when she got to the combination of red and gold; they were superb. But even those gorgeous blooms had a pungent smell that was useful as an insecticide only.

Folks planted marigolds away from their houses, along a garden row. But the flowers were hardy and the redgolds were beautiful. If you weren’t too persnickety, the smell wasn’t all that bad, some thought.

In the 1920's, the late old Mrs. Eunice Motherwell, who made a society out of the townsfolk she liked, planted marigolds around the town and named the town after them. It took because her husband, Dr. Wyman Motherwell, was a highly respected and beloved alienist who headed the hospital that treated patients from all over the country. Alienists were what they called psychiatrists back then.

Sheba sighed. Marigold was clean and pleasant and she had lived there with two husbands. She didn’t require a particular world to make her happy. She realized now that she focused on the town to get away from her driving anger at Punch Motherwell. He made her feel so damned helpless.

God knows I’ve tried to forgive him, she said slowly, but I can’t help wondering how much is his schizophrenia and how much is just pure evil. Or don’t we believe in evil anymore?

We’re the crazy ones if we don’t, he said. Lack of forgiveness for many things had tormented Marty for much of his life. At 34, he had come further and faster than he had dreamed he could, as leader of a nondenominational church that was 7,000-strong and rapidly expanding.

At times I feel like an idiot because I have sympathy for him, she said. I’m a twin, so I know how a twin’s death can hurt, and he’s a twin who’s lost his other half. She shook her head as they drove down the ramp and pulled into his space in the sub-basement parking level.

Marty glanced at his wife and his big hand reached out and gripped her knee, half caressing it, then squeezing. We can only try.

He helped her out and they both rode up in an elevator, then walked out back to look at the beautiful edifice that was built at the foot of a steep hill. Church of the Holy Redeemer. Of fieldstones and glass, sprawling, with twenty acres of beautifully landscaped grounds, Marty was as proud of his church as he would be of anything in his life. Not everyone had approved of the structure, but enough of them had gone along with his vision. He had pastored here for ten years now.

He glanced at Sheba in profile and smiled because they attracted attention wherever they went. She was a tall, darkest honey-skinned woman with lush, natural, curly-kinky hair that was as coal-black as Marty’s own. His skin was ruddy, the way his late mother, Vangie’s, had been. At six-feet-three, he was broad-shouldered, slim-hipped and fit. He thought her softly and wonderfully voluptuous, like Vangie.

His wife’s odd beauty and lush curves always surprised him and in the years he had known her, he had not gotten used to it. He had known and admired Sheba all his life, but she was seven years older and so had been ahead of him as they were growing up. Her profile was sharp, yet tender, and her shoulders were narrow, her breasts high and firm; but it was her wide hips and the curve of her legs that physically drew him so. In some lights she was almost plain; at another angle, breathtakingly beautiful.

At five feet, seven and a half inches, Sheba weighed one hundred ninety pounds, one of that legion of black women deemed overweight and criticized endlessly for it. People forgot to add that so many of them were beautiful. And yes, healthy. Was it concern for their health, or for the fact that they dared to be different? Never mind, he'd take it, he often thought, smiling to himself. His mother, Vangie, had been lush and curvy, and so had his first wife, Martina.

Hand in hand, they entered the church and walked into his big corner office suite. As Minister of Music, her office was just down the hall.

Hi, Boss, you’re early, his middle-aged, silver-haired assistant, Della Hernandez greeted him. She kissed Sheba on the cheek. My, that white eyelet blouse is just what you need for today’s heat.

Sheba admired Della's blue voile frock that her slender body filled admirably.

In Marty’s inner sanctum, he sat down and held out his arms. How about landing on my lap? He grinned. It feels empty.

And have someone come in on us?

You could lock the door. His glance at her was purposefully wicked.

Sheba laughed. You know, Solomon, any time you get tired of solely being a man of God, you could make a fine devil.

Marty threw back his head, laughing. He loved Sheba’s sharp sense of humor. Yeah. And you know I wouldn’t be letting you up anytime soon.

She came around to the back of his chair and kissed the top of his head. At that moment she was glad they had always known each other; they were comfortable with each other.

He glanced up at her, suddenly serious. Would you have married me if I hadn’t told you I may have black blood?

Startled, she thought a moment. They discussed this from time to time, but had he ever asked this question directly? Probably not. You know how my twin felt about interracial marriages, indeed, interracial dating.

He was your fraternal twin, not a Siamese twin.

She wondered why he looked uncomfortable. True. I’ve always had a mind of my own. We came together from such deep pain, Marty. We could and we do comfort each other….

And it’s worked. I’m happy. Are you?

She smiled and shrugged. What is happy, love? Surely sometimes I am. I’m so much older than you are. Happiness may not be the same for us at our different ages.

Don’t quibble. I know I’m happy. Age is more than a number, but you’re ageless and I’m glad I’ve got you.

She nodded as she bent and kissed his cheek. He reached up to pull her down to him, but she sidestepped him. I’ll see you later when there’s more time.

She started out and stopped by a long table where there stood a sculpture of a black horse running at full speed. Black Diamond. Something about the stance started her heart drumming whenever she looked at it. B.D. Beedee. The horse Papa Joe had given her as a girl. Her late horse. Marty saw the look, got up and came to her, hugging her tightly until she relaxed in his arms. Beedee had been sculpted by her late husband, noted sculptor Scott Davis. It was a dream in motion and Scott had been offered thousands for it, but had given it to her.

The buzzer sounded as Della announced that Rob and Pete Solomon, Marty’s father and brother, were there. Should she send them in? He said yes and braced himself. He always enjoyed seeing his father; his brother was something else.

Silver-haired Rob Solomon came to Sheba first and kissed her cheek. You’re looking cool and lovely.

She thanked him and said, Love those cargo pants, Rob, as his eyes crinkled with pleasure.

Pete stood by, looking on. Bright blonde and often arrogant, he nodded to them both. I’m riding with Dad today, so I have to go where he goes. But you’ll be happy to know I’m coming to hear that sermon you’re advertising for next Sunday. It’s Anne Marie’s call. She’s the religious one. I sure as hell am not, as you know.

You’re always welcome, bro, Marty told him. He loved his brother and it had always hurt some that Pete didn’t love him and let him know it.

Rob cleared his throat, nervously passed a hand over his silver hair. I wanted to tell you that I need to talk with you and Pete in my office Tuesday morning, a week from this Tuesday. I’m thinking strongly now about retiring and there are many things we need to discuss.

Pete caught his breath, frowning. Dad, you didn’t tell me that.

Thought I’d tell you both at the same time. Listen, Marty, we’ve got to be off and running, so I’ll see you here Sunday. And I'll especially see you the next Sunday. I’ve heard about that sermon too. It’s creating quite a buzz and I know you’ll live up to it. I kind of like the open way people like you lead us to really look at what goes on inside us.

Pete grunted. My take on it is this community probably ain’t ready to hear this message, but I’ll be all ears. One day you’ll go too far, Marty, and the picnic will be over.

Marty felt a prickle of anger along the back of his neck. We’ve got things going on in every part of this country, and the world, that ought not to be happening. Pedophilia, child prostitution, abuse of every kind. I couldn’t be a preacher and not tackle it head on. I’m starting with the gentle side of our sexual complex and where it ought to be…

Whoa! Pete was always pleased when he hit a nerve. I’m with you. I just don’t think a lot of others will be.

I congratulate you, Rob said quietly. More and more you’re sounding like your Uncle Charlie, the firebrand. You go in there and preach it like it ought to be.

Pete grinned. Reminds me of what Punch said the other day. He mimicked Punch Motherwell’s high pitched drawl. Ol' Marty clings to God ‘cause he’s scared as hell the devil will take him over if he doesn’t.

Marty felt his throat constrict with that bit of truth,

Rob raised his eyebrows. I guess we all could do with a bit of clinging, son.

The two men left and Sheba lingered. Standing, Marty picked up the rough draft of his sermon for this Sunday and thumbed through it. He had discussed it with Sheba, as he always did, and she had loved the idea from the first; she had even helped with the research. He and Sheba loved the King James version of the Bible and had studied it all their lives.

Something tells me next Sunday's sermon is going to be one of your best, but it’s also going to cause a bit of trouble, maybe.

Marty frowned and looked thoughtful. God gave us our sexual complex, he said quietly, and I happen to think it’s one of the greatest gifts he put in our hands and hearts. We’re the ones who’ve screwed it up. And yes, I’m not too pleased with the attitudes of some of our saints either, at least not the way it’s come down to us.

For just a moment, Marty closed his eyes as memories of their lovemaking in the moonlight the night before on the side porch flooded his system. He wanted others to know what Sheba and he knew: a sexuality and a sensuality so deep it was mystical and totally life affirming. She came to him and he held her, gently, then tighter.

She laughed, filling his ears with the musical voice that the people of Marigold loved so much. Tell it like it is, Reverend, she crooned in his ear, I’m gonna be so entranced I may even forget to sing.

"Don’t,