The Oldest Sin Read Online Free PDF Page B

get it, even adoration. If they had an Achilles’ heel, that was it.
     
    “Speak up,” said Isaac testily. “And slow down. I can’t understand you.” He stuck a finger in his other ear and lowered his head.
     
    Popping a pretzel into her mouth, Adelle wondered who was on the line.
     
    “No, I don’t. And this isn’t a very good time for —” He paused, listening. After almost a minute he said, “I see. Yes, I suppose you’re right.” As he turned around, Adelle noticed a slight loss of focus in his eyes. “Yes … I, ah, won’t forget.”
     
    Everyone was now watching him.
     
    “No, that won’t be necessary. You’ve made yourself perfectly clear.” Nervousness rose off of him in waves. “We’ll have to continue this conversation later. Yes … thank you. Goodbye.” He replaced the receiver in its cradle.
     
    “Problems?” asked Hugh curiously.
     
    “Nothing I can’t handle,” said Isaac. “Just a little local church matter. Nothing to worry about.”
     
    “Good.” Hugh smiled.
     
    Isaac reached for the handkerchief in his pants pocket and wiped the sweat off his face. “Well, I guess I’ll get going. I suppose I’ll see you both tomorrow. Everything’s all set for the beginning of the festival on Saturday.”
     
    “Thanks,” said Hugh, nodding cordially.
     
    “Night,” called Isaac as he got to the door.
     
    “Good night,” repeated Howell Purdis from the couch. “Oh, and one more thing. I want that limousine kept at my disposal for the entire weekend.” His attention was so caught by the jewelry being advertised on the shopping channel that Isaac’s rather sudden departure had barely registered. Still, he had enough brainpower left to issue an order.
     
    “I’ll see to it,” said Isaac. He gave Adelle a last, uncertain look, and then left in such a hurry, he forgot to shut the door.
     

4
    Lavinia Fiore struck a dramatic pose in front of the mirror in her hotel suite, critically appraising the evening dress she was planning to wear to the opening ceremonies of the Daughters of Sisyphus Society’s annual Upper Midwest convention tomorrow night. Her mahogany hair was piled carelessly on top of her head as she gazed admiringly at the lush image she would present. As founding mother of the organization, and author of the best-selling
D.O.S.S. Cookbook
, she was expected to give the keynote address. Lavinia wasn’t the least bit concerned about the speech. She was a good public speaker. Some might even call her inspirational. Yet tonight she felt jumpy, a ball of unfocused energy.
     
    Normally, when she felt agitated, she would try on every piece of clothing in her closet just to get her mind off her problems. Eyeing the graceful lines of the hand-dyed silk gown, she did feel better. She smiled at her stylish image, knowing the dress she was wearing was one of her own creations.
     
    After graduating from Purdis Bible College back in the early Seventies, Lavinia spent a short time as a secretary in the registrar’s office. Every morning she would attempt to squeeze her square-peg mind and body into a very uncomfortable round hole. And every night, she came home to her tiny apartment, bruised and depressed. Finally, after a particularly nasty run-in with the assistant registrar, a man whose hair always struck her as so bizarre that the only way she could figure he achieved the look was by sleeping with a funnel on his head, she switched off her typewriter, threw the report she was working on in the trash, grabbed the jelly doughnut she was hiding in her bottom desk drawer, and stomped out. Forever. In a matter of days she was packed and on her way back home. Lavinia was a New York woman, born and bred. California, with all its crazy inhabitants, might have seduced her temporarily, but they could never keep her permanentiy. Still, it was a big step. She’d not only left her job behind, but for all practical purposes, her faith as well.
     
    After knocking around