"Annie Abbott," I said.
The name seemed to take him by surprise but before he could answer there was a racket in the outer room. I turned my head but he simply gave a wave of his hand. "The doors just opened for dinner," he said over a babble of voice and the clink of metal on metal. "Annie Abbott," he continued. "I haven't heard that name in fifteen years. Of course I knew who Annie was. I was accused of abducting her."
"Did you?" I asked.
"No, though I admit with head bowed, I lusted after her in my mind enough times."
"You actually knew her personally?" I'd assumed any connection between the two was incidental.
"Annie was a beautiful young girl who lived in our Santa Barbara neighborhood. I knew her all my life. When she went missing, I was suspected because of other horrible things I'd done to others. The police were desperate to find her. She was missing for several weeks and they did everything possible to get me to say I took her though I was innocent." He looked up at me. "Yes, I've sinned as I'm sure you know but I never ever harmed any young lady the way poor Annie was mutilated."
"They stopped looking for Annie's abductor when you were jailed for another crime. They must have been more than just suspicious of you."
The reverend took a deep breath. "I was convenient. I lived close by Annie and I didn't have an alibi. I was the logical choice and frankly they were lazy. I wasn't the only one in that area doing what I did at the time. They should have kept looking."
"Did you know the rest of Annie's family?" I asked. This opened up an interesting gateway to Howie's past.
"Is that your connection?" I nodded and he continued. "My place was on the street behind theirs, one house over so the corners of our lots touched. I could look in their windows, and God forgive me, I did. I don't remember much about the parents except they didn't like me. The father had some health problem, if I remember. The mother, Rosie, she was the one that set the cops on me. She went out of her mind crazy when Annie disappeared."
"Do you remember the older brother?"
"Yes. I'd forgotten about him. Harold, or Hugh . . ."
"Howard," I corrected.
"That's right; Howard. He was a nasty son-of-a-bitch. Is he still around?" I was shocked. It was the last description of Howie Abbott I expected to hear.
"Yes, he's . . . about to be married," I said, at a loss to otherwise describe Howie Abbott. "What makes you so negative about him?"