The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2021

by The Mysterious Bookshop Presents the Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2021

  BLEST BE THE TIE THAT BINDS

  Michael Bracken

  Heather and Robert Connelly held their wedding reception on the expanse of lawn between the Union Revival Baptist Church and the two-story parsonage at the far end of the block. Because Robert could not conduct his own wedding ceremony, his best friend from seminary flew in from Pasadena to do the honors, and the entire congregation turned out to see their spiritual leader betrothed, filling the celebration center beyond official capacity. The lawn was awash with parishioners sporting their Sunday best when the bride and groom finally exited the church following the obligatory post-ceremony photographs, and they applauded when the heavy wooden doors opened, and the newly married couple descended the broad stone steps to join them.

  The groom wore a fitted black suit over a white shirt and royal blue tie. Though purchased specifically for the wedding, their finances were such that the suit would soon be seeing duty at the many funerals over which Robert would preside as the pastor of a church with an aging congregation. His new wife was resplendent in a white, floor-length, fitted cap-sleeve gown covered in lace, a dress that would likely never be seen again once it returned from the dry cleaners. Her ash blond hair was swept up into a chignon and held in place with her grandmother’s pearl-encrusted comb.

  There had been no need to hire a caterer, for the Women’s Auxiliary had smothered a long row of folding tables with food prepared in the church’s kitchen or brought from their homes. Only the wedding cake, which was nowhere near large enough to serve all the guests, had been professionally prepared, and a variety of home-baked cakes covered the table next to it.

  The gift table was equally burdened to overflowing, with several wrapped boxes relegated to the lawn beneath the table, and the gaily wrapped shoebox with the slit in the top proved too small for the number of cards that guests tried to stuff into it.

  Heather and Robert were first through the buffet line, and they took their places at the head table, unable to eat as parishioner after parishioner stopped to express best wishes. Once everyone had been served, the best man lifted a glass of sparkling grape juice and toasted the newlyweds, wishing them a long and fruitful life. Later, they cut the wedding cake and posed for the photographer. Then, together and separately, they tried to talk to every one of their guests. When his throat became parched, Robert refilled his glass of sparkling grape juice and was taking a sip when someone behind him spoke softly into his ear.

  “You have such a beautiful bride,” said the deep male voice. “It would be a shame if anything ever happened to her.”

  Robert stiffened and turned, too late to see the face of the man who had just spoken. He only saw the back of a dark-haired man in a blue suit walking toward the church parking lot. As Robert started after the man, the church treasurer stopped him. Before Harvey Johnson could speak, Robert asked, “Who was that—the man who was just talking to me?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  By then the dark-haired man in the blue suit had disappeared, Harvey was congratulating him on his marriage, and Heather was on his other side telling him it was time to start their honeymoon. As everyone showered them with birdseed, Heather and Robert ducked into the back of a waiting limousine for the ride to her parents’ home, where they changed into comfortable clothing and then drove to a bed and breakfast several hours from home.

  They would spend their wedding night in one of six private cabins and, for the first time since accepting the pastorship a year earlier following the unexpected death of his predecessor, Robert would not arise early the next morning to deliver Sunday service. His friend from seminary would perform those honors.

  Though Robert had remained celibate since his first day at seminary, he lost his virginity at Bible camp when he was sixteen. So he knew what to expect on his wedding night, but he did not truly appreciate his new wife’s beauty until Heather walked out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a sheer white negligee and a shy smile. Though the stranger’s comments at the reception weighed heavily on his mind during the drive to their honeymoon cabin, those thoughts, and every other thought, disappeared from Robert’s mind as he took Heather into his arms and they consummated their marriage.

  The following morning, after a breakfast of French toast and fresh fruit delivered to their cabin, they ventured a walk through the woods surrounding the cabins, following a marked trail that meandered downhill, across a creek twice, and then circled back uphill toward the trail’s starting point.

  Robert realized the previous evening that his new wife had never succumbed to temptations of the flesh and had given herself wholly to him and no one prior. He pondered as they walked whether or not his failure to mention his past indiscretions constituted a sin of omission. His teen years had been filled with activities that went against the teachings of both his church and his parents, and the sealed court records allowed Robert and his best friend Kenny Gilbert to legally deny they were ever involved in the juvenile justice system. He had forsaken his violent past when he entered seminary, and his reward had been his own church, a beautiful bride, and a bright future serving the needs of his parishioners.

  His reverie was interrupted by a large dog of indeterminate breed that charged barking and snarling through the woods from a neighboring property.

  Frightened, Heather clung to Robert’s arm.

  Without thinking, he turned and pointed at the dog.

  “Go home!” he commanded, in a voice best suited to casting out the Devil.

  The dog stopped less than ten feet from them. Robert shook off Heather and strode purposefully toward the animal, still shouting. “Be gone!”

  The dog turned and ran away through the woods.

  When Robert returned to Heather’s side, his new wife wrapped her arms around him and held him tight. Then she stretched up on her tiptoes, kissed him, and whispered, “My protector.”

  The honeymoon was brief, and they returned home Monday morning. The wedding gifts were in the parsonage awaiting their return, and that afternoon they sat in the living room and opened them. Heather made careful notes about which gift came from which parishioner so that she could write personalized thank you notes to each of them. Having registered at a local department store, they found themselves with eight complete place settings of their chosen china, eight complete sets of flatware, numerous kitchen gadgets, and a variety of things they neither needed nor desired.

  When they began opening the cards, making notes about the tens and twenties that fell out, Heather suddenly stopped and looked up at her husband.

  “Bobby,” she said, an expression of surprise mixed with concern on her face. She fanned out ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. “There’s a thousand dollars in this one.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “The card isn’t signed,” she said. “Who would have that kind of money?”

  “In our congregation?” he asked. “No one I can think of.”

  “This is enough to repair my car,” Heather said. She had drained her savings account to purchase her wedding dress, and student loan payments had prevented Robert from even opening a savings account.

  They set the money and the card aside, intending to learn the identity of their anonymous benefactor so they could express proper thanks. They never did, though, and two weeks later Heather retrieved her car from the repair shop and drove it to the post office to mail thank you cards for all but one of their wedding gifts.

  Robert was in the church office one Wednesday, several weeks after his wedding, and he was drafting that Sunday’s sermon when his private line rang. The church’s telephone system was so old it didn’t have Caller ID, and though the church secretary was supposed to screen incoming calls, too many people knew his private telephone number because the pastor’s number had not changed since the system was installed. Each time Robert answered his private line he had an equal chance of finding himself speaking to a parishioner or a telephone solicitor. So, he took a deep breath and picked up th
e phone. “Pastor Bob.”

  A vaguely familiar voice said, “You’re going to see an increase in tithing this Sunday.”

  “Thank you,” Robert said, still unsure to whom he was speaking.

  “Be mindful how you spend the money.”

  “Excuse me?”

  But the caller said nothing more, and not until after the conversation ended did Robert realize where he previously heard the caller’s voice. After all, he’d only heard it once before as a whisper in his ear.

  Union Revival Baptist Church did not pass collection plates during Sunday service, instead relying on parishioners to slip their tithes into a pair of collection boxes mounted to the wall in the vestibule. Just as the caller predicted, the offering boxes were almost a thousand dollars heavier than usual that Sunday, and Robert sat in his office pondering what that might mean. Tithing was up again the following Sunday, and again the Sunday after that.

  The church trustees were surprised at the unexpected surge in tithing and began to discuss how they might best spend the windfall. Robert suggested they not make hasty decisions, but during the following weeks, as the surge in tithing continued, the leaking roof was repaired, the parking lot resurfaced, and the parsonage’s aging refrigerator replaced, much to Heather’s delight. After taking care of the church’s few needs, the trustees increased the congregation’s donations to the interfaith food bank aiding the poor and homeless.

  Union Revival Baptist Church owned an entire city block. The church building occupied one end and the two-story parsonage, built of the same stone as the church, occupied the other. From his office window, Robert could see the parsonage, and he often found himself staring at it. What had once been a cold and lonely place foisted off on him by trustees unable to provide a housing allowance had been turned into a warm and welcoming home. After the previous pastor was killed in a hit-and-run accident, the parsonage had become his residence, replacing the one-bedroom garage apartment provided as part of his compensation package. Pastor John had done nothing to make the place welcoming during his decades-long tenure, and neither had Robert upon taking residence. Heather had overseen the transformation.

  That’s why Robert enjoyed walking home for lunch each day, even on days when heavy rain might have given him pause if he still lived alone. The walk to the parsonage cleared his mind of church business, and Heather often had lunch prepared, even if only a peanut butter and jelly sandwich accompanied by a cold glass of milk. They sat at the kitchen table sharing idle conversation, the subject matter less important than the company.

  When Robert stepped through the door midday one Thursday, already salivating for the leftover meatloaf and mashed potatoes his wife promised him that morning, he was not prepared to find the curtains closed and the parsonage dark as the Middle Ages.

  “Heather?” he called. “I’m home.”

  His wife rushed from the kitchen and into his arms.

  Surprised, he asked, “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s been a car parked across the street all morning.”

  Robert stepped to the living room window and looked out. “I don’t see one now.”

  “The car drove away just before you came home,” she said. “I saw it yesterday morning, too, but I didn’t think anything about it until I saw it again today. I think someone is watching the house.”

  “But why?”

  She had no idea.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I was afraid I was imagining things,” she said, “and I—I didn’t want to bother you.”

  Robert kissed his wife’s forehead. “You’re never a bother.”

  He held her for a bit longer, waiting until he was certain she had calmed down, and then he asked, “How’s that meatloaf?”

  That afternoon and all day Friday, Robert repeatedly checked the streets surrounding the church property and not once did he see any unexpected vehicles parked near the parsonage. He was not nearly as attentive that weekend. Saturday he was busy with church business, and Sunday he led both the morning and the evening services, for they had yet to find an assistant pastor to fill the position he vacated upon his promotion. Robert had not minded the workload when he was single, for idle minds and idle hands were the Devil’s playthings, but as a married man he had many more responsibilities. Those included attending to his spouse’s physical and emotional needs.

  At lunch Monday, after walking the long way around the block to get home, Robert asked Heather about the mysterious vehicle she had seen the previous week.

  “I haven’t seen it,” she said. “I must have been mistaken.”

  But he knew she wasn’t when he took a phone call in his office that afternoon. Though he had not heard it often, Robert recognized the voice in his ear.

  “You’ve been pastor for almost a year and a half now, haven’t you?”

  Robert admitted that he had.

  “You ever wonder how you got the job?”

  He thought about the years spent in college and seminary, the grueling interviews he’d been put through when seeking his first position, and all the hard work he’d done as Union Revival Baptist Church’s assistant pastor in the belief that God helps those who help themselves. When the church’s beloved pastor was killed in a hit-and-run accident following a visit to one of the homebound parishioners, Robert had been fully prepared to ascend to the vacant position. The trustees and the congregation had agreed. Before he could form a response, though, he learned the answer.

  “Pastor John had the courage of his convictions,” said the voice. “He wouldn’t work with us and we needed someone who would.”

  “You’ve been watching my wife.”

  “She’s such a beautiful woman,” said the voice. “It would be a shame if anything happened to her.”

  “You think you can use her to—”

  “I know we can, pastor,” said the voice. “Heather went shopping this afternoon. Perhaps you should check on her.”

  Before Robert could reply, the line went dead.

  He immediately dialed his wife’s cell phone number. He let it ring until Heather’s voice mail answered. Then he hung up and tried again with the same result.

  The moment he depressed the switch hook, his phone rang. He answered, his voice more irritated than welcoming. “Pastor Bob!”

  “Is this Robert Connelly?”

  “Who is this?” Robert demanded as he rose from his chair and stared out the window toward the parsonage.

  The caller identified himself as a police detective and then said, “Your wife’s been involved in an incident.”

  “An incident?” Robert demanded. “What does that mean?”

  “You’d best come to the hospital.”

  Robert vacated his office without closing the open files on his computer, didn’t bother turning out the lights or locking his office door, and was halfway down the front steps before calling over his shoulder to the church secretary who was trying to catch up to him. “Heather’s been in an accident.”

  Only she hadn’t.

  The black eye, the bloody lip, and the bruises on her arm were the result of a mugging in the parking lot of a big box store where she had gone to purchase laundry detergent and frozen pizza.

  By the time Robert found his wife in the emergency room, Heather had already described her assailants to the detectives, and had promised to visit the police station the next day to sign a statement and leaf through a selection of mug shots.

  “He took my purse,” Heather explained to her husband. “That wasn’t enough for him, though. He had to do this, too.” The mugger had temporarily stolen her beauty with several well-placed punches that were not life-threatening.

  Once they were in Robert’s car, she had more to say. “He knew who I was. I told the police I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t. I don’t. But he sure knew who I was, and he said he was sending you a message. What kind of message was he sending you, Bobby?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, shading the tru
th just a little, uncertain if he was protecting his wife or protecting himself as they completed the trip home in silence.

  Robert parked behind the parsonage and followed Heather through the back door into the kitchen.

  She screamed.

  He pushed past her, ready to do battle with whatever had frightened Heather, but saw only her purse in the middle of the kitchen table.

  He turned to her. “I thought you said—”

  “I did.” She collapsed into his arms. “Why is it here? How did they get in?”

  “Your keys were in your purse,” he said, a simple explanation for the question easiest to answer.

  When Heather calmed down, she upended her purse on the table and examined everything—her keys, her cell phone, her wallet, breath mints, pocket Bible, and an assortment of the detritus that accumulates in a purse not emptied regularly.

  “Is anything missing?”

  Heather shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Then she insisted they change the locks, even though the keys to the parsonage were still on her key ring with all her other keys.

  “They could have made duplicates.”

  Robert called a locksmith, a parishioner who promised to do the job that afternoon without charge once he learned why Robert desired the change.

  Heather was the center of attention at Wednesday evening’s church service. She’d done her best to mask her bruises, blackened eye, and split lip, but the locksmith told his wife, she told everyone in the Women’s Auxiliary, and from there the entire congregation heard about the mugging. Neither Robert nor his wife mentioned that the muggers had returned Heather’s purse, letting everyone believe the reason for changing the locks was fear of some future home invasion.