by Anna Gerard
Okay, so maybe it was kind of a cult.
My Mini took me right to my destination. The church and the funeral parlor each held down a prime bit of corner real estate on the same street, right across from each other. Both establishments had been converted from neat cottage homes and were painted identically, bright white with matching white shutters and trim. The only splash of color, mostly shades of pink, came from narrow strips of flower gardens edging the buildings’ foundations. Not that I knew my flowers—as I’ve said, I leave that up to Hendricks—but I still recognized chrysanthemums and asters and begonias, all garden favorites here in our part of Georgia.
Parking was in the former homes’ backyards, which had been paved over and striped and could each hold probably fifteen cars the size of mine. I eased into a spot behind the church one space over from the only car currently in the lot, a champagne-colored Cadillac that had to be at least twenty years old. Probably not the Reverend’s, I told myself. I pictured him driving something more like a late-model Mercedes, most likely black and almost certainly with a moon roof. Tucking my purse with the glass safely under my arm, I followed the sidewalk around to the front.
The Heavenly Host Baptist Church had a large wooden sign in the front yard ringed by a small garden of the same surprisingly frivolous blooms. Painted the same white as the building, the sign sported curlicued corners and fancy black lettering proclaiming the church’s name. Beneath that name was that of the Reverend. At the very bottom of the sign were the office hours (9 AM to 5 PM Mon–Fri) and service times (Sundays 8 AM and 11 AM, Wednesdays 7 PM).
But what really got one’s attention was the blood-red cross that appeared to be electric and was mounted smack in the middle of the sign like a rogue Christmas decoration. I suspected that it was turned on at night for the benefit of those having the sort of spiritual crises the Reverend had referred to in his voicemail announcement.
A green awning stretched halfway down the walkway, adding a welcome bit of shade as I made my way to a pair of wooden double doors. I stepped inside the single-story building and was immediately hit by a blast of arctic-level air conditioning.
One wall of what might have once been a living room had been removed so that the space combined with the original short hallway now served as a foyer. A few chairs lined the front and far-right walls, while coat pegs and an oversized bulletin board stuffed with notices took up most of the rear wall. The faded braided rug on the gleaming wooden floor muffled my footsteps as I stepped closer to read a couple of postings.
My curiosity only partially satisfied (what did a single women’s group that was part of Dr. Bishop’s church actually do? And what exactly was a Holy Moly Rummage Sale?), I checked out the rest of the area.
A closed door directly in front of me led to what I assumed was the worship area. I poked my head in and saw rows of what appeared to be vintage wooden theater seats, currently empty, filling the rear two-thirds of the converted open space. Beyond the seating was a low carpeted platform with an ornate wooden podium mounted front and center, where Dr. Bishop likely preached on Sundays and Wednesdays. A large wooden cross was mounted on the back wall directly behind the podium, serving as a stark backdrop. The place was silent now save for the hum of the AC, but I imagined that during services the very walls shook with enthusiasm.
I eased the door closed again. To my left, opposite the foyer area, was another closed door leading to what might have once been a front bedroom. A small white-painted sign on that door had curlicued corners and fancy writing identical to that of the church’s exterior sign. As this one proclaimed Office, I gave a quick knock and then opened the door.
Most of the room was filled with a very large wooden desk behind which sat a very tiny and very elderly African American woman wearing very red lipstick. Her yellow knit suit with its white pussy-bow blouse had probably been fashionable thirty years earlier, but the bright color gave the outfit a timeless appeal. Likely she was the owner of the vintage Caddy, though she appeared to be far too short to see over its steering wheel without the benefit of a pillow to sit on.
She looked up from a stack of papers and studied me over the top of narrow horn-rimmed glasses. “May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m Nina Fleet, here to see Dr. Bishop. He said in his voice mail last night that Sister Malthea could direct me to him.”
“That would be me,” she agreed with a gracious nod. “You just missed him. The Reverend is across the street at the funeral parlor now if you’d care to walk over.”
Indicating the rotary dial telephone at her elbow, she added, “I’ll be happy to call him and let him know you’re on the way.”
I thanked her and left her dialing as I headed outside again. After the sub-zero AC inside the church, the ninety-degree temperature outside felt even more oppressive. I was already sweating by the time I reached the curb to cross the street. Fortunately, another green awning also shaded the walkway to the funeral home’s front door.
Whoever had done the church’s signage had obviously also made the large sign in front of the Heavenly Path Funeral Home, though a yellow dove that probably glowed golden at night had replaced the scarlet cross. The business hours listed were the same, though amended with an, And also by appointment. But the funeral home was quite a bit larger, a two-story building with a front porch that ran its full length. I assumed that the Reverend lived on the second floor, though for all I knew he had a McMansion out in the suburbs that he called home.
I stepped inside to equally frosty temperatures and the soft sound of gospel music. Similarly to the church, the original home’s floor plan had been opened so that I walked into an open foyer area. The vestibule took up the full front of the house, with a couple of love seats and a half-dozen upholstered chairs arranged around low tables to form two seating areas.
A curtained archway—drapes currently tied open—led to a hallway that ran the remaining length of the house. I could see a door at the end that I suspected opened onto the parking lot beyond. To one side of that door I glimpsed what appeared to be an enclosed staircase. Opposite that stairway was a closed door. And just beyond the main entry where I stood were four smaller alcoves, two on either side of the hall. Assuming that one of these rooms was where Dr. Bishop was, I started my search.
The first alcove appeared to be the official display area. Sections of caskets in various styles were mounted trophy-like on the wall, while a series of large binders was arranged on a long countertop. The far wall supported a lineup of actual headstones, while in the corner was a table holding urns of different sizes and materials.
The other three rooms were viewing rooms, each dimly lit with rows of folding chairs arranged six deep. They faced the far wall, with a broad aisle dividing them. Beyond the chairs in two of the rooms were biers that supported closed caskets. Empty, I hoped, though I suspected not. The giveaway was the proliferation of flower arrangements in each room, along with a large framed photograph propped on a stand beside each casket.
I found the Reverend Dr. Thaddeus Bishop in the third visitation room dressed in a stark black suit and leaning into an open casket. As the mellow tones of Elvis Presley singing Joshua Fit the Battle softly spilled from the sound system, the Reverend raised the mallet he was holding and began to swing.
Chapter Fifteen
I must have gasped, for the Reverend abruptly halted and turned to face me.
“Ah, Ms. Fleet,” he said with a smile. Then, glancing at the mallet he still clutched, his smile broadened.
“My apologies,” he said, and lowered the rubber hammer. “I have a display unit here that has a problem with one of its hinges. I was attempting to facilitate a repair.”
He stepped aside from what I could see now was an empty casket. The flowers and photo of the deceased were noticeably absent from this room, giving me a clue I should have picked up on right away.
“Of course. That’s what I figured,” I lied blandly, though his soft chuckle told me he knew differently.
I felt myself blush but forged ahead.
“Thanks for seeing me, Dr. Bishop. As I told you in my voice-mail message, I found the champagne flute that Mr. Marsh—Len—had been drinking out of just before he died. There seems to be some sort of residue left in it. I thought you might want to have it tested just in case whatever that substance is has some bearing on Len’s death.”
“Certainly.” He set down the mallet on one of the folding chairs and gestured me to come forward. “I presume you brought the glass in question with you?”
I reached into my purse for the potato chip cannister and handed it to him. The Reverend chuckled again, but nodded his approval as he popped off the top and pulled out the bagged flute. Leaving it inside the plastic, he handed me back the chip can and raised the glassware so that what little light there was in the room reflected through it.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “Can you tell me what was in the drink you served?”
I gave him my recipe, and he shook his head. “None of those liquids should leave a residue of this sort. Definitely worth taking a look at.”
“Harry said that you have your own lab here,” I told him as he returned the glass to the canister and set the unorthodox package beside his mallet. “Can you do the tests yourself or do you have to send this to the state laboratory?”
His expression stiffened a bit at the mention of Harry’s name. Still, his tone was mild enough as he replied: “Since the sample is relatively sizeable, I will reserve a portion here to test and send the rest to the gentlemen and ladies in Atlanta. Of course, they tend to have a backlog of several weeks, so I should have a preliminary determination long before they do.”
“Wonderful! So, how quickly can you find out what’s in the glass?”
The Reverend gave me an indulgent smile.
“Unfortunately, Ms. Fleet, this is not CSI Cymbeline. One cannot pour random chemicals into a random sample and have a full analysis pop up five minutes later on one’s computer. It is a tedious process that requires we have some sort of idea of what we are searching for.”
When I frowned in disappointment he added, “Fortunately, Sheriff Lamb provided a list of medications that Mrs. Marsh said her husband took. In addition to the typical prescriptions for high blood pressure and cholesterol, he apparently was prescribed Oxycodone for an injury he recently suffered. Knowing that gives us a starting place in attempting to identify this substance.”
Then he gave me a considering look. “It’s not often that civilians show such keen curiosity regarding autopsy results … not unless they are members of the decedent’s family. May I ask why you have such a vested interest in the outcome?”
I hesitated. Part of my interest was concern for my B&B’s reputation. But more compelling was my unsettled feeling that there was more to Len’s death than a bad heart. Cliché as it might sound, practically everyone in the troupe held a grudge against the man. And with all the anonymous pranks that some unknown person had been pulling, it didn’t seem too farfetched a theory that maybe the trickster had taken the joke—deliberately or not—too far this last time.
But as I had absolutely no proof of the latter, I stuck with the former.
“I know this sounds terribly selfish,” I told him, “but having someone die at my B&B is pretty bad for business. If I could say that he passed away from natural causes, that would be better.”
“I understand. Believe me, as a small businessman myself I know the rigors of maintaining one’s corporate reputation.”
With a glance at his watch, which, unlike Harry’s, appeared to be a genuine Rolex, he added, “Actually, you are in luck, Ms. Fleet. I don’t have to start work on my next, er, client, for another hour. I should have time to set up a few simple panels on the sample, just to eliminate some of the more obvious possibilities. How about I phone you in a few hours when the tests are complete?”
At my eager agreement, Dr. Bishop escorted me back to the foyer while Mahalia Jackson quietly belted out Amazing Grace.
“Oh, one last thing,” I said as I stepped outside. “Would I be able to get my champagne flute back when you’re finished with it? It’s crystal and part of a set.”
“Most assuredly. And as I said, I will telephone you when my tests are complete.”
I left feeling far lighter than when I’d walked into the funeral parlor. Once back in my Mini, I cranked up the AC full blast as I drove the few miles back to the square. I still wanted to chat with Gemma about the whole dead body and business thing. Besides, as far as I knew, she hadn’t heard that Harry was part of the troupe staying at my place. As his former babysitter and informal life coach and cheerleader, I could guarantee that she’d want to know that Harry was back in town.
* * *
“So, girl, when were you going to tell me that Harry was back in town?” Gemma greeted me at the door of Peaches and Java as I walked in a few minutes later. “Jasmine told me she saw him at your place this morning. I can’t believe I had to hear about it secondhand. Is something going on between the two of you that you don’t want me to know about?”
Her tone was mock angry, but I could see she was somewhat serious too. Of all the people in town, she was the one who would defend the actor against all comers, mostly because she knew what he’d been through growing up.
I’d heard fragments of the Harold A. Westcott III, the Early Years saga from both her and Harry and was moderately sympathetic. A lonely childhood with summers spent living with his great-aunt in what was now my tower room … real-estate magnate father who was verbally abusive … same dad who cut his son out of the will because of his chosen career. Sure, he’d had a tough time, but not so much compared to some people I knew. Moreover, I didn’t see how any of this excused his sometimes questionable actions, but Gemma apparently did.
“I swear, there’s nothing going on with me and Harry … now or ever,” I hurried to assure her. “But there’s lots of crazy stuff going on in general. I’m dying of the heat. How about a glass of ice water first, and then I’ll tell you everything?”
With all the festival construction, I’d had to park down the block near Weary Bones, the local antique shop run by my friend Mason Denman. I had waved through the window as I’d walked past, earning a wave back of his trademark handkerchief and a bobble of his distinctive black pompadour. Fortunately, he’d been waiting on a customer. Otherwise, he’d have popped out to the sidewalk in a flash, and what would have been a quick walk from car to diner would have dragged out an extra fifteen minutes while he gossiped. But even the short walk had been long enough for me to break a sweat.
For her part, Gemma didn’t look convinced by my excuses. Shaking her graying locks, she went behind the counter. Her husband, Daniel, spied me and threw me a shaka sign—the Hawaiian twisting wave with middle three fingers folded over the palm, pinkie and thumb stuck out to either side.
I smiled and shaka’ed him back. It was just a little after eleven, and the lunch rush rarely started until eleven thirty, and so Gemma had a few minutes to chat. Returning with two glasses of ice water, she led me to my favorite table for two, a pair of former flat-topped school desks with built-in chairs bolted front-to-front. She took the seat across from me as I drank.
Peaches and Java was a cross between your typical small-town diner and your funky urban hangout. The food and the friendliness of both customers and owners definitely fit the first category, as did the diner counter and pastry case backed by a double-stacked commercial oven and an open grill. The artisan coffee and fun, mismatched fixtures like the school-desk table fit the second. That and the ukuleles in various colors and sizes hanging on the far wall. Not only were the stringed instruments a tribute to Daniel Tanaka’s Hawaiian roots, he occasionally pulled one down and played for his customers. Though I had to admit that my favorite bit of decor had more of a Georgia flair … the anthropomorphic male and female peaches painted on the restroom door indicating it was a unisex facility.
“Ah, better,” I
said once I’d drained most of the water. Then, as Gemma stared at me expectantly from over her own glass, I went on, “I meant to tell you that Harry was back, but things got away from me. And it’s not like I knew he was going to show up in town. It turns out he’s the director of this year’s Shakespeare festival’s troupe, the same troupe that just happened to have reservations at my B&B.”
While Gemma tsk’d and shook her head, I gave her a rundown of the actors’ arrival. Next was a quick description of the troupe members and their various foibles.
“I was already wondering how I was going to put up with all of them for almost two weeks,” I told her, “and then Len went and croaked on us yesterday.”
“That was you?” Gemma’s exclamation was loud enough to draw looks from the diner’s only other customers. “I heard from one of my RN friends that someone had dropped dead in the historic district, but I had no idea they were talking about your place.”
“Right. Lucky me.”
I described how Mattie and I had found Len past help, and how Sheriff Lamb and the coroner, aka Dr. Bishop, had both made appearances.
“Everyone is pretty sure it was a heart attack, as he fits the pattern. You know, mid-fifties, high-stress job, high blood pressure and cholesterol, smoker.”
Gemma nodded, and I caught the glance she sent Daniel. He towered over his five-foot-two wife by a mere five inches but outweighed her by a good two hundred pounds. And he pretty well fit the other criteria himself, except for the smoking.
Then Daniel dispelled the morbid mood as he rounded the counter and headed toward us, plate in hand. “Check it out, Nina. I came up with something new for the Shakespeare festival. Peaches and Java is now P&J’s. This is the new logo I designed,” he proclaimed, puffing out his barrel chest to better show off the peach-colored T-shirt he was wearing.