Had he been wakened in the early morning hours by the headlights of a car as it pulled into the church parking lot? Drawn to the window, had he picked up the binoculars and witnessed one or two people get out of the vehicle, then carry a third person to the basement’s wooden storm cellar doors?
This seemed likely and, if so, he must have recognized that individual or individuals. But why would he keep silent about it? That didn’t seem to make sense.
I retraced my steps to the front room and went over to an old upright writing desk. From the pigeon holes, I pulled out various papers and examined them; they were mostly bills and church correspondence, nothing of any apparent significance.
The center main drawer contained stationery, envelopes, pens, stamps, and so forth. The top drawer to the left held Creed’s personal bank account statements, with modest balances; the bottom one stored files on various topics for sermons. The top right drawer had paid receipts; the one below was a catch-all, where finally I did find something of interest: an architect’s rendering of a new church, and parsonage!
For all his humbleness, Pastor Creed seemed not to have been content to live as modestly as he had been.
I returned the drawing to the drawer and left the stone cottage to return to the church.
In the parking lot, two Sauk paramedics—men attired in navy blue slacks and shirts with tribal insignia on the sleeves—loaded the gurney with the unconscious, oxygen-masked Creed into their vehicle.
Mother was positioned nearby, talking on her cell.
“Thank you, Ben,” she was saying. “I’ve instructed them to take the pastor to the hospital in Serenity. . . . Yes, I know, and please tell the tribal council I’ll be happy to make a case for my actions at a later time, and we can talk about remuneration. Also, please convey how extremely grateful I am.”
She exchanged good-byes with the casino manager, then returned her cell to her pocket.
“Have you been in contact with Tony?” I asked.
Mother nodded. “He’ll be providing twenty-four-seven security for Creed at the hospital.”
“And forensics?”
She sighed. “Unhappy campers. Perhaps they should just take a room at the Tiki Motel.”
We watched the white van pull away, the wail of its siren a modern war cry.
About a dozen folks had been drawn out of their homes by the activity, though thus far they were watching from a respectful distance.
Mother, eyeing them as if a zombie horde were waiting to launch a shambling attack, said, “Let us move inside, dear.”
We did, closing the door, then moving to a rear pew.
Once seated, angled toward each other, Mother asked, “What did you find?”
I told her about the unobstructed view of the church from the bedroom, the binoculars, and the discovery of plans for building a new church . . . and parsonage.
Mother consumed that, saying nothing.
I asked, “Anything from Tony?”
She nodded. “He said the coroner reported that John Miller, that is, Owen Phillips—”
I interrupted. “Can we just agree to call him Miller? I don’t have a program to refer to, you know.”
“As you like. Where was I?”
“The coroner reported that . . .”
“That Miller had been hit on the head, but whether that was a killing blow, we won’t know until after the autopsy.”
I nodded. “If there’s water in his lungs, that will tell the story.”
“Also, the powder found in the motel room? Is a mixture of lime, sand, and cement.”
“Mortar!” I exclaimed, not taking time to chide her for uptalking.
“The precise recipe.”
“Which means Miller was involved in the attack on the mayor.” I frowned. “But Miller was already dead when somebody hanged Creed and faked the suicide.”
She nodded. “Seems an accomplice was going around trying to tie off loose ends.”
“Yes,” I said, “with a rope!”
We sat quietly, the careening events stunning both of us, I think. But sitting there in the church made me recall something.
“Mother, Pastor Creed’s scripture reading this morning—it differed from what was listed in the bulletin.”
She frowned a little. “Do you find that significant?”
“Maybe. I mean, since the program was probably printed days ago, what made Creed change his mind?”
Now she was nodding, just barely. “What was the scripture, dear?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly. I’m no Bible scholar. But I think he said from the pulpit that he was reading from Deuteronomy.”
“Deuteronomy concerns the law in Moses’s day,” Mother said, nodding again, with somewhat more force. “Could you be more specific?”
“Something about witnesses?”
Excitement came into her eyes and her voice: “Could it have been Deuteronomy 19:15? To paraphrase, one witness to a crime is not sufficient to convict, but two or more could?”
“That’s it!” But then I was only more confused. “What two witnesses could he have been talking about? Witnesses to what?”
Mother smiled cagily. “Not witnesses, dear. The point of the scripture is that there was only one witness. And to one of these crimes.”
“The pastor?”
“The pastor. Now, this is important—who among the council members attended the service?”
“All of them.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Mother turned away from me, her eyes on the cross. “So whose ears, do you suppose, were the last-minute scripture lesson intended for?”
Her cell phone blasted the Hawaii Five-O theme.
Myron Hatcher’s voice was loud enough for me to hear. “Sheriff! I received a call about seeing an ambulance from the Indian reservation at the church. What’s that about?”
“That is not information I can share over the phone, Mayor. But would you assemble the council at city hall, say . . . in half an hour? I’d rather explain to everyone at the same time.”
“Is Pastor Creed all right? The caller said ambulance attendants were—”
“Half an hour. Thank you.”
She clicked off and pocketed the cell.
A new forensics unit arrived—a man and women borrowed from Burlington, a city just south of Serenity, the team from Serenity having been overworked. After brief introductions, Mother filled the pair in, instructing them to pay particular attention to the evidence found in the pastor’s office. An examination of the parsonage would come later.
Mother gave the new techs her cell number, then she and I left them to their work.
The downtown was nearly deserted as we made our way on foot to city hall. Festival activities had been scheduled for Sunday afternoon, including a screening of Vincent Price in House of Usher at a nearby consolidated high school auditorium, and stores had planned on being open as well. But in the wake of this series of tragedies, only the coffee shop was business as usual.
When Mother and I entered the conference room, we found the council members seated in their churchgoing attire, looking beleaguered and demoralized. Not arranged in a straight line this time, they were seated on either side of the table, leaving spaces between them. Perhaps no one cared to be seated next to a possible killer.
With no greeting, Mother took a position with her back to the wall where the chalkboard used to be. I stood off to one side.
“About an hour ago,” Mother said, “I, along with my deputy, discovered Pastor Creed inside the church—hanging from the bell cord.”
Even though word of the man being taken away by ambulance had circulated, this news brought gasps. Eyes were wide all around, heads shaking.
Mother raised a silencing palm. “In the pastor’s office was a suicide letter. Also, the antique Edgar Allan Poe book, which had last been in the possession of the late John Miller.”
Lottie raised a hand, as if in class. “Was he
the person who drowned in the pond last night?”
“Yes. Or perhaps we should say was drowned.”
Murmurs.
Rick didn’t bothering raising his hand. “What did this suicide note say?”
“It was a confession,” Mother said. “To killing Morella Crafton and John Miller, and of the attempted murder of Mayor Myron Hatcher.”
The revelation brought His Honor to his feet. “I don’t believe that for a second! Pastor Creed would never have done any of those things. He was the heart of Antiqua’s spiritual life!”
I noticed Mother was not correcting the false impression that the pastor had died.
Paula said, “Myron, have you forgotten Pastor Creed’s deep dislike of the festival honoring Poe—and he wasn’t exactly shy of expressing his displeasure with your role in it either.”
Rick snorted. “Remember how Creed blew a gasket over that mausoleum not being repaired?”
Myron almost collapsed back into his chair, all the air let out of him.
Lottie sighed. “Then the pastor murdered this Miller person, just because the man won that book? Isn’t that a little difficult to believe?”
Paula seemed puzzled. “And what would Pastor Creed have had against Morella?”
The council members all turned their faces toward Mother for enlightenment. Me, I was watching Wally, whose expression was strained, jaw clenched.
Mother admitted, “I don’t have an answer to any of that.”
There was silence.
Then Myron said quietly, “I might.”
Now all eyes went to him. Including mine.
“About a month ago,” the mayor began, “I dropped by the church to speak to Creed about the fund-raising for the basement construction. When I didn’t find him in his office, I walked over to the parsonage.” He paused. “Well, he let me in, and as we went over the donations I’d received so far, I noticed a particular scent in the room . . . which I recognized as the perfume Morella wore.”
I think my expression upon hearing that prompted the mayor to amend his comments.
He said, “I think anyone who ever had that young woman wait on them at the coffee shop would back me up—it was quite a strong fragrance, you know, and very distinctive.”
Some nodding of heads.
“Anyway,” Myron went on, “I left, and returned to my car in the parking lot, and I was about to leave when Morella came out of the parsonage.”
You could see the wheels in Wally’s head turning—you could almost hear them. His daughter hadn’t been involved with a married man, after all—but the pastor!
“So what?” Rick said with a shrug. “Creed wasn’t a priest. He was allowed a private life.”
“That’s true,” Lottie said, “but why hide the affair?”
“There must be more to it than that,” Paula suggested, perhaps a little too eagerly.
“Stop it!” Myron said. “Now I’m sorry I even mentioned it. Isn’t there enough rumormongering going on? We may never know the ‘why’ of it, with both parties dead.”
“Oh,” Mother said, “but Pastor Creed is not dead.”
No gasps this time—just jaws dropping.
“But,” Lottie said, “you told us he was!”
“No, dear. I said he was hanged. My deputy and I managed to revive him.”
I was almost starting to like the sound of that.
“Thank the Lord,” Myron said softly.
Rick asked, “Has Creed said anything?”
“Unfortunately, no,” Mother replied. “At least not yet. He’s unconscious. But he’s getting the best of care at the hospital in Serenity.”
Personally, I would have withheld Creed’s whereabouts, waiting to see who would ask first. But I was only the deputy.
Lottie sighed. “Well, at least the madman has been caught, however unlikely his identity might seem to us.”
“Perhaps not,” Mother said.
Lottie blinked. “It’s not unlikely?”
“The pastor may not be the ‘madman.’ He may just be the latest victim.”
Frowning, Rick asked, “What do you mean?”
“There’s another possible explanation for the hanging—a rather more complicated one. Even complex.”
Mother paused, milking the moment; you can take the diva out of the theater, but you can’t take the theater out of the diva.
She continued: “Suppose the pastor was hit on the back of his head—as was the case with Morella, Myron, and Miller—and then hanged, making it look like suicide.”
Rick asked, “Was he?”
“Was he what, dear?”
“Hit on the back of his head!” the young man echoed irritably.
“Yes,” Mother said.
Lottie asked, “What about the suicide note?”
“Typed on his computer,” Mother said, “and left unsigned.”
“And the book?” Myron asked. “How do you explain the pastor having that in his possession?”
She shrugged. “Planted by the real killer, who had taken it from the previous victim—John Miller.”
The normally taciturn Wally spoke up. “What motive could there be for attacking Creed?”
“I have indeed arrived at one,” Mother said, nodding. “But since it’s merely conjecture at this juncture, I will keep it to myself . . . for now. Although I will give you a hint.” Her smile looked a little crazed. “Binoculars.”
The Hawaii Five-O theme began playing in her pocket.
Mother took the call, which was brief. “Yes. Right. Understood.”
Returning the phone to her pocket, she gestured to me. “Come, Brandy. I’m needed back at the church.”
Mother was on the move, heading toward the door, and I fell in behind her.
“Sheriff!” Myron called out after us. “What are we supposed to do?”
“Stay available,” Mother said over her shoulder.
After a few blocks, we parted company, Mother striding toward the church while I continued on to the Pullman, definitely not striding.
It was around four o’clock, Sushi’s suppertime, which used to be six, when we had ours. But over the years she had pushed it back to five-thirty, and when she got away with that, to five o’clock, and it’s only a matter of time till it’s three.
Anyway, I took Soosh outside, then put her food down, and when she’d finished, gave her a shot of insulin. She always got a treat for taking the needle, so I had bought extra doggie cookies for that purpose. And even though they were tucked back in a sack on the counter out of her view, she had (as Mother had noted) a nose like a bloodhound and barked up at where they were.
I was hungry enough to eat a doggie cookie myself, but instead I microwaved a frozen tuna casserole and ate it over the sink. Elegant, I know. Then I went back to the parlor, moved the chalkboard away from the couch, lay down, and fell asleep, taking a whole three or four seconds to do so.
A loud clap of thunder woke me to darkness, rain pummeling the roof of the train car. I reached for my cell resting on the floor: 9:36. I turned on a lamp and went to see if Mother was in the bedroom, thinking she had come back and not wanted to wake me.
But she wasn’t here.
Returning to the parlor, I was about to call her cell when the front door banged open as if the wind had done it. But a drenched Mother blew in, along with rain and more wind.
“What a storm!” she declared. She was dripping, her hair hanging like seaweed.
“Where have you been?” I asked. “You had me worried.”
“No need to fret, dear. I finished up with the Burlington team—they’re a lot nicer than ours, by the by—and then I had supper at the diner.”
I gestured to the soggy sack in her hand. “That for me?”
“If you like. It’s what’s left of what I ate—a little goulash and half a roll.”
“Thanks. But I had something already.”
I took the sack and put it in the fridge. Meanwhile, Mother was making a puddle on the carpe
t.
“You should get out of those wet clothes,” I said. “And then we can talk.”
Shortly, she returned wearing pj’s under her favorite pick chenille bathrobe with shoulder pads (from the forties, not eighties), which she refused to part with.
Mother joined me on the couch. Sushi, not to be left out, curled up between us.
“What’s new?” I asked, wearily, somewhat groggy from the long nap.
Mother tucked her legs beneath her, creating a few stray pops. “Not much. It will take time to get any fingerprint results back from the ‘suicide’ paper, and the book as well. I’ve had an update from your boyfriend on Pastor Creed’s condition, which has improved with a breathing tube, though the man remains unconscious.”
“CT scan?”
She nodded. “No apparent damage to the brain . . . but inconclusive. He may never wake up. Which would surely please our killer.”
I tucked my legs up under myself too. Nothing popping yet.
“Mother, I’ve been thinking. We’ve been trying to connect all these attacks to one person.”
“Or two, working in tandem.”
“But what if there were multiple killers, not working in tandem but independent of one another.”
Mother frowned. “Go on, dear.”
I got off the couch, located the eraser, crouched before the chalkboard, and wiped away everything under the motive /opportunity columns, leaving only the names of the victims and suspects.
“What if,” I said, “Pastor Creed really did kill Morella—for blackmailing him over their affair, or because she took up with someone else, or possibly some other reason. And suppose Wally believed the mayor had killed Morella, to hide an affair that could’ve destroyed the Hatcher marriage. Wally, inspired by Morella’s Poe-like killing, might have tried, unsuccessfully, to kill Myron. Meanwhile, Paula, upset by the sudden appearance of Miller, aka Phillips, her old partner-in-crime, saw an opportunity to dispatch the ex-con in another Poe-like way.”
Mother was now seated on the edge of the couch, leaning forward. She wasn’t nodding, but her eyes were narrowed. “And how does it all come back around to Pastor Creed?”
“Well, that’s where I’m stuck,” I admitted. “Paula could have gotten the book from Miller, to plant with the suicide letter . . . but that couldn’t be, because we were with her when Creed was hanged.” I paused. “Here’s an idea . . . Paula and Wally got together and conspired to kill and frame Creed. She gave Wally the book, and he did the deed.”
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