Desperate Measures

by M. Glenn Graves

  Four cups of coffee later, I was ready to eat the mammoth breakfast of eggs, sausage, and toast that Uncle Walters had prepared. Coffee alone was my usual fare for the morning hours. When I finished his delicious offering, I told him what Rogers had reported about Fletcher or Chester or whoever he was. I mentioned his relationship to Sandra Chatterworth as well.

  Walters made no initial comment regarding this new information. He finished his meal, drank a few cups of coffee, and began placing the dishes in the washer before he said anything about Reverend Fletcher.

  “You think he’s hiding something from his past?” Walters said.

  “If you mean besides his name and relationship with Sandra, then, yes, that would be my first guess.”

  “People change their names for all kinds of reasons.”

  “Even people of the cloth?” I said.

  “They’re human, too.”

  “Some.”

  “You don’t like him,” Walters aid.

  “Not even a little.”

  “Are we going back there to address his other name?”

  “Eventually. First, I want to find his daughter Sandra and see if she will own up to being related to him. Seems odd that she retained the name Chatterworth and he became a Fletcher.”

  “Odd,” Walters said.

  “Yeah, in a deceptive kind of way.”

  “Are you okay this morning?” Walters said.

  “Doing well. Why?” I said.

  “You seem disjointed.”

  “I miss my dog,” I said.

  “Ah, yes. Sam, the intelligent canine. Woman’s best friend.”

  “The same.”

  “You want me to fetch him?”

  I smiled at my uncle. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not even in the slightest. You want him for this, I will see that he is delivered. In fact, I could drive down to Norfolk and bring him back myself.”

  “I’ll just bet you would. No, but thank you. It’s a kind and tempting offer. I think another day or so, then I shall fly back home, handle some business there, pet the dog, and then return.”

  “Pondering time, huh?” Walters said.

  “Yeah, cheap therapy with Sam. Emotional release.”

  “And Miss Rogers as well?” he said with a wry smile.

  “She may have something to do with it, too,” I said.

  20

  Uncle Walters and I were sitting at a small table in the College Café in Alumnae Hall on the campus of Regis College around noon the next day. I was studying the wandering mass of students who passed by our table while Walters was busy studying his dark chocolate latté.

  Before Walters and I had entered this college environment, I had called Rogers to have her do some deep background checking on Chatterworth or Fletcher, or whoever he was. I also told her to do some theological research on any connection there might be between Jesus and the Lamb’s Book of Life. Strange request, I know, but my background would not let some things slide. I had a suspicion that this so-called or self-proclaimed clergy-type was full of something that was not part of the Christian tradition. I needed hard evidence.

  I spotted our old buddies Becky and Stacey and waved to them.

  “Like you guys are here all the time. You learnin’ anything about Melody’s death and such?” Becky said.

  “Puzzle pieces. Some fit, some do not,” I said.

  “Huh?” Stacey said and looked at Becky.

  “She means yes, but nothing is forming a clear picture just yet,” Becky clarified.

  I was impressed. English as a vibrant language was still alive in a few small circles.

  “We’re still hoping to talk with your former friend Sandra Chatterworth,” I said to them.

  “Omygosh, she’s right over there,” Stacey said as she pointed, almost dropping the three books she carried. She caught them just before they hit our table.

  I looked in the direction Stacey pointed and spotted the object of her gesture. A well-dressed, tallish young woman was talking with another group of students. At least I assumed that they were students.

  “You want I should get her for you?” Stacey said.

  “Thanks. I’ll fend for myself,” I said.

  “You speak funny,” Stacey said. “You know that?”

  “Holler if you need some more help with your investigation,” Becky said as she guided Stacey away from our table towards the food counter.

  I think she meant it and thanked her.

  I walked over to the tallish, well-dressed young woman and interrupted her conversation with the group gathered listening to her. She was explaining the church, or so I assumed as I caught the last few words of a sentence when I approached.

  “…oh, yes, it picks us up each Sunday and brings us back here to the campus,” she said.

  “May I talk with you about the Church of the Real End?” I said.

  The tallish young woman turned and looked at me without expression.

  “Who are you?”

  “Clancy,” I said and extended my hand as if ready to shake hands. It’s not a gesture I often do, even in the South. I have no idea why I did it then. Seemed like the thing to do.

  The tallish girl looked down at my hand as if I had leprosy. We didn’t shake hands.

  “Clancy who?”

  “Clancy Evans.”

  “I don’t know you,” she said.

  “I don’t know you either, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”

  “Why do you want to know about the church?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “Yeah, right,” she said and started to walk away.

  I caught her by the arm and she turned with a look of murder in her eye. I released her arm.

  “I really do want to talk with you,” I said. “I’m sitting over there with that gentleman, Walters Clancy. I am investigating the death of a friend of yours, Melody Legrand. I just want to ask you some questions.”

  “She committed suicide. I have nothing else to say about that.”

  She turned again and headed off.

  “Then talk to me about your father’s church,” I said loud enough for several folks around us to hear me.

  She stopped abruptly and turned slowly. She came back and stood close to me and whispered in my ear.

  “I would prefer that we talk privately,” she said.

  “Me, too,” I said and we headed towards Walters.

  I pointed to a chair as Walters stood. She sat down and I followed suit.

  “You’re Sandra Chatterworth, at least that’s the name by which you registered here at Regis,” I said.

  “That’s my name.”

  “So tell me about your father’s new name.”

  “What new name?”

  “Well, he used to be Chester Chatterworth. Now it seems that he is Reginald Fletcher, His Holiness, the good reverend.”

  “I don’t like the sarcasm in your voice,” she said.

  “I have more,” I said.

  “I don’t think I like you,” she said.

  “Join the club. Tell me about your father’s name change.”

  “That’s really none of your business.”

  “True, but call me nosey. Is he trying to hide something?”

  “I repeat, that is none of your business. I thought you wanted to talk about Melody Legrand,” she said, diverting the subject back to my original question.

  “I thought you didn’t have anything else to say about Melody’s death.”

  “I don’t want to talk about her suicide,” she said.

  “You want something to drink?” Walters said to her kindly.

  “Yes, I would like … what are you having?” she said to him.

  “Chocolate latté,” he said.

  “I’ll have one of those.”

  Walters went to the counter and ordered her drink.

  “You recruited Melody for the church,” I said.

  “I witness to people and try to encourage them to come and
be a part of something wonderful,” she said.

  “Melody was one of those you witnessed to?” I said.

  “She came.”

  “And joined?”

  “Not officially. She was in a trial membership for several months. She never got the hang of it,” Sandra said.

  “What exactly did she not get the hang of?” I said.

  Walters returned, set the latté in front of her and sat down.

  “Some of the rules,” she said.

  “The church has a lot of rules,” I repeated to clarify.

  “Not a lot, but for some people they are hard to handle. Most of the students here have been so used to sinning all of their lives … well, anytime their behavior is challenged, they rebel.”

  “Melody rebelled?”

  “Not at first, but as the rules got harder, she questioned things.”

  “Like what?” I said.

  “I don’t remember specifics,” she said. She drank her latté and tried to act as if she had not just lied to me. Some people are not good at lying. Sandra was one of them.

  “Look, Sandra, I know and you know that you remember more than you are telling me.”

  “I prefer Sandy,” she said and drank some more of her latté.

  “Okay, Sandy. Tell me the truth.”

  “Each new potential disciple must go three months without strong drink, watching movies, dancing, or any type of sexual activity. Then they undergo the purification ritual to become full disciples in the church. Then they are ready.”

  “Ready for what?” I said.

  “Service. Each disciple serves the church,” she explained as if everyone knew exactly what she meant.

  “And what did Melody question?”

  Sandy finished her latté and stared at the empty mug in front of her.

  “She have trouble with the three months of clean living?” I said.

  “No. She finished that without a problem. She hesitated at the purification ritual.”

  “Explain that.”

  “She didn’t want to do it,” she said as if I were an idiot.

  “I mean explain the purification ritual to me,” I clarified.

  “Disciples are purified after the ninety days of holy living by having sacred intercourse with a holy person,” she said without a hint of emotion. Her blatant candor about such a subject was more than a match for my candor about most things. Still, such unattached feelings in regard to sexual relationships was something off limits for even me. Must be a generation thing.

  “Oh. And who are the holy persons?” I said.

  “We have two in the church, two priests who perform the sacred ritual of purification.”

  “And she refused to have sex with these two priests?”

  “She was only required to have the sacred intercourse with the male priest.”

  “The other being a female priest,” I said trying to follow her lead.

  “That is true,” Sandy said.

  “Who is the male priest?”

  “His Holiness, The Reverend Reginald Fletcher.”

  “Wow. Daddy. Who would have thought it?”

  “I don’t like your sarcasm,” she said. “Reverend Fletcher, His Holiness, is our divine leader and high priest. He is ordained by God for this ministry.”

  “No doubt, and I bet it’s fun for him as well,” I said.

  Sandy stood up and looked at Walters. “Thank you for the coffee.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “By the way, who is the female priest?” I said.

  “I am,” she said, turned and walked away.

  21

  When we entered the large foyer area where Gerald was stationed to guard the office of His Holiness, Reverend Fletcher, he spotted us and picked up the phone receiver on his desk and spoke to someone on the other end. Our reputation preceded us.

  “Hello, Gerald. We’ll cut to the chase, if you don’t mind. We do not have an appointment and we do not wish to make an appointment. We simply want to speak with Reverend Fletcher for a mere moment, nothing more. Just a question or two about orgies and name changes,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon,” Gerald said as if he were offended beyond words.

  “Quite alright, Gerald, quite alright. If you would simply call His Holiness once again and tell him we wish a word, a moment of his time,” I said.

  “Once again?”

  “Yeah, you just called him to let him know that we were back. So, if you don’t mind, please call him back to say we need to talk. A quick word or two. Not a long session. I promise.”

  “Our pastor does not wish to be disturbed,” Gerald said.

  “Gerald, pick up the phone, call Reginald and tell him the police would probably be interested in some of his highly suspect sexual practices here in the church. He can talk to us, or he can talk with them. His call,” I said.

  The door to Fletcher’s office opened immediately and His Holiness himself stood in the doorway. Unsmiling.

  “Come in. I will see you both now,” he said as if he had changed his mind for some reason. “Hold all of my calls, Gerald.”

  He shut the door, pointed to the chairs in front of his desk, and waited for us to sit down. He then sat down.

  “What do you want?”

  “Answers, nothing more. Just some answers.”

  “Ask your questions.”

  “Your daughter has explained some of the rules you have for new converts in the church. We especially are interested in the purification ritual performed by you after the ninety days of clean living, living by the rules of the church.”

  “Sexual intercourse has been a part of sacred religion for thousands of years. It is no different in our congregation. The spirit is passed from priest to disciple this way. It is a type of incarnation, Miss Evans. Do you know that concept?” Fletcher said with significant disdain as he spoke my name.

  “Silly me, I thought it had to do with the blending of humanity and deity in Jesus. Don’t recall the Bible speaking of any sexual activity connected to it.”

  “Interpretation, young lady, simply interpretation of the scriptures. We believe that divinity from God is passed through the purification ritual in our sexual intercourse. Jesus passed this on to Mary Magdalene in the same way.”

  “Wow, I’ll have to look that one up. Don’t remember that being taught in my Sunday school classes. But, I never was a good student. I could have missed that Sunday. So tell me what happened to Melody when she refused to participate in the purification,” I said.

  “I don’t understand your question. Nothing happened to her. She simply was not permitted to return to our church. She was dropped from potential membership. Her trial period was finished. She failed the test.”

  “Just like college, huh. No chance to take the course again?”

  “Don’t be cute, Miss Evans. This is a serious thing. She was not found worthy and she was, in a sense, cast into outer darkness.”

  “With the gnashing of teeth, I suspect.”

  “Your question seems to imply that something happened to her. Do you think we hurt her or caused her to commit suicide?”

  “It was on my mind,” I said.

  “Do you have any evidence of this?”

  “Not yet, but I’m still looking. Oh, one more thing, why did you change your name from Chatterworth to Fletcher?”

  “Well, to be completely truthful with you, it is none of your business. That being said, it was divinely inspired. God told me that it would be a good thing to change my name, and I obeyed.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Just like that,” he said.

  “And why didn’t Sandy change her name?”

  “Sandy?” he said.

  “Your daughter, Sandy Chatterworth, the other priest here in your church.”

  “Well,” he said standing up behind his desk, “she did, in fact, change her name. Women in our religion change their names as a rule. Inside the church they have a sacred name. Out
side the church, they are permitted to use their birth names. Sandra’s sacred name is Ashtoreth, Her Holiness.”

  “But what’s in a name, right?” I said.

  “Oh, everything is in a name,” he said, walked over to his office door and opened it, strongly hinting that it was time for us to leave.

  We took the hint.

  22

  Uncle Walters parked his Beamer carefully in his four-car garage. He took better care of his vehicles than I took care of myself. The garage was sufficient for the four cars. Nice wallpaper, too. Racing stripes and checker flags all around. Vroom, vroom.

  “He’s right, you know,” Walters said as we rode his private elevator to the main floor of his town house.

  “About what?”

  “The name thing.”

  “Explain,” I said.

  “Your throw-away rhetorical question about what’s in a name and his answer that everything is in a name,” he explained.

  “Are you referring to Fletcher’s daughter’s sacred name inside the church?”

  “None other. Sandy Chatterworth might have some English insights and explanations related to her persona, but it is her church name that speaks volumes for me.”

  “Ashtoreth,” I said.

  “Phoenician goddess of fertility, and love, if you broaden the definition of love.”

  “By all means, let’s broaden it.”

  “Love is often mistakenly related to sexual relations,” Walters said.

  “No doubt. It’s a cultural myth.”

  “Many cultures retain this myth. It is no accident that Fletcher’s daughter, the other High Priest or Priestess, has the name Ashtoreth. She is likely a modern version of the ancient temple prostitute. At least they have part of the equation correct, in my humble opinion,” Walters said.

  “Which part?”

  “Sexual relations are sacred,” he said.

  “Hard sell in our culture.”

  “You know much about Ashtoreth and the Phoenicians?”

  “Must have been fishin’ the day old Mrs. White covered that in World History.”

  “We can discuss that over drinks while I prepare our evening meal,” he said.

  “I’m a captive audience.”

  Walters opened a bottle of chilled Chardonnay while I relaxed on the couch to watch him prepare our dinner. I never liked Chardonnay, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him that.