by P J Parrish
He had a view into the small living room with a glimpse of the dining room beyond. Old pine floors covered with worn braid rugs, sofa and chairs slipcovered in faded blue chintz, pale blue walls adorned with framed seascapes—he recognized the Sleeping Bear Dunes up near Joe’s town—and a white brick fireplace flanked with built-in bookshelves. It was a neat, understated room, but with no TV, newspapers, or even a book out of place, it looked like no one ever really used it.
Louis flipped through Junia’s interview of Prince’s employees looking for the name of Prince’s housekeeper. There it was—Delia Arnold, who had worked for Prince for eighteen years, came twice a week, and had last been here Monday, two days before Jonas was found dead in the church. Her interview was unremarkable, Junia noting that the housekeeper was distraught and tearful.
He went to the fireplace to get a closer look at the three framed photographs on the mantle. They showed Jonas’s wife at various ages, and it struck him that the youngest version of Reeta Prince resembled Violet.
He wondered what deep psychological meaning Emily Farentino would find in that.
Louis continued toward the back of the cottage, passing through a dining room and emerging into the kitchen. It still had its original 1940s white tile and white painted cabinets, and the appliances all looked to hail from the sixties, except for a small countertop microwave and a Mr. Coffee, its carafe half full. There were two dishes stacked in the sink, crusted over with egg residue and half-eaten toast.
A gray Formica dinette sat under the window. On the placemat was a saucer that matched the dishes in the sink, but no cup. Next to it was a copy of the Grand Rapids Press, one section folded over to reveal the crossword. It was half-finished, in green ink from the Bic pen next to the saucer. The top of the pen was chewed away.
Sunlight cast a long spill on the linoleum floor. It was coming from the kitchen’s other door and Louis went toward it.
The sun was streaming in from a bank of large windows that offered a stunning view of the backyard’s lawn that sloped down to Reeds Lake. Louis guessed the room had once served as a sun porch but had been transformed into Jonas Prince’s study.
There was a sagging yellow-print sofa with a toss of blankets and pillows and an old Zenith console TV. The only other furnishings were a bookcase, a file cabinet, and a large plain metal desk. That same cedar smell hung in the air here, stronger than it had been in the living room.
Louis went over to the desk. There was no computer and everything here was handwritten, in notebooks and on legal pads. He remembered a note from Tooki’s financial report saying that Jonas Prince had no credit cards, paying his bills by check from the First Community Bank.
On one wall was a montage of framed certificates of appreciation from schools, politicians and charities—The Lord’s Pantry food bank, the Butterworth Hospital Hospice and the Fresh Start program. There was one framed photograph and Louis stepped closer for a better look. It was old and blurry and showed what looked to be a soldier wearing a white uniform and fur hat—a bandolier with a holstered gun slung over his chest—standing in a snowy forest.
No mistake, the soldier was a young Jonas Prince. But where in the world had the photo been taken?
He turned to the bookcase. It held an eclectic array of titles—The Confessions of St. Augustine, Dark Night of the Soul, The Importance of Living by Lin Yutang, C.S. Lewis’s The Screwtape, Norman Vincent Peale’s You Can If You Think You Can, and many others that seemed to be religious in nature. There were at least ten different Bibles that Louis could discern. Most of the books sprouted scrap-paper bookmarks. Louis looked through a couple of the bookmarked pages but they all seemed to refer to religious texts.
Louis turned to the desk. It was untidy, in the way of a man who had been bedeviled by unfinished work. There was the cup from the saucer in the kitchen, half filled with cold coffee. Three green Bic pens, all with their tops chewed.
In the corner was a thin wooden box, the top engraved with a filigreed seal and the words PUROS REYNOSO. It was filled with fat cigars in cellophane. The smell of cedar and rain-soaked earth was so pungent he had to shut the box.
He turned his attention to a rattan basket, but it contained only bills, letters, a schedule of church social events, and an invitation to attend a global faith convention in some place named Turku.
Louis noticed a balled-up piece of paper on the floor, picked it up, and unfolded it, putting on his glasses to read. The top line in green ink read WED SERMON—PRIDE AND HUMILITY, with notes and Bible verses.
The only other thing on the desk was a blue loose-leaf notebook. It was the kind any school kid would carry—except for the labels on the color-coded tabs: SALVATION, GRATITUDE, SUFFERING, SOCIAL ISSUES, and at least ten other sermon topics. There was a piece of paper sticking out the top and Louis opened to the bookmarked page.
It was a lined page like the crumbled one, filled with Prince’s small, unslanted handwriting in green ink. Louis leaned down to read it.
NEW SERMON for Wed
The Fruit of Forgiveness
Verses to use?
Gen 4:7 - If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.
Luke 15:18 - Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you.
Gen 25:24 - The Lord said to her, “Two nations are in your body. Two tribes that are now inside you will be separated. One nation will be stronger than the other.”
John 4:20 - And this commandment we have from him, that he who loves God should love his brother also.
The handwriting on this page looked different than that on the other pages, less careful, more scribbled, and with a harder hand that made the ink almost imprint into the paper. Louis straightened and took off his glasses. Apparently, Jonas had changed his Wednesday sermon topic. He looked over the room again, at the sagging sofa with its crumbled blanket and thin pillow, at the desk with its mess of unfinished work.
A life interrupted, as if everything on Prince’s last day on earth had been frozen in time. The half-finished morning crossword. The coffee cup brought back here to the study. The last-minute switch to a new sermon.
The Fruit of Forgiveness . . .
What had compelled Prince to change it?
The cigar stink was getting to him. He left the study and made his way to the back of the house. An open bedroom door revealed a blue chenille-covered double bed, a chest of drawers, and a small desk. It was the room with the blue curtains that he had seen outside, with the window that the lurker had peered into. The room looked pristine, untouched, devoid of anything personal.
Except for the study, the rest of the house had that same feeling. Louis had seen the homes of men who lived alone before, and there was always a strange sadness to them, like the daily machinery of life went on, but the sweet, softening touches that came from being surrounded by a family were missing.
He went on to the master bedroom. A double bed with a maple headboard, its sheets in a tangle, the right side of the bed more concave than the left. The nightstand held a single lamp, an old rotary phone, a glass of water, and a small Bible.
A search of the dresser revealed only men’s clothing, as did the small closet, all imbued with the cedar smell.
The only thing left to go through was a hope chest at the foot of the bed. Louis opened the lid. On top were a couple of blankets and a souvenir pillow from Sault Ste. Marie. He set them aside.
Underneath was a small, white satin jewelry box which held a tiny gold ring, a red-and-gold brooch, a photo of an old clapboard house set in pine trees, and a yellowed lace handkerchief. Louis turned his attention to a cigar box, an older version of the one he had found in the study. Inside were some old papers but nothing that looked interesting, except for one old certificate illustrated with angels, Jesus, and printed in a language Louis guessed was German or Dutch. He could read only the date 1920 and the name of the person a
t the top of the certificate—Sedrik Prinsilä.
Prinsilä . . . Prince. Apparently, Jonas had Anglicized his family name at some point, not an uncommon practice in western Michigan, which had a large immigrant population. Maybe Sedrik was Anthony’s paternal grandfather.
Under the papers was an old prayer card. The front showed an angel hovering over a black-robed priest, identified as Sanctus Joannes Bosco. Louis remembered that Weems said Jonas passed out prayer cards to the workers.
Next was a piece of yellowed paper. It was handwritten and seemed to be a receipt from a man named Thomas Revel for a donation to the church of an organ valued at $600. At the bottom, someone had written “Donated as consideration for the services offered to the Revel family.” It was dated 1961.
There was only one thing left in the cigar box. It was a small black-and-white photograph, scarred with fold lines and yellow with age. It showed two boys, maybe four and six, staring deadpan at the camera. They were dressed alike in wool coats, standing in front of a small, white church. Louis turned it over. Written on the back in faded ink were the words “My boys.”
Louis sat back on his heels, staring at the two faces. This seemed to be the only photograph in the entire house of the Prince children. Why was it tucked away in an old chest?
A noise somewhere in the front of the house. The creak of footsteps on the wood floorboards.
Louis rose, still holding the photograph. “Cam? I’m back here, in the bedroom,” he called out.
No answer. No sound at all. The footsteps had stopped.
“Cam?”
Louis started to the door then froze.
The woman standing in the doorway was small and dark-skinned, wearing a plaid coat and holding out a can of mace. It was aimed straight at his face.
“Don’t you move,” the woman said.
Louis raised his hands. “Take it easy, ma’am, I’m just—”
“Shut your mouth and move away from that bed,” the woman said. “Get over there by that dresser.”
Louis hesitated then moved toward the corner. The woman sidled in, her eyes darting to the phone on the nightstand. “Now don’t make me use this, you hear? I’m going to call the police.”
Then it hit Louis. Delia Arnold. This was the housekeeper. Of course she had her own key.
“Mrs. Arnold,” he began slowly.
Her eyes narrowed. “How you know my name?”
“Mrs. Arnold, I’m a detective,” Louis said calmly, his eyes trained on her finger on the mace button. He had been maced once, back in the academy as part of his training. He had seen giant men dropped to their knees with one spray, screaming and wheezing.
“Mrs. Arnold, my name is Louis Kincaid. I am an investigator with the state police.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Yesterday, you were interviewed by one of my team members. Her name was Junia Cruz, a kinda large woman who wears a red cape. You remember her?”
Delia Arnold hesitated then nodded.
“Okay,” Louis said. “I’m going to bring my left hand down and move my jacket aside so you can see my badge on my belt, okay?”
Delia Arnold brought up her other hand to steady the mace but gave another tight nod.
Very slowly, Louis lowered his hand and exposed his badge. The housekeeper stared hard at the badge for a long moment, then she lowered the mace. Louis let out a long breath but decided to stay where he was.
“What are you doing in the reverend’s home?” Delia asked. “The police already came and went yesterday.”
“I know. I’m here to follow up on some things,” Louis said. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”
“Sorry if I scared you,” Delia said, holding up the mace. “I woulda used this, you know.”
“I don’t doubt that.”
Delia put the mace in her purse. She suddenly looked very tired and her eyes went toward the unmade bed. Louis had the feeling she needed to sit down but he knew she wouldn’t, not in this room, not on Jonas Prince’s bed.
“Why don’t we go sit down, maybe in the reverend’s study,” Louis said. “I’d like to ask you some questions if you’re up to it.”
Delia nodded and they headed back to the front of the house. As Louis followed her, he realized he was still holding the old photo of the Prince boys and he slipped it into his pocket.
In the study, Delia stopped short, staring at the sofa. She set her purse down and began to fold the blanket. “Poor soul,” she whispered.
“Ma’am?”
She turned to Louis. “This isn’t like him, to sleep out here. He’s got a really bad back and this old sofa is no place for a man like him to be.”
She stopped and her face fell. She had realized she was talking about Prince in the present tense, as so many grieving people did, just like Violet had done. Almost twenty years serving Jonas Prince . . . Louis had no doubt Delia Arnold cared for him deeply.
Delia stacked the blanket and pillow on the sofa. Then she looked to the messy desk, and Louis had the feeling she was thinking exactly what he himself had—a life interrupted, a morning frozen in time.
“Mrs. Arnold, can you tell me a little bit about the reverend’s routine?” Louis asked.
She looked to him. “What do you mean?”
“Well, for starters, he apparently changed his Wednesday sermon at the last minute. Did he often do that?”
She frowned. “No, he worked hard on his sermons and always had them done days early.” She smiled sadly. “He used to read them to me, you know, to try them out. He read me his one for this week when I was here Monday. It was on the sin of pride.” She paused. “Course, I don’t go to the reverend’s church. I go to Messiah Missionary Baptist over on Henry Avenue. But the good word’s the same wherever you go, you know. The Lord don’t care how fancy His house is.”
Louis had a sudden flashback, again to that hot-house of a wooden church in Mississippi. “No ma’am, He doesn’t care,” he said.
Delia looked around the study again. “I guess I should go get my things,” she said softly. She looked up at Louis. “Is that okay? The police wouldn’t let me in yesterday.”
“Of course,” Louis said.
She picked up her purse, started away then went back and got the dirty coffee cup. Louis followed her to the kitchen, where she set the cup in the sink. He had the feeling she wanted—needed—to clean things up, but instead she went to a broom closet and pulled out an apron, some rubber gloves, a gray cardigan sweater, a big, pink plastic tote, and an umbrella. Before she closed the door, Louis caught sight of a photo pinned to the inside of the door. It was of two little girls in white dresses.
“Your daughters?” Louis asked, nodding toward it.
“Granddaughters,” Delia said. She carefully unpinned the photo. “I need to take this to Theo. He hasn’t seen his girls in eight months and they’ve grown so.”
“Is Theo your son?” Louis asked.
She nodded slowly, not looking at him.
“Where is he?”
When Delia’s eyes came back to him, they were questioning for a moment, like she was looking at him but seeing someone else. “He’s in prison, down in Jackson,” she said.
“Sorry,” Louis said.
“No need to be,” Delia said. “He made a wrong turn, and he knows it. I’m watching over his babies until he gets out. Family is family. Even if they do wrong, you still have to love them.”
She was looking at the photo of her granddaughters again, running one finger lightly over the surface.
“I found this picture of the boys in a chest in the bedroom,” Louis said, holding out the old photo. “Why are there no other pictures of the family anywhere in the house?”
She glanced at the photo then cocked her head and gave him a hard stare, like she was trying to decide how personal she could get. “Mrs. Prince died before the reverend moved here,” she said. “And his youngest, he died real young. Maybe the reverend just couldn’t bear seeing what he
had lost.”
Delia started to the table and began to clean up. Louis pulled out his wallet and slipped the photo inside, thinking it might be useful to have it in the case file.
“How’d you come to work for Jonas Prince?” Louis asked.
Delia looked over at him from the sink. “I got a call from a lady at the church saying Mr. Anthony was looking for a housekeeper for his father. I went to the church, you know, for an interview, but it was Miss Violet who talked to me. She said that she used to come over here but her husband didn’t want her to do that anymore. She said the reverend needed caring for.”
Violet had told him that Anthony didn’t want her to have servants of her own. And he didn’t want Violet to take care of Jonas. He wondered if it was an attempt to isolate Violet. Men did that, narrowing their wives’ worlds to maintain control.
“When I first came here, this house had an awful feel in it,” Delia said. “The reverend hadn’t even bothered to change some of the burned out lightbulbs and the freezer was chockfull of old frozen casseroles and lasagnas that the parish folks brought but he never touched.”
She paused for a long time, looking around the kitchen. “I got him eating right, cleaned things up, helped him organize his study so he could work,” she went on.
“Did Violet ever come over?” Louis asked.
“Yes, maybe once a month or so. Not to check up on me. She wasn’t like that. I think she just liked my company. I liked hers, too, but she stopped coming about a year back. I don’t know why. Is Violet . . . is Mrs. Prince okay?”
“Yes,” Louis said. “Just very sad right now.”
Delia nodded slowly and started to put the rest of her belongings in the plastic tote.
“Mrs. Arnold, how would you describe Reverend Prince’s relationship with Anthony?” Louis asked.
“You mean were they close?”
“Yeah.”