Hope, Faith, and a Corpse

by Laura Jensen Walker

  Hope, Faith & a Corpse

  A FAITH CHAPEL MYSTERY

  Laura Jensen Walker

  For Edie Decker, the sweet, lovely, and oh-so-stylish inspiration for Dorothy. You are missed. And for my dear friend and beloved sister-in-law Sheri Jameson. We miss you.

  Acknowledgments

  When I began writing my first mystery novel, one of the minor characters made it quite clear that she was not to be relegated to the back pew. She was a major character who deserved her own story. Thus, I took the plunge and started writing two cozy mysteries simultaneously. After I shared the opening chapters with my agent, he LOVED the story starring the female Episcopal priest/accidental sleuth. “That’s the story you need to tell,” he said. And so I did. Thanks, Chip. You were right. I owe you.

  Thanks also to my editor, Faith Black Ross, for loving Hope’s story as well and for making it better. Added thanks to Melissa Rechter, Madeline Rathle, and the rest of the great team at Crooked Lane.

  I may be an Episcopalian, but I’m not a member of the clergy and don’t have the inside scoop on being a priest. Luckily, I happen to know a few Episcopal priests who generously allowed me to pick their clerical brains. Deepest gratitude to the Reverend Mary Claugus, the Reverend George Foxworth, and the Very Reverend Canon Mary Hauck. Extra thanks to Mary Hauck, my first rector, who met with me several times, answered my repeated questions, and graciously read the first draft—along with her husband, Paul—to ensure I’d gotten things right with Pastor Hope and Faith Chapel. Any errors are my own. Thanks also to former police officer the Reverend Michael Kerrick for answering my law enforcement questions about probable cause, detention, and jail time.

  Props to my old reporter pal, Patty Reyes, and her husband, Rob Humphrey, for providing the myriad G.I. Joe details and answering all my Joe questions. Who knew?

  Thank you to writer friends Cindy Coloma, Cathy Elliott, Dave Meurer, Jenny Lundquist, Holly Lorincz, and Eileen Rendahl, who read the initial first few chapters and provided feedback. Special thanks to Gayle Roper and Erica Ruth Neubauer, who generously read my book with a critical eye while busy writing their own.

  Also, thanks to early readers and cheerleaders Cheryl Harris, Marian Hitchings, and Katie Souva.

  Heartfelt thanks to my dear friends Dave and Dale Meurer for letting me steal away to their lovely home on a writing retreat—and for their gracious hospitality.

  Everlasting gratitude to Kim Orendor for always being there—I couldn’t have done this without you, Kimmie.

  And as always, to Michael, for everything.

  Chapter One

  It’s not every day you find yourself walking down the sidewalk on a pleasant day in Northern California and hear someone shout the name of the King of Rock and Roll, but that’s what happened to me.

  “Elvis!” the voice cried. “How many times do I have to tell you? Don’t be cruel.”

  I hesitated, wondering what I would find beyond the tall hedge I was approaching. As far as I knew, there hadn’t been any sightings this far north, but you never know … I rounded the curve and smacked straight into the King. “Ow.” My hand flew to my forehead, where I could feel a goose egg forming.

  “Oh darlin’, I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

  I looked through splayed fingers and saw stars.

  Gold stars on a white Vegas jumpsuit open to the waist … of a garden gnome. An Elvis garden gnome held in the age-spotted hands of a beehived woman oozing Shalimar. I shook my head to clear it. Big mistake. A wave of dizziness rolled over me, and I clutched at the nearby picket fence to steady myself.

  Beehive woman set Elvis down and grabbed my arm. “Honey, you need to sit down.” She guided me over to a bistro set in the front yard. The woman—whose bouffant hair matched her canary-yellow, above-the-crepey-knee dress—patted my hand. “You poor thing. I feel terrible. Elvis has been naughty, but he’s usually such a gentleman. That’s the first time I’ve seen him treat a lady that way. Now you wait right here while I go get you some ice.”

  I stared after her retreating go-go boots as she wound her way through a maze of gnomes, fairies, and assorted woodland creatures scattered across the yard. I felt caught in a mash-up of Grimms’ Fairy Tales and The Twilight Zone. Gingerly, I touched the goose egg.

  Beehive woman returned with an aged man trailing in her perfumed wake. He sent me a shy glance as he deposited a glass of orange liquid and a plate bearing a baggie of ice and a Twinkie on the table. Beehive batted her crooked false eyelashes. “There you go, darlin’. I find a little Tang and a Twinkie always makes everything better.”

  A Ding Dong might be more appropriate. (And isn’t Tang what the astronauts drank back in the sixties?) “Thank you.” I applied the ice to my throbbing head.

  Beehive linked her arm with the man next to her, a man clad head to toe in beige—slacks, shirt, cardigan, loafers. The sole relief from the sea of beigeness was his pale-blue eyes and a tuft of white hair in the center of his otherwise bald head. “Sugar,” she said, “this here’s the poor darlin’ Elvis ran into. I declare, he’s been actin’ up all mornin’ causing trouble between Buddy and Bobby, but when he was fixin’ to get into it with Frank, I knew I had to separate them. Elvis may be the King, but Frank’s the Chairman of the Board.”

  Not sure whether to laugh or call the Rat Pack, I glanced at Beige Man, but he had eyes only for his beloved.

  Beehive babbled on. “I’d taken Elvis out to the sidewalk so he could choose where he wanted to be, and he was havin’ a look-see around when this poor girl came round the curve and bam!” She narrowed her eyes at the offensive gnome, causing one of her false eyelashes to dangle. “I have a mind to put him in the backyard. I don’t care how much he complains.”

  I wolfed down the Twinkie and chased it with the Tang, wincing inwardly at the artificial taste of the powdered orange drink but hiding my distaste from the kindly odd couple. “Thank you so much,” I said with an appreciative smile. “That really hit the spot.” Then I took my leave, regretfully explaining that I had an important appointment.

  * * *

  The theme from The Twilight Zone played in a recurring loop in my head as I power-walked across town. I couldn’t afford to be late for my very important date—my first day of work at my new job. A big step for me, an exciting step, but also a little scary. In an attempt to settle my first-day jitters, I made a mental note to ask my new boss for the scoop on Beehive woman and to let me know if there were any more like her in town. I hadn’t lived in a small town since I was a kid in Wisconsin, but even that was an urban metropolis next to this sleepy little place: Apple Springs, California. After the noise, congestion, and traffic of the Bay Area where I had lived and worked for the past two decades, this tranquil town an hour east of Sacramento was a welcome respite. My new beginning. A beginning I was at last ready for—and looking forward to—after the pain and loss of the past couple of years.

  I stopped in front of the 160-year-old wooden building to catch my breath and dug out my compact. Yes! The goose egg had receded. I twitched my brown bangs around, covering it, but by tomorrow I’d look like Sylvester Stallone in one of the Rocky movies. Not quite the professional, dignified impression I’d hoped to make.

  I glanced at my watch. Eight thirty. Right on time. Pushing open the side door of Faith Chapel Episcopal Church, I stepped inside and removed my light jacket and scarf to reveal my clerical collar. “Hello?” An empty reception area with worn green carpet, an ancient plaid love seat, and an Army surplus desk holding teetering stacks of paper and a vase of tired silk flowers greeted me. Beyond the vacant desk stood a closed door with the faded word Rector in the center.

  “Father Christopher?” Hesitantly, I k
nocked on the door. No answer. I checked my phone. No messages or missed calls.

  I knocked again. Harder. “Christopher?” I called out. “It’s Hope.” Nada. I turned the doorknob and poked my head in. Another silent and empty office. Except this one was chaos—papers everywhere. Desk. Chair. Filing cabinet. Even the floor. It looked as if a tornado had swirled through, leaving a swath of office-supply destruction in its wake. As I entered, however, I noticed pathways among the myriad piles and realized it was organized chaos. Somewhat. Christopher Weaver, my new boss, had warned me he was a “bit of a pack rat” and had become “somewhat disorganized” since losing his secretary a few months ago.

  He hoped I could help bring order to the office, and my inner neatnik itched to jump in and start tidying up right then—the by-product of a clean-freak mother. She had instilled within me the mantra “A place for everything and everything in its place” at an early age, and it had stuck. Unlike most of her other maxims, such as “Never wear white after Labor Day,” “Let your husband wear the pants in the family,” and “Always, always be a lady.”

  This lady wondered where her boss might be. I thought of texting him, but then remembered he was old-school and didn’t text. He had a cell, but mainly for emergencies, and had confessed, embarrassed, that he often forgot to turn it on. We had agreed to meet at the church at eight thirty so he could give me a complete tour of the buildings and grounds, including the small chapel and columbarium (wall crypt) behind the main church.

  Doh. Think. I rapped my knuckles on my forehead, then winced as the goose egg reminded me of its presence. My boss was probably waiting for me at the chapel annex around back.

  Pretty pink camellias bloomed on either side of the shade-dappled stone walkway, nestled between clumps of colorful primroses and budding azaleas, which would be glorious in another week or two. Thankfully, I didn’t see any garden gnomes. Spring is my favorite time of year, and I looked forward to seeing the parish garden in full bloom. Humming “In the Garden,” I pushed open the wooden chapel door.

  “Father Christopher?”

  Silence. I entered the shadowy small chapel and sniffed. The place reeked of alcohol. Has someone spilled communion wine? I took another step and almost tripped over something. A man, passed out on the floor. So that’s the source of the smell. Drunk in this holy place. I knelt down to shake him awake, but my knees landed on something hard, which rolled beneath me and almost threw me off-balance.

  I steadied myself and picked up the hard object—a heavy burial urn.

  My eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering in through the stained-glass windows. That’s when I saw the blood and the tweed cap. My stomach clenched, and I murmured a prayer as I leaned forward to check for a pulse.

  A scream rent the air.

  Whirling around, still clutching the urn, I saw two blue-haired women, their arms filled with altar cloths and their eyes filled with horror, standing in the now wide-open doorway, the morning sunlight flooding the small chapel.

  My missing boss, Father Christopher, appeared behind them. “What’s going on here?”

  “Stanley’s dead, and she killed him!” one of the women shrieked, pointing a trembling finger at me.

  Worst first day ever.

  Chapter Two

  It went downhill from there.

  As a priest, I had seen my share of death—it comes with the territory. I had prayed with and comforted the dying and had been granted the sacred privilege of being there when some of them, including my beloved David, took their last breath. However, I’d never stumbled upon a dead body before, and definitely not a murder victim. This was clearly murder. It was possible the drunken man had fallen and hit his head on the altar or something, but then why was there blood on the bottom of the burial urn and none on the altar? No, it looked obvious, at least to my inner Trixie Belden, that the container of ashes had been used to hit Stanley King over the head and kill him.

  And at the moment, it looked like I was the prime suspect.

  After the rector and the altar guild ladies discovered me with the dead Stanley, Father Christopher called the police, then herded the two shaking women and me into the rectory adjacent to the church. I was shaking too, but in times of tragedy or crisis, a priest needs to maintain composure and offer pastoral comfort.

  Except the woman who had accused me of murder wasn’t accepting any comfort from me, and her timid friend followed her lead.

  Minutes after Father Christopher’s call, police chief Harold Beacham and his wife Patricia, the elected head of the parish council (or as Episcopalians call it, the vestry) arrived. They were followed soon after by the county medical examiner, Stu Black, who was now doing a preliminary exam of the body in the columbarium chapel. Chief Beacham, a slim, distinguished-looking man with mocha skin and close-cropped steel-gray hair, sat across from me in the rectory study. He flipped open his notebook. “Now, Pastor, tell me what happened.”

  I explained how I’d arrived at the church to meet Father Christopher and how, when I found the office empty, I’d gone in search of him but found the dead Stanley in the columbarium instead. As opposed to Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick.

  “Did you see anyone on your way to the chapel annex?”

  “Not a soul.” Why was that, anyway? Where the heck was Father Christopher? He couldn’t have had anything to do with this, could he? As soon as that disloyal thought entered my brain, I dismissed it. Not Christopher. He was a kind, sweet septuagenarian and a priest to boot. A good priest with a good heart. Incapable of murder. For from within, out of the heart of men, proceed evil thoughts, adulteries … murders … Unbidden, the scripture popped into my head. I popped it right back out and returned my attention to the police chief.

  He scratched a note. “Did you notice anything unusual when you entered the chapel?”

  You mean besides the dead guy on the ground? I didn’t say that aloud, however. As the new associate pastor and first woman priest in Faith Chapel’s history, it was best to keep my inner snark silent. At least for now. Once I had gotten to know everyone, proven myself, and been cleared of murder suspicions, I could let my freak flag fly.

  “Pastor Hope?”

  “Sorry. What did you say?”

  “Did you notice anything unusual when you entered the chapel?”

  “Yes. The smell. There was a strong smell of alcohol.”

  The chief scratched another note. “Anything else?”

  “Then I saw the man on the floor. I thought he was drunk until I saw the blood.”

  “Okay, a couple more questions.” Harold Beacham fixed me with a penetrating stare. “Why were you leaning over him with the bloody urn in your hand, and how did you get the nasty bump on your head?”

  “Courtesy of Elvis—thank you very much,” I said, parroting the King. Although Elvis hadn’t been part of my growing-up years, both my husband, David, and his older sister, Virginia, were big fans of his music. They introduced me to the King of Rock and Roll, and I too became a fan. We danced the first dance at our wedding to “I Can’t Help Falling in Love With You.”

  The police chief lifted a salt-and-pepper eyebrow, but before he could reply, a knock at the door interrupted us. Patricia Beacham, Harold’s elegant wife and senior warden of the vestry, poked her head in. “Sorry to disturb, Hal, but Stu said he needs you in the chapel.”

  “Thanks.” Chief Beacham stood up. “Thank you for your time, Pastor. Please stick around, though. I may have more questions.”

  “I promise not to make a run for the border.”

  Did I say that aloud? Smart move, Sherlock.

  Harold frowned, but his wife, whom I had met and bonded with during a recent vestry meeting, linked her arm with mine. “Shall we rejoin the others, Hope?”

  “Good idea.” I gave the chief a weak parting smile before Patricia and I returned to the dining room, where Father Christopher and the two blue-haired women waited. As we entered the room, my accuser, Marjorie Chamberlai
n, sent me a look that was equal parts suspicious and self-congratulatory. I had gotten off to a bad start with Marjorie when we met at a gathering of the other vestry members and Father Christopher during their pastoral search. My potential new boss had warned me that Marjorie was not a fan of women in the pulpit, so I knew I had my work cut out for me if I wanted the vestry (the committee elected by the congregation to manage the affairs of the church) to recommend me for the associate pastor position.

  During drinks and hors d’oeuvres at that meeting, Father Christopher had ushered over a sturdy blue-haired woman in an unflattering purple pantsuit who wore a skeptical expression on her lined face. “Hope, I’d like you to meet a longtime member of Faith Chapel. Marjorie Chamberlain. Marjorie’s head of the altar guild.”

  “Nice to meet you, Marjorie. How long have you been at the church?”

  “Eighty-two years,” she said proudly. “I’m a cradle Episcopalian. My great-grandfather Richard Chamberlain was a founding member.”

  “Ooh, I loved him in The Thorn Birds. He made my tweenage heart go pitty-pat.”

  Marjorie gave me a blank stare.

  “The eighties miniseries with the hot Father Ralph?” The one I’d had to sneak out to watch over at my best friend Cindy’s house. Until my vigilant TV-and-movie-monitoring father found out. That was the end of both The Thorn Birds and my friendship with Cindy.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The blank stare turned icy. “My grandfather wasn’t a priest, hot or otherwise. He wasn’t even alive in the eighties.”

  Nice job, Pastor Open-Mouth-Insert-Foot.

  Now, as we sat around the dining table drinking the hot tea Patricia Beacham had made (Lipton, unfortunately), Marjorie’s altar guild shadow, Lottie Wilson, kept clasping and unclasping her arthritic hands. Father Christopher tried to soothe Lottie with Fig Newtons as Marjorie glared at me over her delicate English china teacup and saucer.