“He has good taste.” He gave a bow. “Albert Drummond, at your service. Anything you need, you let me know. I’ve been here a long time, and I know where all the bodies are buried.”
“Good to know. I’ll keep that in mind.”
He peered beyond me. “Where’s your husband? I’d like to meet him. Didn’t he come with you today?”
“I’m afraid not.” My heart stopped for a moment, as it always did when I was asked about David. Then it started up again, another thing it always did. “My husband passed away a couple years ago. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I lost my wife to that awful disease.” Albert’s eyes filled. “It’s been fifteen years, and I still miss her.”
“I know the feeling.”
“Dad, would you like some of Patricia’s carrot cake?” Bonnie asked.
“Is the Pope Catholic?” He tugged out a handkerchief and wiped at his eyes, then blew his nose.
Father Christopher gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. “If you’ll excuse us, Al, Bonnie, I’d like to introduce Hope to some more folks.”
“Go right on ahead. Happy to have you at Faith Chapel, Pastor.”
“Thanks. I’m very happy to be here.”
As we moved away, I heard Albert say, “That is one good-lookin’ priest. I like a woman with a little meat on her bones.”
“Dad!”
“I’d say you have a fan,” Christopher murmured.
“I’ll take as many as I can get.”
The next few parishioners Father Christopher introduced me to were not as welcoming. They shook my hand but regarded me with wary looks, lingering on my black eye and responding to my attempts at conversation with only brief replies. Some excused themselves on the pretext of an urgent need to talk to someone or other about what they needed to bring to Wednesday’s potluck.
Just kill me now.
“Father Christopher? Over here.” A familiar humpbacked, white-haired woman in red waved us over with her cane.
“Why Dorothy, don’t you look as pretty as a picture,” the rector said. “Hope, I’d like you to meet Dorothy Thompson, the sweetheart of Faith Chapel.”
“Oh, Father.” Her creased cheeks pinked with pleasure.
“Thank you for leading my cheering section this morning, Dorothy.”
“Happy to do so, Pastor. My goodness, it is the twenty-first century, after all.” She shot a look at the wrinkled man who had stalked out during my introduction and was now holding court in the far corner with a few other old-timers. “Some people need to get their heads out of their you-know-whats and realize we left the fifties a long time ago.”
“Preach it, Dorothy.” Todd King pushed his floppy ginger hair out of his eyes as he joined us.
“Todd.” Dorothy’s eyes widened. “What are you doing here?”
“Welcoming our new priest.”
“But … I … we didn’t expect to see you so soon after—” The sweetheart of Faith Chapel stopped herself and hugged the young man. “I’m so sorry about your father. How is Samantha?”
A shadow crossed Todd’s face. “Not great, but she’ll be okay. Thanks.” He turned his attention to me, obviously eager to change the subject. “So, Pastor, what do you think of our church? She’s a beauty, isn’t she? Especially that gorgeous old tongue-and-groove ceiling.”
“Yes, I was admiring it earlier.”
“Todd’s an artist,” Dorothy said. “A wonderful one.”
“Oh? What medium do you work in?”
“Fused glass, mostly, but also some acrylics and watercolors.”
“I’d love to see some of your work. Do you have a studio here in town?”
“Not anymore.” He scowled.
“I’m the proud owner of several art pieces from this talented young man,” Father Christopher said. “I’ll show them to you, Hope. Maybe after service tonight? You can join me for dinner, if you don’t mind leftover chili.”
Nearby, my nemesis Marjorie Chamberlain, who had been listening to our conversation, spoke up, “Why, Father, don’t you remember you’re having dinner with Lottie and I tonight?”
“I’m so sorry, Marjorie. Please forgive me. I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached. See, this is why I need Hope.”
Marjorie gave me a fake smile and passed by me to enfold the skinny Todd King in a crushing hug. “You poor boy. I’m so sorry for your loss. You and Samantha must be devastated. I remember how I felt when I lost my beloved papa.” She sniffled. “Now you both come for dinner tonight too. Your church family will take good care of you.”
“Uh, thanks, Marjorie.” Todd managed to extricate himself from her grip. His eyes took on a trapped look, however, when he saw Chief Beacham, Patricia, and a line of church ladies ready to offer their sympathy. “Let me check with Sami, and I’ll let you know. Gotta go.” He sprinted for the door.
Now that’s what I call a quick getaway. Was it the church ladies who scared him off? Or the police chief? I made a mental note to find out more about artist Todd and his relationship with his father.
* * *
The lunch rush had ended at the retro diner on Main Street, leaving only a few families remaining at the Formica-topped tables. I’d chosen to nestle into one of the vintage booths, where I removed a PG Tips tea bag from the plastic-sandwich-bag stash I always kept in my purse and plopped it in the cup in front of me. After pouring boiling hot—never tepid—water into the cup, I stirred twice, then removed the pyramid-shaped tea bag and set it on the saucer. Adding milk and sugar, I stirred again, lifted the cup to my lips, and took a long, greedy drink. “Ahh. I needed that.”
The middle-aged server, who had been watching my entire ritual with a bemused expression, shook her head. “Now that’s a first. I’ve never seen anyone carry on so much over a cup of tea.”
“I went to England on my honeymoon and came back a tea lover.” I took another sip. “Nectar of the gods.”
The server, whose name tag read Susan, lifted an eyebrow. “Gods? As in plural?” She glanced at my clerical collar. “You Episcopalians sure are mixing it up over at Faith Chapel.”
“It’s good to mix it up every now and then. I take it you’re not an Episcopalian?”
She shook her head. “Nor Presbyterian. Catholic. Methodist. Baptist. Or any of those other ists.”
“Not a church fan?”
“I’m good with God. It’s his people I’m not too crazy about. Nothing personal.”
“I understand. I feel the same way myself sometimes.” When I accepted the position at this small rural church that had never had a woman pastor in its entire 160-year history, I had known I would encounter some resistance, so I was prepared for it.
I wasn’t prepared for murder.
“So, you’re the new preacher they’re saying knocked off Stanley King, huh?”
I choked on my tea. Before I could formulate a pastorally correct response, Server Susan grabbed my hand and shook it. “You did everyone a favor. The guy was the biggest jerk in town. Actually, jerk’s way too nice a word, but there are children present.” She lowered her voice. “Stanley King was a lousy, miserable excuse for a human being. And you’ll find there won’t be many, if any, in Apple Springs shedding tears for him.”
“Really? Why?” As a rule, I don’t like to take part in gossip. Not a very priestly attribute. In addition, there’s that pesky ninth commandment about not bearing false witness against your neighbor, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Susan pushed her thick dark hair with its Bonnie Raitt streak of gray behind her ear. “You got all day? Because that’s how long it’ll take to catalog the man’s sins.”
“Can you give me the Reader’s Digest version?”
The families left, leaving the diner empty except for a young guy at the counter intent on his phone. Susan slipped into the red vinyl booth across from me to dish the dirt. “First of all, Stanley is—correction, was—an arrogant SOB who thought because he was rich his shit didn�
��t stink and the whole town should bow down to him. The guy was a cheat, liar, and total user who treated everyone like crap, including his own children.”
She lifted her hand and began ticking off the man’s sins on her fingers. “Stanley was a real player, dating and dumping a host of women—married, unmarried, didn’t matter. He thought he was God’s gift and his wealth entitled him to hit on every woman around. Some who were barely legal.”
Hmm. Maybe an angry husband or father killed him.
Susan raised a second finger. “He cheated his former law partner out of the business and left the poor guy bankrupt and divorced.”
Or business associate.
She lifted her middle finger. “He owned several properties in town—including this one—and kept raising the rents sky-high, which caused many longtime mom-and-pop businesses to fold.”
Tenant?
Ring finger. “When Todd moved out of the King mansion in an effort to break away from his father’s control, Stanley kicked him out of the art studio he’d been leasing from dear old dad. From then on, the jerk never missed an opportunity to put down his son in public. Putting people down was one of Stanley King’s favorite indoor sports.”
His son? Could it be patricide?
Susan extended her pinkie. “His constant verbal abuse and manipulation drove his daughter Samantha to drink and gamble, until she became so deep in debt that daddy had to bail her out, thus ensuring she’d never break free from his clutches. Unlike his young wife, whom he drove to suicide years ago.”
My stomach turned. “And that’s the Reader’s Digest version?”
“Yep. Kind of leaves a bad taste in the mouth, doesn’t it?” Susan stood up and stretched. “What you need is a nice piece of pie. I’ve got apple, chocolate, and today’s special, coconut cream.”
“Before lunch?”
“You can have lunch afterwards. Life is short. Eat dessert first.”
“But I didn’t even have breakfast.”
“Then you need some fruit. How about a nice piece of my hot apple pie with cheese on top? That way you get your protein too.”
“You make the pies?” I glanced out the window at the neon diner sign. “Wait. You’re the owner. Suzie?”
“Yes and no.” She puffed out a sigh. “Yes, I’m the owner—half owner—and no, I’m not Suzie. Never Suzie. The sign was already there when we bought the place. Mike, my husband, insisted we keep it. ‘It’s a landmark,’ he said.” She scowled. “It may be a landmark, but I hate it when people call me Suzie. No one calls him Mikey.”
“I can call him Mikey if you like. Mikey likes it.”
“Works for me, but you may not like how your food turns out.” She jerked her head over her shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. “Mike’s the cook.”
My inner movie geek did a mental fist pump. For the first time, I noticed the classic movie posters hanging on the walls above the black-and-white-checkerboard floor: North by Northwest, True Grit, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, The Great Escape, and Casablanca. I’ve always had a thing for old movies. While my high school classmates were laughing at Dumb and Dumber and Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, I was soaking up Bogie and Bacall, both Hepburns, and Cary Grant. Always Cary Grant. Be still my heart. “Which one’s your favorite?”
Susan tilted her head and examined the posters. “It’s a toss-up between North by Northwest and Butch Cassidy, but if I had to pick just one, I’d go with Butch and Sundance. I mean, Paul Newman and Robert Redford? What more could you ask for?”
“Katharine Ross,” yelled a male voice from the kitchen.
“Simmer down, big boy, we weren’t talking to you,” Susan yelled back. “Mike’s had a crush on Katharine Ross since he snuck into The Graduate in junior high,” she explained.
“Understandable.” My stomach growled. “Guess I’d better order.”
“As long as you start with pie.”
I chose the apple with cheese and a tuna melt. Fifteen minutes later when Susan returned and sat down again on a coffee break, only crumbs remained. “That’s the best apple pie I’ve ever had,” I said. “Even better than my sister-in-law’s—but don’t tell her I said so. Virginia’s a great baker and cook, while I, on the other hand, cannot cook to save my life. Except for my killer scrambled eggs, thanks to my secret ingredient.”
“Which is …?”
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
Susan looked around and behind her. “But there’s no burial urn here.”
“Susan, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
She clinked her coffee cup against my teacup. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
The bell over the front door jangled, and in walked Beehive woman and Beige man. Minus Elvis, thankfully. Today Beehive wore head-to-toe pink, while her sweetheart was again clad in his ubiquitous beige—broken up by a navy tie. They slipped into the front booth, where they held hands across the table and had eyes only for each other.
My hand involuntarily moved to my forehead. “Who’s that?”
Susan leaned forward and said quietly, “Bethann and Wendell Jackson. She headlined a girl group called Bethann and the Blondelles back in the day. She’s a bit eccentric. Not sure if it’s a side effect from all those drugs in the sixties or what. Bethann is harmless, though, and a total sweetheart. Her husband adores her.”
Susan got up and walked over to their booth. “Hey, Bethann. Dell. How’s it going? You want your usual?”
“Yep,” he said, “but skip the milk. We’re going to have a chocolate malt today with our pie.”
“Whoa. Living large. What’s the occasion?”
“We’re celebratin’,” Beehive Bethann said. “Finally after all those years of tormentin’ us, our awful neighbor got his just desserts.” Then she noticed me and my dog collar. Her eyes widened. “Oh my goodness, darlin’, look. It’s that woman Elvis gave the shiner to!” She crossed herself and hurried over to my table, her husband on her heels. “You’re the lady priest everyone’s been talkin’ about?”
“Guilty as charged.”
Bethann’s false-eyelashes-ringed eyes widened even more. “Well, don’t you worry, honey. We know a good lawyer.” She turned to her husband. “Dell, sweetheart, do you have Don Forrester’s card for the reverend so he can defend her for horrible Stanley’s murder?”
“What?” I looked from Beehive woman to Beige man.
Wendell put his arm around his wife’s waist. “Sugar, that’s a figure of speech.”
“But she said she was guilty.”
“Of being the woman priest the whole town’s talking about,” I said. “We weren’t properly introduced the other day. Hi, I’m Hope Taylor, and you are Bethann and Wendell. Did I hear you say Stanley King was your neighbor?”
Bethann’s heavily made-up face flushed as pink as her crocheted jumpsuit. “Yes. He lives—lived—behind us. What a mean, nasty man. He was always complaining about our yard. Said it was an eyesore. Called us poor white trash. Even tried to drive us out of our home using his legal mumbo jumbo.” Her lips quivered, and her eyes glistened with tears. “The only real home I’ve ever had.”
Wendell squeezed Bethann’s waist. “Don’t get yourself all upset, sweetie. Our home is safe, and Stanley can’t say or do any more awful things to us. Or anyone.” He kissed her cheek. “Forget about him. Remember, we’re here to celebrate.”
“You’re right, darlin’.” Bethann blinked back her tears and gave him a dazzling smile. “I’m lookin’ forward to some delicious coconut cream pie, and a yummy malt. Now, Susan, don’t forget to bring two straws.”
“You got it.”
Bethann sped back to their booth and Wendell followed, mumbling a hasty good-bye. She said over her shoulder, “And don’t you worry, Reverend honey, I gave Elvis a time-out, and he’s in Jailhouse Rock right now.”
And I am back in The Twilight Zone. As I watched the couple tuck into their pie, I thought of how Bethann right away ha
d assumed I killed Stanley. Did everyone believe that? It made no sense. I’m a priest, for goodness’ sake. My job is to help people, not hurt them. That’s why I’d been so eager to come here—to help Father Christopher, and to minister to the people of Faith Chapel. And yes, to begin again. Why would I murder the man? I didn’t even know him. I had nothing to gain by killing him, and everything to lose.
My thought train stopped in its tracks. Gain. That was the key. Who’d had something to gain from Stanley’s death? I looked over at Bethann and Wendell again, now sharing their chocolate malt. Hadn’t she said Stanley had tried to drive them out of their house? Was Bethann really as harmless as Susan thought? After all, she had bonked me in the head with an Elvis gnome. What might she do with an urn?
“Do you want another cup of tea?” Susan appeared beside me with more hot water.
“Yes, please.” I fished out my PG Tips and dropped a fresh tea bag into my cup.
The bell over the front door jangled again. I looked up to see Todd King guiding his chalk-faced sister to a back booth.
“Uh-oh,” Susan murmured. “Is daddy dearest still plaguing that sweet girl from beyond the grave? Between you and me, I’m glad someone whacked him before Samantha wound up like her poor mama. There have been plenty of times Mike wanted to take a two-by-four up the side of Stanley’s head himself, and he’s not the only one.” She poured hot water into my cup, then left to wait on the King children.
I pulled out my smartphone and thumbed in a Google search to see if I could find any background on Todd and Samantha’s mother. It didn’t take long. The newspaper story was a familiar one: a young woman with a history of drug and alcohol abuse had died of an accidental overdose twenty years ago. What was not so familiar was that this young woman, Lily, had been married to the wealthy, powerful, and much-older Stanley King. Rumors at the time said her death was a suicide, but Stanley squelched those rumors and called the loss of his “beautiful, beloved wife” a “tragic accident” instead. Lily left behind a six-year-old daughter and four-year-old son.
Those poor kids. I thought of my stepdaughter Emily, remembering how devastated she had been to lose her dad. David had been a kind, loving, and engaged father. Thankfully, he had been there for Emily’s major adult milestones, for which I was eternally grateful. He had seen his daughter graduate from college, walked her down the aisle, and wept when his first grandchild was born. Lily King had missed all that, and her children had missed a mother’s love and guidance. Now they had lost their father as well.
Hope, Faith, and a Corpse Page 3