Hope, Faith, and a Corpse

by Laura Jensen Walker

  Time to pay a pastoral visit.

  * * *

  The siblings were sitting on the same side of the booth, their backs to me, and didn’t notice my approach. “What are we going to do? I don’t know what to do. What if someone finds out?” Samantha stifled a sob.

  “It’s okay, Red. It’s going to be okay. Don’t worry.”

  “Excuse me—”

  They both jumped. Samantha stared at me, wild-eyed and trembling.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I wanted to let you know that if you ever need to talk, I’m happy to listen. Anytime. Just give me a call.”

  Samantha continued to stare at me.

  “Are you all right? Is there anything I can do?”

  “It’s okay, Pastor.” Todd gave a forced chuckle. “We, uh, saw a big old rat outside, and it freaked Sam out. She’s always been afraid of rats.”

  His sister nodded agreement.

  Uh-huh. It wasn’t a rat—unless it was the two-legged variety. I kept those thoughts to myself. My ecclesiastical training had taught me that there is a time for silence and a time to speak—a lesson I am still learning, considering my natural tendency to blurt out whatever pops into my head. After my prior two years as a deacon and pastor in the Bay Area, however, I had gotten much better at buttoning up my blurts.

  Oh? What about your “hot Father Ralph” comment to Marjorie? I stifled my pesky inner I’m-not-a-perfect-priest reminder and reached into my pocket. “Here’s my card with my cell and office number. Call me anytime.”

  As I walked back to my table, I thought of my own family upbringing. My father was a stern authoritarian, like the guy played by Robert Duvall in The Great Santini, and my mother was a doormat whom the women’s movement had passed by. Talk about a Stepford wife. The time-warp church we attended growing up taught that women should not work outside the home and must submit to men and serve their every need. Mom bought into that master-slave scenario completely and expected my older sister, Rachel, and me to do the same. Rachel escaped by joining the Air Force after high school and shipping out overseas, while I fled across the country to a West Coast college at eighteen.

  I wondered if Samantha had ever tried to flee. Then I wondered what she had meant by “What if someone finds out?” Could it be she had finally had enough of her father’s controlling ways and verbal abuse, snapped, and killed him in the columbarium? And if I was wondering that, were the police?

  Chapter Four

  As I opened the door to my house, seventy-five pounds of black fur hit me. Tail-wagging, face-licking, paws-on-my-shoulders fur. “Hi, Bogie-boy, did you miss me?” I returned my black Lab’s hug, knowing as I did that my clergy vest would need a thorough going-over with the lint roller. At least his hairs matched the vest.

  I’d met my dog six years ago with David at a Lab rescue place and instantly fallen in love with the tiny black pup. And he fell in love with my husband. When David died, Bogie and I mourned him together.

  “Does someone want to go outside?” Bogie raced me to the kitchen, his tail helicoptering all over the place and his nails clickety-clicking on the linoleum. I opened the back door, and he zoomed out to do his business and then race to the tennis ball in the far corner of the yard. The large fenced-in backyard of the 1940s bungalow was the main reason I had bought this house. Bogie needed room to run. The original hardwood floors (everywhere but the kitchen) and classic details didn’t hurt either. For houses, like everything else in my life—movies, music, men—I prefer vintage. Granted, some of the vintage wasn’t exactly my style, like the glittery gold linoleum on the kitchen floor and the avocado-and-gold floral wallpaper that screamed sixties, but I planned to do improvements.

  In the bedroom, I exchanged my clergy clothes for my Keep Calm and Ring Carson for Tea T-shirt and favorite jeans. Then I returned to the kitchen, expecting Bogie to be waiting at the back door, tennis ball in mouth, which was his norm—at least at our old house—but he wasn’t there. I went out onto the back patio and scanned the yard. No Bogie. My heart dropped. Please oh please, let me not have lost my dog, my best friend. “Bogie?” I whistled.

  Woof! Woof! A reassuring bark met my ears, and a delighted giggle from next door pierced the air. “Funny doggy.”

  I hurried over to the side fence, where I noticed an opening between a few loose wooden slats I hadn’t seen before. Likely because the opening was recently made by my curious dog. I sucked in my stomach, wishing I had already lost those extra fifteen pounds. Then I spread the slats and squeezed through into my neighbor’s yard. There I found my dog licking the legs of a laughing, curly-headed child.

  “That tickles!” The little girl giggled. “Do it again!”

  But Bogie had spotted me. Woof! He bounded over and lay on his back in front of me, raising all four legs in the air as he did his “Beam me up, Scotty” routine.

  I knelt and scratched his tummy. He wagged his tail and released a contented noise, which sounded remarkably like a purr.

  “I wanna do that too.” The dark-haired child plopped down beside me and stretched out her hand toward Bogie.

  “Okay, but be gentle.”

  She patted his belly. “So soft.” Then she looked up at me with striking cobalt-blue eyes framed by the longest lashes I had ever seen. “What’s his name?”

  “Bogie.”

  “Hi, Bogie.” She stroked his fur. “My name is Maddie.” Then she looked up at me. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Hope. Nice to meet you.”

  “Do you wanna be my friend?”

  “I would love to.” As I looked down at the adorable child enraptured with Bogie, I got the distinct feeling I would be a second-string friend to my dog, and not for the first time.

  “You live in Harry’s house. Harry was my friend too, but he’s in heaven now.” She waved up at the sky. “Hi, Harry.”

  Before I could respond, a slim, striking young woman in yoga pants and a tank top with hair the same dark Belgian chocolate as Maddie’s strode across the grass to us, smiling.

  “Mommy, see the pretty dog?”

  The mother dropped to the ground beside her daughter and joined her in stroking Bogie’s belly, which sent him into further ecstasy. “What a sweet boy.” She looked across at me and smiled. “I’m Nikki McNeal. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  I introduced myself to the hard-bodied twentysomething across from me, all at once conscious of my middle-aged muffin top poking over the top of my jeans. Especially since the same ultra-fit young woman was now staring hard at my T-shirt. Casually I plucked the fabric away from my midriff pooch.

  “I love Carson,” Nikki said, her sapphire eyes sparkling. “He and Mrs. Hughes are my favorite couple from Downton Abbey.”

  “Mine too. It used to be Mary and Matthew until he went and got himself killed to go make movies. But I have to admit, he made a good Beast in Beauty and the Beast.”

  “I know, right?”

  “I like Beauty and the Beast,” piped up Maddie. “Belle reads books.”

  “That’s why she’s my favorite Disney character. Like Belle, I love to read.” I recited, “‘In an old house in Paris that was covered in vines, lived twelve little girls in two straight lines.’”

  “That’s from Madeline!” Maddie beamed at me.

  “I loved the Madeline books when I was your age. Is that who you’re named after?”

  She nodded and puffed out her chest. “Madeline Clare McNeal.” She held up four fingers. “I’m almost four.”

  Bogie interrupted our literary love fest by batting at my leg with his paw and giving me a beseeching look.

  “What? Does someone need a walk?”

  He wagged his tail at the w-word, which quickly morphed into an excited tail thumping. I stood up and brushed off my jeans. “I’d better take this big boy for some exercise.”

  “C’n I help?” Maddie scrambled to her feet.

  “You haven’t had lunch yet, young lady,” Nikki said. “And it’s no
t polite to invite yourself.”

  “How about if you help me walk Bogie tomorrow, Maddie? Maybe once I’m settled in, you and your mom could come over for a tea party. Would you like that?”

  Her cobalt eyes shone. “With sparkly cookies?”

  “I think we can manage that.”

  We said our good-byes, and while Maddie was busy hugging Bogie, Nikki took me aside and said, “Don’t let the haters get you down. Believe me, there’s plenty of people in town with actual motive to knock off Stan-the-jerk-man.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  Back home, I clipped on Bogie’s leash and grabbed a zip-up hoodie from the coatrack. “C’mon, boy, let’s go check out our new town.” We strolled through the leafy neighborhood, which was a mixture of cottages, bungalows, Craftsmen-style homes, and the occasional Victorian. No cookie-cutter urban sprawl here. Crab apple trees and wisteria bloomed on both sides of the street, leaving a heady fragrance in their wake. I basked in the peaceful stillness of the morning, enjoying the quiet of my new small-town neighborhood. Life in the Bay Area had been anything but quiet, especially these past few years with David regularly in and out of the hospital in San Francisco.

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  A woman in an aqua housecoat interrupted my reverie. She click-clacked down the driveway of her Victorian in mules with fluffy turquoise puffs. Puffs that shed with every step she took. As she drew near, her carroty hair, tomato-red lipstick, and blush that looked like a mound of Cheetos plopped onto her pancaked cheeks blinded me. The heavy makeup creased in the crow’s feet on the sides of her stonewashed denim eyes. “Beauty School Dropout” from Grease popped into my head. Thankfully, it did not come out my mouth.

  “Why hello there!” Aqua woman came to a breathless stop in front of me. “Ah wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.” She extended a freckled, age-spotted hand. “I’m Liliane Turner. Delighted to meet you.”

  I shook the scarlet-nailed hand. “And you. I’m—”

  “Oh, I know who you are.” She released a tinkling laugh. “Everyone does. You’re Hope Taylor, the new Episcopal priest who is living in Harry Guthrie’s old house. Ah hope you’ll be happy in our sleepy little Apple Springs. We’re not as sophisticated and exciting as San Francisco and the Bay Area.”

  “I don’t need exciting. Small and sleepy suits me fine.”

  Bogie nosed at her housecoat, and Liliane took a hesitant step back. “My, what a big dog.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s harmless. Aren’t you, sweet boy?” I knelt down and hugged him, which elicited a doggy kiss on my neck in return. “The only danger you’re in is of being licked to death.” I grinned and looked up at the fluttery Liliane in time to catch a glimpse of a grimace on her pancaked face.

  She quickly replaced her distaste with an expression of concern. “Ah can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like to find Stanley dead in the chapel. How awful.” Liliane fanned herself with her hand. “I’d have probably fainted plumb away.”

  Another southern belle in Apple Springs? What are the odds? “It wasn’t one of my favorite things. Certainly not how I hoped to start my first day on the job.”

  “You poor dear.” She patted my arm. “Such a terrible thing. I hear poor Ethel’s burial urn had blood all over it. How could you even bear to pick it up? I know I never could.” Liliane’s blue eyes were bright with curiosity. “Why did you pick it up anyway?”

  Nice try, but no cigar. “By chance is Bethann your sister?”

  “Bethann Jackson?” Liliane shot me an incredulous look. “I should say not,” she huffed. “Crazy doesn’t run in my family.”

  “I’m sorry. You both have southern accents, so I assumed you were related. It’s unusual to have two southern belles in the same small California town.”

  Liliane preened, releasing another tinkling laugh. Her accent, which I now noticed seemed to come and go, increased exponentially. “Ah can see how you might make that assumption, bein’ new in town and all. And ah do thank you for the southern belle compliment, but I’m a hometown girl born and raised right here in Apple Springs.” She placed her hand on her chest and released a dramatic sigh. “My heart, howevah, belongs to the South. Why, I wouldn’t be surprised if in a past life I lived in Charleston or Savannah.” Liliane looked down demurely. “I have, however, played Miss Scarlett O’Hara on occasion and Clairee from Steel Magnolias. To great acclaim, I might add.”

  “Ah, that explains it.” I glanced at her painted face and smiled.

  “Explains what?”

  “You’re an actor. What play are you doing? Are you on your way to rehearsal?”

  “Ah happen to be between plays at the moment,” she said in a glacial tone.

  Oops. Backpedal. Backpedal. “Well, you’re clearly a good actress. You had me convinced you were a southern girl.”

  “Why thank you.” Her frost melted like butter in a skillet at the word girl. Liliane squinted at the writing on my T-shirt. She put on a pair of tortoiseshell glasses hanging from her neck on a beaded chain. “Oh my goodness! You’re a Downton Abbey fan too? You simply must join our Downton Divas. We hated to see that delicious show end, so a few of us girls get together once a month to drink tea and watch the DVDs.”

  After promising to connect with her later to get all the Downton details, I resumed my walk with Bogie. He pulled at his leash. “You ready to run now?” His tail wagged. “Okay, let’s go.” We jogged together down the sidewalk heading toward the town center, enjoying the slight breeze rustling through the trees.

  Two blocks later, a white ball of fur hurtled itself at us, barking furiously. Bogie stopped and did his best Scooby-Doo impression. Aarug? Looking down at the petite Westie standing her ground in front of my large Lab reminded me of the Jack Palance line in City Slickers—“I crap bigger than you.”

  Bogie sidled behind me as the white dog continued barking.

  “Nessa, stop that!” A man clad in basketball shorts and a T-shirt, who reminded me of George Clooney with his gray-flecked hair, sprinted down the driveway of a Craftsman house. “Sorry about that.” He scooped the white fur ball into his arms. “She’s a big dog in a little dog’s body.”

  “I can see that. Is she named after the Loch Ness monster?”

  “No, that’s Nessie. This is Nessa.”

  “And this is Bogie.” At the sound of his name, Bogie’s ears perked up and his tail began to thump.

  The Clooney-resembler extended the back of his hand, which Bogie sniffed happily and licked, making the Westie bark again. “Now don’t get jealous, Nessa. Be nice.” She looked up at her person adoringly and licked his face. “Good girl. Now go make friends with Bogie.” He ruffled the back of his dog’s head and set her down. Nessa took a cautious step over to Bogie, sniffing madly and circling him. Bogie sniffed back and did his happy dance.

  “Since Ebony and Ivory are getting acquainted, maybe we should too. I’m James.”

  “Hope.”

  “Pastor Hope?”

  “The one and only.”

  “I thought priests always had to wear those dog collars?”

  “They let us off the leash every now and then.”

  He zeroed in on my black eye. “Looks like the leash snapped back.”

  “No, that was Elvis.”

  His eyebrows lifted.

  “Long story.”

  “I’d like to hear it sometime. Meanwhile, I wanted to thank you for your kindness to my niece and nephew. Samantha said how much she appreciated your visit Friday.”

  “Samantha King’s your niece? Are you Stanley’s brother?” Because you sure do not look like him. Or act like him.

  “Brother-in-law. My sister Lily was his wife.” A shadow crossed his Clooneyesque features.

  “I’m sorry about your sister.”

  “Me too. More than you know. Luckily, Stanley can no longer destroy Todd and Samantha’s lives like he did Lily’s. Rumor has it I may have you to thank for that.” He sent me a lopsided g
rin.

  “I simply found the man. I didn’t kill him, contrary to popular opinion.”

  “Shame. Although”—he cocked his head at me, checking me out—“I suppose if you did, you’d wind up in prison, and that would be an even bigger shame.”

  Is he flirting with me? I don’t do flirting. I left those days behind when I met David. Since becoming a priest, however, I had discovered that, unlike a nun’s habit, my clerical garb was not a deterrent. Instead, it seemed to be like catnip to some men—particularly the elderly ones, of which there are many, since the Episcopal Church tends to run older. I’d had more than my share of too-long full-frontal hugs from several old men in my previous congregation, so I’d learned to become the master of the one-armed side hug. I’d also learned to counter any unwelcome advances by assuming my motherly confessor role instead. Priests are spiritual leaders, teachers, confessors, psychologists, and mothers and fathers all rolled into one.

  Although James was light-years away from the old-men category, and I wasn’t cloaked in my clerical garb, I still donned my mother-confessor hat. “I understand why you had issues with Stanley. From what I’ve heard, he wasn’t a very nice man—”

  He snorted. “That’s rich. That SOB drove my sister to drugs and eventual suicide and began repeating the same scenario with Samantha. The poor kid had two stints in rehab before she was twenty. Happily, she’s been clean for five years now, no thanks to her father.” His face darkened. “Unfortunately, daddy dearest made sure he introduced her to another addiction. But why am I telling you this?” He glanced at my neckline. “It must be the invisible collar. Besides, you’ve probably already heard this. In a small town, everyone’s lives are an open book.”