Hope, Faith, and a Corpse

by Laura Jensen Walker

  Tears pooled in Samantha’s eyes. “But he should be next to Mother. She was his wife.”

  “Like that ever mattered to him before,” James, who was sitting in the chair next to me, said under his breath.

  “We should have known the chapel crypt with its simple plaques was good enough for our mother, but not the King,” Todd said.

  “I’m sorry.” Father Christopher looked wretched. “I tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant.”

  The tears Samantha had been trying to hold back spilled down her cheeks.

  Todd clenched and unclenched his fists. “What other surprises does the King have in store for us?”

  Christopher consulted a piece of paper he had pulled from his pocket. “As you’d suggested, he wants Elizabeth to sing ‘Pie Jesu,’ but he wants to follow it up with a recording of Frank Sinatra’s ‘My Way.’”

  Todd snorted. “Figures. Did he also want a marching band with dancing girls in short skirts to lead the graveyard procession?”

  * * *

  “Well, that was fun,” I said as we descended the stone staircase after Christopher shared the remainder of Stanley’s detailed funeral arrangements with the King family. “What’s next? Sticking bamboo shoots under our fingernails?”

  We opted to forgo the bamboo shoots in favor of work. Back at the church, Christopher returned phone calls and I set about cleaning and organizing the chaos and clutter better known as my office. Removing my clergy vest and setting it to one side, I rolled up my sleeves and donned a large apron I had brought from home. Then I dug in.

  The first thing to go was a broken TV-VCR combo, followed by three rickety folding chairs. Next, I discarded an old bowling ball, vacation Bible school posters from the nineties, and a worn men’s tennis shoe. Not a pair of shoes—one lonely, tired, beat-up old shoe. I found two coatracks in decent condition, so I moved one to the reception area and kept the other. Then came piles and piles of boxes—some half full with old clothing or papers. I condensed a few of the boxes until I had four large empty ones, which I marked Keep, Save, Dump, and Maybe. Then I started filling them.

  A popular cleaning book recommends thanking each item for its service before discarding it, but that was not going to happen. I’m all for manners, but I’m never going to thank some smelly old shoe. If I did that for every item, I would be here until Christmas. As I worked, I prayed I wouldn’t find any critters nesting in the piles of junk. Bugs and spiders I can handle; rodents are something else altogether. As much as I hate stereotypes, I have to admit that rats and mice freak me out. All my degrees, training, and professional expertise fly out the window in the face of creatures with long skinny tails. Including possums. I scream like a girl if I see one. As far as I’m concerned, possums are simply big mentally challenged rats.

  Picking my way through the mess, I cleared a path to my desk, also piled with boxes. I removed the boxes and stacked them next to the desk. Then I tossed a dead plant, some dusty pens, and packets of hot chocolate that had expired seven years ago. As I sorted through the boxes, I found stacks of old bulletins going back a decade. I kept ten of each and dropped the rest into the recycle box.

  Half an hour later, Christopher wandered in. “Wow! I’m going to start calling you Wonder Woman.”

  “Nah. I’ve never been good with a whip, and I’d probably get my metal cuffs caught on my vestments when I tried to deflect gunfire. Besides, these hips would never fit into Wonder Woman’s costume. Although I can kick some serious cleaning butt, if I do say so myself.”

  “That you can.” He glanced down at the discard box. “Hey, that’s my old bowling ball. I’ve been looking everywhere for it.”

  “You have? For how long?”

  “A few months. Well … maybe a year or more.”

  A scripture from Matthew floated through my head—Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth—but I decided not to quote it to my boss just then. “The rule of thumb in organizing is if you haven’t used something in more than a year, you get rid of it. Unless you love it or it has great sentimental significance.”

  Christopher picked up the ball and cradled it to his chest. “Both of the latter,” he said. “I’ll take this to my office.” Then he noticed the box of discarded bulletins. “You’re throwing away bulletins? What if someone wants to look up something from a past service?”

  “Some of those bulletins go back twenty years, Father. I’ve pulled ten from each year to archive, but we don’t need more than that.” I smiled to soften my cleaning-commando stance. “Unless you plan to wallpaper your office with them?”

  “You’re right. I know. Ethel called me a hopeless pack rat. She was always after me to get rid of stuff too.”

  “I’m happy to carry on her tradition. Do you know how long ago she started posting bulletins online?”

  “Maybe four or five years ago?”

  “Well, there you go. We have an online record if anyone wants to go back and look at an old issue.”

  Christopher protested that some of the older members did not know how to use computers or even own one, which was why they always printed out hard copies. I reassured him that past bulletins would always be available for members in the archives.

  Changing the subject, I said, “I was surprised to learn the King mansion used to be Marjorie’s. I wonder why she sold her beautiful family home. Especially to Stanley. They weren’t close, were they?”

  “No. I don’t think anyone was close to Stanley.” Christopher set the bowling ball down and perched on a nearby chair. “As I recall, there were some serious structural issues and other major repairs at the time that Marjorie couldn’t afford to make. I believe she was having some financial difficulties at the time as well—bad investments her husband had made or something.” A pained look crossed his features. “She was quite distraught at having to sell her home. I found her crying over it once. Only once, though. Marjorie is made of strong stuff. She comes from sturdy pioneer stock, you know.”

  “I know. Too bad she can’t transfer some of that sturdy stock to Samantha King. I’m glad she and Todd have their uncle for support.” I looked at Christopher. “I understand James and Stanley got into a fight at Lily’s funeral?”

  “Yes. James blamed Stanley for her death, and not without some cause. Lily was so young when she got married. I think she was looking for stability and a father figure more than a husband. She found both—at first—in Stanley, but it wasn’t long before he became abusive.”

  “He beat her?”

  “No. Stanley was too smart for that. Instead, he abused her mentally and verbally. Things were better for a while after she had Todd—Stanley Todd King Junior.”

  I stared at him. “Todd is Stanley Junior?”

  “Not anymore. Once he was old enough, Todd dropped the Stanley, which, as you can imagine, did not go over well.” Christopher expelled a sigh. “Father and son have always been at loggerheads. Before Todd turned three, Stanley was back to his old verbally abusive tricks. To cope, Lily lost herself in pills and booze.” He shook his head as if trying to dislodge the memory. “After the fight at her funeral, Stanley kept the kids from their uncle, but Todd started sneaking off to see James when he was a teen.”

  “How about Samantha? Did she sneak off to see her uncle too?”

  “A few times, but when Stanley found out and flew into a rage, she stopped. Until she turned eighteen. Then she’d visit James with Todd, but always on the sly.”

  And I thought my family was dysfunctional.

  Chapter Ten

  Opening my front door, I kicked my shoes off.

  “Hey, watch where you’re throwing those gunboats. You could knock a person’s eye out.”

  “Virginia?”

  “The one and only.”

  I flung my arms around my sister-in-law, who had popped up from my red toile wingback. “What are you doing here?”

  She hugged me to her generous bosom. “I thought you could use some moral support.”


  Bogie nudged his head between us, wanting attention. I knelt down and gave him a hug, ruffling his fur. “Did you know Auntie Virginia was coming?”

  As I looked at my sixty-year-old sister-in-law in her sleek black pants and white button-up shirt, unbuttoned to show just a hint of voluptuous cleavage, my heart swelled. Virginia always reminded me of a slightly older Kristin Chenoweth—tiny but mighty, only with auburn hair. From the moment David first brought me home to meet his older sister, Virginia had welcomed me with open arms and made me part of the family. Eighteen years my senior, she had started out as a surrogate mother to me, but over the years had become my friend. My best friend. I could always count on her to support me and have my back.

  That fact was never more evident than during the final leg of my English monastery tour when I was mourning David. Virginia surprised me at my single-bed churchy lodgings in Oxford and spirited me away to the Randolph, the sumptuous five-star hotel in the heart of the city. There we luxuriated in king-size beds with eight-hundred-thread-count sheets, room service, and our choice of spa offerings. After a full day of seaweed wraps, hot-rock massages, and mani-pedis where we caught up and laughed over Virginia’s latest goofy romantic escapades, we enjoyed the most decadent tea of my life.

  That evening when we got back to our room, my sister-in-law sat beside me and clutched my hands in hers, her vivid green eyes bright with tears. “Hope, it’s time to come home. You can’t shut yourself off from the world. I know you’re hurting, but I’m hurting too.” Tears spilled down her cheeks. “I don’t know what it’s like to lose the love of your life, because I’ve never had that, but Davy was my baby brother—my favorite person in the world.” She choked back a sob. “His death broke my heart, but one thing I know for sure: he would want you to go on living.” Her nose ran and dripped into her D cups.

  “Um, you might want to clean up your cleavage.” Extricating my hands from hers, I grabbed a tissue from the bedside table.

  Virginia took the proffered tissue and began dabbing at her chest. “You ruined my big speech,” she said, pouting. “I practiced it the whole flight over.”

  Now as I looked at my sister-in-law and best friend, I wondered one thing. “How did you get in here, anyway?”

  “I threw myself on your neighbor Nikki’s mercy. You told me she had an extra key in case of emergency. I told her I’d driven all the way from San Francisco and was in desperate need of a bathroom; otherwise I was going to burst.” She grinned. “I think my doing the pee-pee dance convinced her. She was going to call you to make sure it was okay, but I told her I wanted to surprise you. Once I showed her photos of us on my phone along with a recent text from you, that did the trick.” Virginia plopped down on the sofa and kicked off her three-inch stilettos to admire her pedicure. The woman has the tiniest, daintiest feet of anyone I’ve ever known—size four and a half. I’m a nine and a half, and she never lets me forget it.

  I stuck my foot alongside hers. “It looks like my foot had a baby.”

  “A very pretty baby.” She wiggled her coral-polished toes.

  “So, when I was texting you earlier, you were here all along?”

  “You got it, Sherlock. If you’d checked Find My iPhone, you’d have seen me at Twenty-Seven Clover Lane, but since you never use that handy-dandy feature, I knew my secret was safe.” She got up and poured me a glass of Chardonnay. “Here. You look like you could use this.”

  I relieved her of the glass and took a sip as I headed down the hall to my bedroom, unbuttoning my clergy vest as I went.

  Bogie and Virginia followed. “So, what’s the latest on the dead rich guy? Do the cops still think you did it?”

  “So much for small talk.”

  “I believe in cutting to the chase. You know that.”

  “Yes, I do. It’s one of the things I love about you.” Bogie jumped on my bed and did his usual three-circle rotation before settling down on top of the pillows and regarding us with a sleepy eye. “To answer your question, no. At least I don’t think so.” Opening the closet door, I shed my clerical garb and pulled on a pair of black jeans and David’s old Beatles’ Abbey Road T-shirt.

  Virginia perched on the edge of the bed. “So spill. Got any clues, Trixie?” My sister-in-law well knew of my childhood love for Trixie Belden. She had replenished the young-adult novel collection my ultra-strict, ultra-religious, patriarchy-focused parents had thrown out when they discovered teen-sleuth Trixie was “way too independent for her own good.”

  I sniffed the air. “Wait. Is that what I think it is?”

  “Yep. Your favorite. Chicken marsala.”

  I raced to the kitchen, lifted the lid of the stove-top skillet, and inhaled deeply. Virginia is an amazing cook. Recently retired, my sister-in-law had run a successful catering business in San Francisco for years. Her stuffed pork tenderloin was renowned throughout the Bay Area, and her chicken marsala is the best I’ve ever had. She can make an amazing meal out of nothing, as evidenced by the countless times she’s whipped up something from my forlorn fridge and spartan cupboards.

  “And that’s not all,” Virginia said. She opened the nearly empty fridge to reveal a white pastry box stamped with a familiar logo and tied with string.

  “Ooh, you went to Stella’s?” I threw my head back and did my best Marlon Brando yell. “Stella!” The iconic Stella Pastry and Café in San Francisco’s North Beach has the best cannoli around, bar none. The crunchy outer pastry shell dusted with powdered sugar and the creamy ricotta filling studded with chocolate chips is heaven. I’d never had cannoli until I met David and his sister, but once I tasted my first bite, I could understand why Clemenza said in The Godfather, “Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.”

  “Dinner’s not quite ready,” she said, turning the flame down low and removing the lid. “It needs to simmer for about fifteen minutes.”

  We sat at the kitchen peninsula, where Virginia had set out bruschetta topped with fresh tomatoes, goat cheese, and basil. As we drank our wine and nibbled on bruschetta, I filled her in on life in Apple Springs. Then she brought me up to date on her latest escapades in online dating. Virginia had tried one site but discovered it catered to a younger crowd and was too raunchy for her, so she’d recently registered on a site that catered to those over forty. As she was telling me about an interesting fifty-eight-year-old prospect, the doorbell rang.

  “Who could that be?” I slid off my barstool.

  When I opened the door, there stood diner owner Susan Jacobs holding a foil-wrapped plate.

  “Hey there.” Susan extended the plate. “I heard about Stanley’s latest dirty dealings with his kids and knew you had to be the bearer of bad tidings, so I thought you could use a pie to take the edge off.” Then she noticed the wine in my hand. “Although it looks like you’re already covered in that department.”

  “Actually, Father Christopher was the one who had to break the unwelcome news.” I invited Susan in.

  “I already took him a pie. Chocolate. His favorite. I brought you apple, since you went into fits of ecstasy over your last piece.”

  “Is that right?” Virginia’s voice behind me said.

  Uh-oh. Now I’m in for it. My sister-in-law is justifiably proud of her homemade apple pie. Many have called it the best apple pie in the City. It was the go-to dessert choice on her catering menu, and several customers had standing orders for it. I introduced the two women.

  “Is this the sister-in-law who’s not supposed to know I make the best apple pie you’ve ever had?” Susan said with a wink.

  I sent Virginia a weak smile. “I love you.”

  Virginia’s green eyes bored into Susan’s. “I feel a Bake-Off coming on.”

  “Bring it on.”

  Both women looked at me expectantly.

  I held up my hands. “I’m not judging it. Judgment is mine, saith the Lord.”

  “There she goes, bringing her work home again,” Virginia said, teasing me as she always does about my professional callin
g. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to talk about religion or politics in polite company?”

  “Sorry. Occupational hazard.” I ushered them both to the kitchen table. “Thanks so much for the pie, Susan, but you didn’t have to go out of your way to bring it over.”

  “It’s not out of my way. I live two doors down. In fact, I have a bird’s-eye view of your backyard from my upstairs bedroom window.”

  “You do?” I stared at her. “You never said.”

  “You never asked. I was going to mention it, but then we got sidetracked talking about Stanley.”

  “The dead Stanley?” Virginia asked.

  “None other. The topic on everyone’s lips, which would thrill him no end.” Susan noticed the bubbling skillet on the stove. “I should go. I don’t want to interrupt your dinner.”

  “Not at all,” Virginia said. “In fact, why don’t you join us? There’s plenty for three.”

  “Are you sure? It smells amazing. Better than the Lean Cuisine I have waiting for me at home.”

  “You’re married to a cook,” I said. “Why on earth would you eat a TV dinner?”

  Virginia gave a knowing nod. “Sounds like a case of the cobbler’s children having no shoes.”

  “You got it,” Susan said. “Besides, it’s Mike’s poker night. On poker night, I eat TV dinners in the den and snuggle up with a favorite old movie. Tonight it was a toss-up between Breakfast at Tiffany’s and You’ve Got Mail.”

  “Well, you’re in luck,” I said, “because I happen to have both.”

  Virginia groaned and laid her head down on the table, sliding a look at Susan. “Don’t tell me you’re an old movie buff too?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Considering Hope’s current situation, though, I think we should switch from a romantic comedy to a murder mystery. How about Double Indemnity?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Barbara Stanwyck was guilty in that movie. I’d prefer one where the heroine is innocent.” I set another plate as Virginia brought over the chicken marsala, baby red potatoes, and steamed broccoli. My mouth watered at the tantalizing aromas of my favorite meal. I took a bite, and a moan escaped.