Hope, Faith, and a Corpse

by Laura Jensen Walker

  Virginia nodded at my chicken. “Would you two like to be alone?”

  “I can’t help it. This is like heaven on a plate.”

  “This is pretty amazing,” Susan said. “I don’t suppose you share your recipes?”

  “Not usually, but sometimes I make an exception. Let’s talk once I taste your apple pie.”

  As we ate, Susan asked about Virginia’s former catering business, while Virginia in turn quizzed Susan on how long she and Mike had been in town and how they liked owning a restaurant—something she had considered doing. While the two foodies talked, I focused my attention on enjoying every bite of my chicken marsala. After dinner, I cleared the table and took the dishes to the sink.

  “You know,” Virginia said, “rather than watching a movie, I think we should spend the time figuring out a strategy.”

  “Strategy for what?” I rinsed the plates and stuck them in the dishwasher.

  “Clearing your name and figuring out the real killer. You know, in most whodunits, it always turns out to be the least likely suspect. Who would that be in this bucolic small town?”

  “Dorothy Thompson,” Susan said without hesitation.

  “Sweetheart Dorothy?” I stared at Susan.

  “She said the least likely suspect. That’s definitely Dorothy.”

  “Who is this Dorothy?” Virginia asked.

  “The sweetest little old lady in town. There’s no way she could have killed Stanley.”

  “You never know.” Virginia put on her reading glasses and pulled a small notebook from her purse. “What was her relationship to the deceased?”

  “She didn’t have any relationship with Stanley,” Susan said, “other than attending the same church he did and teaching his kids years ago.”

  Virginia scribbled in her notebook. “Did she ever have any problems with the deceased?”

  “Just the same ones everyone had with Stanley.”

  “And what would those be?”

  “An overall dislike of his all-around assholiness,” Susan said.

  “Virginia, the woman is eighty-one, less than five feet tall, has advanced osteoporosis, and walks with a cane,” I said. “No way could she have bashed a man who was at least a foot taller than her in the head with a heavy urn. Besides, what would be her motive?”

  “Then give me some other options.”

  Susan began ticking off names on her finger. “Don Forrester. James Brandon. Todd King. Samantha King. Wendell Jackson.”

  The same names I had written on my list. With the exception of Wendell. I pulled out my notepad from the kitchen junk drawer and handed it to Virginia. “And maybe Bonnie Cunningham. Stanley used to date her, and I hear he hit on her daughter Megan when she was sixteen.”

  “Are you serious?” Susan’s eyes flashed. “That pig. If Bonnie ever found out, she would have punched his lights out. Our local florist may be on the prim and proper side, but she’s a mama bear when it comes to her daughter. And if Bonnie didn’t deck Stanley, Albert would have.”

  “Albert Drummond?” I recalled my Henry Fonda–ish admirer from coffee hour.

  “Yep. Bonnie’s father. He’s not as frail as he looks. The man is a Korean War vet. Got a purple heart for saving some of his men during combat. I wouldn’t expect him to do any less to protect his granddaughter from Stanley.”

  Virginia scrawled down Albert’s name. “That’s quite the list,” she said, setting down her notebook and going to the fridge. “Before we go any farther, though, who’s ready for dessert? Susan? Hope?”

  “Yes, please,” I said.

  “Cannoli or apple pie?” My sister-in-law fixed me with a challenging look.

  Bethann’s Twinkies never looked so good. My mouth was watering for my favorite cannoli that Virginia had brought all the way from Stella’s. Yet not to choose Susan’s homemade pie would be rude. Finally I took a page from King Solomon, who in ancient times, when he was faced with deciding which of two women was the mother of a baby both claimed to be theirs, ordered the baby cut in half so each woman could have a part of him. The real mother, not wanting her child to be killed, of course, told Solomon to give the baby to the imposter. “I’ll have both, please, but can you cut the cannoli in half and give me only a sliver of pie?”

  Virginia opted for the pie. After a few bites, she had to grudgingly admit that Susan’s was “a smidge” better than hers.

  We continued our discussion of the possible murder suspects, and as we talked about Wendell, I mentioned that his wife Bethann had been the lead singer of a sixties girl group back in the day.

  Virginia squealed. “Bethann and the Blondelles? You didn’t tell me your Elvis-gnome Bethann was the Bethann from the Blondelles. I almost wore out their record Raindrops, Bubblegum, and Daisies, playing it over and over again when I was ten.” My sister-in-law sent me a beseeching look. “I want to meet her. Do you think if I bring my record next time I come, she’ll sign it for me?”

  “Sure, and if you’re nice, she might introduce you to Petula Clark and Bobby Darin too.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday I didn’t need to be at work until eleven, so I decided to get some housecleaning done first. I inherited my clean gene from my neatnik mother. I also inherited her need to have music blaring while she cleaned. Unlike my neatnik mother, however, who loved the Statler Brothers, I preferred to get down and dirty to Abba. Scrolling through my playlist, I started mopping the kitchen floor to “Waterloo.” I was vacuuming the living room and rockin’ out to “Dancing Queen” when the music abruptly stopped.

  “Hey!” I turned around to see Virginia setting my phone down and picking up hers.

  “What have I told you about that bubblegum stuff?” she said. “You need to listen to some real music.” She scrolled through her phone and pressed play. Suddenly Tina Turner blared out “Proud Mary.” “Oh yeah,” Virginia said, cranking up the volume.

  We jammed to Tina as I continued vacuuming and Virginia dusted. Between the music and the vacuum cleaner, we couldn’t hear anything else. Like the doorbell. Which is how I wound up coming face-to-face, or rather face-to-butt, with a disapproving Marjorie Chamberlain and her pal Lottie. As I was wildly gyrating my hips in a pathetic white-girl-can’t-dance attempt to emulate Tina, a scandalized “Well I never!” caused me to whirl my still-shaking hips around.

  “Marjorie. What are you doing here?”

  She started to answer, then clapped her hands over her ears. I shut off the vacuum and made a motion to Virginia to turn down the music.

  Once she had, Marjorie, who was wearing a lime-green pantsuit, said primly, “Dorothy told us about your ladies’ tea idea, so we came to discuss it with you.” She frowned at my flushed, sweaty face and then looked over at a glistening Virginia in her V-necked tank, which displayed her ample cleavage. “The question, though, is what are you doing, Pastor?”

  “Killing two birds with one stone. Getting our aerobics in and cleaning the house at the same time.”

  Lottie giggled. “That looks like a fun way to clean house. I love Tina Turner.” She sang a snatch of “Let’s Stay Together” and busted a move.

  “Go, Lottie.”

  Marjorie pursed her lips at her friend. “Remember your age, dear, and your brittle bones. If you’re not careful, you could fall and break a hip.”

  Lottie immediately stopped dancing. “You’re right, of course. Pastor, would it be okay if we sat down?”

  “Of course,” I said, ushering them over to the couch. “Why don’t we all take a seat.” I introduced the two older women to my sister-in-law and offered them something to drink.

  Virginia smiled at Lottie and Marjorie. “We’ve also got some of Susan’s great apple pie, if you’d like.”

  “No, thank you,” Marjorie said, averting her eyes from Virginia’s glistening bosom. “We can’t stay long.” She turned to me as I settled into my toile wingback. “Pastor Hope, I know you’re a busy woman with a lot on your plate,” she said briskly. “I’ve co
me to relieve you of some of that burden. I will be happy to take over the ladies’ tea so you can concentrate on your work—particularly all those dear souls requiring pastoral care. That is your main ministry, correct?”

  Lottie fidgeted uncomfortably, but Marjorie plowed on before I could answer. “For years, Ethel Brown and I did a lovely ladies’ tea at Faith Chapel, so I have all the necessary recipes, linens, china, and silver. It’s quite a lot of work to put on a proper tea—too much work for you.” She delivered a condescending smile. “I know you recruited dear Dorothy as a sort of de facto adviser, but Dorothy’s never put on a major event such as this, and I think it would be way too much for her. She does make some lovely lemon squares, however, so that can be her contribution.”

  I’d like to make a contribution to you, Marjorie, but I don’t think you’d like it. Sensing Virginia bristling opposite me and about to let loose on my cradle-Episcopalian parishioner, I jumped in before she could.

  “Thank you so much for your kind offer, Marjorie. I appreciate it, but I’m really looking forward to organizing the tea. It will give me a good chance to get to know all the women of the church.” A trickle of sweat left over from my Tina-dancing dripped between my shoulder blades. Pushing my spine against the back of my chair, I trapped the trickle with my T-shirt blotter before it could drip down into my capris.

  “I’m glad you stopped by, though. I was planning to call and ask if you’d like to head up one of the committees. I haven’t gotten everything all figured out yet, but someone will need to be in charge of food, someone else the decorations, and I’m sure there’s other things as well. I know you’ve done tons of teas over the years, and I’d love to have your help and expertise.” I sent her the sweetest pastoral smile I could.

  Apparently, help was not in Marjorie’s vocabulary, however. She huffed out, followed by Lottie, who mouthed to me behind her friend’s lime-green polyester back, “Sorry.”

  “Well, that went over like liver and onions,” Virginia said.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wednesday morning when I met Elizabeth Davis, the quiet fiftyish choir director during our staff meeting, she was, as altos Jeanne and Judy had predicted, pleased to get another soprano. “I’m so happy you’ve joined the choir,” Elizabeth said in a soft voice as she clasped my hand between hers. Her words of welcome belied the dispirited expression in her eyes, however.

  Faith Chapel’s choir director was a slight, pale woman with a slender swan neck and espresso-colored hair shot through with strands of silver and pulled back in an elegant chignon. It was obvious that she had once been a beauty, but something—the vicissitudes of life, perhaps?—had worn that beauty down. A lacy network of fine lines covered her ivory face, while deep-set dark circles under her hazel eyes made her look perpetually sad and tired.

  “I’ve always loved to sing,” I said, hoping talk of music would cheer her up. “But I have to warn you, I don’t read music very well. I can tell when the notes go up and down and when I’m supposed to hold a note, but I wouldn’t know a G from a W if it came up and bit me in the diaphragm.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed Elizabeth’s careworn face. “That’s okay. You don’t need to know the alphabet to sing. Watch me and listen to the singers next to you.”

  “Will do. The good news is, after I hear a song a couple times, I’ve got the melody down and I’m good to go.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Now if we can get another tenor and bass, the choir will be at full strength once again,” Christopher interjected.

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said. “Luckily, the altos can help with the tenor parts, but we’re definitely hurting in the bass section. If only George hadn’t defected to the Baptists last year.”

  “I tried to get him to stay at Faith Chapel, but the siren song of the dark side was too strong.” Christopher winked, and we laughed. The laugh transformed Elizabeth’s tired face. I determined to do my part to make her laugh more often.

  Christopher got an odd look on his face. “And of course we lost Stanley’s bass too.”

  My head swiveled from one to the other. “Stanley King was in choir?”

  He nodded.

  “Until he died?”

  “No. He dropped out last year, right before our busy Christmas season, leaving us in the lurch.” Elizabeth’s pale lips compressed. “Stanley wasn’t a team player.” She turned to the rector. “Father Christopher, would you like to finalize the musical selections for the rest of the month now?”

  * * *

  That night I attended my first Faith Chapel choir rehearsal, bringing the total number of choir members to eight: three altos, three sopranos, a lone tenor, and Ed, the loud, out-of-tune bass. I was the youngest member at forty-two.

  At rehearsal everyone was friendly and welcoming—too friendly when it came to bass Ed, who went in for the too-long, full-on body hug. I quickly rotated into the patented side hug I had perfected for occasions like this. One choir member who was not very friendly was Rosemary, the older soprano next to me, who apparently viewed me as some kind of threat. When I stumbled over a couple of passages in the anthem, she took great delight in pointing out my errors to the rest of the group, all under the guise of innocent confusion.

  Rosemary raised her hand during one particularly difficult passage in the Latin anthem scheduled for Sunday. “Elizabeth, isn’t that a G?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just checking. Thanks. Oh, and isn’t the word sincero pronounced sin-chair-o?”

  At break time, the two J altos came up to me, beaming. “Pastor Hope, we’re so glad you’ve joined us,” said tall Jeanne.

  “Yes, we are,” short Judy said. “Already the soprano section is sounding fuller.”

  Rosemary, standing behind Judy, stiffened at the remark.

  “Did you hear the news about Stanley?” Judy continued in a stage whisper.

  “No. What?”

  “His Rolex watch was apparently missing from his wrist, which makes the police think his murder may have been a robbery gone bad.”

  Inwardly I did a mental fist pump, while outwardly I maintained my cool, unruffled composure. If Stanley’s death truly was a result of a robbery gone awry, people would stop suspecting the worst of me and give me a chance and my job would be secure.

  “Well, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Samantha King killed her father and stole his watch,” Rosemary snarked. “Everyone knows she has terrible gambling debts.”

  “That’s true,” echoed her soprano shadow Helen.

  “After all,” Rosemary said, “with daddy gone and his kids set to inherit his fortune, Samantha’s now sitting pretty.”

  “That’s an awful thing to say.” Judy swung around and scowled at her. “That poor girl has been through enough. She doesn’t need you starting new rumors about her.”

  Rosemary flushed, but before she could reply, I interjected, “Rosemary, do you think you might be able to help me with the anthem sometime before Sunday? I’m struggling in a few places, and I can see you really have it down.”

  “Certainly.” She favored me with a magnanimous smile. “I’d be happy to help, Pastor. I know it can be a bit overwhelming when you’re new.”

  Elizabeth clapped her hands. “Okay, everyone, break’s over. Back to work.”

  The rest of rehearsal went well, and afterward I lingered to talk to our choir director, but she was in a rush. Again. After our staff meeting earlier today, I had invited Elizabeth to lunch in an attempt to get to know her and do some woman-to-woman workplace bonding, but she had excused herself by saying she had another appointment and hurried off. Now when I tried to talk to her, she rebuffed me again.

  “I’m sorry, Pastor, but I have to dash. I have to get up early for work, and I still have a bit of a drive ahead of me.”

  * * *

  As I walked home, I wondered why Elizabeth seemed intent on not spending time with me. Could it be she also thought I might have killed Stanley, even after the latest news
of the theft of his watch and police suspicions of a robbery? Or was I being paranoid? Then I remembered what she had said earlier about Stanley’s quitting choir and not being a team player. Elizabeth, like much of Apple Springs, seemed to be firmly in the not-a-fan-of-Stanley camp.

  At Suzie’s I stopped for a cup of tea and found Virginia and Susan laughing together in a booth. Apparently, they had gotten over their competitiveness from the night they met.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked, sliding in next to my sister-in-law.

  “Oh, we were swapping terrible-customer stories. How was choir?”

  “Nice. It felt good to be singing again.”

  “How’s Elizabeth as a director?” Susan asked.

  “Great. She really knows her stuff. I’ve never seen anyone so sad, though.”

  “Really? What’s the scoop on her, Susan?” Virginia asked.

  “No gossip, please,” I said, holding up my hand in a stop motion.

  “Hope’s being PC—pastorally correct—but I’m not as pious,” Virginia said. “So spill, please. Hope, shut your ears.”

  I knew I should excuse myself and get up to use the restroom, but I really wanted to know Elizabeth’s backstory as well. Maybe then I could help in some way.

  Yeah, right. Keep telling yourself that, Pastor Do-Good. It’s not like you’re not dying of curiosity yourself.

  Susan leaned in and lowered her voice. “Elizabeth went through a really bad divorce. It crushed her. She adored her husband, but evidently he was a real player who cheated on her all the time. Apparently, he skipped town with some bimbo and left her holding the bag financially. She lost everything and had to start all over—that’s why she’s working two jobs now. Besides choir director, she’s also got some part-time government job in Sacramento she commutes to every day.”

  “Men can be such pigs,” Virginia said.

  My sister-in-law had dated her fair share of males of the porcine persuasion. She used to tell me I got the last good man with her brother.