Hope, Faith, and a Corpse

by Laura Jensen Walker

  * * *

  When I arrived at the King home, a red-eyed Samantha let me in.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “No,” she blubbed, leading me inside to chaos. Boxes, bags, artwork, and stacks of stuff littered the foyer.

  “Since we’re selling this monstrosity, Todd and I have to go through everything and decide what to do with it, and he wants to get rid of it all,” she said, sniffling. “He helped me bring a bunch of stuff down from the attic, but he wants to toss everything in the garbage. I told him no, we need to sort through it all. There could be things we want that have special meaning—like Christmas ornaments or favorite childhood books or games—but he got mad and said as far as he’s concerned, we could set a match to it all. Then he stormed out.” Samantha burst into tears. “Todd and I never fight.”

  I hugged her. “It’s okay. You two are under a lot of stress right now, lots of changes in your life. Emotions are running high. I’m sure Todd will cool down and be back soon.”

  “You think so?”

  “Yes. He just needs some time. Your brother loves you.”

  “I know.” She blew her nose and then looked around her. “But look at this mess. I’m so overwhelmed I don’t even know where to start.”

  “That part’s easy,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. “I’m the queen of organization. We’ll have this sorted in no time.”

  “Don’t you have other things to do?”

  “Not right now.” I grabbed the nearest box of clothing and felt through it, making sure there was nothing breakable inside, then dumped the contents onto the floor and told Samantha about the three-piles philosophy: keep, discard, or donate, followed by the organizer’s rule of keeping something only if it is loved, has been used in the past year, or holds great sentimental value.

  She started sorting through the clothes, and I began pulling boxes to one side and stacking similar-sized ones with lids atop one another. As we worked, we talked. Samantha told me she was going back to school to get a teaching credential in special education. She had done some grade school substitute teaching, so we swapped stories from our respective teaching days.

  Samantha slid a sidelong glance my way. “I’m sure you’ve heard some things about me. Like that I’ve been in rehab?”

  “There’s no shame in that. Good for you for acknowledging the problem and getting help.”

  “I wish my dad had felt that way. He kept saying I was like my mother and would wind up exactly like her too,” she said bitterly.

  “Tell me about your mother. What was she like? Do you remember much about her?”

  Samantha’s face softened, and her eyes took on a faraway look. “She had this beautiful red hair that went down to her waist. She used to let me brush it for her. When the sun hit it, her hair looked like this shimmering waterfall of red and gold.” Her mouth curved upward. “I remember her being a lot of fun too—before the drugs. She used to get down on the floor with Todd and me and play with us. Todd doesn’t remember that, but then he barely remembers her at all. He was too little. She used to read us stories about castles and princesses and witches and dragons. Her favorite was Rapunzel. Not surprisingly.”

  Her mouth turned downward. “Uncle James said she felt like a prisoner here with no way to escape except drugs. Once or twice, she tried to leave—she was going to take us with her and run away from my father. Far, far away. Uncle James was helping her, but somehow or other Dad found out and stopped her. Told her she could never leave him. Then he banned her from seeing Uncle James. Wouldn’t even allow him in the house. James tried to see her but couldn’t. A month later she was dead.”

  “I’m so sorry. How old were you when that happened?”

  “Six. Todd was four.” Samantha brushed away tears. “The only way my mother could escape my father and this prison was to kill herself. Of course, Dad told everyone it was an accidental overdose. Couldn’t let anyone know Stanley King’s wife committed suicide,” she said, her eyes flashing, “but I know she did.” Samantha pulled out a heart-shaped silver locket from beneath her T-shirt. “Mom gave me this the week before she died—said she’d always be with me, no matter what.” She opened the locket to reveal a lock of curly red hair on one side and a picture of a stunning young woman with a wide Julia Roberts smile on the other.

  “She was beautiful. She looks so happy.”

  “That’s how I try to remember her. Uncle James took that picture shortly after she had Todd. Before things started to go really bad.” She looked at the picture through a sheen of tears.

  “I think your mother would be very proud of you, Samantha. I know I would be if you were my daughter.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You had an addiction and you sought help for it. Now look at you—you’re going back to school so you can enter a profession that helps others. Jesus said, ‘As you’ve done it unto the least of these, you’ve done it unto me.’”

  “Thank you, Pastor Hope.” She swiped at her eyes and closed the locket. “I guess we’d better get back to work, or we’re never going to finish.”

  I walked over to an oversized box that looked like it contained everything but the backyard barbecue.

  Samantha grimaced and said, “After an hour in the attic, Todd started grabbing stuff left and right and throwing it into the biggest boxes we had so we could be finished. My brother’s not very patient.”

  “I can relate. I’ve had to learn that virtue over time.” As I pulled the heavy box toward me, the side split and things began falling out. “Oops.” I began picking stuff up off the floor, and Samantha hurried over to help. “Hey, what’s this?” she said, holding up a bulky black-and-silver rectangular object with both hands.

  “That, my dear, is what they call a boom box. It played these ancient things called cassettes in the seventies and eighties. That’s how we listened to music.”

  Samantha gave me a blank look.

  “Before CDs.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember. I had a CD with Disney songs on it when I was little.” She set it off to one side.

  “Way to make me feel old.” I lifted up the boom box and looked at it. “Mine was a lot like this.” Then I looked closer and pushed eject, popping out the cassette tape still inside. I saw Romantic Love Songs scrawled across the label in faded ink. “This is someone’s mix tape. I haven’t seen one of these in years. I wonder if this thing still works.” I riffled through the box, found the cord, and plugged the boom box into a nearby outlet. Then I popped the tape back in and hit play. Elton John’s “Your Song” filled the foyer.

  “Ooh, I love this song!” I said, closing my eyes and singing along.

  The sound of soft clapping moments later made my eyes fly open.

  “Nice job, Pastor. I didn’t know you were a singer,” Samantha said, as Roberta Flack began “Killing Me Softly With His Song.”

  “As long as I can sing along with someone else, I’m good. This is a great tape. I wonder whose it was. I love seventies pop, although I wasn’t allowed to listen to it as a kid.”

  “How come?”

  “My parents thought pop and rock music was of the devil. The only music allowed in our house growing up was religious, classical, and the occasional country song—preferably country gospel.” I pulled some empty picture frames and a broken alarm clock out of the box.

  Samantha sent me a wry smile. “I guess I’m not the only one who had a strict childhood. Although I have to say, the only music my father ever banned from the house was rap.”

  “Are you a rap fan?”

  “No, I prefer alternative rock and R and B.”

  “So whose cassette tape do you think this is? Your dad’s?”

  “I doubt it. Too sappy for him. Could have been my mom’s, but it’s kind of before her time. She liked Madonna and Michael Jackson. We used to dance to ‘Billie Jean’ together.” Samantha smiled, remembering.

  We continued going through items from the broken box as the music played in th
e background. I picked up a few dusty paperbacks and some plastic beads and asked Samantha if she wanted to keep them, but she told me to stick them in the discard pile. Then I pulled out a rolled-up piece of what looked like brown wrapping paper. I carefully unfurled the paper so as not to tear it. It turned out to be a smudged charcoal sketch of a beautiful woman with old-fashioned ringlets cascading over a bare left shoulder. The feathers in her dark hair, the sleeveless, fringed, tiny-waisted knee-length dress, and the black stockings she wore reminded me of the dance hall girls I had seen in the old Westerns my parents used to let us watch.

  “Who’s this?”

  Samantha peered over my shoulder. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen it before. She’s hot, though. Probably one of my dad’s ancestors or something.”

  “Or maybe your mother’s?”

  “I guess. We could show it to Uncle James and ask him.”

  I peered closer at the drawing. The woman stood onstage in an old-fashioned theater, bestowing a mischievous gaze on the audience. Something about her drew me in.

  Samantha started to put the drawing in the discard pile.

  “If you don’t want it, do you mind if I take it?”

  “No problem. Todd would have tossed it anyway.”

  I rolled the drawing back up and set it near the door so I would not forget it. Then Samantha and I tackled several more boxes. We were deep into the ninth box when we heard the back door slam and Todd yell. “The prodigal has returned!” We could hear his footsteps tromping through the house as he approached. “Hey, Red, sorry about earlier—” He broke off when he saw me. “Pastor Hope, what are you doing here?”

  “Helping me,” Samantha said, glowering at him. “After you stormed out, I had a meltdown, and Pastor Hope came to my rescue.”

  Todd had the grace to look abashed. “Sorry, Sam. Sorry, Pastor. My temper sometimes gets the best of me. It’s the red hair.”

  “Don’t use that as an excuse,” his sister said. “I have red hair too, and you don’t see me flying off the handle and throwing a tantrum.”

  “You’re right. Mea culpa, mea culpa.” Todd held up a flat box wafting tantalizing aromas. “Can I make it up to you with pizza? Your favorite. Sausage and mushroom.” He extended the pizza box to his sister.

  My stomach growled. “If you don’t accept his peace offering, Samantha, I will. Gladly.”

  “Okay, set it down on that box there. But don’t think bribing me with pizza gives you a free pass from helping with this mess.”

  “Hey,” a familiar male voice yelled from the direction of the kitchen, “where do you want this Dr. Pepper?”

  “In here,” Todd yelled back.

  Moments later James Brandon walked through the doorway with a six-pack of soda, paper plates, and napkins in his hands. “Why Pastor Hope, nice to see you again.”

  “You too. You want to pass those paper plates over here, please? Samantha and I have worked up quite an appetite sorting through all this stuff.”

  “You got it.” He handed me the plates. “I know better than to get in the way of a hungry woman.”

  “Smart man.”

  The only sounds for the next few minutes were the popping of soda cans, assorted “Mmm, goods,” and the boom box continuing its string of seventies love songs.

  James cocked his head to one side, listening. “Is that John Denver?”

  “Who’s John Denver?” Todd asked.

  “He was really popular in the seventies.”

  “The seventies?” Todd said, grinning at me. “I didn’t think you were that old, Pastor.”

  “I’m not, but I enjoy seventies pop music. John Denver was a singer-songwriter who played acoustic guitar and wrote folk-pop hits like ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads,’ ‘Rocky Mountain High,’ and ‘Annie’s Song,’ which we’re listening to now. I love his music.”

  “So did my mom,” James said, an odd expression on his face.

  “Oh, maybe it’s her tape,” Samantha said excitedly.

  “What are you talking about?”

  She jumped up to get the boom box and carried it over to her uncle. “We found this with a tape inside that someone made. We were trying to figure out whose it was.”

  James’s eyebrows drew together as he hit the eject button and pulled out the tape. When he saw the handwriting on the label, he threw the tape across the room.

  “What the hell?” said Todd.

  Samantha and I stared at her uncle.

  James’s jaw clenched. “My mother—your grandmother, whom you never knew—made that tape for Lily and Stanley as a wedding gift. Right after she gave her legal consent for my underage sister to marry the man who destroyed her.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  After James delivered that startling pronouncement, he stalked out the front door, saying, “I can’t be here right now.”

  Samantha ran after him. “Uncle James, wait.”

  “Well, that explains a lot,” her brother said.

  “I’m sorry, Todd.”

  “For what?” He gave me a cynical smile. “Dear old Dad being a pervert? Or my druggy grandmother basically selling her underage daughter to a dirty old man?” He slapped the pizza box shut. “Or that my uncle never bothered to tell me?”

  “I thought you didn’t know your grandmother.”

  “I didn’t, but when Samantha went into rehab, the great-and-powerful Stanley yelled at her that she was ‘just like her mother and her druggy grandmother’ and would probably end up the same way.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me too.” He swiped the hair out of his eyes. “Thankfully, we’re finally free of the King, and soon we’ll be free of his castle too. Then at last we can both start living our own lives.” Todd then began talking about his art, saying he planned to hold a show in a few months, once he had enough pieces finished.

  Samantha returned with her uncle a few minutes later, and I left the three of them to work things out.

  * * *

  That afternoon I made a pastoral visit to Albert Drummond.

  “Why Pastor, aren’t you a lovely sight for these old eyes,” Albert said when he answered the door. “Come on in. I’m afraid Bonnie’s at the flower shop and Megan’s at a school club meeting.”

  “That’s okay. You’re the one I came to see,” I said, remembering to speak loudly enough so he could hear me. “I heard you were a bit under the weather. How are you?”

  “Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. Nothing wrong with me but a little cold.” He sneezed and blew his nose. “I may be as old as the hills, but I’m still fit as a fiddle.” He led me into a cozy living room, indicating I should sit on the floral sofa while he lowered himself into the leather recliner opposite.

  “I’m afraid I owe you an apology, Pastor.”

  “For what?”

  “I told you when we first met I knew where all the dead bodies were buried.” His eyes twinkled. “Obviously I was wrong.”

  “You certainly were. I’ve heard of skeletons in the closet, but I’ve never had one in my backyard before.”

  A fit of coughing overtook him, and he grabbed a tissue from the end table beside him. Noticing his empty water glass, I hurried to the kitchen to fill it.

  “Thank you.” Albert took a long drink. His hands trembled as he set the glass down.

  “What you need is a nice cup of hot tea.”

  “Don’t go to any trouble.”

  “No trouble at all. I would love a cup of tea myself. Okay if I make us both one?”

  He nodded. “The kettle’s on the stove, and there’s tea bags on the counter.”

  I filled the kettle with fresh water, found the box of lemon-ginger tea, and removed a PG Tips tea bag from my pocket stash. As I waited for the water to boil, I admired Bonnie’s red-and-white kitchen. White quartz countertops held a red blender, red KitchenAid, and red toaster, while an assortment of cookbooks were bookended by the figure of a ceramic rooster and a red crock holding spatulas and
utensils. Red herb pots of basil, rosemary, and mint nestled beside the farmhouse sink, while white lace curtains fluttered in the breeze.

  As I opened the fridge for milk, a plethora of family photos held in place by red rooster magnets caught my eye: Megan, her face smeared with chocolate, in a high chair at what was obviously her first birthday party. Megan gripping her mother’s hand as she took her first steps. A ponytailed Megan in braces. Megan working at the flower shop and frowning at the camera. The final photo was a recent beaming picture of Don and Bonnie. Beneath the last picture, a calendar showed dentist appointments and Megan’s school events. One entry caught my eye. Something penciled in had been erased. Donning my Trixie Belden hat, I looked closer and detected the faint imprint of initials and a time: SK—FC, 4. The date was the same day Stanley had been killed. Could the initials stand for Stanley King and Faith Chapel? If so, which member of this household had had an appointment with Stanley at four p.m. on the day he died?

  The kettle whistled, interrupting my speculation. I made the tea, adding honey to Albert’s ginger-lemon, and returned to the living room. “Albert, what time does Bonnie get off work?”

  “Depends. Four thirty most days, but if she has a lot to do, she may stay until five thirty or six. Why?”

  “I need to talk to her about the tea flowers and was thinking of dropping by when I leave.” I took a sip of my tea and admired Megan’s school photo hanging on the wall beside Albert. “Does Megan work at the flower shop every day after school?” I asked casually.

  “No. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays only. Tuesdays and Thursdays she has Spanish club.”

  So … Megan could have skipped out of Spanish club and gone over to Faith Chapel to meet Stanley. Then I thought back to my conversation with Riley in the cemetery and realized that that did not make sense. Stanley’s coming on to Megan had repulsed her. She would want to stay as far away from him as possible. She certainly wouldn’t meet him alone somewhere. No, it had to be someone else in the family.