As I set my mug down, a book on the coffee table caught my eye: The Making of The African Queen; or, How I Went to Africa With Bogart, Bacall, and Huston and Almost Lost My Mind, by Katharine Hepburn. I picked it up and began flipping through it, enjoying the rare behind-the-scenes photos from Africa. “I love The African Queen.”
“It’s my favorite,” Albert said. “Bogart and Hepburn made a great team. She really gave Bogie what for.”
I lifted my eyebrows in an impression of the great Kate as the psalm-singing missionary, making sure to speak loudly and clearly. “Nature, Mr. Allnut, is what we are put in this world to rise above.”
Albert slapped his knee. “By golly, that’s a good one. How do you know that, Pastor?”
“I’m an old movie buff, and my husband loved Bogie. We must have watched The African Queen at least a dozen times.”
“Well, don’t that beat all? It’s a treat to find a young person who appreciates the classics. My daughter and granddaughter certainly don’t. I’ve tried introducing Megan to favorites like The Maltese Falcon and Treasure of the Sierra Madre, but she refuses to watch black-and-white movies.”
“Anytime you want to watch a black-and-white movie, you give me a call.” Deepening my voice, I adopted an accent and an aggrieved tone. “‘We don’t need no stinkin’ badges!’”
Albert laughed again. “Harry used to say that all the time.”
“Harry Guthrie? The man who used to live in my house?”
“Yep. Harry was one of my oldest friends. We served in Korea together. I miss that old son-of-a-gun.”
I switched investigative gears. If Albert had been friends with Harry in his younger days, he would be able to provide me a much more accurate take on him than Deputy Dylan and those who’d known him only in his older years. “Did you know Harry’s wife too?”
“Betsy? Sure. We all went to school together. I was best man at their wedding.” Albert got a pained expression on his face. “It like to killed Harry when Betsy ran off. He was out of town on a construction job, and when he got home, she was gone. Left him a Dear John saying she had fallen in love with someone else and was going to start a new life far away from, and I quote, ‘this boring life and boring small town.’ Broke Harry’s heart.”
“Wasn’t that more than fifty years ago? How can you remember what the note said after all this time?”
“Because the poor schlub read it to me over and over again when he was drunk, and he was drunk every night for a solid year after Betsy left.” Albert exhaled noisily. “I wish I’d tried harder to stop the wedding. Maybe Harry wouldn’t have been so broken up if they hadn’t been married.”
“You tried to stop the wedding? Why?”
“Because Betsy was a selfish, impulsive woman in need of constant attention and adoration. I was worried Harry wouldn’t be enough for her—that she would tire of him and move on, even though the poor guy adored her and showered her with compliments and trinkets. It still wasn’t enough.” Albert glowered. “She got mad when he would go out of town for work because then he wasn’t fawning over her twenty-four seven, but Harry had to go where the work was. There wasn’t enough construction work here to keep him busy. He had a mortgage and bills to pay. Bills his wife carelessly ran up. Betsy didn’t work, so it was all up to him.”
Hmmm. Could the financial pressure have been too much for Harry? Liliane and others had said Harry had a bad temper when he was young. Could it be he came home one night to one bill too many from Betsy’s excesses and flew into a murderous rage, killing her?
Melodramatic much? Dial it down a notch, Sparky.
“Knowing Harry as well as you did,” I said gently, “do you think there’s any chance he might have killed Betsy?”
“Absolutely not.” Albert’s eyes blazed.
“Even in anger? I understand he had quite a temper.”
“I don’t care how angry Harry got, he’d never lay a finger on Betsy. She was everything to him. His whole world.” Albert’s hands shook. “I know folks are whispering, saying it might be Betsy in your backyard, but I’ll bet my last dime it’s not. It could be anyone from long before Harry and Betsy lived there—even someone from gold rush days. Lots of folks came through this area back then.”
“That’s true,” I said in a soothing tone. “I know they’re checking whether it might be Miwok remains.”
“Well, there you go.”
Seeking to distract Albert, I walked over to examine a family photo grouping on the opposite wall. “Is this you?” I asked, pointing to a black-and-white eight-by-ten of a handsome smiling man in uniform.
“Yep. That was taken right before I shipped out to Korea.” He eased himself out of his recliner and came to stand beside me. His lips curved upward as he remembered. “Peggy and I were married a few hours earlier that day by a justice of the peace.”
“No wonder you’re smiling.”
He inclined his head to a smaller black-and-white photo, where a young woman with wavy brown hair and a corsage pinned to her suit gazed adoringly up at Albert, who gazed adoringly back.
“She’s lovely.” I looked closer. “Reminds me of the daughter in The Best Years of Our Lives. What’s her name again? She played Lou Gehrig’s wife in Pride of the Yankees.”
“Teresa Wright.” Albert touched the photo. “Folks always told Peggy she looked like the actress, but I think my Peggy was even prettier.”
“She’s a beauty. You can tell Bonnie’s her daughter.”
“Bonnie looked a lot more like her mother when she was younger,” he said, nodding to a high school photo of his daughter. Albert added that he and Peggy had wanted more children, but it didn’t happen, much to his wife’s regret. “After Bonnie was married and got pregnant, Peggy was over the moon at the prospect of having a grandchild,” he said. Albert pointed to a photo of his wife holding Megan on the day she was born. “My Peggy passed away of cancer shortly after Megan’s second birthday.” He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
I squeezed his shoulder. “What happened to Bonnie’s husband?”
He snorted. “That useless good-for-nothing abandoned his wife and child when Megan was only five. I knew he was trouble the moment I met him, but Bonnie had stars in her eyes and would not listen to a word against him. The only good thing I can say about their union was that it produced Megan. After her husband deserted them, Bonnie and Megan moved in with me and have lived with me ever since,” he said. “Then Stanley came sniffing around about a year after the divorce. Bonnie was vulnerable, and he preyed on that. Talk about going from the frying pan into the fire.”
Albert shook his head. “My daughter sure knows how to pick ’em. Stanley wined and dined her and swept her off her feet. Even took her and Megan to Disneyland. Completely hoodwinked Bonnie. Once he finally got what he wanted”—Albert’s cheeks flushed—“sorry for being so indelicate, Pastor, but the truth is, once Stanley made my daughter the latest notch on his bedpost, he was out of there faster than a scalded cat.” He made a fist and grinned. “He got his comeuppance though. You reap what you sow.”
I looked at the frail aged man in front of me and recalled Susan saying the Korean War vet was not as weak as he looked. She also had said he would have decked Stanley if he ever heard about his coming on to Megan. Was it possible this nice old man who reminded me of Henry Fonda had overpowered Stanley and hit him over the head in the columbarium? No, I told myself. That’s ridiculous. Stanley King was both younger and bigger than Albert. No way could Albert have gotten the jump on him. Could he?
“Albert, did you have many dealings with Stanley?”
“Not much. Although there was that time about a decade ago I punched the lowlife in the nose for how he treated Bonnie.”
“You punched Stanley?”
“Yes, ma’am. Broke his nose, as a matter of fact,” Albert said with satisfaction. “He kept his distance after that. No one messes with my family and gets away with it.”
The theme from The Go
dfather hummed in my head, accompanied by visions of Sonny Corleone beating up his brother-in-law Carlo.
“Bonnie didn’t date for a long time after Stanley,” Albert continued, “but now she’s seeing Don Forrester. Seems like a nice enough guy, although he reminds me of a used-car salesman with his constant smiling. He treats my daughter well, though, which is the important thing.”
Albert tilted his head to one side and sent me an inquiring look. “What about you, Pastor?”
“What about me?”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“No. Are you?”
He gave me a shocked look. “Oh no. My Peggy was my one and only.”
“So you know how I feel. I had a wonderful marriage to a kind, loving man who also happened to be my best friend. I’m grateful for that. Many never know that kind of love.”
Albert patted my hand, his rheumy eyes filled with compassion. “I understand. Believe me, I understand. There’s a big difference between us, though. I’m old. You’re still a young, good-looking woman with many years ahead of you. Do you want to live them alone?”
“I’m not alone. I have good friends, family, and God. And my dog, which as you know”—I grinned—“is God spelled backwards.”
Albert agreed that there was nothing like a good dog. He had had some great canine companions over the years, he said, but a dog was not the same as a partner. A spouse. “Wouldn’t you like to have a special someone again, Pastor?” he asked. “Someone to come home to at night? I know a great guy about your age I’d like to introduce you to. We play chess together. I think the two of you would really hit it off.”
“Thanks, but I’m not in the market for romance. It’s sweet of you to think of me, though.”
* * *
It was sweet, I thought as I made my way to Main Street. Albert was a nice man trying to do a nice thing. I didn’t fault him for that, but neither did I want anyone playing matchmaker for me. I had no desire to date. Not after being married to the best guy on the planet. Passing by Bob’s Barber Shop, I noticed Bob Hastings giving someone a haircut. I smiled and waved. He glared at my priest’s collar.
Next door, Bonnie’s Blooms beckoned me in with its masses of beautiful flowers. Bonnie was busy talking to a customer, so I wandered through her shop, admiring the setup and basking in the floral perfume. White shelves attached to sage-green walls held vibrant flowerpots, assorted vases, and a mix of elegant and whimsical garden decorations. A large mosaic-framed quote by Oliver Wendell Holmes took pride of place on the top shelf: The Amen of nature is always a flower.
Weaving my way through colorful buckets of tulips, daffodils, roses, daisies, and calla lilies, I stopped before my favorite—peonies. I loved their delicate beauty so much that I had carried the ruffled pale-pink flowers in my wedding bouquet. Leaning forward, I inhaled the scent of the fragrant blooms and was instantly transported back to my wedding day and David’s loving face smiling tenderly at me.
“Pastor Hope, how can I help you?” Bonnie said, her voice bringing me back to the David-less present. “Aren’t those some gorgeous peonies?”
“Yes. I’ve always loved pink peonies.”
“Would you like me to wrap up a bunch for you?”
“I’m not sure yet. Let me think about it. The main reason I stopped by was to thank you for your willingness to do the flowers for the tea. We really appreciate it.”
“I’m happy to do so. An elegant afternoon tea for the women of Faith Chapel is a wonderful idea. I’ll do whatever I can to help make it a special occasion.”
“Thanks. I also wanted to let you know there is a good chance the tea might be a bit larger than we originally thought. I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to accommodate that or not.”
“How much larger?”
“Well, we don’t know exactly yet.” I sent her an apologetic smile. “It depends whether the vestry agrees to our opening it up to the whole town.”
“The entire town?” Bonnie paled above her forest-green Bonnie’s Blooms apron.
“Don’t worry,” I hastened to reassure her, “the parish hall holds sixty, but we’re limiting it to the first fifty women who sign up. Again, this isn’t a done deal yet—the vestry still needs to sign off on it.” Then I realized. “Naturally, we wouldn’t expect you to do the flowers at cost, since we may well be tripling the number of women now. I was just wondering if staff-wise you’d be able to manage flower arrangements for four or five more tables.”
She tried, and failed, to suppress a sigh of relief. “Not a problem, Pastor Hope. That won’t amount to more than a couple dozen roses, which isn’t a big deal—roses come in bunches of twenty-five.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
I thanked her again for her generosity. “By the way, I had a nice visit with your father this afternoon. I enjoyed looking at all the family photos in your living room. You certainly take after your mom.” I glanced around. “You have a great shop here. How long have you had it?”
“Ten years.” Bonnie explained that she had bought the shop two years after her divorce. The original owner, whom she used to work for, had retired and sold the shop to her for a song. She then cleared out the shabby space, removing dated knickknacks and cutesy kitsch, gave the entire shop a fresh coat of paint, and added the shelves and decorative items. Even then, Bonnie said, she was in the red for the first couple of years, but thanks to her father’s financial assistance, she had been able to keep the shop running.
“Now it’s in the black and I’ve paid my father back,” she said proudly.
“That must feel good.”
“I can’t tell you how much.” She puffed out a sigh of relief, which fluttered her bangs.
“And Megan works here part-time? It must be fun to work with your daughter.”
Bonnie grimaced. “Fun isn’t exactly the right word. When Megan was younger, she loved coming to the flower shop and helping. When I hired her two years ago, she was thrilled to be earning her own money.” She sighed. “These past few months, however, she’s gotten so moody. All she does is grumble and complain. I have to keep her in the back so the customers aren’t affected by her sullen attitude.”
“Do you think it’s the normal teenage stuff, or could something have happened?”
Bonnie’s eyes filled. “Both.” As the tears leaked down her face, she glanced up at the clock and moved to the front door, where she turned the sign to Closed and locked up. “May I speak to you confidentially, Pastor?”
“Of course. That’s what I’m here for.”
She ushered me to the back of the shop and led me to a small break table in the corner that held a microwave, coffeemaker, and a few mugs. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked shakily.
“No, thanks.” I nodded to one of the chairs. “Sit down and I’ll make you some coffee.”
“I’d rather have water.” She indicated the water dispenser next to the sink. I rinsed out two mugs and filled them, then sat down opposite her.
Bonnie took a long drink and brushed the tears from her face. “This is so hard. I don’t even know how to begin.”
“Why don’t we begin with prayer?”
She nodded gratefully.
Holding her hands in mine, I prayed for her, and then I prayed for Megan.
Bonnie’s tears fell afresh. “I can’t believe I let that pig Stanley in our lives,” she said, repeating what Albert had told me about Stanley’s wooing her a year after her divorce and how they’d dated for a while. “He won me over when he took the three of us down to Disneyland,” she said. “Megan had wanted to go since she was three, but my ex kept making excuses why we couldn’t: it was too expensive, she was too young, it was too long a drive, yada, yada. So when Stanley came along and made my baby’s Disneyland dreams come true for her sixth birthday, I fell for it hook, line, and sinker.” Bonnie’s cheeks reddened, and she couldn’t meet my eyes. “And then I fell into his bed. Less than a month later, he dumped me and mov
ed on to his next conquest. I don’t know how I could have been so stupid.”
“Everyone makes mistakes,” I said gently. “You were lonely and vulnerable and Stanley took advantage of that. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“What I beat myself up about is exposing my daughter to that creep.” Bonnie took a deep breath and rushed the words out. “Recently, I learned Stanley hit on Megan. My sixteen-year-old daughter!” Her eyes flashed with pain and fury. She dashed away angry tears. “Can you believe it?”
“How did you find out?”
“I overheard Megan and Riley talking about it. They didn’t know I’d come home at lunch to pick something up.”
“When was this?”
“The day Stanley was killed.”
Ah. It looked like she was the one who had penciled in the appointment with Stanley and then erased it. But just to be sure … “What did you do then?”
Bonnie lifted her chin. “I called Stanley and said I needed to talk to him privately. He said he had some church business with Father Christopher that afternoon but to meet him at four o’clock in the columbarium.”
“What happened when you saw him?” I asked, holding my breath.
“I confronted him and told him to stay away from my daughter. And do you know what he did?” Her hazel eyes blazed. “He laughed and said, ‘I think you’re jealous that I find the young, delectable Megan more appealing than her middle-aged mother.’ I slapped him and told him again to stay away from Megan, and then I ran out of there before he could see me crying.” Her voice shook. “I was so upset I could hardly see straight. I went over to Don’s office and told him what happened. He told me not to worry, he would take care of it. The next morning, you found Stanley dead in the columbarium.”
Bonnie looked up at me with anguished eyes. “What if Don killed Stanley because of me?”
Chapter Eighteen
After reassuring Bonnie that I had it on good authority that Don had not killed Stanley, I suggested that she talk to both Don and Megan. “You need to let Megan know you’re aware that Stanley came on to her and that she did nothing wrong—Stanley did. Reassure her that if anything like that ever happens again, she can come to you and you will deal with it together. Megan needs to know you’ll always have her back.”
Hope, Faith, and a Corpse Page 17