Hope, Faith, and a Corpse

by Laura Jensen Walker

  “Of course I will,” Bonnie said, affronted. “She’s my daughter. My baby.”

  Tact and diplomacy, Hope. Tact and diplomacy. Grateful to be wearing my clerical collar, I said, “In your eyes, she’ll always be your baby. However, Megan is a young woman on the cusp of adulthood. She needs to know you recognize she’s growing up. By acknowledging that and not treating her like a little girl, you may be surprised at the reaction you get.”

  “You think so?”

  I nodded.

  Please, Megan, don’t prove me wrong.

  “And what about Don? What should I say to him?”

  “Do you love him, Bonnie?”

  Cher’s line from Moonstruck picked that inopportune moment to pop into my head. “Aw, Ma, I love him awful.”

  “I do,” she said.

  “Then be honest with him. Tell him what you told me.”

  Bonnie gave me a bunch of pink peonies as a thank-you.

  * * *

  Walking back to Faith Chapel, I inhaled the pretty peonies as I enjoyed the sights and scents of spring all around me. Vivid azalea bushes hugged storefronts and fifty-foot apple trees offered a lacy pink canopy of fragrant blooms against a cerulean sky. Into this idyllic setting, thoughts of Stanley King intruded. My list of murder suspects was dwindling. After talking to both Bonnie and Albert, I felt confident that neither of them had killed Stanley. With Chief Beacham ruling out Don Forrester, whom did that leave? James Brandon. Todd King. Samantha King. Or some unknown thief. Although the last was seeming more remote by the minute, I hated the thought that either of the King children had committed patricide. Somehow I couldn’t imagine Samantha murdering her father, and although Todd talked a good game about how much he hated “the King,” deep down I didn’t think he’d kill his father either.

  That left James. The prospect of James being the murderer left me dismayed. He seemed like such a nice guy. It was clear that he loved his niece and nephew. If it turned out he had killed their father, Todd and Samantha’s relationship with their uncle might be irretrievably broken. Unless … maybe they were all in on it together?

  Stop it, Hope. Your love of Masterpiece Mystery is coloring your judgment.

  Back at my office, I put the peonies in a vase on my desk so I could see them as I worked. Then I began preparing my notes for that night’s vestry meeting.

  Father Christopher knocked on my open door. “Got a minute?” he asked, his cherubic face absent its usual good humor.

  “Sure.”

  Christopher sat down across from me and released a heavy sigh. He told me he had gone to the reading of Stanley’s will at the request of Stanley’s lawyer, and much to his surprise, Stanley King had left everything to Samantha, cutting out his son entirely.

  “You’re kidding. How did Todd respond to that?”

  “Honestly? He seemed relieved. Said now he wasn’t tied to his father in any way. Samantha was very upset, however, and said she’d split everything with Todd, but he told her he didn’t want anything from the King.”

  “I can understand that, but knowing Samantha, I’m sure she’ll figure out a way to share with her brother.”

  “I think so too.” Christopher looked at me with an odd expression on his face. “Stanley also earmarked a sizable bequest to the church.”

  “Isn’t that good news?”

  “Depends on how you look at it. He specified the money must be used for a new, expansive parish hall which would also be used for community events.”

  Instantly I thought of our upcoming tea and the existing cramped hall and how we could include so many more if the venue were only larger. Oh well, we would just have to do another tea next year in the bigger—and better—hall. Maybe we could even get Virginia to cater it.

  “There’s a catch, though,” Christopher said, with a frown, interrupting my tea imaginings. “The new building must be called King Hall.”

  * * *

  At the vestry meeting that night, Patricia and I brought up the prospect of expanding our women’s tea to a town-wide event.

  “I think that’s a great idea,” Father Christopher said. “We’re always trying to find ways to become more engaged with the community.”

  The rest of the vestry members agreed, except cradle-Episcopalian Marjorie, who did not like the idea of mixing with Baptists and Buddhists. She was overruled.

  Next I said I had found a great candidate for our open clerical position as I passed around copies of Riley’s résumé.

  Marjorie peered down at the paper through her bifocals. “Riley Smith? You must be joking. Have you seen that horrible tattoo that covers her entire arm? What kind of image would that give of Faith Chapel? It’s completely unsuitable, not to mention unprofessional.”

  A septuagenarian vestry member nodded in agreement.

  “One thing it might do is draw younger people to church,” Patricia said. “The bulk of our congregation is over sixty-five. If we don’t want our church to die out with us, we need to be welcoming to youth.”

  “At what cost?” Marjorie bristled. “Are we going to have guitars and drums on the altar next? Shall we throw out our beautiful Episcopal hymns in favor of insipid repetitive choruses? Or worse, that awful rap they try to pass off as music these days?”

  “Actually,” I said, “Riley told me one of the reasons she attends Faith Chapel is because she loves the music and the liturgy.”

  Marjorie looked taken aback, but not for long. “That may be all well and good, Pastor, but what you don’t know, being new to Apple Springs, is that Riley Smith is a common thief.” Her eyes gleamed with triumph. “We can’t have a thief working at church.”

  I stifled my natural impulse to blurt out an impassioned defense of Riley, reminding myself that I wanted to try to make amends with Marjorie and that thus far all I had done was antagonize her further. As I looked at the indignant eighty-two-year-old in her peach polyester pantsuit, though, I saw that beneath her anger and spitefulness, Marjorie felt threatened and afraid, so I decided to cut her some slack.

  “Marjorie,” Father Christopher said gently, “it’s true Riley shoplifted last year. She stole some cheap jewelry on a foolish dare from her friends. Everyone in town knows it. Even Hope. Riley told her. It was a stupid teenage mistake, and Riley knows and regrets it. However, it was a first offense and a minor one—as I recall, the item cost less than ten dollars—and she was not even charged. She apologized, returned the jewelry, made restitution to the store owner, and was released to her parents. She’s learned her lesson. Riley was contrite and embarrassed. I don’t think we need to worry about her ever doing anything like that again. She’s a smart, honest young lady. Quite talented too.”

  “But Father,” Marjorie protested, “what about the offering? Don’t you think it might be a terrible temptation to her?”

  “No, I don’t. Riley, or whomever we end up hiring, will work part-time in the afternoons when either Hope or I am at the church. It’s not even an issue.”

  “And that tattoo that covers her entire arm?” Marjorie said weakly.

  Two other aging vestry members chimed in that tattoos were unprofessional for office work. It would be one thing if a tattooed person worked in a garage or some kind of music or artistic venue, they said, but not a church office.

  Marjorie shot me a victorious look.

  Patricia held up Riley’s résumé. “Look at this girl’s qualifications. Not only is she a computer whiz beyond everyone in this room, she is also a gifted graphic artist. Imagine how amazing she could make our bulletins and monthly newsletter look. She would certainly do a far better job than I have these past few months. I don’t think we should automatically eliminate someone this qualified simply because she has a tattoo.”

  “I agree,” Father Christopher said. “Tattoos are quite commonplace nowadays. People, especially the young, use them as a form of artistic expression.”

  The two septuagenarians harrumphed.

  I thought about flashing my lower-
back tattoo but didn’t want to cause a heart attack.

  “That may be true, Father,” Marjorie said, “but the only tattooed people I’ve seen in our small town are Riley Smith and Tom Simmons over at the garage. Tom is a retired Marine who served his country with distinction. It makes sense for a military man to have patriotic tattoos, and it’s not out of place on a mechanic. However, we are talking about an office worker in the church reception area. The person who will be the face of Faith Chapel to the public when they walk in. In that setting, a tattoo—particularly such a large one—is inappropriate and unprofessional.”

  I turned to the vestry’s senior warden. “Patricia, when you were on the police force, did you know any officers with tattoos?”

  “Plenty, but their ink had to be covered up when they were in uniform.” Realization dawned, and she suppressed a smile when she addressed Marjorie and the other vestry members. “Tattoos anywhere on the head, face, or neck above the uniform collar were prohibited. Officers could have tattoos elsewhere on their body as long as they didn’t show below the elbows and knees when they were in uniform.”

  Father Christopher suggested that the church take a page from the police playbook and establish its own dress code for employees. Faith Chapel would not prohibit tattoos, but its new dress code policy would state that tattoos could not be visible below knees and elbows or above the neck.

  Everyone agreed, albeit some reluctantly. They also agreed that Christopher and I would interview Riley for the clerical position.

  * * *

  Arriving home at nine, I immediately took an impatient Bogie for a walk around the block. “Sorry, boy, you know how those vestry meetings can be.” He gave me a look. Once we got home, I fed him extra lamb-and-rice kibbles to make amends. While he chowed down, I ate a Lean Cuisine lasagna. Then I washed my hands and pulled out the sketch I had found at the King house. Carefully unfurling it, I set it on the cleared kitchen table and anchored it on all four corners with books to hold it in place. Then I examined it closely in more detail.

  Once again, the mysterious woman with the mischievous smile drew me in—much more so than the enigmatic Mona Lisa I’d seen in the Louvre with David. Who was this mystery woman? Someone from Stanley’s family? Lily’s? As a result of the unexpected drama over the seventies mix tape, I had forgotten to show the sketch to James Brandon to see if he could identify the woman in the picture. I made a mental note to call him and ask him to drop by. Then I could show him the sketch and see how he was doing at the same time. Although James was not one of my parishioners, his niece and nephew were, and I felt a certain responsibility for the fallout from the tape, since I was the one who had played it in the first place.

  I looked at the drawing again. Perhaps the woman wasn’t even a real person. Maybe some budding artist had seen her picture in a magazine or art book and copied it to practice his drawing skills. Or … maybe it was the initial sketch for some famous painting I didn’t know. I snapped a picture of the drawing with my phone and sent it to my art-loving sister-in-law, asking if she recognized it. As a longtime member of the Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco, Virginia is always attending exhibits at the de Young and the Legion of Honor. If the sketch on my kitchen table was the precursor to a celebrated work of art I was unfamiliar with, she would likely be the one who could identify it.

  Virginia texted back moments later. Nope. Pretty woman from the mid-1800s by the look of it, but definitely not from any well-known artist I recognize. Did you check for the artist’s signature? I couldn’t see one in the photo, but it looks like there may be something in the bottom right corner?

  Duh. I looked at the drawing again and saw a dark smudge in the corner I hadn’t noticed before. Were those letters in the smudge? I looked closer but couldn’t make them out. Grabbing my readers, I bent my head low over the brown paper again, zeroing in on the smudge. This time I could just make out the faint letters RC.

  You’re brilliant! I texted back. No signature, but the initials RC.

  Virginia: The only RC I know is RC Cola. Remember Nancy Sinatra singing ‘RC the one with the mad, mad taste! RC!’

  Me: Before my time.

  Virginia: Careful, Trixie.

  Me: Bethann probably knows it though.

  Virginia: Well maybe when she autographs my record she and I can do a duet of that ‘60s TV jingle.

  Me: Maybe.

  My mind was not on the sixties jingle, however. I was still trying to figure out who RC was. Not a King relation, obviously.

  Virginia: BTW, where’d you get this sketch anyway?

  Me: Long story. Tell you later. Gotta go. Skyping in a little while with Emily and Kelsey.

  Virginia: OK. Give them love and kisses from Auntie Virginia.

  I examined the initials again. Wait a minute. RC? Could the letters possibly stand for Richard Chamberlain—not the hot Thorn Birds priest, but Marjorie’s ancestor? After all, the King home had been Marjorie’s house before Stanley bought it. Was it possible the drawing had somehow gotten left behind in the attic when she moved? Maybe I should show the sketch to Marjorie and see if she recognized the woman.

  Your best friend Marjorie, you mean?

  Good point. Better to show it to James first and rule it out as one of his ancestors. If James didn’t recognize the woman, then I’d show the picture to Marjorie and see if it was one of her relations. As meticulous as she was about her family history, she was bound to know.

  Satisfied with my plan, I snuggled in with Bogie to watch Casablanca, setting my phone timer for my midnight Skype date with Emily and Kelsey in Germany. After Humphrey Bogart said to Claude Rains, “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” I turned off the TV, powered up my laptop, and launched Skype.

  My granddaughter surprised me by greeting me in German: Guten morgen, Oma. Wie gehts? Then Kelsey showed off a hot-pink bandage on her knee, saying she didn’t cry “very much” when she fell and hurt herself. She started chattering away in German, and Emily had to keep reminding her to speak English for Grammy. Emily and I caught up on the latest, and she asked me again when I was going to come visit.

  “Hopefully later this year, once everything settles down.” When I finally said good-night and turned off my laptop, Bogie insisted he had to go outside again.

  “Okay, but you be quiet,” I warned him. “People are sleeping.” I snapped on his leash and took him out to the backyard, careful to stay away from the open grave site. Bogie whimpered and strained at the leash, trying to get at something in the ivy behind the porch. “No, boy, stay here,” I whispered, afraid another rat might appear. “C’mon, do your business so we can go to bed.”

  A flicker of movement a few feet from Bogie caught my eye. I pulled on his leash and hissed, “Bogie, inside.” Too late, I saw a flash of white, and an unmistakable scent filled the air. I yanked on the leash, and this time Bogie came running, bringing with him the distinctive smell of skunk. Once inside, I grabbed the deskunking kit David had taught me to make the first time Bogie got skunked a few years ago. I hurried to the bathroom with my now-whimpering dog and put him in the tub.

  “Stay, Bogie, stay,” I said in a soothing tone as I turned on the tap. “Good boy. Don’t you worry, Mommy will have you fixed up soon.”

  I continued to offer reassuring words to Bogie as I pulled on rubber gloves and mixed the hydrogen peroxide, baking soda, and Dawn dishwashing liquid. After two applications of lather, rinse, repeat, the eau de skunk was a faint memory on my dog’s coat. The same could not be said for my house. I poured vinegar into bowls and set them in all the rooms, and then I emailed Christopher to let him know I would be in late. It was two a.m. before I finally tumbled into bed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Six hours later, Bogie awakened me with more frenzied barking. Was someone by the grave again? Bleary-eyed, I got up and glanced outside, but no one was in the backyard. I fell back into bed, but Bogie continued to bark. Beneath his barking, the faint chimes of the do
orbell filtered through to my fuzzy brain. Stumbling down the hallway with Bogie on my heels, I opened the front door to discover Braveheart on my doorstep.

  His shaggy eyebrows shot up. “Sorry for waking you,” Deputy Dylan said. “I thought the clergy were early risers.”

  “Usually. Unless their dog has a run-in with a skunk that keeps them up to the wee hours.”

  “That would explain the vinegar smell.” Dylan’s eyes dropped to my legs. Belatedly I realized I was wearing only my nightshirt—an oversized T-shirt that skimmed my thighs. In addition, the inside of my mouth felt like two monster trucks had engaged in a race to the death on a dry, dusty road. I backed away so I wouldn’t take the deputy out with my morning breath. “Give me a sec to get changed, and then you can tell me whatever it is you need to tell me.”

  I indicated that he should go to the living room as I continued to back away down the hallway so as not to flash him. That’s all I need. Priest flashes cop. Once I reached my bedroom, I sprinted to the bath, where I brushed my teeth and finger-combed my bedhead hair. Then I changed into a fresh T-shirt and jeans and rejoined the deputy.

  Dylan sat on the couch, absent-mindedly scratching Bogie’s belly, his thoughts clearly on other things. I plopped down in the wingback opposite him.

  “So what’s up?”

  His demeanor became brusque and businesslike. Dylan informed me that the forensic archaeologist had determined that the skeleton in my backyard was not Native American. He also said she would be coming over today to pack up the bones and take them to her lab.

  “So I can finally have my yard back?”