Hope, Faith, and a Corpse

by Laura Jensen Walker

  And the family name and reputation means more to you than anything, I thought. You would go to any length to protect it, including sabotaging a tea. It wasn’t just jealousy—you were trying to distract me, since I was asking questions about the woman in the sketch. I was getting too close.

  She drew herself up with a haughty sniff. “I told Stanley he was lying, but then he showed me the journal.” Dejection replaced her haughtiness. “And then I read my grandfather’s account of the night he brought Ruby Garnette home.” Marjorie fixed her gaze on me. “Not to Chamberlain House—it wasn’t built yet. The original family home was where you live now.”

  I nodded, acknowledging the connection.

  “Richard wrote that he brought Ruby over to introduce her to his mother and to inform her of their engagement,” she said quietly. “He said Ruby had dressed carefully for the occasion, eschewing her normal dance hall wardrobe in favor of a demure, high-necked velvet gown and looking every inch the lady with her hair swept up and wearing the locket he had given her.”

  Marjorie clasped and unclasped her hands. “Ruby said she was nervous about meeting Cordelia—that she would never accept her—but Richard naïvely assured her that his mother loved him and wanted him to be happy. Once she saw how happy Ruby made him, Cordelia was bound to give them her blessing. The meeting was initially awkward, and the conversation stilted, he wrote, but then his mother became her usual gracious self to Ruby, and he was elated.” A nervous tic pulsed behind Marjorie’s eye. “The evening was chilly, and Cordelia asked Richard to fetch her shawl from her bedroom. He wrote that he mouthed ‘I love you’ to Ruby as he left the room.” Marjorie’s voice fell flat. “When my grandfather returned minutes later, he found Ruby dead on the floor, his mother standing over her, a bloody fireplace poker in hand.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Is your curiosity satisfied now?” Marjorie said bitterly. “What price do I have to pay for your silence?” Her fingers tightened on the armrest. “Stanley King took my home away from me and held my ugly family secret over my head for years.” She leaned forward, eyes glittering. “Do you know what that does to a person?”

  My stomach lurched. Give them a strong motivation for murder?

  Marjorie might be over eighty, but she is a formidable woman from strong pioneer stock, my inner Trixie reminded me. She could easily have bashed Stanley in the head. Murder is in her genes, after all. I glanced at the angry woman across from me and felt a stab of fear, especially when I noticed the antique fireplace poker within easy reach.

  Hope, you did not think this through.

  I began to pray.

  “Well?” Marjorie said. “What do I have to do to ensure your silence?”

  Please don’t kill me.

  Then to my surprise, Marjorie began to weep. “I can’t go through this again,” she sobbed. “I’m an old woman. When Stanley died, I was so relieved, thinking my secret had died with him. I didn’t have to live in fear of that horrible man exposing my family skeletons to the world any longer.” Tears gushed down her lined cheeks. “But then you came along and started showing that sketch to everyone, and I knew it was just a matter of time before you discovered the truth.” She sent me a pleading look. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone, Marjorie.” I sat down next to my weeping parishioner and took her hand in mine. “You have my word.”

  Marjorie leaned into me and cried like a baby. I held her and prayed.

  When her sobs finally subsided, I said. “Why don’t we have a nice cup of tea? I happen to have some tasty scones.”

  After Marjorie’s crying jag ended and we were drinking our tea and scarfing down scones, she offered up another first. An apology. A grudging one, but still. I accepted it, but said she also needed to apologize to the women who had all worked so hard on the tea. Marjorie pulled out her checkbook and said she would reimburse them for the damages and donate a sizable amount to Faith Chapel’s events fund.

  “You can’t buy your way out of this, Marjorie.” I tilted my head and sent her a gentle look to soften the reproach. “Those women worked their butts off and spent countless hours planning, preparing, baking, and giving their all to make this special event an expression of God’s love from our church to the community.”

  She lowered her head, but not before I saw a flicker of shame cross the lined face of the descendant of one of Faith Chapel’s founding families. Marjorie gave a slight nod. “I guess this is my penance,” she said in a small voice, adding that once she apologized to the women, everyone in Apple Springs would know what she did.

  “No, they won’t,” I said, holding up my hand in a three-fingered salute. “Priest’s honor.”

  * * *

  By the time I finally got home, I was in desperate need of more than a power nap. Thankfully, Nikki had texted me earlier saying she and Maddie had fed and walked Bogie. Removing my clerical collar, I flopped on the bed and groaned. “What a day.”

  Bogie licked my hand. I patted the bed, and he jumped up and lay down beside me. Within moments, I slept the sleep of the dead, Bogie snoring beside me.

  * * *

  The next morning after church, everyone was gushing about the tea.

  “Pastor Hope, that was amazing!” Samantha said. “I’ve never been to a tea before. Everything was scrumptious, and so pretty.”

  “Very elegant,” said Elizabeth Davis.

  “It was Dorothy’s idea in the first place. I’ve never done an English tea before. I had no clue how to make cucumber sandwiches or even scones.” I sent a fond glance to my favorite parishioner. “Dorothy is the queen of scones.”

  Several women clustered around Dorothy, asking for her scone recipe.

  “Y’all did a great job,” Bethann said, her arm linked with Wendell’s. She was wearing the same vintage pink pillbox hat perched atop her blonde beehive that she had worn to the tea yesterday. “Ah ’specially liked those cute li’l peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches in the shape of a heart.” She winked at me. “A course the tiny Twinkies were mah personal favorite.”

  Father Christopher nodded sagely. “You can never go wrong with Twinkies. Naturally, Dorothy’s famous lemon squares were delicious, as always. So were the fruit tarts and the one-too-many brownies I sampled.” He patted his potbelly.

  As I stood chatting with Patricia and Bonnie, an uncertain Marjorie approached with Lottie, who looked less timid than usual.

  “I’m sorry I missed the tea yesterday,” Marjorie said. “I hear everything was wonderful.” She lifted her chin and looked at me straight on. “I hope we’ll have another one soon, Pastor. I’ll bring my curried-chicken salad.” Then she turned to Megan and Riley and congratulated them on winning Best Decorated Table.

  Patricia stared after her as she walked away. “Will wonders never cease.”

  * * *

  Instead of my usual Sunday lunch at Suzie’s, today I had a lunch date with Samantha King at her house. After Marjorie’s big reveal yesterday, I had texted Samantha to see if she needed any more help organizing and packing. I offered to pack the books in the library, which would allow me to surreptitiously search for Richard Chamberlain’s antique journal and return it to Marjorie.

  Samantha texted back, however, that Todd had already finished packing up most of the books yesterday. Only a couple now remained on the shelves.

  Great. Now I’ll have to go through all the packed boxes to find the journal. What excuse could I give Samantha as my reason for doing so? I suppressed a sigh. The whole not-being-able-to-lie thing sure complicates things.

  You could always just come right out and ask Samantha about it. Chances are Stanley would not have left the blackmail journal in the library anyway. He probably kept it under lock and key somewhere.

  That was exactly what he had done.

  Samantha handed me the cracked brown leather journal, held closed by a worn strip of rawhide and covered in scratches. “Here you go. I found this in Dad’s des
k after he passed. I saw the name R. Chamberlain inside and realized it must belong to Marjorie’s family. I meant to give it to her weeks ago, but in all the craziness of the funeral, selling the house, and packing everything up, I forgot.”

  “Thanks. I’m sure Marjorie will be happy to get this. Did you happen to read it?” I asked casually.

  “I flipped through the first few pages. Nothing exciting—just lists of groceries. Stuff was cheap in those days. Like a pound of sugar? Nine cents. Quart of beans? Eight cents. Pound of lard?” Samantha wrinkled her nose. “Thirteen cents. And a pound of coffee? A whopping twenty-three cents.”

  “Clearly they didn’t have Starbucks back then.” I slipped the journal into my tote bag.

  “Yeah, my vanilla latte would have broken the bank.” She grinned.

  We sat down in the living room, bare now except for a leather couch and two chairs, and chatted as we waited for lunch. When I first arrived, Samantha had said she hoped I didn’t mind, but Todd and her uncle James would be joining us for lunch. They had gone to pick up pizza from Margheritaville and would be back any minute.

  “Not a problem. As long as they’re not wasting away there,” I said.

  Samantha gave me a blank look.

  I sang a snatch of the classic Jimmy Buffett song.

  She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Sorry. I’ve never heard that before.”

  “Ouch. Way to make me feel old. We definitely don’t want to play any seventies mix tapes.”

  She laughed.

  I thought back to my Dorothy conversation. “Samantha … do you have a boyfriend?”

  “I wish.” She gave me a rueful smile. “Not a lot of choices for someone my age in Apple Springs. That’s one of the reasons I’m looking forward to moving to the City.”

  “You’re moving to San Francisco?”

  A door slammed from the back of the house. “Food’s here,” Todd yelled. He and his uncle joined us.

  James, who was wearing jeans and a white button-down and carrying a six-pack of Dr. Pepper, sent me a lopsided smile. “We have to stop meeting like this, Pastor. What will people say?”

  I stroked my dog collar reflectively. “They’ll say that James Brandon sure must have a lot of things to confess.”

  Todd chortled.

  As we ate, the King siblings told me about Marjorie buying her house back and her plans to move in by the end of the month.

  “This is a pretty big house for one person.” I said.

  “She’s going to have a roommate.” Samantha took a swig of her Dr. Pepper. “Her friend Lottie.”

  The image of Cary Grant’s two maiden aunts in Arsenic and Old Lace popped into my head. When I visited Marjorie and Lottie here, I would be sure not to have any elderberry wine.

  Then Todd and Samantha shared their big news, their eyes sparkling with excitement. The next day they were going to San Francisco with their Realtor uncle to start looking for a house to buy.

  “Maybe we’ll get a high-rise condo. Something sleek and modern downtown that would be a real chick magnet.” Todd gave his sister an exaggerated wink.

  “Uncle James, we’re definitely going to need a place with separate entrances,” Samantha said. “I think a painted lady in Pacific Heights would be nice.”

  “Let’s see now,” James said, “that’s sleek and modern downtown, and old and classic at least twenty blocks away. I can definitely guarantee separate entrances.”

  We all laughed. Then the doorbell rang.

  Samantha jumped up, still chuckling. “I’ll get it.”

  She returned moments later, white-faced and followed by Harold Beacham and Dylan MacGregor, both in uniform and looking grim.

  Harold acknowledged my presence with a brief nod before focusing his full attention on Todd and Samantha. “We have some news about your father’s murder.”

  Samantha trembled and shot a frightened look at her brother, who moved next to her and put his arm around her.

  “Stanley’s missing Rolex was found in a Sacramento pawnshop,” Harold said. “The owner said a young, red-haired woman sold it to him.”

  I sucked in my breath.

  The chief looked straight at Samantha. “That woman was you.”

  “I—I guess I should have worn a disguise,” a chalk-white Samantha said as her eyes filled. “But I wasn’t thinking clearly. I didn’t have access to any cash. My father controlled my finances completely, and I have no money of my own. I needed my own money!” she said desperately.

  “We also found your prints in the columbarium and on the murder weapon,” Harold said quietly, his aged brown eyes full of sadness as he gazed at the young woman before him. “Samantha King, I’m arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Stanley King.”

  Samantha swayed against Todd, and James leapt to his feet.

  “Stop it,” Todd said. “Leave her alone.”

  “Todd, no,” Samantha said, tears pouring down her face. “I’m so sorry,” she sobbed. “You took the Rolex so it would look like a robbery, but then I went and ruined everything by going and selling it. Why didn’t I wait? I just saw that stupid shiny expensive watch of his that he was always flashing around, and I lost it. I didn’t want to look at it anymore; I didn’t even want it in the house—it symbolized everything about him I hated—I wanted to get rid of it and get some of my own money at last.”

  “It’s okay, Red.” He gently wiped her tears. “We knew this might happen.” Todd turned to Harold and Dylan. “Samantha didn’t do it—I did. I killed my father.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  As the police took her brother away, a sobbing Samantha tried to follow. James hugged her and assured her he would go to the station and call the family lawyer on the way. He sent me a beseeching look over his niece’s head before releasing her.

  Nodding at James, I led Samantha over to the couch, where she continued to weep.

  “It’s all my fault,” she cried, as great shuddering sobs racked her body. “It’s all my fault.”

  I held her and made soothing noises as I sent up prayers. Then Samantha revealed all.

  She and Todd had met their father in the columbarium, where he sometimes went to spend time with Lily. “Or at least that’s what he told everyone. It looked good to play the loving husband paying his respects to his dead wife. Respect. Ha,” she said bitterly. Samantha had taken Todd along for moral support when she broke the news to Stanley that she was moving out and going back to school. As expected, her father, who’d had a few drinks, lost it and started yelling at her and saying mean, hurtful things.

  “That’s when I hit him—slapped him in the face,” Samantha said. “He slapped me back and yelled that I wasn’t going anywhere. That he owned me.” She began to shake, the tears dripping onto the carpet. “Todd told him to leave me alone, and Dad said Todd wasn’t man enough to make him. Then he grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head back, hurting me. That’s when Todd hit him with the urn and told me to get out of there.”

  Samantha looked at me with anguished eyes. “My brother killed our father trying to protect me, and now his life is over, all because of me.” She sobbed anew.

  * * *

  The news of Todd killing his father spread through town like a certain leader’s tweets. As I walked Bogie Sunday night, several people, including Liliane, stopped me to cluck and press me for information. The same thing happened today on my walk to work. I decided to skip tea and Susan’s blueberry muffins at the diner to escape others wanting all the juicy details. Instead, I opted for a cup of PG Tips and a granola bar at my desk for breakfast.

  As I sipped my tea and thought about Todd and Samantha, my heart ached. Only yesterday they had been bubbling over with excitement about house hunting in San Francisco. I bent my head and included them in my morning prayers. Once Father Christopher got in, we planned to discuss the best ways to help the siblings, spiritually and practically. When I’d called Christopher last night to tell him Todd had killed Stanley and that I wa
s at the house comforting Samantha, he’d been shocked but had told me he’d go right over to the jail to visit Todd.

  “Pastor Hope? Could I talk to you?”

  I looked up to see our choir director standing in the doorway, an odd expression on her face.

  “Of course, Elizabeth. Come in.”

  “Actually, could we go to the small chapel and talk there instead?”

  “Sure.” We made small talk as we walked down the shade-dappled stone walkway, past the camellias and vivid fuchsia azaleas. Beside me, Elizabeth hummed with a nervous tension.

  As we sat down in the chapel crypt facing the stained-glass windows, Elizabeth fixed her eyes on the cross. After a moment, she bowed her head and prayed. I joined her. When Elizabeth lifted her head, she crossed herself and said softly, “This is where it all happened.” Then she turned to me with a resolute gaze. “Pastor, I need to confess. I killed Stanley. Suffocated the SOB. After we’re done here, I’m going to the police station to turn myself in, but I wanted to talk to you first and make my confession. When I heard this morning that that poor innocent boy had been arrested, I came straight here.

  “Stanley and I had been lovers until recently,” Elizabeth said. Then she proceeded to tell me in a calm, detached voice how her entire life had been one bad relationship after another—a distant, uninterested father, an abusive high school boyfriend, a marriage she vowed would be forever but instead ended in an unwanted divorce on her part after years of her husband’s unfaithfulness. A divorce that left her shattered and teetering on the financial edge.