by Ron Benrey
“Indeed it can. I’ve done it all.”
“Now, that’s what baffles me. I’ve always thought of hostesses as the Vanna Whites of the restaurant biz. You smile prettily, walk people to their tables and hand out menus. Hardly the right training for managing Squires’ Place.”
Sheila’s expression darkened. All pretense at civility vanished. She crossed her arms and glared at Ann.
“That’s a stupid thing to say, Miss Trask—even if you believe it’s true—but I don’t think that you are a stupid woman. Well, neither am I. I can think of only one explanation for your insults. You’re baiting me. You hope that I’ll overreact to your absurd claims and say something foolish.”
Sheila stood up and moved closer to Sean. “What is this all about? Why do you want information about Richard and his restaurant? And don’t tell me it has to do with planning Richard’s funeral. I gave you that opening yesterday, but it’s no longer available. All the planning’s been done.”
Sean sucked in a mouthful of air then said, “We’re trying to understand all that we can about Richard Squires.”
“Why?”
“We have our reasons.” Sean knew it was an inane thing to say the instant the words left his lips.
Sheila picked up the telephone.
“Get out of here,” she said. “You’re trespassing on private property. I’ll call the police if you don’t leave immediately.”
Sean knew that he’d have to tell Sheila at least part of the truth. He had no other choice. “Okay, I’ll answer your question, but you might want to sit down first.” When Sheila made no move to sit, Sean continued. “There’s a strong possibility that Richard’s death wasn’t an accident.”
Sheila took a step forward, halting only when her face was inches from his. He could feel her breath on his cheek.
“What a dreadful, hurtful thing to say. A church steeple fell on Richard. How can that be anything but an accident?”
Sheila backed away from Sean and turned her anger on Ann.
“This is all your doing,” she said. “I’ve heard people in Glory talk about you. They say you’re responsible for Richard’s death because you called him to the church to fix the generator. Now you’re trying to put the blame on someone else.”
“If that’s true,” Ann said, “why are you afraid of me?”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“But you are. I hear fear in your voice.”
Sean stared at Sheila with newfound interest. He realized that Ann was right; Sheila’s bluster had been full of fear. He decided to push her further.
“I’m quite serious, Sheila—do you mind if I call you Sheila?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “The police are aware of several suspicious factors associated with Richard’s death.”
Her eyes opened wide. “What kind of suspicious factors?”
“On the night that Richard died, he parked his car toward the rear of the church parking lot. Yet when he left the church, he walked in a different direction, during torrential rain. There wasn’t any reason for him to be in the location where the steeple fell.”
“But…” Sheila seemed lost in thought, deliberating mightily about what Sean had revealed. She finally said, “I might have an explanation for that.”
“What explanation?” he said softly, barely able to control his incredulity.
Sheila clasped her hands together. “Richard called me from the church after he finished fixing the generator. He was unhappy. He said that someone had sabotaged it.”
Sean heard Ann gasp as she leaped to her feet.
“He told you someone had intentionally disabled our generator?”
“Yes,” Sheila said. “Perhaps that’s why he didn’t walk directly toward his car. Maybe he planned to stay at the church a while longer?”
“Why didn’t you tell that to the police?” Ann asked Sheila.
“No one has asked me about that night. And anyway, the newspaper said that Richard had been killed in a freak accident. I didn’t think what Richard told me made any difference. I still don’t.” She grimaced. “No more questions today. I’ve got lots to do,” Shelia said, glancing at her watch, “and this conversation is going nowhere.”
Sean grasped Ann’s hand and moved toward the door.
“Thank you for your time,” he said. He could tell Ann wasn’t ready to leave, but it was clear to him that they’d learn nothing more from Sheila today.
Sean and Ann walked to Glory Community Church side by side, talking about sabotage. “What could it mean?” she asked.
“It means that someone wanted Richard to be at the church that evening. Someone who intended to kill him and wanted to hide behind Gilda.”
“But we still don’t have a motive.”
“Not quite, but we’ve made a genuine chunk of progress,” Sean said.
“Should we tell Rafe?”
“Not yet. Sheila didn’t mention the call until after I’d told her the death was suspicious. Rafe will want more than hearsay evidence.”
“Onward goes the investigation,” she said, almost gleefully.
For the first time since they began this investigation, he could see hope in Ann’s lovely face.
Praise the Lord.
ELEVEN
If Ann had been able to squeeze beneath the cushions of Daniel’s leather sofa, she would have tried to disappear from sight. She’d never felt more wretched, more humiliated in all her life.
Daniel was standing next to the sofa, Ann’s small hand sandwiched between his large hands.
“I’m sorry that I had to be the one to tell you,” he said, “but I wanted to be sure you knew before the word trickled throughout Glory and you heard about it from someone else.”
She nodded, sniffed, then nodded again. “Thank you, Daniel. I’m really not surprised. Even though Phil Meade isn’t a member of the church, he’s a respected person in Glory. People listen to what he has to say.”
“Not this time. Our elders are intelligent people. Once they understand what’s driving Phil—a single-minded commitment to pay you back for perceived slights—they’ll reject his accusations.”
Ann forced a smile. They both knew that Daniel had put a hopeful face on a hopeless state of affairs. She owed Daniel her best efforts to control her tattered emotions. The sobbing could wait until later, when she was alone.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” he asked.
Ann cleared her throat, then said, “I’d love some.”
“I’ll be right back.”
“No need to rush.” Ann noticed that Daniel seemed delighted with even a brief opportunity to leave his office. None of this was his doing and he must hate every miserable aspect of the situation. She could only imagine his reaction when he’d opened the letter first thing this morning.
The elders had held a private meeting on Thursday evening. They hadn’t invited Daniel, but they had invited Phil Meade. They’d taken a vote, summarized their conclusions in a brief letter and slipped the letter under Daniel’s door.
Dear Pastor Hartman,
The three members of the Elder Board whose signatures you will find below were shocked and dismayed to learn that Miss Ann Trask, the recently hired administrator of Glory Community Church, did not reveal the details of her “incident” at Camp Carolina Pines, some seven years ago.
We reluctantly interpret Miss Trask’s decision to withhold important information as an indication of her dishonesty. We have lost confidence in her judgment and her truthfulness. Consequently, we have begun to doubt her explanation of the chain of events that led to the tragic death of Mr. Richard Squires.
We urge you to appoint a special committee of church members to examine every aspect of Miss Trask’s behavior during the time the emergency shelter was open. We especially seek clarification about the necessity of summoning Mr. Squires to repair the church’s generator during the height of Hurricane Gilda.
Daniel returned with a tall ceramic mug and sat next to her on the sofa. She
sensed that he’d cranked his bedside manner up to maximum tranquility while brewing her tea.
“You know,” he said calmly, “that the circumstances are far less bleak than you may think they are. The three elders who signed the letter represent a minority of the elder board. That means that the majority of elders and me—remember, I have a vote on the board—have confidence in you. You’ll weather this storm as successfully as Glory weathered Gilda.”
Ann glanced at Daniel and struggled mightily to hold back her tears. “Thank you for your kindness, Daniel, but we both know that I have to end this mess now. A battle inside the elder board will spill over into the congregation and hurt the church. Glory Community has had more than its share of conflicts recently. Our members don’t need a new war over me.”
“I don’t want you to leave, Ann. You’re my friend, and the best church administrator I’ve ever worked with.”
“I don’t want to leave, Daniel, but I have to. There’s no alternative. Phil Meade will keep stirring the pot until I’m gone.” She gave a pained smile. “And the fact is that much of what he thinks about me is true. One of the reasons I wanted to stay in the church during the hurricane was to prove to the world—but mostly to me—that I could handle an emergency. All I proved, though, is that I don’t have what it takes to manage a tough situation.”
“That’s baloney. You’re an excellent manager.”
“I won’t lie to myself anymore, Daniel, or to you. I counted on this job to erase my past. I know now that was foolish of me. My present and my past have conspired against me. Maybe I have to accept the possibility that Richard Squires’s death is my fault. I called him to the church. If I hadn’t made that call—well, who knows what might’ve happened?”
“Please reconsider,” Daniel said simply.
“There’s nothing for me to reconsider. I’m tired of brawling with Phil Meade, and I’m tired of pretending there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. All I can do is start over again, somewhere else.”
“How can I give you up without a fight?”
She leaned forward and kissed his forehead.
“I love you, Reverend Daniel Hartman. I’ll miss you most of all when I leave Glory.” She stood up. “Now let me get out of here before I flood your office with salt water.”
“You can’t leave, Ann,” Sean said. “I won’t let you. Not when we’re so close to finding a logical motive.”
Sean reached for her hand; she pulled lose from his grip and climbed the remaining steps to her front porch. “It won’t make any difference if you do find the reason that Richard was murdered. Half of the church’s elders don’t trust me anymore. I can’t work in a church led by people who’ve written me off. There are no other options for me. I have to leave Glory Community Church, and I have to leave Glory.”
“Rafe’s homicide investigation will spin the elders around. Their minds will change once they learn that Richard wasn’t killed by a freak accident.”
“Rafe’s investigation is a pipe dream,” she said. “Nothing but a fantasy—a trip to cloud-cuckoo-land we enjoyed for a day or two. The time has come to get real. You said it yesterday. Rafe needs compelling evidence to move ahead, and we don’t have any.”
“I’m still looking.”
“Please stop.” She spoke with a commanding tone that broke his train of thought. He gave a small nod of submission.
She went on, “I gave Daniel my notice and I spoke to my mother. We haven’t talked about where we might move when she sells this house, but I’ll drive to Asheville on Monday and take a few days to figure things out.”
“On Monday? Why the rush?”
“As I told Daniel, hanging around Glory for a week or two will give church members a chance to take sides and could trigger the kind of battle royal that I’m determined to prevent.”
He moved close to her on the porch. “What about us, Ann? With all your talk of leaving, you haven’t mentioned us. Are you also planning to leave me?”
She hesitated long enough to take a deep breath. “You have a great future ahead of you, Sean. I’d be a liability. Sean Miller, crack meteorologist, doesn’t need deadweight trailing behind to slow him down.” She took several steps back, away from him. “I’ll say goodbye to you now, Sean. It will hurt us both needlessly if we see each other again.” She held up a hand. “Please don’t say anything that will make what I have to do more difficult. This is hard enough for me as it is.”
All he could do for several seconds was stare at Ann.
He finally said, “You sound like you’ve thought this through.”
“I have. Completely.”
“Seven days ago, I might have simply let you go. But that’s not going to happen this week. Take a good look into my eyes, Ann. You’ll see pain, but also obstinacy.”
Ann stepped into her house and closed the door quietly, leaving Sean alone on her porch.
I’ve become as pigheaded as you, Ann Trask. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you in Glory.
Sean jogged back to the Scottish Captain, his mind working at a furious pace. He’d been on the verge of telling Ann that he loved her. One part of him wished that he had, but the other, more astute, part was glad that he hadn’t. She’d convinced herself that she’d made the right decision. His profession of love would simply have made the situation worse. No. He’d save the talk of love for a better time. The right time. He wouldn’t talk about his investigation anymore, either, but no way would he stop as she’d asked him to. Just the opposite. He would accelerate his search for the motive. And he would bring in the big guns to help.
He loped up the carpeted stairs to his room, sprawled on the bed and fired up his cell phone.
“Hi, Cathy, it’s Sean.”
“Howdy stranger. Do you still work for the Storm Channel?”
“Devotedly. I plan to pick up our broadcast van this afternoon.”
“When will we see you in Long Island?”
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling. Unless a storm pops up in the Atlantic, I’d like to use a few days of my vacation.” He added, “I’m still feeling a bit shaky from the accident.”
“We both know that field producers don’t have feelings, but enjoy yourself with Miss What’s-her-name. I picked Carlo up at the airport this morning. He claims that a domineering, utterly unladylike Southern gal has worked her wiles on you.”
“Carlo is a numbskull.”
“Yes, but his ratings are fabulous.” She laughed. “Keep in touch.”
“Hey! Before you hang up, will you transfer me to Mimi Gallagher?”
“Pardon me! Did I hear you right?”
“Believe it or not, I need a favor from her.”
“Watch your wallet.”
His line went quiet for a few seconds, and then he heard Mimi.
“This is Mimi Gallagher. Lucky you!”
“Mimi, it’s Sean Miller. I’m calling from Glory, North Carolina.”
“I didn’t know that our masters had punished you. When will they let you return to civilization?”
“Glory is a delightful little town. Even you would enjoy living here.”
“Wash your mouth out with soap immediately.”
“Mimi, I need a favor.”
“Wow! You must be desperate. I know what you straight arrows on the Storm Channel think about our enchanting Scandal Channel.”
“You’re right, I am desperate. I need your help—quickly.”
“Okay, tell Mother Mimi what’s wrong.”
Sean chuckled. Mimi was old enough to be his mother, although few people would guess her chronological age. She had flame-red hair, genuine green eyes, pretty features and a lovely complexion—a winning combination wrought by her Irish father and French mother.
“When Gilda passed over Glory the other evening,” Sean said, “a local man was killed.”
“I heard about that. A church steeple fell on him in a parking lot. How very Wizard of Oz! I understand he was wearing ruby boots instead of ru
by slippers.”
“His name was Richard Squires, a local restaurateur who was loved by almost everyone.”
“Almost?”
“He had at least one enemy. I’m pretty sure his death wasn’t an accident. He went to the church to fix an emergency generator. After he fixed it, somebody clobbered him and placed his body under the steeple’s wreckage. We have some evidence that the generator was sabotaged, a ploy to get Richard to the church that evening.”
“How sure are you that the man was murdered?”
“Completely sure, except I can’t find a motive. Squires apparently lived a perfect life and had no enemies,” Sean said.
“So you called me?”
“I need to know how to conduct an effective investigation, ASAP.”
The line went quiet—Mimi was thinking. “Here’s the deal,” she finally said. “I teach you how to interrogate your fellow man, and you give me the story when you complete your investigation.”
“Why would you want the story? It hardly seems grist for the Scandal Channel’s mill.”
“Are you bonkers? Look at the elements. Beloved churchgoer. Wicked murderer. Treacherous steeple. Curious field producer. Sabotaged generator. All in a charming Southern town seething below the surface with tumultuous and deadly passions. I ask you—what more could we want?”
“I accept your offer.”
“Not so fast.” Mimi paused for a moment then said, “Why are you, an unabashed civilian, involving yourself in a murder investigation? You have no reason to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. Curiosity isn’t motivation enough.”
“Well, everyone else in Glory is treating the incident as an accident.”
“Maybe everyone else is right?”
“They aren’t. But I do have a reason to get involved.”
“I’m listening.”
“Her name is Ann Trask. The town blowhard, a pinhead named Phil Meade, blames her for summoning Richard Squires to the church—”