by Ron Benrey
“Where he got whomped by the steeple.”
“Meade’s giving her a hard time. He dug up some old dirt on Ann. She was involved in another bizarre accident seven years ago,” Sean explained.
“The plot thickens.”
“It does, but what happened seven years ago has nothing to do with the other night. Meade will have to back off when I help to prove that Richard Squires was murdered.”
“I take it that Ann is the ill-mannered Southern lady Carlo mentioned to Cathy?”
“Consider the source.”
Mimi laughed. “It’s so much fun to watch young love wreak havoc on nice guys like you.”
“Will you help me?”
“How could I not? Your almost-lady-friend will make my story even more appealing. ‘Valiant field producer for the Storm Channel helps Carolinian lady in distress and lands the Gilda Ghoul.’ That’s a nifty name for a hurricane murderer, if I say so myself.”
“Nifty and natty. What do I do first?”
“You buy a digital recorder small enough to hide in your shirt pocket. Then you won’t have to take notes, which puts some people off.”
“Isn’t hiding an electronic recorder cheating?”
“I do it all the time, but if it really bothers you, ask for permission to record conversations. Most folks will say yes if you tell them you have a rotten memory and will forget whatever they tell you.”
“Who am I going to talk to?”
“People who knew Richard Squires well enough to be interested in his life,” Mimi explained.
“Won’t they ask me why I want to interview them?”
“Of course they will, which is why you need a good cover story.”
“I’m a bad liar.”
“I’d never have guessed. Since you’re stuck with the truth, concoct a potentially truthful cover story. Most of the local population knows that the Storm Channel came to town to cover Gilda. Tell people that you’re researching the possibility of doing a feature segment on the man who experienced a freak accident during the hurricane that did very little other damage when it visited Glory. That gives you a perfect entrée to ask questions about Richard Squires.”
“You’re devious.”
“You don’t know the half of it. But now that I think about my idea, it would actually make a dandy feature for the Storm Channel. It’s chock-full of human interest, particularly if this guy was the saint that everyone claims he was.”
“Hmm, you’re right.”
“When you sell the idea to Cathy, be sure to give your old friend Mimi the credit.”
“What kind of questions do I ask?”
“Benign questions about Squires’s life. Where did he grow up? Where did he go to school? Where was he married? Where did he get the recipes for his restaurant? What were his hobbies? What kind of home did he own? What kind of car did he drive? What did he like to—”
“I get the idea. Anything that pops into my mind about Richard’s activities.”
“Within limits. We don’t need to know his shirt size.” Mimi laughed. “The questions don’t matter much because you don’t care about the answers.”
“Then why ask them?”
“Because the more routine questions you ask, the more likely people are to add the juicier details of Richard’s life. I’ve never run across a saint who hasn’t committed a sin or two.”
“I owe you one, Mimi.”
“By the time this is over, you’ll owe me several. And I won’t let you forget it.”
Sean’s excitement was soon diminished by the realization that although Mimi had provided an interviewing strategy, he had to locate the people to talk to. Two providential memories provided the solution.
Sean recalled Rafe saying that Richard sang in the Glory Community choir. He also remembered seeing a brochure about the choir in the Scottish Captain’s front parlor. Sean assembled a list of singers, found the Glory white pages and reached for his cell phone. His first call was to the Glory Garage. Tucker Mackenzie confirmed that the Storm Channel broadcast van was roadworthy.
Sean assembled his interrogatory treasures at one of Emma Neilson’s antique desks, where he transcribed the comments he’d captured with his digital audio recorder.
He’d been amazed by people’s willingness to talk freely into a recording device. Mimi had been right about that as well as the ability of benign questions to draw out barbed observations about another human being. The pithy comments about Richard Squires fell into a natural order in Sean’s notes:
“Richard wasn’t as committed to the choir as he had once been. Last month he said, ‘I have to devote more time to other things. There are changes in the works, and I’m not talking about a new way to cook grits.’”
“Richard said something strange to me during the break at choir rehearsal a few weeks ago. He said, ‘Soon my life will change forever. Something I didn’t think could ever happen has happened. It will surprise everyone.’”
“Most of us were surprised to see Richard coming to church with a new lady friend. Other than her, he didn’t have much of a social life. Richard could be a hard person to warm up to. I don’t think he had a lot of friends.”
“He seemed to like Sheila, but not that much—if you know what I mean. He’d bring her to church once in a while, but I didn’t think they were an item.”
“Frankly, Richard could be downright moody. He often missed our mid-week choir practices.”
“Richard was not always a good judge of character. Twenty-five years ago, he had a serious problem with a business partner, and ended up in court. And recently he’d been seeing the hostess at his restaurant. I think Sheila Parker is the kind of woman who can take serious advantage of a man like Richard. It’s easy to see what she’s after—M-O-N-E-Y.”
Sean read through the comments twice, not sure what he had accomplished. At the very least, he was gathering fresh information.
He wished that Ann were here. She knew Richard Squires and might spot significant details that he’d overlooked. But mostly he just missed her.
The missing will get much worse—unless you find the motive and figure out how to change her mind.
TWELVE
Sean’s cell phone rang at seven on Friday morning.
“How goes the pursuit of information?” Mimi Gallagher asked.
“Good, but not great.”
“In other words, you’ve collected dribs and drabs of data, but nothing that lights up your life.”
“Well…” Sean had to admit that Mimi’s description nailed his modest achievements so far.
“Unsatisfactory!” She produced an irritated snort. “I expected more from you, Sean. I counted on your investigation to deliver the foundation of a usable feature segment for both our channels.” To his surprise, her voice filled with honey. “The time has come to change your interrogation approach. What would you think of tapping a few telephones in Glory?”
Although Mimi punctuated her absurd suggestion with one of her signature laughs, Sean wasn’t sure she was joking. She finally said, “Lighten up, Miller! We both know that you wouldn’t recognize an electronic surveillance device if it jumped into your hand and chomped your finger. Given the woefully inadequate level of your education, your only practical course of action is to broaden your horizons and interview more folks who knew Richard Squires.” She uttered a theatrical moan. “You can do that, can’t you?”
“Definitely. But not until this afternoon. Glory will be shut down this morning. Most people are going to the funeral.”
“Funeral? Whose funeral?”
“Richard Squires’s—who else? It’s scheduled for later this morning.”
“Outstanding! The timing couldn’t be better for our purposes.”
“Really? I didn’t plan to go.”
“Don’t be daft!” Mimi’s voice was so loud that Sean had to pull his cell phone away from his ear. “Not only will you attend, you’ll be the first mourner to arrive. There’s no better circumstan
ce than a funeral to observe the guest of honor’s friends, family and acquaintances. And no better environment to overhear spicy tidbits of information about the deceased.”
“I suppose…”
“You seem reluctant.”
“Not at all,” Sean fibbed. He had no intention of telling Mimi that he would have to explain his presence at Glory Community Church to Ann. She’d be annoyed to see him so soon after their “parting” the day before.
“Make sure you bring a camera with you,” Mimi said. “Take photos of anyone you don’t recognize. Strangers can be fruitful sources of information.”
“Because…”
“Because they’re people you haven’t talked to yet, Sean.”
“Taking pictures of people at a funeral is…intrusive.”
“Not if you’re discreet. Use the camera in your cell phone. And get the names of everyone you photograph.”
“How do I do that?”
Her tone turned scolding. “For crying out loud, Sean, every guest at a funeral signs the condolence book. Shoot a picture of anyone you can’t identify, and then peek at the page to see his or her name. Nothing could be easier.”
“For you, but not for me,” he murmured.
“I didn’t hear what you said.”
“Forget it, Mimi. I’ll call you later, if I need more advice.”
The funeral would begin at ten-thirty. Sean followed Mimi’s instructions and began walking to the church at nine-thirty. He felt his composure drain away when he reached the front door. What would he say to Ann when they met? And how would he resist throwing his arms around her?
Look at the bright side: Ann can’t yell at you—not inside a church during a funeral.
Sean chose a chair in the corner of the narthex, not far from the small wooden stand that held the condolence book. He hoped that his clothing—slacks, a sport coat and a knit shirt—would pass muster. It was the most formal outfit he took with him on field assignments and he hadn’t had an opportunity to go shopping for something more funereal.
Sean quickly discovered that watching mourners sign the book and shooting the occasional candid photograph might actually be as simple as Mimi had predicted. But she’d left out an important detail. Most of the people he couldn’t recognize weren’t bona fide strangers. Towns-folk and members of Glory Community bubbled with self-assurance when they walked in and promptly greeted each other as old friends. He decided not to snap their photos.
The first non-Glorian arrived at 10:10 a.m., a man close to sixty, although Sean couldn’t guess on which side of the divide he fell. The man had a lanky build, salt-and-pepper hair and a weathered, leathery complexion. His gaze shifted continuously, from guest to guest—he looked uncomfortable to be inside the narthex. He spoke to a woman wearing a Can-I-Help-You badge; she pointed toward the corridor that led to the church’s offices. The man left quickly, without signing the condolence book.
“What was that all about?” Sean muttered. He looked at the photograph he’d taken and wondered who might know the man’s name.
At 10:15 a.m., two new strangers appeared: A husky man in his early thirties and a slightly younger woman. They seemed unsure about their surroundings and diligently studied all the direction signs in view. Sean read their condolence book signatures after they’d signed: Jordan Squires, Austin, Texas and Mrs. Erin Squires Bradshaw, San Antonio, Texas.
Sean winced at his lack of discernment. Jordan and Erin were Richard’s children. He should have recognized them—they resembled the pictures he’d seen of their father. All three Squires had narrow noses, prominent cheekbones and deep-set eyes.
Sean looked around the narthex. If the locals knew Richard’s children, they’d chosen to leave them alone with their grief before the funeral. Jordan and Erin were standing together near the door to the sanctuary, peering expectantly at people’s faces.
Sean suddenly understood why. The two were waiting for Miles Hayden. He’d been cloddish enough to arrange a business meeting with them minutes before the funeral service began. It had seemed odd when Hayden had talked about it in Norfolk, but now that Richard’s funeral was about to begin, a meeting to discuss the future of Squires’ Place seemed disrespectful, even hardhearted.
On the other hand, the two Squires kids had agreed to the meeting.
A thought took shape in Sean’s mind. Ann is right; I am too judgmental. People grieve differently. If Jordan and Erin agreed to meet with Miles Hayden, perhaps they’d be willing to spend a few minutes talking with me about their father.
Sean walked to the front door and looked outside. Hayden was nowhere to be seen. He moved quickly to Jordan and Erin. “I’m terribly sorry about your loss,” he said. “I’ve come to appreciate your father’s accomplishments in recent days. He was a fine man.”
“Mr. Hayden?” Jordan asked.
“No, I’m Sean Miller.” He pushed open the door of the empty sanctuary. Jordan and Erin followed him inside.
“Are you part of Mr. Hayden’s development company?” Jordan said.
“No. I’m a field producer with the Storm Channel. I’m gathering information to help us decide whether we should produce a feature segment about your father’s accident.”
Sean found that the words flowed easily. They weren’t quite false, if not exactly true although, if he had anything to do with future broadcasts, the Storm Channel would indeed develop a ten-minute feature about Richard Squires.
Jordan laughed. “Dad loved publicity of every kind. I’m sure he’s looking down at us now, thrilled that Squires’ Place might be featured on a TV show.”
Sean said, “Folks in Glory say that Richard didn’t exaggerate when he claimed to make the best grits in the South.”
Erin joined in her brother’s laughter. “Anyone who disagreed would have ended up in fistfight with Dad—or a grits-eating contest.”
Sean tried for a neutral expression, then said, “I’ve heard that you plan to sell Squires’ Place.”
Jordan frowned and shook his head. “I don’t know who told you that, but it’s not true. We haven’t begun to think about the future of the restaurant.”
“He’s obviously been talking to Miles Hayden,” Erin said.
Sean decided to take a risk. “You’re right, Mrs. Bradshaw. I visited Miles Hayden in Norfolk. What happens to Squires’ Place deserves to be part of any feature about your father.”
Sean held his breath. He sensed that Jordan was on the brink of chasing him away, but he finally shrugged. “None of this makes sense to me, but Hayden called the other day and said that he’d negotiated an arrangement with my dad to purchase the restaurant so he could construct some kind of professional building in Glory. Frankly, the idea of Dad selling Squires’ Place astonished me so much that I barely heard the rest of what Hayden had to say.”
“Your father hadn’t told you of his ripening deal with Miles Hayden?”
“Not a hint, but that doesn’t mean anything. Dad kept his own counsel about Squires’ Place. We weren’t in the loop.” He smiled. “You see, we let him down. He tried to teach us the restaurant business, but I became a dentist and Erin a teacher.”
Erin joined in. “However, Jordan and I proved to be our father’s children. We both learned to cook spectacular grits.”
Jordan looked at Sean. “When we saw you staring at us we thought you might be Hayden. Erin and I agreed to meet with him today, although I don’t understand his rush. It will take months to settle Dad’s estate. We don’t even plan to talk to Dad’s lawyer until next week.”
Sean looked over his shoulder—still no Miles Hayden. He would take one more risk. “This may seem an odd question,” he said, “but did your father ever talk about a relationship with a woman named Sheila Parker?”
“The hostess?”
Sean nodded. “She and Richard seemed to have been close—almost engaged, in fact. If we do a feature about your dad, she’ll be part of it.”
Erin shook her head. “Dad and I called each oth
er regularly, perhaps once a week. A while ago he said that he’d hired a new hostess and liked her work, but he never mentioned anything about a budding romance.”
“Ditto for me,” Jordan said.
“Sheila claims that you put her in charge of Squires’ Place.”
“Not quite.” Jordan frowned again. “We asked her to reopen the restaurant and watch over things for few days. She knows that it’s only a temporary arrangement and that we intend to hire a permanent manager. She’s in the running for the full-time job, but we aren’t ready to offer it yet.”
“Ah! Jordan and Erin! There you are.” Sean took a step backward as Miles Hayden charged into the sanctuary. The developer managed the curious trick of smiling at Jordan and Erin but glaring at Sean more or less simultaneously.
Sean moved to the other side of the sanctuary, but he couldn’t help overhearing Hayden say, “A thousand apologies. Traffic was much heavier than I’d anticipated.” He made a show of looking at his watch. “We don’t have time to talk before the service, but I know that you plan to stay in Glory for several days. I’ve checked into a local B and B myself, so I’m sure we’ll find another chance to meet.”
The guests had started to enter the sanctuary. Sean walked to the back to find a bulletin that listed the order of worship and the hymns. He stopped abruptly when he saw Ann striding toward him.
“What are you doing here?” Her sharp tenor and confrontational demeanor fulfilled his earlier predictions.
“I’m attending Richard’s funeral,” he said evenly.
“Why? You’ve never met the man.” She leaned forward as if spoiling for a fight. “We had a deal. You promised to stay away from me.”
“You ordered me away. I never promised.”
“I don’t have time to split hairs with you. Overseeing this funeral is my last official duty at Glory Community Church. I won’t settle for less than a flawless service and ceremony.” She added, “I don’t know why you’re here, but it had better have nothing to do with finding a motive for murder. That game is over.”
“Well, since you’re curious, I’ll be pleased to explain my presence. I’m on duty, too. For the Storm Channel.”