Buyer's Remorse

by Lori L. Lake

  Up until five months before her death, Leo's mother had worked as a police and fire dispatcher. Leo loved sitting at the dinner table and listening to her mother's stories of helping people give first aid, of children rescued from burning houses, and of crimes averted with the help of the dispatchers. From as early as she could remember, she'd planned to be a dispatcher like her mom.

  After her mother died, the TV program Rescue 911 premiered, and Leo and Kate spent many a Tuesday night curled up in front of the TV rooting for the paramedics, cops, and firefighters. For several years, they both agreed that being firefighters would give them the best chance of saving cats and dogs and kids from fires, but as Leo grew older, she came to understand that the dirty, dangerous job of fighting fires wasn't for her. Dad Wallace had such an influence that she set her sights on a police job. Kate held on to the firefighter dream quite a bit longer, but when she saw how few openings there were, she eventually decided to follow her father and Leo onto the force.

  The people around Leo suddenly rose, and she realized she'd completely lost track of the church service. It was time for the Gospel to be read. Thom leaned toward her, and as she stood she bent to hear what he had to say.

  "Aren't I a lazy ass?" he whispered. He glanced down at his chair, then shrugged.

  Smiling, she straightened up and faced front, wondering how Thom had liked being raised Catholic. His body language and that comment pegged him as irreverent, but she thought there would be more to the story.

  When the Gospel reading ended, Reverend Trent mounted the stairs to a carved wood pulpit. After asking them to be seated, he adjusted his stole, cleared his throat, and roared, "The fires of hell await those of us who are not vigilant!"

  Somebody gasped, and people shifted in their seats. The congregation seemed as taken aback as Leo was.

  "My words are harsh," he said, "but these are trying times. We must be ever vigilant as the forces of darkness, perversion, greed, and sin close in around us every day."

  Oh, she thought, so he's that kind of preacher. Doom and gloom. Sin and Satan. She tuned him out and concentrated on her hands, which she laced together in her lap. She should have suggested they show up closer to eleven, after the service was nearly over.

  Leo didn't much care for church. She'd been baptized as a baby, was confirmed at the same time as Kate, and had attended Catholic Youth Organization events with Kate through her teens. But every time she entered a church, she half-expected to see that baby-blue casket at the front, the one with the silver trim that had contained the body of her mother. She knew it was irrational, but her memories of the day Elizabeth Reese was buried came back each time she walked through a holy door. She saw the shiny blue casket in her mind's eye and re-experienced the horror she'd felt that her mother's remains were in there, all alone, and spending eternity buried at the cemetery so far from the house where Leo lived with her as a child.

  She didn't know how she'd gotten through the wake and the funeral. She'd been a week shy of eleven, and somehow she had the feeling that she ought to stand tall on her own. She hadn't cried at the church, but halfway through the funeral, she finally burst into tears, and if she could have crawled up onto Mom Wallace's lap and stayed there permanently, she would have. After the pallbearers carried the blue casket away, everything was a blur. She didn't know how she got to the cemetery; she remembered nothing about the graveside service; she couldn't recall returning to the Wallaces' house afterward.

  Another thing she didn't have any knowledge or recollection of was the funeral arrangements. Years later when Mom Wallace mentioned that Leo had chosen the hymns for the funeral, she couldn't dredge that up from her memory. She was out of college before she understood that the Wallaces had footed the bill for the funeral. Leo had no other family willing or able to do so. She still had a sense of awe over the idea that a policeman and stay-at-home mom with five kids managed to pay the entire bill for her mother's final send-off.

  What she did remember was going to the ball field with Kate and hitting softballs for what seemed like hours. Kate pitched ball after ball, and when the bucket was empty, Kate was the one who chased down all the balls, leaving Leo to stand in the early evening sun feeling empty and alone. She knew how much Kate liked to bat. Usually Leo was stuck pitching to Kate the majority of the time, but on this one day, Kate never once touched the bat except to transport it back and forth to the field.

  Leo remembered Kate's fierce resolve, her refusal to let Leo pitch that day, and it made her heart feel overlarge in her chest—then, and now. Kate had never been overly emotional, and even as adults they weren't all that outwardly affectionate toward one another, but one thing Leo knew deep in her heart was that Kate would be there for her, no matter what. Too bad Daria didn't seem as reliable. Leo felt she ought to smack herself for that thought. How could that be fair to Daria? But it was true, she thought wistfully.

  The strains of the organ wailing full force from the pipes startled Leo. The preacher had finished his sermon, and the congregation rose to sing a hymn. Good God, would this service never end? She couldn't believe how long it had dragged on.

  Thom saw her checking her watch and rolled his eyes. The expression on his face was so comical that she had to force back a laugh. It was after eleven, and the Prayers for the People droned on and on. She paid no attention at all until suddenly, Thom poked her shoulder.

  "What?"

  He mouthed, "Listen."

  "…and we thank every member who contributed to the roof fund, in particular, we thank Victoria Bishop, our own special guardian angel." The lector paused to look around the church, but didn't seem to find whoever he was searching for.

  "Victoria Bishop?" Leo whispered to Thom.

  He nodded.

  Communion and more prayers seemed to take forever. The final benediction didn't come until half past eleven. Leo watched as the minister and altar boys marched down the center aisle. The church gradually emptied while she and Thom waited patiently.

  "Leo," Thom said when there were only two rows left to leave. "Why don't you go out and greet him last so you can ask him to speak to us. I'll roll around and meet you by the front entrance."

  Reverend Trent had loomed as such a giant, burly man up on the altar, but once she reached him at the church's front doors, she saw that he was only about an inch or two taller than her five-eight. He was broad, though, with shoulders made to seem even wider by the robe and vestments.

  He shook her hand, and as he leaned forward, she focused on his miniature red lips, lost in the forest of his bushy beard.

  "Good morning, ma'am. So nice to see you on this lovely day. Your first time visiting Saint Vladimir's?"

  "Yes, Reverend, and if you have a few moments, I'd like to speak with you." Thom came to a rest on her left, and she said, "We'd both like a word."

  Trent's eyes lit up. "Let me touch base with one of the council members about the roof project. He's waiting out front. I'll be right in." He called out to someone named John, and asked the man to escort them to the council room.

  They were led down the side aisle through the church sanctuary to an elevator behind the altar and descended to yet another hallway ablaze with light. Every overhead lamp in the place was on, probably because without artificial light, the basement would be pitch dark. As they made their way along a passage painted the ugliest shade of pea green, Leo saw the whole level was like a rabbit warren. There were small cell-like rooms along the way, most of which were so jammed full of stuff that the doors wouldn't even shut. She saw shelves of paper and janitorial supplies in one, boxes stacked to the ceiling in another, and old desks and broken chairs in yet one more. As she passed a closet-sized alcove that lacked a door, she realized it was crammed full of decrepit-looking vacuum cleaners. Ten? Twelve? They passed too quickly for her to count. Who kept all this junk—and why? Saint Vladimir's ought to have a garage sale and clear out all the crap. Or maybe someone needed to back up a pickup and cart it all to the dump.


  She didn't know what to expect from the council room. Maybe they'd have old statues and carpeting and wallpaper rolls lying around. But the room they entered contained only a huge square table with chairs for sixteen, four each on a side. If they were all extremely skinny—or good friends who didn't mind sitting close—sixteen could squeeze in there. The table was really meant for twelve.

  John stepped in, dragged a couple of chairs out of the way and invited Thom to roll up and make himself comfortable. Leo went around to the other side, leaving the head available for Trent. She set down her little bag and plopped into the chair. After John departed, they inspected the room for a few minutes. The paneled wood walls were decorated with 9x12-inch pictures of the Stations of the Cross. At the end of the room farthest from the door, built-in bookcases were jammed full of old books. The room smelled musty, like some of those books had long ago been water-damaged.

  "What a snore," Thom whispered.

  "My sentiments exactly."

  "I've never heard of a Saint Vladimir. What kind of saint is he, anyway?"

  "Not a clue."

  George Trent came bustling in and stopped at the head of the table. He'd changed into a blue serge suit with a red tie. "Welcome, welcome, Mr. and Mrs.—?"

  "No, sir," Thom said. "We're—"

  "Let me guess," Trent said. "You're planning to marry, and you'd like to hold the wedding ceremony here?"

  "No, sir, we—"

  "You're not living together and coming for some kind of absolution?" Trent sat heavily, looking from Thom to Leo and back.

  She decided to let Thom off the hook. "No, Reverend, we're here about the roof."

  His brow furrowed. "The roof? What about the roof? It should be completed by early next week. Are you needing a referral? I can give the company the highest recommendation for their—"

  She held up a hand. "Please, let me explain. We understand the roof was damaged recently in the storms, and your parish didn't have the funds to replace it."

  "That's right. High winds blew off whole sections of shingles. We had leaks in the sacristy and right in the middle of the sanctuary. Terrible, just terrible."

  Leo folded her hands and set them on the table. "Someone came forward and donated the funds to repair the roof, correct?"

  "Yes, thanks be to God. We'd only managed to raise about twenty-five thousand dollars, but then one of our most treasured parishioners received an unexpected inheritance, and we commenced work right away. We're infinitely grateful that our prayers were so immediately answered."

  Leo asked, "What's it cost to put a roof on a church like this?"

  "Well in excess of sixty thousand dollars. I don't have the final totals yet. We're hoping it doesn't hit seventy thousand."

  "Wow, that's a lot of money," Thom said. "When you got the sizable donation, you must have had quite the celebration."

  "Indeed. Not only did we have cake and punch here in the Fellowship Hall, but our benefactor insisted on treating my fellow pastors and myself at a fine restaurant."

  "A fine restaurant?" Leo asked.

  "Yes, a French place nearby called Chez René. I'd never been there before, but it was outstanding. Have you dined there?"

  "No, not yet." Leo's heart raced as though she'd run six blocks, but she forced herself to stay calm. "Who is the benefactor?"

  "Her name is Victoria Bishop."

  "Is she a long-time member?" Thom asked.

  "No, I've been here three years, and she came some time after I did. I'd say perhaps two years ago."

  "That's an enormous commitment Ms. Bishop made," Leo said. "A lot of money for such a new member to donate."

  "But she's a wonderful woman," Trent said. "Very giving. Very loving. She's here almost every Sunday. She works with the Altar Guild, and she rarely misses the Welcome Dinners we give for new members. She's one of the most active people I know. She helps our secretary create and assemble the church bulletins, and she often does all the shopping for the final farewell events—that's the group of ladies who prepare the lunch after funerals. Most of them are quite elderly, and to have Victoria Bishop helping has been a godsend. Not a bulletin goes by that we don't thank her for some major initiative. She makes an immeasurable contribution to our faith community."

  "Was she here today?" Thom asked.

  "No, I didn't see her. Could you tell me what this is all about?"

  Thom hesitated so Leo jumped in. "Let me introduce myself. My name is Leona Reese, and I work for the State of Minnesota. My department investigates unusual monetary transfers, and we're checking up on Ms. Bishop's generous offering."

  A frown of concern passed over Trent's face. "Is there a problem with Victoria's contribution?"

  "Perhaps. But probably not."

  "Listen here, we're a bona fide church, and we have the properly executed paperwork verifying that we're a tax-exempt religious organization. We're meticulous with our recordkeeping."

  "Yes, yes, Reverend Trent," Leo said, "we understand that completely, and we're not casting aspersions upon your ministry or your membership. But we should speak to Ms. Bishop personally and were hoping we'd catch up with her at this morning's service. Now we'll have to track her down at her home."

  "She travels a lot for her work. I believe she flies out of state several times a month. Victoria is probably gone because of her job, otherwise, she'd be here. She rarely misses a Sunday."

  "Do you have a current address for her?"

  "I'm sure we do." Trent rose. "I feel uncomfortable about releasing it, though."

  Thom fumbled behind him to pull his backpack onto his lap. From a front zipper pocket he removed a leather folder and flipped it open to display his badge. "This may allay your concerns, Reverend. My name is Thomas Thoreson, and here's my State ID."

  Trent let out a breath of relief. "All right. Let's go upstairs to my office, and I'll find her address."

  As they entered the elevator, Thom said, "Reverend, what can you tell me about Saint Vladimir?"

  "Do you know anything about him?"

  "No, sir, I don't."

  "He was a tenth century prince in Kiev who brought Christianity to Russia and the Ukraine. He arranged for baptism of his subjects in the Dnieper River after receiving the tenets of the faith from Constantinople." The elevator doors opened, and Trent stepped out and held the doors open for them. "Vladimir spread the Holy Word throughout his realm and is the founder of the Orthodox Church."

  He led them down the hall as he rambled on, but Leo tuned him out, instead thinking about the twisted path the case was taking. Who was this Victoria Bishop person, and how could such a kind-hearted, pious, upstanding woman have anything to do with a murder and grand theft? Was she a pawn of another person's greed and thievery? Or would this financial crime be considered grand larceny? The theft was substantial enough and was certainly accomplished under false pretences. Leo had a hunch that whoever the con artist turned out to be, he must be clever and cunning.

  They were out of the church and in the van five minutes later. Leo looked at the slip of paper Trent had given her. "Uh-oh. I've got a bad feeling about this."

  "Why?" Thom asked as he started the van.

  "The address is clear across the city, and it's a box number. Why would she live such a distance from the church? There are plenty of Lutheran churches closer to the PO box. With the traffic, it'd take her forty-five minutes to travel to St. Vladimir's."

  "Let's go check it out."

  The address was in a strip mall between a Game Stop video store and a dry cleaner. Leo hopped out and entered the foyer. Both of the side walls and half of the wall straight ahead were jammed with mailboxes of various sizes. The other half of the wall before her was taken up by a counter, but because the store was closed, a metal grate was pulled down to block it off. A five-foot-tall sign proclaimed "The Lobby Is Open 24/7!" A smaller sign indicated that mail service personnel were only there 6 a.m. to midnight Monday through Saturday.

  She found box numb
er 133 and peeked into the sliver-sized window. She could make out a couple of envelopes, but couldn't see anything else.

  Back in the van, she said, "One of us will have to call or come over here Monday. The office is closed. But it's a mail drop all right."

  Thom backed out of the slot. "This is how crooks and thieves are operating these days. They get a temporary mail drop under a false name, have materials sent to themselves there, and when the box comes under scrutiny, they abandon it."

  "How is it so easy to do that? I've seen plenty of fake IDs on the street, but shouldn't these places have rules?"

  "Yes, but clerks in these kind of places aren't trained to spot fake ID, and it's pretty easy to mock up driver's licenses."

  "But Minnesota instituted new safeguards on licenses."

  "The crooks are probably using out-of-state identification. It's easy to come in with some cock-and-bull story about being new to the area or only working here for six months or something like that. The clerks definitely don't have a clue about what a Georgia or Utah or Connecticut license looks like. There's steady trade for stolen identification, too. I've seen a fair number of bogus IDs turn up when we go in and investigate staff at nursing homes, and I'm not just talking about undocumented workers. Seems like there's always some orderly or janitor or dishwasher with a criminal record who gets his papers on the black market to avoid questions. It's a thriving business behind the scenes."

  Leo shook her head. "You won't believe how often we picked up people on patrol and their ID didn't come close to matching their pictures. We recently had an older man sit for days in a holding cell because he wouldn't tell us his real name. We had to identify him by his fingerprints, and everything's so backed up that it took practically a week. We found out the old guy had warrants that went back twenty years in three different states."