by Glen Ebisch
He went down a hall toward the back of the room. A minute later, he reappeared and opened a door in the counter for her to come through.
He pointed down the hall. “Third door on your right, ma’am.”
Clarissa flinched at suddenly being converted into her mother—another drawback to being in the ministry. When she turned into the third doorway, Detective Josh Baker was on his feet, smiling. He indicated she should take the chair next to his desk.
“Not often that the pastor comes by to make sure that I’m earning my money and keeping the community safe,” he cracked.
Clarissa grinned and took a seat. “I have no doubt you more than earn your money. But I’m afraid that I am here to add to your burdens.”
His face turned serious. “How’s that?”
After taking a moment to organize her thoughts, Clarissa clearly and concisely put forward her reasons for being concerned about the nature of David Ames’ death. When she was finished, she was surprised to realize that her heart was beating quickly, as if she had walked up several flights of stairs. She wondered if it was due to being in the police department, or whether she very much wanted to have her suspicions, however valid they were, taken seriously.
Detective Baker stared at the top of his desk for a long minute. “You said that this David Ames was a member of the congregation?” he said eventually.
She nodded. “But from what Jack Spurlock told me, he didn’t attend church much at all.”
“That’s probably why I don’t know him. But he picked Jack to tell his story to?”
Clarissa nodded.
“And it had something to do with the past. How far in the past?”
“He didn’t say, but Jack suggested that he and Dave had been friends back in high school. Since they’re both in their seventies, that could be well over fifty years.”
The detective nodded. “Let me just check on the computer.” He dug around on the computer for about five minutes, then shook his head. “There’s nothing here about a David Ames, or Jack either, for that matter—but the computerized records are pretty spotty before the seventies. I could check the original files down in the basement, but that’s a slow, dirty job, and I think I’ve got a better idea.” He picked up his phone and punched in a number. “I’ll call my old partner, Arty Winslow. He’s retired now, but he was on the job back in the sixties. He may be old, but his memory is better than any computer.”
When Artie answered, they shared news about each other’s wives, kids, and grandchildren, until Detective Baker finally asked Artie whether he’d ever heard of David Ames. Whatever Artie said, Clarissa could tell by the expression on the detective’s face and his surprised grunts that the news was significant, perhaps even disturbing. When he finally hung up with a promise to get together with Artie for coffee in the near future, Clarissa was on tenterhooks wondering what he had learned.
Detective Baker gave her a level look and sighed. “Artie remembered that David Ames had something to do with the murder of Royce Llewellyn,” he said, as if the name should mean something to her.
“Who was he?” asked Clarissa. “Was his murder particularly significant?”
“Most folks who have lived in Shore Side for a while have heard about this murder. Royce was the owner of a large hotel and restaurant down on the beachfront called The Surf Side. He was murdered in the summer of 1968. I was only a small child then, but those were bad times with the race riots up in Newark and anti-war protests everywhere. There was a lot of anger around, and no one wanted it to come to Shore Side.”
“Are you saying his murder was hushed up?”
“I wouldn’t say that exactly, but according to Artie, it wasn’t pursued as vigorously as it might have been,” the detective explained. “Apparently Llewellyn wasn’t exactly a popular guy. He treated his workers like dirt, and had an even more racist attitude than was common at the time. Even the Chamber of Commerce didn’t like him. He was an all-around confrontational guy.”
“But David Ames was white, so there couldn’t have been a racial motive,” Clarissa pointed out.
“Yeah, that theory was discounted pretty quickly,” he said. “Anyway, one night in June of ’68, there was a knock on the door of Llewellyn’s house. He lived in a big old place up on Washington. According to his wife, he went to answer the door at eleven o’clock. She heard a shot and rushed to the front of the house. When she got there, he was lying in the foyer with a bullet in his chest.”
“Did she see his attacker?”
“She said she didn’t. That’s not surprising, really; she was probably focused on her husband. He died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.”
“That must have been horrible for her,” Clarissa said.
Detective Baker shrugged. “According to Artie, they didn’t really get along well. I guess he was as much of a tyrant at home as he was at work.”
“Did he physically abuse her?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised, but we didn’t get involved in that sort of thing as much back then. Different times and all,” he said, a shade apologetically.
“So how was David Ames involved?” Clarissa asked.
“He worked as a bartender in Llewellyn’s restaurant,” Baker answered. “He had a fight with him the day before his death. When Llewellyn fired him, Ames was heard threatening to kill the guy.”
“So he must have been the prime suspect.”
“Yeah, except that he had a solid alibi for the time of the murder.”
Clarissa raised a questioning eyebrow.
“He was drinking with a couple of friends at the Lobster Claw Bar, at the other end of the beach from Llewellyn’s house,” the detective explained.
“Are a couple of friends really a solid alibi?” she asked. “Did anyone else see him there?”
“It was a Friday night in June and the place was busy. A couple of guys swore that Ames was there sometime during the evening, but they weren’t sure he was still around at eleven.”
“But his two friends said he was?”
“According to Artie, we couldn’t shake them, and there was no way to prove they were lying. Do you want to know who his two buddies were?” Detective Baker asked.
Clarissa nodded.
“Jack Spurlock and Owen Chandler.”
Clarissa paused and took a deep breath. She did some calculations in her head. “In ’68, David and Jack would have been in their early twenties,” she said slowly. “So Jack lied to me. He did stay friends with Ames after their time in school together.”
Baker nodded. “Looks that way. One of the things you get used to in this job is that people lie to you all the time, even folks you think you know.”
“Who is the other friend, Owen Chandler?” Clarissa asked.
“His parents owned The Admiral’s Rest, a bed and breakfast down on Lincoln. They died about ten years ago and Owen was their only child, so he inherited. He runs it now. He’s kind of a quiet guy who keeps to himself. I’ve never heard anything bad about him.”
Clarissa sat back in her chair and thought things over. What had begun as an inquiry into the death of a member of her congregation had rapidly expanded into a journey through the history of Shore Side.
“What happens next?” she asked Baker.
“I’ll have to take it upstairs to the chief because it’s a cold case, but I’m pretty sure he’ll say that, under the circumstances, Ames’ death should be considered suspicious,” he confirmed. “At least suspicious enough to have the county medical examiner check over the body before it’s released to the family.”
“What if it turns out that he was murdered?” Clarissa asked in almost a whisper.
“Then we dig into it, and reopen the Llewellyn case as well. Not that the two are necessarily connected,” said the detective. “In either case, we’re not going to publicize that we’re looking into Ames’ death, so I’d appreciate it if you kept this conversation between us.”
Clarissa nodded. “Did David Am
es have a lot of enemies?”
Baker shrugged. “Hard to say. He wasn’t a natural diplomat, and when he was a younger man, Artie said he got into the occasional bar room brawl. He was never arrested that I know about. But later on, when I joined the force, rumor had it that he wasn’t above running up to the edge of the law, and I suspect he put a toe over a few times. A guy like that usually has a few enemies in his past who might not be shy about using violence.”
Clarissa thought for a moment. “It just seems too coincidental to me that he dies the same day he’s getting ready to talk about some event from years ago,” she said. “That says to me that this had something to do with the Llewellyn murder.”
“You could be right.” Detective Baker smiled. “But the first thing you learn as a detective is not to let speculation get too far ahead of the evidence.”
Clarissa grinned. “That’s a good reminder.”
He stood up. “Well, thanks for coming in with this information, Pastor. It may turn out to be very helpful.”
“You’re welcome.”
Suddenly he stared at her with a hard gaze, and she realized he was probably a very different man when dealing with criminals. “And, Pastor, I probably don’t need to tell you, but this wouldn’t be something that you’d want to get involved in investigating on your own,” he warned. “If your suspicions are correct, there might be a murderer out there, and it’s not safe for a civilian to be poking around in this matter.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Clarissa said with a smile. “I’ve got enough to do just keeping the church on an even keel.”
He nodded. “See you on Sunday.”
“Thanks for your help.”
“That’s what I’m here to do.”
As Clarissa exited through the outer office, the young officer she’d met on the way in called out, “Have a good evening, ma’am.”
“You have a good one, too,” she responded, resisting the desire to call him “sonny.”
Clarissa drove the mile back to the parsonage. After making sure all the doors were locked, she went upstairs to her study in the front of the house and sat by the window, looking out at the desultory traffic on the street below as twilight fell. She found her mind drifting to the past and all the generations of folks who had looked out on the Victorian streets of Shore Side, lost in their own little worlds: worlds that they were the center of and that now no longer existed.
Clarissa had meant it when she’d told Detective Baker that she had no intention of interfering in a police investigation. She truly did have enough things to worry about with getting up to speed with her job. But it deeply bothered her that Jack Spurlock, someone she had instinctively trusted and who she had hoped in time would become a friend, had lied to her.
She promised herself that when he came to the church tomorrow morning to fix the broken latch, she would make a point of talking to him about his relationship with David Ames. Surely she could pursue that matter without getting involved in the investigation of Ames’s death. If Jack was going to systematically lie to her, or if he was involved in something shady, it was questionable whether he should continue on as the church’s sacristan.
Although tomorrow was a Saturday and she had been working flat out all week, she planned to treat it as a normal workday. Ashley was going to be there, and Clarissa wanted to set a good example by being in the office, as well. There was certainly plenty to do, even without access to the computer. The file cabinets in Clarissa’s office were filled with old bulletins, in-house memorabilia, and directives from other church organizations arranged in an order known only to Reverend Hollingsworth, who apparently hadn’t been much of an administrator. The files in the outer office weren’t any better, since apparently Mrs. Dalrymple had complemented the Reverend’s packrat tendencies. Perhaps they actually were made for each other.
Clarissa sighed and stood up. There was no sense anticipating tomorrow’s problems tonight. Her father had always warned her that thinking about possible difficulties only magnified them, making them seem insurmountable. Prayer and a bit of quiet time before sleep was the best remedy. Tomorrow would take care of itself.
Chapter Five
Clarissa felt rested when she awoke in her bedroom on the second floor at the back of the parsonage. She climbed out of bed and gazed out her window. Being on a corner, she could look down a row of backyards on the street behind her. She found it amusing that many of these Victorians, beautiful and stately on the street side, had gardens in the back that were a hodgepodge of dilapidated sheds, dying plants, and bizarre gazebos. She wondered if this was symbolic of the Victorian view that public appearances were what counted, and private lives could be allowed to be messy, as long as they remained hidden.
She quickly showered and got dressed in a pair of a denim slacks and a chambray shirt, more casual since she didn’t have any meetings or appointments today. She planned to start the day by cleaning the office. She didn’t want to impose on Mrs. Gunn by having her do that space, as well; plus, there were likely to be some confidential papers lying around that she’d rather keep to herself. She made a mental note to warn Ashley about that. Discretion was essential for a church office manager.
As she went down the stairs, the smell of coffee wafted up, letting her know that Mrs. Gunn was already on the job.
“How about some bacon and eggs this morning?” Mrs. Gunn greeted her as she entered the large kitchen.
Although Clarissa usually had cereal for breakfast, Mrs. Gunn had tried every morning so far to convince her to eat more. “A skinny girl like you needs a good breakfast to get through the day,” was her refrain every morning.
Since she was planning to clean this morning, Clarissa agreed to a couple of eggs over easy with whole grain toast, but refused the bacon.
“A little fat never hurt anyone,” Mrs. Gunn sniffed, but Clarissa could tell that she was pleased to have at least convinced her to have eggs.
One of the changes Clarissa had made when she began the job was that, instead of eating in lonely splendor as Reverend Hollingsworth had done in the ornate dining room that would seat fifteen comfortably, she ate at the table in the kitchen and chatted with Mrs. Gunn as she worked. For the first couple of days, the cook had been a bit nervous, as if this were some sort of devious ploy by Clarissa to check up on her work, but by now she had settled down, and seemed to enjoy having the young minister to talk with.
Clarissa opened the daily paper, which Mrs. Gunn had brought in from the front walk, and glanced over the headlines. The obituaries on the back reminded her of last night’s events.
“David Ames died last night at the hospital,” she said softly, putting the paper aside.
“Dave. I remember him from school,” Mrs. Gunn mused. “He was a couple of grades ahead of me and always getting into trouble.”
“He was a member of the church, but I gather he didn’t come much.”
“Maybe on the occasional Christmas.”
“How did he happen to join in the first place?” Clarissa asked.
“His mother was a member, and she used to bring him along when he was a boy,” Mrs. Gunn told her. “After he grew up, he pretty much disappeared. In the last few years, though, he would hang out with some of the guys in the congregation who played golf. He even got to be pretty good friends with the Reverend that way. Not that it ever brought him to Sunday services.”
“Have you ever heard of Royce Llewellyn?” Clarissa asked, trying to sound casual.
“Glory, I haven’t heard that name in a lot of years,” the other woman exclaimed. “How did you come to hear about him?”
“Somebody mentioned the name to me at the hospital,” Clarissa replied nonchalantly. “He said something about a murder.”
Mrs. Gunn stared across the kitchen with a vague expression on her face, as if she were remembering a distant time and place. “I was still in high school when it happened. It was just before the end of my junior year. Everybody was talking about it. As you
can imagine, we don’t get many murders in Shore Side.”
“I’d imagine not.”
“I can see why it might have come up last night; some folks thought that Dave Ames was involved in the murder,” Mrs. Gunn said matter-of-factly.
“Did you think he had something to do with it?” Clarissa asked.
“No idea. Like I said, he was inclined to get into trouble, but it’s a long way from boyhood shenanigans to murder.”
“It must have been terrible for Royce Llewellyn’s wife to see him die like that,” Clarissa remarked.
Mrs. Gunn lowered her voice, even though there was no one else in the room. “Well, I’m sure it was a shock for her, it would be for anyone. But I don’t know how upset she truly was. He’d never been exactly faithful, if you know what I mean.”
“Oh?”
“From what I overheard my parents saying at the time, he had lots of girlfriends over the years, even when he was married,” Mrs. Gunn said, shaking her head. “His last girlfriend was a waitress in his own restaurant, and he’d set her up in a nice apartment right along the beach. Maggie Preston, I think her name was.”
“I wonder what his wife thought about all that?”
Mrs. Gunn laughed. “Not much good, I’d imagine. But you could ask her.”
“She isn’t dead?” Clarissa asked.
“Doris was fifteen years or so younger than Royce. Kind of a trophy wife, I guess you’d call her today. She’s up in her late eighties by now, I suppose, but the last I heard, she still lived in that big house up on Washington where he was killed. It’s right across from the Blue Heron Restaurant.”
“It would be interesting to hear what she has to say,” Clarissa agreed—with such alacrity that Mrs. Gunn gave her a look, but said nothing.
Not telling Mrs. Gunn what she was planning to do out of fear of objections, Clarissa went over to the office after breakfast and began cleaning. She began by dusting all the surfaces in her office, then started in with a mop she had found in the back of the office closet. Clarissa was willing to bet that, although Mrs. Dalrymple might have used the mop, Reverend Hollingsworth had probably remained oblivious to its existence.