by Glen Ebisch
As she worked, she frequently glanced out her office window to the parking lot, ready to run out in case Jack Spurlock arrived. She wanted to tell him about what she had learned last night about David Ames and Royce Llewellyn, and question him about his involvement.
Eventually she moved on to the outer office, and had just finished there when the door opened and Ashley walked in. She had exchanged yesterday’s black dress for a pair of black slacks and a black button-down shirt, which Clarissa speculated must be business casual Goth.
Ashley stared at the mop. “You’ve been cleaning,” she said accusingly. “Couldn’t you find someone to do that?”
Clarissa gave her an appraising look.
“Not me,” Ashley said quickly, “I meant a cleaning lady or someone.”
“I enjoy getting my hands dirty, and simple jobs help me clear my mind,” Clarissa said.
Casting her a skeptical look, Ashley took a seat behind her desk. “You said that you need to find the password for this computer?”
“And the one in my office. I imagine Reverend Hollingsworth had a different password for his own computer.”
Ashley nodded. “Yeah, he wouldn’t have wanted Mrs. Dalrymple spreading his personal information all over town. From what I’ve heard from my aunt, she was quite the gossip.”
“I’m sure the passwords are in a file on the computer,” Clarissa said, “but I can’t get into the computer to access the files.”
“The solution may be simple. Do you have a key to this desk?” Ashley asked.
Clarissa took a small key off her key ring and handed it over. “You may as well keep this. It’s your desk now.”
Ashley put the key in the lock of the center drawer and opened it. She pulled the drawer all the way out and began feeling around under it. A few seconds later, with a look of triumph on her face, she withdrew a slip of paper and stared at it.
“This was taped under there,” she said, waving it in the air. “In my experience, seventy-five percent of people write down their password and hide it somewhere on the desk. Under the center drawer is the most common spot.”
She held the paper out to Clarissa, who read the word “affectionate.” An interesting choice of password; she never would have guessed that.
“Now the only question left is what the password is to the Reverend’s computer,” said Ashley.
“Let me check under his drawer,” Clarissa said. She rushed into her office and poked around under all the desk drawers, but came up with nothing.
She looked over the top of the desk, which was clear except for the rolodex. On a whim, she leafed through the names until she came to Hollingsworth.
“I’ll bet ‘handicap’ is the key to the Reverend’s,” she called to Ashley. “It’s written in his rolodex next to his name.”
“Did Hollingsworth have a handicap?” came the reply.
“As far as I know, only at golf.”
Ashley came into the inner office and grinned. “And we know that Mrs. Dalrymple thought she was being ‘affectionate’ to the Reverend.”
Clarissa didn’t comment. She was all ready to unlock the mysteries of her computer when she glanced out the window and saw Jack unloading a ladder from his truck.
She walked swiftly through the outer office and headed out the door, leaving Ashley to get settled.
“Hello, Jack,” she called out as she reached the parking lot.
He looked over his shoulder from where he was releasing the ladder from the truck and gave her a small smile. “Hey, Pastor,” he greeted her. “Are you okay after the shock of last night?”
“I’m better. I wanted to talk to you for a minute.”
Jack kept smiling, but she sensed some reluctance in his manner. He slowly pulled the ladder from the truck and turned to face her.
“I wanted you to know that I went to see Detective Josh Baker last night about David’s death,” she said.
Jack let the ladder slip and it hit the truck, leaving a nasty scratch. “Why did you do that?” he asked, his voice suddenly rough.
Taking a step back and trying to remain calm, Clarissa told him about her conversation with the nurse about what had happened before David’s death.
Jack shook his head. “That doesn’t amount to anything—certainly not enough to be bothering the police about,” he said.
“Detective Baker thought it might be relevant to the Llewellyn murder. You must remember that.”
“You should have stayed out of this,” Jack said, suddenly angry. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“And you shouldn’t have lied to me about not being good friends with David Ames,” Clarissa shot back. “In fact, you were one of the people who alibied him for the night of the murder. Don’t bother to deny it. I heard it directly from Detective Baker.”
Jack turned pale. He opened his mouth several times as if about to speak, but no words came out. Grabbing his ladder, he walked across the lot to the church and propped it up against the wall. Clarissa stood for a moment watching him, thinking he might return to continue the conversation. When he ascended the ladder with tools in hand, she decided waiting was fruitless and returned inside to the office.
“I’m going through everything to see what Mrs. Dalrymple had on here,” Ashley announced when Clarissa walked back into the outer office.
“Good,” Clarissa said, and headed back toward her office.
Ashley gave her a long look. “Is everything all right?”
“Fine,” Clarissa sighed, pausing in the doorway. “Sometimes all the church repairs get me down. Let me know if you find a list of the members of the congregation and their addresses. I’d like to compare it to the newsletter mailing list, if we can find it. We should be getting in touch with every member of the congregation at least once a month.”
“If we had everyone’s e-mail address, we could send the newsletter out that way,” Ashley pointed out. “It would save tons in postage.”
Clarissa nodded. “Good idea. But first we’ll have to find out how many members have e-mail. Some of the older ones may not.”
“We could always snail-mail it just to them.”
“Agreed. Let’s look into it.”
Clarissa left Ashley to it and began going through the files on Reverend Hollingsworth’s computer. She found a file that contained his past sermons and read through a few; they tended to be a bit dry and scholarly, enlivened only by the occasional golf joke. She also found the minutes to the past year’s meetings of the church board. Although it took some reading between the lines, Clarissa got the clear impression that several members of the board wanted the church to reach out more to the wider community, while Reverend Hollingsworth resisted the idea in whatever specific form it took.
When she finally glanced up from the computer screen, Clarissa realized that it was almost noon. She looked out the back window into the parking lot and saw that Jack’s truck was gone. A bit disappointed that he hadn’t come inside to resume their conversation about Ames’ death, she determined that when they next met, she would apologize to him for her harsh words and for pursuing a matter that obviously made him uncomfortable. It was the right thing to do.
She went back into the outer office. “How are you doing?” she asked Ashley.
Her office manager shrugged. “Fathoming the mind of Mrs. Dalrymple is a real mystery ride,” she said. “But I should have the basics figured out in a few more hours.”
“Well, you can pick that up again on Monday,” Clarissa told her. “Let’s knock it off for today. After all, it is Saturday, and a beautiful day at that. Keep a timesheet of your hours worked so you don’t go over twenty-five in a week. We’ll count today toward next week, okay?”
“Okay.” Ashley stood up to leave.
“See you on Monday at nine,” Clarissa said, then paused. “Or will you be in church tomorrow?”
Ashley frowned her dismay. “I’ll be there.”
“But I thought you didn’t . . .”
> “. . . believe in that sort of thing,” Ashley finished for her. “I don’t. But my aunt made it a condition of my staying with her. She has more rules than a convent.” She rolled her eyes.
Clarissa smiled. “Just keep telling yourself that it’s free room and board.”
“That’s my personal mantra.”
Chapter Six
After having lunch, Clarissa told Mrs. Gunn that she was going out for a walk around town to familiarize herself with the layout of the small community. She grabbed a map from the drawer in her study and searched out Washington Street; it was close to the pedestrian mall that ran through the former business center of town. Clarissa planned a walk that would begin at the north end of Washington and go south. Once she saw the Blue Huron Restaurant, she’d know the Llewellyn house was right across the street. What could she say? She was curious to see where it had all gone down those many years ago.
She walked along in no particular hurry. Many of the houses boasted very pretty gardens with spring flowers in full bloom. The sun filtering through the tall trees, the warm air, and the captivating scents made it a very pleasant stroll. Clarissa found herself thinking how lucky she was to have such a beautiful community for her first full-time assignment.
She’d almost turned down the job when it was first offered to her because she’d always pictured herself working in a place where the need was greater: a gritty urban neighborhood or an impoverished rural area. When the job offer had come through, she’d called her friend Pat Orwell, an older woman who was also a minister and someone Clarissa thought of as a mentor, and expressed her reservations about accepting the position.
“Your dedication is admirable,” Pat had said, “but you have to realize that there is a need for ministry everywhere. Sometimes the places that look the most serene are the ones most in need.”
Clarissa had taken her words to heart. And as she walked along, she realized that it was up to her to make this job into something that was of real service to the community’s spiritual and physical needs.
Clarissa was so engrossed in making plans for what she would do as a minister that it barely registered with her when she was in front of the Blue Huron. Only the life-sized statue of the bird on the front lawn caught her attention.
She paused and looked across the street at the large, turreted Victorian that occupied the corner lot. Painted a bright yellow with blue trim, it looked to be in fine condition, as if the owner took loving care of it. Clarissa walked across the street and stood in front of it for a moment, staring up at the three floors of windows.
“Quite a pile, isn’t it?” a voice chirped from the front porch.
Looking carefully, Clarissa could see a woman sitting in a rocker, studying her. Clarissa laughed in response. “It’s certainly grand,” she said. “I live in one like it myself, but it’s not up to this level.”
“You live in town?” the woman asked.
“I’m the new minister at the Shore Side Community Church.”
“Been a Baptist my whole life, but a woman minister is a good idea. Why don’t you come up on the porch and sit a while, if you’ve got the time? You can always just tell me if I get too boring like old people tend to do.”
Clarissa opened the gate in the wrought iron fence that ran across the front of the property, and went up onto the porch. A thin older woman wearing nicely tailored slacks and a pretty blue blouse was seated in one of the rockers.
She reached out her hand as Clarissa drew near. “I’m Doris Llewellyn,” she said, holding out her hand.
Clarissa gently shook the papery hand. “Clarissa Abbot.”
“Have a seat,” Doris said, nodding to the chair next to her own. “Nothing’s better than having a chat on the front porch and watching the world go by.”
Clarissa sat down in the other rocker. “Seems to be a quiet street,” she commented.
“Trust me, if you wait long enough, everyone in Shore Side eventually walks by. Where do you come from?”
“Northern New Jersey.”
“Bet you find things a bit slower down here.”
“Yes. Much more relaxed.”
“So how does the minister of the Shore Side Community Church, one I don’t happen to go to, end up standing in front of my house?” Doris asked.
Clarissa considered saying something bland—she was out for a walk and just happened to notice the house—but something about the woman’s shrewd brown eyes told her that wouldn’t fly. Clarissa also didn’t like to lie, considering this the first step to a lot of worse behaviors.
“I have to admit that I purposely walked past because I heard the story about your husband’s murder,” she admitted honestly.
Doris nodded. “I figured. That’s about the only reason folks stop in front of my house. Not that it happens very much anymore, although I still get the occasional fan of unsolved mysteries. So how did you happen to hear about Royce’s murder? Some gossipy woman at a church social?”
“No,” Clarissa replied. “David Ames was a member of my congregation. He died last night, and your late husband’s name came up.”
Doris Llewellyn stared across the street, as if trying to see something on the other side. “A lot of people at the time thought that he killed Royce,” she said musingly.
“Did you?”
“I was never sure. There were so many candidates. Royce was a difficult man.” She sighed. “Oh, don’t get me wrong, he could be fun, and certainly exciting, but it was always a roller coaster ride. And when he got angry about something—which happened a lot—well, you’d better keep away, a long way away.”
“I heard that your husband had a fight with Ames shortly before he was killed,” Clarissa said slowly.
“That’s what I heard, too. And it wouldn’t surprise me. Royce was always getting in fights with the men at work.” Doris smiled. “We’d say today that my husband had anger issues. In those days, we just said he had a bad temper. Anyway, maybe Dave Ames did kill him. I didn’t know him, but from what I’ve heard, he had something of a temper, as well. But like I said, there were lots of other possibilities. Those were pretty violent times around here.”
“There were a lot of angry men around.”
“And, of course, it could have been an angry woman.”
Clarissa maintained a neutral expression.
Doris smiled. “You’re too polite to say it, but I’m sure you’ve heard that my husband liked the ladies a little too much.” She paused and her lips trembled.
“That must have been hard,” Clarissa said softly.
“I’ll admit when I first found out about it, I was hurt and furious,” Doris said. “I wanted to take my daughter and go right home to my parents.”
“But you didn’t?”
“No. Partly because of Elise, my daughter,” she said. “Despite his shortcomings, Royce was a good father, and she worshipped the ground he walked on. I didn’t want to take that away from her. I kept telling myself that once she turned eighteen, I’d tell her the truth and let the chips fall where they may. So I waited and tried to pretend that I didn’t care about all the other women.”
“How old was Elise when her father was killed?” Clarissa asked.
“Fifteen. And then everything came out about Royce and all his philandering. It was the talk of her school. Finally, she just refused to go to class. I thought it would kill her, so I sent her away to a private school to avoid all the gossip. But by then, most of the damage had been done.”
That must have been awful, Clarissa thought. Her heart went out to Elise. “You said that your daughter was only part of the reason you stayed with him?” she said gently.
Doris smiled sadly. “I loved the louse. I knew my life would never be the same without him. And it hasn’t been.” She paused and sniffed. “Funny how fifty years can disappear in the blink of an eye.”
Clarissa gave her a sympathetic smile. “Was there anyone other than David Ames that you thought might have shot your husband?” she a
sked.
“Like I said, I always thought it might have been a woman.”
“Any particular woman?” Clarissa pressed.
“The last one, Maggie Preston,” Doris answered. “The one who worked at the hotel and that he set up in an apartment in town. I can tell you, I threw her out of there as soon as I could. I always figured that she might have snapped when Royce dropped her.”
“Did he drop her?”
She smiled grimly. “He always dropped them—in time. But I have to hand it to Maggie, she didn’t let herself be shamed out of town. She still lives here, even has a little business called Maggie’s Luncheonette down by the beach.”
Clarissa made a mental note of the diner. “It must have been very hard being here alone that night when your husband was shot,” she said.
“Well . . .”
Doris stopped speaking as a woman opened the gate and came up the walk. She was carrying a supermarket bag in each hand. She put her foot on the first step of the porch very carefully, as if it might disappear from beneath her. When she looked up and saw Clarissa, she paused and gave Doris a quizzical look.
“This is my daughter, Elise,” Doris said. “Elise, this is Clarissa Abbot, the new minister at Shore Side Community Church. She happened to walk by, and I invited her to stop by and chat for a while.”
Elise smiled. She put down her shopping bags and took Clarissa’s outstretched hand. She was tall like her mother, but more sturdily built. She gave Clarissa’s hand a trembling shake.
“I was just filling Clarissa in on all the good restaurants in Shore Side—not that I get out to them much anymore,” Doris continued.
Clarissa wondered if Doris had some kind of memory problem, since they certainly hadn’t been discussing restaurants. But when she glanced at Doris, trying to keep the surprise from her face, the older woman gave her a look that warned her to keep quiet.
“Nice to meet you,” Elise said. “I’m afraid Mother doesn’t get many people who are just visiting.”