by Glen Ebisch
“Your job isn’t that different from mine, except you use different tools,” Clarissa observed.
“And answer to the authority of the law rather than the authority of God.”
Clarissa smiled. “The law might be easier to interpret than the will of God.”
Andrew grinned. “Not always.”
They sat and sipped their drinks, looking out at the garden, which was gradually becoming dappled with shadows. Their waitress brought their food and they began to eat.
“Speaking about winning, as we were earlier, I wanted to congratulate you on getting your way on the land deal,” Andrew said.
“I wouldn’t say I got my way,” Clarissa said, maybe a shade sharply. “I just presented the facts and the board made a decision.”
Andrew frowned. “But do you really think that decision was the best for the church? Couldn’t it use the money?”
Clarissa put down her knife and fork. “What’s going on here, Andrew?” she asked suspiciously. “The other day when we spoke, you were the one who emphasized the environmental concerns. Now all of a sudden it’s about the money.”
“I never said that,” he retorted. “I just want you to look at it from all sides.”
“And who encouraged you to do that?” she asked.
He blushed. “My father.”
“And why does he suddenly care so much that I see all sides?”
Andrew looked uncomfortable.
“Who does he have as a client? Kenneth Rogers?” Clarissa demanded.
Andrew shook his head.
“Of course not; Rogers is too big to use a local firm. It must be Harry Blanchard.”
Looking even more miserable, Andrew nodded. “They’ve worked together on a lot of commercial real estate deals in the past. They’re sort of friends,” he admitted.
Clarissa leaned across the table, her eyes fierce. “So your father told you to go out with me to soften me up, so I’d go along with Harry?”
“No, of course not,” Andrew replied. “If that were the case, I would have gone out with you before the vote.”
“So why bring all this up now? It’s over.”
“But it isn’t,” he said. “You know that Harry is out there campaigning to get people in the congregation to vote against it. If you could just say something neutral from the pulpit on Sunday, people might go along with him.”
“And why would I want that?”
“I know Harry. He’s not a nice man, and you don’t want him for an enemy. If you remain neutral, he can’t blame you if the vote does go against him,” said Andrew.
“So you’re suggesting all this for my sake—not because your father wants Harry’s real estate deal to go through?” Clarissa could hear her voice becoming louder.
Andrew nodded. “I wouldn’t have brought it up at all if I wasn’t afraid of what might happen to you as a result of getting involved in this controversy.”
“Would you like some coffee or dessert?” the waitress asked, eyeing them cautiously.
“Not for me,” Clarissa said, not taking her eyes from Andrew, who was glancing about him nervously.
Andrew shook his head, as well.
“Then I’ll get your bill,” the waitress said, edging away from their table.
Clarissa got to her feet. She reached in her purse and threw three twenties on the table. “I hope that covers my share. It’s all I’ve got with me.”
“You don’t have to . . . ”
“I think I’ll walk home,” she snapped. “Thank you for a partially nice evening.”
Without looking back and with her head held high, Clarissa strode out of the restaurant.
Chapter Eighteen
A ringing telephone woke Clarissa the next morning. She’d had trouble getting to sleep after she got home from her dinner with Andrew. She’d tried meditation, prayer, and warm milk, but was still so angry over his attempt to manipulate her that sleep wouldn’t come. It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning that she’d fallen soundly asleep. Now her cell phone was insistently ringing, even though her bedside clock said it was only six in the morning.
“Have you seen the newspaper this morning?” Ashley asked when Clarissa answered the phone.
“Is it even printed yet?” Clarissa mumbled, struggling to focus.
“Good one, Boss,” Ashley said. “I know it’s a little early, but I thought you’d want to know. The state attorney general has indicted Kenneth Rogers for bribery and fraud.”
Clarissa awoke with a start. “Really?”
“Yep. There’s a front-page story. I think our boy is in a world of hurt. Do you think that will influence the church vote?”
Clarissa smiled to herself. “I think it very well might.”
“So how did your date go? Hey, I’m not interrupting anything am I?”
“Very funny. And don’t ask.”
“That bad?” Ashley said, the concern apparent in her voice. “I had high hopes for that guy. He’s a real cutie.”
“Yeah, well, looks aren’t everything,” Clarissa said, and she went on to give a summary of what had taken place.
There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Finally, Ashley said, “Well, I can see why you were angry. He shouldn’t have mixed business with pleasure.”
“For him it was all business. He was just interested in getting me to support his father’s client,” Clarissa said, getting angry all over again.
“Sure, but, you know, it’s hard for a boy to go against his father.”
“Not if he’s a grownup,” Clarissa snapped.
“Okay, but he was, after all, somewhat concerned for your well being,” Ashley pointed out. “Getting in wrong with Harry Blanchard could jeopardize your job. Andrew was really just suggesting that you remain out of it, so Harry would be less inclined to come after you.”
“I see. Are you implying that I should be more understanding of Andrew’s position?” asked Clarissa.
“I think he was sort of between a rock and a hard place, so maybe you should cut him a little slack.”
Clarissa paused for a moment. Was it possible that she had been a little too hard on Andrew? Her initial anger when she realized that he had a hidden agenda had begun to dissipate, encouraged by Ashley’s comments.
“I’ll give some thought to what you’ve said,” Clarissa replied. “See you in church tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s guaranteed. It’s all part of my contract with my aunt.”
When Clarissa had washed up, she went down to the kitchen, where Mrs. Gunn was just starting to prepare breakfast.
“You’re up early,” she said with a note of concern in her voice. “How about a fried egg for breakfast with some bacon?”
“I’ll have one egg, but not bacon.”
Mrs. Gunn sighed.
“Ashley called me early this morning to tell me about Kenneth Rogers being indicted. Have you seen the paper?” Clarissa asked.
“Just before I left the house. I guess that puts an end to the plans to buy the church land. All for the best, I say,” Mrs. Gunn said.
“Harry Blanchard won’t be happy.”
Mrs. Gunn grunted, as if to say that was all for the best as well. “How are you otherwise?” she asked, eyeing her carefully.
“Fine. Why do you ask?”
The woman stared at the egg in her hand as if unsure of what to do next. “Mrs. Dorman—you know her, she’s the short woman in church with the large perm.”
Clarissa nodded.
“Well, her daughter is a waitress at the Stafford Inn.”
Clarissa felt her stomach sink, anticipating what was coming next.
“Anyway,” Mrs. Gunn continued, “Mrs. Dorman called me to say that she heard from her daughter that you’d had a spat with a young man in the restaurant last night.”
Clarissa shook her head sadly. “I guess nothing is private in town. I feel really terrible about having caused a scene.”
“Having an argument isn’t so
bad. I had lots of them over the years with Mr. Gunn. The making up was actually quite nice,” she said with a surprisingly mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“But I shouldn’t have had a fight in public,” Clarissa said. “I should have controlled myself more.”
“Perhaps. However, it only goes to prove that you’re human,” Mrs. Gunn replied. “Some of the more strait-laced members of the congregation may not approve, but they probably didn’t want a woman minister in the first place. Most will feel that it proves you’re more aware of the problems that can come up in real life. You’re not floating ten feet above the ground on a cloud like Reverend Hollingsworth was.”
Clarissa tried to smile. “Thank you for that charitable interpretation of what I did.”
Mrs. Gunn sat down across from her at the table, the egg still clutched in her hand. “Do you want to tell me what the tiff was about?”
Clarissa gave her a condensed version of the argument.
Mrs. Gunn clicked her tongue. “Andrew was wrong in the way he approached the whole thing,” she said. “He should have been more open with you from the start about his father’s involvement with Harry. But Ashley may be right; perhaps you did overreact a wee bit. After all, the boy was in an awkward spot with his father on one side and the woman he’s interested in on the other. Maybe you should consider giving him a second chance.”
“Perhaps you and Ashley are right,” Clarissa conceded. “I’ll certainly think about it.”
“But wait for him to call you first.”
“Really?”
Mrs. Gunn nodded firmly. “If he doesn’t call to apologize, he isn’t a keeper. Now, how about that breakfast? Sure I can’t interest you in some bacon?”
After breakfast, Clarissa walked over to the office. Since it was Saturday and Ashley wouldn’t be coming in today, Clarissa decided it would be a good time to sit, meditate, and pray.
But before she could settle in, the phone rang. It was Detective Baker.
“I’d like to stop by to see you, if you aren’t too busy?” he said.
“When?” Clarissa asked.
“Right away,” he said, with a note of asperity in his voice.
Sensing that perhaps she had been found doing something wrong, she quickly agreed.
Fifteen minutes later, Detective Baker was sitting across from Clarissa in her office, staring at the walls.
“You know, I’ve seen interrogation rooms that were less depressing than this,” he commented.
“Reverend Hollingsworth designed it. I think he found it comforting.”
“Figures.” Baker got down to business. “Look, the reason I’m here is that we went to talk with Owen Chandler, but he appears to have flown the coop. He put some college girl who was assisting him in charge of the inn and then disappeared without leaving a forwarding address. The girl reports that he did this after meeting with a woman who, according to her description, looked a lot like you.” The detective stopped speaking and sat there staring at her.
Clarissa wondered where the girl had been hiding during her conversation with Owen. She’d certainly thought their conversation was private. Since Detective Baker had a good description of her, there was no point in denying it—not that she would have lied anyway.
“I did go to see Chandler,” she admitted.
“What did you say to him that made him run?” Detective Baker asked.
“I may have suggested that the deaths of Ames and Spurlock might have been murders.”
Baker gave her a stern glance and his face turned slightly red. “I thought we had agreed to keep that a secret.”
“We did. But I couldn’t let Owen Chandler stay around without knowing that his life might be in danger,” Clarissa insisted. “That would make me a virtual accessory to murder if he got killed.”
“Not in the eyes of the law.”
“Well, morally.”
“Well, now I have no way of finding out what he knew about the Ames murder.”
“I can help you with that,” Clarissa said, and she told Detective Baker about Chandler’s scheme to blackmail Ames.
“So, let me get this straight,” Baker said when she was done. “Ames was blackmailing the killer of Royce Llewellyn, and Chandler was getting a cut of that money by blackmailing Ames, because he gave him a phony alibi.”
“That’s about the size of it.”
“And when were you planning to share this information with me?” he asked.
“As soon as I could put together whom Ames might have been blackmailing,” she responded. “I talked to his girlfriend, Sharon Meissner, but she didn’t seem to have any idea.”
“How did you find out about her?” asked Baker, suddenly sounding very tired.
“Ashley did a search on Ames and found a picture of him in The Shore Side Courant with Sharon at a bar opening.”
Detective Baker sat back and shook his head. “Although I hate to admit it, you’ve done good work, certainly better than we have so far. But you’ve got to share information with me in a more timely way,” he said. “We might have been able to interrogate Chandler before he disappeared, and could have found out more than you did.”
“Probably not,” Clarissa said. “I used the threat of having to talk to you to get him to tell me what he knew.”
“Glad I could be of some service,” Baker said sarcastically, but he was smiling, so Clarissa figured he wasn’t too angry. “But what really worries me,” he continued, “is that you’re still poking around in this case when there’s a killer out there trying to cover his trail.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Clarissa wasn’t sure when the last time was that she’d seen a grown man roll his eyes.
“Did you ever get the original file on Royce Llewellyn’s murder up from the basement?” she asked.
“I did. Actually, Officer Rudinski did. He’s still complaining about the noise of the rats in the walls. Personally, I think he’s making it up,” Baker commented.
“But still, you sent him down to do it, rather than getting the file yourself.”
He smiled. “Rank has its privileges, and I hate rats. Why did you want to know about the files?”
“What I wanted to know was whether anyone other than David Ames was seriously considered as a suspect in the murder,” Clarissa said.
Baker stopped and thought. “There was one fellow who worked as a cook in the kitchen; Llewellyn had fired him a couple of days before for coming in late to work. And there was a hostess in the bar that he accused of stealing from the till around the same time. They were both checked out and had solid alibis.”
“As solid as the one Ames had?” asked Clarissa. The detective frowned at the implied criticism, and Clarissa gave an apologetic smile. “Sorry, that was out of line.”
“Not really,” he replied. “The case really wasn’t handled very well at the time. But according to the files, the alibis on these other two suspects were pretty solid. The cook had gotten another job in Wildwood and was working that night. Somebody went up there, and it checked out; ten other people in the kitchen vouched for him. The woman got another job at a bar in town, and she was there at the time of the murder. Again, lots of people saw her. I guess she was quite pretty, so a number of the guys remembered her.”
Clarissa stared at the mahogany walls and frowned. “I was just thinking, maybe we’re wrong to assume that the killer was someone looking for revenge because Llewellyn had treated him or her badly,” she said. “Instead, we should ask who stood to benefit financially from Royce Llewellyn’s death.”
“Good thinking,” Baker said. “Sex and money are usually the two most common motives for murder. His wife inherited a pretty good chunk of change, especially after she sold the hotel, and he was cheating on her. So I guess by that standard, she’d be at the top of the list. Do you think she shot him, and then claimed it was some mysterious stranger?”
“She could have, I suppose, but the woman has got to be close to ninety,” Clari
ssa said. “I doubt she’s got the strength anymore to suffocate David Ames, even on his deathbed. It’s even more unlikely that she knocked Jack off his ladder.”
“Yeah, probably not,” Baker agreed. “Although they do say that ninety is the new sixty.”
Clarissa smiled and shook her head. “I’ve seen her, and she seems pretty frail. Did anyone else benefit from Llewellyn’s death?”
“As I recall, Royce had a partner in the hotel who was quite a bit younger than he was,” said Baker. “In fact, after the murder, I believe Llewellyn’s wife sold her share of the hotel to him.”
“Is he still alive?” Clarissa asked.
“Last I knew. His name is Ralph Blanchard. He’s a member of our church, but he doesn’t come out to services much anymore.”
“Is he related to Harry Blanchard?”
Detective Baker nodded. “Harry is his grandson. His son was named George—that’s Harry’s father—but he died about ten years ago. I remember that Reverend Hollingsworth conducted the funeral service, right after he took over the church.”
“Does Ralph still own the hotel?” asked Clarissa.
“I think he sold it in the early nineties, and it was torn down,” Baker answered. “A new one was built on the site. The Sea Star, it’s called, but as far as I know, Ralph never had anything to do with that.”
“Do you think Ralph made a killing by buying out his former partner’s half cheap?”
“You mean, do I think he had a motive for murder?”
Clarissa shrugged. “It’s a thought.”
“I don’t know; that was all before my time. You could ask the widow or, of course, you could ask Ralph himself.”
“So could you,” Clarissa pointed out.
“Sure. I suppose I could. But Ralph, despite his age, is still pretty influential in town. I don’t think I want to go questioning him without more evidence implicating him in a crime,” Baker said.
Clarissa sat for a moment, staring across the room. “Maybe I could have a talk with him,” she said. “If he’s still in the church, he’s probably the oldest member. It would only be right for the new minister to make a courtesy call.”