A Dickens of a Crime

by Phyllis H Moore

  As Jean waited to sign the guest book. Meg couldn’t help but stare at the gilded trim on the ceiling and the ornate painting of angels and clouds swirling above a massive crystal chandelier. There were thousands of prisms hanging overhead, reflecting off the gleaming marble floor.

  She glanced at the other mourners; most of the women wore full-length fur coats. Meg took in the scene as she caressed the notched collar of her wool jacket.

  Jean waved Meg over to stand beside her in line. “That didn’t take long,” Jean whispered.

  “Remind me to tell you about it. I double-dog dare them to call a tow truck,” Meg whispered back.

  Jean gave her a weak smile. “This is a nice showing.”

  “Yes, lovely.” Meg nodded to people behind her in line. How many of them were there out of curiosity as she and Jean were.

  After they signed the guest book, the line wound around to the annex where there was a large portrait of Lena standing on a grand staircase in a strapless ball gown. Meg gasped when she realized the staircase was the one at Darrow House. She tugged on Jean’s sleeve and pointed to the portrait, Jean’s eyes widening as she obviously made the same connection.

  Neither of them reached for her wallet at the gold bowl where people were depositing checks and bills. A young man, much like the valets, replaced the bowl with an empty one, then took the full one behind a closed door. Is it my imagination or do all these young men look alike?

  Meg turned to Jean with a quick glance. Jean leaned forward and whispered, “I find this so uncouth.” Meg nodded and then bowed her head. I hope this looks like reverence and not the disgust I’m feeling.

  Finally they arrived at large stained-glass doors opening into another massive foyer. There were three sets of doors with a pair of young men in tuxedos standing on either side of each one, handing out pamphlets. Who is breeding these people? The gold-embossed booklets had the same portrait of Lena on the front.

  The organist played Christmas hymns as the mourners filed into the sanctuary and took their places. One row was designated for family. The ends of each pew were decorated with large green wreaths adorned with deep red roses. Two large alabaster vases dominated the altar, each filled with evergreen boughs that spilled over the sides, with dozens of deep red roses centered in the arrangement. Three massive chandeliers matching the one in the main lobby hung above the altar.

  Jean leaned over and whispered, “I’m sure Jesus is appreciative of all of this.”

  “No doubt.” Meg glanced down as she opened the pamphlet. Jean punched her arm as ten women, all dressed in matching Victorian costumes, strode down the aisles holding candles. The flames sputtered on the tapers and their long skirts fluttered as they ascended the marble steps to the back of the chancel. Tall candles in wide candelabras studded with crystals began to dance with light, throwing prism reflections against the scarlet draperies behind them. Meg inhaled as she watched the light, thinking the HAH had managed to address every sensory entrance into the worshipers’ souls.

  The women who lit the candles deposited their own tapers in smaller sconces and took their places on the chancel. After they were settled, the music changed to a classical piece, “In Paradisium” from Requiem by Gabriel Faure. Jean leaned her head toward Meg. This is lovely on the piano, but I’m not fond of the organ.

  Ten men, five down each outer aisle, marched to the front of the church, climbing the steps and taking seats on either side, flanking the women. With a rumbling similar to distant drums, Wayne Landry emerged from the center of the altar, raised from below the floor by a mechanical contraption. His arms were spread wide as he ascended to a spot higher than those seated around him.

  Meg’s mouth dropped. She was frozen in place, until she realized her throat had gone dry, forcing her to close her lips and swallow. She had never witnessed such a spectacle. Wayne’s robes were shimmering white with elaborate gold embroidery down the front and in a wide band on the edge of each sleeve.

  After an adequate period of time to admire Wayne’s garment, the pulpit rose in front of him. As if by magic, Wayne now stood behind a massive marble podium with the seal of the Hilltop church etched in gold, prominent on the front.

  Meg flashed back to history class when she was a junior. Wayne was older but repeating the class. He sat slouched with grease under his fingernails, doodling on a spiral notebook with a number two pencil.

  The memory made her smile as she glanced to the side, pretending to look at the stained-glass windows and greenery. She was trying to spot someone she might recognize. So far she hadn’t seen anyone.

  People in the back pews began to rise; the rush of fabrics and movement an indication the family was entering the sanctuary. They stood and turned toward the center aisle, as Lena's mother-of-pearl-with-gold-trim casket became the center of attention. Meg assumed the young men carrying the casket were the valets and tithe collectors. They wore Victorian top hats trimmed with red satin ribbon and holly.

  Meg glanced around again to see if anyone else had a reaction to the production. Faces were unchanging. Something made her want to bolt, to run out of the sanctuary. It wasn’t a place she wanted to be. Taking a deep breath, she glanced at Jean, staring at the pamphlet, running her finger over the embossed gold. Meg told herself she could get through the service.

  Brian Hillard walked alone behind the casket, dressed in a tuxedo with tails. Meg flinched at his top hat, probably two sizes too small for his head. It sat above his rounded face, making him look more like Rich Uncle Pennybags, the Monopoly man, than the mourning widower.

  His daughters wore deep red trendy suits with short pencil skirts, matching pillbox hats, with black net pulled across their faces. Meg was at the end of the pew and had an opportunity to view Brian and the girls from head to toe. Giselle had an elastic bandage wrapped around her left wrist, circling her thumb and crossing the back of her hand and palm. Meg feared the young woman would topple over as she wobbled down the aisle. The heels the twins wore were ridiculously high and narrow. Giselle struggled, but Geneva pranced like a runway model.

  Both girls carried bouquets of deep red roses tied with green satin ribbon. The procession felt more like a wedding than a funeral. Once the family was settled at the front of the church and the casket was visible to all, Wayne Landry asked everyone to be seated.

  “We are gathered here to celebrate the birth of Christ in a few weeks and to mourn the passing of Lena Rosemarie Hillard,” Wayne began. “Brian and Lena were married in Las Vegas with no fanfare, so this ceremony is also the second wedding Lena planned but never executed. Brian’s daughters, Giselle and Geneva, agreed to wear the suits Lena picked out for them as attendants at the wedding. Ah, that explains it, but not really.

  “The holiday season was Lena’s favorite, and her friends will tell you that the Dickens Festival was her favorite volunteer work. So as we remember Lena Rosemarie Hillard with her favorite seasonal décor, please open your hymnals …”

  TWELVE

  “That was the most bizarre funeral I’ve ever attended.” Jean stared at the gold-embossed pamphlet, then slipped it into her purse. “Honestly, where do they find the funds to maintain that Taj Mahal? And the food, china and silver service for that many people? Wine at lunch, for heaven’s sake. I’ve never seen anything like that in a church.”

  They had some difficulty getting out of the parking spot Meg had chosen. “I didn’t follow that valet’s directions, but I didn’t think he’d would park a car behind me. I think that’s called passive aggressive.” Meg was focused on following the traffic out of the church’s lot, glancing at Jean when they were stopped.

  “I agree. Not a very Christian thing to do.

  “I really don’t know anyone who’s a member out here except that little tight-knit group. Now that I’ve attended a service, I’m pretty sure there’s good reason I don’t know anyone.” Meg said. “Did you recognize anyone else?”

  Jean shook her head. “Now that you mention it, I didn’t.
That’s weird, don’t you think? I didn’t see Hal or Tom. Maybe this is a regional congregation or something. I don’t know how these giant churches operate. But I’ll tell you one thing, I believe there’s a special kind of Hell for those that spend the congregation’s money on that nonsense. Where’s the religion in that hoopla?”

  “My thoughts exactly. You know what WTF means? Meg giggled.

  “I certainly do,” Jean said, “but I’m not one to use the initials. I can spell the whole words. As I stared at all that golden crap in there that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

  Meg rolled down her window and motioned to another car to allow her in, pointing to the space she wanted to occupy. She waved when they complied. “The people in that congregation are not from our town, Jean. Oh, and why do they call that a cafeteria? There were fine linens and upholstered dining chairs.”

  “You’re right.” Jean nodded. “Those people were high society. Maybe it’s just because we don’t go to the country club.”

  Meg finally arrived at the exit. “That whole second wedding, Dickens-themed eulogy was beyond bizarre. It turned my stomach. I wanted to shake all those people by the necks and watch their eyes roll around in their heads.”

  “Amen, sister, I know what you mean. I had to bite my tongue. Well, I’m glad we went, because I sure wouldn’t have believed anyone who tried to tell me about it.” Jean unbuckled her seatbelt and slipped out of her jacket. “I’m saving that pamphlet. Anything with gold on it’s too good to throw away.”

  “You’re a bag lady. I’m complaining about how bizarre that fiasco was, and you’re pilfering their gold.”

  “Just wait, Miss Priss. I’m going to use the gold letters in a decoupage project and you’re going to be envious.”

  Meg moaned. “Well, here, take mine too. You’re right. I just don’t have the vision you do when it comes to making creative art out of funeral pamphlets. Roll your window down and ask the people in that Range Rover if you can have theirs.”

  “I think you’re making fun of me, but guess what, I don’t have a care to give. You’ll see, and you’ll be sorry your ever doubted my imagination.”

  “Oh no, my friend. I’ve doubted many things, but I’ve never doubted your imagination.”

  “Well you should be thankful to know me because I don’t know too many people who’d stick by a person who’s been a suspect in a murder.”

  “Yes, I said a prayer in church just a little while ago as Wayne was being lifted up to the chandeliers, giving thanks for your friendship. You have to know that any prayer uttered in that church must carry a lot of weight.”

  “Hallelujah, Sister Miller,” Jean chuckled.

  As she pulled up in front of Jean’s house, Meg remembered the cologne. “I never sniffed Manny’s colognes. The fragrance I noticed at Darrow still haunts me.”

  “Come in for a minute. I know right where they are.”

  Jean put a shoe box filled with cologne bottles on the dining room table. Meg sat and examined each one, trying to be certain. After sampling four bottles, she settled on the one she was sure matched the fragrance she had noticed at Darrow House—Aramis. The masculine scent was woodsy and leather with a hint of tangy balsamic, distinctive.

  After leaving Jeans, Meg stopped to buy cat food and ran into Jill Ann They stood near customer service, chatting about the culmination of the historical foundation’s largest annual fundraiser. The weekend had been long hours of work for Jill Ann and she was dressed in sweats with hair pulled back in a ponytail and no makeup. Meg thought she looked tired, but still cute and outgoing.

  “I know you’re glad the weekend has come and gone, Jill Ann,” Meg said. “I want you to know how much I appreciate your hard work. Your office does an excellent job and I know I speak for the rest of the board.”

  “Thank you, Meg. I appreciate those kind words, especially now. There was an unfortunate incident at the Miss Steampunk Pageant. Several of the parents lodged complaints,” Jill Ann whispered as she motioned Meg out of the door way. “I still haven’t been able to reach Tom. I’m hoping he shows up in the office tomorrow. Hal might’ve been a little tipsy and made passes at some of the girls. There are rumors of law suits. He’s never been appropriate, but this year he was obscene.”

  Meg tilted her head back. “Oh for the love of … He’s a liability, always has been. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “Don’t worry. That’s about the kindest thing I’ve heard anyone say so far. If you ask me, we all need to call him what he is, lecherous.” Jill Ann gave Meg a serious look, no smile, not batting an eye.

  “If I had my way, he wouldn’t be allowed to be in charge of that event ever again,” Meg said. “There are questions every year about the accounting and his sloppy bookkeeping and now this.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. It takes twice as long for the auditor to go through his records, and we’re cautioned about it every year.”

  “What can we do about it?” Meg’s forehead was lined with concern.

  “Someone on the board insists on his involvement. I’m pretty sure it was Lena.”

  “This may be moot, then. She won’t have a say anymore.” Meg had a vision of Hal strutting in his elaborate plague doctor’s costume, lifting the skirts of the contestants with his long cane. Why hadn’t parents questioned his behavior in the past?

  Later, in her easy chair with her legal pad, Meg couldn’t get the thought of a scandal around Miss Steampunk out of her head. Of course it didn’t surprise her. She wrote Hal’s name and placed a question mark by the word “wife.” She hadn’t heard about a divorce, but she didn’t really pay much attention to Hal’s personal life. There was the possibility he had never married. He was another blustery type she didn’t enjoy being around, full of himself and flirty by reputation.

  Meg pulled out her cell phone and called Dorie. “Hey, sweetie. Have you heard anything about the Miss Steampunk Pageant this year?”

  “I just heard about it earlier this afternoon. It’s that Hal guy, Mom. He gives the girls the creeps.”

  “That’s what I was afraid you’d say,” Meg said and sighed.

  They had only started the pageant a few years before to attract a young adult crowd. Meg had agreed to assist, but lost interest in helping with the pageant when Hal treated it as a wet T-shirt contest. The contestants were late teens to early twenties. The hair had stood on Meg’s arms watching him inspect the line-up of young ladies. He gave her the creeps.

  Meg glanced through the brochure sitting on top of old mail next to her chair, while Dorie continued to tell her the gossip. The photos of the activities were realistic and planted attendees in the dystopian atmosphere the committee had hoped to create. The steampunk stage was decorated with various reclaimed cogs and gears, volunteers having scoured discarded junk heaps for pieces of machinery they could clean and spray-paint to resemble Victorian contraptions. Costumers were creative, using reclaimed military objects and gas masks. Hal’s signature mask was frightening. A full photo of him was featured on the back of the brochure, the aquiline nose on the mask reminding her of a bird of prey.

  “Hal has been successful in increasing profits, but we can’t have even a hint of harassment tied to the foundation.” It’s possible this hint of scandal is what Tom’s attempting to avoid.

  “I agree. It’s not worth the gossip, even if it does bring in additional funds. Everyone enjoys the costumes and the setting, but maybe they can ditch the pageant,” Dorie suggested. “Those things are becoming a thing of the past anyway. They’re oversexualized and demeaning to females. The foundation should take the lead and make a statement about discontinuing such a thing.”

  “I’ll make that suggestion when we do the wrap up after the holidays. That makes perfect sense to me. Thanks for the talk. Bye, Sweetie.”

  She flipped to the inside pages of the brochure, where there was a form for entrants and booth spaces. There were considerable funds raised from the pageant, as the
participants paid an entry fee and the attendees paid to enter the venue to view the costumes. Hal had been successful in getting sponsors for the event, and he had sold advertising for the program for the occasion. The hall was full of booths of various accessories related to steampunk dress, the vendors paying a booth fee as well.

  Meg had never trusted Hal. Having a conversation with him was like talking to a Gypsy snake oil salesman. Never quite finishing a sentence, he left her shaking her head, confused about what he’d said. However he was quick to give a loud laugh and walk off.

  When Meg mentioned it to Jean, she had suggested it was just an uneasiness left over from high school, and that Hal had probably tried to maintain the high level of charisma from his youth. But Meg didn’t consider it charisma. He was a charlatan. The fact that the event was able to raise money, and he was willing to do the work of getting sponsors and network for publicity kept Hal in the driver’s seat.

  Meg doodled a big circle around Hal’s name, then put another question mark beside the circle. Regardless of the outcome of any investigation into this year’s pageant, Meg agreed with Dorie, it was a liability and needed to be shut down.

  The duplicity that surrounded the Hilltop congregation was confusing as well. There was something incongruous about its lifestyle, behavior, and religion. It didn’t fit, but Meg didn’t know how to go about questioning such a thing without sounding irreverent. She wondered what the police were discovering in their investigation.

  LaRue stood and stretched. Meg walked through the kitchen and opened the back door. She would have a busy day tomorrow with Dorie on their trip to Dallas and needed sleep. Rest would be hard to achieve with the worry of Hal’s behavior and Lena’s murderer still a mystery.

  The twins kept resurfacing. Meg felt a connection to them. The gnawing memories of her own mother’s depression and her sister’s suicide kept coming back to her. If it hadn’t been for her father and the strength of her brother, Meg was sure she’d have been devastated beyond recovery. The twins didn’t have Brian’s support. It bothered Meg that Wayne Landry and his wife might have become involved in influencing them, and the materialistic values of the church could have further confused the girls. There were so many things that could have gone wrong at a crucial time in their development.