Mom Meets Her Maker

by James Yaffe

  “Your husband went home at lunchtime, Mrs. Candy, but you didn’t?”

  “I never fix his lunch for him on Thursdays,” she said. “On Thursdays he has to be in the house alone. He spends the afternoon communing, and when the light comes to him he writes his Sunday sermon.”

  “And you finished your Christmas shopping at what time?”

  “It was five-thirty when I got back to the house.”

  “You left the church around noon, and spent more than five hours shopping?”

  “I’m afraid I dawdled around a bit. I had lunch at the cafeteria in the shopping mall. I sat awhile over my coffee. And after I bought what I was looking for, I went back to the cafeteria and had some more coffee. You see, I couldn’t get back to the house before five-thirty. Chuck doesn’t like it if I get home earlier than that, when he’s communing.”

  “You didn’t happen to run into anybody you knew at the shopping mall, did you, Mrs. Candy? Especially later, when you had your second cup of coffee?”

  “No. I didn’t run into a soul. Maybe the salesgirls will remember me. But nobody’s going to remember me in the cafeteria, because it’s self-service.”

  “When you got back to the house, did you ring the doorbell?”

  “Why should I? I just used my key and went in.”

  “Did you notice anybody outside the house? Hanging around the street?”

  “I didn’t see anybody on the street. The crowds don’t show up for the Christmas lights till it starts getting dark.”

  “And then, once you were inside?”

  We were coming to the tough part, and I fully expected her to break down at the memory of it. But she didn’t, she kept her voice very calm. “I called out for Chuck to help me with my Christmas packages. But he didn’t answer, so I took the packages into the living room. I found him there. By the Christmas tree.”

  “And then you called the police?”

  “I went up to him first. I thought maybe he fainted, got sick or something. But then I saw the blood. And then I called the police.”

  “Did you also see what was written on the carpet next to him? Those words he wrote in red crayon?”

  “Gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Yes, I saw.”

  “What do you make out of them?”

  “They’re the gifts of the magi.”

  “Yes, but have you any idea why your husband would’ve written them there?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly. Because he was in pain maybe—” She broke off, biting her lip.

  “Did you touch anything in the living room when you found him? Move anything, change its position?”

  “No. I didn’t even sit there, I couldn’t. I went across the hall, to this room. I waited for the police here.”

  A sudden thought occurred to me. “What happened to the packages?”

  “Packages?”

  “The Christmas shopping you did. You just said you brought it into the living room. Then you saw your husband, and you went over to him. You must’ve put the packages down somewhere. But I didn’t see them yesterday, when I examined that room.”

  “What did I do with them?” She shook her head. “Oh yes. Before I came in here to wait for the police, I took the packages up to my own room, our bedroom.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly. I just thought—They were for my grandchildren, Christmas presents. They didn’t have anything to do with Chuck’s death. I didn’t want them mixed up in it.”

  My curiosity had been growing all this time, and now I couldn’t ignore it any longer. “Mrs. Candy, how did you and your husband first meet?”

  A vague smile flickered across her face. “It was in Santa Fe, New Mexico. I was just a girl. I was still living with my mother and father on the ranch. I was planning to go off to college in the fall.”

  “College?” I’m afraid I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice. “It’s kind of strange, isn’t it? You and Mr. Candy, that is—” I stopped talking, wishing I hadn’t started in the first place.

  Her smile, as she turned it on me, grew gentle, and maybe there was even a touch of wryness in it. “You’re thinking, what could she ever have seen in him—an educated girl and this ignorant, lower-class oaf?”

  “No, I wasn’t—”

  “It’s all right. You’re not the first person who’s said that to me. My parents didn’t like Chuck at all. They said a girl like me, who was well brought up and her family had some money, could do a lot better than some wandering preacher without a penny to his name. But you see—” Her smile wasn’t directed at me anymore. She seemed to be smiling off into space. “I wasn’t happy as a young girl. I didn’t want to go to college. I didn’t want— I didn’t know what I wanted. And then I met Chuck.”

  “He came to your parents’ ranch?”

  “No, no.” She shook her head. “He came to town to do a prayer meeting. He was doing them even in those days. I went to it, and I got saved. I walked right up to the front, and this young handsome boy put his hands on me and saved me. He wasn’t any older than I was, but he saved me. And one thing led to another— My parents got very angry at me. But I was saved, so I didn’t have to do what they told me anymore.”

  She went on smiling. Off in a world of her own. I hated to do it, but I had to pull her back into the real one.

  “What happened to your husband’s sermon, Mrs. Candy? He did spend the afternoon writing his sermon, didn’t he?”

  “Let me think. This room is his study, it’s where he does his writing. His sermon was over there, on that desk.”

  “I wonder if I could look at it.”

  “I don’t have it. I gave it to Gabe. That’s my son. Gabriel.”

  “Could you tell me what was in it?”

  “Oh, I never read his sermons. It was three pages—on yellow paper, he always uses those big pads of yellow paper. His handwriting is so hard to make out. He brings it over to the church Friday morning to get it typed up—” She winced slightly, as if a disturbing thought had just come to her. “No, he won’t be doing that this week—” All of a sudden, her face seemed to crumple, like paper crumpled up in somebody’s fist, and a low moan was coming out of her.

  I wished I could’ve got out of there, but I still had one more question to ask.

  “Mrs. Candy, do you know of anybody, anybody at all, who might have had a reason for killing your husband?”

  She looked up. The moaning stopped, and I saw that her cheeks were dry, no tears had come.

  “Gabe says it’s that boy. The one from next door.”

  Something in her voice put me on the alert. “You don’t agree with that?”

  “Gabe wants them to put that boy in jail. He’ll do his best to make him the guilty party.”

  “Why?”

  “Maybe because—He’s got to believe he’s doing something for his father, standing up for him, something like that. When Chuck was alive, he was always telling Gabe he couldn’t do anything right. Well, I suppose Gabe feels he has to do this right.”

  “But you think the guilty party might be somebody else?”

  A strange intense glitter was suddenly in Mrs. Candy’s eyes. “It was her, that’s who it was.” She leaned forward, putting a bony hand on my knee. Her grip was surprisingly tight. “Winding her web around him, day after day. With her evil symbols and incantations and witch language. The language of witches comes from the devil—that’s what it says in the good book.”

  “You’ll have to be a little clearer, Mrs. Candy. Who’re you talking about?”

  “The woman of evil. Stealing his soul away—that pure white soul that came straight from the hand of God. But she took hold of it, squeezed it in her iron fist—oh, they’re strong, those fingers of hers, she keeps them strong, doesn’t she? But they couldn’t hold onto him forever, could they? He saw he was trodding the ways of darkness and sin, and he repented and turned back to the paths of light. She couldn
’t stand that. That’s why she killed him. The children of the Lord can endure suffering, they can turn the other cheek. But not the children of the Devil, there’s no meekness in them, they sow the wind and will reap the wild wind.”

  “Who are you accusing? What I need from you is the name—”

  “Names! No!” Her head swiveled to the right and left, as if she heard enemies closing in on her from every direction. “I will not say names. I will not cast the first stone. I’ve been a good Christian since Chuck came for me on the ranch. Good Christians don’t cast the first stone.”

  “If you won’t tell me who you’re accusing, how can you expect me—”

  “God will find a way,” she said, lowering her voice to a hoarse whisper. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!”

  She broke off, breathing hard for awhile longer, and then she got to her feet. “Please excuse me now. I must be getting back to my callers.”

  I didn’t need any more invitation. I left that house as fast as I could.

  * * *

  I got out of the neighborhood, then I stopped at the first drugstore and used the pay phone.

  Luckily Mom was home. I filled her in on what had happened since our last talk, and especially about my crazy talk with Mrs. Candy.

  Mom didn’t say anything for a long time. I began to wonder if we’d been disconnected, but then her voice came through. “It’s one of the big mysteries in life, isn’t it?”

  “What is?”

  “You said this Reverend Candy was a little man with a bald head and a big nose?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Positively not the Great Lover type. Only have you ever noticed how many times the great lovers don’t look like great lovers? You see them on the street, in restaurants, in theatre lobbies, funny-looking little fellows with bald heads and big noses—but always, on their arm, are the most beautiful girls. That’s the big mystery.”

  “But what’s it got to do with the Reverend Chuck Candy?”

  “It’s what his wife just told you about him.”

  “I couldn’t make out what she told me. She sounded completely hysterical to me.”

  “Hysterical people don’t necessarily have nothing to say. The secret is in the translation. Now first of all, this Mrs. Candy talks about ‘her’—some woman in her husband’s life who, she says, is ‘stealing his soul away.’ It’s a love affair she’s talking about—can you have any doubts about that?”

  “No, I guess not. Though when a man’s having an affair, he doesn’t usually let his wife know all about it.”

  “Who says so? Did I ever mention to you my second cousin Seymour? He was always having affairs, a different woman every year. And he was always dropping hints about them to his wife, Lucille. The truth is, he got a bigger kick from telling Lucille about the other women than he got from the other women.

  “Even so, I’m not saying this Candy was another cousin Seymour. There’s plenty ways a wife can find out about her husband’s hanky-panky. Sooner or later, believe me, a woman knows what’s going on. And then she gets mad, like this Mrs. Candy, and blurts it out to people.”

  “If she’s so mad, why didn’t she blurt out her rival’s name?”

  “Because inside her is two people. The first person is the jealous wife that’s married to a no-good—so she takes you into a private room and gives you information. The second person is the loyal wife that’s married to a saint—so she makes a mishmash of the information so you wouldn’t understand what it’s all about.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But that means Mrs. Candy’s deepest feelings are tied up with her refusal to tell me who her rival is. She’ll never give us the name.”

  “She don’t have to.”

  “Mom! Do you really think you can guess—”

  “Who guesses? After all these years, you’re accusing me of being a guesser? She told us who’s the woman, Candy’s love affair, without meaning to tell us. You only have to pay attention to her words.”

  “I thought I did.”

  “You remember what she said about this woman? ‘Winding her web around him day after day.’ So it’s someone Candy saw practically every day. ‘With her evil symbols and incantations and witch language.’ So it’s somebody who used peculiar symbols in her relationship with Candy, a language his wife couldn’t understand. How far do you have to look, in a man’s everyday life, for such symbols and such a language? What about shorthand? ‘She squeezed his soul in her iron fist—oh, they’re strong, those fingers of hers, she keeps them strong, doesn’t she?’ How does she keep her fingers strong? By exercising them every day in some kind of strenuous activity. Like pounding a typewriter.”

  “You’re saying that Candy had an affair with his secretary? With Mrs. Connelly?”

  “Why not? Plenty of men do it and always did, the idea wasn’t original with him. And you met her, this Mrs. Connelly, when you went to speak to him this morning. You said she was an attractive girl. So at least you should talk to her and make up your mind if there’s any truth to the story.”

  “You’re right, Mom. I’ll get to it right away.”

  “You’re coming for dinner tonight, before I go to the synagogue. So you’ll let me know what you find out. Maybe you’ll even come to the services with me after we eat?”

  I told her quickly that I couldn’t make it, I had a previous engagement.

  I heard her grunt. Then she said, “By the way, I’ve been thinking about that witness. The one that saw the Meyer boy go into the victim’s house yesterday, you remember?”

  “Of course I remember.”

  “I’ve got it figured out, I think, who this witness has to be.”

  “And who is it?”

  “You’ll find out tonight when you come for dinner.”

  That wasn’t unusual for Mom, dangling a tidbit under my nose and then pulling it away just as I was about to snap at it. I knew better by this time than to try and coax it out of her. That only made her enjoy the game even more.

  * * *

  After Mom hung up, I used the drugstore phone to call Candy’s church. I recognized the voice of his secretary, Mrs. Connelly. She started right in with a speech about the church being closed today because of the Reverend Chuck Candy’s tragic death, but if I would leave my name and number the Reverend Gabriel Candy would return my call as soon as possible. She reeled off all this quickly and almost expressionlessly—obviously she had made this speech a hundred times already this morning—but underneath I thought I could hear her voice shaking and a sob struggling to break through. She was upset, maybe even grieved, over the death of her boss. Excuse me, her brother in Christ.

  I cut her off, telling her she was the one I wanted to talk to. Then I identified myself, and there was a long pause at the other end of the line.

  Finally she spoke more slowly, as if she were choosing her words with great care. “I don’t think they’ll appreciate it if I talk to you.”

  “We could arrange it so they wouldn’t find out. We’ll meet for lunch—do you get off at noon? There’s a nice Italian place, Pasquale’s, in the mall right near your church.”

  “Pasquale’s!” I could hear the sudden eager jump in her voice, but a moment later I could hear her pushing the eagerness away, remembering the solemnity of the day. “I don’t think I should. The Reverend Gabe says you’re trying to destroy everything the Reverend Chuck stood for.”

  “I’m only trying to bring out the truth. The truth can’t hurt what the Reverend Chuck stood for, can it?”

  “Well—”

  “Look, so your conscience won’t bother you about this, you’re being forced into it. The public defender has the same right to investigate crimes as the district attorney. So if you refuse to talk to me, you could go to jail.”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  “Not if you talk to me,” I said. “And as long as you’ve got no choice, you might as well get a nice lunch out of it.”

  “Well, all right. I guess you tw
isted my arm.”

  “I certainly did. One thing though. I have some questions I’ve got to ask Gabe Candy today, which means I’ll be coming over to the church in a few minutes. But I’ll look right through you, nobody’ll know we’re getting together later.”

  She agreed to that, and I hung up.

  * * *

  I left the drugstore and headed north to the Church of the Effulgent Apostles.

  It was in its mourning clothes. Black crepe covered the front doors and hung in the windows. A sign in front, in printed capital letters, said: “Memorial Services Sunday morning, Christmas Day. To send our dear Reverend to Glory. All are welcome.”

  The parking lot, I noticed, was a lot fuller than it had been when I was there yesterday morning. The body couldn’t be out of the morgue yet, the autopsy was scheduled for this morning. How big would the crowds be when the devout and the curious actually had a body to stare at?

  I went inside to the reception room. People were milling around, pointing at the blown-up photographs of Candy that lined the walls. Strips of black cloth had been hung on top of each of those photographs, but not so low as to cover any part of the martyr’s face. The TV screen, over the reception desk, was completely covered by black cloth. Just like the coffin would be, I thought.

  Connelly was at her desk, trying to talk on the phone and fend off questions at the same time. I made my way over to her. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Gabriel Candy,” I said. “I’m from the public defender’s office.”

  As soon as these words were out of my mouth, I began to wish I’d kept my voice a little lower. A couple of people in the crowd had copies of The Republican-American in their hands, and it seemed to me they were giving me very unfriendly looks.

  “Reverend Gabe’s not seeing people this morning,” Connelly said. “He’s in the sanctuary, engaged in silent prayer.”

  “Which way is the sanctuary?”

  “I’m sorry, he left orders—”

  I saw her give a desperate look at the crepe-covered door that Chuck Candy had come out of yesterday, so I marched across to it and pushed through. I found myself in the corridor outside the office where Candy and I had talked. The door at the end led to the sanctuary, I supposed, and I started over to it.