“Don't worry about it. Us religious types have to stick together.”
“Interesting way of looking at it.”
He shrugged, fished a card out of his pocket, and put it on the kitchen table. “Here's a card with my office and home phone numbers. Please, don't give it to any members of my congregation.”
“Trying to avoid three a.m. phone calls from neurotic parishioners?” she asked, standing.
He nodded. “A year ago I changed my home number and now I only give it out discreetly.”
“I'll guard your secret,” she said.
“Somehow I think you will. Remember, call if you need me.”
“I will,” she promised.
Two minutes after Jeremiah left Cindy regretted his absence. Her house was too quiet, yet every time a sound interrupted the silence, she jumped out of her skin. Her lunch bag sat on the kitchen table where she had forgotten it, next to the crossword puzzle she'd printed out from her online paper subscription. She'd ultimately skipped breakfast and the crossword so she could get to work early and deal with any messes. I had no idea what kind of mess I would find.
She glanced at the clock on the microwave and realized with a start that it was still well before noon. Maybe a shower would rinse all the horror of the morning away. She briefly contemplated burning her clothes, but since the navy skirt and jacket were one of her few matched sets, she decided to wash them instead.
Once she made up her mind, Cindy changed quickly and pulled on her fluffiest bathrobe. As she loaded the washer, she automatically checked her jacket pockets. Her fingers brushed against cold metal, and she pulled out one of her cross necklaces. She had rushed out of the house that morning before putting it on.
She stared at it for a moment in surprise, having forgotten all about it. She thought about the cross that the detective had shown her. Why had there been a Shepherd's cross covered in blood? The answer seemed obvious, but she didn't want to come to terms with it. At least not yet. There could be an innocent explanation. There were only thirty Shepherds, and the police were probably well on their way to tracking down the owner. Best to leave it all to them. In her other pocket she found the crumpled piece of paper she had picked up earlier.
The phone rang, and she jumped. She dropped the necklace and the paper on the shelf above the washer and rushed to her bedroom. She sat down on the bed before picking up the phone.
“Hello?” she asked, hoping that she sounded calmer than she felt.
“Cindy, this is Pastor Roy. Did you make it home all right?”
“Yes. Thank you for calling.”
“Is Rabbi Silverman still there?”
“No, he just left.”
“Do you need me to send somebody over? The police have finished questioning Geanie and Ralph.”
“No, I think I'm okay. I could probably come in this afternoon.”
“You shouldn't have to do that. Stay home.”
“Thank you,” she said, relieved. She wasn't up to going back there yet.
“If you could tell me where to find the Maundy Thursday program on your computer, I can pass that along to Geanie and she can make a couple of changes before we print it out.”
It was Easter week and with a special service Thursday evening, a prayer service Friday at noon, and events all weekend it was not a good time for her not to be there. She took a deep breath. “Why don't you have Geanie call me, and I can walk her through it.”
“Good idea,” the pastor said. He sounded relieved. “You take as much time as you need. We'll manage here.”
He might as well have said what Cindy already knew. Everyone's panicking because we don't know what to do. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth in frustration. “I'll be back tomorrow.”
“Now, really, that's not necessary.”
“I'll be there.”
“Great! I'll have Geanie call you in a little bit.”
“Okay. Call if you need anything else.”
“You betcha.”
She hung up and stared at the phone. It would be good for her to go back to work in the morning. Get back on the horse, that's what her father would say.
The phone rang again almost immediately. It was Geanie, and Cindy told her where to find all the files on her computer that she would need. Geanie hung up without asking how she was.
Cindy held the phone for a moment and then dialed her parents. After the third ring her mother picked up.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Cindy, dear. I thought it was your brother calling. His plane landed an hour ago in Belize, and he said he'd call when he reached the hotel.”
“No, it's just me. So, Kyle's in Belize?”
“Yes, he's filming a new travel show this month. You know, I just don't know how he finds the time to fit it all in,” her mom gushed.
“Yeah, he's a superman.” Cindy stood up and closed her bedroom door. On the back of it hung a dartboard with a large, glossy picture of a blonde man in an explorer's vest. She pulled the darts out of the picture and sat back down on the bed.
“Did you get Kyle's TV Guide article I mailed you?”
“Yes, Mom, I got it.” Cindy threw a dart at her brother's picture.
“Doesn't he just look wonderful?”
“Yeah, Mom. Thanks, I really needed a new picture of him.” Cindy tossed a second dart that pierced one of her brother's pearly white teeth. “Is Dad back from Iraq yet?”
“Not until Wednesday. Then he's off again on Tuesday. I swear sometimes it feels like I live alone.”
Cindy's father worked for an engineering firm that was rebuilding infrastructure in Iraq. He always joked that he was part of the war clean-up crew.
“So, what's new with you, dear?” her mother asked.
“I found a dead man at the church this morning. He'd been murdered.”
“Honey, that's terrible!” her mom said, all attention finally focused on her. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I fell over him, and I'm a bit bruised, but I'm mostly just upset.”
“Were you close to him?”
“I tripped on him. I ended up on the floor right next to him,” Cindy said.
“No, I meant personally. Did you know him very well?”
“No, he was a stranger.”
“Well, that's a relief.”
“Yeah.”
“Do the police have any leads?”
“I'm not sure.”
“Well, I wouldn't worry, dear. They'll find the killer. You know, one time when your father … ”
Cindy zoned out and didn't hear the rest of what her mom had to say. A few minutes later she said good-bye and hung up.
After showering and puttering around the house for awhile, it was after one when Cindy stopped to eat her lunch. It still sat on the table next to the crossword she hadn't had time to work on that morning. She picked up a pen, needing something other than dead bodies to think about while she ate.
One Across. Utensil. Five letters. She grimaced as she filled in the letters for “knife.” That's okay, you're fine. Everything is just fine.
The phone rang, and she jumped again.
“Hi, it's Geanie,” the woman said when Cindy picked up the phone.
“Hi, Geanie. What is it now?”
“The Women of Faith want to know if they can use the Fireside Room Tuesday night for their meeting instead of the Round Room.”
“When it comes to the Fireside Room—”
“Just say no. I know. I was just checking.”
“The Digging for the Truth class is meeting there Tuesday night.”
“Thanks.”
“Geanie, is everything else going okay over there?”
“Yeah. The police left about a half hour ago. They've got the sanctuary cordoned off with that yellow police tape, like you see on TV.”
“How long do they plan on blocking it off?” Cindy asked. “It's Easter week, and we need to use the sanctuary.”
“I'm not sure, I heard Roy talking to them a
bout it, but I don't know what they told him.”
“Well, call if you need anything else.”
“Thanks, I will.”
Cindy hung up and returned to her sandwich and the crossword. One Down. ____ Instinct. Six letters, begins with a K. She wrote down “killer” and just stared at the word for a minute. Her kitchen window rattled, and she looked up to see a man staring in at her.
Jeremiah found it nearly impossible to concentrate after returning to work. Marie, his secretary, walked into his office without knocking. He sighed and sat back as she frowned at him over the top of her gold spectacles. Her short brown hair was brushed back from her face.
“You're not eating enough,” she pronounced.
He shook his head and forced a smile. “Marie, you say that about everyone. Honestly, you don't have to worry about me. I have a mother.”
“Some mother if she lets you go around all skin and bones.”
“Marie—”
“I'm only saying,” she said with a shrug. “Lots going on next door today.”
He smiled. The stack of papers in her hand was just an excuse. Marie knew he knew what was going on, and it was killing her. He coughed and took the stack of papers from her, flipping casually through a dozen phone messages, none of them important. He could tell her curiosity was only growing more intense.
“Was there anything else, Marie?” he asked, looking up finally.
“So, are you going to tell me or not?” she asked.
“You mean about the murder next door?” he asked.
“Murder! I knew it! I said to Ruth that there were too many police over there for it to be anything else. So, who was murdered?” She settled down in the chair across from him.
He laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back as she leaned forward.
“Nobody at the church seems to know him.”
“A stranger, huh? What was he, trespassing on church property? Did he attack somebody? Did the pastor shoot him?”
He stared up at the ceiling so as not to laugh. Marie should have considered a job in journalism the way she could ask questions.
“They don't know who he was or who killed him. He was found this morning in the locked sanctuary, stabbed to death.”
She sat back in her chair with a small, triumphant sigh. “Then it had to be one of the Gentiles who did it.”
“Marie, I think you're the only one who still uses that word.”
“Who do you think did it?” she asked, ignoring him.
“I don't know.” He shook his head.
“It had to be an inside job, someone who had keys to the sanctuary.”
“Or someone who could pick a lock,” he said, half to himself.
“How many lock pickers work at churches, or even attend them for that matter?”
“I don't know, Marie. You just might be surprised.”
She harrumphed as she rose to her feet. “By the way,” she said as she got to the doorway, “Ms. Goldsmith is on line two.”
He dove for the phone. Ms. Goldsmith would not be amused that she had been left holding so long. He needed a good talk with Marie about that.
“Ms. Goldsmith, so good to hear from you. No, we're all fine here. No, the police are actually right next door at the church. No, no one here needs an attorney, but I will pass along your generous offer. Thank you. Good-bye.”
After hanging up he closed and locked his door. He needed some time to think, and he needed a little privacy. He considered going home but dismissed the idea. The best place to hear everything that was going on was at the synagogue. If there was anything most churchgoers loved more than God, it was good gossip, and that extended to both Jew and Gentile. He could only imagine what the pastor next door was going through. If Marie had received several phone calls already, the lines next door had to be completely tied up. No, the gossip would be spreading, and it wouldn't take long to spread across ecumenical lines right into his office.
The practical side of his nature told him not to involve himself anymore than he already had. He should thank Yahweh that it had happened next door instead of in the synagogue. That was the kind of attention the church didn't need. And I certainly don't need it either, he thought, tipping back in his chair.
It was a big week. Wednesday night was the beginning of Passover. The first two nights were marked by celebratory feasts. Jeremiah smiled grimly. He had received a stack of invitations from his congregation to dine at their homes for the first night. This year, though, he was far wiser. Last year he had caused quite an uproar by choosing a home to dine in each of the first two nights. He'd been a new rabbi and naïve despite his thirty-three years. He had no idea how political temple life was at that point. The jockeying for position to gain his attendance this year had been even fiercer. He was not one to forget past mistakes, though.
This year all members and their families were invited to celebrate the first night's feast together at the synagogue's multipurpose room. Marie had been quick to point out the potential pitfalls in that plan. If seating was on a first-come, first-served basis then people would be showing up in the morning to get good table position at the front close to Jeremiah. If seating was assigned, then the favoritism problem of the year before would rear its ugly head. Jeremiah prided himself on the solution. The head of each attending family was given a raffle ticket. Numbers would be drawn randomly and tables assigned that way. No favoritism, no politics. At least, that's what he hoped. For the second night he would join Marie's family. It made sense, and few people could argue with that decision.
The one drawback with the plan was that the next few days were going to be very busy for everyone. He glanced at his watch. It was almost time to meet with the committee that had graciously agreed to plan and prepare the meal.
With a sigh he got up and left. Marie glanced up at him as he passed her on his way out of the office.
“They're meeting in the multipurpose room,” she offered.
“Thanks.”
Detective Mark Walters hated Easter. While most people were busy celebrating life and resurrection, all he could see was death and destruction. Of course, he saw death every day. It was brutal, ugly, and part of the world. Resurrection, on the other hand, he had never seen. In his view those kinds of miracles, if they ever had happened, were part of a long ago past.
He sat in his car in the church parking lot as he dictated his notes, thoughts, impressions, even his plans for dinner, into his digital recorder. Back at the office he would plug it into his computer and let his computer type it all up for him. Then he'd edit his report and call Francesco's for reservations.
Mark let his eyes drift from the church to the synagogue next door. “And run a background check on Jeremiah Silverman, rabbi, just for good measure,” he said. He shut off the recorder and yawned as he started the car.
He had been up half the night investigating another murder at a park about three miles away. A man by the name of Miguel Jesus Olivera had been found dead on an ivory-colored donkey on Palm Avenue, one of the streets bordering the park.
“It's gotta be some kind of political statement,” Keenan, one of the other detectives, had surmised.
Mark knew better, though. The religious significance of a donkey on Palm Avenue the Sunday before Easter had not been lost on him. The discovery that the dead guy's middle name was Jesus had clinched it. That significance and a few well-chosen words had gotten the editor of the local paper to sit on the story for twenty-four hours. Now there was a second murder to deal with, this one actually inside a church. It smelled to him like a wacko with a big-time hatred for religious types. Either that or someone who hated Easter as much as he did. Either way, it wasn't good, and Easter was still a long way off.
4
CINDY LEAPED UP FROM THE TABLE AND GRABBED THE PHONE TO DIAL 9-1-1 before she recognized the man staring in her window. Heart slamming against her ribcage, she put down the phone and opened up the front door.
“Oliver, you scared me!
”
“Sorry, I heard you were home, but I knocked and nobody answered.” Oliver Johnson was a tall man in his mid-forties. He had been going to First Shepherd for the last couple of years and had been a Shepherd for the last six months. A terrible suspicion formed in her mind as she remembered the sight of the bloody Shepherd's Cross the detective had shown her.
She shook her head firmly. There was no way Oliver Johnson was a cold-blooded killer. Still, a shiver went up her spine, and she rubbed her arms to warm herself.
“What brings you here, Oliver?” she asked as he stepped inside.
“My job, unfortunately.”
She motioned him toward the couch, and he took a seat. “I don't understand.” Oliver was a reporter for the Pine Springs Gazette. He covered human interest and community affairs.
“Well, when the reports came in about the church this morning, my editor assigned me to the story.”
“But you don't cover crime,” she said.
“No, but the editor remembered that I'm a member at First Shepherd, and he wanted me to work with the crime reporter on this story.”
“So, this isn't a social call.” She sat down on the couch.
“I'm afraid not. I'm sorry. I know you probably just want to be alone right now. I know I would if I were in your shoes.”
“That's okay. You're just doing your job. I guess you heard that I was the one who found the body.”
“Yes, I was so sorry to hear that.” He moved closer, eyes fixed intently on her.
“It was terrible,” she confided.
“I can believe it. I realize talking about it is probably the last thing you want to do right now, but anything you could tell me would be helpful.”
Cindy didn't like being interviewed. She rarely knew what to say, and it always came out sounding so boring. She forced herself to take a deep breath. At least this wasn't a job interview. If she messed up, Oliver's story would just be less interesting. Cindy told Oliver how she had found the body and how Jeremiah had called the police. Oliver listened and scribbled furiously on his notepad. It went better than she had expected. She pretended that she was telling Oliver, the concerned parishioner, the story, rather than Oliver, the newspaper reporter. She even found that it was a relief to tell someone the story now that she was calmer and could do so in a more normal fashion.
The Lord is My Shepherd Page 3