Desperate Measures: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 5)

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Your mother,” Sullivan repeated.

  “The same. She was concerned about Reverend Stoddard. She believed, at the time she first talked with me, there was no solid evidence to support your claim that he was guilty of misusing funds.”

  “But your mother agrees with our decision,” Sullivan said.

  “Now she does, but that’s not based on facts.”

  “Really. What is that based on?” Sullivan asked.

  “You really want to know that?” I said.

  Sullivan looked around the room at his fellow deacons and I watched as heads nodded in affirmation.

  “Yes,” Sullivan said. “We really want to know.”

  “My mother went to Jessica Thompson to have Jessica interpret a dream. My mother apparently had something akin to a nightmare, and she found out that Jessica was into dream interpretations. After my mother told Jessica her dream, Jessica said the dream meant that Reverend Stoddard was guilty and needed to go. Jessica also told my mother that she, Jessica herself, had a vision, saw Jesus, and Jesus told her that Reverend Stoddard was guilty.”

  Sullivan looked genuinely surprised. Some of the other deacons there seemed to be surprised as well. At least two of the deacons smiled at my answer. At least two of them had the good sense to know something amusing when it surfaced.

  Reverend Stoddard seemed to be unaffected by the information I shared regarding mother and Jessica.

  “So what are the facts that you have uncovered?” Sullivan said.

  Sullivan, the chair, was doing a good job of leading me along so that I could get out my info before anyone had the opportunity to take the meeting south and end any hope of correcting what I knew to be a genuine mistake on the part of the church.

  I told them about their document and the either/or clause built into it. I also told them the date it was voted on by the entire church and that it was a binding document until rescinded by the entire church. I could find no official document from the church changing the one attached to the Discretionary Fund. All things done decently and in order.

  They were quiet. A few eyes shifted to Sullivan. He seemed to be pondering heavily what I had just unveiled. I could tell that some of the deacons seemed to be genuinely surprised. Some were not.

  “Reverend Stoddard should have come to us first,” Sullivan said.

  “Probably,” I said. “I understand just enough about how churches work, or how they should work, so I figure that you are right. He should have come to you and told you what he had learned and how much money was needed. If he erred here, it was out of concern for the recipient and not because he misused church money. His heart was in the right place, if in fact he was not thinking of the correct church order of things.”

  “But he gave the money to a prostitute,” a balding deacon said. I didn’t know his name, but he was clearly concerned about how the money was spent.

  Heads nodded in agreement, although it was not unanimous.

  “Do you know how old Pansy McDermott is?” I said.

  No one spoke.

  “Have any of you seen Pansy McDermott recently?”

  Silence. One of those loaded questions which no one wanted to address.

  “Do any of you know why Reverend Stoddard helped Pansy McDermott in the amount of $500?”

  Heads shook. There was a dearth of knowledge in the room.

  “Reverend Stoddard, will you tell the deacons why you helped Pansy?” I said.

  Stoddard stood up and faced the deacons. He seemed calm and in complete control of himself. If he was under any pressure, his body language failed to reveal it.

  “She was diagnosed with cancer several months ago. She needed a particular medicine to begin the treatment. For some reason, the medicine was not covered by Medicare, so she was in the rather unpleasant position of having to choose between paying her rent or buying the medicine. When I found out, I thought the church should help her. I paid for the medicine.”

  I nodded at Rosey and he left the room. A minute or so later he returned with Ginny and Pansy McDermott.

  “Gentlemen, may I introduce Pansy McDermott to you,” I said.

  Pansy waved. There she was, an old white woman, completely gray headed, stooped over from years of plying her trade and hard work, plus the absence of calcium as well. My daddy would have said that she looked as if she had been rode hard and put up wet. Graphic and insulting, but nevertheless an appraisal that fit her at the moment. So much for the glory of prostitution.

  “Pansy, did Reverend Stoddard give you $500?”

  “No, he did not,” she said.

  “Did Reverend Stoddard buy medicine for you that cost $500?”

  “Yes, he did. $533.79 to be exact.”

  “And did you know that this money came from the Baptist church?”

  “Yeah, and I wanted to come here to thank the deacons publicly for helping me. I wanted to come and help them to see that the good preacher saved my life, at least for the time being. Cancer being what it is. But I’m grateful to him and all of you. I would come to the church on Sunday and thank the whole bunch of ‘em, but I think that some good folks might be offended. I hope youinses accept my thanks here this evening,” she said.

  “May I ask you a personal question, Pansy?” I said.

  “Sure. I got nothing to hide.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Youinses won’t believe this, but I’m about to turn seventy-six next week. Ain’t that some apples,” she said and smiled, revealing several teeth missing from the yellow ones that remained. For me it was a moment of some pathos. I wondered if anyone else felt it.

  “Thank you, Pansy,” I said and nodded at Rosey. He took her by the arm and escorted her back to the car along with Ginny.

  “That’s all I have for you, gentlemen. I have presented you with facts. No dream interpretation and no vision. Pansy is an aging woman with cancer who needed help from someone. A man representing a Christian group, at that time this church, saw her need and helped her. Yes, he should have come to you and trusted you to make the right call. For whatever reason, he didn’t do it that way. Your guidelines for the money he used to help her allowed him to do what he did. At the very least, you need to officially clear his name and make it plain that you were wrong to force him to resign. How you resolve this … well, that’s up to you. I’m done.”

  I turned to leave the room. One of the men stood up and spoke to me.

  “Wait a minute, Miss Evans. I need to know how you came by the facts you presented. The document you reference is not a public document and can only be found in the church office. How did you learn of it and its contents?”

  I turned and smiled at him. It was obvious to me that he had known of the existence of the document Rogers had found.

  “I’m a private investigator. I’m good at my job. I use all available means at my disposal to find out what is going on in a given situation. Do you question the voracity of the facts that I have presented?” I said.

  “I don’t. I merely want to know how you came to possess them?” he said.

  “I don’t think my methods are up for debate or approval. You gentlemen did not hire me, neither did the minister here. In fact, you might need to know that I do not really like your former minister. But I must say out of candor, what he did in this situation was truly admirable. And with a tad more candor, what you did, since now I know that you knew of the existence of those guidelines for the fund, was wrong and deceitful. Those who knew of this document and did not bring it to light, shame on you. You are complicit with this man,” I said and nodded in the direction of the deacon who had questioned me.

  Another deacon stood up and raised his voice after me as I was turning to leave again. He had long sideburns and a fluffy mustache that moved when he spoke.

  “Did you break into the church and hack into our computer?”

  “I did not. That would be a horrible act for a member of the church to do, right?” I said.

  “A membe
r of the church?” he repeated back to me. His mustache was moving vigorously. It could have been a nervous twitch.

  “Yes. I’ve been a member of your church since I was about nine years old. Nearly four decades now, give or take.”

  “So how did you get this information?”

  “A good investigator never reveals her sources. Like I said, I am good at what I do. Now, are you going to spend your valuable time worrying about how I came by the truth, or are you going to apologize to Reverend Stoddard and seek to make amends for the horrendous manner in which you treated him?”

  This time I did leave. No one said a word as I exited. I couldn’t remember when I had had this much fun in the church house. I also could not recall a time when I was so relieved at leaving the facility except at the end of a long, boring sermon. I let out a long breath once I was outside walking towards the car. I think I would rather have been involved in a gun fight like the OK Corral than mixing it up with deacons in a Baptist church.

  50

  Rosey drove the five of us to my mother’s house – Sam, who had waited ever-so-patiently in the car, Ginny, Pansy, of course Rosey, and me. I had one more encounter for the evening. This one was likely to have long term ramifications for me.

  “Pansy, how are you holding up?” I said.

  “Fine. That medicine gives me lots ‘a energy. Helps me to take those god-awful treatments, that chemo-crap. If this is livin’, wow, death must be a bastard.”

  Silver-tongued former lady of the night. I doubt if Pansy was still turning tricks, although considering some of the men I have met in my life, it would not surprise me if I discovered that her services were still in demand. That was not my concern.

  Our little party entered the house by the back door. It was my way of entering. My comfort door. My pathway to whatever it was I was to become from childhood into the present. I could not imagine having to come home and have to enter through the front. Strange. Foreign. It carried no meaning or pleasure. I still enjoyed coming home, yes, seeing my mother, arguing with her, and entering her world. But through the back door. Perhaps there was still something illogical within me that hoped against hope that one day I might walk through the back door and find my father sitting at the kitchen table talking with Rachel Jo. The back door. It was an ongoing metaphor of life for me.

  Mama was sitting at the table working on something. She looked up when our little group descended upon her solitude. Her face registered no burst of surprise.

  “Where on earth have you folks been?” she said to no one in particular.

  “Church,” I said.

  Her eyebrows arched. Her surprise was noted.

  She studied the older woman with us and tried to figure out who she was. I could tell that she was struggling. She stood up from the table and walked over to Pansy.

  “I don’t believe I know you, do I?” she said and held out her hand intending to shake it.

  Pansy took her hand and shook it hard.

  “Glad to make your acquaintance, Misres. Evans. I’m Pansy McDermott. Perhaps you have heard tell of me,” she said and offered my mother with her toothless smile.

  My mother’s mouth was agape. Something way past flabbergasted was apparent with Rachel at that moment. It was priceless. I would enjoy remembering it for years to come, at least that’s the way I felt at the moment.

  “Pansy,” Mother finally said when able to speak, “yes, indeed I have heard of you. Your reputation precedes you.”

  I’ll give my mother this – when she does recover from a flummoxed condition, she doesn’t miss a beat on the upswing. It was good that she had her humor with her.

  “Pansy, please have a seat. Would you care for something to drink?” Mama said.

  “Got any Scotch?” she said.

  “As a matter of fact, I do have some somewhere in the house,” she said without pausing to consider what was happening.

  “Clancy, do you recall where we had that aging bottle of old Scotch Whiskey?”

  I nodded and smiled. It was upstairs in the hall closet next to her collection of old magazines which she refused to toss out. Some of her magazines went back to the 1920’s. That closet was so full of junk that closing the door became a technique of determination for anyone who had dared to open it in the first place. The Scotch was hidden behind one of the stacks of the Saturday Evening Post.

  When I returned with the bottle, I handed it to Mother to allow her to serve the drink to Pansy. Ever the dutiful daughter.

  “It was next to one of those Rockwell covers of a family having Sunday dinner with the preacher,” I said as I watched her pour the drink into a small glass. I couldn’t miss the opportunity to say that.

  “There,” she said to Pansy as she handed her the glass of Scotch and completely ignored my humor. “I think this bottle is close to forty years old. Close to a ripe old age, I’d say.”

  “Just like me, Misres Evans. I’m purt-near ripe myself. I turn seventy-six next week,” Pansy said.

  “Why Miss Pansy, that’s the same age I am. We’re not ripe, we’re just well preserved,” she said and touched Pansy’s shoulder gently and smiled. “Happy early birthday to you, my dear.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Pansy said and took a deep, long swallow of the stout drink.

  My mother took my hand and guided me towards the doorway to another room.

  “Ginny, would you make sure all of our guests are taken care of with some refreshments?”

  Ginny nodded and headed towards her work in the kitchen.

  My mother led me into the living room, far enough away from our guests so she could talk freely with me. As a young girl, I could recall many occasions when I had been so collected by my mother’s hand.

  “Explain yourself,” she said.

  “Not much to explain. I wanted you to meet the woman who was the focus of the firing of Reverend Stoddard.”

  “He wasn’t fired,” she said.

  “Might as well have been. He was, as they say, unceremoniously relieved of his duties by forcing him to resign. Sounds like firing in the Southern tradition to me.”

  “Why did you bring her here?” mother said.

  “I wanted you to see a prostitute up close and personal. She’s dying of cancer, by the way. Just in case you have not heard, the $500 Stoddard spent from the church’s fund was for some medicine for Pansy so she wouldn’t have to live on the street.”

  “That’s what the hubbub was all about?” she said.

  “That and the fact that Stoddard forgot to include the deacons in the decision-making. He made a strategic error, but not one that called for his job. The deacons over-reacted and failed to act as deacons. But that’s my opinion.”

  “Will they rehire him?”

  “I don’t know. If I were Stoddard, I would refuse to come back. But, who knows what will occur. I’m sure the gossip-mongers will be alive and well over the next several days. At least you will hear of it.”

  “You’re not staying?”

  “I have a pending case in Boston. I need to get back.”

  “You finding the answers you want?”

  “I don’t think that ever happens, Mother. But, you know me. I’m rattling cages.”

  “You do that well, you know … rattling cages. Sometimes it is good to have one’s cage rattled,” she said. That was as close to an apology as my mother would get.

  “Would you do me a favor, Mother?”

  “I already know what you are going to ask me,” she said.

  “What am I going to ask you?”

  “You are going to ask me to stay away from Jessica Thompson.”

  “Only when you have dreams that bother you,” I said.

  51

  As we were preparing to leave Clancyville for Boston, I discovered Rosey loading his arsenal trunk into the back of my vehicle.

  “Expecting serious trouble?” I said.

  “I’m traveling with you. One never knows what trouble will find you. Preparation is essen
tial in our relationship.”

  “You have enough weapons in that box to supply a small army.”

  “A man of choices.”

  “A man of idiosyncrasies.”

  “Needs vary, as do requirements for living another day.”

  “I’m glad you’re my friend.”

  “Ditto, you to me.”

  Rosey and I noticed the leaves changing when we passed through northern Virginia, even more so in northern Pennsylvania; and, as we entered the lower corner of New York state it appeared that fall was just around the corner. The dappled color that lined the highway was a marvel to see. Whatever joy the beauty might bring belied the overall mood with returning to the fiasco in which I was involved. The idea of finding genuine answers remained a distant goal if not wishful thinking. While I had no intention of admitting defeat in this case, I did have a sense of the probability that I would never find all of the answers to all of my questions. Just not in my nature to give up despite the obstacles that loomed. I had more than enough work ahead of me to say grace over, but I had a suspicion that I was close to something. I had no idea what that something was. Just a feeling. At the very least, I brought a stringent form of tenacity to the table. It came from my mother’s side of the family mostly.

  “Any idea who tried to dispose of you?” Rosey said as we entered the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

  “There’s a name that keeps coming up, but I can’t imagine that he’s the brains behind this whole thing. It’s only a lead.”

  “He the one Owens is after?”

  “Yeah, he’s the one. Haven’t heard anything from Brother Owens, so I imagine that he is still vigilant in the search for Raney.”

  “How is this Raney fellow connected to that church?”

  “Not sure about that. I used to think that he was simply one of the many college students who attended there. I now suspect there’s more to it.”

  “And Rogers hasn’t found anything on Mr. Raney?” Rosey said.

  “Not that she has reported. Speaking of Rogers, I haven’t heard from her today.”