Waking Evil

by Brant, Kylie

  He was to the part of the story that put him off his own appetite. “Details from here out are sketchy and garnered from genealogy buffs in the modern Klinkel family. Apparently there are letters that still exist between Ruth and her parents. Life in Buffalo Springs was hard. She’d joined thirteen other wives of Rufus Ashton, and the man was a strict taskmaster. Worked them like slaves. The labor of men and women alike was responsible for building the church, startin’ the quarry, and other businesses. Ashton expected absolute obedience to him and to the church’s guidelines, which of course he dictated. Accordin’ to these letters, he retained absolute control over his wives, children—one letter mentioned he had nearly forty—and other members of the church. Dissenters were dealt with harshly.”

  He heard a slight sound and glanced down. Saw her tight grip on the soda can had crushed in its sides.

  “How harshly?”

  “Public whippin’s and whispers of more private punishment given out by the disciples of the church to the ‘sinners.’ Some of the people, men and women alike, disappeared and their names were never spoken again.”

  “I hope that convinced her family to act.”

  He gave a slow nod. “Thomas Klinkel went down to Tennessee to fetch his daughter home, marriage vows or no marriage vows. But you have to recall what the mail service was like in those days. What travel consisted of. By the time he received that last letter and got to Tennessee, at least a month has passed since his daughter had written it. Probably more. He sent one letter to his wife shortly after he’d gotten to Buffalo Springs. Couldn’t get anyone to talk to him about Ruth. The next day he had a meetin’ planned with Rufus Ashton, and he promised his wife he’d be bringin’ their Ruth back home.”

  Dev paused a moment, but it was a moment too long. Ramsey interrupted his conclusion by stating, “And neither of them were seen or heard from again.”

  His eyes narrowed in irritation. “How do you do that?”

  “Deduction.” She made an impatient gesture. “And it ended there?”

  Piqued, he considered not answering. The woman knew how to take the bang out of a good story. “It ended there. With young ones at home and now workin’ the farm alone, Matilda Klinkel had no way to find out what happened on her own. She did contact the US Marshal in the region, but the only word she heard was that her husband had never been seen in town and her daughter had died three months earlier of cholera.”

  “Except she had letters disproving both those statements.”

  “She did. But she was never able to interest the marshal into followin’ up. The secrets surroundin’ Thomas Klinkel’s and Ruth Ashton’s deaths were buried with them.”

  The fierce frown on her face was contemplative, and he reached for another slice of pizza while she reflected on the tale he’d recounted. Folks sometimes had a way of glorifying the past, as if simpler times made for purer values. But he figured people were people no matter what time period they lived in. And he had to admit the thought of their town father being part of something so grisly made him feel a bit queasy, over a century later.

  After several minutes, she shrugged. “There has to be information around we can dig up about this. Every town keeps historical records of details regarding their founding fathers, even if they tend to glorify them a bit.”

  “Tried that.” His bottle empty now, he ran a thumbnail around the edge of the damp label, loosening it. “I spent some rather painful time in the Historical Museum—don’t ask—and read the extremely borin’ journals talkin’ ’bout life in those times and extollin’ Ashton’s virtues.” He’d assumed the authors had been Ashton relatives but suspected now they’d all been dutiful Ashton wives. “I found nothin’ that serves as verification for the worst of the story. Even went to the library, where I got only enough information to know what direction to have my buddy start lookin’.” Honesty had him adding, “Probably could go back when I have a bit more time and look harder, but I’m doubtin’ I’ll find anythin’ close to describin’ Ashton’s real actions.”

  He saw the exact moment she’d reached a decision. Felt a surge of impatience as she said the words he fully expected to hear. “Interesting. Sad even. But this has nothing to do with Cassie Frost’s murder. Regardless of what you decide is causing those lights, you’re not going to convince me Rufus Ashton rises up again every generation to exact punishment on the unworthy.”

  “Wouldn’t try to.”

  She reached for her pizza. Chewed ferociously. “Do we know anything about the church offshoot Ashton started? Sancrosanctity? Does it still exist?”

  “Denny says there’s no record of it anywhere, although various cult-type religions include a similar belief or two in their own guidelines.”

  “How many churches are in Buffalo Springs?”

  This was an area he definitely wasn’t well versed in. “Well, let’s see now.” He rubbed his chin. “We’ve got our Southern Baptist, of course. There’s the United Methodist over on East Union. They’ve always been regarded a bit suspiciously by the Baptists, but I figure that’s only ’cuz they bring in more tithin’ every year despite having half the number of members in the congregation.” He searched his memory. Found it embarrassingly empty. “I know there’s a Presbyterian. Bet you didn’t know Mark Rollins is a deacon there.”

  When he stopped, he caught her eyes on him, amused, and he shrugged. “Okay. So I’m no expert in the local congregations. I go occasionally with my granddaddy when I’m visitin’. He’s a lifelong member of the United Methodist. But if you’re really interested in learnin’ more ’bout local churches, we can go talk to a pastor. Take ’bout ten minutes.”

  “Seems like a waste of time. Like I say, it isn’t related to my case.”

  Although there was every reason to agree with her, he couldn’t prevent a stab of disappointment. “Not yet.”

  “Not at all,” she said flatly. “The victim’s sister said she wasn’t a member in any particular church. And certainly nothing else points to a religious bent to the investigation.”

  “Unless the plant you were interested in turns out to have religious implications.” He helped himself to the last slice of pizza, watched her silently wrestle with his words. There wasn’t an impulsive bone in Ramsey’s body. Every move would be carefully weighed and evaluated before decided on. What made her a good cop could also drive him crazy if he let it.

  “You have an idea of a pastor to talk to? I don’t have much more than those ten minutes you mentioned. I need to get back to work. And sometime today I have to find a place I can do my laundry.”

  Satisfied, he hid his smile by ducking his head to gather up the trash. He’d figured on that intelligent curiosity of hers to close the deal. “Might’ve underestimated the time it will take, but it won’t be much longer than that. And I’ve got a solution to your laundry problem. You can do it at my house. After work,” he hastened to add when she threw him a thoughtful look. “I’ll fire up the grill. How do you feel about hamburgers?”

  “Mildly interested, actually.”

  “You can bring the wine.”

  She stood up and slipped back into her suit jacket as he gathered up the trash. “Wine? With hamburgers?” She waited for him to step off the quilt before picking it up, giving it a slight shake, and folding it.

  “It’s hamburgers. We have to class it up.”

  “What’s the best place around here to buy wine that doesn’t come in a box?”

  “Hurley’s Liquor is on Main across from the police station. They close promptly at five.” That brought a slight frown to her face, and he knew she was thinking of having to interrupt her work to shop. He didn’t offer to take care of it for her. It was time, he decided, for the woman to start putting herself out a bit for their relationship.

  She skated a glance at him. “I wonder if they carry Boone’s Farm.”

  He was pretty sure she was kidding. “Just remember you’re drinkin’ whatever you buy. But if you need recommendations, all you have t
o do is ask.” They moved in the direction of the car, pausing only so he could dump the trash in the litter can.

  “I’m not completely without social graces, Stryker.”

  He couldn’t deny a quick flicker of relief. “In that case, bring two bottles.”

  Chapter 20

  Teddy Molitor, head pastor of United Methodist Church, had one of those faces that would look young well into old age. Apple-cheeked and smooth-faced, he had short brown hair and dark-rimmed glasses covering kind gray eyes. He was exactly as tall as Dev, which meant those eyes gazed directly into his, brimming—at least to Dev’s imagination—with quiet reproach.

  “Devlin.” Because he stuck out his hand, there was nothing for Dev to do but to shake it. “I’d heard you were home. Thought I might see you accompany your granddaddy one of these Sundays.”

  He swallowed hard around a ball of guilt that was decades in the making. “I ’spect you will. One of these Sundays.”

  Seemingly satisfied, the man turned his gaze to Ramsey, leaving Dev with a notable feeling of relief. “This is Ramsey Clark. She’s workin’ with Mark Rollins on the murder of that woman coupla weeks ago.”

  Teddy’s expression went sorrowful. He gripped Ramsey’s hand in both of his. “Thank you for that, ma’am. It can’t be easy on you, that line of work. Bless you for havin’ the strength to do it.”

  Ramsey looked even more ill at ease than he felt. “I appreciate it. I hope we’re not taking you away from anything.”

  Brows skimming upward, Dev sent her a look of approval. Either holy men put Ramsey on her best behavior, or she was learning the ways of the rural south. That was as close to small talk as he’d ever heard out of her.

  Of course she was a product of the south, he reminded himself. Mississippi, she’d said. Although she’d rid herself of the telltale drawl, he recalled that she could summon it whenever it suited her. She’d revealed just enough for him to figure the accent had probably been the easiest part of her past to shed.

  “We have a couple questions, but I promise we won’t keep you long,” she was saying. “Dev wasn’t able to tell me how many churches there are in town.”

  He stifled a wince as Teddy’s thoughtful gaze flicked to him. “Always been most familiar with this one,” he hastened to put in. The other man didn’t look convinced, but he was too polite to dispute him.

  Teddy’s attention returned to Ramsey. “Are you lookin’ for a place to worship, Miz Clark?”

  If he wasn’t so relieved to have Teddy’s focus off him, Dev might have felt sorry for Ramsey. The shock in her expression was quickly followed by horror. “Uh . . . no. Do I need to be a member of the congregation for you to answer questions?”

  Teddy laughed easily. “No, ma’am. I was just . . . well the truth of it is, I’m cursed with a curiosity befittin’ a cat. Surely your interest doesn’t have anythin’ to do with the case you’re workin’.”

  “No. Reverend.” That last was tacked on, as if unsure exactly how to address a man of the cloth.

  “I’m a bit of a crime-show buff,” he admitted in a shamefaced aside. “Oh, I know TV is nothin’ like real life. But I find myself sittin’ in front of the set several times a week anyway, tryin’ to solve the crimes before the detectives in the show.” He looked at her expectantly. “In your expert opinion, which of the crime shows on TV these days are most realistic?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t watch much TV.”

  “Of course.” He waved a hand. “And if you did, why would you choose to watch the same thing you deal with in your work? Let’s see.” He paused a moment. “You asked about churches in town. At last count we had eleven.”

  Ramsey gaped at him. Dev was mildly surprised himself. Certainly he was aware of the churches dotting the town even if he couldn’t name them all. But he would have been hard pressed to come up with the number.

  “There’s not even three thousand people in Buffalo Springs.” She did some quick math. “That’s about two hundred fifty people per church.”

  “Far less than that, I’m afraid. Even countin’ the people who live in the outlyin’ areas.” Teddy’s face had gone businesslike. And Dev supposed this was his business. “We’re church-goin’ folk down here, but of course not everyone attends.” Although he never once looked in Dev’s direction, Dev couldn’t help but take the tinge of disapproval in the man’s voice personally. He no longer lived in Buffalo Springs, but he also wasn’t a regular churchgoer at home. It suited him to blame that on Reverend Biggers and the long-ago trauma he’d inflicted on a ten-year-old boy, and not sheer laziness on his part.

  Teddy went on. “And it would be a mistake to assume all churches have the same size congregations. Take ours. We’re half the size of the Southern Baptist at two-hundred ninety, but I’m not bein’ prideful tellin’ you that we make a pretty good showin’ for ourselves at the fall festivals and Fourth of July booths.” He gave a boyish smile. “Our ladies’ guilds bake all the pies for the pie eatin’ contest every Buffalo Days, and they start takin’ orders after the county fair that keep them busy clear up to fall festival.”

  “Which church in town is the one Rufus Ashton built?”

  Teddy sent Dev a reproving glance. “I’m surprised you didn’t know that, Devlin. It’s ours, of course.” He turned to follow the direction of their gaze at the structure behind him. “The limestone was quarried locally, I’m told, and all the windows ’cept one are original.” He made a face. “I know that ’cause we’re constantly lookin’ for ways to cut the draft through them. The ladies’ guild saved up for nearly a decade in the sixties for that big stained glass window facing Main Street. At least what’s now Main Street. Way I hear it, back in Ashton’s day Main ran north and south. It wasn’t until the early twenties that the town leaders renamed it to coincide with the direction the town was growin’.”

  “I recall hearin’ somethin’ ’bout that. Used to have flash floods on the old Main Street, so people were leery ’bout buildin’ there.”

  But Ramsey had clearly remained footed in their earlier conversation. “Is this part the original structure?”

  “Why don’t you come closer so I can show you?” They fell into step behind Molitor as he led them across a patch of grass toward the church. “It takes a discernin’ eye to tell where the original structure ends. Each time an addition was planned, great pains were taken to match the limestone. But basically everywhere there’s a difference in the roof pitch, that indicates a newer addition.”

  He pointed to each in turn. “I’m told the new front steps and gatherin’ area were added in the twenties. Then the sacristy burned in 1941, and here’s where the new one was built, about three times the original size.” Gesturing to another area, he went on. “A cryin’ room and social hall were added in the 1980s. Just paid off the note on that two years ago.”

  With all the various additions, Dev would have expected more of a hodgepodge effect, but the resulting structure was anything but. The effects of modernization coexisted peacefully with the original sections.

  Ramsey moseyed to the front, eyeing the magnificent octagon stained glass window above the double oak doors. A wide expanse of steps led to the doors from the sidewalk. Looking back over her shoulder, she asked, “So when did this structure change from Ashton’s church of Sancrosanctity to United Methodist?”

  Molitor looked puzzled. “This structure has housed a few different denominations in its time, most recently the Pentecostals before United Methodist moved in durin’ the 1940s. But I’ve never heard Ashton’s church called that before. What’d you call it? Sancrosanctity?” He shook his head. “Although truth be told, I don’t recollect ever hearin’ the name of Ashton’s church, if it had one. Back then, there were many more nondenominational churches than organized ones.”

  “So you wouldn’t have complete records on the history of this building?” Ramsey asked. She turned and walked back to rejoin them.

  “You mean regardin’ the original structure? I su
spect there’d be some in the museum. But the only church records I have relate to the United Methodist congregation, as is fit-tin’.”

  “So where do records like that go?” she wondered. “I imagine there were notations of births and deaths, marriages. They wouldn’t just be destroyed.”

  “Well . . .” Teddy scratched his chin. “If the congregation merely moved from one buildin’ to ’nother, of course, the records would move with them. If it dissolved altogether, and it was an organized religion, chances are it would go to the leadin’ church in its district. At least Methodists are divided into districts,” he added.

  “But Ashton’s church was an offshoot of the Church of Elders,” Dev put in. “My researcher says there was a rift between Ashton and the parent church, so it’s doubtful the records would have gone there.”

  “You’re sure Ashton’s church doesn’t still exist in one of the other eleven churches here in town?”