Murder in the
Second Pew
K.P. Gresham
Second Book in the
Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery Series
Murder in the Second Pew
A Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery
Copyright © 2017 by Kathleen P. Gresham.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized edition.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, places and events are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real.
Any resemblance to events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Formatting by www.polgarusstudio.com
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9967002-6-9
E-Book ISBN: 978-0-9967002-7-6
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
Discover more works by K.P. Gresham at www.kpgresham.com
To My Mom.
“She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come…
Her children arise and call her blessed.”
Proverbs 31:25 & 28
Table of Contents
Chapter One - A Typical Texas Afternoon
Chapter Two - Hell Hath No Fury Like a Church Lady Scorned
Chapter Three - Too Dry, So Die
Chapter Four - Never Kick a Cow Paddy on a Hot Day
Chapter Five - The Night Visitor
Chapter Six - Dinner and a Show
Chapter Seven - Could Be Trouble
Chapter Eight - The Past Does Not Always Stay Buried
Chapter Nine - No More Insults
Chapter Ten - The Trashed Trailer
Chapter Eleven - A Hot Summer Night
Chapter Twelve - The Pastor’s Day Off
Chapter Thirteen - Something Liquid This Way Comes
Chapter Fourteen - Open Mouth, Insert Foot
Chapter Fifteen - The Morning After
Chapter Sixteen - Sometimes It Sucks Being the Messenger
Chapter Seventeen - The Anointing
Chapter Eighteen - An Honest Moment…Finally
Chapter Nineteen - Not My Hydrangeas!
Chapter Twenty - The Fourth of July
Chapter Twenty-One - Meet the Candidate
Chapter Twenty-Two - A Texan Is Born
Chapter Twenty-Three - Dumber than Richard Dube?
Chapter Twenty-Four - The Widow’s Fear
Chapter Twenty-Five - A Message from the Dead
Chapter Twenty-Six - God Bless Texas
Chapter Twenty-Seven - A Drunk Walked Into a Church…
Chapter Twenty-Eight - I Didn’t Do It!
Chapter Twenty-Nine - Lightning Strikes
Chapter Thirty - At Last
Chapter Thirty-One - A Shot in the Dark
Chapter Thirty-Two - Brackenridge Hospital
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Excerpt from Three Must Die
Other Novels by K.P. Gresham
Chapter One
A Typical Texas Afternoon
Pop! Pop!
Hearing the gunshots, Pastor Matt Hayden hit the floor behind his office desk with the reflexes of the cop he’d once been. My God. Have they found me? He slanted a glance at the two women–the matrons of the Altar Guild, no less–staring at him from their chairs across from his desk, mouths agape.
Pop!
That’s not an automatic.
“Get down,” he ordered. Unwrapping his six-foot frame, he crawled to the window and edged up the wall to peer around the curtain. Are Rutledge’s thugs out there waiting for me?
He saw toddlers and teachers running from the riverbank. “Shit.” No matter the danger to him, he had to act.
When he turned to run outside, however, the look of horror on the faces of the two Altar Guild ladies stopped him in his tracks. Only then did he realize he had muttered a vulgarity.
It crossed his mind that only in Texas would two elderly women be more upset about a pastor uttering a questionable word than gunshots being fired at a church.
“Sorry, Elsbeth. Pearl,” he said quickly.
“Pastor? I thought I heard shots?” Ann Fullenweider, the church secretary, hurried in from her office. Her already dramatic make-up only highlighted the look of horror on her face. “The pre-school–they’re outside!”
“Get everyone away from the windows and call 911!” Matt made a bee-line for the foyer. Grace Lutheran was an older church with little space, and the linoleum-lined vestibule was a short run. He pulled open the church’s heavy wood door.
A blast of heat and sun blinded him for a moment, but he ran toward the sound of screaming children. He rounded the limestone corner to find the scene in panic. Bible School music played loudly on a boom box as the young pre-school teacher, Mrs. Mandy Culver, tried to corral the dozen or so youngsters. Her teenage assistant, a child under each arm, ran toward the church.
Mandy nodded across the Colorado River. “The shots came from over there!”
Great. Angie’s Fire and Ice House.
Matt was halfway across the thirty-yard bridge that connected both sides of the small town of Wilks before he realized he had snapped into the cop mode of the life he’d left–been driven from–four years earlier. He had to remember he was a thirty-five-year-old pastor newly out of seminary, not an undercover cop on the docks of Miami. Best to keep that in mind.
And besides, the fact that no one was shooting at him now that he was in plain sight was a good sign the bad guys still didn’t know where he was hiding.
He rounded the brick corner of the Ice House, expecting to see some maniac holding a gun.
What he saw was Dorothy Jo Devereaux, the Ice House’s cook, and its barman, Bo. It struck him then that the two standing together looked like the American Gothic portrait, only the gaunt farmer had a two-foot-long pony tail and the woman by his side was ten years older and twenty pounds heavier.
Matt drew up short. Bo wasn’t holding a pitchfork. He was clutching a .45 Colt revolver.
“Was that you shooting, Bo?” Matt demanded, wiping at the sweat running down his face.
Before either the stocky old woman or the gangly ex-con had a chance to answer, the sheriff’s green truck pulled around the building, its lights flashing and siren wailing.
Sheriff James W. Novak jumped down from the Dodge and stormed toward them, his face red. “The devil and Tom Walker!” he exclaimed, and was about to say worse, when he realized the pastor was present. “What the Sam Hill is goin’ on here, Preacher? Your secretary called me all hysterical and said someone was tryin’ to kill the babies.” He looked across the bank and saw a vacant church lawn. “What babies?”
“Apparently, Mrs. Culver has gotten them all back into the church.” Matt loosened the clerical collar at his neck.
“Who was doin’ the shootin’?” James W. asked, but his gaze was full-hard on Bo.
The bartender stuck out his chin defiantly. “Me.”
“And you should be grateful for it!” Dorothy Jo exclaimed. Dorothy Jo was a foot shorter than Bo, but her arm went protectively around his waist. “If I’da done the shootin’, someone mighta gotten hurt. My eyesight’s not what it used to be.”
“What the hell are you talkin’ about?” James W. demanded.
“That dea
d water moccasin over there.” Dorothy Jo pointed across the river. “It was headin’ right for those kids. I hollered, but those teachers were playin’ the music so loud nobody could hear me. ‘Cept Bo.”
Bo nodded. “I heard her screamin’ about a snake and grabbed the gun. It was goin’ up the riverbank fast.”
The sheriff looked from Bo’s face to the gun he held. “You shot a water moccasin over there from all the way over here? That’s thirty yards, at least.”
“And you should thank the good Lord in heaven that he did,” Dorothy Jo said.
At that moment, Richard Dube, the tallest, skinniest, youngest deputy Matt had ever met, came running around the building. “Sheriff? I got here as quick as I could,” he said, out of breath.
James W. scratched at his burred, fully-gray hair, then finally shrugged. “Go over to the bank over there.” He pointed to the church lawn where toddler-sized chairs were scattered everywhere. “See if you find a snake. A dead one, I hope.”
Richard Dube obediently turned to do as directed while Matt squinted to see if he could pick out the snake. “Pretty sharp shootin’ there, Bo,” Matt said.
“Sometimes shootin’ ain’t a sport. Sometimes it’s survival.”
“Now, Bo, you know you’re breakin’ the law holdin’ a gun,” James W. said.
“You gonna turn me in for savin’ a buncha kids?” Bo had done time for manslaughter; the “victim” had raped his sister. Matt was fairly sure that the look Bo was sending the sheriff right now might have been similar to the last look the dead man ever saw.
“Now, let’s all cool down. This heat is givin’ everybody short tempers.” To emphasize her statement, Dorothy Jo pulled a hankie from the sleeve of her dress and wiped at her brow. “James W., you know this drought is bringin’ the snakes up.”
“Sheriff!” Richard Dube called from across the river, holding up a limp, three-foot-long snake with a yellowish-green tail and a missing head. “Is this the one?”
“You see any other dead water moccasins with their heads shot off around there?” James W. hollered back, shaking his head.
Not catching the sarcasm, Richard looked around for other such snakes. “No, sir!” he called back.
“If he had a brain, it’d die of loneliness,” James W. muttered under his breath.
Matt smiled at the sheriff. Though the man was old enough to be his father, Matt counted him as one of his few friends.
“Now let’s all go inside and have a drink.” Dorothy Jo took the gun from Bo and headed into the Ice House. “Don’t worry, Preacher, I’ve got iced tea,” she called over her shoulder, parting the way through the crowd of Ice House customers who had gathered to watch the show.
She nodded toward the onlookers and sent Bo a look to calm the waters. “Okay, y’all. The show was on the house. Now, who needs a refill? Aaron, you look like your iced tea is empty.” Dorothy Jo gave a friendly slap to the shoulder of the gasoline-scented owner of the town’s Sinclair Station.
Matt dutifully followed her into the bar, realizing he needed a breather. As he passed the reflective beer displays, his image caught him by surprise. Where was the young gun he’d once been, fighting the war against drugs on the docks of Miami? Though his skin was tanned from the hot Texas sun, his sandy brown hair no longer shone with the surfer highlights of those younger years. His shoulders, still muscular, were bowed with the suffering of so many of his family members dead.
He was…older.
Shaking off the past, he inhaled deeply and realized it was indeed somewhat cooler inside the Ice House. Fans blew over horse troughs filled with ice and strategically placed around the floor. Coupled with the fans mounted on the heavy beams that framed the brick interior, the effect was an almost pleasant breeze cooling the sports bar.
The group walked past the pool tables and dart boards, then the booths that separated games from drinks. Dorothy Jo took the handgun back into the kitchen with her.
Matt noted that there were a few changes to the Fire and Ice House–aptly named since this had been the town’s fire house before Angie’s mother had bought it thirty-some years back. Flat-screen TVs had been installed all over the customer areas–including the replacement of the old black-and-white behind the bar that had once been the sole television in the place. He noted other improvements had been made as well: the old blue-covered pool tables had been refinished with green felt, most all of the furniture was new, and video games had been added against the far wall.
He was glad to see, however, that the old Christmas lights still hung above the same dark wood bar. In some ways, Matt felt like the Fire and Ice House was a home away from home, even though he hadn’t been here in a long while.
He wondered again when Angie was coming back.
“Well, boys, what’ll you have?” The distinctly female voice came from behind him as he scanned the place, and for a second Matt thought that maybe Angie had finally gotten back from Ireland. He’d missed her.
However, it wasn’t the red-haired angel by day, devil by night that stood taking orders behind the bar. This woman—girl, actually—was a study in black hair, vixen eyes, long legs, and clothing way too sexy for her own good.
Matt almost blushed.
“Bo got real sick about four weeks back,” James W. said in a hushed tone. “Dorothy Jo had to hire someone fast to come in and cover for him. Quite a looker, ain’t she?”
“What’ll it be, Sheriff?” the bartender asked, placing her elbows on the wood counter and providing a show of cleavage the entire bar could appreciate.
James W. nodded at the preacher and said, “Two iced teas.”
“Just washed a bunch of glasses. Be right back.” She sent a cat-like grin toward Matt’s preacher’s collar and went into the kitchen.
James W. was shaking his head. “Shorts too small, top too low and bust too high. Mmm, mmm, that one’s askin’ for trouble.”
“What’s her name?” Matt pulled up on the barstool next to the sheriff’s.
“Chelsea.” This hoarse reply, accompanied by horrible-smelling breath, came from Matt’s other side. He turned to see Zach Gibbons grinning at him through two rotted front teeth.
“Zach.” Matt nodded at the unpleasant man and turned back to James W. “Does Angie know about her?”
“Shoot,” Zach answered anyway. “Angie’d never have let her in the front door.” His eyes got big as he attempted to emphasize his knowledge through the haze of his drunk. “Chelsea likes women.”
“You shouldn’t be sayin’ stuff like that, Zach.” However, the look on James W.’s face told Matt that the sheriff had already heard exactly the same bit of gossip.
“She’ll wrap herself around you like a sweet-potato vine, then slap you into next Wednesday when you get interested,” Zach said angrily, but when Chelsea returned with the iced tea, his look turned lecherous.
“Sounds like you gave it a try. Maybe she’s just got some horse sense.” James W. grinned.
That got Zach’s attention. He walked around to James W. and put his elbow on the bar. “Speakin’ of horse sense,” Zach said while trying to steady his balance, “I hope you’ve got enough to see this Bo thing through.”
“What Bo thing?”
“That murderer just shot a gun at a bunch of children. And y’all come back in here friendly like you’re best pals.”
“I’ve got that under control.” James W. took a sip from his tea.
“Yeah, and I’ve got the phone number to the Austin news station. KXAN. That’s the NBC affiliate,” Zach added, as if that would give his threat more credibility.
“What are you jabberin’ about?” James W. demanded.
“Your son, Jimmy Jr., won the Republican primary. He’s up for governor this November. Maybe the public needs to know their future governor’s father is as much of a crook as the folks he arrests.”
“Zach, ain’t you got some cement to go pour or somethin’?”
“Norm Krall had me pour it at dawn and
it was still hotter’n hell, and don’t try to change the subject.” Zach held up a shaky finger and wagged it at James W. “And I still don’t believe that bullshit that Ernie Masterson slipped on a soda and killed himself in his garage last January. The whole town knows there’s somethin’ wrong there. Maybe good ole’ KXAN TV will want to look into that.”
“What’s your point?”
“All I’m sayin’ is that boy, Bo, is bad news and I wanna know why you’re lettin’ him off. Ain’t ‘cuz he’s diddlin’ your ex sister-in-law, maybe? That kinda takes the worry off of what you’re goin’ to do with her.”
Matt decided it was time to step forward. “Mr. Gibbons,” he said respectfully. “Perhaps it’s time you called it a day.”
“And you…” Zach turned and poked Matt’s shoulder with the same shaky finger. “The upstandin’ preacher and the Ice House madam. I understand a man bein’ lonely…”
Matt refused to react.
“After all, that Bible of yers—what’s it say? Man’s not meant to be alone?” Zach belched. “But hell, Preacher. The town whore?”
“That’s enough, Zach.” James W. slid off his stool and all six foot two of his barrel-chested build hovered over the skinny, unbathed scarecrow. “Be careful or I will be arrestin’ somebody right quick. For bein’ drunk and disorderly.”
Happy that he had managed to stir up the town’s sheriff and pastor in one swoop, Zach held up his hands in surrender. “Jus’ sayin’, that’s all. I’ll go back to my corner now.” He turned toward the booths, but couldn’t help himself from mumbling, “Just wanted you to know people see a lot in this town. Jus’ sayin’.” He collapsed back into the booth.
Bo had come back around the bar and was shaking his head. “I’ll cut him off, Sheriff. I guess he started before I got on this noon.”
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