Murder in the Second Pew: A Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery

by K. P. Gresham

  The Sinclair Station’s new owner was working the cash register. Everyone in town appreciated the fact that Aaron Rodriguez had kept the old dinosaur sign when Pearl Masterson sold the gas station to him three months earlier. Once Ernie had been killed in its garage bay, she’d been glad to be rid of it. For the town, the dinosaur icon of the old Sinclair Oil Company signified continuity. Owen figured that for Aaron it smoothed the way for a Hispanic to own property in town.

  “Three twenty-four,” Aaron said.

  Owen plunked down the cash and turned to leave.

  “Heard you’re working for Norm Krall today.” Aaron was the consummate promoter. He was always looking for a way to talk up the townspeople to get their business.

  Owen smirked. As if there were any other gas stations in a fifteen-mile radius of town. “Fourth of July’s next week. Got to get the pavilion in shape.”

  “I heard it’s getting a brand-new stage.” Aaron wiped his hands on his pants and rung in Owen’s payment.

  This time Owen smiled. All the wiping and washing in the world never seemed to erase the smell of gasoline from Aaron’s hands. “Well, the ice storm last January did some damage. That finally got everyone on board to do a little updatin’,” Owen said. No need to talk about Novak money with this stranger.

  “Is Zach Gibbons working today? He came in here last night drunker than a skunk and madder than hell.”

  “He’s at the pavilion,” Owen grunted, “but he’ll never drown in his own sweat.”

  “Sorry to bring up the man’s name. Word gets around town you’re both working for Norm Krall is all.” Aaron laughed, his dark cheeks crinkling with several dimples. “I am looking forward to the Fourth, though. I wanna see that fancy campaign bus the sheriff’s son has got—and vote in the ice cream contest.” He patted his large belly.

  “Make sure you put some of that ice cream on my Sherylene’s apple pie.” Owen nodded and walked rapidly out to his truck.

  Damn! Did the whole town need to know his farm was in trouble and he had to take a second job for extra money?

  He climbed into his truck and drove across the bridge to Grace Lutheran. He parked his Chevy under the live oak at the far corner of the parking lot. Even with the windows down, the cab was too hot to sit in. He grabbed his hot dogs and the cooler of water he’d brought and sat out underneath the tree.

  The morning had been good, honest work, and Owen liked not having time to think about everything Sherylene had said this morning. Now, however, though his lunch hour provided a respite from labor, it allowed his mind to roam.

  Ten years back. That had been a bad time for him. He’d been in love with the bottle and angry about Josh. The farm hadn’t been doing too good, and just like now, he’d gone to Norm Krall for extra work. And, just like now, Zach Gibbons had been doing the same. Back then, he and Zach had often gone together to the Fire and Ice House after work, and together gotten stewed as prunes. The bottle had never answered Owen’s questions about why Josh wasn’t “right,” but it sure had listened.

  Then came the night Maeve O’Day, the now-dead bar owner and Angie’s mother, had hurried up to his table and told him he’d better get on home—there was a fire at his place.

  Owen had driven the ten miles out to his farm like a demon, afraid the whole time that he’d lost his family.

  Then, when he’d seen the four of them—Sherylene, Deborah, Rebecca and Josh—standing in the pasture, watching the firemen hose down the flames at the back of the house, he’d finally understood that the most important thing in life was his family. All of them. Including Josh. That was the last time he’d taken a drink.

  Until last night.

  The night of that fire was a clear picture in Owen’s mind, but the many nights before were mostly blurs. There was one particular night ten years ago that was a complete blank, and he’d only had Zach Gibbons to fill in the holes.

  He’d awakened the next morning after the binge, completely void of any memory of the night before. Thank goodness the morning milking was a routine he didn’t have to think about. Then, when he’d come in for breakfast, Sherylene had chattered on about how grateful she was that Zach had driven Owen home after the family’s Ford had broken down, and how Zach had arranged for Ernie Masterson to tow the truck, and how nice it was that Zach was going to stop by to pick Owen up for their work that day.

  Owen had played along, pretending he’d remembered all of it. Yes, he’d said. The piece of junk had finally breathed its last. He’d been on the side of the road when Zach had happened along.

  All of it was bull, but such was the tacit agreement he and his wife had back then. Sherylene never spoke a word about Owen’s late nights, and he never missed milking the cows in the morning.

  Only later that day did he learn that Melinda Platt and Diane Turpin had boarded a bus to Austin—and the witness for that event was Zach Gibbons. Zach had told the sheriff that the girls had been hitch-hiking to the station in Dannerton and that he’d given them a ride.

  He and Owen, that is.

  Until this morning, Owen had never had much reason to think either way about Zach’s statement. Lord knew Zach had been chasing the two girls at every opportunity, though both had turned him down flat. It followed that if they’d been hitching a ride, Zach would definitely have pulled over to provide it, and anything else he might finally be able to talk them into. Who knows? Owen was probably in the back of that truck passed out.

  The story was plausible enough. Everybody in town knew those two girls were on a tear to get out of Wilks. They’d gotten their high school diplomas on a Friday night, and their alleged bus ride had taken place the next day. Sheriff Danny Don Dube had investigated. The bus tickets to Austin had indeed been bought by the girls, on the very day of their high school graduation. Danny Don had two witnesses, Zach and Owen, placing the girls at the bus station. Lord knew Owen would’ve gone along with anything Zach had to say back then that would keep the guilty peace he had with Sherylene about his drinking. Sure, the girls had never exactly been identified as being on the bus, but that was the day after most colleges had let out from their spring semesters, and a lot of young folks had been on those busses heading home. It was easy for them to have gotten lost in the crowd.

  Now, however. Now it looked like at least one of those girls never made it out of town. And the man he was working with, Zach Gibbons, the dirtiest, lowest liar in town, might hold all the answers.

  “Owen!”

  He snapped out of his thoughts when he heard his name called out across the parking lot. He looked up to see Warren Yeck standing by the front of the church.

  “Get in the church, boy, and eat your lunch. The air conditioning’s working, at least for now.” Warren waved his hand for Owen to come on over.

  Warren was a good friend to Owen. About the time that Owen had given up the bottle and started getting his act together about the farm, Warren had been selling his place following his wife’s death. Warren had taken the time to teach Owen a thing or two about dairy cows, and had even sold a few of his heifers dirt-cheap to the young farmer to help up milk production.

  Pride had Owen shaking his head at Warren’s offer. “Sorry, Warren. I’m just finishin’ up,” he called. “Gotta get back to work.” He knew darn well that Warren was a talker who’d be all over Owen about how his farm was doing. Heck, it was probably a good bet Warren was the one who had told the Sinclair Station owner that Owen was taking on extra work from Norm Krall. Owen stuffed the last of his hot dog into his mouth and stood, wiping the dried grass from his pants.

  “Well, stop by sometime so we can have a chat,” Warren hollered back.

  Owen raised his hand in agreement, then got into his truck and pulled out of the church parking lot.

  Damn, he thought. He couldn’t stand to be at home where he’d only be reminded of every responsibility he could not fulfill. He didn’t want to go back to Norm Krall’s contract job because that meant working next to that perverted slug
, Zach Gibbons. He couldn’t go buy a lousy hot dog at the town gas station without being reminded of his failures. Now he couldn’t even go to church for fear of being seen by the gossiping Warren Yeck.

  Was there nowhere he could escape his problems?

  Well, at least one of those choices meant money in the family’s pocket. He turned west on Mason Road and headed back to the pavilion.

  Chapter Nine

  No More Insults

  Wednesdays Matt visited the shut-ins of Grace Lutheran. Usually all the old folks wanted to do was talk, and he was happy to oblige. He knew what it was like to be lonely. Then he’d finish off the visit with a few Bible verses and private communion.

  As he returned home from his last visit, his thoughts turned to Pearl, taking care of her ailing sister. He’d give Pearl a call and see when it would be convenient to head out that way. The two sisters might appreciate sharing communion before Judith got much worse.

  Sometimes when he gave communion and talked about the communion of saints, he pictured his father, Michael Hogan Sr., sitting at a table in heaven, sharing in the same meal. It comforted him, some.

  Matt drove down Mason Street, and was about to cross the Colorado to head for Grace, when he caught sight of the two-story Wilks County municipal building just off the town square. It housed the sheriff’s offices, the fire and utility agencies, and the two-room basement jail. He spotted James W.’s Dodge outside and knew the sheriff was in.

  Might as well see if James W. had any more news about Melinda Platt. At least he might know when the coroner was going to release the body so Callie Mae could start planning the funeral. Maybe that was one way he could start a healing conversation with the grieving mother after last night’s debacle.

  He found James W. sitting at his desk, studying some yellowed papers. “Is this a bad time?” Matt asked from the doorway.

  James W. looked up. “Not at all. Come on in. No word from the coroner yet, but I just got the original files from when the girls went missin’. My secretary had to go down and dig ‘em out of hard storage.”

  Matt sat down across from the sheriff. “Anything interesting?”

  “Looks like Danny Don was pretty thorough, but there’s still not much to go on. Callie Mae’s the one that filed the report. Come to find out on Friday the girls did buy tickets for the Dannerton bus. They graduated high school May thirty-first. Left town June first. Got two witnesses sayin’ they picked up the girls hitchhikin’ and drove them to the Dannerton bus station. Lot of college kids on the busses with school lettin’ out, so we never got a solid ID on them after that.”

  “I understand the two had been pretty vocal about wanting to leave town as soon as they could.”

  James W. nodded. “Unfortunately, a lot of kids that grow up in small towns feel that way.”

  “So where do you start?”

  “You mean where do we start, don’t you?” James W. leveled a look at the pastor.

  Matt had thought about it all night. Frank Ballard, his Fed babysitter, would demand that he deny everything, but Matt was lonely, and having even a small connection with someone seemed important. Plus, God had put him in Wilks for a reason. Maybe Matt could help solve the murder.

  On the other hand, getting involved in cop work was a step into his past. Every time he went back there, he felt the old rage at the evil that had killed his father and brother and paralyzed his other brother. He’d promised God he wasn’t going to give in to that ever again.

  He’d almost killed Captain Howard P. Rutledge. The gun had been in Matt’s hand. Lord knew the desire was in his heart.

  And only the Lord had intervened to keep him from him pulling the trigger. “That’s not who you are,” God had said. “I know. I made you. Trust me.” No, the words had never been spoken out loud, but they had resounded in his heart, just the same. He’d put the gun down.

  All night the battle had gone back and forth in his head, whether or not he should own up that he had a past. The deciding factor, however, was that Matt needed this…friend.

  “James W., I appreciate the respect you’ve shown me by not asking about my past. You’re right. There’s a story there, but I can’t talk about it.” He rose from the chair and offered his hand. “I’ll try to show you the same respect you’ve shown me by not insulting your instincts again.”

  The sheriff stood and shook the pastor’s hand.

  Matt nodded. “Okay, James W., where do we start?”

  “Zach Gibbons,” the sheriff said, slapping his hat on his head. “He’s one of the two men that drove those girls to the bus station.”

  ***

  When Owen arrived at the pavilion, Zach’s beat-up ole F-150 was nowhere to be seen, and it wasn’t Zach who had paint can in hand, working on the new stage supports. It was Zach’s son, Tom.

  Owen got out of his truck, grabbed his water jug and went to the worktable. Snatching up paint can and brush, he walked to the stage. “Hey, Tom,” he greeted the teenager. “Where’s Zach?”

  Tom was a skinny kid wearing a dingy tank top that only emphasized his bones. His dark brown hair stuck out in sweaty spokes from beneath the Texas Rangers baseball cap he constantly wore. Tom suffered Owen a glance before dipping his brush in the paint. “None of your business.”

  Tom was following in his father’s footsteps, Owen thought. Mean and sulky.

  “Just makin’ conversation, son.” Owen hauled himself onto the stage and went over to the four-by-four support he’d been working on before lunch.

  “I ain’t your son,” he heard Tom mumble.

  Thank God. Owen tried again. “I thought you worked over at the Sinclair Station.”

  That stopped Tom’s arm in mid-stroke and he spared a scornful look in Owen’s direction. “I ain’t workin’ for no Mexican.”

  Owen shook his head. Today had been a bad day, and it was only half over. Plus, the sun was high overhead and the full brunt of Texas summer hot was bearing down on him. Irritated at the heat and the kid, Owen decided he might get some relief by scratching the itch to get under this boy’s skin as much as the teenager had already gotten under his. “Aaron’s a third-generation U.S. citizen. He speaks English better’n you.”

  Tom slapped the paint on the post so hard it splattered on the ground.

  “If you’re goin’ to do a job, do it right.” Owen threw the towel he used to wipe down his sweaty face at the boy’s feet.

  “Get off my case.” Tom put the paint can down. Owen was pretty sure there would be a ring of white on the new cement when he picked it back up.

  “You aren’t the only one with problems. Don’t take yours out on me.” Owen started painting.

  “Yeah, Dad said you were at the Fire and Ice House last night. Fell off the wagon, huh?” Tom made an ineffective swipe at the splatter on the floor, then went back to painting.

  Owen refused to respond. He dipped his brush back into the paint. The heat was relentless. Without a puff of breeze he felt like he was suffocating in an oven beneath the pavilion’s steel roof.

  “Must be down on your luck or you wouldn’t need to work extra jobs,” Tom continued. “Dad said you and him used to hang together until you found God. Whatsamatter? God throw you back?”

  Owen’s hands stilled over the can. He was not going deal with this heat and work with this brat all afternoon. “I don’t have a problem doin’ honest work.”

  Figuring he must’ve hit his mark, Tom nodded. “Yeah, you got a wife, a farm, two girls and a dimwit to take care of. Guess you need this job.”

  Owen swallowed. Hard. “Guess you do too, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Yeah, but with my money I can have fun. Do you remember what fun is?” Tom was feeling cocky now. He wore a smile that reminded Owen way too much of the smirk his father usually sported. “Fun is going into Dannerton and gettin’ drunk behind the Pit Stop Bar with the beers the waitresses ‘happen’ to leave for an underage kid who’s willin’ to pay ‘em a coupla bucks. Fun’s waitin
’ for those little tramps to get off work so you can slip ‘em a few more dollars, if you get my meanin’.”

  Owen was disgusted. “Ever heard of savin’ a dime or two?”

  “For what?”

  “College, maybe. Or a trade school. I heard you were pretty good with cars.” Owen put down his brush and reached for his water jug.

  “School?” Tom laughed. “Who needs it? I dropped out last April and haven’t looked back. I work here and there to get some money, and I know exactly what I want to spend it on. Get the booze. Get the broads.” At that his eyes twinkled. “Get the trinkets.”

  “Trinkets?”

  “Yeah, you know. Souvenirs. Panties. Jewelry. A little reminder of a night well spent.”

  Owen was about to throw down his paintbrush and knock that sneer right off the kid’s face, when Tom added, “Just like my dad.”

  Just like my dad. The words resounded in Owen’s mind. He’d forgotten all about Zach’s little treasure trove. Back when the two men had hit the bars together, Zach would produce an item from the wardrobe of a previous night’s conquest. As Owen remembered, the collection was disturbingly vast, but Zach had never ever associated any of the items with Diane or Melinda. Owen wondered if some of their items might be in the collection now. Because if they were, Owen knew exactly the night Zach would’ve acquired those tokens of conquest.

  He calmly continued to paint the post, but inside, his thoughts were reeling. He didn’t hear Tom as he prattled on about his triumphs in the sack but instead allowed a horrible question to form in his mind.

  Had Zach and he really taken the two girls to the bus depot in Dannerton?

  Or had something far worse happened?

  “Your dad had quite a collection,” Owen heard himself say.

  “Hell, that old man? You should see mine,” Tom bragged.

  Owen had to follow this line of questioning, no matter how sick it was. “Why? You two ever compare your trinkets?”