Murder in the Second Pew: A Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery

by K. P. Gresham

  “Hell, yeah. He keeps his in a red suitcase, I keep mine in a blue. I’ve got the bigger suitcase.”

  “Like father, like son, they say.” Owen attempted to make it sound like he admired the two Gibbons.

  “Hell, my dad’s the one took me over to Dannerton when I was thirteen and bought me a birthday present. You know what I mean?”

  “Sounds like Zach,” Owen said, but he suddenly had an idea. Blue and red suitcases? He knew where the Gibbonses lived, and their trailer wasn’t big enough to hold many secrets.

  He might have a little time. Owen was pretty sure he knew where Zach had gotten to.

  Feigning a sudden dizziness, Owen put down his can and bent over.

  “You okay, Seegler?”

  Owen shook his head. “This heat.” He put his hands on his knees and breathed hard.

  “Well, you’re gettin’ pretty old,” Tom said mercilessly.

  “Norm wants the stage finished today.”

  “Hell, I’ll do it,” Tom said, slapping the paint against the four-by-four. “It’ll take me a little longer, but if I get enough cash, I’m headin’ to Austin for some real fun.”

  “Austin?” Owen asked.

  “There’s some mighty fine business women up there,” Tom said, and his smile was way too knowing for a boy of his years.

  Owen shoved off his knees and picked up his water jug. “Tell Norm I’ll be back tomorrow.” He climbed off the stage and headed for his truck.

  It would take Tom a few hours to get all the posts painted, and Owen would make sure Zach was at the Pit Stop Bar in Dannerton. The gas would cost him, as would the lack of hourly wage, but Owen knew he would have enough time do a little investigating. Somehow, he had to learn the truth about what had happened that night ten long years ago.

  ***

  Angie had not anticipated spending her first afternoon back in the states trying to fix a bad refrigeration motor. She was furious over the conversation with Chelsea that morning, and even angrier now that she learned Chelsea had been right about the broken fridge. Angie was on her knees behind the bar trying to fix it. The unit’s cover was off, coils and tools were strewn about, and Angie could see for herself that the motor was beyond repair.

  Angie had anticipated spending her first day back touring her brand new, spankingly modern sports bar and beautiful back porch. She’d pictured herself something like a queen, surveying her realm, taking in the thank yous from the hundreds of new customers awed by the updated surroundings.

  Reality, however, sucked. Angie was sitting on her ass behind the bar, covered in grease up to her elbows, wanting to shoot someone she hadn’t even known existed twenty-four hours ago, and wondering if she had enough money in the budget to pay for a new unit.

  Well, at least for once in her life, Angie did have a contingency fund.

  Upon learning last January that Angie was his half-sister, James W. had given her a portion of the Novak money. Angie had been at a loss. She’d never had money before. The Fire and Ice House ran on a pretty tight budget, but with her regulars, she’d always made payroll.

  Angie’s first thought had been to go to Ireland. Her mother’s family was from there and after Maeve was killed, Angie had been desperate to do anything to get close to her mamma’s blood—even if she’d never met her relatives before.

  Then, while she’d been away, news came that the county had passed a law declaring restaurants nonsmoking zones. At the time, the Fire and Ice House didn’t have outdoor space to accommodate her smoking customers or employees. Angie’d known darn well that Elsbeth Novak had been behind that move. Elsbeth had been furious that James W. had parceled out some of the Novak money to Angie.

  Well, two could play that game. She’d made arrangements with Norm Krall to have a deck put on the back and decided to upgrade the Ice House while she was at it. It made her sleep very soundly at night knowing that she’d probably provided Elsbeth with several sleepless ones when she figured out how Angie had spent her Novak money.

  “I’m glad you’re back.”

  Startled, Angie looked up to find James W.’s sweaty face grinning at her over the top of the bar.

  “Things have been too quiet around here, li’l sis.”

  Angie threw a wrench at the defunct motor and got to her feet. “Well, I hope you don’t want anything on draft, ‘cuz I’ve got to order a new fridge.”

  James W. nodded. “It’s about time.”

  “Well, dadgum it, why didn’t anyone tell me there was a problem?” She was angry. The last thing she’d wanted this morning was to be told her business by that wanton, blackmailing bartender, Chelsea.

  “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because you were a coupla thousand miles away.” He smiled. “Or maybe someone was afraid you’d kill the messenger first, and not believe them anyway.”

  She scowled at her half-brother, all the more because what he said was true. She’d probably have told Bo to keep the unit going somehow until she got home to repair it. “I’m pretty good at fixin’ stuff,” she said, defensively. “So, what’ll it be?”

  “An iced tea. I’m here on official business.” James W. fanned away some of the sweat with his hat then slapped it on the counter. He began looking around the Ice House.

  “Official business, hunh? Guess that explains why your friend from last night isn’t taggin’ along.” She washed her hands, rubbing hard at the grease. She hadn’t been able to get her mind off Matt Hayden since Chelsea had made her threats this morning.

  “You mean the preacher?” James W. teased. It was fun watching the two of them, Matt and Angie, try not to show they had an interest in each other. It was like a tango where the partners never touched. “He said he had to check in with Ms. Fullenweider. He’ll be around shortly.”

  “I’m thinkin’ of bannin’ him from here. I don’t need a holier-than-thou scarin’ away all my customers.” Angie grabbed up a large red tumbler and filled it with ice. She had to find some way of keeping Matt safe. He’d done the same for her, and he didn’t need tongues wagging around town. At least before she knew who was wagging those tongues.

  Hell, she’d thought when Ernie Masterson had turned up dead that had been the end of having a know-it-all in town.

  “Well, look at you.” James W. grinned. “You haven’t spoken a word to the preacher and you’re already kickin’ him out of the place.”

  Angie filled the sheriff’s glass with tea. “Official business?” She reminded him. “In here?” She plopped a lemon slice in the brew and handed it to him.

  James W. took a sip. “I’m lookin’ for Zach Gibbons. It’s after lunch. I figured he’d be here.” He turned back to survey the room.

  “I kicked him out last night. He won’t be back for a coupla days.”

  “Why do you two play that game, Angie? You’ve kicked him out of your place more’n a dozen times. Shouldn’t he stay kicked out?”

  Angie shook her head. “His trailer is in the same park as Dorothy Jo’s, and I don’t want her place bein’ vandalized when she comes to work.”

  James W. nodded. “Never thought of it that way.”

  “So what do you want Zach Gibbons for?”

  “Remember Melinda Platt?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Angie grunted as she wiped down the counter. “In high school we used to call her ‘Radio Station,’ ‘cuz any man could pick her up.”

  James W. grinned. He and Angie had always had a connection. He’d just never known it was blood. “Well, he was one of the last ones to see Melinda and Diane in Wilks.”

  “Why you draggin’ that up now?”

  “‘Cuz we found Melinda Platt’s body in the bottom of the Colorado River two days ago.”

  Angie’s eyebrows raised. “Did she come back to town?”

  “That’s what I’m tryin’ to find out.” He gulped down the tea. “Man, it’s hot out there.”

  “Who else saw her and Diane?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You said Zach was one of the l
ast two that saw her in town. Who else did?”

  “Owen Seegler.”

  Angie looked at the ceiling trying to recall the decade-old story. “I remember now. Those two drove the girls to the bus station in Dannerton.” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t’ve believed the story if Zach was the only one who told it. Owen Seegler is a straight shooter, though, even when he’s drunk. He’d’a told it straight.”

  “I called out to his farm. He ain’t there.” James W. gestured toward the seating area. “And Zach ain’t here.”

  “That’s ‘cuz they’re both over at the pavilion working for Norm Krall.”

  “Really.” James W. arched an eyebrow.

  Angie shrugged. “I’m in the bartendin’ business. People come in here and talk about all kinds of stuff.”

  “You haven’t even been back twenty-four hours.”

  Again Angie smiled. “Owen’s trucker—the one that picks up his milk? He was in here lookin’ for Owen at lunch time and Warren Yeck said the two of them were puttin’ up the new pavilion.”

  James W. slapped his hat on his head and headed for the door. “Thanks, little lady. Put that on my tab.”

  “You’re welcome, you cheapskate.” Angie grinned after him. Then she heard a man speaking out front.

  “Hey, James W.” The preacher’s voice was a mellow baritone. She snuck over to the window to get a peek. “Done with Zach?”

  It was him. Matt.

  “He ain’t here. He’s doin’ work at the pavilion.” James W. motioned to his truck and the two men got in.

  “Damn,” she whispered. That preacher was too good-lookin’ for his own good. And way too good-lookin’ for her. The way his light brown hair moved in the summer breeze. The way his shoulder muscles strained against his shirt. And dadgummit, those jeans he was wearing were just the right size.

  She ducked away from the window as the truck drove by. For thirty-five years she’d been waiting for a man to stir her like that. The devil was handing her a wicked joke when he’d put that man in a clerical collar.

  Chapter Ten

  The Trashed Trailer

  If Owen thought he’d been miserable under the pavilion, it was nothing compared to the heat in Zach’s trailer. The windows were shut, and the trailer’s tin roof only intensified the heat. The place reeked of garbage that had long ago gone bad.

  How could Zach and Tom stand to live in a dung hole like this?

  The eighteen-foot-long trailer was small and cramped. The right half was a kitchenette with a booth-like table. The left compartment contained twin couches covered with dingy sheets, separated by a grimy linoleum floor. At the back was a bathroom of sorts.

  There was no way he was going in that bathroom.

  Getting in the trailer had been easy. The door handle had almost fallen off in his hand. Owen opened the cupboard under the sink and cockroaches raced across the floor.

  Staying in this God-forsaken dump long enough to find those suitcases was going to be the challenge.

  He decided he’d be better off using some kind of stick to poke around—he really didn’t want to touch anything for fear of catching something contagious. He looked about and saw a broom handle sticking out of the bathroom.

  It wasn’t a broom handle, he realized, dropping it. The thing was a plunger, fully coated with muck. The sight of filth and the stink of excrement almost made him vomit.

  And he worked on a farm!

  Foregoing the stick idea, Owen went back up front and nosed around the kitchen. He wasn’t too worried about anyone walking in on him. He’d checked, and sure enough, Zach’s truck was parked at the Dannerton Pit Stop Bar. Lord knew Tom Gibbons worked almost as slow as his dad.

  It didn’t take long for Owen to assure himself there was no place for two suitcases to be hidden in the front. Owen went back to the bedroom. There was a row of cupboards over each couch. He checked them and found nothing but dirty clothes.

  Frustrated, he put hands to hips. Where in the world would those perverts keep their trinkets?

  He looked down at the couches, which were sloppily made into beds. The sheets were tucked under the cushions—

  Wait a minute. There was a hole in the base beneath the mattress. It looked like something was in there. Owen put his hand under the bed and found a flat piece of wood. Maybe the mattress raised up for storage underneath?

  Sure enough, he lifted the wood and the entire couch came up. There, in the coffin-like, junk-filled cargo space was a red suitcase. Owen pulled it out and let the bed fall back down with a slam.

  He repeated the effort with the other bed and, sure enough, he found the blue suitcase. This must be where Tom slept, he figured, ‘cuz the blue suitcase was larger.

  He turned and opened Zach’s red suitcase.

  Well, Zach was most definitely some kind of pervert. The travel case overflowed with used lingerie, junk jewelry and even some girl’s spiked heel.

  Then a thought hit him. How in the world could he figure out if any of this paraphernalia belonged to either Melinda Platt or Diane Turpin? Short of having their names sewn in their panties, there was no way of knowing if any of these trophies belonged to the murdered girl or her friend.

  On the possibility that such might be the case, Owen gingerly picked his way through the contents. He finally quit when he had a vision of Zach doing the exact same thing—only in a much more perverted way.

  Hands back on hips, he swore. The only way to know if any of this stuff belonged to Melinda or Diane would be a DNA test—and that was a far shot. He’d seen enough TV shows to know the sample would be ten years old, and he was sure Zach would have handled the items plenty since then. Besides, Owen certainly wasn’t going to call in the law when he wasn’t sure of his own involvement in Melinda’s death.

  He turned and opened Tom’s suitcase. He let out a disgusted chuckle. Tom’s suitcase might be larger, but it was less than half full.

  Deciding his efforts were for naught, Owen pulled out his cell phone and took pictures of the open suitcases anyway. Maybe he’d think of something that would warrant needing the proof, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out how the photos would do any good.

  He sure didn’t have to prove to anyone that Zach Gibbons was a pervert.

  He closed up the cases and put them back under the beds, then got out of the foul trailer as quick as he could. Owen wasn’t sure exactly where he was going, but he knew he had to get the hell away from there.

  ***

  At the pavilion, Tom Gibbons dipped his brush in the paint can. “Can’t tell y’all where Dad and Owen’ve got to, Sheriff. All’s I know is they ain’t here.”

  Matt was sure that James W. had the same question in his mind as he. Can’t tell or won’t tell?

  James W. spit on the ground. “Well, if either one of them shows back up, tell ‘em I want to speak with ‘em.”

  “Okay.”

  Matt could swear he heard a victorious grin behind that reply but wasn’t sure, since the boy had turned his back to them.

  The two men walked back to James W.’s truck and got in. James W. started the engine, then hit the air conditioner on high. “Where to next?”

  “Head out to the Seeglers’? See if Owen went home?”

  Nodding, James W. put the truck in gear.

  Matt pulled out his cell phone. “Want me to call and ask if he’s there first? I’ve got all the council members on speed dial.”

  “No,” James W. said thoughtfully. “I don’t have a good feelin’ about the two of them missin’ from work. Let’s see what birds we can flush out with an unannounced visit.”

  It was a twenty-minute drive out to the Seeglers’ farm. As they rode through the countryside, Matt was struck by the burnt-out vegetation and dead trees. Every day the drought was making the central Texas landscape look more and more like Death Valley. The few animals they passed—a squirrel running across the road, a cat prowling through the brush—looked starved, with their ribs showing through the
ir thin fur.

  When they made the sharp turn onto the gravel road leading to the Seegler farm, the dust flew up around the truck like a storm. James W. slowed to a crawl so as not to stir up the dirt any more than he had to.

  That only allowed Matt to see how bad the condition of Owen’s place had become. The cows out in the barren fields looked weak. Off in the distance, a swirl of birds cawed and dove over a carcass. He wondered how many cattle Owen had lost to lack of water.

  James W. pulled into the desert-looking front yard and turned toward the barn so he could park in some semblance of shade. The two men got out of the truck, and Matt shook his head. “I think it’s hotter out here than it is in town.”

  The Seegler farmhouse was a small, white-sided ranch. The front door was flanked on either side by two large windows. Without ever having been inside, Matt knew that one side would be a dining room and the other a front room. He knew that behind the dining room there would a relatively large eat-in kitchen. The bedrooms would be on the back of the house.

  There would be only one bathroom, and he was pretty sure it wouldn’t have a double sink.

  They climbed the front porch steps, and James W. slapped his sheriff’s hat on his head. Matt knew that was the signal that this was official business and James W. was in charge. Dutifully, as the subordinate, Matt rang the doorbell.

  “Pastor Hayden!” came the surprised welcome from Sherylene Seegler as she opened the door. Her look became more curious when she saw James W. “Sheriff?”

  She was a graceful woman, Matt noted, but had a strength about her that assured him she’d done her share of milking cows. She wiped at a strand of flaxen hair that had strayed from its bun at the back of her neck and straightened her apron. “Won’t you come in?” She opened the door wider.

  The two men wiped the dust from their shoes on the worn welcome mat and entered, James W. taking off his sheriff’s hat.

  “I have to check on my pies.” Sherylene headed through the dinig room. “I’ll get you somethin’ to drink. Come on back.”

  As Matt had suspected, the kitchen was just behind the dining room, and it was neat as a pin. White cabinets with blue tile countertops lined the walls, and blue checkered curtains hung at the windows over the sink and on the back door.