James W. interrupted. “What’re you doin’ here, Angie?”
“Good question. I haven’t haunted these halls since I was five years old and your mother kicked me out of this precious house of worship.” Angie leaned against the door jamb. “But you have to understand my curiosity when I have Mandy Culver comin’ into my bar with some little ole lady askin’ if she can use my restroom to wipe the blood off the old woman’s hands. And feet. And apron. Oh, and then there was the part when she said, He’s dead. He’s dead. Oh, my God, he’s dead?” Angie crossed her arms over her chest. “Can’t blame a girl for bein’ curious about that.”
James W. sighed. “You have to leave. This is a crime scene.”
“No kiddin’.” Angie pushed off the jamb. “And it’s gonna start stinkin’ in here real fast without any air conditionin’. I know the names of some professional cleaners if you want.” She purposefully looked around the sanctuary and up the aisle to the bloodied altar. Then she turned to Elsbeth and added, “Looks like you’re gonna need to buy some new altar cloths.”
If looks could kill, Matt would have been pronounced dead then and there from the look that Elsbeth shot him as Angie sashayed out the front door.
***
Angie walked into the hot Texas sun and down the church’s cement steps. Not until she heard the door slam behind her did she stop, put her hands on her knees and breathe deeply.
Matt was still alive.
When Mandy and the old lady had come into the Fire and Ice House bloodied and crying that someone was dead, Angie had been sure they were talking about Matt. Last January when he’d solved her mother’s murder, he’d hinted he was in danger.
That air of mystery was one of the things, after all, which she found so…attractive.
He wasn’t dead, though. And she’d managed to show her emotions by running over to the church like a maniac to see for herself. The fact that she could have been so vulnerable only made her madder at him than she’d been yesterday.
She’d been plenty mad at him yesterday.
She took one last, steadying breath, then headed off toward the Mason Street Bridge that would take her back to her side of town. She was seriously considering downing a shot of her own product when she heard a voice calling from across the street.
“Miss Angie!” Aaron Rodriguez called. “Did somethin’ happen at the church?”
Angie liked the man despite the fact she thought of the Sinclair Station’s old owner whenever she saw Aaron. “Bad stuff,” she said when he was closer, emitting his usual eau de gasoline. “There’s been a murder.”
Aaron paled beneath his ruddy complexion. “The preacher?”
“No,” she answered. “One of the church members.”
Aaron exhaled hard, and Angie thought it sounded an awful lot like a sigh of relief. “You thought it was the preacher too?” she asked.
Aaron nodded, falling in step beside her. “If not the pastor, then who was murdered?”
“Owen Seegler.”
Aaron stopped in his tracks. “Why?”
Angie realized she hadn’t given much thought as to who had been killed once she learned it wasn’t Matt.
“Who would want to kill a nice man like Owen Seegler?”
“I don’t know.” Angie shrugged. Owen had been at her bar the night before last with Zach Gibbons. Zach had been drunker than a skunk, but Owen was sober enough. He’d even paid the tab. “He’s been troubled lately. I’ve seen him at the Fire and Ice House more times since I got back than I did the last few years.”
“He was workin’ for Norm Krall on some odd jobs,” Aaron said. “He and Zach Gibbons and that kid have been paintin’ the pavilion for the Fourth of July celebration.”
Angie nodded. “Tom. That’s Zach’s son.”
“He’s no good,” Aaron said.
By this time they’d reached the Fire and Ice House, and Aaron followed Angie inside. “Something to drink?” she asked.
“Just iced tea for me.” He smiled. “To go.”
Angie rounded the bar and poured him a cup, then hunted down a bottle of Reposado for herself. Filling a shot glass, she toasted Aaron and tossed back the shot. “You’ve had dealin’s with Tom?”
“He quit as soon as he found out I was a Mexican.” Aaron sipped his tea. “Probably one of the luckiest days of my life.”
Angie considered having another shot but reached for an iced tea glass instead.
“Got kicked out of school a week later. He’s a bad one, that kid.” Changing the subject, Aaron nodded in the church’s direction. “What did you see over there?”
“The pastor and the sheriff were inside, tapin’ the place off. Looked like a bloody mess.”
“Was Owen stabbed?”
“No. Somebody shot him in the back of the head.”
Aaron thought on that for a minute. “Owen had kind of sandy hair.”
She looked at him oddly. “So?”
Aaron’s dark cheeks crinkled with dimples. “Just tryin’ to remember the man. What do I owe you? I’ve gotta get back to work.”
Angie smiled back. “On the house,” she said.
He nodded his thanks and headed out the door. She watched him cross to his gas station as she thought over his comment. Yeah. Owen had sandy-brown hair.
Then she swallowed. Hard. So did Matt Hayden.
Chapter Sixteen
Sometimes It Sucks Being the Messenger
Matt Hayden dreaded delivering the news of death to families. Although he knew that Owen Seegler was resting in heaven at that very moment, Matt was all too aware that he was about to send a mother and her children into a living hell.
For the second time in a week, Matt and James W. turned onto the gravel road that led to the Seegler farm. This time when the sheriff parked in the shade, Matt took a closer look at the barn. It was a shabby building. Its patched wooden door hung awkwardly at the hinge, and the siding hadn’t seen a coat of paint in years.
Hadn’t been able to keep up his farm, Matt noted, but the man still gave to the church without hesitation. Owen Seegler and his family tithed and were the first to help out a member in need.
Anger warred with Matt’s prayer for peace. Telling someone her loved one was dead didn’t need a rage chaser. For the next hour, or longer, Pastor Matt Hayden needed to be the one exuding calm.
It was not going to be easy, considering the cold-blooded murder scene he’d just left.
“Ready?” James W. turned off the engine.
“No,” said Matt, but he climbed out of the truck anyway.
Sherylene Seegler answered the ring of the doorbell, and again, Matt was struck by the grace of the woman. She was a seasoned veteran of trouble, however, the way a person became when living day to day on a farm that tended to wither in the Texas sun.
When she saw her pastor and the sheriff, she smiled. “Back for more pie?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Seegler.” James W. took off his hat.
“Good heavens, James W. Why so formal?” she said, the first wrinkle of worry creased her forehead. “Is something wrong?”
“May we come in?”
She opened the screen door, then gestured the men inside.
“Maybe you’d better sit down.” James W. nodded toward the couch.
“Mom, is Daddy home?” A young woman, early twenties, with brown hair pulled back in a tight pony tail, came hurrying in from the kitchen.
“No, it’s company,” Sherylene answered. “Sheriff Novak, Pastor Hayden, you remember my oldest daughter, Deborah?” Sherylene gave a cheerful try at her tone, but it wasn’t convincing.
“Hello.” Deborah was disappointed, Matt could tell. She’d obviously been waiting for her father.
She grinned. “We went shoppin’ in Austin today. We picked out my weddin’ dress!” Then, feeling the underlying tension, she asked, “What’s goin’ on?”
“Perhaps its best if we spoke with Mrs. Seegler alone,” James W. said.
Instead of le
aving, the daughter put her arm around her mother. “You can speak to both of us.” Sherylene nodded her agreement.
James W. cleared his throat. “Mrs. Seegler, Miss Seegler, I’m afraid we’ve come with some bad news.”
“What’s happened?” Sherylene paled.
“Owen is dead, ma’am.”
She blinked. “He’s had a heart attack, hasn’t he? What hospital is he at?”
The daughter latched onto the hope. “He’s been under a lot of stress.”
“No, ma’am,” James W. said. “I mean it. He’s dead.” He bowed his head.
“How?” The mother was barely able to form the word.
Matt took up the job. “He was shot, Sherylene.”
“Shot? Like a gun accident?”
James W. shook his head. “It was no accident. He was murdered. Shot in the back of the head.”
Sherylene fell back against her daughter. “Where? At a bank robbery or somethin’?”
Matt forced his jaw to unclench. “In the second pew of the sanctuary at Grace Lutheran, Sherylene.”
“I don’t understand.”
Seeing she was beginning to sway, Matt coaxed the mother to sit down.
“Neither do we,” James W. said. “I’ve had to call in the Texas Rangers on this one, Sherylene. They’ll be here soon to ask you some questions—”
“Daddy…” Deborah sat down hard on the couch. “…is dead?”
Afraid she was going to faint, Matt kneeled in front of the young woman. “You need to breathe, Deborah,” he instructed. “Take a deep breath in, let it out. That’s it.”
James W. took over. “When did you last see Owen, Sherylene?”
Matt nodded. Although it seemed harsh now was the time to get some basic information before the shock really set in.
Sherylene stared at the floor. “This mornin’. He milked the cows and came in and took a shower.”
“And after he finished his shower?”
“He said he didn’t have time for breakfast. He had to get into town for the church council meetin’. He only had a cup of coffee.”
“What time did he leave the house, Sherylene?”
“About seven, I guess. Maybe seven-thirty.”
That was curious, Matt thought. “The church council meeting didn’t start until eleven a.m. Why did he leave so early?”
“He’d go in early sometimes. To run off copies of the financial reports for everybody. Maybe to work on the accounts a little bit.”
“But Mom.” The daughter looked a little stronger now. “Daddy went to Dannerton yesterday to copy all that paperwork. Remember?”
Sherylene shrugged. “I guess my mind was too much on us goin’ to Austin to pick out your dress.” She looked up at Matt. “And I was helpin’ Rebecca get Joshua out the door so she could take him to his day care. She works there, you know.” She looked off into the distance, and Matt could see they were starting to lose her. “We’re goin’ to have to build a ramp on the house. Joshua can’t hardly manage the stairs anymore. There’s so much to do around here.”
“For the record, Warren Yeck said to tell you he’ll come around about four o’clock to take care of the cows,” James W. said.
“They’re very good friends. Owen and Warren.” Sherylene’s eyes were glazing.
Matt watched as Deborah put her arm around her mother’s shoulder. The daughter, too, realized that Sherylene was slowly going into shock.
“Mom, we need to help the sheriff.”
Sherylene looked up, trying to focus on James W. “You said you’ve called in the Texas Rangers?”
“Yes, Sherylene. I don’t have the equipment or the expertise to sort this thing out. They’ll be here pretty soon.”
“I don’t want to talk with the Rangers,” she said, finally finding something to be angry about. “I don’t want any strangers in this house.”
Matt took her hands in his. “Of course you don’t. But we have to do what’s right by Owen, don’t we? He deserves for us to find out who did this.”
Sherylene looked from the sheriff to the preacher. “All right. But I want one of you here the whole time they are.”
“We can do that,” James W. agreed.
“What about the…” Deborah didn’t seem to able to use the word funeral. “…arrangements?” she finished.
“We can’t plan anything just yet,” Matt said. Funerals were his line of expertise—it came with the territory of being a pastor. What he had to say next was going to be very unpleasant. “Owen’s body will have to go to the coroner first. When we get permission from the coroner, we’ll know more about how to proceed.”
“Coroner?” Sherylene snapped into focus.
Matt held her hand a little tighter. “They have to do an autopsy, Sherylene.”
“I want to see him,” she said.
Matt bowed his head. “No. You don’t.”
That was the straw that broke her control. Sherylene fell back into her daughter’s arms and sobbed.
Chapter Seventeen
The Anointing
The next morning, Matt and the church council president stood at the front of the pavilion, surveying the newly-delivered chairs set up for Sunday morning’s 10:30 church service. “Norm, I’ve got to hand it to you.”
The stocky mayor shrugged. “I already had the boys in line to bring over the chairs from Paradise Funeral Home for the July Fourth festivities. We just moved it up a day is all.”
Late yesterday afternoon it had been decided that Grace’s Sunday services would be held at the newly refurbished pavilion. The irony was lost on no one that the pavilion completion was due in part to the man whose death precluded them from worshipping at the church.
Matt and Norm had little choice, however. The Texas Rangers had swooped down on Grace Lutheran like a swarm of well-organized bees. This morning, the ushers had to use Tupperware containers for offering plates. Since no hymnals could be taken from the sanctuary, the service’s music had been changed to patriotic songs that everyone knew by memory. Matt hadn’t even been able to get his handwritten sermon notes or Bible from his desk. The Rangers were intent on getting every scrap of evidence they could, and no one would be allowed an exception.
It was just as well. The sermon Matt had planned was about the raising of Lazarus. People didn’t need to be reminded of the recent deaths in Wilks, and they sure didn’t need to be picturing Owen Seegler’s corpse lying in a cold morgue every time he mentioned Lazarus’ dead body.
Many had showed up early for the service, but Matt soon realized folks were there more for the news that could be gleaned from the church council members’ eyewitness reports.
Of course, there was Elsbeth. She was in her element holding court. For once, she wasn’t bound to silence about a case because of James W.’s duty.
“Horrible, just horrible,” Elsbeth was saying to a crowd of listeners. “Blood all over the place. And brains. And, Lord, I don’t know what else. And he was killed in the very pew that James W. and I sit in every Sunday.”
Matt had forgotten that last part. Yes indeed, the second pew was where Elsbeth and James W. always sat.
“I’ll tell you, I knew that nothing good would happen at this church while Pastor Hayden is here. Who is he, anyway? Have we met his mother? His father? How much trouble has come to this town since he’s been here? I don’t know why Owen Seegler was killed. But I know a lot of folk have died since that preacher came to town!”
Pearl Masterson hurried up to Matt, oblivious to Elsbeth’s impassioned speech. “Pastor, we’ve got a problem.”
“Pearl! What a nice surprise. I didn’t think you’d be here with your sister being sick and all.”
She stood up straighter. “I’m not going to miss church.” Her tone was indignant.
Matt suppressed his smile. “Of course not. What’s the problem?”
“Our traditions, as well as ourselves, have a right to be protected from outsiders!” Elsbeth’s voice echoed off the new roof.
Pearl paid no attention to her sister-in-law’s rantings. “Today’s the installation for the new church council.”
“I can wing the installation. We’re good,” he said, but he was listening to the venom Elsbeth spewed.
“We don’t have any oil. For the anointing! It’s tradition!”
Matt focused his full attention on Pearl. He certainly didn’t want to add to Elsbeth’s fury by not following the procedure for installing the new church council.
Even if it was the old church council.
“I don’t think I have any at the parsonage.” Matt was into pouring cereal and microwaving frozen dinners, not cooking.
“I moved all my stuff out to Judith’s. Elsbeth probably has some.” Pearl turned to head toward the sheriff’s wife who was still on her rant.
“Might not be a good idea, right now,” Matt said.
Pearl listened for a moment to Elsbeth’s tirade. “I see what you mean. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it somehow.” And Pearl was off, a woman on a mission.
The service began promptly at 10:30, and the members took their seats in the folding chairs—most of them picking out their usual church locations for sitting. Matt was glad that the funeral home had not only donated use of their chairs, but had also sent along a box of the handheld fans they always had ready for graveside services. Paradise Funeral Home “We’re here when you need us” emblems flapped noisily in the hot Texas morning.
The service progressed through the hymns and the liturgy. The church organist had borrowed a keyboard from one of the confirmation kids who played in a band, and things ran smoothly.
Until it came time for the sermon. Matt had planned on preaching about the upcoming July Fourth celebration. He figured he would talk about the faith of the founding fathers and figured that would go well with patriotic hymns.
When he got up in front of the congregation, however, he knew that talking about anything other than yesterday’s tragedy would be a cop out.
“We’ve had a tragedy in our family,” he began. “That’s what we are, after all. A family. We are brothers and sisters in Christ. And Owen was one of us.
Murder in the Second Pew: A Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery Page 13