Murder in the Second Pew: A Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery

by K. P. Gresham

  “That’s what I was afraid of.” Dorothy Jo shook her head. “I haven’t said a word to anyone. Not even Bo.”

  “Dorothy Jo, you don’t think Bo had anything to do with this,” Angie scolded.

  “I don’t,” the wrinkled old cook replied. “And you don’t. But a missin’ gun and an ex-con and a dead body only a few hundred yards away won’t sound good for the Rangers.”

  ***

  Aaron Rodriguez sat behind the wheel of his wrecker, waiting for the signal from the landscape foreman to begin the tow. A long, thick chain extended from the truck’s hoist to the semi-buried car. Richard Dube stood beside the forensic anthropologist at the river’s edge, camera in hand, ready for any shots Joan might want him to take. Castleburry and Martens stood behind the car in case it needed a strong shove to help it over the concrete lump on which it was hung up.

  Matt and James W. took shelter from the relentless sun under the tent. “Where’s Elsbeth?” Matt asked.

  “In the house. Said she didn’t want to see any dead bodies,” James W. replied.

  On a signal from James W., Aaron revved the engine and hit the truck’s gas pedal. Grass spewed from beneath the tires. Once the tow rope was taut, neither the truck nor the car budged. Aaron pushed harder on the accelerator, only to make giant ruts in the Novak yard.

  “Coño!” the landscape man yelled. “Ve por la derecha! Esta mas plano!”

  “No jodas, chico! Le paso arriba a las flores!” Aaron hollered back. “Ella me manda al caraho!”

  The landscaper shrugged. “¿Quieres sacar el coche de alli?”

  Matt laughed and James W. sent him a questioning look. “I couldn’t quite make that out.”

  “The landscape guy wants Aaron to go to his right so the truck’s on flatter ground,” Matt explained.

  James W. surveyed the problem. “That’ll take out Elsbeth’s flowers. Maybe even part of the herb garden.”

  “Exactly why Aaron’s afraid. He says Elsbeth will send him to hell if he takes that route.”

  The landscaper turned, and both he and Aaron sent the sheriff a questioning look.

  “Lord, save me,” James W. muttered under his breath and gave them a thumbs-up.

  Aaron backed up, then turned the wheel to his right. He hit the accelerator.

  “No!” Elsbeth burst from the house on a dead run. “My flowers!”

  James W. ran to intercept her. “Elsbeth, it’s the only way—”

  Matt watched the football game unravel. With a straight arm defense, Elsbeth did an end run around James W., sending him sprawling into the tomato cages. She continued racing toward the tow truck, first hurdling the oregano and thyme, then the cilantro.

  “Elsbeth!” James W. scrambled up and started after her. “We don’t have any options here!”

  Meanwhile, Aaron’s attention was split between his rear-view mirror and the landscape man. He spun the wheel, again spewing grass everywhere. This time his truck had more purchase, and Castleburry and Martens pushed hard against the back of the car.

  By now, Elsbeth had reached full steam and was in the flower garden. She barreled down a row of hydrangeas, but James W. was now closing in. Making it to the far side of the garden, Elsbeth came to a halt. She threw her arms in the air and commanded the wrecker to Stop!

  At that moment, between the torque of the truck and the muscle of the deputies, the car came loose from its concrete obstacle. The wrecker lurched forward as its burden no longer resisted the pull.

  James W., in a flying tackle, shoved Elsbeth out of the way. She did a face plant in the grass a mere two feet from the tow truck’s front wheel. Aaron’s wrecker forged past, crushing the hydrangeas and half the vegetable garden.

  Elsbeth, dirt-faced and winded, sat up, saw the devastation, then howled. “My garden!”

  James W. rolled to his back and sucked for air. “You’re crazy, woman,” he said.

  “That man almost hit me! I want him arrested!” she shrieked, spitting the grass out of her mouth.

  “You threw yourself in front of his truck!” James W. hollered back.

  Unable to contain his laughter any longer, Matt turned away, pretending to study the femur.

  Castleburry and Martens moved in quickly before the water could fill the hole where the car had once been. For that eventuality, they’d set up a hydraulic pump to keep the area as clear as possible.

  Matt moved to join Richard and Joan as they studied what remained of the muddy vehicle. The crest on the blue car’s side immediately identified it as a Ford. Its windows were long gone, probably from swift-flowing debris in the river’s current during torrent mode. The car was filled with mud and muck up to the steering wheel. Most of the padding on the seats and roof had been washed away, and the smell of rot was becoming strong.

  Joan pulled out her audio recorder and stuck her head in the hole that used to be the driver’s side window. “On first glance, I don’t see anything suspicious,” she said. “Course, who knows what might be down in the seat wells. Gonna have to get this car shipped over to San Marcos.”

  “James W.’s already got the VIN number,” Matt informed her. “He’s running it to see if the vehicle has been reported lost or stolen.”

  “Good.” Joan nodded. She studied the dash a moment longer. “Dashboard says this is a Ford Fusion.” She straightened and looked directly at Matt. “A hybrid.”

  Immediately Matt understood her meaning. “Ford didn’t make hybrids ten years ago, did they?”

  “Nope,” she answered simply, clipping the microphone to her collar.

  The two of them began walking around the car. There was no sign to Matt’s eye that the car had been in a wreck, though the river had taken its toll in rust and rot. When they came around the back end where the mud was heaviest, Joan wiped a gloved hand over the bumper. “License plate’s gone.”

  She stood and hollered back to James W. who had joined Castleburry and Martens in the muddy sludge of the Colorado. “Any sign of a license plate over there?”

  James W. hollered back. “I didn’t want to go in the hole without your say-so.”

  “I like that man,” Joan muttered, and she and Matt headed toward the original location of the car.

  Having already put on her waders, Joan lowered herself into the cavity. She felt along the hole where the car had been buried at its deepest for anything with a sharp edge. “On first inspection, I’m not findin’ a license plate,” she said. “Looks like the concrete was what stopped the car from goin’ with the current. See how this clump of cement was dumped on the…” she looked at her surroundings, then at her technical-looking watch, “…on the northwest side of this fallen tree? The concrete hit the tree, started pilin’ up and back to the northwest. I estimate this concrete blockage is a good four feet above the tree, which is about a foot off the river bed. Deputy Dube, come in here and take some pictures.”

  After the photos were taken Joan checked to see if Richard had digitally recorded everything she needed. Satisfied, the forensic anthropologist continued her search around the deepest portion of the cavity left by the car. Her hand touched something hard, and she felt around its shape. “Got somethin’ here. Deputy?”

  Dutifully, Richard took several camera shots at different angles as the doctor instructed. Satisfied, Joan started hollowing out the mud around the object she had found.

  “Looks like a pelvic girdle,” she said, thinking out loud. She moved down a five-inch length of bone. “And another femur.” She tried to follow the leg down, heading toward the foot, pushing the mud out of the way as she went.

  Then, startled, she looked up. “The end of this upper leg bone is encased in the concrete.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The Fourth of July

  Pastor Matt Hayden stood under the live oak trees at the Mason Street Bridge, attempting to keep out of the heat. He had seen many a Fourth of July celebration in his thirty-five years, and he knew this would be one of the hottest parades ever.
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br />   Of course, for most of those parades he’d been Michael Hogan Jr., son of a Miami police captain. He remembered watching his father march in those parades. He remembered the expensively decorated floats; the uniformed, stiff drill teams; the Mummers’ clowns; the Masons with the funny maroon hats and the miniature motorcycles; the University of Miami marching band; the war veterans who marched smartly in their service units.

  None of those professionally organized, well-funded spectacles, however, struck him as being as patriotic as this Tuesday’s offering in the small Texas town of Wilks. By the time the second parade entry walked by, Matt realized he had a lump in his throat.

  Just about everybody in town was either in the parade or lined the parade route. Some did both. The Girl Scout and Brownie troops waited their turn. When the time came, they would head for the back street to Ben Yeck’s lumberyard to get in line for their parade appearance. Matt knew that Jimmy Jr. and his entourage sought refuge from heat under the porch of Ben Yeck’s Feedstore. They would cheer the parade participants as they passed, waiting for their turn to be the parade’s grand finale.

  Meanwhile, Grace Lutheran’s parking lot was full of parents loading their tots onto the hay-covered trailer. Between the children not wanting to leave their parents’ arms and their apparent dislike of the stabbing straw, Mandy Culver looked downright ruffled. Matt turned away to hide his chuckle.

  And saw Angie standing on the other end of the bridge, smiling at him.

  Something rolled over inside of him. Something good. He smiled back.

  Richard Dube led off the parade, driving the county’s lone sheriff’s department car. He was grinning from ear to ear, shooting off the bubblegum lights and working the siren to clear the way for the oncoming splendor.

  About a block after Richard went through, a Boy Scout in full uniform rode horseback carrying the Texas state flag. Matt recognized the boy’s Eagle Scout badge and wondered with a pang of dismay whether or not his mother still had his own.

  Aaron Rodriguez ran across Mason Street to stand beside Matt. “Mind if I join you?” the gas-scented station owner asked. “No shade on my side of the street.”

  Happy for the distraction, Matt clapped Aaron on the back, and the parade began in earnest. Both men stood with their hands over their hearts as the Dannerton High School ROTC unit paraded the colors.

  Matt waved at the members of the town’s Little League Tee-Ball team as they passed by, the group’s age division written by hand on a poster carried by the coach. The Banjo Band float came by next, all the elderly members playing “Oh! Susanna.”

  The county fire truck was next. Children along the parade route begged the fire fighters to douse them with water from their hoses, but the men and women just laughed and waved. On the back of their truck they’d mounted a sign: “Remember Jeff Vranek in your prayers.”

  Then came the family unit entries. Some of the groups rode their bicycles. Norm Krall drove a pick-up with his family in the truckbed, throwing candy to the crowd. The youngest member held a sign proclaiming “My Dad’s the Mayor of Wilks, Texas!” Matt was relieved to see that Norm’s anointing scar had disappeared from his forehead. Another family came along with each member toting an animal from their farm. The mother pulled a goat, the oldest son a horse. One of the girls pulled a wagon with a cage carrying two chickens. The smallest walked the family’s golden retriever, which was almost twice the size of the kid. The father brought up the rear, carrying a shovel and pushing a waste bucket.

  Matt laughed out loud. The father tipped his hat in the preacher’s direction.

  The parade route was less than a mile, but every inch of it was Wilks, Texas, to the bone.

  Finally, the big moment came. Honking and waving proudly from the cab of his truck, James W. pulled the float that carried his son, the gubernatorial candidate. There were signs on the front and sides of the bunting-draped trailer announcing, “Welcome home, James Wilks Novak, Jr., the next governor of Texas!” Then, almost as thrilling as the town’s native son’s appearance, the candidate’s decked-out motor home powered by, with Jimmy Jr.’s face beaming ten feet high on each side.

  All in all, Matt decided it was the best Fourth of July parade he’d ever seen.

  ***

  Jimmy Jr.’s bus was just going by as Chelsea walked into the Fire and Ice House, carrying a grocery bag. She set it on the bar.

  Angie followed her inside. “Again, you’re early.” She studied Chelsea’s hair design for the day—the stubble on her shaved side was colored in the likeness of the United States flag, complete with stars.

  “You said if I had any ideas to let you know.” Chelsea opened the bag. “Here you go.” She pulled out a pint of strawberries, a pint of blueberries, a large container of Cool Whip and some party toothpicks.

  “What’s this?” Angie asked.

  “I saw the specials you planned for today. The All American—bourbon, Southern Comfort and Coke—and The Firecracker—Wild Turkey shots with Tabasco.”

  “They’re very popular.” Even Angie could hear the defensiveness in her own voice.

  “With the men, yes. Not with the women.” Chelsea walked around the bar and pulled out a bottle of Malibu Rum and Blue Curacao. She mixed the two with ice, then poured them in a shot glass. Next, she opened the whipped cream and mixed a little of it with some more rum, put a dollop on the blue rum mixture, stuck a U.S. flag toothpick in a strawberry and plunked it in the drink.

  “What the hell is that?” Angie demanded.

  “A drink for a woman. Call it a Red, White and Blue, sell it at three dollars a shot and you’ll make a killing.”

  “And the blueberries?”

  “Do the opposite with grenadine and Malibu Rum on the bottom. It’s still red, white and blue, and the ladies will have to try at least one of each.”

  Angie eyed Chelsea, then nodded. “I can’t argue with money. Show the drink to Bo.”

  The front door banged open, and they turned to see Zach Gibbons silhouetted against the sun. “Happy Fourth of July to everyone,” he said pleasantly and headed toward one of the barstools. “You back there, Dorothy Jo?” he called. “That’s a nice new flag you got hangin’ outside your trailer today.”

  Angie recognized the threat for what it was. She watched as customers started coming in, then leveled Zach a look. “I don’t want any trouble from you,” she said, keeping her voice low. “Not even a smirk out of place. James W. ain’t fightin’ a fire today, and I’ll have him arrest your backside faster’n a scalded cat.”

  Zach grinned and sat down. “You always make a customer feel so welcome. I’ll have one of those All-American drink specials. When y’all puttin’ the dollar hot dogs on the grill?”

  “Dollar hot dogs?” The question came from a stranger who was just walking in the door. “I heard this place throws a good Fourth of July party.”

  Angie studied the man. His cat-like eyes looked out of place on his egg-shaped head, and he was dressed way too fancy for a parade. Must be a city slicker. He sat down next to Zach.

  “Do I know you?” Zach asked.

  “Name’s Peter Pendergast. Dallas Morning News. I’m with Jimmy Jr.’s entourage.”

  Angie smiled immediately. “Any friend of Jimmy Jr.’s is welcome here. How about a beer?”

  “No, thank you,” he said, brushing the sweat from his thinning ginger hair. “Just an iced tea. Have to do an interview with the sheriff and Mrs. Novak after the parade.”

  “Well, make yourself comfortable,” Angie said. “I’ll tell Bo to get the hot dogs on the grill.” She shot a look at Zach. “If this one gives you any trouble, let me know.”

  When she’d left, Zach laughed. “That Angie’s always such a kidder.”

  The newcomer eyed Zach carefully. “Always looking to meet someone in the know when you get to a new town.”

  Zach grinned and reached for his drink. “Well, I’m your man. What do you want to know?”

  ***

  By t
hree o’clock in the afternoon, the heat was beginning to get to Matt—or maybe it was the cotton candy he’d shared with the confirmation kids who’d helped corral the toddlers on the Day Care float, or the tin of fudge he’d consumed at the candy man’s booth, or perhaps the BBQ brisket he’d polished off at Grace’s Holy Smokers Tent. His day was far from over, however. His services were needed to help judge the famed Vanilla Ice Cream Contest.

  Matt had jumped at the chance when asked a few weeks back, hoping that this would end his civic duties and keep him from having to judge the County Fair Chili Cook-Off in October. Better cold ice cream than serrano-laced chili.

  Then Matt saw the tubs of ice cream lining three tables in front of the judges’ stage. With dread he counted how many entries were to be judged.

  Seventeen.

  Though the judges’ stage was in the shade, the audience was not. “Let’s get this show on the road,” one of them yelled.

  Elsbeth bustled up to the group with a bullhorn and Matt heard several in the audience wonder out loud why that woman needed a bullhorn. He suppressed a nod of agreement.

  “As chairman of the Wilks Civic Committee,” Elsbeth’s voice boomed over the crowd, “it is my honor to welcome all of you to our thirty-second annual Wilks Fourth of July Vanilla Ice Cream Contest.” She lowered the bullhorn, waiting for the appropriate applause. Finally, a few put their hands together, knowing Elsbeth would not continue until she felt acknowledged.

  “This is a blind taste testing contest. Contestants made their ice cream on site this morning, and all entries have been transferred into unmarked containers. The judges have all been given their instructions.”

  Matt looked down at a scorecard. Heavens, what have I gotten myself into? Melting quality, flavor and consistency, he understood. But what the heck is wheying off?

  “Our judges today include the Honorable County Judge Howie Hitmer, a wonderful example of civic duty serving our county for over twenty years.” This time the applause was genuine, and a smiling Judge Hitmer waved to the crowd. “Next, we have our very own Sheriff James W. Novak, a man who has put his life on the line to protect and serve those of us lucky enough to live under his eagle eye, and father of the next governor of the great state of Texas, James Wilks Novak, Jr.!” This brought a cheer, and James W. tipped his hat in response. “Next, we are blessed to have Father David Brunstrom from the beautiful Painted Church just down the road in Cozy Corner.” There was light applause. “And…” her volume dropped appreciably, “Pastor Matt Hayden.” She immediately turned back to Father David. “Would you please lead us in prayer before we begin our contest?” She handed the bullhorn to the priest.