Murder in the Second Pew: A Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery

by K. P. Gresham

  “Might as well get this out in one fell swoop.” James W. leaned forward to make sure he could not be overheard. “I had an interview just now with a reporter from the Dallas Mornin’ News.”

  Angie nodded. “He was in here earlier gettin’ lunch.”

  “Well, I don’t know where the hell he got all of his information, but he knew a helluva lot about the goin’s on around this town. Thank God Elsbeth hadn’t talked with him yet. We couldn’t get our schedules straight, what with her bein’ the civic chairperson and all. I spoke with him first. I think I got the man under control.”

  “Under control? What kind of stuff did he know about?”

  “Well, that you’re my half-sister and your mother worked at a brothel.”

  Angie’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “And that Ernie Masterson’s cause of death has been a subject of public debate.”

  “How?”

  “And that it was known around town that Jimmy Jr. was havin’ a relationship with Melinda Platt just about the time she disappeared.”

  “Oh, Lord.” Then Angie stopped. Cold. “Zach Gibbons.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “That newspaper man was sittin’ next to Zach Gibbons the whole time he was in here havin’ lunch.”

  James W. almost spat. “That sonuvabitch.”

  Angie put her hands over his. “I am so sorry. I never should have let that bastard in here again, but he was makin’ noises about Dorothy Jo’s trailer.”

  “It’s not your fault, Angie,” he said. “I’d had a bad feelin’ about that interview ever since it was set up last week. I think I got the man’s curiosity evened out, but if he finds out about Melinda’s body bein’ in the river behind our house…”

  Just then, the front door of the bar slammed open, and Elsbeth ran in. “James W.? James W., are you in here?!”

  James W. immediately stood and headed for his wife.

  “My God, James W.,” Elsbeth sobbed, falling into his arms. “I just finished talking with that reporter. He thinks Jimmy Jr. killed that Melinda Platt girl!”

  ***

  Matt flopped on the couch, his shoes, collar and shirt strewn in a straight line from the front door. He was hot, he still felt sick, and the noise coming from the loud party taking place across the river was not helping his mood.

  The phone in the kitchen rang, and he refused to go over and pick it up. Between the phone call he’d had to make to Frank Ballard about Owen’s death, today’s heat and the never-again-ice-cream-judging fiasco, he was in no mood to talk with anybody.

  Almost as soon as the phone in the kitchen stopped ringing, his cell phone went off. Promising himself that he was not getting off that couch no matter what the emergency, he answered his cell. “Yeah?”

  “Matt, it’s Angie.”

  “Sounds like a good party going on over there.” He was happy to hear her voice, but also grateful that her party was not a place where he should make an appearance.

  “You gotta get over here. Now.”

  “Angie, I don’t think that would be a good idea. Besides, I’m not feeling so great.”

  “Matt, I’m tellin’ you, you have to come over here. Elsbeth is hysterical, and James W. is in bad shape.”

  “Elsbeth? Is at the Fire and Ice House?” He couldn’t imagine it.

  “James W. needs you, Matt. Somethin’ went wrong with some newspaper reporter today. Now, if you’re his friend, you get your tail over here.”

  The line went dead.

  Groaning, Matt pulled himself from the couch and headed to his bedroom in search of a T-shirt. He’d be darned if he’d put that collar back on again today.

  ***

  Instinct told Matt to scope out the Ice House before entering. To that end, he crossed Mason Street and stood in front of the closed Sinclair Station, gaining him a full view of the bar area through the open garage doors. He continued a block further to the square, then came around the back side of the Ice House to observe the activity on the newly constructed porch.

  The scene at the Ice House reminded Matt of the Dickens’ novel, A Tale of Two Cities. The game room and back porch were filled with people dancing and drinking and having a whale of a good party. The small group gathered around the bar looked like there had been a death in the family.

  He walked up the porch steps, smiling and nodding to people he recognized, and entered the game room. He made his way past the busy pool tables and was almost to the bar area where Elsbeth, James W. and Angie were huddled when the front door of the Ice House opened and a stranger walked in.

  The three looked at the stranger as if they’d seen a ghost.

  “What are you doin’ in here, Pendergast?” Angie said.

  The over-dressed, ginger-haired man chuckled. “I was welcomed in here earlier.”

  “That was before you listened to a hardened drunk and accused Jimmy Jr. of murder,” she said evenly.

  Matt arched his eyebrows. So that was what this was all about. Who the heck was this man Pendergast?

  The man’s cat-like gaze shifted to Elsbeth, catching on quick that she had told the group about her interview. “Now, Mrs. Novak, you understand that reporters have to follow up on their leads.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in Austin with Jimmy Jr.’s entourage?” James W. asked quiet enough to make Matt wince.

  “And let go of a story like this? I don’t think so.”

  Matt had heard enough. An old instinct rose in his chest. He’d been taught how to manage a situation when a fellow undercover cop was in danger of being exposed. Bad news? Diffuse, confuse.

  Matt grabbed a beer bottle from a nearby garbage can and swaggered into the bar. He produced the most mocking laugh that he could muster and sidled up to the counter. “Let the man alone,” he said sarcastically. “He’ll cook his own goose in less than twenty-four hours.” He looked at Angie and dangled the Dos Equis at her. “Got another for a friend?” Out of Pendergast’s sight, he winked.

  Confused, she opened the cooler and pulled out a beer, popped the top and handed it over.

  “What do you mean, cook my own goose?” Pendergast asked.

  “You were listenin’ to Zach Gibbons today?” Again, Matt laughed. He winked again at Angie, and she finally joined in. Matt turned and slapped James W. on the back, and again, facing away from Pendergast, winked.

  James W. got the message. He let out a guffaw, then went into full chuckle.

  Elsbeth did not get the joke. “What are you laughing about? This is terrible.”

  Matt shoved off the counter, went to Elsbeth and put an arm around her. He squeezed her shoulder. Hard. She looked at him like he had lost his mind.

  “Now, Elsbeth, darlin’,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. “Everybody knows you are one of the best-hearted people in Texas. You work full time doin’ all your charity work. And the way you stand by your man here.” He nodded at James W. “Every day he walks out that door to put his life on the line for the folks of Wilks, and you’ve never done anything but support and love him.”

  Elsbeth’s look went from stunned to confused.

  “We all know you’d never think a bad thought about a single soul, but sweetheart, you just don’t know about people from the big city. They’re stupid.”

  Pendergast straightened at that. “I beg your pardon?”

  Matt let go of Elsbeth and took a step toward Pendergast. “Oh, I understand you, boy. You think you’ve got hold of a story that’ll make state—heck, national—headlines.” Matt gestured in the air. “Texas Gubernatorial Candidate Kills Young Girl.” Again, he laughed, this time almost doubling over at the waist. The others, even Elsbeth, though not as heartily, joined in.

  “I don’t think that’s a laughin’ matter,” Pendergast said scathingly.

  “It will be if you print it. Heck, folks’ll laugh you right out of the state. What paper did you say you were with?”

  “The Dallas Morning News.”

  “But you
ain’t from Dallas,” Matt said, then took a swig of his beer. “Lemme guess.” He walked around the reporter, eyeing him steadily. “I’d say you’re a Midwest man—you don’t have the accent of an Easterner, but you have the brain of a Yankee.”

  “I’m from St. Louis.”

  “Well, Mr. I’m from St. Louis, do us the pleasure of writin’ your story. We’ll all buy tickets to see the show of your bosses ridin’ you out of this state on a rail.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Matt sat down at the bar and sprawled. “Angie. How many times have you kicked Zach out of this bar?”

  “I can’t count that high,” Angie replied.

  “James W., how many times have you arrested Zach Gibbons?”

  “On drunk and disorderly?”

  “On anything.”

  James W. took his hat off and concentrated on the ceiling. “Well, drunk and disorderlies…too many to count. He’s done time for stealin’, and there’s that time he started a fire in Warren Yeck’s hay field, and then he stole that truck once and plowed it into the feed store, and—”

  Matt held up his hand. “You’ve got yourself quite a source there, Mr. St. Louis.” He took another slug from his beer. “Course, Zach didn’t mention that Jimmy Jr. was in the company of some rather important people when that girl went missin’. Isn’t that about the time he started workin’ on Governor Burr’s campaign?” He looked at Elsbeth, but she was speechless.

  Matt barrelled on. “And of course, Zach didn’t mention that the Texas Rangers and sheriff’s department are coordinatin’ efforts and homin’ in on a suspect as we speak, did he?”

  Pendergast paled.

  “Please, go make your name. You want power. You want influence. Heck, you might even become a regular member of the Texas Philanthropic Society.”

  This time Pendergast was visibly shaken. “What do you know about the Texas Philanthropic Society?”

  Matt just looked at him and laughed. He put up a hand in Angie’s direction. “How about shots for everybody?”

  Angie poured the quickest round of her life, including a Red, White and Blue for Elsbeth, and brought the drinks around the bar.

  Matt stood and raised his glass toward Pendergast. “To you who are about to die. Professionally, anyway. To Mr. St. Louis.”

  Angie, James W. and Matt threw back their shots, and even Elsbeth joined in. As the strong liquor hit his throat, Matt did his best not to choke. Meanwhile, Pendergast slammed his glass on the bar. “Not funny.”

  “Yeah, but you are,” Matt went toe to toe with the reporter. “Comin’ in here scarin’ a nice lady like Elsbeth, callin’ out her son for doin’ a murder only a drunk could imagine, and threatenin’ everybody in Texas with a power play to elect the wrong man for governor. Lemme guess. You’re a Dem-o-crat.” He said it like it left a foul taste in his mouth.

  Pendergast swallowed hard.

  Not dropping his stare, Matt motioned to Angie. “Bring me a phone. I got to put in a call to Kenny Wang.” Matt stepped forward, forcing Pendergast to step back. “Maybe I can get you a seat at Wednesday’s poker game. They love havin’ stupid for an appetizer. If a duck had your brains, he’d fly north for the winter.”

  Matt was playing a dangerous game of poker with the man. The threat about the Philanthropic Society was, of course, a total bluff. He was all in, however.

  And the rest of the group had gone all in as well, God bless ‘em. As Matt watched Pendergast study their faces, he could see the man was about to fold.

  “I’m checking out everything you said,” Pendergast said finally.

  “I should hope so,” Matt agreed. “Startin’ with Zach Gibbons’ records.” He turned to the sheriff. “You can manage that, can’t you?”

  “Sure can,” James W. nodded. “Wanna come down to the jailhouse with me?”

  Pendergast shook his head, fearing a double meaning in James W.’s invitation. “You can send it to me.”

  “Where?”

  “I, unh, I have to catch up with Jimmy Jr.’s campaign bus, I guess.”

  James W. smiled. “No problem. I’ll have my deputy give you a ride to Austin.” He pulled out his cell phone and walked out of ear shot.

  “Can I pack you a hot dog for the road?” Angie asked politely. “They’re only a buck.”

  “No, I’m good.” Pendergast looked nervously toward the door.

  James W. rejoined the group. “Richard Dube’ll be here in just a minute. He’ll meet you in the squad car out front and take you right where you belong.”

  Even though he wasn’t sure if he was indeed going back to the campaign bus, Pendergast knew he was happy to be getting out of there. He headed for the front door.

  Matt ran ahead of the reporter and opened it for him. As Pendergast passed, Matt offered a slight bow and said, “Wanted to make sure the door didn’t hit you on the backside as you leave.”

  He shut the door behind Pendergast and watched him walk across the street to wait for his ride out of town. Then he let out a relieved sigh. That had felt good. In fact, his stomach wasn’t bothering him at all right now.

  He turned to congratulate the group on their act in the play and was met by three stares of open-jawed shock.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Holy smokes, Preacher!” James W. was the first to speak. “When did you become a Texan?”

  “What the hell is the Texas Philanthropic Society is what I wanna know.” Angie went back behind the counter. “Belly up to the bar, folks. Shots on me.”

  Elsbeth was simply frozen in place.

  “He’ll pump Richard Dube for information, you know,” Angie said.

  “I told Richard that if he said one word to that man I’d knock ‘im into next week and then fire his ass.” James W. sat on a stool.

  Angie nodded. “Should work.”

  James W. turned to Matt. “That’ll only hold Pendergast a few days at most. We gotta get to work.”

  “Agreed,” Matt said. He looked at Angie. “But right now I want another one of those shots that I almost just choked on. What was it, anyway?”

  “A Firecracker. Wild Turkey and Tabasco,” Angie said.

  Finally, Elsbeth moved. She sat down, her smile as much a surprise to her as anyone. “And I’d like another one of those cute little blue things with the strawberry on top.” She patted the stool next to her. “Sit here, Pastor. The next round is on me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Dumber than Richard Dube?

  Wednesday morning, Matt’s alarm clock woke him from a sound sleep at seven o’clock. He slapped the snooze button, then buried his head back in the pillow. He’d been having a fun dream—revisiting the scene of Aaron towing the car out of the river and ruining Elsbeth’s lawn. Only in his dream, the truck had gone right over the spa and into the house.

  Still, remembering the tow as it took place was actually more fun, because it really happened. James W. and Elsbeth playing the pseudo football game. Aaron and the landscape man, in fear of Elsbeth’s wrath, yelling at each other in Span—

  Wait a minute, Matt thought, trying to fight himself awake. What had they been saying?

  Coño. That’s a Cuban term. And what had Aaron said? Ella me manda al caraho! Again, Cuban Spanish. Matt had worked the docks of Miami enough to know the nuances of the language.

  Aaron Rodriguez was Cuban?

  This time the phone interrupted his thoughts. Matt reached for the phone, a little groggy from the celebration that had gone late into last night. With as many rounds as she had bought, it certainly appeared that Elsbeth had forgiven him.

  “Pastor Hayden,” he said sleepily.

  “Rise and shine, Preacher. Just got a call from the Rangers,” James W. said. “They’re releasin’ Owen Seegler’s body today. Thought we oughta go out and let Sherylene know together. And maybe that fiancé will be around.”

  “On it,” Matt said and hung up. He went into the kitchen, added a scoop of coffee to the already prepared po
t, and hit the power button.

  Strong coffee was needed for what he was sure was about to be a long day.

  ***

  It was eight a.m. before Matt and James W. arrived at the Seegler place. They weren’t concerned about the early hour, as a dairy farm generally began its day at four a.m.

  On the drive over, James W. told Matt about the forensic anthropologist’s ID of the bones discovered in the river behind the sheriff’s house. They belonged to Melinda Platt, all right, and she’d been buried under the concrete years before that Ford had ever been made. He went on to give the details on the county coroner’s report of Owen Seegler’s autopsy.

  “What did Owen’s tox report say?” Matt asked.

  “Clean as a whistle. No drugs. No alcohol.”

  Matt frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. His truck was parked at that bar in Dannerton on Friday afternoon when I drove through from Houston. And apparently he’d tied one on pretty good at Angie’s on Thursday night.”

  “It is what it is.” James W. shrugged. “I asked them to run the tests again. Came back clean as a whistle both times.”

  He pulled his truck into the shade of the rickety barn. The two made their way across to the house. James W. kicked at the dry grass. “Y’know what I call this?” he asked.

  “No, what?”

  “Kindlin’.” James W. headed up the porch steps and knocked. And waited. Finally they saw the drapery move a fraction before the door opened.

  The Sherylene Seegler standing before them bore little resemblance to the Sherylene Seegler they’d seen just a few days before. Her flaxen hair had lost its glow, and her eyes were dull. Her small but strong frame was now fragile and old. She looked like she’d aged ten years in only four days.

  James W. removed his hat. “May we come in?”

  Sherylene had little expression as she opened the door wider for them to enter. Matt wasn’t even sure she understood who they were. Finally he had to ask, “May we sit down?”

  Sherylene sighed, then motioned to the small front room. The men sat on the couch, she on the wooden rocking chair.

  Matt noticed immediately that several flower arrangements were now scattered around the room. The place smelled like a…funeral home. “Sherylene, is anyone home with you?” Matt asked.