Murder in the Second Pew: A Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery

by K. P. Gresham

  Deborah smiled. “I’ll be fine.”

  Matt and Sherylene walked over to his white Oldsmobile. Actually, it was Miss Olivia’s white Oldsmobile. James W. had asked Matt to take it off his hands after his mother’s death in January. Considering the road record of his fairly new yet horribly inept Ford Tempo—Matt had had to have it towed at least three times in the last year—Matt had decided to accept the sheriff’s offer.

  When they were buckled in and on the road, Sherylene turned toward Matt. “Pastor, I need to say somethin’.”

  “Of course.”

  “Those last few days that Owen was alive, they were pretty tough on him.”

  “What do you mean?” He gave her a sideways glance. She looked pensive.

  “Well, on that same day, when you and the sheriff came askin’ about the ride he and Zach gave Melinda and Diane to the bus station?”

  Matt kept his expression calm. “Go on.”

  “Well, we’d just lost two more cows. Now, that might not mean a lot to you, but a dairy farmer has a contract with the milk truck man. We have to provide so many pounds of milk for each pickup, or it doesn’t pay for the man to make the trip.”

  Matt nodded. “So those two cows…”

  “Were the difference between us keepin’ or losin’ our contract. And if we lose our contract, well, I don’t know how we’d be able to continue business.”

  “Did the milk driver know how bad off you were?”

  “Now, don’t get me wrong. We’ve been doin’ business with him for a long time, and he’s a good man. But he’s got to make a livin’. And yes, he knew that we weren’t makin’ our quota. He came in Thursday lookin’ to talk with Owen about it.”

  “Did they ever have that talk?”

  Sherylene shook her head. “Not as far as I know.”

  “Well, then, you’re not sure you were going to lose the contract.”

  “You know how Owen is…was…about figures. He knew.”

  On that Matt had to agree. Owen was smart that way. That was one reason the congregation kept electing him as treasurer.

  “Owen was doing anything he could to earn extra money. He even went back to work odd jobs for Norm Krall. But losin’ our delivery contract, well, I just don’t know how we’d pay for Deborah’s weddin’, or Rebecca’s school—she won a scholarship, but it isn’t goin’ to cover everything—and long-term care for Joshua.” Her voice broke at that point. “I didn’t know Josh was drawin’ all those flowers for Owen. I thought I’d explained to him how things were.”

  “Sometimes folks like Joshua don’t understand things like that right away,” Matt said gently.

  “I guess so.” Sherylene watched the burnt Texas landscape roll by. “But that’s not the only thing,” she said finally. “That business about Melinda and Diane. He was real upset about that.”

  “How come?”

  “I’ll tell you plain out, Pastor. Up to ten years ago, Owen had a drinkin’ problem. Bad. And it was Zach Gibbons who was his drinkin’ partner. They weren’t friends, mind you. But they were comrades in booze. Zach would have to drive Owen home sometimes.”

  Matt gave her a sideways glance.

  “Yeah, you heard right. Owen drank more than Zach back then. Zach had brought him home passed out more than once.” She sighed. “Way more than once. I think Owen probably started when we found out that Joshua…wasn’t normal.”

  “But he stopped.”

  “One night when he was at a bar, our house caught on fire. He got back to the house lickety-split. I think when he found out the whole family was safe, he made some sort of pact with God.”

  Sherylene turned and looked straight at Matt. He kept his eyes on the road, but he could feel her stare.

  “I think that he was passed out on that night that Melinda and Diane went missin’, and I don’t think he really knew whether or not Zach had taken ‘em to the bus station.”

  Or maybe two drunk men had done a lot worse to two young girls than giving them a ride.

  “So anyways, between the finances at the house and the news about the Platt girl bein’ found in the river, Owen went back to drinkin’. I was so mad at him. I…I—” Sherylene clenched her fists, fighting for control. “I actually turned away from him in bed. I’d never done that before.” Her knuckles were turning white as she fisted her hands. “And then Sid Davis came today and told us about the insurance—that it doubled if the death was an accident and this here’s seen as an accident in the sight of the law…” She put her hands over her face. “Pastor, please, keep this between you and me. But are you sure that Owen was murdered? That he didn’t commit—” She couldn’t finish the question, but broke into sobs.

  Matt pulled the car over to the side of the road. “Sherylene, look at me.” He took her gently by the shoulders. “Look at me.”

  She uncovered her face, but her tears wouldn’t stop.

  “I promise you, Owen did not commit suicide. That bullet was shot from a gun behind his head. His hands were clenched in prayer. Death was instant when that bullet hit. There’s no way he could’ve pulled the trigger and folded his hands before he died. It’s not possible. Besides, where’s the gun?”

  “Are you sure?” Sherylene collapsed against him.

  “I’m absolutely sure,” he said, wrapping her in his arms.

  “But why would anyone kill my husband?” she sobbed.

  Matt laid his head on hers and held her shaking body. Deep inside he was beginning to believe that the murderer had shot the wrong man.

  Matt was the reason Owen Seegler was dead.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A Message from the Dead

  James W.’s phone call should have delighted Angie. He reserved a table for this evening for a meeting he was having with Matt. That meant business was great, right?

  She didn’t feel the glee of success, however. Something had been niggling at her ever since she’d awakened that morning, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.

  “You’d best go up and change,” Dorothy said, interrupting her thoughts. The cook nodded at Angie’s greased T-shirt. “When’s that new keg fridge comin’ in, anyway?”

  Angie grunted in answer and headed for the stairs.

  She debated whether or not to simply toss the dirty shirt, or try to salvage it with a good scrub. Her mother, of course, would never have allowed her to even consider throwing out clothes. She smiled. Well, a little elbow grease might do the trick.

  She entered her apartment and headed for the bathroom. When she saw her mother’s bedroom door, she stopped. Shadow was lying in front of the door.

  That’s what this feeling was. She and Shadow had shared this same sense in the last years of Maeve’s life.

  Fear.

  Toward the end, Maeve had a tendency to take random walks to places where her mind told her to go. Shadow, her beloved bloodhound-faced dog with a German shepherd’s body, was ever on the lookout for Maeve, however. Faithfully, Shadow had always guided the old woman back to the safety of the Fire and Ice House.

  Except for that last time.

  “You feel it, too, boy?” Angie scratched behind his ears, then opened the door to Maeve’s room.

  The space was small, with barely enough room for the twin bed, table and dresser. Lavender rosettes papered the walls, and she could still smell the perfume her mother had worn. Ambush was its name? She tried to remember. She had often scolded Maeve that she should try a new scent, but Maeve would shake her head and say, “It was your da’s favorite.” This had always struck Angie as odd, since Maeve had never revealed who Angie’s father was.

  Angie breathed in deeply. Thank goodness Maeve had never changed it.

  Angie sat delicately on the bed. This was the first time she’d come into this room since her return from Ireland. Now its treasures held even more meaning.

  On the bedside table stood a hand-painted bridal rose design parlor lamp, a Bible and a Clones lace Celtic cross. Angie picked up the lace, and wond
ered if any of her relatives had made it. Clones, Ireland, the home of her ancestors was known for its beautiful lace. Until her recent trip, she’d never realized the quality of the items in Maeve’s room.

  She looked across to the Victorian walnut dresser and saw, really saw for the first time, the lace Tessie Coasters which decorated the marble top. The Clones lace Wild Rose Garden hanging on the back wall was identical to the one Maeve’s great aunt had made, which was still displayed in her cousin’s dining room. She wondered if that same great aunt had made the one for her mother as well.

  Well, what was troubling her wasn’t in this room. She went to the door, gave a final smile back into her mother’s bedroom and decided she would come back in here more often.

  Shadow followed her into the bathroom. He looked up at Angie, his ears perked, his eyes watchful. Angie could swear he felt the same sense of impending doom that she was experiencing.

  Discomfited, she went back to her bedroom to change, Shadow close behind.

  ***

  The planning for Owen’s funeral took place in the Paradise Funeral Home family room. Comfortable brown upholstered furniture filled the room, and there was a small kitchenette against the far wall where a pot of coffee was brewing.

  Matt took a seat in a leather reading chair. Deborah and her sister Rebecca sat on the couch, with their mother between them.

  Matt opened his Bible.

  It wasn’t the Bible he kept by his bedside, nor the large one that rested on the church’s altar. This was the one he used in his church office for composing sermons, as it was complete with a concordance and an inscription from his favorite homiletics teacher.

  Matt opened it, and the book fell open to Exodus, where a church attendance card had been stuck in the pages.

  What in the world, he wondered, picking up the card. He did not use paper items to mark his places, rather the ribbons that hung from the book’s binding.

  He turned the card over and became even more baffled. Written in a familiar penmanship it read, “Follow the suitcases. #13.”

  He’d seen plenty of notes and scribbles passed to him by different council members. If he wasn’t mistaken, this handwriting looked a lot like Owen Seegler’s.

  He and Owen had never discussed suitcases. And he had no idea what the thirteen stood for…unless. He looked back to the Bible and sure enough, it was open to the twentieth chapter of Exodus where God proclaimed the Ten Commandments to Moses.

  Verse thirteen read, “Thou shalt not commit murder.”

  ***

  When Angie walked into the Fire and Ice House kitchen, Dorothy Jo was sweating over a bucket of unpeeled potatoes.

  Angie smiled. “I don’t know of any other bar within thirty miles of this place that makes mashed potatoes from scratch.”

  “That’s because nobody else within thirty miles does it right.” Dorothy Jo looked up and grinned at Angie. Today’s special was meat loaf and mashed potatoes. “I figured we needed some more for tonight. Business is good.”

  Angie went over to the fridge and pulled out a Coke. Shadow stood at the doorway between the kitchen and bar. He whined, knowing he would be in trouble if he entered the kitchen.

  Dorothy Jo looked over at him. “What’s up with you, boy? Didn’t your mamma feed you lunch?”

  “I fed him,” Angie said. “He’s just got a bad feelin’ about somethin’.”

  Dorothy Jo looked at Angie. “And how do you know that?”

  “‘Cuz I have a bad feelin’ about somethin’.”

  Coke in hand, she went over to the window that looked out over Mason Street.

  “What’s up?” Dorothy Jo asked, barely missing a beat on her peeling.

  “Wish I knew.” Angie took a sip from the bottle. “It’s just a feelin’. Like I had when Mamma went missin’ last January. I just knew somethin’ wasn’t right.”

  That got Dorothy Jo’s attention. She’d never been one to discount Angie’s instincts about her mother. “But then you knew the problem was about your mamma. Who’s this about?”

  “I don’t know. I feel like somethin’s about to happen. Somethin’ bad.” She looked out the window again. “The heat’s not helpin’. Feels like it could explode out there.”

  Dorothy Jo put her knife down. “Maybe that’s it.”

  “Hmm?” Angie turned from the window.

  “Weatherman said there’s a low comin’ in off the Gulf. Thinks we might be gettin’ some bad thunderstorms.”

  Angie considered for a moment. “Yeah. It feels heavy like that. Like it does before a storm.”

  The phone rang at the pass-through, and Angie moved to answer it. “Fire and Ice House.”

  She listened, then smiled. “Hey, James W. What can I do for you this time?”

  Her expression took on a curious look, but she shrugged and handed the phone to Dorothy Jo. “He wants to talk with you.”

  ***

  When Matt finally left the funeral home, it was almost three in the afternoon. Rebecca and Deborah had taken Matt aside to talk about their own grief as well as their concern for their mother.

  He was backing out of the Paradise parking lot when Deborah ran out of the funeral home to catch him.

  “Sorry, Pastor,” she said breathlessly as Matt rolled down his window.

  “No problem. Forget something?”

  “Yeah.” She fished in the purse she had slung across her body. “I thought you might want to look at this.” She pulled out a cell phone and hit the power button. Waiting for it to come to life, she explained, “The Rangers gave it back to us. We needed all his contacts to call everyone Dad knew to tell them about…what’s happened, and about the funeral and all.” The phone was still dead, and she punched again at the power button.

  Matt was confused. “So?”

  “Well, you know how we’re goin’ to do some corkboards with pictures of Dad and all for tomorrow night?”

  “Yes.” It was a common practice at visitations, especially when it was a closed casket.

  “Well, I was goin’ through the photos on his phone to see if there was anything we could use—” This time she slapped the phone with her hand. “Doggone it. I think the battery needs chargin’.”

  Matt took the phone from her and gave it the once over.

  “There’s some strange photos in there of a place I didn’t recognize.”

  “Strange?” That caught Matt’s attention.

  “Yeah. I didn’t want Mom to see them, but I didn’t want to delete anything without showin’ them to someone.”

  “I’ve got the same kind of phone,” Matt said. “You’re right, this thing needs charging. But what about these photos did you not want your mom to see?”

  Deborah looked toward the funeral home to make sure her mother was nowhere around. Satisfied, she turned to Matt and whispered, “Dirty laundry, and most of it is girls’ underwear.”

  It was the last thing Matt had expected to hear. “Girls’ underwear?” he repeated.

  At that point, the front door of the Paradise opened and Sherylene and Rebecca emerged into the hot sun. Deborah shoved the cell phone back into Matt’s hand. “If you have the same kind of phone, you can charge it and get to the pictures. And don’t tell Mom!” She pushed off the Oldsmobile. “Bye, Pastor,” she said and backed away. “Duke and I will call you about the weddin’ arrangements!” With that, Deborah joined her mother and sister.

  ***

  After stopping at McDonald’s for a late lunch, Matt had one more duty to perform before leaving Dannerton.

  On the way, he put in a call to James W.

  Matt had decided to lay the cards out for the sheriff. It was time to tell James W. the full story about Pastor Matt Hayden. Or should he say Officer Michael Hogan Jr.?

  The call went to James W.’s messages. Frustrated, Matt found the contact number for the police station and hit enter.

  “Hey, Pastor,” came the friendly voice of James W.’s secretary, Sarah. “What can I do for you?”


  Caller ID, Matt remembered. “I’m looking for James W. Is he around?”

  “I’m afraid he’s not. Can I give him a message?”

  “Should I try him at home?”

  “He didn’t go home. Elsbeth just called lookin’ for him, too. He didn’t tell me where he was goin’, but he said he wouldn’t be back today. I can call him over the radio if this is an emergency.”

  Matt considered. Staying away from the church and parsonage would be the ticket for keeping himself safe. And there was something he had to do out of town.

  “No, I’m good. But could you let him know I won’t be able to meet him tonight until around nine o’clock?”

  “Sure will, Pastor.”

  “I’ll leave a message on his cell phone, too. Thanks, Sarah.”

  The Pit Stop was only a five-minute drive from the McDonald’s. Matt turned into the bar’s parking lot. He snapped out his white collar and got out of his Olds, hoping no one from his congregation would see him visiting this derelict structure. He ducked under the sign hanging precariously over the door and walked into the smelly interior.

  It took his eyes a few moments to adjust from the bright sunshine outside to the room’s dark confines, but eventually he made out a fifteen-foot-long bar on the left and four Formica-covered tables on the right. The concrete floor was sticky. The only light in the place seemed to come from the major-brand beer signs that hung around the room.

  “You want somethin’?” The female bartender was washing down the bar top, but as far as Matt could tell she was only moving slop from one side to another. She was no looker. He wasn’t sure where her tattoos ended and her clothing began, but all were grimy.

  “I’m looking for whoever was working here last Friday,” he said.

  The woman looked unwilling to answer, but finally said, “That’d be me.”

  Matt walked over to the bar. “Was there a man here around three o’clock? About my size and—”

  “What’ll you have?” she interrupted abruptly.

  “I’m fine.”

  She glared at him. “You wanna talk, you’re gonna drink.”