Frank Bennett Adirondack Mountain Mystery Box Set

by S. W. Hubbard

FRANK SAT IN THE MIDDLE of the darkened church. It was freezing in there. Now that Oliver was no longer giving organ lessons, Augie left the heat turned back to fifty until Saturday morning, when he set it on its slow climb to sixty-eight.

  He let his head fall back against the pew and gazed up at the thick beams supporting the vaulted ceiling. He could still see the spot where Oliver's bullet had lodged in one. One tiny hole in the oak beam—the only outward sign of the desecration that had occurred here.

  And the silence.

  According to the scuttlebutt at the Store, Matthew hadn’t laid a finger on the organ keyboard since Oliver’s death. Another thing the town could thank him for— ruining their prospects for a new organist.

  A rustle of cloth and the creak of a floorboard roused him. Bob Rush stood in the chancel, surveying the decorations for Thanksgiving Festival Sunday. He adjusted the cornucopia the ladies had filled with fall produce, knocking loose the acorn squash keystone of the arrangement. Butternuts and mini-pumpkins and gourds bounced off the communion table and rolled down the aisle.

  “Shit!”

  Despite his morose mood, Frank laughed.

  Bob spun around, glaring. Then he, too, began to laugh.

  "Oh, man, I’m in trouble now.”

  Frank slid out of the pew and chased down an errant squash. “I’ll help you put it back together. Ardyth and Bernice will never know.”

  “Don’t bet on that. Ardyth has the location of each vegetable imprinted in her memory. If I don’t confess, she’ll think Bernice sneaked in here and changed it.”

  “In that case, you definitely shouldn’t confess. Sit back and enjoy the fireworks.”

  Recreating the cornucopia was like building a house of cards. After a few collapses, they finally hit on a successful arrangement.

  “What do you think?" Bob surveyed their work from a few steps down the main aisle.

  “Don’t preach too loud on Sunday. Sound waves could trigger another avalanche.” The instant he mentioned sound, Frank’s high spirits drained out of him. They wouldn’t have to worry about vibrations from the organ, would they?

  The transformation of his mood must have passed across his face. Bob’s tone grew gentler in response.

  “Matthew is going to play on Sunday. Did you know that?”

  Frank shook his head. “How did you change his mind?”

  “I didn’t change it. We’ve been talking a lot. He came to the decision himself.” Bob perched on the edge of the first-row pew, while Frank remained standing. “He doesn’t blame you for what happened, Frank. He’s been blaming himself.”

  “Matthew? Why? He did nothing wrong.”

  “He stayed silent. Matthew was closer to Oliver than anyone here. He suspected for a while that there was something wrong with his teacher. He knew about Oliver’s father; knew that his brother had killed himself although not all the details. Matthew told me that when he came into the church for his lessons, he often would find Oliver talking to himself. Sometimes Oliver would have flashes of irrational suspicion. But Matthew overlooked it all because he liked Oliver so much. He didn’t want there to be anything wrong with him. Now he thinks if he had come to me or you for help, maybe things would have turned out differently.”

  Bob paused and took a deep breath. “Maybe they would have, maybe not. I think you and I were seduced by Oliver’s charm and talent, too. I'm not sure we would have believed Matthew.”

  Frank had been listening with his eyes focused on the cornucopia. The colors and shapes swirled before his eyes, an abstraction of his seething doubt. “Nothing changes the fact that I’m the one who shot him. I should have been able to talk him down. I should have been able to get the gun away from him.”

  “He would have shot you, Frank, if you had tried. And then he would have shot Ernie when he came in. How would that outcome be any better?”

  Frank jammed his hands in his pockets and looked up at the organ loft. “That’s just it. I’m sure he wouldn’t have shot Ernie. If I’d waited a second longer, Oliver would have realized the person below him wasn’t Payne. I shot too soon."

  “Oh, I think Oliver was quite aware that Ernie wasn't Payne, and he would’ve fired the shot anyway. Maybe he would’ve missed, maybe not. And then you would’ve fired.”

  For the first time in their conversation, Frank’s gaze locked on Bob. “What do you mean?”

  “Frank, has it ever occurred to you that Oliver wanted you or the state police to kill him? He put himself in an unwinnable situation because he didn’t want to walk out of this church alive. He wasn’t quite brave enough to turn the gun on himself. He let you do the job.”

  Frank could hear his own breath going in and out through his mouth. “There’s a name for it. Suicide by cop.”

  "Yes. You were simply the weapon he chose.”

  Frank turned away. “Not quite. A gun doesn’t have a say in how it’s used. I didn’t have to let him co-opt me.”

  “Frank, there was no possibility for a happy ending here. Even if you had managed to talk Oliver down, he would have been convicted of Heather’s and Reiger's murders. He would have spent the rest of his life in prison or a mental institution. The Oliver we had come to love was already dead.”

  No possibility of a happy ending. Bob had hit it, there. That was what ate at him all day and night. “Why? Why did this have to happen?”

  “God—”

  Frank held up his hand. "Don’t say ‘God works in mysterious ways.’ Please just don’t say that.”

  Bob looked miffed. “I was going to say that with God, the worst thing is never the last thing. After the Crucifixion came the Resurrection. Some good will come of this, Frank.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “I couldn’t go on doing what I do if I didn’t. Some good will come.”

  “Like what?”

  Bob rose and embraced Frank without awkwardness or embarrassment. And for a longer moment than he would have admitted, Frank allowed himself to be held. He pulled away, and Bob looked him in the eye.

  “Be patient. Watch, and you’ll see it.”

  Chapter 36

  There was no miraculous rolling away of the guilt stone. But in the days following his talk with Bob, incremental erosion made the weight bearable.

  On Friday, Earl greeted him with a cheery, “Have you heard the news?”

  “Augie Enright came through his hemorrhoid operation—Doris beat you to it.”

  “No, not that. Big news—the North Country Academy is under new ownership. MacArthur Payne wants out of the therapeutic school business for good. He’s retiring to Montana.”

  Frank’s head snapped up. “Some other crackpot has taken it over? Forgive me if I’m not blocking the streets for a parade.”

  “Not a crackpot,” Earl protested. Then he hesitated. “Well, I guess they are kind of crackpots, but okay ones. And now the school won’t close, and Lorrie gets her job back. And with Chuck’s parents moving south for the winter, Chuck’s given up on trying to keep full custody of the kids. Everything’s working out great. Except for Ray—I don’t think they’ll be needing him anymore.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Who’s taking over the academy?”

  "Paul and Katie Petrucci.”

  Frank gave Earl the look he had perfected for those occasions when his assistant dragged in some half-baked rumor and laid it at his feet like a cat presenting a dead mouse.

  “I’m serious, Frank. It’s for real. Katie and Paul are buying the school from Payne.”

  “Buying it? They can’t even make their house payments.”

  “That’s the other part of the news. You know that company they invested in—Nutri-Green? Well, it went public. They made half a million bucks just like that.” Earl snapped his fingers. "They’re selling some of the stock and using the money to make a down payment on the academy. Then Paul’s going to find some other investors—maybe some of the parents, since a lot of them are rich. And he and Katie are goin
g to run it. It’s still going to be for screwed-up kids, but Paul’s going to treat them better. Use some different methods, or whatever.”

  Would Paul and Katie have the skill to pull this off? Payne’s authoritarian approach had certainly led to disaster, but he suspected academy kids would run roughshod over Katie and Paul. This was not a group who responded to time-outs.

  “How do you know so much about it?" Frank asked.

  “Paul’s over at Malone’s right now, telling everyone. You should go over.”

  “I think I will.”

  By the time Frank reached Malone’s, Paul’s crowd of eager listeners had dissipated. He sat in the back booth, poring over a stack of papers and writing notes.

  "Hi, Paul. I hear you have big news."

  Paul looked up, a radiant smile transforming his severe features. Frank realized he’d never seen the man happy before.

  “I guess Earl told you the basics. Katie and I take over the academy next month.” He nodded at the papers before him. “I’m working on a revised curriculum and a new prospectus.”

  “That’s terrific. Congratulations.”

  Paul began to chatter happily about his plans—the expansion of the creative arts programs, the counseling professionals he would hire, the camaraderie he hoped to foster among the students.

  "And then we’re going to—” Paul cocked his head. “You don’t think we can pull this off, do you?”

  Had the expression on his face been that transparent? Frank stammered in embarrassment, but then found his voice. Paul had given him an opening and he was going to take it. There was too much at stake to offer nothing but mindless assurances.

  “Look, I don’t pretend to know anything about educational theory, but can I offer you a little advice based on life experience?”

  “Go right ahead.” Paul's encouraging words didn’t jibe with the purse of his lips.

  “I’m glad you’re taking over the academy, I really am. I think the changes you’re planning will be great.” Leading off with positive reinforcement didn’t come naturally to Frank, but he gave it his best shot. “Just think about this: Sometimes, when you don’t like someone, you can’t imagine that anything they’ve ever said or done could be right. I lost my job in Kansas City because I couldn’t bring myself to listen to another cop who I happened to think was an ass.”

  Frank paused. "You and MacArthur Payne were at odds, but some of what he did at the academy had value. Those kids do need discipline, and structure, and close supervision to turn their lives around. They’re not equipped to handle complete freedom.”

  Paul listened to all of this while staring at his folded hands on the table. When Frank stopped talking, Paul never raised his eyes.

  So much for the dispensing of free advice. Paul obviously had his own vision for the academy, and the opinions of an old fart like Frank didn’t play into it. He stood and walked toward the door.

  “Frank.”

  With his hand on the door, he looked back.

  “I hear you.”

  Leaving Malone’s, Frank had a strong impulse to hear what Bob had to say about this new development. The pastor had the phone held to his ear as Frank approached the door, but he wasn’t speaking. He waved Frank in. “Just listening to messages. I’ll be done in a second.”

  Bob made a note on his calendar, pressed a button to move to the next message, and began to laugh. “Listen to this—you probably have the same message on your phone. Lucy’s planning another one of her matchmaking dinner parties. I wonder who she has in store for us this time?”

  “Why’s she calling you? I thought she already found success in that department,” Frank answered, feeling much less amused than Bob.

  “With Janice the sociologist? No thanks. I don’t know why everyone thinks pastors should be attracted to drab, earnest women.”

  Frank wasn’t sure what shocked him more—Bob’s brutally honest assessment of the charmless Janice or the implication that he and Penny were not an item. “Wait a minute, Lucy didn't invite Janice for you, she invited her for me.”

  Bob tossed a crumpled message slip across the desk toward his wastebasket and sank the shot handily. "Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone can see that Penny only has eyes for you.”

  Frank was so flabbergasted he couldn’t respond.

  “I could never date Penny,” Bob continued. “She’s still a member of this congregation—she never transferred to a new church after her divorce.”

  Frank coughed in an effort to regain his composure. “Well, surely there’s a way around that...”

  “I don’t want to get around it. I like Penny, and she likes me, but there’s no chemistry between us.”

  This had to rank as the weirdest conversation he’d ever had—discussing sexual chemistry with a Presbyterian pastor. He felt himself gaping like a fool.

  Bob continued with a twinkle in his eye. “Come on, Frank—I’m just a man like anyone else. I want a woman I feel a spark with, but finding someone is not easy when you’re in my line of work, especially in a small town. Try going to happy hour in Lake Placid and striking up a conversation with a girl. As soon as you tell her what you do for a living, she’s heading for the ladies’ room. I tell you, I could empty out an entire bar in a couple of minutes.”

  Frank laughed out loud. He’d never seen this side of Bob before—or maybe he’d chosen not to notice it—and suddenly he understood why everyone else liked the minister so much. “You’re right, it’s not easy being a bachelor in the Adirondacks. I guess we have no choice but to keep accepting Lucy's invitations.”

  “Actually, I have a date this Friday night. If it goes well, maybe I can afford to turn Lucy down.”

  “Who’s the lucky girl?”

  Bob looked sheepish. “I haven't exactly met her yet. We’ve only exchanged e-mails. She’s a schoolteacher in Burlington. We got in touch through this Internet dating service for clergy—men-of-the-cloth-dot-com.”

  Frank roared with laughter. “Maybe I should see if they have one for cops—men-with-badges-dot-com.”

  “Don’t bother.” Bob glanced out his window at the town green. “You don't have to look any further than our new library.”

  THANKSGIVING FESTIVAL Sunday dawned crisp and cold. Four inches of snow had fallen during the night, just enough to make the world fresh and new. The ultra-efficient county road crew had already cleared it, so there was no excuse for missing church.

  Frank put on a tie and sports coat, unnecessary formalities for services at Trout Run Presbyterian, but he deplored the current trend toward attending worship looking like you'd just left off chopping wood. Besides, he sang better when dressed up.

  He arrived early to get a good seat—one in the rear. The pews filled up quickly around him. Frank read the bulletin, stared at the cornucopia, studied the pew Bible—anything to keep himself from looking up at the organ loft or the beam with the bullet hole. He noticed Penny come in—she marched down the aisle and took a seat front and center in the second row. Despite the pastor’s disclaimer, Frank was sure she wanted Bob to be aware of her presence.

  Soon the choir filed in, the crowd silenced, and everyone rose for the processional hymn. Penny kept glancing over her shoulder anxiously. In a moment he realized why. Her reluctant converts—Edwin, Lucy, and Olivia—slipped in and squeezed into a rear pew. But even after she acknowledged them, Penny continued to look for someone. Finally her gaze found Frank in the crowd, and she smiled that dazzling Penny smile. After that, she turned and opened her hymnal.

  From the organ pipes above and behind him, the first notes of "Come, Ye Thankful People, Come” rang out. The choir, all ten of them, sang along, sounding better than he’d ever heard them. The congregation chimed in, getting stronger with every verse as they realized Matthew would not lead them astray with some sudden tempo change or key shift.

  To his left, he heard a strong baritone that faded out on the second and third verses but came back strongly on the refrain. He glanced over and
saw Ernie Portman singing lustily, a discarded hymnal on the pew behind him. A beam of sunlight slanted through the high window, a celestial spotlight illuminating his joyous face.

  The hymn ended with a rumbling flourish of the Bombard pipes. An appreciative murmur ran through the crowd as heads turned toward the organ.

  Frank turned and looked, too. The final crescendo still hung in the air. Matthew sat with his fingers on the keyboard, his eyes cast down, maybe listening, maybe praying. For a moment the crowd disappeared—it was just Frank and the musician and the sound.

  Then Matthew looked up and spotted his brother in the crowd. He lifted his fingers in a tiny salute.

  Ernie smiled.

  It was enough.

  THE END

  DEAD

  DRIFT

  Chainsaw Nativity

  The Thanksgiving turkey had not yet been served, but as soon as the first snow fell, signs of Christmas began popping up around Trout Run, New York. The ladies crafts circle hung an elaborate wreath on the door of the Presbyterian Church, while the bartender at the Mountainside strung tinsel over the beer kegs and mounted an erratically lighted sign that proclaimed Merr Ch istmas, a slurred Teleprompter for the patrons perched on his wobbly barstools. North Country Country 93.3 played Dwight Yoakum’s “Here Comes Santa Claus” at least once an hour; every night a few more houses glowed with fairy lights. And, on the town green, Bucky Rheinholz’s chainsaw Nativity was unveiled.

  FRANK BENNETT DODGED through the Nativity-viewing crowd, already dense at ten in the morning. He would have liked to pause and look at the statues again himself, but was already late for his meeting with Pastor Bob Rush. Charging into the church office out of breath, Frank saw he needn’t have hurried. No Myrna at the front desk, no Bob in the pastor’s study. Then, from the kitchen he heard voices.

  “Yesterday the milk disappeared, today it’s the sugar. I tell you, I can’t put anything in this kitchen without it being carried off.”

  “You know they need it, Myrna. Just go buy some more.”