The sun competed with the clouds all day as it stood sentry over Mrs. Willa Bryce Monroe’s official send-off. I’d never seen so many vehicles of all shapes, sizes, makes and models lining the streets of Bryce Beach. They stretched for miles. You would have thought a member of the royal family rested in the closed casket surrounded by dozens and dozens of floral arrangements. Lilies, roses, carnations, gladioli, orchids, mostly in shades of white, cream, and pastels, and dozens of shades of greenery, from dark waxy greens to light minty yellow filled the sanctuary with their heady scent.
I hadn’t been to a funeral in a while, but it was my understanding that most people didn’t stick to wearing traditional black mourning attire anymore. Not so for Mrs. Monroe. Everyone was decked out in head-to-toe black. It was almost like being in New York City, there were so many mourners dressed head to toe in black. I felt clashy in my navy dress, but black wasn’t a color I liked to wear.
I stepped to the podium with a somber cadence as the organist sustained long, dissonant chords that resolved after languishing for just a hair too long. Pastor Bethany stepped aside, bowing his head solemnly as I took my place behind the microphone. I adjusted it down a little, expecting harsh feedback, but it was surprisingly quiet, and no one in the vast audience of mortal souls who came to pay their last respects to the most cherished elder in our community dared utter a peep.
The intro to Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” came to my head in a momentary flash of dark humor: “Dearly beloved…” But I refrained from starting my eulogy with anything trite. Whenever I tried to be appropriately serious, I had a habit of somehow being anything but appropriate—it was a quality my friends, and I’d venture to say even my YA patrons, found rather endearing, but I wasn’t sure the funeral-goers would feel the same, given the gravity of the situation.
“I was asked to say a few words about Mrs. Monroe and her impact on our small, close-knit community,” I began, lifting my eyes on the last word from my notes to my audience. My heart was thundering inside my chest, pumping blood about a million times faster than what my body could use. Public speaking remained one of my top five fears, but after that night at the library gala when I had to introduce the mayor, plus my newfound appreciation for adrenaline rushes, I didn’t find it nearly as mortifying as in the past.
“Willa Bryce Monroe was an ardent supporter of our public library,” I continued, “where I am the young adult librarian. Thanks to her, I am able to cultivate a love and appreciation of literature in the youth of Bryce Beach. And Molly Simmons, our children’s librarian, is able to supply Bryce Beach’s little ones with all the picture books they could ever want. And Tom Watson, our reference librarian, is able to answer any question a patron could possibly ever have. And Barbara Jensen, our circulation manager, can get folks checked out in a jiffy and keep track of all those pesky due dates and fines.”
A hiss of snickers at that, like I was trying to make a joke, surprised me, but I plodded on, undaunted. “A few months ago, our annual fundraising gala donations were stolen. The biggest portion of those donations came from Mrs. Monroe. If they hadn’t been recovered, then we would have been forced to let some staff go. Our collections would have stagnated. Our programming would have been cut back. Thanks to Mrs. Monroe, the library is now thriving.
“I can’t say enough about how Mrs. Monroe used her wealth to benefit Bryce Beach, but she was also a woman of strong convictions who truly cared about making our community the best it could be. Though she was a senior, she was mentally spry. She walked her dog, Natty, a few times a day. Her house is only a few doors down from the library, so I passed her often on my way to work. I spoke with her not long before her passing. I may have been the last person to see her alive, in fact.”
At this, I scanned the audience to see if anyone’s body language gave away discomfort, guilt, or anything other than abject sorrow. In the first row, Mrs. Monroe’s son and daughter sat stiffly next to each other, their faces stoic and pallid.
“I don’t know the circumstances around Mrs. Monroe’s death beyond that they were horrifying and gruesome, but I know God sees all, and He is in control. God knows what happened to our beloved Willa Bryce Monroe, and He will punish those responsible in whatever way He sees fit. It may not happen here in our earthly realm—the punishment may be an eternity in Hell. But we know that Willa Bryce Monroe is enjoying an eternity of love and peace with our Creator in Heaven. And we can take some measure of comfort in that fact.”
Oops, didn’t mean to get quite so dark there, but I did notice a few people’s spines straighten when I said the word “hell.” There were too many strange faces, so many there from all over the country—probably all over the world. But as I finished up my speech and made one last scan of the sea of humanity all gathered in their dark mourning attire, faces ravaged by grief, I noticed a tall, slim gentleman with snow-white hair, who’d been sitting in the very last pew, duck out of the church.
Nine
The church fellowship hall where our congregation hosted potlucks a few times a year was completely packed with mourners after the funeral. I wasn’t sure how they squeezed in as many tables as they did, but you could barely walk between them without tripping over someone. The line for food was practically out the door—so long, in fact, I had lost my appetite.
I sat down at what had become the unofficial library table. Tom, Barbara, Jada, Molly, Evangeline, Linda The Denim Queen O’Neal, and a few other staff members were gathered. None of them had chosen to brave the line for food yet. I didn’t blame them.
“Your speech was eloquent,” Tom commented as I joined them. “Insightful. Well done.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
Everyone around the table murmured their agreement.
“Did anyone see the older gentleman who snuck out at the end of my speech?” I figured if anyone would know, it would be Tom or Barbara, possibly even Linda. They were all closer to his age and had been around town their whole lives.
“What did he look like?” Barbara asked.
“Tall, maybe seventy-five-ish? Full head of snow-white hair. Clean-shaven. Kind of lanky, wearing an expensive suit,” I described him.
“I don’t think I saw anyone matching that description,” Tom said. “Sorry, if he was behind me, I probably didn’t notice him.”
“Me either,” everyone else agreed.
Darn it. I was really hoping to find out who he was. There was something about him that creeped me out. I had met his gaze right before he unceremoniously stood up and headed to the exit. I wondered if Pastor Bethany saw him? As much as I wanted to avoid talking to the good pastor after that awkward phone conversation last night, my need to identify the strange man seemed to trump it.
I felt a looming presence behind me before turning to see Chief James standing at our table. “Ms. Baker,” he greeted me in his deep, smooth voice. “Ms. Dupree, Ms. Simmons.” He nodded all around the table and addressed every single person there. I was impressed he knew everyone’s name, even Jada, who was a relative newcomer to our community.
“Any updates from the state police?” Tom asked.
It was probably a huge faux pas to ask about the investigation at the victim’s funeral, but sometimes curiosity trumps manners, speaking of things being trumped.
“Nothing I can disclose at the moment,” he replied, a smug smile tilting his lips up.
I watched my parents approaching, wondering if they were plotting out something embarrassing to say in front of the chief and my colleagues. I held my breath waiting for it.
“Oh, Sunshine,” Chief James said once my mother was close enough to put her hand on my shoulder. My eyes snapped to his, waiting to hear what little nugget of information he would present me with. “I just wanted you to know that we located Knox Monroe in Moon Point. We’re not sure how he got there—hitchhiked, I suppose—”
“Knox Monroe?” Tom repeated.
“He’s the young man who...um…had an issue in the library the other day,�
�� I explained, not wanting to call attention to his attempted crime. I was sure this was a young man carrying a heavy burden of pain, and he really needed someone to make a breakthrough before it was too late—before he hurt himself or someone else. I had been praying that his new foster family would be that lifeline for him.
“I see,” Tom answered, while everyone else nodded in acknowledgment.
My mother’s hand went to her chest. “What happened, Sunshine? Was it one of your patrons?”
“I’ll explain it later, Mom. Thanks for letting me know, Chief James.” I just couldn’t bring myself to call him Vin or Vincent in front of all these people.
“I was also wondering,” Chief James continued, “if I might pick your brain a little about him? Could you stop by my office tomorrow?”
“Pick my brain?” I repeated. Chief James didn’t seem like the type of man who needed to pick anyone’s brain about anything, nor the type to even use that phrase.
“His new foster mother advised he has an interest in art, and I wondered if you might suggest some books for him,” the chief clarified, one corner of his lips edging up into a half-smile.
“Oh, of course. Of course. Anything to get him the help he needs,” I agreed. “I’ll stop by tomorrow for sure.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” He gave the group a warm smile and nod and made a beeline across the room. It looked like he was heading for the table where the other members of the BBPD were sitting.
I turned to my parents. “You guys doing okay?”
“Who is this kid Chief James wants to talk to you about?” my mother pressed. She wasn’t very good at letting stuff go. Hmm, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, eh?
“No one, don’t worry about it,” I waved her off, but I knew she would keep harassing me until I gave her the answers she sought. “He’s a foster kid who is having some issues. He tried to steal our donation box. We’re trying to get him some help; that’s all.”
“That sounds like a wonderful ministry,” my mother gushed. “I will pray for him.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Sunny Bunny, your eulogy was very on point,” my father said, wearing a proud smile.
I restrained myself from rolling my eyes at his nickname for me—especially in front of my colleagues; I’d never hear the end of that—but it was nice of him to compliment me. I was about to say something in response when Pastor Bethany rushed over.
“Sunshine!” he called, seemingly out of breath. “You’re just the person I wanted to talk to.”
My heart took a nosedive into my gut and then pumped like a piston. “What’s wrong?”
“Can you come with me for a minute?” His beseeching gaze bore into me, and his sense of urgency made me nervous.
I stood up on shaky legs, the product of excess adrenaline. You’d think, with me growing acclimated to adrenaline rushes these days, a little spike like this would barely affect me, but I was almost more sensitive to it than before. Molly shot me an anxious look as I followed Pastor Bethany away from the table, and I returned a confused shrug.
He led me through the fellowship hall, which was packed to the gills with people and tables, to a hallway that ended in a staircase leading up to the Sunday School rooms and down to the basement. I hadn’t realized how loud it was in the hall until the silence rang in my ears. He hadn’t said one additional word beyond his request for me to follow him a few moments ago, and that was only making me more nervous.
My heartbeat pounding in my ear, I stopped as I waited for him to decide which way he was going to go, because it certainly didn’t seem like he’d figured this out ahead of time. He stopped and dug a set of keys on a metal ring out of his pocket, then unlocked the door across from the restrooms that led to the ministers’ offices.
Ushering me through the doorway, he gave me what he probably thought was a reassuring smile, but it only served to confuse me further. Is this an emergency or not? Before, he was acting like another dead body had been found, but now that we were away from the crowd, he was moving like a tortoise, plodding down the hallway toward his office at the very end.
“You can have a seat if you’d like.” It sounded like he was forcing his voice to sound bubbly, but it came out strained and disingenuous instead.
“Paul, what’s going on?” I chose to stand in front of his desk, my hand on the back of the chair, because sitting did not feel right. I might need to make an escape. My whole body was ringing with warning bells.
He blew out a deep breath as he settled himself in his leather chair and swiveled it to face me. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, Sunshine.”
Oh no. Why does that scare me? Father, what is going on here?
“Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” I could hear the blood rushing through my ears, chugging like a train making its way up a steep mountain.
“Life is so short, Sunshine. Mrs. Monroe’s death reminded me of that—”
“She was eighty-four,” I interjected, not meaning to sound like a jerk, but… Sometimes my snarkiness gets the better of me.
“She still met an untimely demise,” he continued, “and who knows how long she might have had if… Well, you know.”
I did not like where this was headed. Not one bit.
“Mrs. Monroe and I spent a lot of time talking about life, the Bible, and about living a Christian life,” he started up again. “She taught me so much in the short time I’ve been here in Bryce Beach. I can’t believe I only knew her for a few months.” His eyes glistening with tears, he pulled a white cloth handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at the gathering moisture. I spotted his initials, PRB, embroidered in dark blue thread in the corner.
“She confessed so much to me, Sunshine, which I’m not at liberty to share, of course. But I know she had one very haunting regret she shared with me…”
My whole body stiffened as I awaited the continuation of that sentiment.
“She fell in love with a man who was not her husband,” he told me. “She loved him very much, but she knew she could not break her family apart.”
He must be talking about Carlton Boxbury, I thought. I couldn’t believe he was sharing this information with me! Did minister/parishioner confidentiality not extend past death?
“There were some other issues too,” he said, now blowing his nose into the handkerchief in a rather off-putting manner. My stomach churned at the sound of mucus gurgling in his nostrils. “And I won’t get into those because they’re not relevant to us…”
Us? Oh no. This was going to be worse than I’d imagined.
“Sunshine, I’ve been an admirer of yours ever since I came to town…”
As soon as he said the word “admirer,” the two notes I’d received upon the solution of each of the two cases I’d worked sprang to mine. Those notes were also from “an admirer.” It must be him! Even though he was practically brand-new in town when I solved the Bryce Beach Bandit case, and I’d only met him once or twice at that point…it made sense now.
“I just don’t want to let another moment go by without expressing how I feel about you,” he shared, looking up at me with hope in his still glistening eyes.
Where was that gentle but firm rejection speech I’d composed for the other night when he called? I fumbled over my words as I answered, “Oh…oooh, Paul, I—”
“You feel it too, don’t you? I can see it in your eyes, which are so lovely,” he continued, his lips curling into a broad smile. “Your speech today was so succinct, yet so poignant. I knew after you gave it, after seeing you rise to the occasion again and again, you are the extraordinary woman God put on earth for me—”
“Oh, Paul, no,” I stammered, “no, I wasn’t put on earth for you, I’m sure of it.”
“What?” He shook his head as though I was joking with him.
“You’re a very nice man, but I just don’t—” I smiled and tried to find the kindest words I could impart. “I’
m just not interested in a relationship right now, and besides, I would make a terrible minister’s wife. Heck, I can’t even bake a decent batch of cookies! I’d be an utter disappointment to you, I’m sure.”
He stood and reached for my hand, and I let him take it, though it was just as cold and clammy as I remembered from all our handshakes before and after Sunday morning service. “I think we could learn together,” he said. “I’m not a bad cook or baker myself, to be honest. So that is the least of my worries…”
He doesn’t want to take no for an answer, Lord. Help!
In a split-second decision, I blurted out, “I’m so sorry, Paul, but I can’t date you…because my best friend is interested in you.”
Look, I already told you lying isn’t my strong suit.
His jaw parted, and his brows drew together as he scrambled to process my statement. “Molly Simmons?”
I nodded, wishing I hadn’t just let the cat out of the bag like that. What a terrible best friend I am!
Then, much to my surprise, his lips curled back into the same smile he’d shown me just moments ago. “That’s interesting,” he finally said, steepling his hands together on top of his desk, “very interesting.”
“Great!” I smacked my hands together so hard, it stung. “Well, I’ll just be on my way, then.”
I imagined that would be the end of the “secret admirer” messages I found on my doorstep every time I solved a case. Despite not having one iota of attraction toward Paul Bethany, I felt a little pang of disappointment ruffle through me at that.
Maybe because there was a tiny part of me that hoped it was someone else?
Ten
I was directed toward Chief James’s office with no questions whatsoever the following morning. Knocking on his door jamb, as was my regular routine, I met his dark gaze. His usually stoic face melted into a smile that reached all the way to his eyes. Chief James was happy to see me. How unusual.
Dangerous Curves Boxed Set 1: 3 Cozy Christian Mysteries Page 40