The Preacher's First Murder (A Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery Book 1)

by K. Gresham

  “How is it that you all spend your holidays together?” Matt asked, taking his first sip of beer.

  “Pearl was married to Roth. You know, James W.’s older brother. The one that died in Iran.”

  Matt sat back, surprised. “Really.”

  “Didn’t you know? Heck, I figured you pastors looked all of that stuff up in church records before you preached your first sermon.” Ernie was pleased at his ability to be the source of news to the pastor. Pastors, in his estimation, knew almost as much gossip as he did. “Pearl and Roth were hitched a few months before he went over to rescue them hostages. Roth never came back. Sand storm, my ass.”

  The Iranian hostage crisis? Matt would have to check into that. “Hard time for the country. Can’t imagine what it would’ve been like for Miss Olivia.”

  “Yeah. I was glad I could help Miss Olivia out.”

  Matt arched his eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

  “Miss Olivia was all upset about Roth, then Cash.” He chuckled to himself and took another chug from his beer. “She was sure upset about Cash.”

  “He was her husband.”

  Ernie smirked. “You don’t know the half of it.” He wiped the frost of the beer away from his mouth. “Anyway, she didn’t want to be stuck with takin’ care of Pearl. She let it be known to me that she’d appreciate it if I could ‘handle’ the situation, as they say.”

  Matt took a moment to register Ernie’s meaning. “Is that how you came into the Novak land?”

  Ernie grinned. “I like you, Preacher. I really do. I got that and a few other things.” He shrugged. “What the heck? Pearl was used goods. And I sure got Miss Olivia out of a jam.”

  Matt kept his gaze friendly, but in his estimation Ernie had just crossed a line with him. “It’s a wonder Pearl was agreeable to another marriage after losing her husband.”

  Ernie shrugged. “She had a duty. She didn’t want to be a burden to Miss Olivia. After all, Miss Olivia lost a son and a husband.”

  “Literally lost a husband, I understand,” Matt said. “Cash Novak’s body was never found?”

  Ernie nodded, shifted. “Cash was in Houston for the presidential debate. He was busier than a three-legged cat tryin’ to cover up poop on an icy pond.”

  “Cash was in politics?”

  “He had money and he had opinions, and with him bein’ in the army twice, he sure as hell had connections. But I found him. Got word to him that Roth was dead. He headed home.” Ernie took a drag. “But he never made it. First place I went lookin’ for that crazy sonuvagun was Miss Lida’s.”

  “The whorehouse?” Matt’s head came up in surprise.

  “So you heard about that place, huh?” Ernie grinned. “Cash and I went there occasionally. Lord knows he wasn’t gettin’ any at home.”

  Ernie lifted his hand to order another beer, but Matt knew he had heard all he could tolerate. He stood and threw a couple of dollars on the table. “Thanks for the time, Ernie. I’m gonna see how Angie’s doing.”

  Without a backward glance, Matt walked into the kitchen.

  “Done drinkin’ with the devil?”

  If Matt had been expecting tears, he should have known better. Angie O’Day was standing over the fryer, her face red from the hot grease of the sputtering fries.

  Instead of answering her, Matt went over to the porcelain sink labeled “Hand Washing Only” and ran his hands under hot water.

  “Feelin’ greasy, Preacher?” she challenged. “Hangin’ out with slime like Ernie’ll do that to you. More often than not Bo has to take him home ’cuz Ernie’s too drunk to find the way himself, and the man only lives across the street.”

  Matt flicked a paper towel from the dispenser above the sink and dried his hands. Angie was right, actually. Being around Ernie Masterson left him feeling soiled. “How are you doing, Angie?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” she said, raising a basket full of fries from the grease and dumping them in a paper-lined pan. She picked up a shaker and began salting the fries. “My mother’s dead because someone drove her out to a deer lease and let her loose, and the sheriff says it was an accident.”

  “You blame Ernie.”

  “I hate Ernie,” she corrected him. “I blame the sheriff for not seein’ the evidence right in front of him.”

  Matt swallowed uncomfortably. His words about Shadow had put the thought in Angie’s mind that Maeve had been driven to her death.

  “Hate’s a strong word.”

  “As much grief as Ernie has given me about growing into a ‘beautiful woman’ all the while eyein’ my breasts like they would be his next lunch, makes a woman consider hate. That’s a pervert sittin’ out there, Preacher.” She pointed accusingly at the swinging doors. “He goes to your church.”

  “Angie.” Matt cleared his throat.

  “To think, I was afraid once that he was my father. As much as he hung around my mamma, talkin’ to her in private.” She shook her head, all the while liberally salting the fries. “Mamma laughed when I asked her. Out and out belly-laughed.”

  “Angie?” Matt stepped forward.

  “Mamma had a wonderful laugh. She said me bein’ afraid Ernie was my father was the funniest thing she ever heard.”

  “Angie.” Matt cleared his throat.

  “Then she slapped me for thinkin’ she’d go to bed with a man like that.”

  “Angie?”

  “What?” she demanded impatiently, slamming the saltshaker on the table. “I’m tellin’ you my life story here.”

  “Angie, are you expecting people to eat those fries?”

  The preacher tried not to laugh. She could see it in the way his lips twitched. She looked down at the mound of fries that were now coated with a thick blanket of salt.

  She swallowed down her embarrassment. “Salt makes people drink more,” she muttered. “Good for business.”

  Matt allowed her answer to pass without comment, even when she dumped the fries into the garbage and went to the freezer to pull out another bag.

  “So Maeve never told you who your father is?”

  Angie slit open the plastic bag of fries and poured them into the wire mesh basket. She lowered them into the hot grease. “Nope,” she answered finally.

  “Why?”

  “Because she’d made a promise, and Maeve O’Day never breaks a promise.” Angie swallowed hard. “Never broke a promise,” she corrected herself.

  Then finally, because she’d fought it off for so long, and maybe because someone was there who cared enough to ask how she was doing, Angie O’Day sat down on the three-legged stool by the stove and cried.

  “Angie,” Matt said quietly. “You shouldn’t be here tonight.” He crossed to where she sat sobbing, momentarily fought a desire to place an arm around her shoulder, then gave in. Her shoulders were smaller than he’d expected. More feminine. He shook his head against the thought. “Bo and Dorothy Jo can handle things down here.”

  “I have to keep it goin’. The place. It’s her.”

  “It’s both of you,” Matt said. “It won’t go belly-up if you’re not here for one night.”

  “She would have been here.” Angie wiped at her wet face, then walked to the counter where she swiped a paper towel from the dispenser.

  “She would do what she needed to do. You need to do what you need to do.”

  Swollen-eyed, Angie looked back at him. “You’re startin’ to sound like a preacher again.”

  Matt took a deep breath. “I’ll risk a little more, then. Have you made all of the arrangements? For the funeral and all?”

  “The coroner released Mamma’s body to the funeral home today. We won’t be havin’ an open casket.”

  The condition of the body precluded that, Matt already knew. The bitterness in Angie’s voice was understandable. “When’s the service?”

  “Tomorrow. One o’clock.” A new tear streaked down her cheek.

  “Angie, I’d be honored if you’d let me say a few words at your mother�
�s funeral.”

  Angie looked up at him in surprise. “She was Catholic.”

  “She was Christian,” Matt said quietly. “At least that’s what it sounds like from what you’ve told me.”

  “She was. More Christian than most—” Angie stopped in mid-sentence.

  Matt smiled sadly. “Than most of my parishioners?”

  Angie nodded, refusing to feel sheepish.

  “I would like to be of help to you. That’s what I think being a Christian is about.”

  Angie looked at him sharply. “You and Mamma got more in common than I realized.” Finally, she shook her head. “You’re buyin’ yourself a lot of problems, Preacher.”

  “Some people think I’m a wimp, Angie. This is my way of being strong.”

  Angie stood. “I’ll talk to the priest.” She gave Matt a hug. “Thanks,” she whispered. She was about to break the hug when a leering voice came from the doorway.

  “A word of advice,” Ernie Masterson said. He was leaning against the doorjamb, one ankle kicked over the other. His green eyes looked delighted at what he saw. “I wouldn’t do that in full view of the bar.”

  Angie pulled away from the preacher and turned full on Ernie.

  “I’ve put up with you bein’ a pervert and a drunk, Ernie Masterson. But I won’t put up with you turnin’ sympathy for my mamma’s dyin’ into something dirty.” Angie picked up a butcher knife and stalked toward him. “Get the hell outta my bar.”

  “You’re gettin’ your Irish up, Angie girl,” Ernie said, backing up. The amusement drained from his face.

  “It’s Angie ma’am to you from now on,” she said, her pace toward him steady. “If you ever step foot in my bar again, I’ll take care of you so you’ll never be a perverted drunk again. Understand?”

  “Angie, I’m one of your best customers.” Ernie let the swinging doors go as he backed into the bar, but Angie punched through them, knife first.

  “Not anymore you ain’t. My mamma’s dead because you let some Yankee loose on your property with a loaded gun. I’m never gonna forget it, Ernie Masterson. Or forgive you.”

  Ernie backed around the bar. Matt followed through the kitchen doors.

  “You owe ten bucks, Masterson.” Bo came around the other end of the U-shaped bar and grabbed Ernie by the collar. “I’ll pay this round ’cuz I’m never gonna have to serve your sorry ass again,” Bo said, his face flushed with anger. “See that you treat your missus real good from now on, or Angie and I’ll both come after you.”

  Bo kicked at the front door, and with what looked to Matt like a great deal of pleasure, threw Ernie Masterson out on to Mason Street.

  Matt swallowed hard as the door slammed shut. He told himself it had simply been a typical bar brawl. No sheriff called. No blood spilled. Probably the only casualty in the place was the lining of his stomach.

  Then he noted that the bar was completely silent. Not a beer was being lifted. Not a cue ball shot.

  Every eye in the place was trained on him where he stood in the doorway between kitchen and bar.

  Angie finally let the knife drop from violent threat to dead weight at her side. She turned toward the kitchen. “You sure have a way of stirrin’ things up,” she said under her breath as she passed by Matt.

  She walked to the fryer, hauled out the cooked batch of fries, and dumped them into a paper-lined tray.

  Chapter Twelve

  Ancestry.Ben

  “She’s deader than a doornail, Reverend.” Warren Yeck helplessly kicked at the front tire of the church’s blue Ford Aerostar van. Matt had been too jumpy after the scene in Angie’s bar to go straight home. He’d seen the light on in the Yecks’ store’s loading dock and decided to stop by and learn how the church’s van was faring. Its motor had died halfway up 71 on the trek to find Angie’s mother.

  The van was parked beneath a sign announcing the store’s name—Yeck’s Seed, Feed and Hardware Needs. Most folks simply called it the SF & H Store. Ben Yeck, Warren’s younger brother by two years, pushed out from under the vehicle’s hood. “Doubt if even Ernie can fix this.”

  Matt leaned against the doorjamb of the brothers’ garage. “I don’t suppose there’s any money in the budget for a replacement?”

  “There ain’t even money in the budget to fix it.” Ben slammed the hood shut.

  Warren nodded. “I’ll call Ernie in the morning.” He turned at the sound of a buzzer going off on his watch. “That’s the cabbage rolls,” he said, then disappeared to the outside stairs that led to the small apartment the brothers had shared for ten years.

  Ben’s face brightened. “Cabbage rolls. My favorite. Care to stay for dinner?”

  “Thanks, Ben. Not tonight. Sounds delicious, though.” Matt tried his best not to grimace at the sound of the dish.

  “Cabbage rolls are a Czech specialty. That’s what we are, you know. Czech. Our last name is really Yelvetichek. I’ll wager the man at Ellis Island who let my grandpappy in was havin’ a bad day and came up with ‘Yeck’.”

  Matt kept his tongue in his cheek as he tried not to smile too broadly at Ben’s musings. “So what’s wrong with the van?”

  “My money’s on the electrical system,” Ben said, wiping the grease off his hands.

  Matt grimaced. He’d hoped to use the church van if his Ford went belly-up as well. “I guess taking it out to find Maeve was too much for it.”

  Ben nodded his whistle-clean, bald head. Matt noted that the years of working the SF & H’s counter had been kinder to Ben’s skin than the seasons Warren had spent on his tractor beneath the hot Texas sun. “Maeve was a nice lady. No matter what you might’ve heard.”

  “I’ve heard otherwise, that’s for sure.” Matt followed Ben out of the garage. He waited as Ben fumbled for his keys.

  “How do you think Maeve got out there?” Ben queried. He was by far the more astute of the two brothers, Matt realized. Probably from the years of running his own store.

  “Seemed to me it would have been too far for her to walk.” Matt shrugged. “The sheriff feels otherwise.”

  Ben shook his head. “Maybe five years ago Maeve could’ve walked it. But that Alzheimer’s had her pretty feeble.”

  Matt nodded. He’d surmised as much from what he’d already heard.

  “Somebody drove her out there,” Ben said. With a shake of his head, he headed for the back stairs that led to the apartment above the Seed, Feed and Hardware Needs store.

  “So it would seem.” Matt looked up as a bolt of lightning split the sky overhead. “Any ideas who would do a thing like that?”

  Ben thought for a long moment before answering. “Mebbe.”

  They’d reached the bottom of the stairs. It had been a long evening already, Matt thought wearily, and it wasn’t over. Ben had something to say, and unlike his brother who would give a history lesson at a moment’s notice, he took his time in choosing his words.

  “Maeve worked at a pony house,” Ben finally said.

  Matt nodded. “That’s what I heard.”

  “She was the bartender,” Ben said with finality, and Matt knew better than to question how Ben had come about that bit of information.

  “That was over thirty years ago,” Matt observed.

  Ben nodded. “You learn a lot of secrets when you tend a bar. Sometimes it’s like runnin’ a confessional.”

  “Sounds like you’ve done a bit of bartending yourself.”

  “Warren worked the Officer's Club over in Killen during Viet Nam. He heard a lot of things he never wanted to know.”

  “So you’re saying maybe Maeve heard some things at Lida’s Rose Hotel that she shouldn’t have.”

  “Somethin’ like that.”

  “What does that have to do with now?”

  “Now, she was an old lady with Alzheimer’s. Who didn’t remember what she wasn’t supposed to repeat, maybe.”

  Matt nodded slowly. It made sense. “So, who . . .?”

  “Who knew there was a dumb Yankee on tha
t deer lease yesterday?”

  “Ernie.” Matt let out a breath. First Angie, now Ben was thinking that Ernie was involved.

  “I’m not sayin’. It’s none of my business.”

  “Did Ernie go to Lida’s Rose Hotel?”

  Ben Yeck let out a hearty laugh. “Ernie followed Cash Novak around like a puppy dog. Wherever Cash went, Ernie went.”

  “Ernie idolized Cash.”

  “Everything about him. His sense of humor. His sense of money. The man was twenty years Ernie’s senior, but they hung together like Mutt and Jeff.”

  “And Cash frequented Lida’s Rose Hotel.”

  Ben let out another chuckle. “Kept her in business, as far as I’m concerned. You don’t think it was a coincidence that she got closed down just a month after Cash disappeared, do you?”

  “Ben! You comin’?” Warren called from upstairs.

  Matt shook Ben’s hand, then headed out past the dormant redbuds that separated the SF & H store’s property from the church. He had a lot of praying to do.

  After all, Ernie Masterson was a parishioner.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Guest at the Funeral

  The next morning, Pastor Matt Hayden pulled his black suit coat off the hook by his office door and shrugged into it. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

  “It’s real nice, you goin’ to that funeral, Reverend,” said Ann Fullenweider. The efficient church secretary gave him an approving nod that bobbed the pearl barrette in her jet-black hair. “It’s the Christian thing to do.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fullenweider,” Matt said, somewhat uncomfortable with the action he was about to take. “There are those in this church who will not agree with you, I’m sure.”

  She huffed out a breath. “The Wilks and Novaks,” she said, shaking her head. “That bunch—well, they like huggin’ rosebushes, is all I can say.”

  Matt smiled inwardly. Perhaps one of the things he liked best about the capable Mrs. Fullenweider was her take on the realities of Grace Lutheran Church. She certainly had experience at the job, he knew. She’d started as the church secretary thirty years earlier—two years before Pastor Osterburg had finished his tenure at Grace Lutheran.