A Memory of Murder

by Nichelle Seely

  If I could only talk to her, maybe she could bring some sense to the chaos. She wouldn’t think I was crazy. She might even help me make sense of the hallucinations, the visions. She saw they had value — the fruits of the soul.

  I tremble and wrap my arms around myself. The power of this woman goes far beyond the actual words spoken. I find myself really wanting to believe her.

  I remember a snatch of conversation from Wednesday night between Claire and Takahashi. Claire had said to the reverend that ‘he had already had his chance.’ I didn’t remember the context of her remark, but maybe this broadcast is what she was talking about. To my untutored mind, it seems he had come off the loser.

  Where could Harkness be? If she isn’t just playing hooky, then what? Something more sinister? I suppose being in the spotlight as a pastor, plus the fact that she's a beautiful woman, it’s to be expected that some of the attention she garners wouldn’t be positive or healthy. Has she been threatened, or stalked, or just made uncomfortable in some other way? Is she trying to escape from an unpleasant situation? I’ll have to ask Claire when we meet. Maybe she’ll know if anyone has been after Victoria.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CLAIRE AND I meet at a coffee shop called Three Beans, two blocks from the Portway and within walking distance of my house. It’s late Saturday morning and the place is hopping, hot drink consumption incentivized by the dollops of cold and clammy fog swirling outside. The shop’s plate glass windows front onto Marine Drive and the buzz from the traffic is audible, competing with the hiss of the espresso machine and the chatter from the teenagers on the sofas in the corner.

  I spot Claire at a table near the window, a heavy white mug and a muffin in front of her. She’s wearing a red leather cap and a matching jacket hangs on the back of her chair. The pervasive odor of fresh ground beans tempts me into an Americano with room, and I select a cranberry-orange scone so Claire’s muffin won’t be lonely. Sitting down so I face the door, we exchange remarks about the unpleasant weather. It’s drafty here by the window, so I keep my coat on. My coffee tastes bitter, and I doctor it with a pinch of salt.

  Claire opens the conversation. “I’ve never done this before, so I don’t really know where to begin.”

  “Not to worry, I’ve done this a lot. I’ll start by asking questions, and we can go from there. First, what can you tell me about Thursday, the night Harkness didn’t show up at the church?”

  “After we closed the church, I checked on her myself, thinking she might be ill. When she didn’t answer my text or call, Daniel and I went to her apartment. The car was there, but she was gone. Or at least, no one answered the door.”

  “Maybe she just went for a walk.”

  “That’s exactly what Daniel said. But why, when she had her service to do? The next day — yesterday — I checked the hospitals before I went to work, but nothing. Now I’m worried.”

  “You’re right to be concerned,” I say. “I’m happy to help, but honestly, the police have the resources to do a better search. They can look at phone records and financial records, get a warrant for her apartment, see if she’s been active on line.”

  Claire looks away and takes off her hat, smoothing her close-cropped hair. “Daniel thinks we should give it more time. He’s convinced she’ll turn up. That we’d be invading her privacy. But yesterday I put my foot down, which is why he agreed to have you to look into it. As a compromise.”

  Some compromise.“When was the last time you saw or talked to her?”

  “Me? I’m not sure. It’s been over a week, probably. But Daniel sees her on a daily basis. You could ask him.”

  “He hasn’t said?”

  “No.”

  I pause to consider that. I’m getting a bit suspicious of Daniel, frankly. But. He’s my client and her husband, so I skip that for now.

  “Does she have any family in the area?”

  “Not that I know of. But she did live here as a child, so there could be. Her mother lives in Portland.”

  “Would Victoria have gone to her?”

  Claire scoffs. “I doubt it. I’d sooner believe she was trying to escape from her. That woman is a piece of work.”

  “How so?”

  “She’s super conservative and smothering. Victoria told me how she was always trying to get her to move back home, drop the church, meet a nice man and get married. I think that’s one reason Victoria and I hit it off. I left home as soon as I turned eighteen, jumped on the back of my boyfriend’s Harley and headed for Des Moines.” Her eyes take on a faraway look. “How I did love riding that motorcycle.”

  “You from Iowa?”

  “Yeah. Went from there to California and wound up here in Oregon.”

  “So, a transplant like me. If you have her family’s contact info, I’d like to talk to them. They might be able to shed some light on her motives, or her location.”

  “There’s just her mother, as far as I know. Daniel will have those details. I’ll have him email you.” She takes out her phone and thumbs a quick text.

  “What about lovers? Friends?”

  “I never hear her talk about anyone special. I don’t think she’s seeing anyone seriously. She does sometimes get close to a congregant, but it never lasts long, not like a relationship-relationship. I think it’s just her way of trying to help people. Actually,” Claire says slowly, “I think Daniel and I might be her closest friends. Especially after we moved out here. He used to spend quite a bit of time with her after hours, going over the books.” She looks down at her empty cup. “I’m getting a refill. You?”

  I nod and give her my own mug. While she’s gone, I collect my thoughts. Claire’s already done some of the preliminary legwork, so it’s time to search for Harkness further afield. Assuming Thursday was the day she disappeared, she’s had almost two days to get in touch.

  When she comes back, I ask, “Would Pastor Harkness have gone off with someone? Is she impulsive, spur-of-the-moment?”

  “Nnnooo…I mean, she is open to the moment, but I can’t picture her getting into someone’s car and driving off without a word.”

  That’s right; her car is still at her home. “Is there anyone you can think of that would have meant her harm? Was she frightened of anyone? What about that other preacher who was looking for her on Thursday? He seemed a little hot under the collar.” I tell her about the broadcast I listened to last night.

  “I remember when that show aired. The reverend doesn’t give up. His heart is in the right place, but he just doesn’t get us. Anything outside the mainstream is a cult to him. He’s afraid Pastor Harkness is consorting with demons.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  Claire snorts. “She told me. Apparently he told her that by ‘opening herself to the spirit’ she’s actually opening herself to any old entity that wants to come in.”

  Okay, that sounds creepy and borderline crazy. I don’t believe in the supernatural, ghosts or zombies or demons, but is Takahashi some kind of Exorcist-style crusader? The chilly draft seems to intensify, and I take a swig of hot coffee.

  “What did she think of that?”

  “Pastor Harkness is all about the intention. She says if you are open to evil, then evil can come in. But if you intend to be a channel for goodness and divine energy, that’s what will happen.”

  Except we all know where good intentions lead.

  My inner voice seems to have a mind of its own. It’s actually beginning to worry me.

  Is there a darker side to the church’s worship? Something that would justify Takahashi’s reaction? I clear my throat. “How did you get involved with the Church of the Spirit?”

  She sips her own drink. “Remember how I said it was originally in Portland? I used to live there, as well. I heard her broadcast on the radio, and I was interested. Went to hear her speak. Loved the idea of the Spirit speaking through art. I was taking a painting class at the time.”

  “Did you grow up in the church? Only, her message sounds a lit
tle off the beaten path.” I raise my hand. “I’m not criticizing, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want. I’m just trying to understand the type of person she was, the kind of people she had around her.”

  Claire answers slowly. “I’ve always had faith in a higher power, but just got to a point where the dogma didn’t do it for me anymore. And I don’t want my spiritual life cluttered up with all that secular political crap, you know? And Pastor Harkness doesn’t care who you vote for. Her only mission is to help people get in touch with the Spirit. She trusts the Spirit to handle the rest.”

  Interesting. Whereas the Reverend Takahashi seems to be afraid that letting people communicate freely with the Spirit will lead to all kinds of mayhem. I like the woman Claire is describing. Her organization sounds tolerant and welcoming, centered around positive activity.

  “If I’m going to track her down, I’ll need all the information you can give me, however trivial. Tell me about the move from Portland. Had Victoria been threatened or been in trouble with authorities? Did someone or something drive her away?”

  “Victoria says it was to get closer to the source of the Spirit. She thinks water is an especially spiritual medium, and the confluence of the river and the ocean here make the location cleansing and beneficial.” Claire shivers and puts her hat back on.

  I didn’t miss the slight emphasis on ‘says.’ “Do you believe her?”

  “Yes. At least, I believe that she believes, if you know what I mean. But —”

  At that moment, the group of high school students leave their corner, the girls squealing with laughter and the boys jostling each other.

  “But?”

  Her cup clinks on the table top. “This was a couple of years ago, and I wondered at the time if there was more to it. I mean, moving the church, that’s a big deal. It meant losing most of the congregation. She’d have to start from scratch again. Although, I understand about the river. The whole tradition of baptism confirms the importance of water. And I love being so close to the ocean. I grew up in the midwest, like I said — I couldn’t have been further from the shore if I’d wanted. But Daniel, he tried to talk her out of it. Tried hard. I mean, the church finances were really going to suffer.”

  Hmm. At some point I need to talk to her husband. “Was he angry about the move?”

  “Not angry, no. He came over here, too, after all. He was just aware of the business side of things.”

  I’ll bet. “How about other people?”

  “Clearly, only the most dedicated followed her here. But maybe that was what this was, a winnowing. Separating the wheat from the chaff.”

  I dredge up some long ago Sunday school lesson. “Sheep. Goats. Like that?”

  “Exactly."

  We sit in silence for a few moments, and then she says, “Please find her, Audrey. I’m scared. I don’t care what Daniel says — something’s wrong.”

  Yeah, and maybe it begins with your husband, I think. Claire has been forthcoming, but I have a lot of unanswered questions. Is there more behind the church moving to Astoria? And what about Daniel Chandler’s unaccountable reluctance to go to the police? Does he have something to hide?

  Claire leans forward, kneading her hands together. “You’ve seen cases like this before, you must have. What might make someone want to disappear?”

  “There’s a lot of reasons. Ruling out foul play, I would say that certain people, for whatever reason, just decide they want a different life. Their problems feel too pressing, or too complicated, and running away seems to be the only way out.”

  “Dodging the bullet rather than facing up to their issues?” Claire crosses her arms.

  “There might be all kinds of reasons that drive people to leave: abusive relationships, bankruptcy, even just a longing for adventure. Or just general overwhelm. In general, men choose to disappear because of financial difficulties, and women —” I stop myself, because I don’t want Claire to worry more than she is already.

  She won’t let me soften the stats. “And women?” she prompts.

  “Women tend to vanish because of danger.”

  She catches her breath. “What kind of danger?”

  I shrug, leaning back in my chair. “Abusive partners, obsessive lovers, stalkers. Those are the usual suspects.”

  “I see. And that’s why you’ve been asking me about her associates.” Claire traces the grain of the table top with her index finger.

  I nod. “Since I don’t have any other leads to follow at the moment, I’m relying on statistics.” And those statistics are pretty damn bleak.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  AFTER LEAVING THREE Beans, I go by the towering Queen Anne where Victoria lives. Each floor of the former house has been converted to a single apartment, four total including the basement. Wooden stairs switchback up the exterior and I hike up to the third floor. The fog is breaking up into scattered rags, and from here I can see the working piers that jut out over the river, the fish processing plants and the timber yard. I catch a glimpse of the Best Western Hotel a couple of blocks away, and feel a knot of tension form under my sternum. Behind that hotel is the little riverside beach where I had the hallucination, where I thought I was being attacked and drowned.

  My armpits prickle with a cold sweat, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my suddenly dry mouth. I squeeze the railing at the top of the stairs and will my hands to stop shaking. Just because I’m close to that place doesn’t mean I’m going to have another episode. That’s not how it works. It’s stress, stress and trauma that brings them on.

  Yeah, and the fact that you stopped taking your meds has nothing to do with it.

  I don’t need the drugs. I can do this without help.

  What, you think you’re still undercover and all on your own?

  I don’t like how they make me feel.

  Oh, and this is so much better? Feeling like the sky is gonna fall, like you’re up on the high wire without a net? You used to like that, didn’t you? Living on the sharp edge, until it cut you to ribbons.

  Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!

  Blessed silence. At least in my head — the traffic on Marine Drive echoes up between the buildings, making a constant background roar. A log truck blasts its horn and the downspout vibrates against the siding. In front of the door is a Welcome mat with a rainbow, and a plant wilting in a bright blue pot. The door itself is solid, no window or peephole. As expected, no one answers my knock. Shaded windows keep me from seeing anything of the interior. I stand in the shelter of the porch roof and count slowly until my breathing calms enough to begin canvassing the neighbors.

  The second floor apartment door is answered by an elderly white man leaning on a red chrome walker. I introduce myself and say I'm looking for his upstairs neighbor and wonder if he knows when she went out. He scratches the scruffy whiskers on his chin.

  “Usually I can hear her walking around up there, but not today. Are you a friend of hers?”

  I hesitate, but disclosing her disappearance might make him more inclined to help. You know, honesty. Sometimes it works. So I tell him.

  “Missing? That’s concerning,” he says.

  “You haven’t heard anything suspicious upstairs, have you? Like the sound of a person falling?” At this stage, I still can’t rule out a medical emergency.

  “No, nothing like that.”

  “Are you here most of the time?”

  “Yeah, I’m retired, not much to do besides watch the boob tube and look at the ships come in and read about conspiracies on the internet.” He smiles and shakes his head. “You gotta ask yourself why folks believe the things they do. I mean, take these Flat Earthers. I thought we laid that one to rest a few centuries ago, but here there’s folks who think the whole space program is nothing but a hoax and we all live under a dome.”

  Must herd the cat away from the rabbit trail. Even if I agree with him. “Have you heard anyone else upstairs, any voices or arguing?”

  “No. Nothing comes to mind.
”

  I think about Claire and Daniel banging on the door. “What about last Thursday night?”

  “Thursday? I mighta heard something. Or it coulda just been the TV. I turn it up so I can hear it good. I’m binging Law & Order.”

  I note the hearing aids. Not a good chance he’d notice a lot of noise. “When was the last time you heard anyone moving around upstairs at all?”

  The old man thinks for a minute. “It’s not easy to say. You get used to your neighbors’ noises and kind of don’t notice after awhile, unless something out of the ordinary happens. But it’s been some time. Maybe even two or three days. Maybe longer.”

  “Listen, Mr. —”

  “Bateson. George Bateson.”

  “Mr. Bateson, is there a property manager or maintenance person I could get in touch with? Someone who could open up the apartment and make sure she isn’t hurt or unconscious?”

  “Yeah, just a sec.” He totters away, and I stand on his doorstep listening to the traffic and the distant guttural bark of sea lions. He has a nice view, at least. In a few minutes he comes back with a business card, spindled and mutilated.

  “Here’s the property manager.”

  “What about the other apartments? Do you know anything about your neighbors?”

  “The one below me is vacant. Good thing, too. I’m sure I sound like a herd of cattle.” He bangs his walker on the floor to demonstrate. “Basement is a young couple, new last month. Don’t hardly ever see them. They work all the time.”

  I thank him for his help, and he thanks me for livening up his day.

  “If I do hear someone up there, should I call you? Now you’ve got me involved, I’ll be paying more attention.”