by Angie Fox
She tried to smile and failed. “You are a sweet one. So was Jorie.” Her expression hardened. “Want to go on down the hall and talk to my brother? See what his son stole?”
“I don’t think we should say it to him that way,” I began.
“That’s why I’ll get you in there, and you can ask the questions,” she said, a little too calculating for my taste. “People actually like you.”
“I like you,” I told her. Sure, she was as subtle as a cattle prod, but she wanted what was best for her friend, and I had to admire that.
“Oh, darling. You warm my heart,” she said, stubbing out her cigarette on the balcony rail. “Now come on. You came all this way for answers. Let’s go get you some.”
Chapter Twelve
“Out you go,” MayBelle said to Fiera, ushering her toward the front door ahead of us. “I’m stealing Verity.”
“What were you two talking about out on the balcony?” Fiera glanced over her shoulder, unhappy, but moving. “You know I don’t like smoke.”
She directed that last accusation at me as if I’d been lighting up alongside her friend.
“Verity and I are going to pay a visit to my brother Bob. And I’m sorry, but you know he can only handle one or two people at a time.”
Fiera softened at the mention of Pastor Bob. “How is he?” she asked once we were all out in the hall. MayBelle fished a key out of her pocket.
“Bob’s doing better every day,” MayBelle said. “He’ll never have full movement on his left side after the stroke, and his arthritis isn’t doing him any favors, but he’s hanging in there.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Fiera said.
MayBelle locked her apartment door and then tested the handle. Very unusual for Sugarland.
She truly was a rebel.
Or perhaps she was worried someone might try to make off with her photograph of Jorie’s wedding.
“Thanks for showing me Jorie’s apartment,” I told Fiera as we said our goodbyes. She might have kept some secrets from me, but at least she’d gotten me up here.
And in a position to investigate.
Once we had Fiera heading toward the elevators, MayBelle led me down the hall farther from the elevator to a door with a lovely painted clay cross hanging under the peephole. To my surprise, she knocked softly on the door.
“Bob rests a lot during the day,” she said, the corner of her mouth turning up. “These days, he can hardly open a book without napping.”
She pushed the door open and led us down a short hall lined with family portraits into a cozy living room. Bob sat in a recliner by the window with a thick hardcover book on his lap. He held up a finger as if he couldn’t quite tear himself away until he finished.
Pastor Bob looked older than when I’d seen him last, his mostly bald head mottled with sunspots, his arms thinner, and his face more lined.
Bookcases lined the wall to the right, broken only by a wooden writing desk. Bob clearly didn’t entertain a lot. The man didn’t even own a couch.
He shoved his black-framed glasses from where they’d slipped down his nose as he drew a thick green ribbon over his place and gently closed the book.
“Why, Verity Long,” he drawled like a proud grandfather, “is that you?”
“Don’t get up,” I said as he struggled to stand. I sank onto the kitchen chair next to him and folded his hand in mine. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
He’d been one of my grandmother’s favorite pastors.
He squeezed my hand gently. His skin felt chilly, but his grip was warm. “Did you know I conducted the wedding ceremony for your mamma and daddy?” he asked as if I were still a child.
“I see you every time I open their wedding album,” I said, smiling.
He pinkened with pride. “How is your mother?” he asked knowingly. Nobody in Sugarland understood why she’d left town to travel the country in an RV with my stepfather when everything you could ever want was right here.
“She’s wintering in Galveston, Texas,” I said. “So far. They’re talking about heading to California.”
“At least she’s married again,” he said as if that were the goal in life. His gaze went to the table next to us, crowded with wedding pictures and family portraits in tasteful frames. One stood out from the rest—a colorfully framed photo of a younger MayBelle climbing Machu Picchu.
“I figured he needed one of me in there somewhere,” MayBelle said dryly, noticing where my attention had gone. She’d dragged another chair in from the kitchen and set it in front of the bookcase, next to mine.
“You could still get married,” Bob reminded her, subtle as a sledgehammer.
“If I did that, it wouldn’t be long before Verity had to solve another murder,” MayBelle countered, taking a seat.
Still, I noticed MayBelle treated him gentler than she did most people.
Bob shook his head and folded his hands in his lap. “You need to trade in that red convertible. It gives men the wrong message.”
“You don’t know what kind of message I want to send,” she said, waggling her brows. Teasing. Or heck, she could be telling the truth. It was hard to tell with her. Before I figured it out, she changed the subject. “Bob, you know Jorie Davis died at the church yesterday.”
The lines around his mouth deepened. “I’m arthritic, not forgetful.” Then, remembering his place, he added, “Such a terrible loss.”
MayBelle planted her elbows on top of her thighs and leaned in closer. “Here’s the thing—I saw Mike go in and take a few boxes of Jorie’s keepsakes last night. Do you know anything about it?”
Pastor Bob moved the book of reflections off his lap and propped it next to his chair. “Why don’t you ask Mike?” he asked, getting defensive.
MayBelle shot him a rueful look. “Because I’m not sure he’ll tell me, and I know you never lie.”
Bob glanced at me, then back to his sister. “There’s nothing to lie about,” he finally said. “After the accident, Mike called Jorie’s daughter and offered his support. She was in need spiritually, you understand.” He folded his hands in his lap. “He asked if he could possibly do anything for her, and she said she needed him to secure a few mementos. She hasn’t been back to Sugarland in a long while and didn’t know who else to ask.”
I felt terrible hearing that. “I should have called.”
“You still can,” he reminded me. “Of course, Mike was more than willing to hold a few things for her. It seems Jorie never locked her doors.”
“It seems that way,” I agreed.
MayBelle huffed at me like I was giving her nephew an easy out.
Well, she did say I was the nicer one.
I’d have to stop by the church and see if Pastor Mike told the same story. While I had him, I’d ask if any of those mementos included Jorie’s wedding photos.
“Mike also brought over something for me,” Bob said, pointing to a large frame leaning against the opposite wall near a thriving schefflera plant. “Go get it, MayBelle.”
“Let me,” I said, popping up before either of them could tell me not to. I hefted the fairly awkward and surprisingly heavy frame, noting Jorie’s handwriting on a piece of masking tape affixed to the back. It read Pastor Bob.
At least this one item from Jorie’s house had ended up in the right place.
“She always wanted me to have that picture of the angel altar installation,” he said as I turned the frame to admire the photo. It had been taken in artful black and white, or maybe it was just old. The photo captured the shadows and the light of the carving, like an Ansel Adams portrait.
“It’s beautiful,” I said, unable to take my eyes off it.
Hand-printed script at the bottom read 1939 Three Angels of the Tabernacle Blessed Reform Church of Sugarland.
“Before that, the church was simply called the Reform Church of Sugarland,” Bob said, gazing fondly at the photo.
I hadn’t realized I’d read the inscription out loud.
&n
bsp; “Mike is going to hang it over my bed for me. My father commissioned that installation when I was a boy.” I could hear the pride in his voice. “He said it was so angels would watch over me when I took over as pastor.”
“When was that?” I asked, placing the piece in his outstretched hands.
He admired the altar. “The workers started it in 1938,” he said, handing over the frame to MayBelle as his elbows sagged with the weight. “He brought in three well-known artists all the way from Munich, Germany. It took them almost a year to carve the full altar. They also carved a lectern as a gift to my father when they saw all the charitable work he did for the people of Sugarland.”
“Run for the hills. He’s in sermon mode,” MayBelle joked.
“Get the blue album off the bookshelf,” he said to his sister.
She did and he opened it onto his lap. “Scoot up,” he told me. “Now you have to realize how hard life was back then. The depression had worn the town down. Lots of people were worried where their next meal might come from or how they’d pay the bills. My dad set up a fund to pay for mortgages, groceries…” He turned pages until he found the spread he was looking for. “Here,” he said, a crooked finger pointing to a black-and-white photo of an enormous hall filled with tables. “My dad borrowed a spot of land from the mayor just west of the town square. He hired local men to build a town kitchen, and paid all the wages himself. That kitchen fed hundreds of families, no matter what their background or religion. My dad made sure we took care of our neighbors in Sugarland.”
“How wonderful.” It was town legend, in fact. It made me so proud to be a part of this place. “My grandma told me her mother worked in one of the kitchens.”
“People needed jobs back then,” Bob said. “Our legendary town reporter Howard Dupre supported his sick father and his two brothers by delivering meals and Bibles for shut-ins after school. And when dad saw Howard had a knack for taking pictures and telling stories, he bought him his first camera and tasked him with reporting on the church’s benevolent works for posterity.”
“I’ve met his son.” Ovis Dupre was the most dogged reporter in Sugarland and a legend in his own right.
“Ovis is a generous donor to our church,” Pastor Bob said. “He helps us get press coverage for our charitable works and lends a hand with pictures, just like his father did.”
I had to smile. Ovis had too many questions early on about my ghost hunting, but he was a good person.
“I’m so glad we had men like your father to see us through the tough times,” I told Pastor Bob.
I had a feeling it was part of the reason why the Sugarland Heritage Society worked so hard to support the Three Angels Church and keep it open for future generations. It was a living part of our history, the Clemens men included.
“Regarding the church itself,” I began, wishing for an easier way to ask my next question. “Has there ever been trouble on the grounds itself?”
“I beg your pardon?” Bob asked, clearly not getting it.
“Any tragic incidents?” I pressed.
“I hardly think so.” Pastor Bob appeared surprised at the question. “Unless you count the shrinking congregation.” He shook his head slowly. “You should have seen it in the old days. In fact…” He turned to MayBelle. “Would you fetch me the green albums from the bottom row of the bookshelf?”
We spent the next several hours looking at the way things used to be, when the congregation had been large and vibrant.
A soft knock sounded at the door. “You awake, Dad?”
“My favorite son,” Bob announced, giddy with talk of his family’s history.
Pastor Mike walked in carrying a toolbox in one hand and a bag of takeout in the other, clearly surprised to see me and MayBelle.
“Looks like a party,” he said, stopping to deposit his things in the kitchen. The scent of garlic, basil, and oregano made me realize I’d skipped lunch.
“Italian?” I asked.
“It is Thursday,” Bob said as if that settled it.
“We were just looking at some of the neat things your grandfather did for Sugarland,” I told the younger pastor.
“And Verity knows you took the boxes of photos from Jorie’s apartment,” MayBelle said, forgoing all tact.
Pastor Mike paused.
“Jorie wanted to give me a picture from her wedding because it had my grandmother in it,” I quickly explained, keeping it deliberately vague. I’d see how much he knew of the incident later. “I’ve been trying to track it down.”
“Of course,” Pastor Mike said, recovering quickly, touching a hand to his chin. “You’re more than welcome to come by the church tomorrow and see what I have from Jorie’s. The boxes I have are promised to her daughter in San Diego, but if you find a picture you’d like, I’m sure we could have a copy made.”
“Thank you,” I said. Hopefully, there would be one similar.
“Fiera also took several boxes from Jorie’s,” MayBelle said bluntly.
Pastor Mike blanched. “I wasn’t aware,” he said, rubbing a few fingers along his chin, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ll be sure to let her daughter know.”
“Well, that’s all I’ve got to say. We’re out of here,” MayBelle said, standing.
“Wait. I haven’t shown Verity the pictures of Grace Park,” Bob said, flipping pages in the album. “My father bought the land from a widowed farm wife who needed the money, and he hired people who needed jobs to build and landscape a lovely park for the whole town to enjoy.”
“In the middle of farmland,” MayBelle added. “It’s great, Bob, but we have to go.”
“I enjoyed visiting with you,” I told him as he reached out a hand.
He gave me a squeeze. “You’re such a lovely young lady. You’re welcome anytime.”
“I’ll be praying for you,” he added as I said a quick goodbye to his son Mike before MayBelle practically dragged me out the door.
“What was that about?” I whispered after she’d closed the door firmly behind us.
She didn’t say a word. She just strode down the hall toward her place and beckoned me to follow. I had to rush to keep up with her. “He’s lying,” she stated as if it were a stone-cold fact.
“About what? You said he had pictures. He says he has pictures. This is good. It all adds up.” We were learning things.
She dug the key out of her pocket and inserted it into the lock. “Trust me, Mike is lying about something,” she said, glancing down the hall toward her brother’s apartment.
“How do you know? We barely saw him.”
She shoved the door open. “The same reason I love playing poker with him,” she said, leading me inside. “He’s had the same tell since he was a kid.”
I leaned against the door at my back, trying to think. “But wait. Both things he said were truthful. He had pictures, and he brought dinner.” He hadn’t said anything else.
“He rubbed his chin the whole time. There’s something he isn’t telling us.”
“Perhaps he knew about Fiera’s pilfering and lied about that,” I suggested, trying to think.
“But what would that solve?” MayBelle asked, frowning. “I wonder if he’s really doing a favor for Jorie’s daughter.”
It would be easy enough to prove or disprove. I’d just ask her at the funeral. “I doubt he’d have told Pastor Bob if he were hiding anything.”
It could be Pastor Mike was pretending to be glad to see me and his sister crashing the start of a boys’ dinner.
MayBelle’s face fell, and I wondered if she’d come to the same conclusion.
“I appreciate you taking me down there,” I told her. “And letting me know what you saw. You’ve helped me a lot.”
“I’m helping Jorie,” she corrected as I went to retrieve my own keys. “Call me if you need me,” she said as I left her and Park Manor.
Before I drove home, I walked over to the library to see my sister, Melody. She worked full time now at the historic building w
ith a rusting iron Civil War cannonball still embedded in the white limestone near the foundation.
On the way, I checked my cell phone and saw Lauralee had called only twenty minutes before. I quickly dialed her back.
“Verity,” she answered, out of breath, her words coming in a rush, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t call back last night. I only heard about Jorie this morning. How are you doing?”
“I could ask the same about you.” She sounded like she was running on coffee and adrenaline.
“I’m just tossing in a load of sheets while Hiram has a Popsicle. We were up all night, so I hope he sleeps some today.”
“Poor thing.” Hiram was her second oldest and the mamma’s boy. “I won’t bother you,” I told her. “I was just upset about a fight I had with Ellis.”
“I heard about that too,” she said reluctantly. “Tell me about it,” she urged. “I’ve got time.”
That was a fib, but I appreciated it all the same.
I waved to a truck that had stopped to let me cross the street to the town square and hurried to fill Lauralee in. My stomach churned when I told her what Ellis had said last night about me changing too much for him. It figured that would happen right about the time I started to feel like I was getting the hang of it all.
“Why does he want me to quit ghost hunting?” I asked, entering the town square. “I’m good at this,” I added, crossing the broad expanse of green grass, veering south toward the library. “I like what I do; plus it’s important. People evolve. I’m evolving in a positive way.”
“You are,” she agreed. “But you need to invite Ellis along for the ride. If you’re in a relationship, that means talking to the guy,” she said pragmatically. “You can’t just spring things on him.”
“What happened to you blindly being on my side?” I joked.
“I’m always on your side,” she vowed. “But it sounds like you shocked him a few times, and knowing Ellis, that’s not going to go over well. You need to talk about it.”
I let that sink in while Hiram asked for another Popsicle. I heard her murmuring to him and digging for a grape-flavored one.
Had I shocked Ellis? Perhaps.