by Mary Ellis
After several minutes of self-pity, she punched in the number of her only friend in town.
FORTY-TWO
Michael had just completed his evening workout and stepped into the shower when his phone rang. It was probably his mother since he hadn’t called her in two weeks. Or maybe it was Nate, making sure he understood the error of his ways with Buckley. Preferring to hit the sack without a sour taste in his mouth, Michael decided to let voice mail pick up. But at the last moment, he reached for his phone. He was glad he did when he saw that his partner was calling.
“Hi, Mike. It’s Beth. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Nothing that can’t wait, as long as you don’t start whining about heartburn. You made your choice regarding the chili dogs.” Michael shut off the water and shrugged into a bathrobe.
“My indigestion has nothing to do with food.” Her tone was oddly subdued.
“Did Nate call back and blame you for my actions? Because I won’t let—”
“No, I haven’t heard from him or Chris since we left his office.”
“Tell me what’s on your mind.”
She hesitated. “Promise me you won’t do anything hasty. I…I don’t want you to try to fix this. I just want to talk and you to listen.”
“My weapon is locked in my trunk, and I’m too tired to throttle anyone with my bare hands. So you have my word.” Michael muted the television.
After another brief hesitation, Beth described the unfortunate misunderstanding that her former partner was blowing out of proportion. By the time she finished, Michael wasn’t sure if Lejeune was a power-hungry cop desperate for recognition, or an insecure male, unable to deal with the woman who had spurned his affections. Or maybe a combination of the two. Considering his track record with relationships, he was treading on unfamiliar ground.
Michael listened patiently without interrupting, but when he heard crying on the other end, his protective instincts kicked in. “Tell me what I can do to help. Would you like me to talk to Lejeune?”
“No, I appreciate the offer, but it won’t help until Jack calms down. Tomorrow morning I’ll call the ME’s office and find out what happened. That report should have gone to Natchez Homicide. I sure hope my contacts in Vicksburg didn’t confuse the issue when I asked them to speed things up in Jackson.”
“Don’t take the blame, Beth. It could have been an honest mistake.”
“Or someone resented a PI’s involvement in the case. Perhaps someone wanted to tweak Jack’s nose,” Beth said, sniffling.
“You’re probably not the only one to run afoul of Lejeune in Mississippi.”
“Maybe the truth will come out, or maybe we’ll never know. But tonight I needed to vent and didn’t know who else to call.”
In the silent room Michael heard his heart thump against his ribs, reminding him how important their friendship was. But never in a million years could he admit that. “How about if I shoot the guy in the leg? I could say I was cleaning my gun in his front yard when the crazy thing went off. Plenty of people will testify to the likelihood.”
Beth released peals of laughter. “Jack is a crack shot. If he got the drop on you, I could never live with myself. And I don’t have that many friends.”
“Let’s get your mind off Lejeune and back to the case. Tomorrow you and I are taking a road trip. Go to early church and then be ready by eleven o’clock. I’ve got a lead.” Michael started to pace his living room. Why on earth did I move into so small an apartment?
“I’ll be waiting at the curb. Where are we going?”
“All in good time, Miss Kirby. Get a good night’s sleep,” he said before ending the call.
When he arrived at the Kirby residence, Beth was standing in the driveway with the biggest purse Michael had ever seen. “Good morning,” he greeted, pushing open the car door.
Beth jumped in and buckled her seat belt. “You were awfully mysterious last night. Are you going to share where we’re going or blindfold me? Mom only sent provisions for one day.” She held up a soft-sided cooler.
“We’re going to Hattiesburg. That will put some serious miles on the Charger, but you should be home by suppertime in case Rita is frying muskrat livers.”
“Good, because I didn’t pack an overnight bag, and muskrat is sautéed, not fried.” Beth pulled two wrapped sandwiches from her purse. “Speaking of food, Rita fixed us bagels for breakfast. Are we allowed to eat in your new car?”
In the past his answer would have been different. “Yes, of course.” He accepted one of the bacon, cheese, and egg calorie bombs. “It smells wonderful. Tell your mother thanks.”
For several minutes they ate and watched the scenery. Then Beth turned to face him. “Okay, why are we going to Hattiesburg?”
“To talk to another Baptist minister who was recently fired and faces theft charges. We know that Reverend Dean was one of many contributors to Spare the Children. So I ran a search of Mississippi churches in the news. There were plenty of dead ends until I came across the name Daniel Huff.”
“I stand in awe of your cyber skills,” Beth said as she adjusted her seat to a more comfortable angle.
“Reverend Dean and Reverend Huff of Hattiesburg could be the tip of an iceberg. Most churches are reluctant to slander a man of God in the media. If there’s an unexplained misfeasance, most congregations would probably prefer not to broadcast it. However, an uptick of resignations in church leadership across the state can’t be a coincidence. Whoever set up Reverend Dean probably duped this pastor as well. We need to find out for sure, and find any other victims.”
“Somebody was bound to catch on if this is a scam.” Beth carefully brushed crumbs into a napkin.
“That’s why time is of the essence. Elliott Rayburn might be getting ready to cut and run.”
“Which would make him a dangerous man.” Beth looked stricken, as though she were somehow responsible.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We’ll start in Hattiesburg with Reverend Huff and take it from there.” He checked his watch. “Since we still have a couple hours in the car, mind if I change the subject?”
“Talk about anything you want. How’s the training coming for the Iron Man competition?”
Reluctant to get too excited, Michael happily described his new workout regimen. Unfortunately, when they arrived at their destination, they found the middle-aged preacher reluctant to talk despite yesterday’s conversation.
“I’m not sure what you want from me, Mr. Preston.” Reverend Huff spoke through a six-inch opening in the doorway. “Like I told you on the phone, I’ve been advised by my attorney not to speak to the media.”
“We’re private investigators, not the media. Anything you say to us will be kept confidential. We believe that you might have been victimized by the same charity as our pastor, Reverend Paul Dean of Calvary Baptist of Natchez.”
Huff seemed to wilt before their eyes. “Whether that’s true or not, it’s no longer relevant. Part of my plea deal to a lesser offense is based on not drawing more attention to my mismanagement of church finances.”
“You’re pleading guilty to a crime?” asked Beth, her tone somewhere between innocent curiosity and appalled disbelief. “Did you steal the congregation’s money or not?”
“Of course not,” he snapped. “I held a position of trust and responsibility, and yet I can’t explain what happened to the money.”
“This is actually very simple,” said Beth. “Our pastor smelled something fishy and demanded his investment back. When the charity refused, Reverend Dean started kicking up a fuss. Apparently, you would rather go to jail than make any noise.”
“You have no right to judge me, young lady!” Huff exclaimed before slamming the door in their faces.
“Oh, I have plenty of right!” She continued the conversation one decibel louder. “Our minister was murdered in cold blood because someone at the charity didn’t want to give back the money. Maybe your case has nothing to do with wh
at happened in Natchez, but if the people you trusted happen to be Spare the Children out of Denver, then we have plenty in common. And I strongly suggest you not plead guilty for something you didn’t do!” Beth was shouting at this point, while Michael stood back and watched. For half a minute they held their breath until the door opened wide.
“They told me we would save young lives while earning interest on our investment.” Huff looked and sounded like a broken man.
“That’s what Rayburn told Reverend Dean too,” said Beth. “Was Elliott Rayburn who you dealt with?”
“No. I usually communicated with a company out of Jackson.”
“D.K. Financials, right?” asked Michael, exchanging a look with Beth.
“Yes, that was it. One of their agents, a Rachel Stewart, said she would furnish quarterly statements and act as my local contact. Then she stopped returning my calls and has since changed her number.”
Michael felt the bottom drop from his gut.
Because the name meant nothing to his partner, Beth forged ahead. “Are you ready to help us now, sir?”
Huff nodded. “Come inside. I’ll tell you everything I know. I don’t care about the plea deal anymore. This church was my life.”
Beth stepped across the threshold. “Since you’re still alive, there’s still hope. And now you’ve got Price Investigations on your side.”
FORTY-THREE
Bay St. Louis
Following their instructions precisely, Nate and Isabelle turned down a street narrowed by double-parked cars, neglected trash cans in the ditch, and plastic cones marking the location of potholes. “Are you sure we’re in the right place?” asked Isabelle.
Nate glanced at the dashboard GPS. “This is the address Johnny Herman gave me on the phone. I don’t think he’d steer us wrong after agreeing to help and telling us to come on Saturday.”
“In that case, Mr. Herman lives on the saddest block in Biloxi.”
“That’s not very nice, Izzy.” Nate pulled into a short driveway. The retired PI recommended by Art Lewis had been more than willing to talk to them. In fact, Mr. Herman sounded excited about Nate’s ideas. Maybe retirement wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be.
Isabelle coaxed a few wisps into her ponytail. “If more young gamblers saw how old ones ended up, they would quit a lot sooner.”
Nate stared at her, dumbfounded. “Why are you being so judgmental? We have no idea if his present circumstances have anything to do with gambling.”
“Why else would he be living here? According to the head of security, Mr. Herman was a successful investigator.” She frowned at the litter-strewn vacant lot next door.
“Plenty of people weren’t adequately insured when Katrina hit and ended up losing everything. Maybe you should wait here in the car. I’ll keep the windows rolled down so nobody calls the SPCA.”
“Very funny. Honestly, Nate. We know that Mr. Herman was a big gambler. Probably even the luckiest card sharks end up flat broke if they stay in the game long enough. I’m just saying that seeing this neighborhood could be a cautionary tale for Craig.” Climbing out of the car, Isabelle smoothed down her sundress.
Nate rolled his eyes and mimed a zipper across his lips. This wasn’t a good time to argue with her. Besides, the row of tiny, three-room cottages with patchy weeds instead of grass was depressing. Apparently, not everywhere along the Gulf Coast had recovered as nicely as Bay St. Louis. Nate knocked on the front door and waited. A few moments later, a seventyish man with a bent spine and white hair opened the door.
“Mr. Herman? Nate and Isabelle Price from Natchez. I spoke with you on the phone.”
“Yep, that’s me. Been expecting y’all. Come on in.” A hacking cough punctuated his invitation.
Isabelle smiled as she stepped inside, her normal temperament restored. “It’s so kind of you to see us, sir.”
“Pleasure’s mine, ma’am. Don’t get much company now that my boy lives in Texas. He’s got himself quite a brood out there, two boys and three girls. The airfare east would set them back an arm and a leg.” Herman tapped both appendages of his analogy. “Make yourselves comfortable.”
“Those five grandchildren must be a blessing to you, even if they are miles away.” Isabelle sat primly on the sofa.
“Oh, that they are.” Herman lifted a framed photograph off the mantel. “Here’s my son’s family.”
While Isabelle perused the seven smiling faces, Nate assessed the room. Although the furnishings weren’t up to House Beautiful standards, the home felt warm, welcoming, and filled with love. “Is Mrs. Herman around?” he asked. “I wanted to offer her my compliments. I’ll bet those are her handiwork.” Nate pointed at the purple and pink flowers in the window boxes.
Herman lowered himself into the recliner, his smile fading. “No, she passed two years ago this Christmas. But you guessed right—my wife planted those boxes. I do my best to keep them alive, but Betty had the green thumb. Heart of gold and thumb of green. I had that inscribed on her tombstone right above, ‘Waiting for the Lord’s return.’ ” His voice cracked with emotion.
“We’re so sorry for your loss,” said Nate. “Forgive my impertinence.”
Herman’s brow furrowed. “Don’t know much about impertinence, but I love talkin’ about my Betty. She was the light of my life.” He pushed to his feet and headed toward the door. “Come out back with me. Those flower boxes out front ain’t nothing compared to her garden.”
What Nate and Isabelle discovered was a secret retreat, enclosed with a redwood fence, transected by flagstone paths, and illuminated with strings of tiny white lights. There was a fishpond in the center with a wrought iron table and chairs, but it was the flowers that took your breath away. From the ornamental trees to the fragrant shrubs and down to the groundcover, everything in the yard was blooming.
“Wow!” Nate and Isabelle’s responses were identical.
“That’s what everybody says,” Herman said, chuckling. “This is what Betty wanted, so this is what she got. Took several years, but it was all worth it.”
“From the street no one would guess your little paradise is back here,” said Isabelle without thinking. She blushed with embarrassment. “I hope you don’t take that wrong.”
“That’s also what everybody says, and that’s how we wanted it. Didn’t want teenagers tearing up my hard work just to be ornery.” He pointed toward the chairs in the shade. “Have a seat if you don’t mind the heat.”
Isabelle plunked down. “Don’t mind if I do. I love it out here. And if you want to talk about Betty, we’ve got plenty of time. What did she think about your being a card shark?”
“Izzy!” Nate sounded shocked. “That’s none of our business. We came to ask Mr. Herman—”
“Hold up there, young man. She’s asking because she’s a wife who was once married to a compulsive gambler. I know the story—Mr. Lewis filled me in. She’s curious, and I don’t mind talkin’. Don’t get much of a chance to these days.” With a grin aimed solely at Isabelle, Herman sat down at the patio table.
Nate had no choice but to do the same.
“You’re probably thinkin’ our reduced circumstances are because of my playing poker. Not so. I never wagered much at the tables, just the allowance Betty gave me for being good.” He winked at Nate. “Whenever I won big, I’d buy something we needed, like a new mattress or a set of tires. And if I lost? It would be a long time before I saved up enough to hit the casino again. I never gambled the mortgage payment or grocery money the way some fools do.”
Herman turned his gaze skyward, where seagulls wheeled on warm air currents. “No, we sold our big house on the water and spent all our savings on her cancer treatments. Insurance refused to cover them because they were still experimental.” His inflection conveyed fury over the ruling. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way. Those treatments gave her several more good years. When we moved here, Betty transformed the backyard into a healing place. She gave the orders, like every wife
knows how to do, and I did the heavy lifting.” He laughed from deep inside his belly.
Nate glanced at Isabelle, who sat so still she might have been hit by a mysterious bout of paralysis. “A dozen landscapers couldn’t have done a better job,” he said, encircling her shoulders with his arm.
Johnny Herman met his gaze. “Yes, sir. My Betty got her healing place. She went to the Lord filled with grace and not a bit of pain. This is where I’ll stay until I join her.”
“That’s the most beautiful story I ever heard,” Isabelle said, wiping tears from her face.
“Yes, ma’am, it might be, but don’t you worry. If I can help your ex-husband straighten himself out, I will. We want him to have a good life, like you have with Nate and I had with Betty.”
She eked out a weak, “Thank you, Mr. Herman. We’ll be eternally grateful for your help.”
“Ah, that ain’t necessary. After all, I like poker and haven’t played in quite some time. With the Golden Magnolia staking my game, I’ll be sitting in high cotton.” His hoot spooked several sparrows from their perch. “You tell Art Lewis I’ll stop by Monday afternoon. If there’s a high-stakes game in one of the poker rooms, one of us should be able to wrestle an invite. Knowing Art, he’ll even throw in a free buffet.”
Nate took Isabelle’s arm and helped her to her feet. “Don’t forget, Mr. Herman, if you ever have need of a PI or are ever in Natchez, give me a call.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Now why don’t you take your wife out to dinner? We both know women love meals they don’t have to cook.”
“That’s exactly what I’ll do.” Nate shook hands, and then Isabelle hugged him tightly. After they left, it was an unusually quiet drive back to the B and B, both lost in their own thoughts.
Isabelle didn’t speak until Nate parked in their designated spot. “If I ever act so high-and-mighty again, I want you to whack me with a phone book.”