by Amanda Tru
“Honey,” Carl said in a quiet voice, “I think maybe we can let him eat a little in peace.”
She shrugged and absently set another bread roll on Woong’s plate. “That’s fine. But I’m going to scribble myself a note to write to that nice family we had over, remember the ones you knew from seminary? Because now that I think about it, their daughter really is a sweetheart, and I wonder if she and Woong would like to become pen pals. They’re down in Pennsylvania, which you know isn’t too far away. I think he could write a letter to her and only have it take a couple days to get to her there.” She sighed. “You know, I wish more people would write letters. It used to be when I was growing up that…”
Carl cleared his throat. “This was a wonderful meal, dear, but I think the detective and I should probably retire to the den.”
Sandy looked at the food still on the table and frowned. “Well, I know if I were out of town on a mission trip and my husband was eating dinner at my friend’s house, I’d want to know that he wasn’t going to go home hungry.”
Carl set his hand on his wife’s. “You’ve enough dinner to feed a small country. I’m sure the detective’s not in danger of starving any time soon, are you, brother?”
Drisklay wiped his face and made a noncommittal response.
Sandy sighed melodramatically. “Well, now, if you two are sure you’ve had enough to eat. I guess Woong can finish off a little more of the meatloaf for us, can’t you sweetie? And then while you two are talking in the den, I can pack up these leftovers to send home with Officer Drisklay. You need to be sure to tell Caroline when you talk to her that we’re taking good care of you, all right?”
Drisklay cleared his throat. It was bad enough that these people had brainwashed his wife into their backwards cult of rituals and religion. And now this. Obviously, Caroline hadn’t told the Lindgrens that Drisklay had moved out. Probably too embarrassed to admit it. Didn’t want the pastor to know that his newest little protégé was on her way to a divorce.
Still, it was annoying to sit here with people who fawned over his wife and fretted over his well-being while she was gone and had no idea they hadn’t shared the same roof for over three weeks. Oh, well. If Caroline wanted to keep secrets, that was her business. He was here for work. Despite what Sandy might assume in her well-meaning, overbearingly hospitable way, Drisklay hadn’t dropped by for a social call.
“I think the den sounds like a good idea,” he announced.
Carl looked at him gratefully and scooted his chair back quickly. “Thanks for dinner, babe.” He leaned over and gave his wife a peck on the cheek, then clapped Drisklay on the back. “All right, now, Detective. We’ve had our fill. Let’s go into the den and hear what’s on your mind, shall we?”
Caroline was so absorbed retelling details of her testimony and days as an early believer, she hardly noticed when a timer from the kitchen let out a tiny ding. Mrs. Cho held up her hand. “So sorry to interrupt you, but it’s time for me to wake up the children.”
Caroline still couldn’t understand how the house had remained so quiet for so long. Baby Da had fallen asleep in Caroline’s arms just seconds after finishing his bottle. Mrs. Cho had carried him upstairs (to keep him from getting even more spoiled, she explained), and Caroline hadn’t heard a single sound that would indicate there were any children at all in this home.
She stood up when Mrs. Cho did, but Mrs. Cho waved her hand. “No, you sit. You’re tired. You had a long day of travel. I will wake up the children and be down shortly.”
A small fraction of Caroline’s brain wanted to protest that she’d come here to help with the kids, after all, but Mrs. Cho’s words carried a sense of authority that wasn’t readily argued against. Mrs. Cho let out a cheerful greeting in Korean as she took to the stairs, and Caroline was impressed by her agility. If only she’d be that sprightly when she was Mrs. Cho’s age. Some people said that working with kids your whole life would keep you young, but Caroline was pretty sure her over-crowded and often over-rambunctious classrooms full of kids had contributed to more gray hair than to any sense of youthfulness in her own case.
The unwelcome sense of jealousy sent another pang through her chest. How different would life have been if she and Calvin were able to have kids of their own? Maybe he would have decided to stay home more. Maybe Caroline would have even taken a few years off of work to focus on turning her house into this kind of peaceful haven, a safe and restful place her husband would want to spend time in.
Maybe if they’d had children, they would have both put in more effort to work on their marriage, to stay together. For the sake of their kids if nothing else.
But it was senseless to think about that. Why should she even torture herself? It was too late now. Too late for so many things …
Mrs. Cho disappeared at the top of the stairs, speaking in a high, melodic tone. She reappeared moments later carrying Da and followed by four sets of miniature legs that plodded down the stairs.
Mrs. Cho stopped the small procession in front of Caroline, who still sat feeling useless and lazy on the couch, and addressed the children again. They all chanted a greeting in unison. Mrs. Cho smiled and with one more directive sent them all to their spots around the table in the dining room. Caroline wondered if spending these next few weeks here would give her some good ideas for classroom management. The two oldest children, a boy and a girl, were setting the table as Mrs. Cho pulled out two trays of food, already prepared, and placed them on the counter. Caroline hoped that before long she’d stop feeling like an intruder and more like a helper, but for right now, it appeared like Mrs. Cho had everything under perfect control.
Mrs. Cho clapped her hands once, and the children folded their hands. A prayer was offered, and then Mrs. Cho turned and asked the question Caroline had been desperate to hear. “Would you be willing to help me serve the food? The children would appreciate it so much.”
Caroline hurried into the kitchen to make herself useful, thankful for something to do with her hands, thankful for some sense of purpose. A few minutes later, the only sounds to be heard were the sounds of the children eating contentedly while Mrs. Cho stood behind them, placing her hands on their shoulders or backs as one at a time she spoke to them words of encouragement that made them beam.
Caroline stood off to the corner, watching the scene with both surprise and curiosity, trying hard not to think about how life may have been different if Calvin had been willing to open their home to a child of their own.
Trying hard to force herself to stay awake for just one more hour. Trying hard not to resent Mrs. Cho and the peaceful calm surrounding her home and the children she cared for.
Trying hard not to wonder if coming here to Seoul had been the right idea after all.
Drisklay sat on the couch in the Lindgren’s den. Across from him, Carl leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and asked, “Well, Detective, what can I do for you?”
Drisklay was glad for the chance to get right down to the point. “I’m investigating the Rebekah Harrison murder.” He eyed Carl, paying close attention to his expression.
Carl nodded. “Thought it may be something like that.”
“Her dad was a pastor. Is a pastor,” he corrected.
Another nod.
Drisklay took the verbal plunge. “I wanted to know what you can tell me about the family.”
Carl let out his breath. “Well, I hate to say anything bad about another minister of Christ.”
If Drisklay wanted to hear a sermon, he would have stopped by church one of the dozen times his wife nagged him. “Anything you have to tell me will be held in strictest confidence,” Drisklay assured him then lowered his voice. “It could help us put Rebekah Harrison’s killer behind bars for good.”
Carl paused. Drisklay knew it. There was something fishy about the pastor and his picture-perfect family, his quiet little wife who wouldn’t say anything without first glancing at him for approval. He knew something was going on. His insti
ncts had led him down the right track once more.
Carl took in a deep breath. Drisklay knew better than to rush. He would give him all the time in the world.
“Honey, do you and Officer Drisklay want some tea?”
Drisklay glared at the intruder. Sandy was balancing a tray on her hip with floral teacups, frilly napkins, and sugar cubes in a crystal glass.
Carl waved her away. “We’re fine. We’re stuffed like your Thanksgiving turkeys and don’t need anything else.”
Sandy frowned. “You sure? Officer? Can I get you some tea?”
Drisklay could use a cup of coffee but didn’t want to risk it coming in a four-ounce china set and watered down with sugar cubes and cream. He forced a smile, hoping it would get Sandy to leave that much more quickly. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
“Well, Woong and I are going to bake some brownies as soon as he’s done clearing the table, so you make sure to talk long enough for them to bake. I usually put them in for half an hour, but all my big casserole dishes are at the church to get ready for the missions conference coming up, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to use the eight-by-nines, and I really don’t know if that’s going to take them longer. We better say thirty-five minutes just to be safe, and of course, Woong gets distracted so easily. I declare, he’s probably out there right now checking his email on his iPad to see if that friend of his from school texted him. You know, she’s a sweet one, but her mom’s a single mom, and I think she’s a little overwhelmed, and she lets Becky spend far too much time on her phone if you ask me. Why, if we didn’t have controls set that turned the internet off at bedtime, I declare Woong would stay up until ten or eleven texting her. It’s not good for your eyes if you ask me, let alone your brain. You need sleep when you’re that age. Your body’s still developing, and…”
Carl cleared his throat, and Sandy let out her breath. “Well, now, you two just let me know if you get hungry for anything, and I’ll be in before too long with those brownies. Carl, you remember that your friend’s a bachelor tonight, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t need his sleep too. I wouldn’t plan on staying up too late. You’ve got that men’s prayer breakfast tomorrow morning. Don’t forget that. You told Woong you’d take him for the Belgian waffles he likes so much if he did well enough on his history report, and he brought it home today. It was an 84, which is a solid B, but that teacher of his took three whole points off because he didn’t have the bibliography formatted right in the back. Can you believe it? Three whole points. I wonder if maybe I should call him. You know, I looked over Woong’s report, and it read perfectly fine to me. Sometimes with that teacher of his, I just don’t know what…”
“I’ll take Woong for waffles,” Carl interrupted, a soft smile on his face.
Sandy bustled out the door, calling after her son.
“So.” Drisklay was worried Sandy’s interruption may have destroyed any momentum he’d gained. “About Pastor Harrison?”
Carl let out a noisy sigh. “Well, Detective, I hate to say anything bad about a brother in Christ, but since this is part of your investigation, I’ll just have to come right on out and say it.” He lowered his voice. “You said this is strictly confidential, right?”
Drisklay nodded. At least it was for now.
“Well, I’ve known Harrison for several years now. Not in a close way, strictly professional. But if you want my opinion, that’s one man I’d never let stand behind my pulpit and preach to my congregation. Not if you were to pay me a million bucks.”
Drisklay reached nonchalantly for his notepad. “Really?” He tried to keep his voice detached. Disinterested. “And why is that?” He was ready. He was waiting. In a way, he was already congratulating himself for following up on the Harrison lead when all he had was the hint of a hunch.
Carl bent forward, the old couch creaking in protest under his weight. “It’s his theology. That man is off his rocker.”
Drisklay waited. Unmoving. Frozen. “His theology?” he was finally forced to repeat.
“Harrison believes that you can’t ever be sure of your salvation, for one thing. That even once you accept Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior that there might be a sin you could commit that would make him decide to condemn you to hell.”
Drisklay blinked. What was this man raving about?
“Furthermore,” Carl went on, “Harrison denies God’s omniscience. He thinks that it’s unjust for God to already know who’s going to be saved, and so he thinks God’s out there just as surprised as anyone else when a sinner comes to repentance, but the Word of God specifically states that…”
“I’m going to stop you right there.” Drisklay had heard enough. “Aside from these…” He struggled to find the right word. “Aside from these theological debates, do you have any reason to suspect Harrison of foul play?”
Carl started in shock as if Drisklay had just admitted to the murder himself.
“Foul play? Like having something to do with his daughter’s… with what happened to Rebekah? Is that what you’re asking?”
Drisklay tried to mask his impatience. “That’s exactly what I’m asking.”
Carl recoiled as if he’d been slapped. “No, that’s absurd. Just because his theology’s off doesn’t make him capable of murder.”
Drisklay was wondering if there was any way to salvage the conversation, or any real reason to, when Woong ran in. “Dad! Dad! Becky wants to know if I can go to her birthday party next Friday night. Her mom’s going to be home, and they’re not showing any movies, and there’s going to be boys and girls there, but everything’s going to be supervised.It’s nobody older than ninth grade coming, except she’s got this cousin who might stop by for a little bit, and he’s like seventeen or something. He’s only coming by because his mom hired him to work on the car, so we probably won’t even see him because he’ll be in the garage. Besides, Becky doesn’t even like him all that much. Mom said she’d have to talk to you about it first, but I thought that if I got all the questions…” He stared at Drisklay and stopped. “Oh. Hi, Detective. I forgot you were in a meeting.”
Carl’s voice was steady as he addressed Woong. “Yes, son. We’re in a meeting.”
“Should I ask you about it later?” He took a step back toward the door.
“Yes,” Carl answered. “That’s exactly what you should do.”
Woong slumped his shoulders then raced out of the den.
Carl stared after his son. “Sorry about that. He’s starting to notice girls now. We’re in a whole new ball game than we were when…” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, what were we talking about? Oh, yeah. The doctrine of election. Come to think of it, I have a book on the subject if you’re interested. People far more intelligent than I’ll ever be have been arguing these points for hundreds of years. Give me a minute. It’ll just take me a second to find it on my shelves…”
“That’s quite all right.” Drisklay stood. “I probably better head out.”
Carl looked at him as if he’d started spouting off in German. “So, you don’t want that book?” he finally asked.
Drisklay took a step toward the hallway. “No, thanks. But you have my number. If you can think of anyone who might have tried to hurt Rebekah Harrison, you’ll let me know?”
“Will do, Detective.” Carl clasped him heartily on the shoulder. “And if you want to know more about the doctrine of election, I’m teaching a whole series on it in my Sunday sermons. We’d love to have you join us.”
“We’ll have to see about that,” Drisklay muttered. “Thank your wife for dinner. I’ll let myself out.”
Caroline was surprised to discover it was mid-morning by the time she woke up in Mrs. Cho’s spare room. Hadn’t she set her alarm? She got dressed hurriedly, worrying that her hostess must think her the epitome of laziness.
The children were downstairs in the living room. Soft music was playing, and Mrs. Cho led the group in a choreographed song. She smiled as Caroline sheepishly walked down the stairs.
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“Did you sleep well?” she asked, continuing her hand movements in time with the flowing music.
Caroline nodded, uncertain if her brain simply wasn’t awake yet or if there was something deeply relaxing, almost hypnotic, about watching Mrs. Cho lead this slow dance.
“You are free to join us,” Mrs. Cho said with an expression that led Caroline to doubt there was any polite way to refuse. She stood behind the children and tried to mirror the old woman’s gestures, thankful that Mrs. Cho’s attention had turned back onto the kids.
After one more song, Mrs. Cho gave the children some instructions in Korean, and the children scattered in different directions. Toys appeared out of chests that Caroline had assumed were simply decorative, and in a second the room was as busy and noisy as any preschool would be in the States. There was something highly refreshing about the relative disorder.
“Would you like something hot to drink?” Mrs. Cho asked, leading her into the kitchen.
Caroline felt like she should apologize for sleeping in so late but instead watched the children playing while Mrs. Cho prepared a mug of instant cappuccino.
Sitting across the table from her, Mrs. Cho asked, “Did you get enough rest last night? I hope the children didn’t wake you by their noise.”
Caroline shook her head. If there was one thing her years of teaching had given her, it was the ability to function perfectly well in the midst of chaos.
Mrs. Cho took a small sip of tea, smiling broadly.
Caroline felt as if she should say something and stared around the room for any cues. “Who’s the soldier in that photograph?” she finally asked.
Mrs. Cho turned and smiled at the young man in the frame. “That’s my husband.”