A Murder in Mount Moriah

by Mindy Quigley

  “She keeps getting worse because she has a serious, chronic condition that is threatening her life,” Cynthia snapped back. “A condition that you are preventing us from treating.”

  There was a silence. They seemed to be waiting for Lindsay to respond. She dug in her chaplain’s bag of tricks for a time-worn technique from her CPE training days: active listening. Active listening challenges the listener to suspend his or her judgments and responses, instead focusing on the speaker. The listener must try to hear not just words, but underlying emotions, feelings, and preconceptions. The technique promoted a feeling of common purpose and mutual understanding in situations of conflict. Usually. “It sounds like everyone here is frustrated.” Lindsay paused and waited for a response. The room’s occupants just stared at her.

  Lindsay continued, “I hear the Peechums saying that the nurses and doctors lack faith. The doctors and nurses seem to feel that Mrs. Peechum’s condition will get worse unless they are given the freedom to treat her as they see fit.”

  Luther nodded. “Yeah, like you said. They are Godless heathens.”

  Cynthia stomped her foot. Lindsay struggled to maintain her equanimity. Okay, apparently she had just actively listened her way into accusing the hospital staff of being idol-worshipping pagans. She tried a different tactic: diplomacy.

  “Now, Mr. Peechum, the doctors and nurses do have faith. Could we agree that it just might be a different kind of faith?”

  “Aint’ but one kind of faith that can truly heal Mama,” Luther barked.

  Silence again descended on the room. Cynthia exhaled loudly and pressed the clipboard more tightly to her thin chest.

  “There is no sense in reasoning with them. I’ve tried. They refuse to be realistic about this woman’s prognosis.”

  “Get this atheist out of here!” the young woman shouted, her body drawing in on itself, like a coiled spring.

  “How dare you?” Cynthia said, the peachy glow of her cheeks igniting suddenly with a burst of furious redness. “I happen to be on the bake sale committee at the New Life Baptist Fellowship. And I led our youth group’s mission trip to Dollywood two years in a row.”

  “When is the last time you got down on your knees and prayed to Jesus to forgive your faithlessness?” the young woman said.

  Lindsay cut in abruptly, saying loudly, “That’s funny.”

  “Funny?” Luther said. “I don’t see nothing funny.”

  “It’s funny that they sent me to the wrong room. You see, I was told that there was a very sick lady in here who was in dire need of some help. I was told that there was a room full of people who were all trying their level best to help her. But that’s not this room.”

  Lindsay’s eyes moved around the room. One by one, the gazes of those present fell to the floor. Lindsay was quite sure that shaming was not a technique endorsed by the Association of Professional Chaplains. But she was equally sure that the Holy Spirit wasn’t about to climb through old Mrs. Peechum’s third-story window like some kind of miracle-spewing cat burglar. Now that the warring parties were again silent, Lindsay leaned gently toward to the old woman and said, “We all want to help you. Tell me what you need me to do.”

  “I need prayer, Reverend.” The old woman extended a hand for Lindsay to take. The others joined hands to form a loose circle around the old woman’s bed. Cynthia continued to stand a little way off, sniffing loudly. Lindsay took the Peechums’ hands, closed her eyes and cleared her mind.

  “We pray for the Holy Spirit to enter Mama and make her whole again,” Luther said. He appealed to God for health, happiness and protection from harm. Lindsay relaxed, letting herself be lulled by the familiarity of the sentiments and the repetition of the words. Here they were, she thought, all calmly praying together. She allowed herself to bask in a smug little victory. She alone had succeeded in earning the trust of this difficult family. She had diffused their anger and brought their focus back to their loved one’s plight. Her attention drifted. She hardly noticed when the cadence of the prayer changed. It wasn’t until the hands that held hers started to spasm and shudder that she was jarred out of her self-satisfied reflection. Lindsay ventured a peek at Luther, who stood directly across from her. His eyes were open, but his eyeballs had rolled back into his head. His body seemed to pulse and vibrate and his voice dropped to a raspy whisper. The women joined in the prayer, each chanting out their own rhythm. Their voices were unnaturally deep, and the words of the prayer were no longer English, nor indeed any language that Lindsay recognized.

  The prayer went on like this for several minutes, increasing in volume and intensity. Luther suddenly regained his ability to speak English and cried out, “Lay your hands on her, Reverend, the power of the Spirit is in you.”

  Lindsay hesitated for a split second, like a diver poised on the three-meter platform. She took a deep breath and placed her hands on top of the old woman’s head. Lindsay closed her eyes and began to chant, “Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.” She repeated the words over and over, allowing herself to be caught up with the others in the rhythm of the prayer. After a few minutes, the prayer came to a crescendo. Lindsay ended it with a ringing, “Santa Maria!” and threw her hands heavenward.

  ##

  Later that morning, Lindsay stood at the nurses’ station in the cardiac unit, sipping a cup of heavily sugared coffee with the duty nurse who had summoned her to the Peechums’ room. Luther Peechums and his wife/daughter had finally gone home to get some rest. The elder Mrs. Peechum lay contentedly watching a Discovery Channel special about a man who lived his whole life with his own unborn twin inside him. The window screens in her room had been replaced, and the windows were firmly closed against the rising heat of the day.

  Cynthia, the pretty nurse who had been in the room during the boisterous prayer session, joined Lindsay at the nurses’ station.

  “I can’t believe you convinced them to get with the program,” the duty nurse said to Lindsay. “At least six different nurses and doctors have tried and failed.”

  Cynthia nodded. “I guess they just needed someone to do all that nonsense with the speaking in tongues.” She blushed deeply. “I’m so sorry. I just meant that they needed someone from their own religion.”

  “I have no earthly idea what religion they are,” Lindsay said. “Snake-handlers, for all I know.”

  Cynthia’s mouth dropped open. “If you’re not one of them, then how did you know how to do the laying on the hands and the speaking in tongues?”

  “I was reciting the Hail Mary in Latin. I had to learn it in college for a class on Medieval Christianity.” Lindsay said.

  Cynthia gaped like a fresh-caught bass. “But you tricked them.”

  Lindsay shrugged. “I got caught up in the moment. Besides, speaking in tongues and saying the Hail Mary are both ways of trying to talk to God.”

  “But you told them you had a vision. You said you saw an angel who spoke to you and said that if they radiated God’s love and compassion to all the nurses and doctors, and listened to what they said, their Mama would be comfortable and at peace!”

  Lindsay pointed to the duty nurse’s name badge: Angel Bledsoe. “I was paraphrasing a bit. But Mrs. Peechum will be a lot more comfortable and peaceful now that her family has stopped tormenting everyone who’s trying to help her.” She drained the rest of her coffee and pitched the paper cup in the trash. “God works in mysterious ways, and so do His employees.”

  Chapter 13

  After her encounter with the Peechums, Lindsay made her way down to the cafeteria to grab a bite to eat. It was only 10:30 in the morning, but the cafeteria was already buzzing with the early lunch crowd—nurses, doctors, and housekeeping staff who worked the seven a.m. to three p.m. shift. Lindsay inched her plastic tray along the line, declining a gelatinous blob of mac-n-cheese, declining a celery-laden, mayonnaise-drowned heap of chicken salad, declining the spinach lasagna with a shudder. Anyone who knew anything knew that the hospital c
afeteria oreganoed that lasagna within an inch of its natural life. The bread rolls were good, though. She took three. By the time she reached the end of the food line, Lindsay had gathered three rolls, a banana, and half a dozen packets of butter—appealingly monochromatic, acceptably nourishing, and touching on several different hieroglyphs of the food pyramid. She packed everything into a white paper sack, intending to sneak off and eat in her office—eating alone in the cafeteria conjured up too many unpleasant school memories. As she passed through the main dining room on her way out, however, she locked eyes with Drew Checkoway, who was seated near the door. He was resplendently clean-shaven—Apollo in green surgical scrubs. He waved Lindsay over to the table he was sharing with Anna.

  “Hiya, Linds,” Anna said brightly, flashing her surfer girl smile. Anna gestured across the table. “I was just trying to convince Drew that he needs to stop listening to local radio immediately, before it does any further damage to his critical faculties.”

  Lindsay registered the twangy strains of the latest blonde diva’s country pop anthem playing quietly over the cafeteria’s PA system.

  “No way!” Drew protested. “WZNC is doing a phone-a-thon to raise $1,000 for new band uniforms for the high school. You call in with a pledge and you get to request a song. I’ve already heard this one four times today. This is great. Real salt-of-the-earth stuff.”

  Anna patted the seat next to her. Lindsay sat down, setting her lunch bag on the table in front of her. Without even seeing the contents of the bag, Anna intuited that Lindsay’s lunch would fall short of her high nutritional standards, and pushed some of her carrot sticks toward Lindsay. Lindsay accepted a few and glanced briefly at the food in front of Drew and Anna. Drew was halfway through a salad, dressed with fat-free vinaigrette and topped with grilled chicken. Anna had minestrone soup and crudités. Lindsay became keenly aware that her own lunch was essentially a paper sack full of butter. She extracted the banana. Grown-ups ate bananas.

  “The fundraiser doesn’t bother me as much as how the DJs personally know everyone who calls in,” Anna said.

  Drew turned his attention to Lindsay. The twinkle of his green eyes nearly took her breath away. “What do you think? WZNC, for or against?”

  She inhaled deeply, willing her cheeks to remain blush-free. “Well, this morning, I called the DJ, whose mother gave me piano lessons when I was a teenager, and donated $25. I requested Patsy Cline.”

  Anna gesticulated forcefully with a spear of cucumber. “Lindsay can’t judge this! She’s not impartial. She’s an insider. She has lived here almost all her life and doesn’t know any better, poor soul.”

  “I, for one, always listen to the local radio stations when I move somewhere new,” Drew said, leaning conspiratorially toward Lindsay, “It helps me get a feel for a place.”

  “And how does my place feel?” Lindsay asked. She immediately regretted her choice of words and began to blush crimson. The banana in her hand seemed to have suddenly morphed into a giant phallic symbol.

  Not taking his eyes off Lindsay, Drew said, “I haven’t quite figured it out yet, but I hope to.”

  Lindsay tried to take a nonchalant bite of banana, but ended up nearly choking herself. Her cheeks burned furiously. The song had ended and the station began to play the typical commercials—for the local car dealership (Partee Auto World, where Lindsay had bought her used Toyota on the day of her high school graduation), for the upcoming open day at the Christian military boarding school out by the highway (The Milton Academy, where Lindsay’s father had constantly threatened to send her). Then a gospel choir began to sing, as a deep-voiced announcer intoned, “This weekend, at the county fairgrounds, experience the power of Jesus’ abiding love at Pastor Jonah Harding’s 17th Annual Tent Revival. Gates open at 10 a.m. on Saturday and the soul-saving reverie will continue on into Sunday night. Bring your Bible but don’t forget your bib, because there’s going to be all-you-can-eat baby back ribs. Come on out and make sure you get your name entered in the raffle drawing for a brand-new Kawasaki jet ski. It’s gonna be a weekend of miracles with Pastor Jonah Harding.”

  Drew smiled broadly. “Wow, Jesus and a jet ski. Now I’m sure I’m going to like it here. Don’t suppose the soul-saving, finger-licking Reverend Harding is any relation to you?”

  “Actually, yes. He’s my father.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “My jokes aren’t as funny as that.”

  “Huh, so I guess Daddy’s little girl became a minister to make her papa proud. I thought you’d have a more interesting back story,” Drew said.

  Lindsay studied his expression. He seemed to look at her the way one looks at a baby animal in a zoo enclosure, with equal parts fondness and condescension. It was much worse than Anna’s open contempt for all things small-town.

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Lindsay said, her mouth in a razor-thin line. “You know what? I’d better be going.” She rose from her chair. “Busy day.”

  Drew swiftly reached across the table and took Lindsay’s hand in his. He tilted his head sheepishly. “Sorry. Really. I was just teasing. Sometimes I just don’t know when to stop pushing on a sore spot.”

  Lindsay sat back down. She lowered her eyes. “It’s okay.”

  “I really am interested. Why did you become a chaplain?”

  “Yeah, Linds. I don’t know the answer to this one either,” Anna said. “My theory has always been that you were either raised by nuns in a leper colony or that you killed a man in cold blood and became a woman of the cloth to atone for your sins.”

  “Zip it, Melrose,” Drew said. “Let the woman speak.”

  Lindsay softened. It was so easy to forgive a man with a face like that.

  “Well, I used to go with my dad on hospital visits to members of his congregation. Once, when I was 11 or 12, I went with him to see a woman from the congregation who was dying of a very aggressive cancer. She wanted to marry her boyfriend, who was a Catholic, before she passed. My father wouldn’t do the wedding unless the man converted. The man refused. His priest wouldn’t do the ceremony either, unless the woman converted. She refused. The couple scrambled to find another minister to do the wedding, but they didn’t find one in time. I don’t think I made up my mind right then, but that experience kind of percolated with me for a long while. I wanted to make that story turn out different. So I suppose you were right. I did become a chaplain because of my Daddy.”

  “Huh,” Anna said. “It’s one of those Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker dynamics where you make up for the failings of your father.”

  “Like Hamlet going after Claudius to avenge his father’s murder,” Drew said, nodding his head.

  Anna crossed her arms and raised her eyebrows. “Luke went after Darth so that the forces of Light could triumph over The Man. The Man in that case being the Evil Empire and the Death Star. In Lindsay’s case, The Man is the inflexible dogma of institutional religion. Parallels between similar situations make a good metaphor. Your metaphor, by contrast, sucks. Hamlet kills, like, twenty guys, including at least a dozen innocent bystanders, messes with his girlfriend’s head until she drowns herself, and poisons his own mother! Lindsay is Luke Skywalker. And you,” she stabbed the air in front of Drew with her raised spoon, “have bad taste in radio stations and an inability to craft a decent metaphor. Hamlet? Hamlet?!” She clicked her tongue. “Please.”

  Chapter 14

  Lindsay ended her shift just as the sun was just beginning to duck behind the loblolly pines. Her shift was technically over at 3 p.m., but, as usual, entering the day’s case notes into the chaplain’s office’s prehistoric computer had delayed her departure considerably. She hadn’t felt the outside air since early morning, when the maintenance men had finally sealed up the windows in Mrs. Peechum’s room. The cloying humidity of earlier in the day had evaporated, leaving behind an uncharacteristically fresh and windy atmosphere. Food wrappers, grass clippings, and other parking lot detritus were propelled ahead of Lindsay on strong
gusts of wind, out and up into the rapidly darkening sky. Lindsay found herself strangely discomfited by the coolness. She was happy to climb inside her car and let the warm, stale air wrap around her like a blanket.

  Her conversation with Drew and Anna had dogged her all afternoon. She hated the feeling of vulnerability that always followed revelations about her past. Through her chaplaincy training, she had been forced to confront it all: the childhood she had spent in the moldy old house on the Outer Banks, with her father’s coolly aloof great aunt…the sudden reunion with her father and subsequent forced march into his newly-discovered world of sweet Jesus and the Holy Spirit…the cigarettes, alcohol, and defiant sprees of her bitter teenage rebellion…the implosion of her long engagement to Timothy Farnsworth. She had stared it all down and tamed it. But her past crouched like a circus tiger, ready to rake its claws across her body if she dropped the whip, if she gave it even a moment’s liberty.

  As she drew closer to home, the sinking sun was blocked out by a line of dark thunderclouds rolling in from the West. When she finally eased her Tercel into her wide gravel driveway, the sky loomed low and black. The table lamp glowed in her living room. “Must have left it on,” she thought. Her heart beat quickened, however, when she caught sight of a man’s shadowy form through the sheer ivory curtains that hung in the front windows. The man moved from room to room, with his head bent low. She cut the headlights and positioned the car behind the stand of trees at the top of the drive. Through the screen of trees, she saw the intruder cross the windows again, this time carrying what appeared to be a large box. Was it her laptop computer? What would a thief want to take from her? She had nothing of value.

  The shadow moved across the window again. Her heart tapped out a furious tattoo. Overheard, a deep growl of thunder broke across the sky. Lindsay grabbed a heavy flashlight from behind the passenger’s seat. The solidity and heft of it in her hand gave her a surge of adrenaline, and she moved quickly toward the house. The rising rush of the wind masked the crunch of her footsteps on the gravel. She pressed her body into the wooden siding and slid along in the small space between the house and the line of low-slung landscaping bushes that surrounded it. When she reached the big window next to the front porch, she slowly rose and peered in through the lowest window pane. Suddenly, the window flew open, sending her flying backwards into the bushes.