“Two years, Blake,” Philip had said. “You have two years to pull some kind of sacerdotal rabbit out of a hat. If you cannot get that church to independent status by then, it is over.”
“Who has keys to the church?” the sheriff asked, drawing Blake back to the moment. They had made their way to the basement.
“What? Oh, everybody.”
“What do you mean everybody?”
“Well maybe not everybody, almost everybody, Sunday school teachers, Altar Guild members, the choir, members of the Mission board, various committee chairmen, Boy Scouts, AA, and, of course, former members of all of the above…and then over the years….”
“I get the picture. Aren’t you worried about being robbed?”
“We have been robbed, three times in four years. But whoever did it broke in. Apparently church folks didn’t do the robbing.”
“Do you know if Templeton had any enemies?”
“I have no idea. I suppose he must have, considering.”
“Considering what?”
“Someone killed him. That strikes me as reasonable evidence that he had at least one enemy.”
“I found this.” Schwartz held out a water bottle. “Yours?”
“Looks like mine. I buy that brand by the case.”
“Why is that? The water in town is considered to be the best in the state. There used to be a spa just west of here and people from all over traveled to Picketsville just to drink the water—”
“Commonwealth, you said—”
“I found this in the trash.”
“Look, if this is about recycling, I’m sorry. Write me up.”
Schwartz gave Blake a look that reminded him of his college football coach when he’d thrown an interception. He shrank an inch or two.
“All your bottles look like this when you’re done?”
The end had been blown out.
“No. What happened to my bottle?”
“Poor man’s noise suppressor, I think. You tape it to the end of your weapon…see the tape here…and here? And it muffles the report. Our man didn’t want to be heard.”
“You’re the expert, but why a man?”
“Guns are a man’s weapon. Women tend to use less violent means to kill folks—like poison, although it isn’t always so. But the bottle is the clincher. Men know about bottle noise suppressors. You ask a woman how to silence a gun and if she has any idea, she’ll suggest a pillow. No, we’re looking for a man.” Schwartz stopped at the door. “If you think of anything that might help, let me know. The bottle is just between you and me, got it?” He climbed the steps and disappeared outside.
“Right. Shouldn’t that be, ‘you and I,’” Blake said to an empty room.
Nothing in his seminary training had prepared him for a murder or its aftermath. The Book contained no appropriate liturgy; no articles in the Canons covered it. And he had until Sunday, one and a half days, to figure out what to do, find a substitute organist, and calm everyone down, including himself. The phone rang. He picked up the extension.
“Blake? What’s going on up there? Dan Quarles has been on the phone to me. So has the Bishop and half the Heavenly Host.”
“Murder mostly, Philip. Organist shot. I feel like I’m in the middle of an Agatha Christie novel. Murder at the Vicarage.”
“Do you want to meet me for lunch? We are due for a session anyway—usual place, one thirty?”
“One thirty will be fine.”
Chapter Five
Rockbridge Mall briefly held the title of the best designed small mall on the east coast. That distinction lasted something like twenty minutes, as the mega-mall craze boomed. Although stripped of its title, it still remained a pleasant place to shop and dine, see a movie, or just “mall walk.” Every two weeks, Philip Bournet met Blake there for lunch and reviewed Blake’s progress or the lack thereof. As Rector of Saint Anne’s, Philip exercised control over the mission and its activities. He did not interfere, but as the fiscally responsible agent, he needed to keep close tabs on Blake, the church, and its people.
The Admiral Maury Café was predictably nautical, with binnacles in the corners and sextants on the wall. Most of the memorabilia would probably not have been recognizable to the admiral, as he spent most of his career as a cartographer. There were, however, a few maps displayed here and there. Blake arrived first, took a booth, and ordered iced tea. Philip walked in five minutes later. In the interval between, Blake greeted three parishioners, all of whom seemed to know more about the murder than he did.
“Blake,” Philip said, making the greeting sound almost like a question. He sat in the booth opposite, ordered coffee and picked up his menu. “You ordered yet?”
“No, I was waiting for you.”
The waitress brought them drinks. They ordered lunch and leaned back, each waiting for the other to start. Finally, Philip said, “I knew you intended to make some personnel changes, Blake, but this is ridiculous. He couldn’t have been that bad an organist.”
“It’s not a joking matter, Philip, this is a mess. As if the inconvenience of an ongoing police presence at the church weren’t bad enough, I am already being given the ‘dirty eye’ by two-thirds of the congregation. This may be the last straw.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Philip, I think coming to Virginia may have been a mistake. I have never run into such a collection of stiff-necked people in my life. I thought my last position was a dilly. But these people…how did Tommy put up with them?”
“Tommy” referred to the Reverend Doctor Thomas Taliaferro, pronounced “Tolliver” in this part of the world, the former professor of Pastoral Theology at Virginia Theological Seminary, and Blake’s immediate predecessor.
“Well, they liked him, I think. Mostly they liked Doris. You know Doris, Tommy’s wife—widow?”
“Only slightly.”
“Wonderful woman. Bright, sensitive, and able to make everyone in the room feel important. Tommy always said when they hired him, they really wanted Doris and so had to take him to get her. You know she sends me a copy of her poems every year for Christmas. Terrible doggerel, ‘Birds tweet, Bees flit, Very sweet, Isn’t it,’ that sort of thing. I haven’t the heart to say anything. It’s her only flaw. Anyway, Tommy had a way of overlooking unpleasantness. It was a gift. The Board would huff and puff and Tommy would smile and do whatever he planned to do anyway.”
“You recommend a similar course for me?”
“Don’t think so. They know why you left Philadelphia, and they are waiting for you to make a mistake. Dan Quarles as much as accused you of murder this morning.”
“Me? What the—?”
“I’m exaggerating, of course, but you get my drift.”
“Lord, have mercy on my soul.”
“Precisely. By the way, speaking of Doris, she said Millicent Bass called and wanted to know if she had Tommy’s records. I don’t know why Mrs. Bass wanted to know. Probably just tidying up some loose ends.”
“Records? What kind of records? LPs, CDs, that sort, or paper files?”
“Paper files. Tommy kept detailed notes of his counseling sessions, even taped some, I think. I told him not to, that it might create a problem later, but he said not to worry, they were safe. You know he was a trained and licensed psychotherapist—good at it, too. I sent him a dozen patients at one time or another. Anyway, his files are missing. He must have put them away in a safe place—attic maybe. Do me a favor and see if you can dig them out and send them to Doris. I’ll give you her address.”
“Sure. But what do I do now with a dead organist and a Board in open rebellion?”
“You know the rule every clergy person knows. When things seem dark and hopeless—”
“Pray?”
“No, drop back ten
yards and punt.”
“Philip, I said this is not a joking matter.”
“No, you are right. I’m sorry. Give yourself a break. You’ve been their vicar for less than three months. It is still summer and people are away, occupied with other things, vacations, trips to the beach, baseball. Wait until later and you will see. Things will pick up. In the meantime, Mary Miller is a member of my congregation, and she lives up near you. I have tried to persuade her to attend Stonewall, but so far, she has refused. She visited there once in July and said she received such a chilly reception, she felt like she needed an overcoat. But, she plays the organ, has had some experience in the Methodist Church, I think. If I asked her, she might at least fill in while you get sorted out.”
“That would be wonderful.”
“Are you okay, Blake,” Philip turned serious, “aside from the murder?”
“I suppose so. You said it yourself, though. They know about Philadelphia so I operate under a cloud. It is maddening. I have nothing to be ashamed of, I didn’t do anything, and yet I feel like a juvenile delinquent visiting his probation officer every time I attend a meeting.”
“I can’t help you there, Blake. It’s something you will just have to ride out. Leaving this church, if that’s what’s on your mind, will only prolong the agony.”
“I know. And I owe you, Philip, for giving me the chance to stay in ministry. God must have it in for me, though.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself. I think he loves you and has finally given you a chance to find out what ministry is all about. If you can bring those people to an understanding of what God means when he tells us to love our neighbor, you and your ‘stiff necked’ congregation will have found a new life and a new calling.”
Blake’s face turned red during Philip’s remarks.
“Don’t be angry with me, Blake. You were the associate rector of a very fine, very rich, very prestigious mainline church. It had an enormous endowment, a paid choir, a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar tracker organ, stained glass windows to die for, and all the spirituality of a country club. You lived that life and it brought you down.” Philip waved off Blake’s beginning protest.
“No, listen to me. You did. You were the young, single, handsome man that every mother hoped her daughter would marry. You had Bishop stamped on your heel and it seemed nothing could go wrong. But in all that time, Blake, did you ever feel the Spirit moving in your life? We talked a lot over the years, and most of it concerned things, appointments, commissions, how tight you were with the Bishop. We never spoke about holiness. God put you in Picketsville so you could learn those things. One thing is certain, that little church is not a springboard to a cardinal rectorship or a bishop’s purple shirt. You will bend to his will, Blake, or you will fall from grace.”
Blake looked into the very brown and very serious eyes of his friend and knew he spoke the truth. His heart sank. Truth or not, Blake had not yet prepared himself to let go of the things he believed were his and for which he had worked so hard. The thought of serving out his years in Picketsville in that oddly named church crushed him.
“It will come to you, Blake. I know you and I know that behind all that shiny-bright ecclesiastical eagerness is a deep and caring person who will make an enormous difference in the lives of hundreds of people. That is why I gave you the job, Blake. I do not need a mission. I do not even want a mission. But God does, and he wants you in it. So there you are. Ah, here’s our food.”
They ate in silence, Philip obviously enjoying his steak. Blake toyed with his burger and fries, his thoughts far away—in Philadelphia.
“Philip,” Blake said between mouthfuls of slaw, “you believe me when I say nothing happened at Saint Katherine’s, don’t you?”
“You said it. You do not lie, as far as I know, so yes, I believe you. Your Bishop’s letter didn’t hurt, either.”
“Thanks a lot.”
Chapter Six
“Okay, Ike, here’s where we’re at.” Billy Sutherlin opened his notebook and waited for a signal from Ike to begin. Ike had finished with Fisher and watched him drive away. He’d spent the next hour circling the grounds. He hadn’t found much. He assigned two men to work up the victim’s Toyota Tercel parked in the trees, at least he assumed that’s who the car belonged to, and he taped off another set of tire tracks nearby. The lot behind the church did not seem to be used often, especially in the summer, and he guessed the tracks might be significant. Or not.
“Shoot,” he said.
“Well, Miz Bass, that’s the lady with the face all messed up from crying and—”
“The one who put her finger in the bloodstain?”
“Yeah. She’s the church secretary and the one who found the body. She doesn’t know why the victim came back to the church late Thursday night.”
“Back?”
“Yeah, see they have choir practice every Thursday evening and then they all go out together. But he might’ve stayed behind or something. So, anyway she said this morning she aimed to get a head start on the fixing up what they do in the…” he consulted his notes, “sanctuary or is it sacristy…can’t keep them straight…so she came out that door and around the corner and found him. She’s pretty busted up.”
“The others?”
“Well, you know my mother, course, and Mavis Bowers. She lives out by the Craddocks. I reckon she can tell you some stories about them…and then there’s Grace Franks and Iris French. They all say the same thing…they came in, found the Bass woman in a state, and called you.”
“What about the Reverend?”
“Well, he got here late and he don’t seem to know anything. I didn’t try for an alibi, what with him being a Reverend and all.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. He’s a priest, by the way. Episcopalians have priests like the Catholics. But Reverend or not, I want you to check him out. Anything else?”
“Well, that’s another funny thing, Ike. The FETs gave me this here key ring.”
Ike looked at the ring of keys, counted them through the plastic of the evidence bag. Five keys. He held the bag up to the light.
“You see anything interesting about these keys?” he asked and handed the bag back to Billy. His deputy took it and shifted the keys around in the bag as Ike had done. He frowned and sighed.
“Well, sir, I can’t be sure if it’s important or not, but it seems like all the keys is, you know, on their cut side, facing the same way except this here brass one. It looks new and is pointed the other way round.”
“Any thoughts?”
Billy scratched his head. “Well, most folks don’t care which way a key faces. But if this Templeton guy was, like, one of them orderly types, you know, the kind who refold their newspaper before they throw it out in the trash, or always roll their socks a certain way and, well, if he made sure all the keys faced the same way, then—”
“He was in a hurry when he put this one on, or he didn’t think it would be on very long, or someone else put it on for him.”
“Um, well I got two outta three there, Ike.”
The remains of Waldo Templeton, neatly packaged in a blue plastic body bag, were deposited into the coroner’s van. The driver and his helper slammed the rear doors shut, climbed in front, and pulled out of the parking lot. Ike watched as it turned and drove away.
“Ike,” Billy said, his eyes also on the van, “about them bullet holes.”
“What about them?”
“Well, I’m thinking they were small caliber, maybe .25, no more’n a .32. That usually means whoever did the shooting must have been a pro, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. TV shows and books pretty much spread that notion around, but killers generally use the weapons that feel comfortable. Some pretty big time killers use some real cannons.”
“Oh.”
Billy turned and looked disappointed. He reached for his left breast pocket and then dropped his hand. He’d quit smoking the week before, but hadn’t shed the habit of reaching for the pack when he had a problem to solve.
“Well, what I meant to ask you is—assuming small caliber means a professional— how come he took two shots? One is in the shoulder and not anywhere near fatal. Then, there is the perfectly centered shot to the head.”
“No telling. Too dark, or he rushed his shot, or the victim moved. My guess—the shoulder wound served as an attention getter. The shooter hits him in the arm or shoulder to spin him around, then he drills him. The second shot is either lucky or the guy is what you suspect, a pro.”
Billy thought a minute and said, “I’m betting on pro.”
“If you’re right, there’s no way we’ll catch him. A hit man will be long gone by now. If he’s still here, he’s put together an iron clad alibi.”
“Might be a she.”
“Might be.”
“So, besides playing the organ, who is this guy, Templeton, anyway?” Billy asked.
“We’ll have to find that out first thing. Check out his ID, find out where he lived and search his place. The coroner will give us a set of prints and a dental work-up sometime Monday. We’ll run them through the County’s program and see if we get a hit. Either way, we’ll send them off to the Bureau, too.”
“Funny about the church, him getting shot in it, I mean,” Billy said.
“Maybe more important than funny. What are the chances? Churches aren’t exactly the venue of choice for a shooting.” Ike scuffed his toe against the gravel and turned the idea over in his mind. He believed he’d just said something significant, but couldn’t think what. He hoped it would come to him later.
Ike glanced at his watch. Too late for lunch and too early for dinner. Friday afternoon and soon they’d both be caught up in the weekend craziness caused by youthful exuberance, hormones, and beer. Ike made a point to put himself in the duty rotation like any of his deputies. He’d drawn the weekend. No date tonight. He’d call Ruth anyway.
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