“I heard about Millie,” she said. “Terrible. She was not one of my favorite people, you know, but she did not deserve that.”
They climbed the stairs to the offices and Sylvia surveyed the riot of papers and material on the floor. She raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“The police think whoever killed Millie was looking for something. Her house looked worse than this.”
“Any idea what they were looking for?”
He thought a minute. Should he say anything? He had ordered the Board to leave the news about the files in the room. Should he be the one to take the news out? Finally he said, “Can I retain you as my attorney?”
“Me? You’re kidding. What do you need a lawyer for, Blake? What did you do?”
“Answer my question first.”
“Well, I am in good standing with the bar, so I could. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Serious as a heart attack.”
“Okay, give me a dollar.”
“What?”
“A dollar. I cannot be your attorney unless you pay me a retainer or sign an agreement to do so. Give me a dollar.”
Blake dug a crumpled dollar bill from his wallet and handed it to her.
“Anything I say to you now is covered under lawyer-client confidentiality?”
“Yes.”
He told her about the missing files and his suspicions that Millie had read them and probably had them in her possessions and that they were now missing. Sylvia listened patiently, a small frown on her otherwise smooth forehead, and said she guessed if the news got out, a lot of people would need a lawyer. She volunteered to serve as the church’s attorney as well, until some other arrangements were made.
“And, just to be sure, as your attorney, you don’t have the files?”
“No.”
“And you have no information as to their whereabouts?”
“None.”
She frowned. He couldn’t be sure if she didn’t believe him or if the thought of the files in the wrong hands was more serious than even he’d imagined.
“Well, that will have to do for now,” she said and brightened.
Relieved, he thanked her and then, as an afterthought, asked why she was waiting for him in the first place.
“Well, I told you I heard about Millie. I figured I could come in and help out, answer the phone, type a little, you know. I had no idea I would be needed any other way. Good thing I came.”
The two of them began to gather up the papers and files that were scattered all over the floor. Blake concentrated on his office and Sylvia tried to make sense out of the chaos in Millie’s. It would be months before any sort of order was restored to the files. They were interrupted by the arrival of Ike Schwartz. He stood at the top of the stairs and watched them for a moment before either saw him.
“Ah, Sheriff Schwartz,” Blake said. “I’m glad you are here. This is Sylvia Parks, my attorney. You don’t need to ask any more. Have you brought news?”
“I came by to say it was all right to clean up the mess, but I see you didn’t wait. Also, to tell you we lifted some pretty clean prints from some of the papers, especially the two packets of paper.”
Schwartz followed Blake into his office and sat on the one spare chair.
“And they belong to…?”
“Don’t know. Unless we fingerprint your entire congregation, we may never know. On the other hand, if our investigation turns up a list of suspects, the prints may help us narrow it down.”
“You know, Sheriff, there is one thing I don’t understand.”
“Just one?”
“Well, no, several, but one right now. Why did it take so long for all this to happen?” He saw the puzzlement in Schwartz’s eyes. “Look, Taliaferro died four months ago. Those files must have been in Millie’s hands probably as long. So why did someone come after them now? Surely, with her tongue wagging, the fact she had them would be obvious to anyone familiar with at least their own files. Why now?”
“That’s an excellent question. I guess she must have said something recently that let the cat out of the bag. Or maybe the killer just found out about the files.”
“Or something happened recently that set him off.”
“Correct. Anything happen in the church that might qualify? You make a big announcement or start a big project…maybe preach a sermon?”
“No, nothing like that. Except for Waldo getting shot, nothing dramatic has happened in this church for forty years.”
Blake glanced at the mess on his floor. Several dozen keys lay scattered by his upturned wastepaper basket. Keys.
“Sheriff,” he said, as he scooped up the keys, “did you happen to find any keys on Templeton when you did whatever you do?”
“Keys? Yes, one big key ring, house keys, car keys, that kind of thing.”
“How about a small key ring with two keys, two small keys. We are missing the organ keys. We can’t lock it up and the kids are beginning to use it as a noise maker.”
“I don’t remember a small key ring. Keys on separate rings always beg the question.”
While he spoke, Blake sorted through the pile of keys again. There were no small keys that looked like they might fit the organ lock. He went into the secretary’s office and scooped up the rest from the floor. He sorted out the best prospects, as he had Wednesday. None fit the organ.
“Maybe he left them at his house. He must have had at least a duplicate set. Do you suppose we could look at his house?”
“We searched it already.”
“But not for keys. No one has been by there since?”
“No. The place is sealed. By this afternoon, the FBI will assume jurisdiction and shut us out. Then we’ll need a court order to get in.”
“No, that’s not true,” Sylvia said. Hearing court order must have perked up her antennae, and she slipped into the office. “Waldo is dead. He forfeits his rights to protection against unlawful search and seizure. He is the victim, not the perpetrator. His house is, therefore, an extension of the crime scene and accessible by the police without a warrant or order. Unless and until the FBI stops us, it’s still your case.”
“Some lawyer you got there, Reverend. So you’re saying we can just go in?”
“In the pursuit of an investigation, yes.”
“We aren’t the investigating authority anymore.”
“Doesn’t matter. If you have reason to believe there are circumstances that materially alter the course of the investigation, you can enter the premises.”
“What circumstances would that be?”
“The organ keys are missing.”
“That would do?”
“You have anything better?”
Schwartz stared at his shoes and frowned. “I’ll meet you here this afternoon at five o’clock. Wait, it will have to be later. I have to go somewhere first. Reverend, bring your lawyer. My gut says one of us is going to need her.”
Chapter Thirty-five
As uninformed as the Mission Board seemed to be the night before, by eleven o’clock the next morning, when the Bible study assembled, it appeared everyone knew about the murder. When Blake joined them, Rose Garroway was in full voice. All the contempt she once held for Millicent poured out in a torrent. She had an appreciative and supporting audience and soon others joined in, adding their resentment to Rose’s. Blake sat quietly and listened. He heard in their anger the echo of his own.
Millicent Bass had wounded him twice. She’d substituted innuendo letters in the Board’s packet for exculpatory ones, and then sent the same damning letters to Mary. Because of the first, most of the leadership, and many others, he supposed, thought of him as unfit and certainly undesirable as their minister. And for a while, Mary must have, too.
Millie, Rose opined, had become a destructive force and had received a form of divine judgment. Her words were hard and unforgiving. Finally, Blake held up his hand.
“Rose, stop, enough. The woman is dead. Nothing we say now can change who she was. On the other hand, the things we do say now reflect on us, not on her.”
The group fell silent. Rose reddened and looked unhappy.
“You know I have as much reason to dislike her as anyone in this room, maybe more.” He told them about the letters. Amazed expressions lit several faces. The regulars, like Rose, nodded as if to say, “I thought so.” The newer members looked shocked.
“I figured something like that happened,” Rose said, “Didn’t I, Minnie?” Her sister let her eyes leave the knitting in her lap long enough to nod and smile.
“There are a lot of people who need to hear that story, Vicar. That woman….”
“No more, Rose. It’s time to let her rest in peace.” He waved off the protests and said, “Millicent Bass lived her life as a lonely and unhappy woman. Because of it, or in addition to it—I am not sure which—she developed a destructive habit. If she had not been so lonely, she might not have become a world-class gossip. But her habit of snooping and telling became a way to develop friendships and a kind of perverted happiness. I imagine it started out innocently enough—she knew something no one else knew and she shared it, harmless gossip, I expect most of us would call it. Somewhere along the way, someone or something twisted her around and set her on the path she took.” He looked into the skeptical faces of his audience.
“Listen, did anyone have their arm twisted? Was anyone forced to listen? At one time or another, each of you participated in it, first or second hand. Did you say anything? Did you walk away? The truth is—we were all her co-dependants. We promoted it. I suppose some even encouraged it. If gossip is what killed her, then we all stand accused of aiding and abetting.”
The room stayed silent for a long time. Finally, Rose said, “Don’t you just hate it when your clergyman turns out to be a Christian?” and the women laughed, relieved. Blake joined them and then said, “You know Millie’s funeral is Friday. I don’t think very many people will come, and that is a shame.”
“We can’t do much about that,” Rose said. “As ye sow, so shall ye reap—”
“That may be true. But then, I think you all should be thinking about what you were sowing here just a few minutes ago. I think it is about time we started sowing good seed. You don’t want a group like this picking the meat off your bones when your time comes.”
He watched as the frowns turned into embarrassed smiles.
“Here’s what I want you to do. Call your friends and get them to the funeral. I don’t care if they moan and groan. And then, I want you all to do the eulogies. I want each of you to find something nice to say about Millie at her funeral.”
“So that someone, not exactly our nearest and dearest, will do the same for us someday?” Minnie asked.
“Perhaps. It’s more along the lines of loving your enemy, Minnie.”
“I think it would be easier to find an ice cube in Hell than to find something positive about Millicent Bass,” Sylvia snorted.
“I’ll tell you something else,” Blake said. “Our anger and contempt for her is not healthy. It is in our own best interest to get rid of it, or we will carry it to our grave, and the dark force that led Millie to wander down the path she took will remain in our hearts, and the Devil will have won after all. We will purge our demons faster and more completely with an act of love than with an act made in anger. Remember what I told you Sunday? That the root for the word gossip and the root for the word gospel is the same? A story that edifies is God’s word. A story that destroys is the Devil’s. Unfortunately, discerning the difference between the two is sometimes very hard. We need to remember that all of us tread very close to that line most of the time. So Friday, try to show some mercy on one who crossed it.”
The meeting ended and they adjourned to the mall for lunch. Blake begged off. He said he had arrangements to make for the funeral. There were a few other things on his mind as well.
***
Most municipal graveyards are designed to provide a sense of peace for visitors, mourners, and the curious. Picketsville’s Memorial Park was no exception. Located on a hillside west of town and planted with trees representing every local variety, it offered visitors both an arboretum and a stunning view of the Blue Ridge Mountains to the east. Behind, to the west, a state park established a permanent buffer against any possible commercial or residential encroachment and provided a soft, evergreen backdrop.
Eloise Schwartz, nee McNamara, occupied a small plot in the corner close by a small copse of dogwoods. Picketsville may have had its detractors, those who found its size or rustic culture wanting, its people backward and its vision limited, but whatever drawbacks it may or may not have had, its cemetery belied them all. It always struck Ike as ironic that the town’s chief critics were concentrated at the college, since most of what they decried fell to them to provide. Ike parked the car and sat for a moment behind the wheel. Ruth stared straight ahead.
“This is the first time I’ve been out here,” Ruth said, her voice hushed. “It’s beautiful.”
He opened the door and walked around to open hers. On any other day, she would have opened her own door and, if he had tried to be male and gallant, given him a quick lecture. But not today. Not lately, in fact. He opened the door and she stepped out.
“No headstones?” Ruth was raised in the antique northeast where churches were routinely photogenic and had charming, movie set graveyards surrounding them.
“I brought her here, because she had no family,” he said. “Her parents were killed in an automobile accident when she turned eighteen. She has a brother on disability from Desert Storm. He drinks most of it. There was no one else, so I brought her here.”
They walked along a gravel path to Eloise’s corner and sat on a stone bench. In spite of the afternoon sun, the bench felt cool on the backs of their legs. Eloise had a plaque set flush with the earth six feet from them. There was a place to put flowers, but Ike had not thought to bring any. He wished he had. He vowed he would the next time he came. On an impulse, he stood and collected some wildflowers that had crept past the cut line into the lawn. He laid them on the sod at a point he guessed would be above her heart.
They sat in silence for a long time. What could he say? Honeysuckle surrounded the place, clinging to shrubs and low trees, its tendrils reaching out toward the open grass. If the mowing crew did not stay on top of it, it would soon cover the place and in a year the cemetery would disappear beneath a mountain of tangled stems. It was a sobering thought. The cloying sweet scent filled the still, warm air. Somewhere two blue-jays argued. Nature is never silent. Humans may think they are the purveyors of noise and when they quiet down, the world is silent, but they are wrong. Insects, birds and small living things buzz, click and sing twenty-four hours a day. It is ears that do not hear that create silence.
Ike, elbows on knees, lowered his chin into his cupped hands. Ruth sat perfectly still, waiting. When his shoulders began to shake, she put her arm around him. He leaned on her shoulder. They stayed there that way for twenty minutes.
“Thanks,” is all he said, and led her back to the car.
“Anytime.”
The trip back to town seemed shorter than it had coming out.
***
The boys walked slowly through the back lot kicking the tall grass, heads down and faces puckered in concentration. They walked slowly back and forth, searching but not finding. Finally one of them saw Blake standing in the parking lot and strolled over, trying to look laid-back and cool.
“Say, Mister,” he said, “have you seen our box?”
Blake inspected the boy. He could have been anywhere between twelve and fifteen. H
e carried a skateboard under his arm. Blake noticed they all had them. The others stopped walking and watched their companion from a distance, straining to hear what he said.
“What kind of box? Maybe a gray steel one with papers inside?”
“Yeah. We found it by them steps,” the boy said, pointing at the church’s basement entrance. His tone indicated no concern that he and his friends might have taken something that belonged to someone else. “We figured it was, like, trash and we could use it to make a ramp.”
“What happened to the papers inside it?”
“We left them in there. Only a couple of old folders anyway.”
“You didn’t see a lot of folders? Just two or three?”
“Yeah, just the ones like I said.”
Blake searched the boy’s eyes. Did he tell the truth or did he want to cover up the fact he and his friends took the box and tossed the files?
“When did you find the box?”
“Like in May or June. I don’t know for sure. While ago.”
“Not more recently than that? Three weeks, not three months ago?”
“No sir, you can ask anybody. We kept it out in the field there covered with old newspapers.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, we did find it, and since it belongs to the church, we kept it. Maybe I can find you another box.” He saw the doubt and disappointment register in the boy’s eyes.
“You go to church?”
“Nah. Nothing doing in church has anything to do with me.”
“How about your folks?”
“They tried this one once, but said it was, you know, like, totally cold.”
“Cold? You mean unfriendly?”
“Yeah, that way.”
“But you do like the church’s parking lot. Something there for you.”
“Well the other guy, the one who was in charge before you, said it was okay to skate and do our tricks here if there wasn’t nobody around. Be better if you paved the rest of the lot, though.”
“Pave it?”
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