“Two hikers,” she said. “They’ve been gone for a day and a half. They should have checked in yesterday afternoon.”
“Were they hiking around here?” I asked.
Nancy looked back down at her information and shook her head. “Doesn’t look like it. The forest service may want us to help look, though.”
“Okay. Tell them to keep us informed. We’ll be happy to help. Meanwhile, we’re going to have a chat with Gerry and Wilma Flemming.”
•••
Gerry and Wilma lived outside the city limits in an established subdivision of 1970s homes. They’d been members of St. Barnabas since they’d moved to town five years ago. Both Gerry and Wilma were in their early forties, part of the generation that wanted to get their careers established before having children. As a result, they had one child, a four-year-old boy named Caleb, who was enrolled in the church pre-school where Wilma worked as a volunteer three days a week. Gerry was the algebra teacher at Richard B. “Dick” Cheney High School. Their house was a split-level bungalow that had been updated and added to several times since it had been built. The lot was wooded, and an old tire swung from a large maple tree on a nylon rope.
Nancy and I went to the door and I rang the bell. Wilma answered. She had changed out of her Sunday, church-going clothes that I’d seen her in earlier, and was now wearing khakis, a white shirt, and tennis shoes.
“Hi, Wilma,” I said. “Is Gerry home? We need to talk to both of you.”
Wilma lost her color. “Is Caleb all right?”
“Fine, I think. Isn’t he here?”
“He’s at a friend’s house,” she said. “Come in. Gerry’s in the den.”
She led us to a comfortable sitting room where Gerry was reclining on an oversized sofa and watching a baseball game on an equally oversized plasma television. He smiled at us when we walked in and motioned for us to sit.
“What’s up?” he said.
“Gerry,” I said, “there’s no easy way to say this. There’s been a complaint against you.”
Nancy glared at him. I looked at Wilma. She swallowed hard.
“What kind of complaint?”
“One of the girls in the Afterglow group.”
“Oh, Gerry!” said Wilma in disgust. “Not again! You promised!”
“Shut up!” said Gerry, jumping to his feet. “Don’t you say anything!”
“Sit down, Gerry,” I said.
“Who was it this time?” said Wilma, her voice rising.
“I’m guessing that this is a pattern with you?” I said.
“I have a…a problem,” said Gerry. “I’ve been seeing a psychologist. Wilma and I are working it out. I just like young women. There’s nothing illegal about it.”
“You’re mistaken,” Nancy said. “It is illegal.”
“Who was it?” demanded Wilma.
“Pauli Girl McCollough,” I said.
“It’s her word against mine,” said Gerry. “We’re consenting adults.”
“No, she’s not,” I said.
“If she says she didn’t consent, she’s a liar!” he said angrily.
“She’s not a liar, Gerry. But it doesn’t matter if she consented or not. She took an Advanced Placement class at your high school last April.”
Gerry went white. “What are you talking about? She wasn’t in my class.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Nancy. “Sure, she’s seventeen. And the age of consent in North Carolina is sixteen. But there’s a provision for sleazy teachers. Did you know that if a school faculty member engages in any sexual activity with any student that he or she can be charged with child molestation?”
“Oh, my God,” said Wilma, her hand going to her mouth. She sank down next to Gerry on the sofa.
“Who else?” I said. “How many other girls in the youth group?”
Gerry shook his head. “None. I swear.”
Wilma started crying, but Gerry sat still, eyes unfocused, looking straight ahead.
“Gerry,” I said, getting up from my seat. “I’m going to let you turn yourself in. Present yourself at ten o’clock tomorrow morning at the Boone Police Department for booking. Needless to say, you won’t be expected at St. Barnabas this evening.”
•••
“Do you think he’ll show up?” Nancy asked, when we’d gotten back in the truck.
“I think so,” I said. “I mean, what are his choices? He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to kill himself out of shame. If he runs for it, he’ll have a federal warrant out on him. Whatever happens, I don’t think Wilma will be sticking around too long. She might tolerate some infidelity in the guise of a psychological problem, but getting arrested for molesting a sixteen-year-old student is a whole ’nother thing.”
“Yeah,” said Nancy.
I started the truck and began the short trip back to the station.
“There’s a downside to all this, though,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“We’re just about out of suspects for Russ Stafford’s murder.”
“Well, how about Gerry? Or for that matter, Wilma?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Maybe Russ found out about Gerry and threatened to expose him. Maybe Gerry told Wilma.”
I shook my head. “Wilma didn’t know about Pauli Girl. That caught her totally by surprise.”
Nancy nodded. “I agree. But Gerry could have done it. And Russ certainly wasn’t above blackmail.”
“You’re right. But how would Russ have found out about Gerry’s predilection for young women? And how did he find out about Pauli Girl?”
“Would Gerry have told him? Maybe bragged about it?”
“Nope. Men don’t share secrets like that.”
“Would Pauli Girl have told anyone?” Nancy said.
“Nope.”
“Would Wilma have told her best friend Brianna, who then told Russ?”
“She might have told Brianna about his ‘problem,’ but that doesn’t explain how he found out about Pauli Girl.”
“How about the psychologist?”
“We can look into that. They tend to be close-lipped, however.”
“Hey,” said Nancy, with a snap of her fingers. “What if Russ saw it happen? Maybe Gerry wasn’t as discreet as he thought.”
“Interesting. I need to talk to Pauli Girl again.”
Chapter 17
“Good morning, Madam Mayor,” I said. “Have a seat. Tell us what bodes in the world of city government.”
Cynthia flopped down in a chair. She’d gotten off the early shift since Noylene and her new apprentice, Tiff, seemed to have everything well in hand. Dave and Nancy had gotten to the Slab before me and talked Pete into frying up some green tomatoes as a breakfast appetizer.
“Hi y’all,” said Noylene, walking up. “This here is Tiff. I’m mentoring her.”
“We’ve met,” I said. “Morning, Tiff.”
“Good morning, Chief,” Tiff chirped. “What can I get y’all this morning?”
Pete came walking out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. “I suggest the Omelette Tiff. Marinated capon, asparagus and acorn cheese in an egg-white omelet.”
“What on earth is acorn cheese?” asked Nancy.
“What’s a capon?” asked Dave.
“And what’s asparagus doing in an omelet?” I said.
“It’s my idea,” said Tiff. “Acorn cheese is a Welsh cheese based on an old-style Wensleydale. Firm yet crumbly. It sort of tastes like creamed caramel and crushed nuts. I had the idea yesterday afternoon when I was mopping the floor.” She wrinkled up her nose and shrugged apologetically. “My mom owns the cheese store in Little Switzerland. I ran down there this morning before work. She had some marinated capon left over from a wedding reception she catered so I went ahead and brought it with me.”
“I see a bright future for this young lady,” said Pete, proudly. “We’re going to be the talk of the town. The Ginger Cat ain’t gonna have nothing on us.”
He sat down and popped a fried tomato into his mouth.
“That omelet sounds good to me,” I said. Everyone else at the table agreed.
“I’ll get y’all some coffee right away,” said Tiff, bouncing away.
“Capon?” said Dave.
“Castrated rooster,” said Pete. “Very tender.”
“She’s my protegé,” Noylene whispered. “The mentor-protegé relationship is a sacred bond.” She followed Tiff into the kitchen.
“On a totally different subject,” said Cynthia, “the City Council is made up of idiots!”
“Well, that much is a given,” I said. “Only an idiot would want the job, much less spend money to be elected.”
“One of them found out about the moratorium on parking tickets, and they want me to make you start giving them out again. I think it’s just because out-of-towners have been parking in George Romanski’s parking space.”
“Okay,” I said. “Tell them we will.”
“Really?” said Cynthia in surprise. “I thought you would have put up more of a fight than that.”
“Nah,” I said. “Happens every year. Don’t give it another thought.”
Cynthia looked at me, then smirked. “You’re not going to give out parking tickets, are you?”
“If we find a car illegally parked,” said Nancy, “we’ll give ‘em a ticket.”
“Right,” said Dave. “But they’re sneaky. Sometimes they’ll park for a few hours, then drive around the block, and park right in the same place. It’s almost impossible to catch them.”
Cynthia laughed. “Okay, I’ll tell the City Council you will be doing everything in your power to catch and punish these miscreants.”
“That’s the ticket!” I said.
“Very funny,” said Cynthia.
•••
Our asparagus and acorn cheese omelets were fantastic and much better fare than we were used to at the Slab Café.
“What do we do now?” said Dave, as he finished the last bite of his breakfast. “I feel like we should applaud or something.”
“Maybe we should leave Tiff a big tip?” suggested Nancy. “That was really good!”
“I think you should,” said Cynthia. “Waitresses live on tips.” She turned to me. “By the way, how’s the murder investigation going?”
“Just great,” I grumbled.
“We should have it solved by lunch,” said Nancy.
“Excellent! Well, I’ve got to go,” said Cynthia, standing up and giving Pete a kiss on the cheek. “See you tonight.” Pete nodded.
“How’s it really going?” asked Pete.
“Terrible,” I said. “There’s something we’re missing.”
“You went back and talked with Pauli Girl?” asked Nancy.
“Yeah, I did.”
“What did she say?” asked Dave.
“She said Gerry Flemming attacked her in his car. He was giving some of the kids a ride home, and Pauli Girl was the last to be let off. He pulled off the road just before he got to her trailer. No way Russ could have seen that.”
“So,” said Pete. “Run it down for me. Maybe it’ll help to talk it out.”
“This is official police business, Pete. Confidential. You’re not the mayor anymore.”
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. So run it down.”
I shrugged, reached into my shirt pocket and pulled out the pad I’d taken to carrying, chiefly to keep track of all the suspects. “Here’s what we’ve got,” I said. “Russ Stafford was killed on Wednesday afternoon at about 5:10. He was playing the lead role in Kimberly Walnut’s play entitled The Stoning of Stephen, the culmination of the action being an actual stoning by the children and adults present, using special styrofoam rocks. Unfortunately for Russ, he had an enemy somewhere in the crowd, and that person took the opportunity to drop a real rock on Russ’ head while he was pretending to be dead. He wasn’t pretending very long.”
“Time of death, 5:15 p.m.,” said Nancy.
“Gerry Flemming was the one who came and got us. We’d all gone into the temple tent for the final ceremony.”
“So, who are the suspects?” Pete asked.
“Russ was not well-liked,” I said.
Pete laughed. “That’s the understatement of the year!”
“He was suing New Fellowship Baptist Church for burning down the Bear and Brew. Their only defense would have been that ‘No, God doesn’t answer specific prayer requests.’ I’m not sure they would have wanted to do that. They might have settled the lawsuit quietly, but knowing Russ, he would have dragged them through a very public briar patch. Brother Hog had motive, but he wasn’t there. The other Baptists who were at the Bible Bazaar were two college kids who left for band practice as soon as the skit started, a militant Testostero-Christian named Mitch St. Claire, Diana Terry…”
“The nun?” asked Pete.
“The very one,” I said. “Jeremy and Jenny Thatcher and Vera Kendrick, the children’s minister. The only one we haven’t excluded is Vera.”
“She couldn’t have done it,” said Dave. “She was my Sunday School teacher in sixth grade. She cried when the goldfish died.”
“I don’t think she did it, either,” I said. “She’s still on the list, though.”
“So it wasn’t one of the Baptists,” said Pete. “Cross off ‘Holy Indignation’ as a motive.”
“Other people that might have had a motive, but that we’ve eliminated, include Noylene, Brianna Stafford and Ardine or Pauli Girl McCollough.”
“Who’s left?” asked Pete.
“Gerry Flemming,” I said. “But it’s a stretch. He might have done it, but the only motive might be if Russ were blackmailing him, and there’s no evidence of that.”
“How about Wilma?” asked Dave.
“Don’t think so,” I said, and Nancy nodded in agreement. “She didn’t know anything about Gerry and Pauli Girl.”
“Can we look at his bank records?” asked Nancy. “Do we have enough probable cause for a warrant?”
“Indeed we do,” I said. “Call Judge Adams.”
Chapter 18
Gerry had presented himself at the Boone P.D. promptly at ten o’clock to be arrested. Nancy had gone down to fill out the paperwork. Wilma was not in attendance. He was arraigned and released later that evening on a seventy-five thousand dollar cash bond. He wrote a check for the full amount.
The Flemmings’ bank account proved more interesting than we’d thought, but included no large withdrawals in the past month, save for Gerry’s bail. Certainly nothing that indicated any blackmail payments. The case was set to be heard in July, and the word around the pre-school was that Wilma was packing up the house.
Nancy gave a $1000 parking ticket to an obnoxious couple from New Jersey who asked if they could speak to a real officer when she told them to move their Winnebago out of Sterling Park. The City Council was thrilled.
Other than that, the week was slow.
•••
“You better get down here,” said Detective Jack Hammer when I picked up the blower that was doing its best to jangle itself off the desk. “We’ve got another stiff. A friend of yours.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Guy named Teddy. Teddy Rupskin.”
“He have twelve fingers?”
“Hang on a sec. I’ll count ‘em.”
I waited for a few moments, letting my thoughts drift to Constance. I liked my Australian women the way I liked my kiwi fruit, sweet yet tart, firm of flesh, yet yielding to the touch, and covered with short brown fuzzy hair. Constance Noring was perfect in so many ways and yet…
“Yeah, twelve,” said a voice filled with sufficient gravel to cover all the dirt roads in Watauga County with enough left over to re-pave Bea Arthur’s vocal chords. “He crashed his Vespa into the front of Buxtehooters. But my guess is, he was dead before the scooter hit the building.”
“I’ll be there soon as I can,” I said. “Be careful when you frisk him. Chances are, he’s got a p
latypus in his pants.”
•••
“I just read that Elisha story!” said Meg, in her horrified voice. “You are not doing that with our children’s choir.”
“It’s too late, my pet,” I said. “The children already know it and love it. Moosey has his solo memorized, the soloists have been hired, I’ve ordered the bear costumes, and the publicity machine is running rampant across the tar heel state.”
“But the bears eat the children!”
“Yes, but with good reason.”
“Good reason? They called Elisha ‘baldhead.’ That’s hardly justification for Elisha to have his bears kill all the children.”
“They were youths,” I said. “Not children. Youths. It was a youth group.”
“Oh,” said Meg. “Well…a youth group. That explains it.”
•••
“Very good,” I said. “One more time through, and I think you’ll have it.”
The children’s choir was doing very well, and I was enjoying it more than I thought I would. Elisha and the Two Bears, the newly-discovered Henry Purcell masterpiece, had two choruses for the children as well as a lovely solo aria to be sung by Moosey. The other roles were for a tenor, portraying the prophet Elisha, and two basses—the bears. I’d had auditions for the solo, but it was no contest. Moosey had been listening to my snooty English choirboy CDs for years and was an excellent mimic.
“When do we get to hear the bears?” asked Dewey.
“Next week. We’re going to need a couple of extra rehearsals, but I think we’ll be ready to perform this a week from tomorrow.”
“Are we going to sing this during church?” asked Bernadette.
“Yes,” I said. “In place of the sermon. I’ve already cleared it with Father Tony.”
“Are we selling tickets?” asked Garth. “Mom said she’d take six.”
“No tickets,” I said. “Everyone’s invited.”
The Diva Wore Diamonds Page 14