Everybody Called Her a Saint

by Cecil Murphey

“They both wore blue—you know, like all of us.”

  “Yes, of course, but anything else?”

  “One was taller. I know that’s not very helpful, but one was taller, and—I assume it was a man—and he wore his life jacket.”

  “His life jacket? Are you sure?”

  “I am. I know a few of us have done that because it’s too much bother to take it off and put it back on. Still, it seemed odd.”

  It did seem odd, although I had noticed one or two people like that. “Anything else?”

  “I’m quite sure the shorter one was Twila. You know she has a kind of limp.”

  “Yes, the long-lasting result from the accident years ago.”

  “That’s right. Otherwise, I doubt if I would have noticed.”

  “Any other detail? I don’t care how trivial it may seem. Please, think. Anything—even if it’s only a slight detail, it could be important.”

  Heather thought, and finally she said, “The taller one—and I’m not good at heights—took her arm. I think that’s what caught my attention. It was almost—well, rough. You know, aggressive?”

  “Why didn’t you say or do something?”

  “I figured that if it was something serious, she’d push away his grip or yell or something. Hey, come on now, who would have thought that any harm would have come to Twila?”

  “You’re right.”

  “Besides, the weather had already started to turn bad. Remember the wind and the first pelts of snow or sleet or whatever it was?”

  I nodded and waited to see if she had anything else to add.

  “That’s it.”

  I stared at her. She really had told me nothing. “What do you mean? Surely you saw or heard—”

  “No, that’s it.” She turned and went into her room.

  “That’s it?”

  She said nothing more. I walked away feeling confused.

  She wasn’t some ditz who would just do something like that. In fact, in my limited knowledge of Heather Wilson, I would have called her a manipulator or an orchestrator. She seemed to constantly have things going on around her, but she remained in control. Maybe the term control freak was another apt description. Her calling me aside didn’t make sense.

  What is going on?

  Was it possible that she wanted to talk to me for some other reason? She had very little to offer, and she could have said that in the group or at any time. Was it possible that she wanted to communicate a message to someone still in the dining room? To one of the three men? To someone else in the room?

  “Stop, Julie,” I said. “You’ve watched too many reruns of Murder, She Wrote.”

  “But what if—”

  “You’re not Jessica Fletcher, and this is no TV script.”

  As I slowly made my way to the lounge, I couldn’t get past the idea that Heather did have some other purpose in mind. Was she trying to hint to someone? Was it possible she was trying to hint to the people around her or at another table that she had vital information? Was she merely trying to become the center of attention?

  “Stop it, Julie!” I said.

  “You’re right. I’m becoming paranoid.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “But still . . .”

  Twenty-One

  He told me that no one had shown up for the first lecture on penguins. “We have already observed the chinstrap, rockhopper, gentoo—”

  “Thank you for being conscientious about this, but our minds are elsewhere,” I said.

  “Yes, but of course, that must be so.” He seemed genuinely apologetic.

  “You’re just being the captain. I understand.”

  He rewarded me with a smile. “I shall send someone to post a notice that the second lecture has been canceled.”

  “It’s not because of you or the subject—”

  “I am aware that you are correct,” he said. “Would it not be difficult for anyone to sit in on a lecture about the difference between an Adélie penguin and a macaroni penguin when everyone thinks about the death of Mrs. Belk?”

  Not trusting my voice, I nodded. I had another of those unexpected moments of pain rush over me, and tears stung my eyes. If I had sensed the conversation would be difficult at the beginning, I would have been able to fortify myself.

  I hurried on to the lounge and reached it before Burton. I chose a table and two chairs in the far corner. No one else was in the room, but I sensed his presence and turned my head.

  He smiled at me and sat in the second chair.

  “How do we go about this?” I asked. “I’m sure you’re much better at this than I am.”

  He didn’t answer, so I said, “You’re so good at this. You make people feel at ease.”

  Burton chuckled before he said, “You’ve decided to revert to the airhead again.”

  “Sometimes it’s fun to act naïve.”

  “Right, so what is your plan?”

  “I honestly don’t have one, but I want to tell you about Heather.” I told him what happened. I carefully kept everything factual.

  “And you think she had some ulterior purpose?”

  I smiled. Yes, he caught it too, but then, that’s just one more reason I love the guy. He rarely misses anything.

  “What do you think?” Again, that’s a good psychological device to get the other person to talk.

  “I’ve known Heather for about three years,” he said. “She’s not a bad person, and—”

  “Okay, stop being the perfect Christian and sinless pastor—”

  “You know I don’t talk about parishioners—”

  “This is murder, Burton. We both have lost—” I stopped, unable for a moment to go on. It was another unexpected stab of grief. My eyes clouded, and I bit my lip so I wouldn’t cry.

  He stared at me, and both of us remained silent. He clasped my right hand. “I miss her too, you know.”

  I hugged him and held on. I think it was the action of a grieving parishioner, but it was probably also the action of a woman who loved the man in front of her and shared a mutual grief with him. I clung to him, and he held me tightly. He wasn’t holding me as if I were a church member.

  “Julie, I love you,” he whispered. “I will work through this—this problem of mine. Just don’t pull away from me now. I loved Twila. I’m in deep emotional pain. I feel as if I’ve lost two of the people I love most.” He put a hand under my chin and tilted my face toward his. He kissed me once, gently.

  I didn’t know if I should listen to my head or my heart.

  His deep, deep blue eyes bored into mine. “Would you believe me if I said I missed you?” he asked. “I’ve missed you more than I’ve ever missed anyone.”

  I nodded.

  He pulled me closer. His hands were in my hair, caressing the nape of my neck. My heart won the battle. I lost my self-control. We held each other for a long time. His arms were over my shoulders, and I held him, as we sometimes called it, by the lower rung. I loved the smell of Burton, even the cheap aftershave he always used. It was him, and he was there to share my deep inner pain. He kissed me again, and his cheeks were as wet as mine. I didn’t pull back, but I clung to him.

  I’m still awkward talking to God. But hardly aware of what I was doing, I silently thanked God for this man I loved and asked Him to heal both of us.

  I prayed, I thought. I actually prayed and I didn’t even think about it. It just happened. That was a spiritual breakthrough for me, and I knew it. I had never prayed spontaneously before.

  As Burton held me, calmness slowly penetrated my emotional pain. Something—something mystical—maybe miraculous—had taken place. I was at peace. In that moment, I realized how effective prayer can be. Peace slowly moved across my chest, and the overwhelming grief crept away.

  He released me and took my face in both his hands and softly kissed my lips. I didn’t resist. He pulled back, and I saw the tenderness in his eyes. We stood and held each other close for a long time. We didn’t need words. In fact, I feared tha
t if I said anything, it would spoil the serene moment we shared.

  Twenty-Two

  A few minutes later, Burton and I left the lounge, walking hand in hand to the now-empty theater. We discussed our strategy. We decided to call in each of those who had been passengers on the fourth Zodiac, one at a time.

  We knew each other well enough that we didn’t need verbal direction. Intuitively, I knew he would observe closely when I asked questions, and I would do the same for him. Our hope was to learn something new—anything that would give us a few clues toward solving the murder.

  The one thing we didn’t want was to have the group of them sitting together and sharing their perspectives with each other. On an episode of NYPD years ago, one of the policemen said it contaminated the evidence. That made sense, and I never forgot it.

  We sat and I copied his list of the passengers in the fourth Zodiac, beginning with Jon Friesen, who came back in the third Zodiac. I pointed to his name. “Let’s call him first.”

  “That’s all right with me.”

  “As soon as we finish with him, we’ll ask him to send in the next person on our list,” I said, “and in this case it will be Heather.”

  He said nothing, but he gave me a thumbs-up.

  “By doing it that way, you and I can have a couple of minutes alone between interviews, and we’ll have the opportunity to compare our insights.”

  “Let the show begin,” he said.

  Burton went to get Jon, who told Burton that he would be up within a few minutes. When he finally came to the door, he paused, and I thought he was going to go into one of those bodybuilder poses. That wasn’t quite what he did. He lifted his arms to the top of the door frame (his muscles bulged), and he seemed to be doing isometric exercises. He made no noise and waited until we made eye contact.

  “I’m here, babe. Whenever you need me.”

  I decided to ignore that overly fresh tone.

  “Sit down,” Burton said in that quiet, soothing voice he uses so well.

  “Sure thing, Burton,” Jon said, but his gaze never left my face.

  “Tell us what you know about Twila’s death.”

  “First, I didn’t do it—”

  “Did anyone accuse you?”

  “I don’t know—did they?” He had lost his swaggering pose. He turned to me. “Are you accusing me?”

  “Let Burton ask the questions,” I said.

  “Go ahead. Ask.” This time he looked at Burton. I sensed hostility in his voice.

  “Tell us about you and Twila.”

  “She was a friend. A good friend. In fact, an exceptionally good friend.”

  “Really?” I interjected without thinking. “You gave me the impression that she had been your therapist for a few months, but you had no personal relationship with her.”

  Jon flashed me his best smile, and it probably worked on most women. He focused on my face as if nothing else in the world mattered. “I told you what you wanted to hear.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You liked me and you wanted me to talk, so I told you what you wanted to hear.”

  I changed my mind about him. I had first thought he was a borderline personality. Now I decided added to that he definitely had a few crossed wires. One thing to watch for in borderline personalities is how quickly they can jump from one mood to another. I wondered what medication he took—or neglected to take.

  “Tell us about your friendship,” Burton said.

  “We were friends. We liked each other. We talked.”

  “About what?” Burton leaned slightly forward.

  “You know, things. Movies, books, church stuff. God, sometimes.”

  “Did you like her?”

  “Yeah, sure. Everybody liked Twila.”

  “Honestly, did you like her?” Burton said softly and in a quiet, intimate tone.

  “Oh, she got heavy on my back about things, but yeah, she was all right.”

  “And you were one of her patients?”

  “For a time.”

  “But you weren’t seeing her as your therapist just prior to the cruise.”

  “Yeah. That’s right, like I told Julie. I stopped.”

  “Want to tell us about it?” Burton asked.

  “Not really, but I want to help, so I’ll tell you anything you want.” He told us that three years earlier, his wife had left him. She was his third wife, but she was the one he had really loved. He became angry and trashed his estranged wife’s house. The police arrested him, and the judge said that if he’d get psychiatric help, he would let him go.

  “So that’s when you started to go to Twila.”

  “Sure, why not? I was a church member—not your church. I was a member of a small church on Highway 138 called the Holy Family of God. My parents, now both dead, had been charter members at your church. They were gone, but Twila had been part of your church since I was a teen. Everyone I talked to said she was the best, so I went to her.”

  “Did she help?”

  “I’m supposed to say yes because everybody thinks she was a wonder-worker.”

  Twenty-Three

  Jon’s response startled Burton, which was what he intended. The beginning of a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.

  “You’re saying that Twila didn’t help you?”

  “Nah, she didn’t. I mean, not much. But I got a lot of meds from her.”

  “Do they help?” I asked.

  “When I take them, they sure do.”

  “Are you taking them now?” Burton asked.

  Jon leaned back in his chair. “Uh, well, I started again today. See, I take Lexapro, twenty milligrams a day—”

  “That’s a high dose level,” I said.

  “That’s what she said, too.”

  “What else do you take?” Burton asked. “I mean, when you take your meds?”

  “I take Abilify—”

  “You’re bipolar?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “Sometimes, I guess. I also take occasional lithium, which is supposed to make one side of my brain speak to the other.” He looked straight at me and laughed as if we shared a private joke.

  “Did Twila prescribe all three of them?”

  “Can’t remember.”

  “I’m sure she wouldn’t have given you both Abilify and lithium—they’re usually given for bipolar, but she wouldn’t have prescribed both—”

  “So I have more than one doctor.”

  Burton and I stared at each other.

  He’s stranger than I thought.

  “Tell us about your trip to Brown Bluff,” Burton said in an abrupt shift of topic.

  “Do I start when I was born, or fast-forward to the day of her death, including what I ate for breakfast?”

  “Just start with getting off the Zodiac when it landed.”

  “Sure, I can do that.” He repeated what he had already told me. In fact, he repeated it almost word for word as if he had memorized his answers.

  Burton kept switching from his account of the island to his medication and his feelings about Twila. Both of us became aware that when he gave us more than a smirky answer, it was the same wording each time, with almost no variation.

  After perhaps fifteen minutes, Burton got up, shook Jon’s hand, and thanked him for coming. He asked Jon if he would send in Heather.

  “Anything for you,” he said. But he looked at me.

  While we waited, Burton put his finger to his lips and nodded toward the door. I understood and sat in silence. Burton waited another few seconds and said loudly, “We’ll see what Heather says.”

  A few seconds later the sound of light footsteps carried through the corridor. We stared at each other. Burton smiled as if to say, “Just as I thought.”

  Donny Otis tapped on the door. “I know you wanted Heather next, but—well, I’d like to get in here and get it over with. If you don’t mind, I mean.” He had a nervous habit of rubbing his left index finger and thumb together.

  “Ye
s, of course it’s all right,” Burton said.

  Donny stood quietly as if waiting for direction. I knew him by name, but I don’t recall that we had ever spoken to each other. He was one of those people who came early and sat in the second row. At that church they have a ritual called the passing of the peace where people get up and shake hands with each other and say, “The peace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with you.” The other person is supposed to say, “And with you.”

  I mention that because Donny didn’t participate. He sat in his pew, head down, and didn’t act as if he knew anyone else was there. When we stood to sing, he opened his hymnbook, but from where I sat, and I always seemed to be several rows behind him, I don’t think he opened his mouth. At the church they sometimes projected choruses on large screens. When they did that, he didn’t look at the screens.

  “Thanks for coming in,” Burton said and extended his hand.

  He shook Burton’s hand. I extended mine, and he took it. His hand was about the deadest I had ever shaken.

  “Tell us about you and Twila,” I said. “How well did you know her?”

  Donny stared blankly at me for perhaps half a minute. I guessed his age to be about forty-five or so. He had that male-pattern baldness with little hair on top, long sideburns, and a goatee. He was probably close to six feet tall, and he must have weighed 250 pounds. He was one of those men whose body was normal shaped, but he carried a watermelon-sized stomach in front of him.

  “I did nothing to Twila. I wouldn’t hurt her. I truly would not hurt her.” For such a large man, his voice was quite high-pitched and whiny.

  “Do you feel someone has accused you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. He leaned forward and started the index finger-thumb thing again. “You might as well know—if someone hasn’t already told you. I’m sure I’ll be a suspect once we get back to the States.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I tried to kill my wife. Twice.”

  “Tell us about that,” I said in my most professional tone.

  “The first time she made me so angry—no, Twila says—said—I shouldn’t talk that way. It’s my issue, not hers.”

  He paused, and I smiled to indicate I agreed.