“A Bible study?”
“Yes. A group of local businessmen from the area meet once a month for fellowship, Bible study, and prayer. We also get together at other times to enjoy each other’s company and talk about the Lord. For a while we used to rent a half-day boat, have a study on the way out to sea, fish, and then have another study on the way back. We haven’t done that for the last couple of years, but I’d love to do it again.”
“What does this have to do with Peter? He wasn’t much of a . . . Bible man.” That was a dumb way of putting it, but Paul seemed to understand.
“It wasn’t unusual for some of us to bring along friends and acquaintances, people who we thought might like the spiritual and intellectual stimulation of the study. I asked your husband one day when he was lunching at the restaurant. I was up front with him about what we did and told him who all went along. I hate it when Christians get sneaky about such things. Ambush evangelism is wrong in so many ways. I think Peter went along to meet some of the other businessmen. A couple of them were getting ready to put up new buildings. I think he saw an opportunity to make a couple of sales.”
It was my turn to smile. Peter and his father had built a thriving construction materials business, and much of that was due to Peter’s natural sales ability. He loved selling. “So you were trying to evangelize him and he was trying to evangelize you.”
“That’s pretty much the way it was. As it turned out, your husband did make a few sales, but he kept coming back for the fishing trips.”
“I know he enjoyed them. I thought it was odd; he was never much of an outdoorsman.”
That brought a chortle out of Paul. “Yeah, that’s true. His first trip out he spent most of his time chumming instead of fishing.”
“Chumming? Oh, you mean—”
“Tossing his cookies. He was pretty seasick. I was sure we’d never see him again. I was wrong. He got pretty good about keeping his lunch down.”
“That’s my man.” I noticed I was speaking in the present tense. “He was determined if nothing else.” Again the conversation lulled, and Paul seemed preoccupied with whipping up some new anxiety. “I don’t see the need for the apology, Paul.”
He bit his lower lip. “Did you . . . I mean, I gave . . .” He stumbled to a stop, then tried again. “The last time I saw Peter was the day he went to LA, the day he was killed. He had come by the Fish Kettle that morning. He caught me in the kitchen working on the clam chowder. We weren’t due to open for another two hours, but he got my attention by rapping on one of the windows with a quarter. That’s an annoying sound.”
“I imagine.” I was intrigued. If nothing else, the story took my mind away from my present troubles for a while.
“Of course I let him in. He said he had something to share with me. I poured us a couple cups of coffee and we sat down. He told me about his trip to LA and then made some other small talk. Then he said it.”
“Said what?”
“He said he had made the decision. I wasn’t surprised. I had been watching him change over the months.”
It was true. The last few months of Peter’s life, he had seemed a little different, but not in an identifiable way, not in a way I could describe. He seemed . . . contemplative, puzzled, as if he were trying to untie some densely wound knot. A couple times I asked if he was okay and he said, “Yes, just thinking.”
“The decision?” I prompted, but I had a good idea where this was going.
Paul nodded. “He gave his life to Christ. Do you know what that means?”
“It’s that born-again stuff.”
“That’s one way to put it. As we studied the Bible together, Peter began to feel a need for a relationship with his Creator. That’s often how it starts: realizing that something is missing and we need more. It is my belief—no, that’s a bad start. The Bible teaches that sin separates God and humans. This is a problem for God. God is love, but he is also just. So he desires to forgive, but at the same time he must also punish sin. Jesus was the solution. Jesus took our sins upon himself. He became our sacrifice and paid the price for our disobedience. He did that on the cross.”
“Wait a minute.” I raised my hand. “The last thing I need is a sermon.”
“I’m not trying to preach, Mayor. Really, I’m not. Like I said, some people are gifted in this, but I’m not one of them.”
“What are you getting at?”
He ran a hand through his hair and turned his back to the setting sun. “I’m trying to tell you about a change in Peter’s life. A change he told me about the day he died.” He sighed; then his face lit up. “Look that way,” he said, nodding toward the parking lot at the other end of the pier. I did. “What do you see?”
“Um . . . the shore? The parking lot? Is that what you mean?”
“Exactly. How would you get from here to there if this pier didn’t exist?”
“If the pier didn’t exist, I wouldn’t be standing here.”
“I understand that.”
I knew where he was headed. “You’re saying that Jesus is the pier?”
“Yes. Or bridge or whatever illustration you want to use. Your husband came to understand that. Not quickly. Not easily. But he did.”
“He never talked to me about a religious conversion.”
“He never had the chance, Mayor. He told me he had made up his mind before he left the house to go to LA. You had already gone to the office.”
That could be true, I thought. I often left before Peter. He was a slow riser. “Still, I should have picked up on something. Why didn’t he tell me he was thinking about religion?”
Paul shook his head. “Not religion, Mayor. Not denominations. We’re talking about a commitment of faith. Church is extremely important. Jesus founded the church. He died for the church. It is the only institution he started. But faith comes by hearing, and hearing by the Word of God. It’s an individual decision. Peter’s faith was new. I doubt he could have explained it to you, but I know he was going to.”
“How do you know that?” This was all news to me. I didn’t know what to think, didn’t know how to process this. I’m not sure I welcomed the revelation. I had enough on my emotional plate to fill a platter. I felt close to dropping everything.
“He told me, Mayor. He told me the day he died. Hours before the murder, he sat in my restaurant and told me he had made a personal decision to follow Christ. He was going to talk to you when he got back. He never got back. And that’s why I owe you an apology. I should have told you. I should have told you eight years ago, but I didn’t. I thought maybe you found it.” His eyes glistened.
“You’re being cryptic again, Paul. Found what?”
“I just assumed it would be in his things.” I thought of the box. I thought of the dream.
“It’s all right, Paul. It’s all right. What should I have found?”
“A Bible. Every year I buy a new Bible and read it, marking my favorite passages and making comments in the margin. Then I pray that God would let me give it to someone who might benefit from it. When I heard your husband’s great news, I gave him the Bible I was working on. It seemed the perfect thing to do. He took it with him. I just assumed you would have it.”
“I may.” I explained about the cardboard box. “I’ve never looked inside. Never. I can’t. And if you’re asking for it back—”
“No, no, please, Mayor, no. I don’t want it back. I want you to have it. And I want you to have the knowledge of Peter’s decision.”
“Why tell me now?” I felt a new heaviness.
“Because of . . . you know . . . all you’re going through. I just thought you should know. And when I saw you walk by the restaurant, I knew the time had come.”
I looked down the pier and watched as people strolled along its boards. Fishermen left, only to be replaced by those who preferred to dip a line after dark. I watched people enter and leave the Fish Kettle, all of them supported by the pier. Jesus as a pier. That was a new one on me. For some re
ason I felt angry. Someone knew something about my husband that I didn’t. That seemed wrong. And then . . . then there was the truth of the matter, the truth that Paul had avoided.
“I appreciate what you’ve said, Paul, but I can’t forget that God allowed evil men to kill my husband. What kind of God allows that?” He looked crestfallen, and guilt settled over me like night descending upon the ocean. The wind blew colder. I excused myself and started back down the pier.
“The same kind of God who allows evil men to kill his Son,” I heard him say. I kept walking but one other comment floated through the salt air. “Sometimes the righteous die so that others can live.”
I left Paul behind me. I left the sea and the wind and the gulls behind me, wishing I had not taken this side trip.
I slipped into the hot water, lowering my body inch by inch. At first it stung my skin, but the tingling pain soon gave way to pleasure as the fluid covered me. I leaned back and let the water tickle my chin. I had wanted this. I needed this. I deserved this. Reclining in the large tub of my master bath was not a luxury; it was mental and physical therapy. I lay there with just my knees above the surface. The lights were off, leaving only the half-dozen scented candles around the tub to illuminate the room. I watched their light dance on the walls and ceiling, flickering ballerinas.
I closed my eyes and tried to shut out the events of the last few days. Worry is an irresistible force, and no matter how I chastened myself, I continued to see the fight in the coffee shop and the tortured look on Randi’s face as she crumpled to the floor, two grown men falling on her like bags of wet sand.
None of this is fair. Randi shouldn’t be in the hospital, my parents shouldn’t be downstairs preparing dinner because it’s unsafe to stay in their own home; it’s unfair for Celeste to spend each moment of the last week worried about her mother, and Lizzy certainly shouldn’t be dead.
I felt responsible. It was nonsense, but feelings are unreasoning things. I tried to blank my mind but the ghosts kept haunting. The best I could do was ignore them and try to lose myself in the satin water and the fruity scent of the candles. My unexpected meeting with Paul Shedd whipped around in my brain. His tone had been so serious, his expression so heartfelt, his anxiety so palpable. The news was too slippery for me. I didn’t know how to deal with it, how to hold on to it. It was mercury in the palm of my hand. If I didn’t mess with it, I could let it puddle, but if I tried to grasp it, it would run through my fingers.
So what if Peter had a religious experience? What difference did that make? That was eight years ago. He was still dead. I thought of the cardboard box in my closet and what might be in it. I surmised most of its contents: Peter’s wallet, his keys, his business card case, and the electronic PDA he carried for business. I also knew their condition, and that was one of the biggest reasons the box remained closed.
During the sentencing phase of the murder trial, the prosecution painted a graphic and garish picture of the events, describing the condition of my husband’s body. He pulled no punches and laid out the sickening scene like a passage from a Stephen King novel. I don’t know how many times he used the word blood. There were more than personal possessions in that box. My husband’s lifeblood was in there as well. I’d had to pay a fortune to have his car cleaned so I could sell it. I couldn’t bring myself to look upon the blood and the violence that put it there. If that made me weak, then so be it.
Noises of life reverberated up from the lower floor. I could hear the television, which my father was watching. When I came in, it was on the History Channel. If Dad had his way, every TV would have its tuner welded to that station.
Celeste had been in the kitchen with Mom, trying to be a help. My mother worked alone. I had been shooed out of her kitchen more times than I can count. This evening Mom said nothing to Celeste. She always considered work the best tonic for any emotional ill.
The hot water was working its magic, its warmth seeping through my pores. My body was sore, my back ached, my neck felt petrified. I felt some shame. My pains were from tension, Randi’s from physical abuse. Slowly the tight muscles relinquished their bulldog grip. It was a good feeling, a great feeling, and I did my best to fall into its embrace.
Eyes closed, I willed my hyperactive mind to slow. It finally settled. A moment’s peace. It was as rich as chocolate and more welcome.
A soft knock snapped me out of my blissful nothingness.
“What now?” I whispered. I spent a second wondering what would happen if I ignored the intrusion. Only Mom would knock on my bathroom door. “What is it, Mother?”
A deeper voice than I expected answered. “It’s Detective West. Um . . . your mother was up to her elbows in the kitchen. . . . She said you were upstairs and sent me up. . . . I didn’t mean to . . . I mean . . .”
Annoyance melted under the heat of concern. West wouldn’t come by unless he had something important. “I’ll be out in a minute—make that five minutes.”
“I’ll wait downstairs. . . . I mean, of course I’ll wait downstairs.”
He sounded flustered. Not used to knocking on a lady’s bathroom door. “That would be best.”
I popped the stopper and rose from the tub. Water cascaded off my body like a heavy rain. I felt an odd embarrassment knowing that West had stood outside the door a moment before. More nonsense. I slipped from the tub, toweled off, and dressed in a pair of jeans and one of my husband’s old dress shirts. I often wore his shirts when I felt depressed or ill at ease.
I trotted downstairs barefoot and found West seated at the dining room table, a cup of coffee before him. Also seated there were my father and Celeste. Mother stepped from behind the kitchen counter. “Will you stay for dinner, Detective West? We have plenty of pork chops and I’ve made gravy for the mashed potatoes.”
“Not the best meal for the ol’ ticker,” Dad added, “but it’s a great way to go.”
“No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I have a deskful of paperwork to do.”
“Are you sure?” Mom pressed. “Jerry will be joining us. The more the merrier.”
“He is?” I said. This was news to me.
“Didn’t I tell you? He called a few minutes before you got home. He wanted to know how you were doing after all the excitement. I guess I forgot. I do that a lot lately.”
I took a seat at the end of the table. “He saw me at the hospital. I was fine then—”
“Hospital?” West said. “You were in the hospital?”
I shook my head. “Not in the way you mean. My assistant, Randi, was hurt. I was visiting her.” I related the events at the coffee shop, noticing that I was speaking of them as if they were part of my usual routine. I could tell West wasn’t buying the act. He pressed his lips into a line.
“You still with us, Detective?” I asked.
His head snapped up. “Yes. I have some news about Mrs. Stout. The blood tests came back. We’re a little surprised.”
“Surprised?” I looked at Celeste. She sat in sober silence.
“Yes. Her death may have been accidental.”
“She was tied to the pier,” I said. “That doesn’t happen by accident.”
“I’m not saying a crime wasn’t committed. Obviously one has—several, actually. But the autopsy and toxicology report show something different, unexpected.”
“How did Lizzy die?” I asked bluntly. It was time to get to the point.
“Anaphylactic shock.”
No one spoke. The pork chops sizzled in the kitchen.
“What’s that?” Celeste asked.
“It’s an allergic reaction to a substance.”
“She died of allergies?”
West shook his head. “She died because she was extremely allergic to something. Anaphylaxis is an extreme response to a substance. For example, some people are allergic to shellfish or nuts. The most common problem is with insects.”
“When I was teaching,” Mom said, “I had a student who was allergic to bee stings. He carri
ed a little medical kit with a syringe in case he was ever stung.”
“Exactly. Lizzy died of something similar.” West paused, as if trying to convince himself of the statement he was about to make. “She died of an ant bite.”
He let the absurd announcement sink in, then continued. “We almost missed it. There was tissue-swelling from the time she spent submerged, and the mussels on the pier damaged her back. After the blood work came, Dr. Egan reexamined her body. He found a bite just below the right shoulder blade. There was one on the shoulder too. Remember, we thought it might be an injection mark?”
“You’re saying she wasn’t murdered?” my father asked.
“Not directly, but the abductor will be charged with murder anyway. Even an accidental death is considered murder if it happens during or because of a felonious act. This doesn’t change anything in our investigation, but I promised to keep you posted.”
I didn’t know what to make of his revelation. An ant! It was unbelievable. “You’re saying a bug killed Lizzy?”
“Not just any bug. Most likely it was a red imported fire ant.”
“I’ve heard of those,” Dad said. “They came from South America, right?”
West leaned back in his chair. He looked tired. “The Scientific Investigation detective contacted an entomologist for me. The ants were introduced to our country in the 1930s. They’ve been spreading ever since. I’m told their bite is vicious. Perhaps I should say their sting. The entomologist told me that these fire ants bite with their mandibles but then sting their victims with a stinger in their abdomen. They can sting more than one time. For most of us it would be painful, but Mrs. Stout was allergic to insect bites. I spoke to her husband. She’d had problems before, but apparently she was especially susceptible to this particular venom.”
“Why don’t I feel any better?” I asked.
“There’s only one reason to feel any better about all this,” West suggested. “Since Mrs. Stout was not intentionally killed, there is hope that, well—”
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