by Diane Kelly
The dogs now situated, I drove Brett to the busy Dallas-Fort Worth airport. As we drove, a sense of emptiness and dread settled over me. The next month would be a long one without Brett.
I pulled to a stop at the curb in front of the noisy airport. No sense in me going inside since I wouldn’t be able to make it past security without a ticket.
I popped the back hatch, climbed out of my car, and stood on the sidewalk. Brett reached into the open trunk and pulled out his luggage and his golf clubs, packed in a hard-sided travel case. This month would be hell for me but for Brett it would be heaven. Though the country club in Atlanta had not yet opened, the course was already in place. He’d be able to play all the free golf he could find time for and never have to deal with a crowded fairway.
Brett set his stuff down on the sidewalk, closed the trunk, and stepped in front of me. “I’m going to miss the heck out of you.”
“You better,” I said, looking up at him.
He smiled down at me. “You better miss me, too.”
I gave him a soft kiss followed by a tight hug, holding on as if I’d never let him go. “I already do.”
* * *
Saturday evening I had dinner at an Italian place with my best friend Alicia and her boyfriend, Daniel.
“Working on any interesting cases?” I asked Daniel as I passed him the bread basket.
Daniel was an associate with a large, prestigious law firm. He focused primarily on commercial litigation—breaches of contract, trademark infringement, antitrust suits, that type of thing. His firm routinely hired CPAs from Martin and McGee to perform financial analyses for their cases, compute complicated damage amounts, and provide expert testimony in financial matters. In fact, Alicia and Daniel had first met when our boss at the CPA firm had assigned me and Alicia to review financial records in a court case Daniel was working on. For the two of them, it had been love at first suit.
An odd look passed between my two dinner companions before Daniel answered my question. “I’ve got one interesting case in the works,” he said. “A big one. But it’s not something I can discuss with you.”
I raised a palm, letting him know I understood and took no offense at his secrecy. “Client confidentiality. I get it.” I was subject to similar restrictions.
We chatted amiably through the meal, the three of us sharing a cannoli for dessert.
Though I knew the two didn’t mind having me along at dinner, without Brett I nonetheless felt like a third wheel, an intruder. When they invited me back to their downtown loft for a movie afterward, I begged off, instead going home to wallow in loneliness. Well, relative loneliness. My creamy white cat, Anne, was thrilled to have me all to herself and curled up, purring, in my lap. Henry, a robust and furry Maine Coon, maintained his usual post atop the armoire that housed my television, occasionally reaching out to swat at an errant fly that had sneaked into the house with me.
When the ten o’clock news concluded, I went upstairs to my room. I felt lonely in my bed, forlorn, forsaken. It was odd, really, given that Brett and I didn’t spend every night together and I often slept alone. I guess there’s a psychological difference between being alone by choice and having solitude forced on you.
Sheez. What a whiner, huh?
I turned off my lamp and turned onto my side, lifting up the patchwork quilt so Anne could climb under it with me. She tiptoed under the covers, turning to poke her head out the top, and lay down next to me. I cuddled her to my chest, the vibration of her purr against me a welcome comfort. Brett might be half a continent away, but I’d always have my Annie girl. I kissed the top of her milky head.
CHAPTER NINE
Get Me to the Church on Time
My landline rang at nine the next morning. Probably a telemarketer. I put my pillow over my head and tried to go back to sleep. Seconds later, my cell phone bleeped from the nightstand. Dang. Whoever was trying to reach me knew my private cell number. Not a solicitor, then. I only gave my mobile number to a select group of people.
Without opening my eyes, I picked up the phone, punched the accept button, and held it to my ear. “Hello?” I croaked.
“You sound like a frog.” It was Nick’s voice. Why would he be calling so early on a Sunday?
“I was asleep. This better be important.”
“Rise and shine, lazybones. You and I are going to church.”
My eyes opened again and I sat up. “What are you talking about?”
“The Ark Temple of Worship,” Nick said. “Let’s go check it out. They’ve got a ten-thirty service.”
Not only had Nick woken me up, he’d gotten my ire up, too. “The Ark is my case,” I reminded him. “I’m the lead agent. I make the decisions.”
“All righty, then. What say you and I head over there? Your decision, boss.”
“I suppose it can’t hurt.” The guy may have pissed me off, but his suggestion was nonetheless a good one. Nick and I had a meeting scheduled for tomorrow afternoon with Pastor Fischer. It couldn’t hurt to get a sneak preview of the man we’d be dealing with. Maybe we’d learn a thing or two to give us an edge tomorrow. It wouldn’t be an easy meeting. We planned to take one last shot at securing the Ark’s agreement to comply with their tax reporting requirements, to give Fischer a final chance to pay his long-outstanding bill. This game had gone on long enough.
“I’ll swing by in an hour to pick you up,” Nick said. “Make yourself purty.”
* * *
The Ark Temple of Worship was a behemoth of biblical proportions, no pun intended. The church property fronted one of Dallas’s many highways, stretching back a full half mile to encompass a sprawling parking lot as well as the extensive parsonage and grounds.
According to the information I’d read in his file, Noah Fischer had obtained the capital needed to buy the land and build the church from a wealthy elderly spinster whose soul Fischer allegedly saved mere weeks before her death. Perfect timing, huh? She’d revised her will to leave the bulk of her estate to Fischer’s then-fledgling ministry.
The façade of the church building was designed to look like an enormous wooden boat. Though I understood the church was going for a theme here, I found the design to be a bit tacky. The place looked less like a place of worship and more like something you’d find in an amusement park. But who was I to say such things. Judge not, right?
Nick drove up and down the lanes, searching for an available spot. Several of the people making their way to the building did a double take as we passed. Nick’s battered pickup didn’t fit in among the luxury cars parked in the lot. The place was a virtual sea of Jaguars, Lexuses, and Mercedeses. Heck, I even spotted a Ferrari among the vehicles. This church certainly had an upscale clientele.
Nick pulled into a spot near the back of the lot and we climbed out of the car. Though it was only mid-morning the temperature was already stifling. The big boat was at least a quarter mile away. We’d have to make the trek in this heat. A glimpse into hell.
Nick had worn black boots and a bolo tie with a light gray western-cut suit. Cowboy chic. Today’s belt buckle was a rectangular silver model with a bucking bronco embossed on it. He carried his jacket draped across his arm.
I’d thrown on a bright red cotton sundress and sandals, no panty hose for me on a hot day like today. Cleary I was underdressed. Each of the women I saw in the lot was dressed to the nines, maybe even the tens, in high heels and designer dresses, with carefully coordinated scarves and accessories. It was a parade of Prada, a vision of Versace, a deluge of Dior. I knew I paled in comparison to these women. Still, it would’ve been nice if Nick had commented on whether I’d succeeded in making myself purty. Or perhaps the fact that he’d said nothing was a comment in itself. Grr.
Chill, Tara. It doesn’t matter what Nick thinks. You’re in a committed relationship with Brett, I reminded myself. Then I argued with myself. Shut up, bitch. You’re a woman. Every woman wants to know whether a man finds her attractive.
I looked up at t
he sky. Totally clear, not a cloud to be seen. That was a relief. Part of me feared that God might send a lightning bolt down on us.
As we neared the building, we discovered a six-foot-wide moat of sorts surrounding the structure, making it appear as if the boat actually floated on water. Pearlescent white koi swam in the man-made canal, their feathery fins like angel wings. Congregants entered the building up a series of wooden ramps that stretched over the shallow water.
Nick glanced around and snorted as we made our way up the ramp. “The only thing missing is a guy in a mouse suit.”
“Mickey or Chuck E. Cheese?”
“Cheese,” Nick replied. “Definitely cheese.”
As we entered the building, we were met by a duo of grinning greeters, what would be cruise directors if this were a real ship. The two were a married couple judging from their name tags. GEORGE JOLLY and JUDY JOLLY.
The husband was tall and silver-haired, dressed in a tasteful navy suit. The wife’s sleek platinum-blond bangs lay flat and smooth across her forehead, the rest pulled back in a tight French twist. She’d coated her bulbous, Botoxed lips with shiny, bright red lipstick. The combination gave her the look of a sophisticated sock monkey. Her fitted black Yves Saint Laurent number would have been appropriate for an art gallery opening but seemed a little much for a house of God. The plunging neckline framed a set of boobs too perky and perfectly shaped to be natural.
Judy took in Nick’s getup then looked me up and down, too, forcing a porcelain veneer smile at us. “First-time visitors?”
That obvious, huh? I gave her my best smile in return. “Yep.”
“Welcome to the Ark.” She took my hand in both of hers. “So glad to have you with us today.” She grabbed a bulletin from the stack on the marble-topped table behind her and held it out to me.
“Thanks.” I took the pamphlet from her and glanced over it. The front bore a charcoal rendering of the Ark, while a series of business card ads filled the back cover. A probate lawyer. A dentist who specialized in cosmetic procedures, possibly the one responsible for Judy’s veneers. A mortgage broker. Hmm. Maybe I should give the woman a call. Interest rates had declined since I’d bought my town house. Maybe I could save myself some money.
“Our annual women’s retreat is next weekend,” Judy said. “There’s information in the bulletin if you’re interested. We’re taking a charter bus down to the Hill Country Resort and Spa in Fredericksburg.”
A sauna, facial, and massage? Yep, I’d call that a spiritual experience. “I’ll look into it.”
She gave us one last smile as we stepped away. “Have a blessed day.”
“We damn sure will,” Nick said.
The greeters’ grins became confused.
I pulled Nick away, rolled up the bulletin, and smacked him with it. “Behave,” I hissed. “God is watching you.”
“I thought He loved me.”
“He does,” I said. “But He’s keeping an eye on you, too.”
“God sounds a lot like my granny.”
In the center of the lobby stood an enormous cylindrical saltwater aquarium, extending upward the full three stories. Colorful angelfish and clown fish swam around a pastel-hued display of coral. A sizable sea turtle swam upward, its flat underbelly exposed as he climbed inside the tank. Children gathered around the base of the aquarium and watched the fish. Some of the kids were mesmerized by the animals’ fluid movements, while others were more animated, pointing and pressing their faces to the glass. Around the perimeter of the lobby hung enormous, rough-hewn rope nets. A white nylon banner was strung across a wall, proclaiming I WILL MAKE YOU FISHERS OF MEN.
The smells of coffee and vanilla wafted through the lobby from a busy coffee bar and café across the way. A sign to the left caught my eye. GIFT SHOP. I jerked my head toward the store. “Let’s check it out.”
Nick groaned. “What is it with women and shopping?”
“Coming here was your idea, remember?”
“It might have been my idea,” he replied, “but it was your decision.”
“Oh, right,” I said. “In that case just shut up.”
We wound our way through clusters of chatting churchgoers and entered through the glass door of the shop. The gift shop featured a wide variety of Christian- and ocean-themed items, all of them overpriced. Ceramic angel figurines on white pedestals graced the entryway, welcoming shoppers with their beatific smiles. On the side wall hung crosses in copper, wood, and glass, something to match every décor. Rods and reels stood in a rack against the back wall. An assortment of colorful lures even Big Bob would envy hung from pegs to one side. A rotating glass case featured pendants, earrings, and charm bracelets shaped like starfish, sand dollars, seahorses, and crosses, some made with so much bling they were nearly blinding. A nearby shelf displayed fish-shaped car magnets in two sizes. Boxed starter sets of plastic Noah’s ark toys sat on another shelf, pairs of the more exotic animals sold separately. A wooden bin overflowed with plush angelfish, sharks, and stingrays that could be purchased for twenty bucks a pop, a portion of the proceeds dedicated, of course, to funding the Ark’s mission trips.
Nick and I stopped before the display of lures. Nick fingered several in the selection, eventually choosing one that resembled a small green and blue dragonfly. I selected a couple of colorful lures, too, and stepped up to the counter. The register was manned by an attractive brunette woman modeling some of the jewelry, Swarovski crystals refracting light from her ears, neck, and fingers. As she rang up my purchase, her jewelry sparkled in the lights, making her look like a human disco ball.
“You fish?” Nick asked me.
“Nah. They’re for my dad.”
Next to the cash register stood a display of hardback books, Pastor Fischer’s face beaming from the cover. I had to admit, the guy looked angelic. From his shimmery, white-blond hair to his sky-blue eyes and perfectly proportioned, nicely tanned features, he looked like a modern-day Lucifer.
The title was embossed in gold lettering across the top of the book. Toss Your Net. Nick picked up a copy. “Let’s see what this tosser has to say.” He plunked the book onto the countertop along with the lure and addressed the cashier. “Add these to her bill.”
I pushed the book and lure back at him. “Buy your own stuff.”
Nick cut a grin my way. “This is your case, remember? I’m only along to help out.”
Damn. My own words coming back to bite me in the butt.
I handed the cashier my credit card.
CHAPTER TEN
No Old-Time Religion Here
The overhead lights flashed off and on twice as I paid the cashier.
“Power troubles?” Nick asked the woman.
“No,” the woman replied. “The flashing lights mean the service will start in five minutes.”
The service or the show? Though flashing lights were used in theaters to draw people back to their seats, I’d never seen the method used in a church.
I handed Nick the copy of Fischer’s book and slid the small bag containing the lures into my purse. Nick and I continued on into the crowded sanctuary. Apparently you had to arrive early if you wanted a good seat. The first floor was packed wall to wall. Even the limited-view seats positioned behind the television cameras were full.
The ushers directed us up two flights of stairs, relegating us to a back corner of the second balcony, what would be the cheap seats if this were a ticketed venue. Nick and I settled in.
“Nice,” Nick noted, easing his seat back into a reclining position.
The chairs were indeed comfortable, slightly smaller versions of the seats at stadium-style movie theaters. No hard, butt-numbing pews for these well-heeled parishioners.
Nick rested his elbow on the armrest. I used my own to push it aside. “My case, my armrest.”
He cut me a sideways glance and a grin. “Whatever you say, boss.”
I looked down at the altar, which appeared tiny from our vantage point near the rafters. “If
I’d known we’d be this far up I would’ve brought my binoculars.”
“No need.” Nick pointed across the cavernous opening to three jumbo-sized screens. One was mounted on the wall directly opposite us, while the others flanked it at slight angles like the three-way mirrors in the Neiman Marcus dressing rooms.
I glanced behind me to see a recessed pit of colored lights and the latest high-tech audiovisual equipment. A team of seven men sat at the consoles, headphones on their heads, ready to rock and roll. I hadn’t seen such an elaborate setup since Lady Gaga came to town.
“Think they’ll be serving drinks on the Lido Deck after the service?” Nick asked. “I could go for a banana daiquiri.”
I elbowed him in the ribs.
Down below, the choir filed in, the members dressed in aquamarine robes the color of the Caribbean ocean. There had to be over a hundred singers taking places on the risers. An orchestra of near equal size filed in next, filling a wide pit in front of the choir. The musicians wore white shirts with aquamarine bow ties and vests. Not only did the group include the traditional brass, woodwind, and string instruments, but five electric guitars, three bass guitars, and two acoustic guitars were also in the mix. A shiny black grand piano sat off to the side, with two wide electronic keyboards situated next to it.
Once they were all seated, a dark-haired man stood from the front pew and made his way up the five steps to the podium, his movements tracked by several television cameras situated off to the sides of the sanctuary. Though he was a mere ant when viewed with the naked eye, he was a giant on the jumbo screen. He had a plain but friendly face, a trim build, and a slightly pensive demeanor. He wore a basic brown suit and tie, along with wire-rimmed glasses. I half expected him to direct us to our lifeboats to perform a muster drill.
He introduced himself as Associate Pastor Michael Walters, welcomed everyone to the service, and stated his hope that the service would be a source of inspiration and spiritual connection to a higher power. He quickly ran through a list of housekeeping items, asking the congregants to silence their cell phones and to shift to the inside seats to accommodate late arrivals waiting in the wings for an available place to sit. It was a full house today, a sellout crowd. “A great problem to have,” he acknowledged with what appeared to be a sincere smile.