by Carol A. Guy
Zelda again smiled smugly.
Ethel sighed.
Vernon shook his head.
The rest of the members all began talking to one another at once, sounding to Adelaide like a swarm of angry bees.
Chapter Twenty-two
Adelaide called Daniel’s cell phone the minute she got home from the meeting. He answered on the second ring. He sounded weary, his voice heavy, as though he’d been asleep.
“Are you at home, Daniel?”
“Not yet. I was just getting ready to leave the station.”
“Come to the house so we can talk.”
“I’m beat, Mother—”
“Is Brenda waiting at your place?” She felt justified in asking, since she didn’t want to interfere if they’d planned some time together.
“No, she’s at home. She’s not living with me, Mother.”
“I didn’t say she was. Just come for a bit, we need to discuss some things.”
“I don’t think—”
“I have chocolate chunk cookies.”
“I’ll be there in five.” He hung up.
When Daniel arrived on her doorstep at nine-thirty he looked as exhausted as he’d sounded on the phone. His hair was a thick mass of unruly curls, his usually expressive green eyes dull and bloodshot. She also noticed that his shoulders were slumped as he removed his coat and hung it up then walked heavily into the kitchen, lowering himself into one of the chairs around the table. Reaching for one of the cookies, he said, “Don’t badger me. I’ll tell you what I know.”
“I don’t badger, Daniel,” Adelaide said as she filled his favorite mug then put it down on the table in front of him.
After taking a sip he made a terrible face. “What is this swill?” He examined the contents of the mug with suspicion.
“Chamomile tea. It will help you sleep plus soothe your nerves. I don’t think you need coffee keeping you awake tonight.” Adelaide brought her own mug of tea to the table, joining her son.
Daniel put the mug down, ignoring it. “You know they do make decaf coffee.”
Adelaide made a snorting noise. “That’s not real coffee. It tastes like old burnt tires. I won’t have it in the house, you know that.”
Oscar, snoozing in his cat bed next to the refrigerator, looked up, yawned, then went back to sleep.
Daniel reached for his second cookie. “Okay. The letter opener had two partial prints on the back side of the handle, which is smooth if you recall. They were Underwood’s. The front was too ornately carved to hold a print. The blood on the blade was Jerry Hatfield’s. There were also specks of blood on the handle, also Hatfield’s. The blade was shoved about halfway into his neck. That fake beard absorbed a lot of the blood, the rest dripped down on that lower pew. The ME says he might have lived for a minute at the most. There was no arterial spray since the blade hit only the jugular vein.”
“Douglas’s prints would naturally be on the handle. Obviously the killer wore gloves,” Adelaide said.
Daniel raised an eyebrow. “The murder weapon was in his garbage can, Mother.”
“Which anyone could have accessed Sunday night after it was put in the alley. Your assumption that it was put there right after the murder may not be correct.”
“He had a heated altercation with Jerry, which you overheard, by the way. Then he lied about his alibi when we first questioned him. He dragged his wife into things by making her lie for him. When she blew that out of the water, he got his girlfriend to say he was with her.”
Adelaide sipped her tea, waiting for that calming effect to kick in. “Susan swore to me she told the truth about them being together. I believe her, Daniel.”
“Why?”
“What?”
“Why do you believe her?” Daniel stared across the table at her.
“Because in the past her brutal honesty has often put her at odds with people here in Crescent Falls.”
“People do foolish things for love, Mother.”
Adelaide realized Daniel was speaking from experience. She recalled all too clearly his disastrous relationship six years earlier with a beautiful young woman from Marietta who strung him along, borrowed thousands of dollars then left town, never to be heard from again. Daniel was in love that time and it ended up costing him almost all of his savings plus a broken heart.
“Unfortunately, you’re right. Douglas never should have gotten involved with Susan in the first place. She came to him for help and he stepped over the line. He was the minister. He was in charge of the situation. She was vulnerable and he knew that. He used poor judgment, certainly. However, those actions don’t prove he’s a murderer.”
“No, but the evidence seems to. Plus we now have signed witness statements from both Dora Carmody and Mary Ellen Oliver that indicate Underwood and Susan were having a love affair. That goes to motive. Jerry was in the way so he had to be eliminated. Oh, and Fran Underwood came into the station and signed her statement before she left town today.”
“Then why hasn’t he been charged?”
Daniel shifted in his seat. “The DA is being very careful with this one.”
“Yes, it would appear so. Could it be he has some doubts? Perhaps he realizes this case is a little too pat?”
“We just want to build the strongest case possible before we charge Underwood, that’s all. Getting a jury to believe a minister is a cold-blooded killer will be quite a feat, even with overwhelming evidence. Rutledge only wants to prosecute cases he knows he’ll win.”
Adelaide believed it. She’d seen Washington County DA Delano Rutledge in action once when she had jury duty. He was an imposing figure, tall and muscular. His light brown hair was expertly cut to hide a spreading bald spot on top of his head. His piercing blue eyes were known to cause many a defendant to stumble through testimony. His conviction record was exemplary, had been since he first joined the DA’s office fifteen years ago as an ADA. That was probably why the voters kept putting him back in office.
“He’s probably going to convene a Grand Jury,” Daniel added.
Adelaide raised an eyebrow. “So I heard at the Historical Society meeting tonight.”
Daniel’s face blanched. “What? Who the hell told you that?”
“Our newspaper publisher got a cell phone call during refreshments telling him that little tidbit plus the fact that Susan is paying for Douglas’s defense.”
“When I find out who is leaking all this information, they’re finished,” Daniel promised through clenched teeth.
“Well, you won’t find out from Rick Blanchard or his star reporter. You know, I tried to tell Susan she shouldn’t be paying for Douglas’s defense.”
“It’s put her in a bad light, for sure. That’s why we’re still looking into her involvement in her husband’s death.”
“She admitted to me a little while ago that she and Douglas intend to be together eventually. She’s still very much in love with him.”
Daniel made a sour face. “Eventually could be a long time if they’re both behind bars.”
Adelaide assessed her son for a moment. “You’d like to charge her as an accessory, wouldn’t you?”
“It’s on my wish list, I suppose.”
“Trouble is you have no proof.”
Daniel ignored the comment.
“Be honest with me, Daniel, do you really believe Douglas killed Jerry?” Adelaide finally asked.
Daniel sighed heavily. “Jerry was one of my high school heroes. I want his killer punished.”
“So do I, Daniel. I just want to make sure it is the right person.”
“Or persons,” Daniel added. “By the way, we’re looking into Underwood’s past. According to his wife, Fran, he was a chronic cheater. So we subpoenaed his records from the district and found out he’d been transferred a couple of times because of his lecherous behavior.”
Adelaide felt her face flush with anger. “The district superintendent knew about this but they sent him here anyway?”
“We found references to such incidences in the notes we reviewed.” Daniel got up, pushing his chair back in against the table. “It’s not uncommon. You know that. Truthfully, I think Jerry had about as much chance of getting Underwood defrocked, as I have of being elected Pope.”
Adelaide rose also. She knew her son was right. Ministerial bad behavior was usually punished with a move to a less desirable church where the minister could evaluate the error of his ways. Depending on his, or her, age, early retirement might be strongly suggested.
She walked Daniel to the door then watched him climb into his pickup truck. Oscar joined her, meowing loudly as he rubbed against her leg. Bending down, she picked up the purring feline and stroked his smooth, silky head. “Well, Oscar,” she said softly to the cat, “seems like everyone except me and Susan thinks Douglas is guilty. Obviously, I’ve got my work cut out for me.”
She glanced up into the streetlight at the corner. It was snowing again.
* * * *
After the Staff Parish Relations Committee phone conference with the district superintendent, Carl Henshaw and Harold Purcell lingered in the church parlor, discussing the evening’s events. The other committee members were gone.
Carl sat in a floral print easy chair, Harold in the one beside it. They were downing what was left of the coffee.
“How did the finance committee meeting go?” Harold asked. He shifted his lanky body in his seat as though he couldn’t get comfortable.
Since Harold wasn’t on that committee, he had only been present for the Staff Parish phone conference that began at eight-fifteen and ended a little before nine. Carl didn’t mind sharing some information with his long-time friend. Harold was the soul of discretion. “They appointed me as temporary chairman. Now we need to look for another member. I don’t suppose you’re interested.”
Harold smiled. “Under other circumstances I might decline, Carl, but in this case I’m saying yes.”
Carl felt a flood of relief. “I knew I could count on you.”
“What did you think of the comments the D.S. made tonight?” Harold asked.
“It’s obvious he’s having a hard time with this. As we all are.” Carl stopped for a moment. “Let me ask you something, Harold. You were friends with Jerry also. Did you notice anything strange about his behavior over the past few weeks?”
Harold rearranged his navy blue suit jacket a little then tugged at his shirt collar. “He was quiet. Now that I realize what was going on between Susan and the preacher, I see why.”
“I don’t think he knew about that until just a couple of days before he was killed.” Carl pulled at his lip.
“You think there was something else bothering him?” Harold sat forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees.
“He acted worried. What I’m talking about goes back to the end of October or thereabouts.”
“He may have suspected it then, but had no proof.”
“I don’t know. Look at the way he behaved Friday and Saturday. If he’d suspected way back in October that Susan was having a fling with the preacher, he’d have confronted them then, don’t you think?”
Harold nodded. “Do we know for sure how long those two have been involved?”
Carl shrugged. “I have no idea. But it will come out now, I’m sure.”
“I know Jerry sometimes thought Susan was flirting too much. But, to be honest, I think, you’re right. If he’d known about an affair that long ago, he’d have put a stop to it immediately.”
“He wanted to meet with me on Sunday afternoon, privately. I got the feeling it was something important. I guess I’ll never know now what it was about,” Carl concluded.
Getting back to the results of the Staff Parish meeting, Harold said, “The D.S. made it pretty clear that he wasn’t going to assign a new minister right away. I can’t say I agree with the decision. I think the only way for our congregation to start putting this whole thing behind us and move on is to start fresh now.”
“I agree. But you know church politics. At least we’re getting Reverend Preston this Sunday. Having our former pastor in the pulpit should help calm the choppy waters. We’re lucky he agreed to come out of retirement. I guess he’s doing Jerry’s funeral service, too.”
Harold got to his feet slowly. “Let me give you a ride home. It’s snowing again.”
Carl rose also. “Thanks for the offer, but I like to walk in the snow. Besides, I need the crisp, cold night air to clear my head. So much has happened, and I’m still uneasy about certain things.”
“I’ll see you at the funeral on Wednesday then. By the way, Ruth is handling the preparations for this one, including the body.” Harold walked to the parlor door, pulling on his overcoat as he walked.
Carl had noticed lately that Harold was taking less of an active role in funeral preparations, leaving that part of the business to his daughter. “She always does an excellent job,” he told his good friend, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder.
After Harold was gone, Carl unplugged the coffee pot, taking the glass decanter to the men’s room to rinse it out. He deposited the grounds in the trash can there also. Satisfied that the parlor was in good shape, he turned off the light then shut the door. Donning his well-worn but still serviceable wool coat, he left the church, locking the front door behind him.
As was his habit, he intended to walk home through the alley. The air was frosty and clean smelling. His breath made vapor clouds in front of him as he made his way behind the parsonage across the street. The house was dark inside. It looked bleak and forlorn, as though it was abandoned. He wondered idly where Douglas Underwood was tonight. The D.S.—with the approval of the bishop—had made it clear Douglas could stay in the house pending the outcome of the investigation. Carl suspected that was another reason the church higher-ups decided not to permanently relieve Douglas Underwood of his credentials. After all, what if he was innocent? That was the presumption, wasn’t it—innocent until proven guilty?
Snow fell gently, quickly coating his shoulders. He wished he’d brought one of his hats as he felt the large, wet flakes begin to soak into his close cropped hair. It felt good, though, to walk through the silence of the night with only his thoughts for company. He passed behind Dora Carmody’s house. Inside, he could see her kitchen light was on. He liked Dora. She was a hard working woman who had pulled herself up by her bootstraps when her life fell apart. Now she was a successful businesswoman who had raised two decent children practically on her own. He knew Harold had an interest in her. Carl was glad. It meant that his friend was beginning to move on with his life.
Carl thought about the rest of the week. Tomorrow he and Ethel planned to do some Christmas shopping. Although they had no children, Ethel had a brother, Earl, who was a high school principal in Rosewood. He and his wife had produced two children. They would spend time with them Christmas Eve day. Ethel’s bedridden mother, at the age of eighty-four, was in a retirement home in Marietta. They would visit her on Christmas Eve night after church services to exchange gifts. As for his own sister, Ruth, who lived in Florida, her gift was already in the mail. Christmas was a day Carl and Ethel set aside to spend together, quietly.
But before that, they had to get through Jerry’s funeral on Wednesday, something Carl was not looking forward to. He still couldn’t believe such an awful thing had happened to his good friend right in their church. As for Douglas Underwood, he prayed the man was innocent for everyone’s sake, but it didn’t look good.
Then there’s Mayor’s court on Wednesday night. I hope the docket isn’t too full.
Usually it consisted of a few traffic offenses or some minor things like the time one of the town’s citizens decided to burn trash in his back yard using one of those wire baskets to contain the flames. The poor man acted like he didn’t understand that trash burning on private property had been illegal since the mid-1990s. “But I live on the edge of town so the wind was carrying the smoke away from here,” the man had
protested. A fifty-dollar fine got the message across.
Maybe I shouldn’t run again. I’ve been the mayor for over twelve years now. That’s probably enough. Time to let someone younger step in. Jerry would have been a good candidate.
A rustling noise behind him caught Carl’s attention. He turned around, expecting to see someone there, but the alley was empty. He squinted into the muted glow cast by the widely spaced vapor lights. He continued his walk, passing the two vacant lots separating the Carmody house from the Engler’s. Here, one of the lights appeared to be out, so he slowed down, walking gingerly to avoid a fall in the darkness.
When the blow from behind came, he thought something had fallen out of the sky, or that some prankster must have hit him with a snowball. He stumbled forward, trying to catch himself before he hit the ground. Instead he landed painfully on his knees. His ears rang. His eyes wouldn’t focus. Pain now shot up and down his legs. His head hurt all of a sudden. The next blow brought a spreading numbness which was almost a relief because he wanted the pain to stop. Blackness narrowed his line of vision as he pitched forward face down into the cold, wet snow.
* * * *
The phone jarred Adelaide awake. She was propped up in bed, an open book on her lap. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. It read 11:08 PM. She snatched up the receiver, saying a groggy hello.
“Oh, Adelaide, it’s Ethel. I’m at the medical center. It’s Carl.”
Fully awake now, Adelaide jumped out of bed, the book slipping to the floor with a dull thud. “Carl? What happened?” Alarm shot through her like a speeding arrow.
“He was mugged, on his way home from the church after those meetings.” Ethel’s voice was tremulous. “Dora found him in the alley not far from her place when she took some trash out to her garbage can around ten-thirty.”
“I’ll be right there,” Adelaide said, hanging up the phone. She threw on a pair of wool slacks and a heavy sweater. After tugging on socks then her leather boots, she pulled a brush hastily through her hair. Grabbing her purse and coat, she ran out of the house to her car.