by Carolyn Hart
Father Bill’s voice shook. “We’ll find her. We will, Kathleen. Please, God.” It was a father’s shaken prayer.
Chief Cobb cupped his hands to his mouth. “Bayroo Abbott. Bayroo Abbott.”
Murmurs of sound rose, but Bayroo was gone. In the melee, no one had noticed her departure.
Kathleen darted down the steps. “I’m going to get flashlights.”
Father Bill turned to Chief Cobb. “We have to have help. We need search teams. Can’t you get some dogs to help track?”
Chief Cobb looked stolid, but his brows pulled down in a worried frown. “Perhaps she was frightened by the false alarm. There’s no evidence she’s been abducted.”
Father Bill gripped the chief’s arm. “Bayroo would never run away and leave the children. Never.”
Chief Cobb held his cell phone. “No one saw her leave under duress.”
Father Bill’s voice was husky. “Our senior warden was murdered not far from here. Now Bayroo’s in danger. You’ve got to help us.”
Kathleen returned with flashlights. “I’m going to look.” Her eyes were hollow, her face desperate. “Maybe in the preserve, maybe…”
Father Bill gripped her arm. “They’re setting up teams. The Boy Scouts are coming. We’d better stay here.”
Kathleen pulled away. “I can’t stay.” She started out into the night, calling, calling.
Chief Cobb stared after her, then punched his cell phone. “All officers are to report to St. Mildred’s Church…”
St. Mildred’s happy Spook Bash was transformed into a crime scene. Chief Cobb knew it wasn’t regulation to assume so soon that a missing child had been abducted, but the memory of Daryl Murdoch’s body in the cemetery had to be dark in his thoughts.
The parish hall was the heart of a rescue effort. I was aware of the bustle and effort under way. Walter Carey stood in one corner, using his cell phone to contact the Boy Scouts, calling them to come and help. Dogs arrived, barking and snuffling. Names were taken, information sought.
I understood Kathleen’s need to search. I would have joined a team, but they didn’t need me. I forced myself to remain. I had to think. I knew well enough that Bayroo had never left of her own accord. She’d been taken. But why and by whom?
The first necessity was understanding why Bayroo was taken. The alarm was pulled, the fuses thrown, firemen summoned, all to provide an opportunity to kidnap Bayroo. Only a sense of dire urgency would have prompted such an elaborate charade. The kidnapper could not afford to allow the passage of time. Bayroo had to be snatched immediately.
What peril could Bayroo pose to anyone?
There was only one possible answer. Bayroo knew something she must not tell. What secrets did Bayroo have? She had been upset when Lucinda described her sojourn in the nature preserve Thursday evening. The girls were forbidden to go into the preserve. Everyone knew danger lurked for unaccompanied young girls in remote and untrafficked areas.
Bayroo had ignored that rule and something—someone—frightened her. But she’d reassured everyone—was she speaking to her parents?—and said she’d been scared, but as soon as she saw the car, she knew everything was all right.
She saw a car late Thursday afternoon as dusk was falling, a car hidden in the preserve. Whose car? Did she recognize that car?
Within minutes of Bayroo’s arrival in the preserve, the murderer marched Daryl Murdoch at gunpoint to the rectory and shot him on the back porch. His murder was planned. The murderer would not park in the church lot and certainly not behind the rectory. Instead it would be so easy to drive into the nature preserve, leave the car hidden behind pine trees or willows. That meant the murderer knew Daryl was en route to the church, knew it beyond question.
Bayroo had been kidnapped by Daryl’s murderer. I almost dropped to the floor, determined to accost Chief Cobb. But he might brush me aside. After arresting me, of course, banishing me to jail. That would not be a problem for me, but I had to know enough, be emphatic enough, that he would listen.
The solution was obvious now. Of all who had reason to wish Daryl ill, only Walter Carey, Irene Chatham, and Isaac Franklin had been in the parish hall to hear Lucinda’s artless revelations. Judith and Kirby Murdoch were not present. Nor was Lily Mendoza. Or Cynthia Brown. Walter was organizing the Scouts into a search team. The somber sexton hovered near Father Bill.
Irene Chatham. She knew Daryl was coming to the church. Her rackety old car had squealed from her drive in time to arrive at the preserve, be hidden before Daryl reached the parking lot.
Irene—
I stared down.
I saw Irene Chatham shoving a serving cart with two coffee urns against the wall nearest the south exit. She lifted Styrofoam cups from a bottom shelf, arranged packets of sugar and creamers. It was a churchwoman’s immediate response to a gathering.
If I’d suddenly tumbled from a mountaintop and turned end over end through space, I could not have been more shocked. Irene Chatham was innocent. Her presence here was proof. She was innocent and she had not abducted Bayroo. Then who…
I gripped the wood rim of the chandelier, held on as if its concrete reality would anchor me to facts. These things I knew:
1. DARYL MURDOCH HAD TOLD IRENE CHATHAM HE WAS ON HIS WAY TO THE CHURCH.
2. IRENE’S CAR HAD SPED FROM HER DRIVE AT SHORTLY BEFORE 5 P.M.
The conclusion seemed inescapable: Irene came to the church. I pressed my fingers against my temples. She was at the church, but it wasn’t her whom Bayroo had seen or her car that Bayroo recognized. However, Irene told me, “I didn’t meet him. I swear I didn’t. When I saw—” She’d broken off, claimed she hadn’t seen anyone. I thought she was lying. Irene had a talent for lies.
Irene had seen something. Or someone. I had to get the truth from her. I would do whatever I had to do. Time was racing ahead. How long had Bayroo been gone. Twenty minutes? Half an hour? How much time did Bayroo have left?
Irene bent into the freezer in the kitchen. When she spoke, as she reached for a large tray, her voice sounded hollow. “I’ll get some cookies out, heat them up. It would be nice if we had a snack for everyone.”
Another volunteer was bustling out of the kitchen with baskets of chips. She called over her shoulder, “Good idea, Irene. Be back in a minute.”
Irene moved to a big oven, turned it, set the temperature. She looked absorbed, almost cheerful. She liked being helpful. She might be a compulsive gambler, a thief, and a liar, but she enjoyed helping people and working with children and keeping the Lord’s house immaculate and holy.
I appeared. I spoke gently. “Irene, we need your help.”
She whirled, backed against the stove. “You.” It was a gasp. “I’ll call the police chief.”
“We’ll talk to him in a minute.” Please God, yes, with a name and the hope and prayer that Bayroo was still safe.
Irene glared. “He said you were a fake. I don’t have to talk to you. I don’t have to say a word.”
“Bayroo Abbott’s been kidnapped. You are the only person who can save her.”
Her sallow face flushed. “That’s crazy. If you’re accusing me of hurting Bayroo, I never, never would.”
“Irene, listen closely.” She was one of those women—Bobby Mac believed this to be true of all women—who never hear any statement without taking it personally. “Daryl Murdoch’s murderer kidnapped Bayroo. Bayroo was in the preserve Thursday evening and saw a car. We have to find out what car she saw.”
“I didn’t see any car except—” She clapped a hand to her mouth. Panic flickered in her eyes.
“You were here at the church.” I felt a surge of triumph.
Her shoulders tightened in a defensive posture. She stared at me, fear mixing with stubbornness.
“What did you see? Was it Kirby Murdoch? Judith?” Even as I asked, I was unconvinced. Neither had been in the parish hall during the Spook Bash.
Irene’s eyes jerked toward the door into the parish hall. She tried to slid
e away.
I blocked her escape. “Bayroo’s been gone a long time now.” I heard the tremor in my voice.
Her face crumpled. “If I admit I was here, they can say I killed him and I swear I didn’t. I got here and I saw him, and when I saw the policewoman I thought he was going to have me arrested and so I left.”
My hand closed on her arm. “Policewoman?”
Her face drooped in remembered fear. “She was walking toward him.”
“Are you sure it was a police officer?” I struggled to understand.
“Of course I’m sure.” She sounded angry. “I may be in trouble, but I’ve got eyes that see. She had on that uniform, just like you do, but I know she’s a real police officer. She gave me a ticket once. Officer Leland.”
“Anita Leland.” Anita Leland, who had often followed Daryl Murdoch, knew his daily routine.
Irene’s eyes were empty. “There wasn’t any reason for him to have a policewoman come to the church.” Her lips quivered. “Except for me.”
Her voice was so low I could scarcely hear. She flung up her head and the words came fast as rocks thrown by an angry crowd. “If I’d had a gun, I would have been glad to shoot him. Father Bill was going to let me pay everything back. I would have. Somehow. But Daryl wanted everyone to know. He wanted me to go to jail. I hated him. I turned and ran to my car. I was afraid to go home. I drove around for hours and finally I was so tired, I drove up my street and the houses were dark and no one was waiting for me. And now…”
I heard Irene’s bitter tirade while the puzzle pieces slotted into a perfect pattern. I’d tried to jam the wrong shapes together, poking a weak-willed woman into the role of a quick-thinking, opportunistic, coolheaded adversary.
Anita Leland hated Daryl Murdoch. Anita blamed Daryl for her sister’s husband’s suicide and her sister’s disappearance. Anita had planned to shoot Daryl Wednesday evening at his cabin, but she looked through the window and saw Kathleen and the red silk nightgown. Anita changed her plan, decided his death on the rectory back porch would provide a ready-made suspect.
Anita had been warned to stop her ticketing campaign against Daryl. Thursday evening she stopped him as he left his office. She didn’t give him a ticket, so why…Maybe she told him there had been trouble at the church, a break-in, and he told her he was on his way there, would meet her in the parking lot.
Anita didn’t park in the church lot. She hid the police car in the nature preserve, walked the few hundred yards to the parking lot, met Daryl. Perhaps he had been told the problem was at the rectory and he walked willingly with her to the back door and onto the porch.
Anita shot him. Did she tell him who she was when she held the gun to his head? She shot him and slipped through the gathering gloom, seen by no one. She must have felt very safe when she reached the preserve. Bayroo heard the crunch of leaves. Was it at the time of Anita’s departure for the church or at the time of her return? Whichever, Bayroo had been frightened until she saw the car. A police car. This afternoon, Bayroo turned away the story of her derring-do, saying she’d been scared until she saw the car.
Anita Leland could not let Bayroo describe that car.
I looked at the clock above the stainless-steel sinks. A quarter to seven. Now the shadows were falling, dusk turning to dark. And Bayroo…My throat ached.
“…you want me to tell that policeman I was there.” Irene was talking again. “He knows about the money. What if he won’t listen? He won’t think a police officer could be involved. Oh”—she choked back a sob—“I have to tell him. Do you think we can save Bayroo?”
I blinked back a tear. Irene Chatham was an unlikely heroine, downtrodden, frightened, querulous, selfish, yet kind at heart, wanting to do right but failing and falling as we all so often and easily do. I gave her a swift hug. “You can do it. You’re strong, Irene. This will put a star in your crown.”
She looked startled. I resisted an urge to reassure her that Heaven was all and more than she could ever imagine and someday all despair would be gone for her, all sadness and tribulation.
I grasped her elbow and turned her toward the entrance to the parish hall. “I’ll be right there with you.” In a manner of speaking.
Irene struggled for breath, gave a short nod.
When we reached the door, I disappeared.
Irene’s gaze darted uneasily around the hall, stopped on Chief Cobb. Lucinda was huddled in a chair drawn up to one side of the central table, where he sat with a mass of papers and an array of phones. People clustered in one corner, waiting to speak with detectives.
Lucinda no longer wore the bouffant wig. Her Marie Antoinette gown looked bedraggled. She lifted a hand to wipe away tears that spilled from reddened eyes.
Irene slowly approached the table, stopped a few feet away.
Chief Cobb spoke gently. “Don’t cry, Lucinda. You’re doing a good job. Try to remember what the voice sounded like.”
Lucinda’s face squeezed in misery. “I wasn’t paying attention. I barely heard it. I thought maybe her mom or dad wanted her to come help them somewhere. It was a grown-up. A woman. But”—she shook her head—“it could have been a man with a high voice.” Fresh tears flooded.
I gave Irene a little push.
Her head swung toward me. She blinked in utter surprise. She glanced down at her arm, which I held in a firm grip. “Where…” It was a strangled whisper.
“I’m here.” I spoke softly. “You can’t see me. Don’t worry.”
She wobbled unsteadily, the beginnings of panic in her face.
“This is no time to faint.” I squeezed her arm. “I’m here on earth to help Bayroo. That’s all you need to know. Now it’s time for you to do your part.”
She tried to pull away.
I urged her forward. “Don’t think about me. Think about Bayroo.” Bayroo and the desperate woman who had taken her away.
I pulled her up to the table. It was crowded with papers, phones, a radio set, and maps.
“…and that was the last time you saw her?” Chief Cobb’s expression was bleak.
“Chief Cobb?” I managed a credible imitation of Irene’s voice.
He glanced up. “Yes?” He was brusque.
Irene stood mute, her breathing quick and shallow, trembling like a poplar in a high wind.
I whispered, “Start with the parking lot.”
Her eyes slid sideways, where I should have been. She gulped for air. “I was at the church Thursday evening. I saw Daryl walking to meet that policewoman. Officer Leland.”
Chief Cobb frowned. “Officer Leland?”
Lucinda wiped her teary face, sniffled. “Was she the one who put the police car in the preserve?”
Chief Cobb looked from Irene to Lucinda. His look of incredulity slowly faded. Shock drained the ruddy color from his face, made him look old and gray and unutterably weary.
“Bayroo was scared to pieces in the preserve until she saw the police car. Then she knew everything was all right. And now…” Lucinda dissolved in sobs.
Cobb stood up so quickly his chair crashed to the floor of the hall. The sudden clatter brought silence.
Father Bill swung around from the portable television set that was blaring the story of Bayroo’s abduction, the call for volunteers, the progress of the investigation. He took a step toward the chief, stopped as if his legs had no strength. He reached out a shaking hand.
Walter Carey turned toward the chief’s table, holding up a hand to quiet a muscular scout’s rapid speech.
The chief’s eyes scanned the faces in the room, searching, hunting, hoping. Abruptly, he called out, “Where’s Anita? I thought she’d gone with one of the search parties.”
No one spoke.
Once again I spoke in Irene’s wavering voice. “Can you call her car?”
Cobb shot Irene a look of surprise, then bent over the table, punched at the radio set. “Calling Car Six. Calling Car Six…”
Just then, Walter Carey plunged through the cro
wd, frowned down at Cobb. “GPS?”
Chief Cobb looked up. His voice was level. “I wanted to equip each car with a GPS. It was voted down by the city council. Unnecessary expense. Like the mayor said, ‘How could we lose a police car?’” He bent again to the radio.
“Calling Car Six. Calling…”
CHAPTER 18
My eyes adjusted to the almost impenetrable darkness. Slowly shapes formed, dark shadowy bunches of trees, tangled shrubs, branches that let through scarcely a glimmer of cold moonlight.
I heard an eerie echo of Chief Cobb’s voice, tinny and distant. “Calling Car Six. Calling Car Six.” I moved nearer the sound, bumped into metal. Anita’s cruiser was parked alongside a tall stand of cane. I ran my hand along the side of the car, found an open window. I poked my head inside.
“…report immediately. Calling Car Six, report…”
Taking a quick breath, I opened the door. The light flashed on. I glanced front and back. Nothing. No one. I had feared what I might find, but Anita had taken Bayroo with her. I closed the door and walked through crushed grasses to the gravel road.
Branches creaked in the ever-stirring Oklahoma wind. I faintly discerned the road. Obviously, I was out in the country, some remote and untraveled area.
Was I too late? My heart twisted. Dear, sweet, fun Bayroo, where are you? I had to search, move as quickly as possible. I rose high, looking for a light, a sign of movement. Whatever Anita planned, let me be in time. It seemed an eon and yet I knew only seconds had passed.
Below me were woods and beyond the trees an overgrown field, dark and quiet in the moonlight. A ramshackle barn loomed perhaps twenty feet away, silhouetted against the night sky. A derelict combine lay on one side amid a jumble of trash, coils of barbed wire, rusted milk cans, the frame of a windowless jalopy, lumber scraps in a haphazard pile. An owl suddenly rose from the barn roof, hooting, his wavering mournful call a warning of trespass.
Light flickered from a hayloft, a brief, dancing dart. A spear of light through the wide window illuminated the dark and leafless limbs of a huge maple. A wooden shutter creaked into place and the vagrant gleam was gone.