Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 04 - With This Ring

by Jeanne Glidewell

  “Okay, I’ll give you a pass—for now, anyway. But remember what you just said. The best and fastest way to stir up trouble with Stone is to get involved in Pastor Steiner’s murder case. You know how he would feel about it. You’ve already put him through enough stress and worry as it is. Promise me you’ll stay out of it.”

  I always hated to make promises I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I could follow up on. I didn’t intend to get too deeply “involved,” but I couldn’t predict the future. I desperately wanted this wedding to go off as planned. Postponing everything now would be a real hassle. Asking a question here and there couldn’t hurt any, could it? I would just be very clever about it, and not bring to anyone’s attention the fact that I was trying to speed up an arrest.

  I faked a knock on the door, and told Wendy I had to get off the phone to run and let some guests in the front door. It was past the time we usually locked all the exterior doors at the inn. Just short of making any rash promises, I got off the phone in a hurry.

  * * *

  Early the next morning I sat out on the back porch, sipping coffee, and reading the daily Rockdale Gazette, which Howie Clamm had pitched onto the front lawn just as I opened the front door. It was a nice spring morning, so I didn’t mind the lengthy walk down to the end of the driveway to retrieve the newspaper. Stone expended a lot of time and energy keeping the grounds of the inn immaculate, and it never looked as lovely as it did at dawn when the dew was still glistening on the nicely manicured grass.

  As expected, an article about the death of Thurman Steiner covered the entire front page of the daily newspaper. The local pastor was known by many of Rockdale’s citizens. After all, for years he’d led the congregation at a large church located in a small town. He’d participated in many other local functions, as well. The article, which included several quotes attributed to Detective Johnston, had little information about the details of the murder. It was primarily a tribute to a revered man. Many friends and church members were quoted and no one had anything but positive things to say about Thurman Steiner. He was the epitome of the term “pillar of society.”

  The news story went on to explain something I already knew. Thurman Steiner had always been referred to as “pastor” at his own request because he wasn’t particularly fond of the monikers “reverend” or “minister,” and was especially opposed to being called a “preacher.” I found this aspect of his personality very endearing. “Pastor” sounded gentler and more humble, and I thought this was appropriate for the soft-spoken man we’d come to adore.

  I could hardly fathom how a man of his stature and loving nature could have any skeletons in his closet, and I wondered again how he could upset someone to the point of murder. I was convinced the crime had to be a random murder, probably an armed robbery that had turned violent or the result of the pastor being assaulted by a deranged sociopath. Rockdale was not exactly littered with homicidal maniacs, but one or two in the area was not beyond the realm of possibility. Although it was difficult to imagine, we could even have a serial killer on the loose.

  I did learn a few things about the late minister in the process of reading the long article. For instance, he’d served in the U.S. Navy as a Seabee during the Vietnam War. After a four-year stint in the service, he’d attended the still, at that time, relatively new Nazarene Theological Seminary down on East Meyer Boulevard in Kansas City, Missouri.

  After being ordained, he began his career as a minister in a small Baptist church in Topeka, Kansas. Following a number of years there, he moved to Rockdale to be nearer to several close members of his family. He’d ministered at our church since 1990 and had no intentions of retiring any time soon, even though he’d been set to receive his first social security check the following month. Teaching the word of God was his life and his passion. Sitting on a rocking chair on his front porch hadn’t appealed to him at all.

  Thurman was a widower, having lost his wife, Stella, to esophageal cancer twelve years prior. I recalled he’d spoken lovingly of his late wife in many of his sermons. I was surprised to read that Thurman and Stella had produced six children—four sons and two daughters. I’d only heard mention of a daughter and two sons during the year I’d been attending services at his church. Before then I’d lived in Shawnee full-time and attended a smaller non-denominational church in my neighborhood.

  Almost by accident I found a more informative article at the bottom of page twelve, as if it had been added mere moments before the paper went to press, stating no suspect had been named and little evidence had been found at the scene, save for the piece of fabric in the victim’s moustache, and numerous fingerprints, all but a few belonging to Steiner himself. The fabric was cotton, but what wasn’t in this day and age? And the absence of fingerprints was not altogether surprising, as the killer had probably donned a pair of gloves so as not to leave any identifying clues at the scene of the crime. Of course, it was possible some of the foreign prints belonged to the killer.

  Thurman Steiner’s neighbors had been questioned, and one man named Larry Blake told authorities he’d seen a small red pickup in the victim’s driveway earlier in the day, and the floodlight over the parking area at the home had been lit at ten the previous evening. But he couldn’t recall the very bright light being on at five-thirty, the morning of the murder when he went out to get in his vehicle and leave for work. Blake had to clock in at six at the small local community college where he worked as a janitor. Normally, in early spring, it was still rather dark at five-thirty which made the light much more noticeable when it was accidentally left on overnight. Blake didn’t recall this being the case that morning.

  Larry Blake also remembered hearing a voice coming from the direction of the pastor’s residence early in the morning, a kind of muffled shout, but he hadn’t thought much about it at the time. Blake now wondered if by chance he’d gone over to check out the odd sound he might have interrupted the murder and saved the life of his friend and neighbor, the esteemed Thurman Steiner. He had actually considered it briefly but didn’t want to be late to work and be reprimanded for the same offense twice in the same week, Blake was quoted as saying.

  And that was all I gleaned about the homicide from reading the morning paper. I was a little disappointed in the progress of the investigation so far. Perhaps a longer interview was scheduled with the observant neighbor, Larry Blake, and anyone else in the area who might have witnessed something. I’m sure Mrs. Bloomingfield might have more to add also, having been the one to find the body and notify the police. Maybe I should see if I could draw any more pertinent information out of her. It couldn’t hurt anything to try.

  And maybe I could run by the junior college to chat with Blake on my way to the local blood drive where I’d planned to donate a pint. My blood type, the universal 0-positive, always seemed to be in great demand and I was happy to help out in any way I could. A blood donor had once benefited me following a nasty car accident in my college days, and I felt I should return the favor and help a stranger the way another stranger had helped me. In the same vein, I always made certain to check “organ donor” on my driver’s license whenever it was renewed.

  After I served breakfast to Stone and the guests at the inn, I’d clean up the kitchen and head downtown. The only guests staying at the inn at the moment were a college professor here on sabbatical for a few days, and an elderly couple from Colorado, in town to see a granddaughter’s graduation from the community college. They were only in town for two more days and would be spending the day at their daughter and son-in-law’s home.

  The blood drive was being held at the VFW Hall, only a matter of two or three blocks from the college. It was scheduled to go on until early evening, so there was no rush to get there. What could possibly go wrong if I stopped by just to speak with Larry Blake for a few short minutes?

  Chapter 3

  “Going to the blood drive now!” I hollered out to Stone, who was scattering some fescue seed in a bare spot he’d tilled up i
n the front yard. He waved and immediately turned his attention back to sowing grass. He was really in his element when he was working on the lawn. I sometimes found it hard to believe he’d spent the majority of his adulthood as a jeweler and not a landscaper. He wore absolutely no jewelry himself, and showed little interest in the jewelry I wore. His job as a jeweler must have been a means to an end. He’d just naturally followed in his father’s footsteps. His father, who had just recently passed away, had been a jeweler also.

  I hopped into the little neon blue sports car I’d just traded my yellow Jeep Wrangler in on the previous month. It was a convertible and I thought it was adorable. Stone thought it was a death trap. He wanted me to wear a lot more car around me. He said with the same amount of money I could have bought a brand spanking used Lincoln Town Car. Because my sports car sits so low to the ground, Stone said he expected that one day I’d call him to tell him it was high-centered on a dead possum. But then, Stone, who wasn’t very tall for a man, had to fold himself up like a paper airplane to get into the tiny car, with an even tinier back seat, and a trunk that could barely house the bubble spare tire and jack. According to Stone, getting out of the car took an act of God, and the flexibility of a Chinese acrobat. Even I had to rearrange my body parts in an almost inhuman position to climb aboard. I couldn’t even begin to imagine stuffing someone the size of Detective Johnston into my car.

  When I first met Stone, he drove a red hard-topped Corvette. While working on the restoration of the inn, he’d found the car to be impractical for the very same reasons he disliked my new vehicle. He now drove a Chevy Silverado four-door pickup and had made many trips to Home Depot to fill its bed with sheetrock, five-gallon buckets of spackle, toilets, cabinets, and other necessary home improvement items while restoring the inn.

  He claimed he now felt as if he were sitting on a skateboard when he was riding in my car. Listening to advice from an ex-sports car owner was worse than listening to an ex-smoker. Still, I understood why he felt the way he did about my choice. But it was getting thirty-two miles to the gallon and I thought it was worth putting up with a little guff from Stone. He professed to only be concerned about my safety. And I knew he probably meant it, so I tried not to be offended by his disparaging remarks about my new car.

  I started up the death trap and backed it out of the unattached four-car garage. It was still a little early to go to the VFW because the blood drive didn’t start for forty-five minutes. So to fill a little time, I decided to stop by the community college first. Finding Larry Blake, a man I’d never met, in a large school with numerous buildings, would not be easy. I decided to ask around in hope of finding someone who could help me locate him. I’d only been inside the junior college once before, so I began my search in the administration building.

  I asked the first six people I encountered who looked like they might have some official capacity at the school if they knew where the janitor, Blake, might be. But it was to no avail. Only one of the people I spoke with even recognized the name. I was just about to give up when I noticed a man dressed in gray coveralls step out of a storage closet up at the end of the corridor. I hurried down the hallway, stopping him just before he descended down the stairwell. He wasn’t Larry Blake, but he knew what building the other janitor was assigned to, and pointed me in the right direction. I thanked the man for his assistance and wished him a good day.

  Then I hurried over to the science building and, after searching two of the three floors, I found Larry Blake in the first room I peered into on the third and highest floor. He was throwing something that looked like cat litter down on a pile of vomit in the middle of the science lab. I had to look away or risk providing the janitor with another pile to cover up.

  I thought throwing up in class was something that only happened in grade school. I remembered upchucking all over a dissected mouse in fifth grade myself. But I reasoned that even grown-ups had a propensity for getting sick on occasion, and one can never predict when or where it might happen. And God only knows what kind of chemicals and compounds the poor student was messing with in the lab at the time. It was a small wonder they didn’t all get ill or blow up the building every other day. As I entered the lab, I could smell a strong scent of ammonia and wondered where it was coming from. Maybe that noxious odor was what had affected the ill student. It certainly made my stomach roil at first sniff.

  “Excuse me, are you Mr. Blake?” I asked the short, slightly rotund man. His hair had receded to the point he only had a two-inch strip of hair around the perimeter of his head.

  “Yep,” he said, not even glancing up in my direction. “What do you need?”

  “I was just wondering if I could have a word with you.”

  “What about?” he asked. Now he was standing up straight, looking me square in the face. Or at least as square in the face as he could with one eye pointing straight at me and the other one pointing north. I didn’t know which eye to try to make contact with, assuming one must be made of glass, so I just looked over his right shoulder instead. But not before I noticed he only sported about three teeth in his entire mouth. Why bother? How could Blake chew with only three teeth when none of them even lined up with one another? Why not have them all pulled and get dentures? The man would look more intelligent and attractive and have better success at chewing food. I’m not sure why his lack of teeth bothered me so much, unless it was because I often had nightmares about all of my own teeth falling out.

  Well, that was not my concern at the moment, so I tried to direct my attention to the matter at hand. I knew I couldn’t portray myself as a nosy citizen and get any valuable information out of Blake, so I opted to pretend I was with the police force instead.

  “I’m Natalie Wilson, Mr. Blake, but please just call me Natalie,” I said. “I work at the police station as the Witness Statements Records Collector, or the WSRC, as they like to call me. I’ve been assigned to ask you a few questions regarding the death of Pastor Steiner. Can you spare a couple minutes? I promise I won’t keep you from your work for long.”

  “I reckon, Natalie. If I don’t get caught goofing off, that is. I can’t withstand another reprimand this soon after my last one,” he said. Now one eye was pointing toward my shoes and the other one was flittering back and forth. I watched it dilate as it came to a stop, staring directly at my breasts. I suddenly had an inkling which eye was in good working order. Folding my arms across my chest, I asked, “Can you think of any observations you made around the pastor’s home yesterday morning that you failed to tell the investigators at the scene? No matter how insignificant it may appear, it could prove to be valuable information and help in solving the case. And you never know, there may be a reward offered for any tip leading to the arrest and conviction of the killer.”

  “Really?” He asked. No, not really, at least as far as I knew, I said to myself. But it didn’t hurt to sweeten the pot while delving for information.

  “Of course!”

  “Well, I told them about the floodlight and the red truck, I reckon.”

  “Yes, but can you remember anything specific about the truck? If you could recall what make and model it was, that information might help in the search for the suspect. Did it have a topper or shell on it? Any dents, unusual features?” I asked. Now my eyes were starting to burn from the overwhelming stench of ammonia engulfing the room. I rubbed at them repeatedly. Mr. Blake gave me an apologetic look.

  “I was just stripping the floor here in the lab before the last class arrived, ma’am. I reckon that’s what made the dude puke,” he said, noticing my sudden discomfort. Between the smell of vomit and ammonia I was sure I’d be puking soon too. My stomach was getting more and more queasy as time went on.

  “I see. Let’s get back to the truck, Mr. Blake. Do you recall any details about it?”

  “Well, it was kind of a faded red color, and it wasn’t a full sized truck. No topper or dents that I recall. Appeared to be a fairly stripped down model, with nothing remarka
ble about it. I reckon it was one of those little Ford Rangers or Chevy S-10’s,” Larry replied.

  “What year do you reckon it was?” Good Lord, I was started to talking like Larry Blake, and I’d only been conversing with him for a minute or two.

  “I dunno. It must have been about ten years old or so. It wasn’t a new one, anyway.”

  “Do you recall what time the truck got there and what time it left?”

  “I dunno what time it got there, but I reckon it was getting near suppertime when it left. Maybe five or six,” he answered. “It was many hours before the murder happened though.”

  I unfolded my arms and his one good eye immediately riveted back to my breasts. I didn’t even bother to fold my arms across my chest again. If this is what it took to keep him talking, then so be it. There was more than one way to sweeten the pot. Giving him something to concentrate his one good eye on was the least I could do. It wasn’t like that was offering him much. God had not blessed me with a well-endowed body.

  “Any idea who owns the little red truck?” I asked. “Do you recall seeing who drove it?”

  “Nope, never saw the driver, Ms. Wilson, but I’ve seen the truck in the driveway several times before.”

  “Recently?”

  “Yes, and a couple other times in months past. I reckon the truck belongs to someone Steiner had known for a while,” Blake said. “I know it was there last Sunday afternoon, immediately following Steiner’s arrival home from church. I was mowing the lawn at the time.”

  His good eye was still aimed straight at my breasts while the other one wavered back and forth from my right ear to my left foot. Then with a violent shake of his head, as if to realign his eyeballs, he looked up at the ceiling before lowering his head back down to breast level again. I was beginning to wonder if anyone could believe anything this man said. He didn’t seem to be completely of sound mind and body. His off-centered eyes gave me the creeps. It was hard to take anything he said seriously. But I couldn’t imagine he had anything to gain by lying.