Blessed be the Wicked

by D. A. Bartley

  Abs, calm down. Let it go. You can’t pretend you didn’t expect an old boys’ club to exist in a police department in a tiny town in the northern part of Utah.

  Phillip was right. Okay, Abbie knew it wasn’t really Phillip talking, but his voice sounded real in her head. After he first died, she’d heard him all the time. Well, not exactly heard him as much as engaged in full-on conversations with him. It happened most in their apartment in the morning when she read the paper. Phillip would comment on the news or the odd study on gun violence or pollution. Since she’d moved to Utah, she’d heard his voice less frequently, but she did still hear it from time to time.

  Phillip was, as usual, right; this John Doe thing was exactly what she had expected when she took the job. So far, though, the old-boys behavior had been insignificant stuff, like not being invited to barbecues or being ignored in the break room. Nothing that could possibly affect work.

  … and, Abs? Cut the kid some slack. He’s the low guy on the totem pole. He was put in an impossible position: either respect his long-time boss or snitch to the new girl.

  Abbie nodded to nobody. Phillip was being reasonable. She knew it and resented it, just as she had when they were together and he gave her sound and calm advice when she wanted to yell and break something.

  Clarke joined Abbie in the parking lot.

  “Hey.” His voice was quiet and he said the word slowly. Abbie wondered if he was trying to both say hello and apologize at the same time. “I know how to get to the Smith house. Okay if I drive?”

  “Sure.” Abbie forced a smile. She was going to try to follow Phillip’s advice.

  It didn’t take long to drive to Steve Smith’s home. Clarke parked the squad car in the driveway, which immediately attracted the neighbors’ attention—Abbie saw silhouettes in at least two houses discreetly peek out from behind sheer curtains—as soon as she and Clarke got out of the car.

  “Wow, this must be at least eleven thousand square feet,” Clarke whispered to Abbie. It was a big house. In the years since Abbie had left Utah for college, the rural landscape that had once been rolling foothills was now forested with houses: huge brick-and-stone structures with thin strips of grass separating one from the next. Abbie missed the sagebrush.

  Clarke rang the doorbell. The front door was tall and made of some kind of shiny, dark wood with ornate bronze handles. Standing guard on either side of the door were two faux-stone lions, the sort of statues you’d see in catalogs catering to people who bought outdoor movie screens.

  They stood listening to the doorbell play an electronic version of “Eine kleine Nachtmusik” for what seemed like an eternity. Abbie couldn’t fathom what would possess people to install musical doorbells, but had the feeling that the person who chose this particular melody would describe it as “classy.”

  Finally, the door opened. A teenage boy looked at Abbie and Clarke. Without saying hello, he turned his head inside the house and yelled, “Mom, it’s for you!” He walked away, leaving the door wide open.

  Abbie saw a gleaming marble entryway with a star mosaic in the middle. Stairs swept up on the right to a landing on the next floor. To the left was a large sitting room filled with oversized furniture. It looked as if there was a dining room beyond that, but before Abbie could take in the rest of what she could see from the front door, a well-coiffed, plump, blonde woman appeared. Her nails were long and painted a deep shade of fuchsia. She wore pull-on lavender cashmere joggers with a matching top, the kind popular among a certain set of stay-at-home moms. Her feet were bare so you could see her toenails matched the color on her fingers. She was wearing an enormous, pear-shaped diamond ring on her left hand and diamond studs in her ears.

  “Hello?” The woman’s voice was high. She sounded more like a girl than a middle-aged woman.

  “Mrs. Smith? Mrs. Stephen Smith?” Abbie asked.

  “Yes,” the woman responded, with a little upswing in her voice that made her affirmative statement sound more like a question.

  “I’m Detective Abbie Taylor of the Pleasant View Police Department. This is Officer Jim Clarke. Is there a place where we can we sit down? We’ve got some difficult news.”

  Mrs. Smith looked a little worried, but if she had any particular concerns, she didn’t voice them. She led Abbie and Clarke into the sitting room. The room was inelegant, even though it looked as if everything had been acquired specifically for the space. Like a woman whose shoes matched her handbag, it tried a little too hard. Mrs. Smith sat down on the yellow-and-pink floral love seat. Abbie and Clarke sat across from her in two overstuffed chairs that matched all the other upholstery in the room. Even the wallpaper matched. Abbie glanced at an oil painting above the sofa that had clearly been purchased because its colors coordinated with the furniture.

  “Mrs. Smith, I’m sorry, but we have some very unfortunate news,” Abbie said. “There’s no way to soften this. We’ve found a body that we believe to be your husband.”

  Mrs. Smith responded without hesitating, “That can’t be right. My husband’s in Costa Rica on a business trip.”

  This woman hardly seemed capable of hurting anyone, but Abbie was well aware that when it came to suspicious death cases, it was often the person who shared your bed who helped you meet your maker. The professional in Abbie knew she had to consider the possibility that Mrs. Smith was complicit in her husband’s death, but the human in her was struggling to deliver news no one was ever prepared to hear.

  Abbie understood why Mrs. Smith would simply reject the possibility that her husband could be dead. That awful afternoon when Phillip died, Abbie had spent hours with her head drooped over the toilet, throwing up until there was nothing left but watery bile. It was her body’s way of rejecting his death, as if by vomiting she could expel the unbearable loss and return to the world the way it was supposed to be, a world where Phillip was alive. Mrs. Smith might end up throwing up later, but right now she was going to deny the possibility out of hand.

  “Mrs. Smith, I know this is hard.” Abbie reached out and gently touched the woman’s arm. “There’s no easy way to do this. May I show you a picture?”

  Mrs. Smith looked up at Abbie. For the first time since she and Clarke had arrived, her eyes reflected an understanding of the seriousness of their visit. Her face registered something—fear or dread—that she was about to see a picture of the man she married.

  “Is this your husband?” Abbie asked.

  Mrs. Smith closed her eyes slowly. Her eyelids couldn’t hold back the tears that first trickled and then streamed down her cheeks, mixing with eyeliner and mascara into black streaks. The blood drained completely from her heavily made-up face. Even the too-pink blush couldn’t disguise the greenish pallor beneath.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Smith whispered almost inaudibly, “that’s my husband.”

  Abbie looked at Mrs. Smith and then at Clarke. She saw the pain on his face and realized this was the first time he’d delivered such news. It hadn’t occurred to Abbie that Clarke had never done this before. Now she regretted that she hadn’t taken the time to prepare him for one of the hardest parts of the job. Abbie still struggled with it, even when she suspected the person receiving the news already knew what she was going to say.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Smith.” Abbie paused. “Is there someone we can call?”

  The widow nodded and pointed to the top drawer of a side table. Abbie opened it and took out the Ben Lomond Circle 7th Ward Directory. Printed on the inside cover were the names and telephone numbers for the Bishop, First Counselor, Second Counselor, and Relief Society President. The first three were the lay ministers for the area. Abbie noticed Stephen Smith was listed as the Second Counselor to the Bishop. The last name was a woman’s. She was President of the Relief Society, the woman responsible for organizing the sisters in the ward to help with church members’ needs during a crisis: everything from delivering food to making hospital visits. Abbie dialed the number for the Bishop, as was protocol. He’d
call the Relief Society President himself.

  “Hello. Bishop Norton? This is Detective Taylor of the Pleasant View Police Department. We’ve had to deliver some very difficult news to Sister Smith. Her husband’s body has been found. I think she could use some company right now … Thank you. Of course, we’ll wait until you get here. Bye.”

  In less than twenty minutes, Abbie heard a car pull up. She opened the door to see a man in a well-tailored suit emerge from a shiny black Lexus.

  “Bishop Norton? I’m Detective Abish Taylor, and this is Officer Jim Clarke. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “Of course,” the Bishop responded, then turned to Clarke. “Jim Clarke? Aren’t you in the singles ward, oh, I mean the YSA?”

  “YSA” stood for “Young Single Adults.” The Church organized these wards exclusively for young unmarried people so that going to church every Sunday provided an opportunity to meet their future spouse.

  “Yeah, I am.” Clarke nodded.

  Abbie watched the Bishop walk into the living room and sit down next to the widow. He was carrying the familiar leather-bound quadruple combination, or “quad,” which was a single volume that included all the LDS scriptures: the Bible, the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and the Pearl of Great Price. Abbie’s parents had presented her with her own black leather set embossed with her name in gold after she’d been baptized and confirmed a few days after her eighth birthday.

  “Melinda,” Abbie heard the Bishop say softly. “Would you like us to give you a blessing?” Abbie saw the Bishop look over at Clarke.

  In the months before Abbie’s mom died, there’d been dozens of blessings. At first they had seemed like magic. Two authoritative men anointed her mom with a few drops of sacred oil and then laid their hands on her head. They spoke in deep hushed tones. Her mom described a feeling of calm afterward, but the miracle never came. As the end neared, Abbie grew to resent the blessings as arrogant and disingenuous claims. Her father, though, and everyone but her oldest brother took comfort in the ritual. At the end, Abbie couldn’t believe anyone truly expected divine intervention could prevent the inevitable.

  “Yes, I would. Thank you,” Mrs. Smith answered.

  The Bishop turned to Clarke. “Would you mind?”

  “Of course not,” Clarke said.

  The Bishop pulled out a small metal vial attached to his key chain. He opened it and poured a few drops of oil onto Melinda’s hair. He and Clarke then placed their hands gently on the widow’s head.

  “Dear Heavenly Father…” the Bishop began.

  Abbie bowed her own head, not so much because she shared the faith of the three other people in the room but because she respected their right to believe what they chose. The two priesthood holders asked their Father in Heaven to give Sister Smith the strength she needed to get through this challenging time. Despite Abbie’s own skepticism about the blessing itself, she hoped it would bring the widow some comfort, if that’s what the woman deserved. For a moment, Abbie’s thoughts strayed from the monotone recitation of the blessing to how the wife had responded to her husband’s death. It was remarkable that Mrs. Smith hadn’t asked any questions about her husband. Was she simply devoid of curiosity, or was she not surprised? Of course, it might have been that she was just in shock and questions would come later. Still, in all the times Abbie had delivered news like this, Mrs. Smith’s reaction was unusual.

  “I say these things in the name of thy son, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  Abbie murmured “ay-men,” pronouncing the word the way most Mormons in Utah did, with a long vowel sound for the letter a.

  No peaceful calm had settled in the room. Things seemed exactly as they had before.

  SIX

  “I’ll be right back, Melinda.” Abbie watched the Bishop switch from comforter to crisis manager.

  “Brother Clarke, would you mind staying here with Melinda while I make a few calls?” The Bishop was used to being in charge, but in this situation his authority was not absolute. Before Clarke could answer, Abbie said matter-of-factly, “We have a few questions for Mrs. Smith.”

  “Oh, of course. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to help.” The Bishop walked into the hallway, presumably where he could make calls without being overheard. Abbie had excellent hearing.

  “Jules? I’m here with Melinda Smith. Steve has passed away. Can you come over?” His tone was intimate. So he was calling his wife before anyone else in the bishopric or the Relief Society.

  When he returned to the living room, the Bishop wrapped a soft throw blanket around Melinda’s shoulders. In what seemed like no time at all, there was a soft tap on the front door. A lithe blonde with the body of a tennis player walked in. Her expression was the perfect combination of compassion and competence. She was carrying a plate of freshly baked snickerdoodles. The smell of cinnamon and sugar alone provided some kind of solace. Melinda dabbed at her eyes with the Kleenex the Bishop had handed her. She attempted a smile.

  “It’s good to see you.”

  “Oh, Melinda, I’m so sorry.” The Bishop’s wife sat down next to Melinda and placed the cookies on the coffee table. Melinda immediately reached for one.

  The Bishop, who was still standing, said, “Jules, I’m going to call Sister Morris to—”

  “Sweetheart, I already talked to her. She’s coordinating everything right now. I told her we’d bring food tonight.” The Bishop’s wife turned to Melinda. “You won’t have to worry about cooking. I know Sister Morris is making sure there’s someone to help with the little ones, you know, getting to and from soccer practice and ballet. I also asked to have some help with the housekeeping, at least until after the funeral.”

  Abbie remembered well this Mormon efficiency in the face of crisis. Everyone did his or her part. Breakfast of easy-to-heat-up muffins or potatoes would be dropped on the doorstep every morning, followed by casseroles and pasta salads for lunch and dinner. Some of the moms would carpool and others would do laundry, vacuum, and wipe the surfaces in the kitchens and bathrooms. The Relief Society President knew exactly who could do what, and it didn’t take long to make all the necessary calls. Of course, now there were also the handy online sign-up charts to help automate the process.

  The widow took a bite into her third cookie.

  “Mrs. Smith, I know this is hard, but we do need to ask you a few questions,” Abbie said. “You mentioned that your husband was away on business. When did you last see him?”

  “The day before yesterday,” the widow said. “He had an early flight.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual before he left?”

  “No. Steve was the same as always—happy, kind, fun. He was the most caring husband, the best father. He was a member of the bishopric! He always took care of us. I can’t believe … I just can’t believe he’s gone.”

  Abbie had a natural talent for discernment. Even as a kid, she knew she was a good judge of character. That innate ability had been honed by years of working as a professional lie detector. Right now, there was a bell ringing in her head, telling her that the woman in front of her was not telling the truth. Something wasn’t right.

  “This business trip, where was he going?” Abbie asked.

  “He was doing work for the Church,” Mrs. Smith said. “Very important work, in Costa Rica. He had to take care of some financial details and construction plans.”

  “Was this trip a regular part of his business?”

  The widow nodded.

  “Do you happen to know any specifics about who he was working with? Any business partners?” Abbie asked.

  “He was working for the Church. I don’t know anything about the business. He dealt with the head of the bank, Zion Commerce, but I never had to help with any of that. Steve took care of everything.”

  Then the sobbing started. The widow buried her head in the shoulder of the Bishop’s wife, who looked distinctly uncomfortable, but wrapped her arms around the crying woman anyway. Mrs. Smith�
�s sobbing increased in intensity with each passing moment. There was nothing to be gained by extending the conversation.

  Abbie stood up. Clarke followed her lead. Without saying anything, Abbie caught the Bishop’s wife’s eye and set her card on the coffee table. The other woman, still holding the whimpering Mrs. Smith, acknowledged the gesture with a slight tilt of her head. More questions would have to wait for another time.

  SEVEN

  Abbie sensed Clarke could use an emotional break after watching a wife find out her husband was dead. It wasn’t that it ever got easy to break that kind of news, but one did get more used to it.

  “Why don’t we head back to the station? You can start looking into Smith’s background. I’ll drive over to Zion Commerce and see what I can find out.”

  “Sounds good.” The relief in Clarke’s voice was unmistakable. Abbie heard him exhale. It was clear he was trying to release the tension and grief he had internalized at the Smith house.

  “Is that how it usually goes?” he asked.

  “There really is no ‘usually.’ It’s always hard. In cases like this, it’s particularly difficult, because we may be telling someone who doesn’t know what happened or we may be telling someone who knows exactly what happened.”

  “You don’t really think Sister Smith could have anything to do with this?” Clarke asked.

  “I have no idea,” Abbie said.

  “There’s just no way, I mean, I just can’t imagine,” Clarke said. “Except, I don’t know, was it weird that she didn’t ask us any questions? I think I would’ve asked a lot of questions. I’d want to know exactly what happened.”