Blessed be the Wicked

by D. A. Bartley

  Jake looked to his brothers, the oldest first and then the middle. For an uncomfortably long moment, no one said anything. Then Tom spoke up. “I don’t think she was seeing anyone seriously.”

  “What about not seriously, then?” Abbie asked.

  The middle brother said, “You know, we didn’t keep track of Jess’s social life. I’m sure she was dating, but she wasn’t engaged or anything.”

  “So, you’re saying you think she was dating, but none of you thought it was serious and none of you know who she was seeing?”

  The brothers nodded.

  Abbie was about to call them out when Clarke spoke up.

  “Listen, we know Jessica was seeing someone seriously. I think you all know she was, too. It’s not going to be helpful for us—and it certainly is not going to be good for you—if you don’t tell us what you know.”

  Tom looked at his younger brothers, then back to Clarke. “Okay, we sort of were aware that she had this crush on Steve Smith.”

  “Do you care to elaborate on that?” Abbie asked.

  This time, Jake spoke up. “I saw her with him. I wasn’t sure at first, but then I saw them kissing. Not a father–daughter kind of peck; it was a real kiss. It was wrong on so many levels.”

  “And you two? Did you see Jessica with Steve Smith?” Abbie asked.

  “Yeah,” the other brothers admitted.

  “Did any of you talk to Jessica about it?”

  The brothers shook their heads. Then Tom spoke up again. “Jake saw her. At first, we didn’t believe it. Brother Smith was a family friend. It didn’t seem possible. Even Jake started to doubt what he saw after some time passed. We decided we’d better figure out if there was anything going on before we talked to Jess about it.”

  “And how exactly did you do that?” Abbie asked.

  Tom said, “We didn’t exactly spy on her, but we followed her around a few times. They’d meet up and spend an hour or so together at one of Jess’s friends’ house. None of us know what they did. Maybe they were just talking.”

  “Do you think they were just talking?” Abbie asked. She emphasized the word “you.” No one who was paying attention could have missed the skepticism in her voice.

  “No,” the brothers answered in unison.

  “Did you end up confronting Jessica about it?” Clarke asked.

  There was silence. This time the middle brother spoke up. “Jess is really close with Sariah. We thought this was the kind of conversation that would be better between sisters.”

  “And what happened?” Abbie asked.

  “Sariah talked to Jess,” Tom said. “It turned out Jess had a major crush on Brother Smith. He was aware of it and was counseling her. He’d been trying to help her meet someone at her ward. It sounded to me like whatever Jake saw was a schoolgirl crush. You know, Jess coming on to Brother Smith, not the other way around.”

  “Did you know Jessica spent several months last year with Smith in Costa Rica?” Abbie looked at each of the Grant brothers after she asked the question. Whatever strengths the brothers had, playing poker was not among them. It was obvious this was the first time they’d heard that their baby sister had spent months last spring with Steve Smith in Costa Rica. The middle brother said, “Uh, yeah, we knew about it. She was doing some kind of work down there. It was her first real job after college.”

  “We knew she was working in Central America,” Jake added.

  “Yeah, I’m not exactly sure what she did day-to-day,” Tom added, “but it was a good chance for her to get some work experience.”

  All three brothers were supporting each other in the lie they were making up on the spot. Abbie had no idea why. She glanced at Clarke. He seemed to be thinking exactly what she was.

  “And that didn’t bother you?” Clarke asked. “The idea that your little sister, who was nursing a crush on Steve Smith, spent months alone with him in a beachfront villa in Costa Rica?”

  “No, it didn’t,” Jake said. “Jess wouldn’t do anything that would prevent her from getting married in the temple. Brother Smith is a happily married member of the bishopric in his ward. He wouldn’t break his temple vows.”

  “Did you ever talk to Smith directly about Jessica?” Abbie asked.

  “There was no need to,” Tom said. “Jess believed in fairies and unicorns. It wasn’t out of character for her to imagine things or even convince herself they were true. We’d all seen her have crushes on her teachers in high school and even a few professors in college. This was exactly the sort of thing she’d do. We knew it would pass. There was no need to bother Brother Smith about it. He knew what was going on and was handling it.”

  Clarke jotted something down in his notebook. The brothers glanced his way. Abbie thought she detected slight discomfort on all their faces.

  “Can you all tell me where you were last Sunday morning?” Abbie asked.

  “I got ready for church, then I went to church,” the middle Grant brother said.

  “Same,” Jake and Tom echoed.

  “Can anybody verify that?” Abbie asked.

  The brothers looked a little irritated, but Clarke diffused the situation. “Guys, we have to ask these questions just so we can rule everyone out. It’s standard.”

  The middle brother answered, “My family can tell you I was getting ready and then everyone at church can tell you I was at church.”

  Again the others said, “Same.”

  “And what about this Sunday after church?” Abbie asked.

  “When Jess passed away?” Tom asked. “You can’t possibly think we had anything to do with that? I mean, are you even sure Jess didn’t do this to herself? I hate to say this, but she was rather dramatic. She’s made attempts before when she didn’t get her way.”

  “We’re not ruling anything out at this point,” Abbie said, “In the meantime, as a matter of course, I need to know where you all were.”

  The middle brother confirmed he’d been at church for most of the afternoon. After that, he’d had dinner with his family and his parents before they drove back home. Tom had also been at church for the early part of the afternoon and then spent the rest of the evening at home with his family. Jake had been at home and then gone to visit a friend—he didn’t call her his girlfriend—until he got home. Everyone gave Clarke relevant names and addresses for homes and churches.

  Abbie and Clarke said their good-byes and left the brothers to work on the obituary. As soon as they closed the front door behind them, Clarke said, “They’re lying about knowing Jess was with Smith in Costa Rica.”

  “I know,” Abbie said, “but why?”

  THIRTY

  Luckily, Clarke had already looked up the address for Sariah before they talked to the brothers. It was only a few minutes before they pulled up at the curb in front of the house in Ben Lomond Circle. Abbie was hoping to get to the older sister before the brothers had a chance to text or call her about what they’d said.

  When they arrived at the sister’s house, they were greeted by the sight of two young kids playing soccer in the front yard. There was a minivan parked in the driveway with its back door open, revealing bags of groceries and probably a dozen two-liter bottles of soda.

  “Go ahead and kick!” the girl yelled. “The goal’s between the rock here and the flowers over there.” She spread her arms and grimaced in a vain attempt to look menacing. Both she and her little brother had dirt on their knees and grass stains everywhere. The boy set the ball carefully on the lawn and walked back a few paces. He ran as fast as he could and kicked. The older girl dove to the right and managed to catch the ball as she landed on the ground.

  “And that,” she announced triumphantly, “is how it’s done.”

  “I’ll get it next time.” Her brother grinned. Then he turned to the two grown-ups walking up his front walkway. “Are you here about Aunt Jess?”

  “Yes, we’re policemen. I’m Detective Abbie Taylor, and this is Officer Jim Clarke, of the Pleasant View City Polic
e Department. We’re here to speak to your mother,” Abbie answered, not shifting her tone to the singsong voice many women used when talking to young children.

  “She’s inside,” the girl said. “We’re getting ready for Grandma and Grandpa and all the cousins. They’re all coming over here. My mom says the change of scenery will be good for everyone.”

  The front door was open. Abbie couldn’t see anyone, but she could hear someone moving around in the back of the house. Sariah Morris walked into the entrance hall from a side door. She was carrying a basket with several large containers of baked goods. At least two of them had tape on them identifying the containers’ owners.

  “Oh, hello, I didn’t hear the doorbell.” Sariah was wearing slim chocolate-brown trousers that hit at her slender ankle. Her sweater was lightweight pale-pink cashmere. On her feet, she was wearing coffee-colored velvet moccasins. Her hair was down. The layered cut let her thick honey-colored hair fall in loose waves around her face. She was wearing makeup—a little perfectly smudged brown eyeliner, blush, eyebrow powder, concealer, and lip gloss—but it had been so subtly applied that Abbie was pretty sure Clarke thought Sariah had woken up looking like she did right then.

  “We didn’t ring it. I hope you don’t mind,” Clarke said by way of apology.

  “Not at all,” Jessica’s sister said.

  “We can see you’re busy, but—”

  “We’re all meeting with the Bishop at the church in forty-five minutes to go over the funeral. Then everyone’s coming here.” Sariah was trying to keep her voice friendly, but you could hear in it the tension of a woman who had too much to do and too little time in which to do it. “Is there any way this can wait?”

  “I’m afraid it can’t. We’ll try to be as quick as possible,” Abbie said.

  “Okay.” Sariah pulled out her phone and started typing. Abbie heard the whoosh of a text and then, after a few more typed words, a second whoosh.

  “I needed to let everyone know I’ll be a little later than I’d promised.” This time, Abbie noted, the irritation in Sariah’s voice was not so well disguised.

  Sariah showed them into the living room. Abbie had expected this house to look like every other house she’d seen in the neighborhood. Something imitating the houses on Real Housewives: shiny wood, oversized furniture, and coordinating couches, chairs, and curtains—desperate to show off the good taste and wealth of the families who lived there. This house was different. The entry hall floor wasn’t marble; it was reclaimed wood. The furniture was understated. There was a large framed photograph of the Salt Lake Temple hanging over the mantle, but the frame wasn’t ornate gold, and the photograph was in black and white. The coffee table looked as if it had once been part of a barn door. On top of it, there weren’t any orchids or expensive books on art. Instead, there was a simple ceramic milk jug overflowing with wildflowers and three volumes of The Journal of Discourses.

  “First editions?” Abbie asked.

  “One is; the other two are second editions. My family originally owned the entire twenty-six volumes of the first publication. Over the years, the set has been divided up as we each inherited different volumes. I’ve been slowly trying to get a complete set again. I did manage to find this second edition of the fourth volume at a yard sale in Grantsville.” A beep interrupted the conversation. Sariah looked down and read something on her phone, then asked, “What is it you want to know?”

  “We’d like to hear your perspective on your sister’s relationship with Steve Smith,” Abbie said.

  Surprise flashed across Sariah’s face. Maybe she hadn’t spoken to her brothers yet. “I’m not sure what you mean by the word ‘relationship.’”

  “Oh, I think you do.” Abbie didn’t want to give Jessica’s sister any time to think about her answer.

  With deliberate calm, Sariah said, “If you’re talking about the crush Jess had on Brother Smith, sure, I knew about that. I wouldn’t have called it a relationship, though. The Smiths are dear family friends. Our kids are roughly the same ages and hang out together a lot. We’re in the same ward. Melinda and I trade carpooling duties, things like that. Our kids do a lot of the same activities. You know, soccer, dance, cheerleading, Scouts. Jess developed some sort of infatuation with Steve. We all saw it for what it was: another one of her fantasies. She had a thing for older men in positions of power: teachers, professors, even her doctor once.”

  “You’re telling me that Jessica didn’t spend several months with Steve Smith in Costa Rica?”

  “Oh, I’m not saying that at all,” Sariah answered. “In fact, I think that’s where the whole absurd obsession started.”

  “There wasn’t anything physical going on?” Abbie asked.

  “Goodness no.”

  “You sound fairly sure about that,” Clarke said.

  “I am,” Sariah said.

  “Did you ever discuss this ‘crush’ with Melinda? Since you were such good friends…?” Abbie asked.

  “Of course not. Nothing good could have come of that. I knew Jess’s infatuation would pass as soon as she started dating someone seriously and got married. Melinda had enough on her plate with Steve getting this project in Costa Rica going. It was hard to be a single mom for months at a time. It never even crossed my mind to burden her with my little sister’s silly infatuation.”

  “We’ve spoken to Melinda. It doesn’t seem like she shares your certainty that this was a one-sided schoolgirl crush,” Abbie said.

  “Melinda’s been through so much. I imagine she’s so broken that she can’t think straight. Give her some time and she’ll realize that whatever fantasy Jess made up in her head about Steve was just that: a fantasy. As I’m sure you’ve heard from everyone who knew her, Jess lived in her own little world.”

  Abbie was trying to get a handle on Sariah Morris. The woman was hard to read. She either was telling them the truth—or her version of the truth—or, unlike her brothers, was a supremely good liar.

  “How was Jessica after Smith died?” Abbie asked.

  “I think she was coming to her senses, finally. After Steve, well, after what happened to Steve, Jessica couldn’t keep up the delusion about him.”

  “Was she seeing anyone else?” Clarke asked.

  “Not that I know of, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Jess may have been a bit dramatic from time to time, and she did have her fantasies, but there was no escaping the fact that she was beautiful. There was no shortage of handsome returned missionaries who were interested … as you probably know, Jim.” Sariah gave Clarke a knowing glance, perhaps expecting him to agree with her. Abbie noticed that he did not.

  “Your brothers mentioned that Jessica had attempted suicide before,” Abbie said.

  “That’s a bit of an overstatement, I think. Once she took pills when she didn’t get voted junior prom queen. She was one of the princesses. Another time, she took a razor to her wrists, but the wounds were so superficial that there was no real danger of anything except the bloodstains on what she was wearing. I don’t mean to sound cold. Jess was the baby of the family. We all loved her more than anything, but we weren’t blind to her tendency to be a little melodramatic from time to time.”

  “Would Steve’s death have caused her to do anything, as you say, melodramatic?” Abbie asked.

  “Well, yes, probably,” Sariah said. She looked at Clarke again and added, “You have younger sisters, so you know what I mean.”

  Clarke shrugged. “Where were you last Sunday morning?”

  Sariah looked shocked. “Are you asking me where I was when Steve Smith was killed?”

  “Yes. It’s routine,” Clarke responded. The friendliness that usually warmed his voice was absent.

  “I went for a long run. I’m training for the Ogden marathon. I got back just in time for church.”

  Sariah looked like a runner. She was slender, with the taut muscles of someone who probably logged at least twenty-five miles a week.

  “And what about this Sunday aft
ernoon?” Clarke asked.

  “I was at the church, then came back here with my family. We had dinner, and I went to bed early because I had my sixteen miles in the morning and I was exhausted. I had been asleep for hours before Mom called about what happened.” Sariah paused for a moment, then asked, “Do you think Jess did this to herself?”

  “We’re not ruling anything out at this point,” Abbie said. “Do you think she could have?”

  Sariah’s eyes filled with tears. The first tears Abbie had seen from the sister. “Yeah, this is the sort of thing Jess would do, but she wouldn’t have expected it to work. She would have expected someone to rescue her.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  “Let’s stop in at the Shooting Star.” Abbie clicked her seat belt as Clarke started the car. They’d been talking to the Grant family all day and Abbie was famished. If the sounds coming from Clarke’s stomach were any indication, he was, too.

  “Uh … okay,” he said.

  Abbie had thought about making this suggestion for quite some time. In a state where most people don’t drink coffee or tea, let alone alcohol, the art of spending an hour or two just talking was not well practiced. A little alcohol lubricated conversation. Without it, people became antsy after the superficial niceties had been exchanged. But, if there was a place in the northern part of the state conducive to open and unguarded conversation with or without alcohol, it was the Shooting Star Saloon.

  The place was the oldest continually running bar in Utah, according to the owner. It was known for great burgers and the occasional ghost of an old cowboy. Abbie’s sisters would not set foot in the place because liquor was served, but she’d had a few dinners there with John. She liked it. It was the perfect level of shabby that made her feel right at home.

  Abbie was gambling Clarke would feel at home, too. She wanted them to have a chance to talk. It was important to relax, even if only for the amount of time it took to eat a burger. They needed to debrief and brainstorm. They had two bodies and were getting nowhere fast. She blamed most of their lack of progress on herself. She wanted—needed—a place where she could exhale. She had to have an hour or two away from all the descendants of the same pioneers she came from—those hardworking converts from Britain and northern Europe who had crossed the Atlantic and thousands of miles of the United States on foot or by wagon to this Zion in the American West. Phillip had once come across her high school yearbooks and joked how the entire school, with a few Samoan and Tongan exceptions, looked the same. He wasn’t wrong. She was surrounded by her people, except she wasn’t one of them anymore.