by K. Gresham
“I have a letter I’m supposed to mail to him. I promised him I’d write and tell him how things were going after I settled in.”
Mrs. Fullenweider smiled, bright red lips revealing well-fitted dentures. “I hope you sent my hello to him.”
“I did indeed.” Matt smiled back. His secretary might have used a bit too much make-up and a tad too dark hair dye, but her heart was pure gold. “Mrs. Fullenweider?”
“Yes, Reverend?”
“I was wondering, with the funeral and all . . .”
“Yes, Reverend?”
Matt leaned against the wall. “Do you know much about Ernie Masterson?”
For the first time since Matt had been at Grace, Ann Fullenweider scowled.
“I know enough,” she said shortly. She arched a thickly penciled eyebrow at him. “I take it since you’re askin’, you know about my family and Ernie Masterson.”
Matt shrugged. “No.”
She snorted. “You might say our families aren’t on borrowing terms.”
“Why?”
“I’ll tell you.” The secretary’s gaze turned angry. “Ernie pumped gas for my daughter the day she and her husband split. It wasn’t a big fight. Probably something they could’ve made up over.” She shook her head. “Not with Ernie Masterson’s mouth, though. Before she was on my doorstep, Ernie had told half the town those two were getting a divorce.”
“That soured any reconciliation.”
“You bet it did. Zach Gibbons, my daughter’s ex, he was a proud man. With word out that his wife left him . . . well, he wasn’t gonna take her back without an apology. She had nothing to apologize for.”
“Why did she leave him?”
“Zach’s drinking!” Mrs. Fullenweider said indignantly. “Ain’t no way Sarah was gonna put up with that.”
“You think Ernie was the final straw.”
“I know Ernie was the final straw, Reverend. Sarah said she was going to go back the next day after Zach sobered up. She was going to have one of those in-ter-ven-tions with him.”
Matt nodded. He was familiar with the process of confronting an addict with his or her problem.
“She had everyone lined up. Zach’s parents, the pastor, a coworker. But no. Thanks to Ernie, Zach wouldn’t see any of ’em. He filed for divorce against Sarah on the grounds of desertion, and got their son to boot! With Texas being a common property state, all my daughter got was a five-acre lot outside of town and a life full of grief.”
Matt let out a sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“That’s all right, Pastor.” She calmed her breathing, took her purse from her desk’s bottom drawer, removed her compact and powdered her nose. “You didn’t know. Ernie made a lot of enemies on that one, and my daughter’s only one example of the havoc that man wreaks in people’s lives around here.”
“He has a lot of enemies.”
“You can put Zach Gibbons at the top of that list.” She smiled smugly. “He’ll never admit it, but I’ll bet you money Zach is the one who burned down Ernie’s house out on the old Novak property.”
Matt’s head came up. “Where Maeve O’Day was found?”
“There were antiques aplenty in that place, I can tell you. Used to be a real nice spread. Now all that’s left is the outhouse.”
Matt remembered a vision of Chip Carouthers perched on the top of that outhouse and smothered a grin. “No love lost between Zach and Ernie, then.”
“No love lost between most of this town and Ernie Masterson,” Mrs. Fullenweider said. “After all the tears that man caused my daughter—” She turned back to addressing an envelope. “I wouldn’t mind taking a swipe at him myself.”
***
Three hours later, Pastor Matt Hayden opened the door to the tiny room behind Grace Lutheran Church’s altar and quietly walked inside.
The sacristy was a small walnut-paneled room lined with shelves to hold supplies—altar paraments, a closet for the pastoral robes, and a cupboard for the silver communion chalices. In the wall closest to the window was a small silver sink, its drain allowing unused communion wine to flow straight to the earth below, thus returning the blood of Christ to the ground immediately following the sacrament.
Matt crossed to the closet, unlocked its door and lifted the heavy bronze chain and cross from his neck. He kissed the cross before hanging it back on its nail peg just inside the closet door. The tiny looped scratches above the nail told him the nail had been used for much the same purpose by the pastors that had served Grace before him. He straightened his black suit over his black collar, checked his sandy brown hair in the mirror hanging inside the closet and shut the door, locking it in place. He let out a heavy sigh.
Maeve O’Day’s funeral had been more of an ordeal than he had expected.
The crowd, numbering over one hundred and fifty, had crammed into the wooden pews of the Roman Catholic Church. Five miles off Interstate 10 and only twenty minutes from Wilks, the church was on the Texas historical record as one of its celebrated painted churches.
The people gathered today for Maeve’s funeral, however, didn’t bother to look at the famous ceiling. They cast their gazes downward, the hardwood floor of the church of more interest than the Catholic priest who presided over the service, or for that matter, the Lutheran minister who said a prayer at the end.
The sorrow in the church had been heavy, the air laden with quiet sobs and gentle murmurings. Angie O’Day sat in the front pew next to Dorothy Jo Devereaux, only five feet away from the draped steel casket centered in the front of the church.
The fact that Maeve O’Day had been loved was obvious. The fact that she was not, nor ever had been, a prostitute was even more clear.
One man, stooped in shoulder and shaky in step, had gotten up and talked about how Maeve had kept him fed when he’d fallen on hard times in the oil bust. Another woman spoke of how Maeve had volunteered at the Home for Unwed Mothers in New Braunfels.
Through all of the proceedings, Angie O’Day had sat in the front pew, her hair swept up and covered in a black veil. She’d worn a proper, conservative black suit. Matt noticed it, nonetheless. She’d cried some, smiled bravely at those who came to eulogize her mother, recited her rosary with a passion on her face.
More of a surprise to him, however, than the kindness of Maeve O’Day or the faith shown in Angie’s face, had been the presence of one of the members from his own parish.
Elsbeth Novak.
When Matt had stood at the end of the service to pronounce the closing prayer, Elsbeth had looked as surprised to see him as he was to see her.
He’d stuttered a moment before launching ahead, bumbled again when most in the congregation made the sign of the cross when he invoked the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, then tripped over himself trying to get to the back of the church to talk with the junior Mrs. Novak. Elsbeth, however, apparently moved quickly. By the time Matt worked his way through the mourners and outside to the hearse, Elsbeth was driving away in her Oldsmobile.
Matt closed the sacristy door behind him, walked to the front of Grace’s sanctuary and sat in the front pew before the altar.
Maeve O’Day had been there for people in need. She had helped women who had found themselves in similar situations as her own—unmarried and with child. She had raised a daughter who tolerated a great deal of injustice, and who by all accounts still believed in God.
Matt looked down at his hands and saw that they were folded for prayer. He wondered what he should pray for at that moment.
Perhaps he should ask the Good Lord to help him show his congregation how to be as charitable as Maeve O’Day.
Maybe he should ask for a generous heart in dealing with Elsbeth Novak. What exactly had she been doing at Maeve’s funeral, anyway?
When Matt finally dropped to his knees, however, his prayer was for one thing and one thing only.
God help him, he couldn’t stop thinking about Angie O’Day.
Chapter Fourteen
Miss Olivia
“Pastor Hayden?”
Matt stopped on the well-worn brick sidewalk that ran the length of Jefferson Street across the Town Square. He’d finally remembered to mail his letter to Pastor Osterburg and decided to take the more picturesque route past the Wilks Mansion.
“Miss Olivia,” he said, bowing his head in the brisk wind. He was surprised the wind didn’t blow her four-foot-eight frame over as she stood up to her knees in the plants that lined the mansion’s iron fence.
“Supposed to freeze tonight,” Miss Olivia said by way of explanation. “I’ve got to cover my azaleas.” In her shaking hand she held out the corner of a bed sheet.
“Let me help you,” Matt said, taking the hint.
“Don’t have my usual help,” Miss Olivia complained, more to herself than to Matt. “Pearl had to run the office for Ernie today. Said he wasn’t in the mood to deal with customers.”
Matt controlled a knowing look. More likely Ernie had a hangover wrapped around a bruised ego.
Miss Olivia grabbed up her pearl-hooked cane and leaned on it to walk a corner of the sheet over the green leafy plants. “Heaven only knows where Elsbeth is today. Probably somethin’ to do with Jimmy Jr., I suppose.”
Matt decided it was best not to mention Elsbeth’s appearance at Maeve’s funeral earlier. Whatever her reason for being there, Elsbeth apparently had not received permission from Miss Olivia to attend.
“Would you care to come in for some coffee, Reverend?” Miss Olivia asked when they had finished covering the last of the bushes.
“Sounds wonderful,” Matt replied.
He followed her up the red brick sidewalk to the looming three-story Victorian home. Four white pillars fronted the plantation style portico. Black shutters framed the tall, paned windows. Beveled glass panels rimmed the doublewide carved oak doors.
The grounds took up an entire block of Jefferson Street, the house itself more than half of it. Gardens with crisp hedges and sprawling live oak trees flanked both sides of the mansion. A carriage house, complete with matching paned windows and delicate gingerbread artistry, peeked around the corner of the mansion.
Matt walked patiently as Miss Olivia made her way. He helped her up the stairs and opened the front door for her.
The smell of coffee mixed with the scent of apples and cinnamon greeted them, and a wave of familiarity rushed through him.
His mom, Jewel Hogan, had always kept a pot of coffee and some kind of pie ready for her husband and sons when they came home from being cops
“Your home is beautiful, Miss Olivia,” he remarked as she pulled off her scarf and put it on the marble-topped phone table.
“Been in the family since before the War of Northern Aggression.” She removed her coat and eased it over the tree horse in the corner.
Matt kept his smile to himself. Warren Yeck had treated him to the Texas view of the Civil War before.
Warren loved to tell a story.
“My granddaddy added the two side wings at the turn of the century. Plenty of room for James W. and Elsbeth. Can’t imagine why they wanted to live in that ranch house.” Miss Olivia took Matt’s coat and put it over the antique tree that was a full two feet taller than she was.
“Children can be a challenge,” Matt said.
“Jimmy Jr. already let me know he wants to settle here. That’s just fine.”
The matriarch seemed appeased by that. Apparently, the gubernatorial candidate had learned early in life how to play politics. Perhaps the kid had potential as governor.
Miss Olivia made her way through the parlor with its brocade rugs and Victorian furniture, past the federal blue dining room where mirrors of polished bronze hung on the muslin-covered walls.
She gestured the preacher through a swinging door, then followed him into the kitchen. The room was dank, thought Matt in surprise as he entered what was usually the heart of most homes. The walls were painted a flat gray and the counter tops covered in an even darker gray Formica. The white refrigerator and other white appliances did little to offset the dullness of the room. In the corner by the stove, a small white dog lay sleeping on a fluffy gray dog bed.
“That’s Blanco,” Miss Olivia said, following the preacher’s gaze. At the sound of his name, the old Havanese lifted his head and wagged his tail. Miss Olivia hooked her cane around a cookie jar on a corner shelf, lifted it down and took out a scrap of biscuit. She tossed it to the dog, then pushed the cookie jar back into place with her cane. Blanco gobbled the treat and contentedly laid his head back against the soft pillow-top.
“In dog years he’s about as old as I am,” Miss Olivia said and smiled. She ambled over to the old-fashioned gray coffee pot on the back burner of the stove, ignited the flame beneath the pot and turned. “Would you care for cream or sugar, Reverend Hayden?”
Realizing he was about to get the leftovers of her morning coffee, Matt mustered a smile and said, “Both, please.”
“That’s fine,” she said and put cups and condiments on a silver tray. “We’ll have our coffee in the parlor.”
***
The mansion’s parlor was a room of beauty, Matt decided. A public room, its ornamentation played a sharp contrast to the blandness of the kitchen.
Prisms ornamented every hand-painted shade; a crystal chandelier decorated with brass adornments hung in the center of the parlor. A grand piano stood in the corner at the front of the house, its size swallowed by the grandeur of the room. The Victorian-era furniture was cream silk with blue and red flowers. A large Oriental silk rug spun with dark blue and gold threads spanned the distance between the couch and matching chairs.
“What brought you here to Wilks?” Miss Olivia asked, bringing the cup of coffee to her wrinkled lips.
“I met a man at seminary who used to be the preacher here at Grace. Reverend Osterburg?”
The old woman’s eyes lit. “He was a pillar in the community. Served here over twenty years. Confirmed me. Married me.” She put down her cup. “Did the memorial service for my husband.”
“He taught some of my sermon classes.”
Miss Olivia nodded her approval. “He was a powerful speaker.”
“When I got the call to Grace, I looked up Pastor Osterburg. He’s a visiting professor at the University of St. Thomas, you know. He lobbied me pretty hard to accept.” Matt silently prayed for numb taste buds as he took his first sip of coffee. “He was very persuasive.”
“Bless him,” Miss Olivia said. She rose from the couch and, much to his dismay, refilled Matt’s cup. “We went without a full-time pastor for over two years.”
“It’s hard to get the rural pulpits filled.” Matt nodded.
“Wilks is more than a rural town. We’re the county seat!” Miss Olivia said indignantly, then immediately softened her tone. “Of course, you know that already,” she added graciously. “I’m curious as to what you see your role as bein’ in Wilks, Reverend.”
Matt paused in his sip. “I take it there’s a hint in there, somewhere, Miss Olivia.”
She smiled, though the smile lacked sincerity. He felt a lecture coming on.
“In a smaller town like Wilks,” she began, “everyone has more responsibility to take an interest in civic needs. That’s what makes us so personable.” She sat back in the couch. “A citizen in a large town has the advantage that they believe someone else will do the work. Someone usually will. Here, it’s up to us.”
“I see,” Matt replied. He wasn’t sure he saw at all.
“We must be the example to our children,” Miss Olivia said. “We are the role models for them to look up to. We must do things and act in ways that are respectable. Honorable. Don’t cause problems.”
Matt put down his cup. “Are you referring to something specific in my actions, Miss Olivia?”
“That’s for you to decide, Reverend Hayden.”
Matt shifted uncomfortably. “How do you decide what is right and what is wrong, Miss Olivia?”
�
��That is somethin’ that develops with experience. I’ll tell you what I’ve learned.” She sat straighter, a certain pride entering her posture. “A person looks around. Sees gray. Yes, gray,” she repeated at his questioning look. “This action could be interpreted this way, or that person might’ve said that meanin’ something else. Life is full of gray.”
He could see from the faraway look on her face that she was thinking of a specific time in her life.
“Then you look at what it is, and what it needs to be. Needs to be, Pastor.” She wagged her finger at him. “For the good of everyone concerned. That’s when you see the black and white. You see what has to be done. You see what your duty is.”
Matt considered this. Apparently, Miss Olivia did not think it was his duty to be involved in Maeve O’Day’s search party or preaching about it from the pulpit. “Are you referring to my sermon on Sunday? I felt morally bound to get the town together to help find her.”
“Morals!” Miss Olivia pushed away the thought with a brush of her hand. “Your morals are probably what kept you from accepting that $2,000 as a down payment for a new car.”
“Actually, yes.”
“What did your morals do for the common good? You’re driving a car that could break down at any moment. You might be on your way to console a grieving family, or a hospital visit, and phht! You’re in the middle of nowhere and can’t be there for the people who’d need you.” The old woman shook her head. “People make up morals to have excuses for their decisions.”
“I see.” This time he did see. Miss Olivia might have the good of the town at heart, but her logic was flawed. God made right. God made wrong.
“I didn’t intend to get so personal,” Miss Olivia said, a slight blush steeling over her pale cheeks. “When you brought up Pastor Osterburg, however, I couldn’t help but remember how he took such an interest in civic matters. He went to every town council meeting. Opened them with a prayer, closed them with a benediction.”
“Town council meetings?” Matt echoed. His thoughts raced. How do establishments like the Fire and Ice House become realities in such a small town? Town councils give permits. Bars require liquor licenses. Apparently, neither the Wilks nor the Novaks wanted the Fire and Ice House in town, yet here it was. How surprising. “Actually, Miss Olivia, I might find town council meetings very interesting. Why don’t you tell me a little more about how government works here in Wilks?”