Or is that my own delusion?
Regardless, as I’d challenged Olafson, it’s time to get cracking. The attacker in my vision is a man. That lines up with homicide stats. I can start narrowing down the search without going too far out on a limb. Figure out who were the men in her life, who she was seeing. The church rolls are the obvious place to start, but I also need to know about family, lovers current and past, friends. According to the vision, this wasn’t a random killing, not some roving serial killer. And statistics bear this out as well: women are most often killed by people they know. I can justify taking this line. In all likelihood, Victoria had not just known her killer, but trusted him. Or at least, enough to meet him on a deserted beach.
Deserted. Yes, maybe, in the sense that no one else had been there. But it isn’t exactly isolated. There's a hotel within a hundred yards. A busy street within a block. Pedestrians, out for a stroll along the Riverwalk. Someone must have seen something. That's where the police should come in, questioning, searching, armed with the authority of their calling. Me, no one is going to answer my nosy questions. And I simply don’t have the resources to go after all the people who had been staying at the hotel, who might have been looking out their window at an opportune time, even if I could talk the hotel management into letting me see their records.
The body was found in the pilings of the Cannery Pier Hotel. Olafson and Candide would probably concentrate their efforts around that area. Only I know the location of the actual murder, the beach behind the Holiday Inn. I need to tip them off, so they can widen their search for possible witnesses.
Yeah, Olafson is gonna be eager to hear your recommendations.
Dammit. There must be a hotline, or some procedure. We’d relied a lot on anonymous tips at the DPD. Meanwhile, I’ll follow up with Daniel Chandler, and get a list of male members of the congregation. And find out whether he really wanted me to share info with the APD.
When I get home, I put the teakettle on for tea and shuck out of my wet clothing. No time like the present to call the cop shop. I turn the caller ID function off in my phone settings, engage the record function and punch in the numbers for the general station line. A perky female voice picks up.
“Astoria Police Department. Is this an emergency?”
“Uh — no. I wanted to give you some information. Regarding an ongoing investigation.”
“I see. Can I have your name?”
“No. I’d prefer to remain anonymous.”
Pause. “I see. I’ll put you through to one of the detectives.”
“Wait — ” but she’s put me on hold. I almost hang up. I don’t want to talk to Steve again. But who else is going to do this footwork? I won’t tell them who I am, just that I have a tip and —
A voice breaks into my thoughts. “Detective Candide speaking.”
I try to drop my voice below its normal register. Clear my throat. “I have some information on the killing of Victoria Harkness.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
Ignore. “You should look into the Holiday Inn. Someone staying there might have seen something.”
“In the hotel?”
“Outside, by the river. Check the rooms that overlook the water. The murder happened on the beach.”
“How do you know this? Who are you?”
I hang up, and stop the recording. I don’t want to give Candide any more time to recognize my voice, or put two and two together. She won’t ignore the tip. I hope. And if anyone gives me static later about withholding information to the police, I’ve got the recording to back me up.
Heart’s thumping like a drummer on crack, so I walk around each floor of my house: basement, main, and second. By the time I finish checking the perimeter, my anxiety has abated somewhat. The fort is secure. Civic responsibility has been addressed. Now the hunt can truly begin.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
FIRST STOP IS the Church of the Spirit, and the police-averse bookkeeper, Daniel Chandler. I find his office. It smells like fast food and furniture polish. It’s small and cramped, with sagging bookcases, faux wood desk, and acoustical tile ceiling. One of the tiles has a telltale brown splotch: water intrusion.
Daniel himself looks exhausted, with bags under his eyes and lines etched in his cheeks. Strands of his thinning hair stick out all over, as though he’s been running his hands through it. Despite the signs of emotional upset, he’s not bad looking, in a kind of professorial, intellectual way.
“I just had a little confab with Detective Olafson of the Astoria police.” Pause to see if this has any effect on the man. It doesn’t, so I continue. “He told me that you said I could tell him about anything I discover in the course of my investigation. Is that true?”
“I haven’t spoken with anyone from the APD.”
I’m not surprised to learn the detective lied to me. Typical cop trick. “Good.” I nod. “Do you have a church directory? I’m going to need a list of all the members and their phone numbers.”
He leans back, rubbing his forehead. “Audrey, can you explain why you’re still involved? I appreciate it, naturally, and support Claire’s decision, but I honestly don’t understand why the investigation is still active — either with you, or the cops. Vicky’s not missing anymore. She’s…dead. And we’re not exactly swimming in money.”
I clock the slight hesitation before he states the word ‘dead.’
His face reddens. “It’s such a terrible accident.”
Uninvited, I sit down in his visitor’s chair anyway. “Mr. Chandler, two things. First, I hear Ms. Harkness wants to sue you, which is going to cost more than my bill. Second, I’m not sure Victoria’s death was an accident.”
“What? Why not? Surely you don’t think she killed herself? She would never leave the church. It was her child — her greatest achievement.”
“At the very least it is a suspicious death. Maybe even a homicide.” For sure it’s a homicide, but hallucinations are not evidence.
His mouth drops open, then shut, then open again. So textbook, it’s almost comical. “That’s ridiculous.” He glares. “That’s preposterous. What — why —”
I explain my reasoning, citing the presence of the detectives at the vigil. “Did you record the vigil at their request, or was it your own idea?”
“Mine. But they said they might want to watch it later.”
“See? They want to screen it for suspects. Or suspicious activity. Didn’t they talk to you first?”
“Yes, but they said it was just routine.”
“Mr. Chandler, regardless of what the police think, or do, we’ve got to move forward. The more time passes, the more difficult the investigation becomes.” I bait a little trap, because I don’t trust him. “The cops are going to come sniffing around, unless I can hand them a solution.”
He shifts the position of his stapler by two degrees. “I see.”
“I’ve got a lot of experience in solving homicides. More than anyone in this town.” Which may or may not be a good thing, from his point of view.
“Well. Carry on, then. I’d like to minimize the intrusion as much as possible. And I don’t want the media to inflate her death into a circus. The scandal would break her heart.”
“Great. Now, I want a list of the members of the congregation.”
“I just said I want to limit any intrusion, not abet in an invasion of privacy. No one in the church would harm her, or anyone!”
“All the better to rule them out early, then. If this turns out to be a murder investigation. Don’t worry, I’ll be polite and discreet. Also, did Victoria have a husband? A boyfriend? A girlfriend?”
Chandler’s face flushes. “A — a girlfriend? Certainly not! And she wasn’t married. Or seeing anyone else. As far as I know. And I think she would have told me.”
“What makes you think that?” Was Daniel a confidante, or just an employee? Plus, he said anyone else.
“We were close. I’ve known her for years.”
�
�How close?”
He jumps to his feet. “What are you insinuating? Whose side are you on?”
“Whoa.” I hold up my hands. “I’m just trying to understand Victoria’s milieu, her life and the people around her.” I wait until he sits down, then ask, “What is your role in the church affairs?”
His head jerks up. “There are no ‘affairs,’ Audrey.”
“I meant, your role in the administration.”
“As I said earlier, I do the books, keep track of donations, revenues, and expenditures.” His voice is testy now, annoyed.
“Do people pay to be members?”
“There’s no fee. People give tithes, or make other donations. Vicky sometimes got paid for public speaking at other venues. And she had her own money, which she used to cover the rent on this building, for instance. Some of our members are recognized artists, and their spirit offerings are sold to interested collectors.”
“Do you get a lot of spirit offerings?”
“Let me show you.”
Chandler takes me to the worship hall. When he clicks on the lights, I see the walls covered with paintings and collages and lithographs. I’d noticed this before, but only peripherally. Now I pay attention.
He says, “It varies. Usually Vicky decided what she wanted to display. She judged the pieces on individual merit but also on the donor, whether or not they could benefit emotionally or psychologically from seeing their work displayed.” He clicks off the light, and we go into the adjoining fellowship hall. “More here, as you can see.” Pictures and photographs arranged haphazardly, and a lovely full-length portrait of Harkness. She’s shown as an angel, floating on the water with wings spread. A piling field stretches away, and the Megler Bridge soars overhead.
I shiver. This image is too much like the riverside beach to ignore. “Who did this one?”
“Eric North. He gave this to us months ago. North is a local painter of some renown. He spoke at the memorial service — tall, brown hair, good looking. At least my wife seems to think so,” Daniel says dryly.
“I remember.”
“Ever since childhood, Vicky had a special connection to the Columbia River. It’s one of the reasons she moved the church here. She always said that water, especially moving water, had a spiritual component. The veins of Gaia, she called it. We sometimes had services on the shore, or down on the beach by the jetty, where the river empties into the Pacific Ocean.” He clicks off the light.
More than ever, I feel the killer must be connected to the church. Putting her body into the river was almost an act of grace. North’s painting could even have given the murderer the idea.
I assume we’re going back to the office, but instead Chandler takes me to a storeroom. A single bulb illuminates more canvases, wood carvings, pottery, and metal sculptures. I point to one piece which features several broken machine parts welded together haphazardly. “Is this an offering too?”
Chandler grimaces. “Yes. Young Jason Morganstern. Not much talent there, I’m afraid, although I think North was mentoring him some.” He runs a hand through his hair and rubs the back of his neck. “I simply don’t know what to do with all this. A lot of rubbish, most of it.” He closes the door and we return to the office.
He plops back down in his chair and sags back, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m just the bookkeeper, but there’s no other employees to see to things. I’m the only one with access. I’m trying my best to handle all the details, but I don’t know what’s to become of the church.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Chandler. Truly. I never met Victoria, but I can tell she was someone special. Exactly how long had you known her? You said a long time.”
“Eight years. She was so beautiful, so dedicated. I still can’t believe someone would want to kill her. You must be mistaken.”
“I know. It’s an ugly, ugly thing. But you can help me. Please, give me the list of church members with their phone numbers, and if you can think of anything, no matter how small, that seems suspicious or strange, please tell me.” I crack a smile. “You’ll probably have to go over all this again for the Astoria cops, if they’re doing their job. So you might as well have it ready.”
He blanches. “I was hoping that you’d be able to keep them away.”
“You won’t have any choice. It’s a suspicious death.” Here’s the avoidance, first hand, that Claire had described to me. Maybe now I can get some answers. “The cops are going to want to know why you didn’t file a missing person report.”
“I suppose because I thought she’d turn up. I thought maybe she’d gone off on a retreat or something, to work on her book.”
This is the first I’ve heard about a book. “Without telling anyone?” I raise my most skeptical eyebrow. “Come on, Mr. Chandler. It looks strange.”
“Whose side are you on?”
That’s the second time he’s said that. “I’m just trying to find out the truth. If you don’t want to talk to me, fine, but the police won’t back off. If you want them out of your hair, the best thing to do is be honest with them. And me. If I can get a head start, maybe we can wrap this up before they make this even more unpleasant for everybody.” I recall my breakfast with Detective Olafson. “Do you want me to share information with the police? Or run it by you first?”
He rubs his forehead again. I’m beginning to think he’s giving himself a permanent groove.
“I don’t want Vicky’s legacy to be tarnished. Tell me what you find before the APD.”
“Will do. Pay my bills and answer my questions, and you’ll be the first to know about anything.” Loyalty oath with built-in back door in case he stiffs me. Good enough. To get him into information provider mode, I ask him about the book he mentioned earlier. He tells me Victoria was working on a manuscript about utilizing artistic creation to recover from trauma and abuse. The book had exercises and rituals that she thought would promote healing and forgiveness. Daniel was going to handle the publication and printing detail, if and when it ever got that far.
I’m not sure what I think about this type of thing, but I suppose every half-baked guru can self-publish a manifesto these days. And she might have her own experiences to cauterize.
“Was Victoria an abused child?” I think of her icy mother. It wouldn’t surprise me.
He frowns. “It feels wrong to talk about her private life, things she told me in confidence.”
I lean on the desk. “Mr. Chandler. She’s dead. Someone killed her. Her privacy is of secondary consideration now.”
“You’re the only one saying it’s a homicide.” He folded his arms.
I try another tack. “Did anyone else know about the book?”
“I’m not sure. She was hosting a group for abuse survivors, working out the rituals and exercises and things, seeing what helped. Some of those people might know. She also had some services about abuse, and finding love and light through ‘cleansing your wounds.’ I can’t remember if she talked about her book then.”
It seems like Claire would have said something. Is this just another example of Daniel keeping things close to the vest? Or are there other things he isn’t telling me?
I stand and go over to his shelves, checking out the books and objects. This is mostly to make him nervous, but also to get a sense of him. The books are business related. Accounting techniques, opportunities for women-owned companies, specific practices for non-profits and religious organizations. A few DIY topics, like selling on E-bay and starting up freelance businesses. Even reading the titles causes my eyes to glaze.
“When was the last time you saw or spoke to Victoria? Did you see her the day of the service? The one I attended?”
“Not that day, but the day before, on Wednesday morning. We had a ten o’clock meeting. She came into the office and we discussed church finances. It ended at around ten forty-five.”
“How did she seem?”
“Normal.” He takes off his glasses and polishes them on his sleeve. “Believe me, I’d no idea �
�” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “No idea it would be the last time I saw Vicky alive.”
“I know.” I try not to be brusque, but I really want to get a move on. I prod him for the list of congregants.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to shake the trees and see what falls out.”
He grumbles, but hits a few keys and puts the information on a flash drive. It’s a little old-school, but I see he’s got a handful of them scattered across his desk.
“We don’t have formal membership. These are the folks who have asked to be on our newsletter mailing list.”
“Perfect.” I pocket the drive and fake leave, turning just as I reach the doorway. “One more thing…who stands to benefit from Pastor Harkness’s death?”
His answer surprises me. “The church, I suppose. There’s a key person life insurance policy for a hundred thousand dollars that was supposed to cover the expenses of finding a new pastor if the unthinkable ever happened. We had a salesman in about a month ago. Vicky swallowed his pitch, hook, line, and sinker. She even bought a policy for me. Since I don’t have any other benefits.”
“And now that the unthinkable has happened?”
“I just don’t know. We’ll look for a new pastor of course. But Vicky herself was the main draw. Everyone is going to miss her. So much.”
He’s not looking at me when he says this last, but I can see his face is red.
I wait until I’m out the door and away from his line of sight before thumbing off the voice recorder on my phone. It never hurts to have a record. What I’ve just done is illegal in Oregon. But. I don’t have a photographic memory, and I’m not planning on using this for evidence.
Plus, As Victoria Harkness herself apparently believed, you never know when you’ll need a little insurance. Detectives are a suspicious lot, and client or no, I’m not convinced that Daniel Chandler is as squeaky clean as he lets on. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn that he and Harkness were having an affair.
A Memory of Murder: An Audrey Lake Investigation (Audrey Lake Investigations Book 1) Page 10