A Memory of Murder: An Audrey Lake Investigation (Audrey Lake Investigations Book 1)

by Nichelle Seely

  So. Shaking the trees.

  Daniel’s list of newsletter recipients totals fifty-three. The majority are women; only nineteen are male.

  I spend the rest of the day on the phone. I explain I’ve been hired by the church to collect information to help with the police investigation into Harkness’s death. Just a little fudge, to beef up my bona fides. I ask about their movements, when they’d last seen the pastor, how well they’d known her, and if they have any ideas as to what had happened. Almost everyone assumes it was an accident, and I don’t disillusion them.

  People are stunned; a few sound heartbroken. Some are matter-of-fact: these things happen. I learn that no one saw her after Wednesday: that makes Daniel Chandler the last one to see her alive, always an interesting position.

  The trouble is that I don’t know exactly when the killing took place, so I can’t really press for alibis. My vision seemed to be at night, but which one? I’m forced to ask general questions and listen to whether someone seems to know more than he should, or is otherwise ‘off.’ I hear about jobs and dinner dates and television shows. I hear about political conspiracies and am urged, jokingly, by a fellow impressed with his own sense of humor, to follow up on jealous wives.

  “Why jealous wives?” I ask, antennae alerted.

  “Well, you know,” my informant replies, “Pastor Harkness was beautiful. Any man would be attracted like a moth to one of those killer bug lights.”

  “Are you saying she had intimate relationships with members of her congregation?” My conversation with Phoebe rears up in my memory, and her descriptions of sexual control being a prime identifier of cults.

  “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

  “What are you implying, then?”

  “It’s just that, to watch her on stage, to listen to her speak, was mesmerizing. You couldn’t help but be attracted.”

  “Did anyone go beyond attraction? Did you?”

  A guffaw. “Not me — my wife stands too handy with a frying pan. But some of the younger guys, maybe. Guys like the welder or the painter. I mean the real painter, North, the guy who did the big picture hanging in the fellowship hall.”

  “Why them in particular?”

  “They stood right up at the service and said they loved her. Or try that other preacher, the one who thinks we’re all going to hell.” A chuckle. “He looks like the type who might go off the deep end. Too buttoned up and serious.”

  I thank my informant and go over my notes. Eric North isn’t on my list, but I had seen him at the vigil. And he presented the organization with such a nice piece of art. He’s on my radar for follow-up.

  When it gets too late to make phone calls, I watch the copy of the video Daniel filmed on the night of the vigil. I'm able to cross-reference the names of the congregation with the faces of the mourners. Nothing stands out to me except Jason Morganstern, the belligerent young man who’d thrown his candle in the water. He hasn’t answered his phone, so I’m no further with him. The only one who has any apparent motive is the preacher, Seth Takahashi, and he wasn’t at the memorial service. Murder seems to be a pretty harsh response to a religious difference, although there have been plenty of precedents down through the years.

  With a sigh, I rub my eyes and resolve to talk to Claire and Daniel again. I must tread lightly with my clients. It wouldn’t be the first time the people who seem most eager to solve the crime turn out to be the perpetrators. But the moon is setting across the bay, and it’s long past the witching hour. I’ve done a good day’s work — I have some leads to follow and no one mentioned the police so I know I’m ahead of any investigation from the APD.

  Plus, Olafson hasn’t come to arrest me for breaking and entering.

  I’ve only got one more thing to do, and I spend a couple of hours doing it. There’s a room in the basement which has been finished, unlike the rest of the lowest story. It has a window, a closet, and a locking door. I pull down the shade and turn the space into an incident room, complete with maps, pictures, and post-it notes.

  In the morning, I’ll be ready to roll.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “I WANT TO talk to you about Victoria Harkness,” I say to Reverend Takahashi.

  It had taken a good part of the morning to find him, with the help of the friendly lady at the church administrative office. I’d finally tracked him down to a shelter for transient men in a repurposed rambling bungalow on Bond Street.

  “It’ll have to wait, Audrey. I’ve got a ministry to attend to here.”

  “I’ll just follow along and hold your coat.” I don’t want him to get away from me, and he seems to have a full schedule. Besides, this will give me an opportunity to observe him in his element.

  He looks at me oddly but doesn’t argue. We go inside to the common room, where a few men have gathered. Two sit on a rust-colored corduroy sofa with armrests dotted with cigarette burns. One slouches, arms and legs crossed, in a hard-backed rocker. Takahashi nods to the men and sets up a few folding chairs.

  It’s been a week since I visited the Church of the Spirit and met the preacher for the first time. The Chandlers had challenged his presence then, and he’d said Pastor Harkness had invited him to come to that evening’s service. I want to find out more about that, and I don’t intend to allow Takahashi to evade my questions with any slick preacher-ese. If I have to sit through a sermon or a prayer meeting, so be it.

  More men enter slowly, by ones and twos, heralded by quiet conversation. Two are commenting on the Episcopal Church dinner they went to last night. Another breaks into their discussion and says the best place to get a hot meal is at McDonald’s: if you wait near the drive-through menu board, someone will eventually order something for you.

  “You gotta do it right. Standing at the end of the drive-through is no good. People have already placed their orders. But if they want to help, they’ll generally say, and then you can go around to the pick-up. Sometimes they even ask you what you want.”

  “But there’s that sign, says it’s illegal to give food away from a car.”

  “Just go stand on the sidewalk, off the property. Public way. You got the right to be there.”

  The gathering tops out at nine. My own chair is tucked unobtrusively into a back corner, where I can view everyone in the room. The Reverend himself is also seated in a folding chair, the focus of a ragged parabola of haunted eyes. The men look cynical, bored, calculating — anything but devout. I wonder why they’re even here. But Takahashi doesn’t seem to be bothered by the lack of enthusiasm.

  He starts off with a casual wave. “Hi guys. As some of you know, I’m Seth Takahashi, pastor for Riverside Christian Church. But you don’t have to call me ‘father’ or ‘reverend,’ just ‘Seth’ will do fine.”

  I notice he still wears his shirt buttoned to the top. But the black trousers and shiny shoes he wore a week ago have been replaced by blue jeans and hiking boots. Dressed as I am in a navy blazer and white blouse, I’m a tad formal for the surroundings.

  “I hear last Thursday Father O’Callaghan from the Catholic church was here. He’s a good guy. Could talk the birds out of the trees if he wanted to.” The men chuckle. One rolls his eyes. “Before we get started, I’m going to say the Lord’s Prayer. Join in if you want.”

  Takahashi bows his head. His voice is smooth and compelling. A couple of the men say it with him, and I find myself echoing the familiar words. It’s been a long time since I’ve been to church, or believed in anything but what I can see and hear for myself, but I still remember that iconic prayer.

  After the final ‘Amen,’ he leans forward, elbows on knees. “This is how the early Christian church was born, just groups of disciples — friends — meeting in someone’s house. Just interested folks, like yourselves, stopping in for fellowship and conversation.” He makes eye contact with each of the men. “If you can imagine, there would be some guy, a visitor like me, or maybe the householder himself. He’d say, ‘Hey, I heard about this teacher name
d Jesus. He said we’re all forgiven for everything we’ve ever done.’ And then someone else might say, ‘Yeah, the Romans killed him. Guess they weren’t really the forgiving type.’”

  A couple of the men snort with laughter. Takahashi smiles, as though joining in the amusement. His smile is a flash of light that seems to illuminate the room. He goes on speaking, still very colloquially, delivering the standard message of sin and redemption. But as he gives it, I can feel his sincerity. It isn’t the holier-than-thou, glorify-the-lord and by association, glorify-me kind of preaching which has become so common on TV and radio, celebrity pastors in their fancy suits and megachurch millions. It’s one man, who cares about these others. The emotional message is clear. The verbal content is almost a sideline.

  Bemused, I sit quietly in my corner. Occasionally Seth’s gaze meets my own, but never lingers. Meanwhile, I do my own observation of the group. They all seem to be paying attention. One man with a scraggly beard even has a spiral notebook on his knees, and is scribbling across the page with a well-chewed pencil. He glances up, sees me looking, and drops his eyes. His shoulders hunch a little, but he keeps writing. When he sneaks another look, I nod, and wonder if he’s clocked me as a cop.

  “You know, Seth,” another man in a stained green sweatshirt remarks, “I see what you’re saying. But I don’t think God has much love for me. He never helps me out of this shithole of a life.”

  Takahashi nods, his expression serious. “I know it can seem like that. And we all wonder about our own circumstances.” He points out the window. “Why does that guy have so much money?” He points in the other direction. “Why does this guy over here have a trophy wife and a big mansion and gets to be president besides?” He shakes his head. “Yeah, it’s pretty inexplicable. But here’s the thing,” he leans forward, and drops his voice as though revealing a secret. His audience has to lean forward as well.

  “None of that stuff really matters, not in the big picture. It’s who you are, not what you have, that counts. Even your past doesn’t matter. Even if you’ve done some crappy things, Jesus will still forgive you. But you have to be real with Him, too — you have to commit to Him, if you want Him to commit to you. That’s what love is.” He holds their gazes for a few seconds longer, then deliberately breaks the spell by slapping his thighs and standing.

  As the meeting breaks up and the men mill around, talking amongst themselves and with the preacher, I’m left to consider what I’ve observed. Takahashi seems sincere, although there is an element of calculation to his performance. But that might be just the result of lots of experience with public speaking, and interacting with an audience. I have to respect his ability to engage with these men, without coming across as patronizing. They’re probably even more cynical about life than I am.

  Truthfully, I’m struggling to maintain the appropriate level of suspicion and skepticism. He seems like a genuinely nice guy. Even if I personally don’t buy the ‘change your life by choosing Jesus’ routine.

  I rub the scar under my clavicle, make sure it still hurts. It reminds me never to let down my guard.

  In any case, I’ll be interested to see what kind of performance Takahashi puts on when I ask him about Victoria.

  When we leave the shelter, we walk along the narrow lane of Bond Street. Seth has slipped on a blue down jacket, and jams his hands into the pockets.

  “Can I talk to you about Victoria Harkness now?” I ask.

  “I don’t understand your interest, Audrey. Her death is a tragedy. I suppose she fell off one of the piers and the river swept her away. It’s happened before.” He walks ahead, scanning the street, friendliness fallen away.

  “I’ve been hired by the church to look into her death, and I’m interviewing everyone who interacted with her recently.” I’m forced to drop behind him as he swerves to avoid an abandoned bicycle fallen across the sidewalk. Annoyed, I say, “I heard a radio broadcast with an argument between the two of you.”

  He gives me a sharp glance before puffing out his cheeks in a sigh. “I regret that. It wasn’t a good way to approach her. But she wouldn’t talk with me, wouldn’t see reason, and I was — and am — worried about her congregation. Whether she meant to or not, she was starting a cult.”

  His response jolts me. “Why do you think that? Did she try to indoctrinate you?”

  Like preacher man was doing just now at the shelter?

  He skirts a battered red truck parked overlapping the sidewalk, forcing me to drop behind again. “Her so-called church uses some of the trappings of Christianity, but in reality it’s nothing like. It’s really all about her, Victoria Harkness. Listen, in this business of saving souls, you can’t let people confuse the messenger with the message. When people start following because of the personality of the preacher, and not because of the truth of the gospel, that’s when it gets dangerous. That’s when bad things happen.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Waco. Like the spaceship comet people. Like the Manson family.”

  “Oh, come on. Surely you don’t equate Victoria Harkness with Charles Manson.”

  “Not like him, no. But maybe like the spaceship comet people.” He snaps his fingers. “Heaven’s Gate. And Marshall Applewhite. That guy couldn’t admit he was wrong, and he led his followers to their deaths.”

  I recall Phoebe had also spoken about Applewhite. “Did you think that’s what she was doing?”

  “Well, no, but she had people believing they could put their own spin into the Bible. I mean, it says what it says, but she thought you could interpret it in your own way. Like art.” He turns to face me. “The signs were there. She already relocated her church, and a bunch of people followed her. Gave up their livelihoods. Gave up their homes. Trusting in her to be their savior. Don’t you see?”

  I want to believe that his almost-rudeness, his lapse into unfriendliness, can be ascribed to his passion and heartfelt concern. But I don’t think Victoria was encouraging people to actually worship her. So I say, “Isn’t that what Jesus did?”

  “Yes, but that was Jesus. He actually was the message. But no one else gets to take that role, and when they do, it dilutes the whole thing. Then when people encounter the real Word of God, instead of what some charismatic leader has thrown at them, they dismiss it, not knowing that no one else but Jesus can claim to speak for God.”

  Give me a break. None of these holy rollers ever see their own hypocrisy.

  I hadn’t intended to get into a religious debate with this man, and it feels like I’m floundering in the deep end without my water wings. “What do you think should be done with people like that?”

  “They need to be stopped, before they do incalculable damage, which is why I called the radio show.” We have reached Seth’s car, and he punches the fob and climbs inside. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Wait. Do you think someone stopped Victoria?”

  He starts the engine, and I have to strain to hear him. “I think maybe God stopped her. God or someone acting as His instrument.” He begins to reverse. The car has been boxed in by two large pickups, and he’s going to have a hard time getting out.

  Seth’s remark gives me the chills. It makes him seem cold and judgmental, not at all like the friendly, sincere helper I’d seen at the shelter. Even if he’s innocent, his ability to lay the blame at God’s feet seems unhealthy, at best. At worst, he has just expressed a motive for murder.

  While I’ve been standing on the sidewalk thinking, Takahashi has been maneuvering his vehicle in a twenty-point turn. Now he lowers his window. “If you really want to know why I began opposing Victoria, stop by my office in a day or two and we’ll talk further.”

  “You have another reason?”

  His hand tightens on the steering wheel. “She misled one of my flock.”

  I jog alongside as he pulls out into the street. “Who?”

  “A young man named Jason Morganstern.”

  I stop dead, and watch as the preacher drives away. I’ve s
haken the tree, and instead of an apple, I’ve gotten a mango. An unexpected fruit.

  And I’ll have to be satisfied with that for now, since I completely forgot to ask him about the last time he saw Pastor Harkness.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE INSIDE OF the Bowerstein Boatworks warehouse echoes with clanking, shouts, and engine buzz. Forklifts dart about with sheets of fiberglass, crates and engine parts. Four boats are up on blocks, and workmen cluster around them. The sharp metallic scent of hot metal mixes with the acrid stench of burning plastic.

  I’m here to speak to Jason Morganstern, who is employed here as a welder. I’d gotten that bit of info from Daniel Chandler. The main office of Bowerstein is in a metal building owned by the Port of Astoria, and the receptionist had directed me here, to this warehouse turned workshop. Apparently, they don’t care about someone wandering around their job site, which suits me fine. I want to learn about Morganstern’s movements in the last few days, and follow up on Takahashi’s reference to Jason as a former member of the Methodist Church. I don’t know if that has anything to do with Victoria Harkness’s death, but at least I’m uncovering some connections between the people who may be involved. Still, I caution myself to take things slowly.

  I walk toward the telltale spray of sparks and a single figure beneath a welder’s mask. I wait until he reaches the end of his seam, being careful not to look at the blaze of the arc. He lifts his mask and wipes his forehead, and I wave a hand to get his attention.

  “Jason Morganstern?” I recognize him from the memorial service.

  He nods, eyes darting and wary. His dirty blond hair is damp with sweat, tousled from the mask, and rings of moisture darken the armpits of his flannel shirt.

  “Who’re you?”

  “My name is Audrey Lake. I’m here to ask you some questions about an ongoing investigation.”

  “I’m working.”