“You were upset after Matt found the body, and who wouldn’t be?” I said. “Then the police arrived, and before all that there were the noises. Anyone would be upset.”
Hungrier now that Berg was devouring his grilled cheese, I dug into my soup, eating three spoonfuls in quick succession before looking up. The weariness in Carissa’s voice and the fear etching her face testified to her willingness to leave her dream home and never return. She’d take a death blow of a financial hit just to escape.
“Things moving bothers me more than the noises,” Carissa went on. “You can tell yourself old buildings creak and groan, and they do, but when a drinking glass moves from the sink to the counter . . .” She shuddered.
“Did your husband notice the glass had moved?” Berg asked.
Carissa’s brown eyes flashed. “He thinks I forgot to put it in the sink.”
“Are you two on the same page?” Berg asked. “What I mean is, was it a mutual decision to call us in?”
“It was,” Carissa said. “It took a while, though. Matt likes to brush things off. But now he doesn’t sleep any better at night than I do.” She rose, dug around in a tin box she’d taken from atop the fridge, and produced a business card. “Have you heard of her?”
Berg took the card and retrieved his reading glasses from his coat pocket. The cream-colored stock was decorated with pink roses, and in the middle, in overwrought script, was a name and phone number. “Madame Lebec,” he said.
“It’s a little cheesy, I know.” Carissa smiled for the first time. “She’s a medium, and she was here four days before that body was found. She told us violence had imprinted itself on this place and until we cleansed it, the dead wouldn’t leave us alone. She wanted to return, and I thought the three of you might—”
“No,” Berg said, dropping what was left of his grilled cheese on his plate.
Carissa blinked. “But she could help. She knows things.”
Berg was adamant. “It’s your home and you can ask her back when we’re gone, but not before. Not if you want us to stay.”
“I don’t have a choice?” she said, slumping in her seat.
“Carissa, listen,” Berg began, his voice softening. He removed his glasses and leaned toward her, his arms stretched across the tabletop. “Violence is an action, a choice made by living human beings. It’s not an entity, and it can’t imprint itself on a building. Whatever happened to that man, whoever he is, nothing from him or his life lingers. Not the violence he suffered, not his soul.”
“His ghost?” she asked. “What about that?”
“Not his ghost.” Berg glanced my way.
“If it’s not ghosts, what’s moving things?” she asked with growing agitation. “Tell me that. Making those smells and cold drafts? Scaring me and my children half to death?”
“Carissa?” Matt appeared in the kitchen doorway. When he saw Berg, he crossed the room and extended his hand. “I didn’t know you were here. You must be John Bergland. I’m Matt Peterson.”
“Call me Berg. We just got here, and your wife was kind enough to make us some five-star soup and sandwiches.”
Matt slid his hands into his pockets. “She spreads mustard on the bread before frying it. All right if I give away your secret, Carissa?”
“Fine.” She stood, refusing to look in her husband’s direction. “It’s all peachy.”
“We’re taking your problem very seriously,” Berg said. “I want you to know that. That’s why I’m being honest with you, Carissa. Taking a chance you’ll chuck us out the front doors. We won’t lie to you, we won’t fill your head with nonsense, but we will help you. Have we got a deal?”
It didn’t take much resistance from clients to frustrate me. But Berg? The man had the smoothest temperament of anyone I’d ever known. He could push through clients’ fluff and reassure them that he was there to help them, really help them.
“Yes, deal.” Carissa melted like butter in a pan. “I can’t take much more of this.”
“No one could.”
Carissa breathed deeply and latched on to her locket.
“Is that an antique necklace?” I asked.
She smiled and showed me the locket. “It was my grandmother’s. I keep a lock of my mother’s hair in here. I know it’s—”
“Grisly?” Matt said.
Carissa pressed her lips tight, as if trying to stop the words on the tip of her tongue from spilling out.
Berg stepped in. “Why don’t Teagan and I do some exploring?”
“Would you like me to show you around?” Matt asked.
“Oh, I think we can manage.” Berg planted his cane on the floor and stood. “Just go about doing what you normally do.”
“I’ll keep the soup and sandwiches warm,” Carissa said.
“Much appreciated.”
Eager to show Berg the stained glass, I walked ahead of him to the sanctuary, but hearing someone pound on the church doors, we halted halfway down the hall.
“Not a sound from beyond the grave, I take it,” Berg said.
Matt flew out of the kitchen and chugged past us, carping about people thinking this was still a church and wanting to barge in. Berg and I remained in the hall, curious to see the errant churchgoer.
A few seconds later we were introduced to Ray and Hattie Nickle, gray-haired neighbors from down the street who were searching for their lost dog, an old Jack Russell terrier who apparently was still handy at digging his way under a fence.
“This is Teagan and Berg,” Matt said. “They’re here to help us figure out what’s happening with our new home.”
Wringing her age-spotted hands, Hattie took two steps my way, squinting at me. “Our dog got out this morning and we haven’t seen him since. Have you seen a dog?”
“No, ma’am, sorry.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m very sure, but I’ll be on the lookout.”
“It’ll be dark in a couple of hours, and I’m worried. He’s getting old.”
“I thought I heard your voice,” Carissa said, walking up to Hattie and greeting her with a nanosecond-long hug.
“We’re looking for Jack—and yes, again,” Ray said.
“And it’s supposed to be cold tonight,” Hattie said.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Your dog’s name is Jack?”
Ray chuckled through his small, toffee-colored teeth. “We know it’s not the most creative name. A Jack Russell named Jack. But the name fits him, and if you ever see him, you’ll agree. You too, Mr. Bergland. You’d catch the drift of the name, I’m positive.”
“Tell you what,” Matt said. “Why don’t I help you look until it gets dark?”
Hattie gleefully clapped her hands. “Would you? Between the three of us we’re sure to—”
“Absolutely. Let me get my jacket.” Matt turned to walk off, a second later doing an about-face. “Teagan, Carissa tells me that Ray’s the one who gave her your business card. Is that right, Ray? Teagan was asking where we got the card.”
“Guilty as charged,” he said, “but happy to help.”
Matt took off.
“Ray and Hattie are the best neighbors,” Carissa cooed. “All our neighbors are nice, but the Nickles have been godsends in welcoming us and helping us find our way around town.”
“What are neighbors for?” Hattie said. “That’s what I say. There’s not enough kindness in the world today.”
Addressing Ray, I asked, “How was it you heard about me?”
“I think it was at a meeting.” He scratched his head. “That’s it. Someone gave me your card, only I can’t for the life of me remember who, or for that matter, why.”
“A senior moment,” Hattie said gently.
“They show up more often these days,” Ray admitted. “And so I was intrigued, Teagan. The card had only your name and number on it. Very spare. But if I think of who gave it to me, I’ll let you know, if it’s important to you.”
“Just curious,” I said.
Berg, who’d been quiet until now, said, “I’d like to know. Keeping tabs on where our clients are coming from is important to our business.”
“I used to be a businessman myself, so I couldn’t agree more.” Ray smiled and we were treated to another flourish of toffee-colored teeth.
“What business were you in?” Berg asked.
“Book binding. A lost art.”
“I’m here,” Matt called. Wearing a brown bomber-style jacket and black gloves, he jogged down the hall, ready for the missing-pooch search. “I’d forgotten where I put my gloves.”
Berg tipped his head at the Nickles. “Nice to meet you folks. Good luck finding your dog.”
Matt and the Nickles weaved their way around us, heading for the front doors, and Carissa walked back down the hall. Berg took the lead now in taking us to the sanctuary.
His eyes were on the stained glass as he walked up the center aisle. “I’d forgotten how beautiful it is. You don’t often see works like this in a small community church.”
I glanced over my shoulder, toward the empty square where the sanctuary doors used to be. Seeing we were alone, I said, “Those teeth were something else.”
“Don’t be unkind.”
“No, I’m worried about his health. Tooth decay can affect your heart.”
“Maybe they’re discolored dentures.”
“And someone at a meeting gave him my card, but he can’t remember why? Preposterous.”
“Dubious, yes.”
“Another thing. A Jack Russell named Jack and a note sealed behind drywall about a mysterious Jack? Then this Ray guy says he’s positive you’d catch the drift of the name, whatever that means? This did not escape your notice, I assume.”
Berg grunted. “I left the pie in the car.”
“I realized that while we were eating. I have to grab my laptop and overnight bag too, so I’ll get it.”
“I’ll be in here when you get back.”
“One more thing, and don’t go silent and inscrutable on me. When Matt introduced Ray and Hattie to us, they acted as if they had no idea who we were, but clearly Ray knew who we were, or least who I was.”
Berg pivoted and met my gaze.
“And now I’ll get your pie, Mr. Bergland.”
He smiled. “Thank you.”
As I left the sanctuary, I shouted, “Entering the narthex,” and then hurried out to the SUV. I brought in the pie and my bag of chips, along with my rolled sleeping bag and a canvas shoulder bag holding my few supplies: a laptop, two flashlights, and two notebooks and pens. I hated making second trips.
Berg was standing on the sanctuary’s raised platform when I got back, looking down at the wood planks. I dropped my sleeping bag, chips, and supplies on the third pew from the back and headed into the Petersons’ kitchen, pie in hand.
With Matt out looking for the dog, I figured Carissa would be in the kitchen—her safe place, or so it seemed to me. She was nursing another cup of coffee when I entered, staring out over what was now her family’s back yard. On the table was a plastic cutting board and a pyramid of carrots.
“Teagan, do you need something?”
“I come bearing gifts,” I said, presenting her with the pie. “Berg made it from scratch, and trust me, that man can bake.”
“He didn’t have to do that.”
Stunned by the gift of the pie, or rather, I thought, that Berg would take the time to make it, she breathed a shaky thank-you, and when she looked up at me, her eyes were bright with tears.
Her distress was unnerving. I told myself she was agitated over her marriage, perhaps over what she perceived as Matt’s indifference to her plight, not over recent events in her home. Tonight would tell.
“May I ask what Matt does for a living?”
“He’s a civil engineer in Fort Collins. He took the day off, and he’s not happy about it. Of course, I gave up a career, but that’s just me.”
“What did you do?”
“I was a nurse. Part time, but I loved it.”
“That’s too bad. Well, I need to find Berg,” I said, making an ungraceful exit.
Berg was sitting in a pew when I made my way back, still gazing with appreciation at Michael the Dragon Slayer.
“Carissa loves your pie and says thank you,” I said, sliding into the pew behind his. “It made her cry.”
He shifted for a better look at me. “I’m sorry.”
“Cry in a good way, I think. Matt probably never made her a pie. Probably never buttered her toast.” I tossed my chin at the platform. “What do you think they did with the altar?”
“The Petersons?”
“Them or the church.”
“We should find out which.” He stretched his right arm over the pew’s back. “I need to tell you something. I should have months ago, when I asked you about your family, but I never found the right time. Now it might be dangerous not to inform you.”
The tone of his voice alarmed me. “I’m listening.”
“It’s about Jack.”
“The note or the dog?”
“My Jack. My brother.”
CHAPTER 4
“My brother Jack died forty-five years ago,” Berg said. “After a few decades you only mention the living when someone asks you about your family. Not that you forget the dead, but you mention them less often.”
“I already don’t mention my ex-husband,” I said.
The flicker of a smile crossed his face.
“I don’t mean to make light,” I added. “Divorce and death aren’t the same thing.”
“Divorce is a kind of death.”
“What happened to him?”
“He took his own life.” Berg tightened his mouth. Forty-five years or not, his brother’s death still pained him. “He was all of twenty-five. Six years younger than me. My baby brother. And you’re wondering what he has to do with the note and the dog.”
“We don’t believe in coincidences.”
“We don’t. Six days ago, on Jack’s birthday, I received a sympathy card in the mail. There was no signature, no return address on the envelope. Just a Denver postmark. The card read, ‘I would have been seventy. Love, Jack.’”
“Crud, Berg. What the hell?”
“I thought—I hoped—it was someone from my past trying to get my goat for some reason, but that note in the wall—”
“We have Jack.”
“He shot himself, Teagan. Fire-steel. That’s my interpretation of the words, anyway, though I don’t know what the water part means.”
“But how did . . . ” I waved a hand in the direction of the hall. “How did the Nickles know about your brother, and how did the person who wrote that note know? That note’s been in the wall at least since Lloyd went missing. Is this some kind of setup from two years back? Did someone deliberately put it near Lloyd’s body?”
“We have to be—”
“Another thing. Who names their dog Jack on the off chance the name would upset you years in the future? They said the dog was old. How would they even know we’d be here years later?”
“This isn’t about upsetting me,” Berg said firmly. “The Petersons are in a combat zone and we have to protect them.”
“Here I was hoping it was another case of old pipes in the basement.”
Berg’s eyes briefly closed. “No.”
I took a deep breath, quieting a small flutter of panic. “Why would they use your brother as a weapon?”
“Because I should have protected him,” he answered, looking away from me. “Instead, my anger and self-absorption made things worse.”
Of course I wanted to know more, but Berg was winding down, closing up, and I was not going to further stir his grief. As frank and honest a man as he was, what he’d tell me about himself at any given time was limited. I caught his past and his personality in snippets, quilting them together over time to form my idea of who he was.
Somewhere outside the sanctuary a door thudded shut. I heard muffled voice
s, and seconds later Jack the terrier came padding up the aisle, body alert, tail wagging.
“Hello, little one,” Berg said, reaching out his hand. “Where did you come from?”
The dog sniffed Berg’s hand and then his coat sleeve, wagging his tail with renewed vigor.
Moving with surprising agility for her age, Hattie Nickle went after her dog and snatched him up, delight and relief in her expression. “Don’t make me chase after you again, Jackie my boy. You stay right here.” She set him on the floor and hooked a leash to his collar.
“Where was he?” I asked. Hearing footsteps, I shot a look behind me, wondering if we were about to be treated to an appearance by her husband. Luckily, it was only Matt.
“He was heading for downtown, would you believe?” Hattie said. “Walking down Walnut Street like a little explorer, oblivious to the fact he was lost.”
“Terriers are independent little dogs,” Matt said. “You got him all right, Hattie?”
“Leashed up, and he’s not getting out again.”
“I’m going to tell Carissa we found him.”
“Thank you for your help,” she said as Matt left the sanctuary.
“You can go to sleep tonight knowing he’s safe and warm,” Berg said.
“If only all of us could say the same,” she said. “Warm, maybe, but safe? In this place?”
“Well, I’m very glad he’s safe. I like dogs.”
“I wish you safety, too, Mr. Bergland. I sense you need my good wishes in this dark place. This place of dark memories. What awaits you and—”
“Good to meet you again, Mrs. Nickle,” Berg said with a smile.
Berg never took bait. Ever. You could put it on a silver platter and surround it with apple pies and he wouldn’t touch it.
“Goodnight,” I said in a low voice. For all I knew her husband was hovering nearby and would take my fake nighty-night as an invitation to pop in.
“Thank you, dear, and sweet dreams.” Offended by Berg’s interruption, she shot a glance his way before turning back to me. “Say goodnight to Carissa for me?”
“Sure thing,” I replied, watching her back as she toddled out, Jack tugging her homeward.
The dog hadn’t wandered into the sanctuary on his own. Ray had sent Hattie, and Hattie had sent her dog. I was about to say as much when Carissa came barreling into the sanctuary, forecasting black skies in half an hour. I glanced at my watch.
Chasing Angels (Teagan Doyle Mysteries Book 1) Page 3