“We don’t know that he wasn’t.”
That stopped me short. “Could Weston Meyer have killed Edward Lloyd?”
“We have to leave it open as a possibility.” He shut the binder and handed it to me. “This supports Reft’s suspicions about theft. In my opinion, the drop in membership covers at most half of the drop in donations. Someone was stealing thousands from the church.”
“If we know that, and Reft knows that, Lloyd would have known that.”
“And he didn’t do a thing about it.”
CHAPTER 16
The Petersons arrived while the elder from Berg’s old church, our miracle locksmith, was changing the deadbolt on the front doors.
“Mr. Bergland, you found a way,” Matt said with admiration.
“Don’t thank me, thank Vern here. He gave up his Saturday.”
“Glad to help,” Vern said, handing Matt several keys and informing the couple he’d already changed the locks on the other doors. “The other doors are set to lock on closing, but you can change that by moving this thumb turn back. See? I’ll set this door so you have to manually lock it. That way you won’t accidentally shut yourself out.”
“Great,” Matt said.
“For now, don’t give anyone but me a copy of your keys,” Berg said. “No matter how much you trust them, wait.”
“Got it.” Matt handed his wife a key then extended one to Berg.
“I have to pack fresh clothes,” Carissa said, excusing herself.
The poor woman looked pasty. Not tired so much as emotionally drained. “Did you sleep at all?” I asked Matt.
“Better than we would’ve if we’d stayed here, but not enough.”
Through the open front door I saw that the fog had lifted, and though the clouds hadn’t yet cleared, the snow had melted. Adding to the dreariness of the scene, the yellow crime-scene tape was still in place.
Matt jammed his hands in his coat pockets and gave an exaggerated sigh. The second Vern said goodbye and shut the door, he turned to Berg. “Carissa wants to sell. Unless you can pull a rabbit out of your hat, there’s nothing I can do. She’ll give you the time we agreed on, but she’s not hopeful. If this was Monday, she’d be on the phone to a real estate agent right now.”
I heard sadness and resignation in his voice, the realization that barring an extraordinary development, his family’s plans for the future had come to an abrupt end. Before they’d even begun to live their dreams, it was time to change course.
“Don’t give up hope yet,” Berg said. “Let’s see what happens today and tonight.”
“Are you making progress?” Matt asked.
“You could say that.”
“You see, she’s my wife, and my marriage is more important to me.”
“Of course it is,” Berg said, “and that’s as it should be.”
“At the same time . . .”
Berg waited, eyebrows raised, encouraging him to go on.
“At the same time, I’m mad as hell. I really am. Not at Carissa—no, at her too, kind of, but a lot more with this whole damn situation. A body on our lawn! And that Lloyd guy. The one in the basement. Did you hear the police released his name?”
“I heard,” Berg said.
“For God’s sake, what the hell? He was the priest here. Carissa doesn’t want our kids playing inside or outside now, and I can’t blame her, can I? I want to find out who killed that man on our lawn and who’s screwing with our lives. Everything we planned and worked for, gone in days! I shouldn’t have hired a contractor, we shouldn’t have had this weirdo Lebec come in here—not to mention Meyer.” He took a breath. “Sorry. Sorry to lose it.”
“There’s no reason for you to apologize,” Berg said. “What’s going on here is enough to upset anyone. If my wife were still alive, she’d want to move, and being married to me, she was used to bumps in the night.” He smiled. “Don’t be hard on yourself or Carissa. Not on top of everything else. It does no good.”
“In my defense, people confide in ministers,” Matt said, embarrassed by his display of emotions. It seemed to me that the man had made it through life thus far by putting a damper on his emotions. He took pride in his self-control.
Carissa walked into the narthex holding a change of clothes on hangers, her eyes rimmed with red. “Okay, ready.”
“Will you call if you find out something?” Matt asked.
“How about this,” Berg answered. “Let’s have breakfast tomorrow morning at Bricktown Burgers and I’ll give you a progress report. Order anything you want, my treat.”
Matt brightened. “Sounds good to me. I’d like to get out. All right, Carissa?”
“Fine,” she said.
Fine. Always fine.
“French toast,” Matt said, rubbing his hands together, smiling at his wife.
Carissa ripped him with one look. While her life was in tumult, there would be no delight, not from any quarter, and not even over the prospect of free French toast.
“Say eight o’clock?” Berg asked.
“We’ll get there early and find a booth,” Matt said.
He put a hand to his wife’s back and walked her out the door, glancing at Berg over his shoulder and waving his new key in appreciation.
“Wish we could’ve added security bars,” Berg said, pocketing his key.
“New deadbolts are a huge improvement over what they had, and they’re going to be a shock to the Nickles or whoever’s breaking in.”
I could hear a text tone sound in Berg’s coat pocket. He retrieved his phone and swiped the screen. “It’s about Weston Meyer.”
His police contact, I figured. People liked and trusted Berg, and in return, they helped him, even when doing so risked their jobs.
He read, tapped a quick note in reply, and put his phone away. “Either his throat was cut by a giant or it was cut by an average size person while Meyer was kneeling. They can tell by the angle, among other things.”
The image his words formed in my mind horrified me. “Why on earth would he kneel?”
“The medical examiner also says the killer was probably behind Meyer and a right hander. There were no hesitation cuts to his throat and only one defense wound on one of Meyer’s fingers.”
“If he was kneeling and he didn’t fight back much, it could have been Ray or Hattie. But why would Meyer offer himself up like that?”
“Maybe he didn’t have a choice, or more likely, he didn’t know what was coming. We didn’t hear shouting or a struggle, and there was only one small defense wound.”
“As if he reacted too late and couldn’t even cry out. He put his hand up as the knife . . .” My hand went to my own throat. Picturing, imagining.
“We need a look at the scene in the light of day.” Berg made a quick pivot and thumped his way to the front door. He let me out first and then went to the spot where Meyer had been killed.
I was hoping the melting snow had washed away the blood, but as I stood over the spot where Meyer had died, I saw that most of it remained. We ducked under the yellow tape but stayed a couple feet back from the place his body had lain, studiously avoiding stepping in any blood or anywhere the grass had been pressed down.
Berg circled the area until he was facing the church. “Let’s say he died falling straight backward. He would have been kneeling where I am, but about three feet ahead of me.”
“Agreed.” I looked behind me. “Looking toward the church doors. At night, with the floodlights and parking lot lights off. Only a solar light on, illuminating his body.”
When I turned around again, I saw a blue Camaro enter the parking lot. “That man has impeccable timing, I’ll give him that.”
Ray Nickle nosed his car into the closest parking space and got out.
“Hello, Ray,” Berg said pleasantly.
“So you’re still with the Petersons,” Nickle said with a big, wide smile.
Gag.
“If you’re looking for them, they’re not here right now,”
Berg said.
“No, it’s you I came to see. And you, Teagan. Just wanted to see how you were doing. Is this where that man was killed?” He walked around to the front of his car.
“The murder’s in the paper already?” Berg asked.
“Hattie and I don’t get the paper. What a terrible thing for the Petersons to have to tackle, on top all their other problems.”
“You mean ghosts?” I asked, all innocence and wonder.
Nickle nodded sagely. “I’ve had experience with them, and so has Hattie. My mother communicated with the dead. She was well known for her seances. Even as a child I became comfortable with the presence of the dead in our house.”
Charming. “I need a Coke. Coffee, Berg?”
“Why don’t we all go inside?” he replied, inviting Nickle to come along with a gentle sweep of his cane.
In the kitchen I hid my donuts in a cabinet, unplugged my laptop, pulled a Coke from the fridge, and set the coffee maker going.
Berg and Nickle were at the table, facing each other, talking about the cold and the fog. Berg’s collegiality was intended to loosen Nickle up so we could learn more about him and look for a chink in his armor, but I didn’t have the stomach to make nice with the man. Against all temptation, I decided to hold my tongue and let Berg discuss any important matters. My anger would only muck things up.
“Coffee’ll be ready in a minute,” I said, taking a third chair at the table, the one closest to Berg.
“Does that murder have you concerned?” Nickle asked Berg. “With it happening just outside the door and you being here alone, I mean. It would concern me.”
“I’m not alone,” Berg answered.
“Well, technically no, and I meant no offense, Teagan, but I hear the Petersons won’t be back tonight—”
“You hear a lot,” I said.
“—and the murderer must be a madman. I hate to think of what could happen. Neither of us are spring chickens, Berg—can I call you that?—and disabilities can leave you more vulnerable. Hattie and I just installed a burglar alarm in our house, something we never considered in younger years.”
I popped open my can and took a long, loud slurp.
“Home security is always a wise investment,” Berg said.
“Let me know if you’re interested in getting one. I can set you up with a discount by referring you to the man who installed our system. Trust me, you and your wife will rest easier.”
“My wife died three years ago.”
Nickle’s phony smiley face crumpled like bunched-up parchment paper into an even phonier my-condolences face. “I’m sorry, Berg. I’ve put my foot in my mouth, haven’t I?”
“Not at all.”
I stood abruptly. “Coffee’s ready.”
“Of course, you’re younger than Berg, Teagan,” Nickle said, “but you’re a woman, and there is a difference in strength.”
I poured two cups and took them to the table. “Milk?” I asked.
“No, but I’ll take sugar,” Nickle said.
“Don’t know where they keep it,” I said, giving Berg the milk carton and retaking my seat.
Nickle took a precious, temperature-testing sip of his coffee. “You can always get the system anyway, Berg. Your wife would want you to be safe as you get older. Take it from me, any infirmity you have will only get worse.”
Like a boxer in the ring, Nickle was prowling the canvas, looking for any weakness in his opponent. Funny, then, that he was going after Berg and not me. My friend could handle a pipsqueak like Ray Nickle with one hand tied behind his back.
A distant rap sounded down the hall, and Berg held up a finger. “Front door, I think. Excuse me a minute.”
He didn’t try to disguise the effort it required to get to his feet, and I didn’t offer to get the door myself. I wanted a moment alone with Nickle. The second Berg rounded the corner, I scooted over one chair.
“Was there something you wanted?” he chirped.
I leaned in close and was instantly repelled by the mothball smell of him. “We heard what you said at Bricktown. If you ever call Berg ‘that old crippled minister’ again, I’ll knock what’s left of your teeth out.”
CHAPTER 17
Though Nickle had recoiled at my comment about his teeth, in the very next breath he’d pulled himself together and shot me a look of such pure hatred that I had to get up and leave the kitchen. Speak first and think about the consequences later. That was my motto.
Outside in the hall, I looked to the narthex, where Berg was talking casually to a cop who’d been on the scene last night. I heard Nickle behind me, shuffling out of the kitchen, and a moment later he was standing before me, blocking my view of the narthex.
“Do you believe in sin so abhorrent it can’t be forgiven, Teagan?”
“Matter of fact, I don’t.”
“Not even a sin that causes others pain they never recover from, all the long days of their lives?”
“What have you gotten yourself into now?”
He gave a sharp, dismissive laugh. “People think time erases sin, but we know different. Time compounds sin. Compounds it like a bank compounds interest.”
“Are you telling me you need a confessor?”
“Confess? Why should I confess? That word is for the addle-minded, and you may be many things, but you’re not stupid.”
“Golly, thanks.”
I fought the urge to walk away. The ornery side of me didn’t want to let on that I wasn’t simply tired of him, I was beginning to be afraid of him. Walking away would have given him that victory. I peered around him, looking for Berg.
“He won’t help you,” Nickle said.
“I’m not looking for his help.”
“Teagan, my poor deluded friend, your destiny was settled on that summer day long ago.”
My breath caught in my throat, and I managed only one word: “What?”
“No god will help you, and your glass angel in that big room over there won’t help you. Can I tell you a secret? The angels are sick of the sight and sound of you. Your whining, your failure. You couldn’t even give your husband a child.”
My stomach lurched.
“Dear Teagan.” Nickle smelled blood. His voice became hard and precise. “But even that is forgivable. Your failure at the most basic acts of human life, your multiple failed careers, your short marriage, the friends you turned your back on, the wasted years—they might be forgiven by a small god. But that summer day can never be forgiven. Do you know why? Because the agony your selfishness caused lives on.”
“Shut up.”
“You remember that day, Teagan.” He shook his head. “If you have any conscience at all, you think of it often. It made you the person you are today. Have you told Berg?”
“Told me what?”
I’d been so blindsided by Nickle that I hadn’t seen Berg walk back up the hall.
“Told me what?” he asked again. “I’m sorry, Ray, but I missed what you were saying and I sense it was important.”
“No, no, Teagan and I were just chatting. Was that a police officer?”
“What tipped you off, the uniform?” I asked. My voice was shaking, my hands trembling. This man from the pits of hell knew things about me he shouldn’t, and here I was taunting him.
“He was checking up on us, seeing how we were doing,” Berg said.
“That’s thoughtful of him,” Nickle said. “Especially at a time like this, when they must be stretched beyond the capabilities of a small-town police force.”
“They seem to be on top of things.”
“I forgot my Coke,” I said. Fact was, I was feeling queasy and needed to sit before my legs gave out.
Nickle gave me a sympathetic smile. “You look so tired.”
“Not one bit,” I said. “Not one damn bit.” I went back to the kitchen, leaving the two men in the hall.
A few minutes passed before Berg returned to his seat at the table. He’d been talking to Nickle all that time, I supp
osed, but he didn’t relay the specifics of his conversation. I was just happy Nickle had left and didn’t inquire further.
“Fresh coffee?” I asked, rising and taking his cup before he could answer.
“Sounds good.”
I emptied Berg’s cold coffee into the sink, poured him a new cup, set it in front of him, and sat again without once looking him in the eye.
He could read me, and I didn’t want to be read. Nickle had laid me bare. How did he know about me and what I’d done? How did Hattie know? Did the whole damn universe remember my sin?
Did the Alpha and Omega forever behold that moment in time? Of course, of course. What happens cannot be erased.
“Have you noticed how Nickle always adds sugar to his poison?” Berg asked.
“What do you mean?”
“If he talked poison straight out, you’d ignore him, so to make you receptive, he says a few seemingly sweet words before delivering his bile. He says things like ‘You have my deepest sympathies for being such a disappointment to God’ or ‘The poor Wells police, they try hard, but in the end they’re incompetent.’ And he’s expert at blending poison and sugar in just a few words, as in ‘You look so tired.’”
I couldn’t help but smile, despite my desire to move on from the subject.
“He did it to me, as you must have noticed,” Berg went on. “All that care and concern for my rickety old bones, as though I might crumble at any moment. And he made a point of mentioning my wife.”
“How did he know about her?”
“He could’ve searched a genealogy website, talked to someone who knows me, or maybe he knows someone in county records. Any number of ways. Her death was never a secret.”
“Did what he said bother you?”
Berg sat back and cradled his cup in his hands, his face radiating remembered happiness. “I wish you’d known Grace. She would’ve laughed in Nickle’s face. She was a bold, fearless woman of God, even when confronting extreme evil. Do you know why? Because in every situation, she knew how the larger story would end. She approached everything in that knowledge, and it made all the difference. Our future, our real future, makes all the difference. We deal with Friday, but Sunday’s coming. No one and no thing could snatch her from God’s hands.”
Chasing Angels (Teagan Doyle Mysteries Book 1) Page 12