“A two-year mayor of a small Illinois town became a U.S. congresswoman,” I said. “Really?”
“At age forty-one. Like Lloyd, she came to her arena late in life. Representatives and senators are groomed for office from a young age. They become councilmen, mayors of major cities, state reps, state senators—rung by rung up the ladder of political success. Neal, on the other hand, took the fast track, just like Lloyd. They both started late, and they both skipped rungs of their respective ladders.”
Berg stretched out his right knee, easing the pressure on it. “Are you saying someone encouraged Neal to write that letter? Maybe even to facilitate Lloyd’s assignment to St. Michael’s?”
Reft sat back. “I am. Either, both. Can you think of another plausible explanation?”
“Do you think Bishop Talbert was involved?” I asked.
Reft and his wife exchanged unhappy glances.
“I do,” Reft said. “Or let me put it this way. He knew Lloyd’s rise to St. Michael’s and Neal’s involvement in it were wrong, and he did nothing. The bishop did nothing.”
A bishop and a congresswoman conspiring to appoint a nonbeliever as priest of a small church? Well, I’d seen worse schemes in my lifetime. Larger, more devastating ones. But this was the church, the body of Christ. At least Talbert was supposed to be part of the body.
Helen gave Reft’s arm a small squeeze. “Don’t forget about the Nickles.”
“Yes, I said I’d ask around about Ray and Hattie Nickle.”
I brightened a little. The Nickles were known quantities. Bad people whose badness couldn’t shock me.
“Back when the bell at St. Michael’s was still ringing,” Reft began, “those two passed around a petition to silence it. This was seven, eight years ago, when I was priest. I knew about the petition, but I never knew who spearheaded it. I didn’t want to.” He patted his chest. “It was too tempting to focus anger on whoever it was. Anyway, they didn’t get far. Most people near the church liked the bell, and they liked the idea of us trying to repair it after it cracked about four and a half years ago. It had a lovely, deep tone—deeper than you’d think by looking at the size of it.”
“Arizona, dear,” Helen said.
“Oh, yes. This is strange. I couldn’t find much background on Ray and Hattie, and I’m pretty good at things like that. They must keep a very low profile. Lots of people their age do. No social media pages, no email addresses, that sort of thing. But I have a friend in real estate who says they moved to Wells eight years ago. You can find the sale of their house and the price they paid on some real estate sites.”
“They told us it was fourteen,” I interjected.
“It was eight,” Reft said. “About the time the church changed hands from Methodist to Episcopal.”
“They lie as a matter of course,” I said. “It’s as natural to them as breathing.”
“They told the agent they’d moved to Colorado from Tucson, where Ray Nickle was a school administrator.”
I rolled my eyes. “I hope that’s a lie too. I’d hate to think of him around kids. He told us he was a bookbinder.”
“Well, they didn’t leave a trail in Arizona either. They don’t go to church, they don’t work, they’re not a member of any organization or club that I’ve found yet. The most involved they’ve ever been is when they started that petition drive. I’m beginning to wonder if they’re using fake names. But I’ll keep looking. There are loads of people I can call, and the hunt keeps me busy. Besides, anything I can do to make up for lost opportunity. Did I tell you someone stole my vestments the day I left as priest? It bothers me more than it should, I think. Why would someone do that?”
Berg shook his head.
“I’ll give you a call when I have something more,” Reft said.
Berg was staring down at the Refts’ carpet, hands clasped in his lap. “Drop it for now, I think. Don’t talk about it, or ask anyone about the Nickles, even if you trust them.” His eyes rose to Reft’s. “Promise me that.”
CHAPTER 24
After leaving the Refts’ home, Berg and I headed down Overland Road for the church. I resisted the urge to ask him if we could drive around first, maybe past the Nickles’ house or maybe downtown so we could see what the town looked like late at night. At that moment, cruising the streets of Wells beat locking and chaining ourselves into that shadowed church.
But we had work to do, and above all, I wanted to drive a metaphorical sword into the Nickles and their plans. If we exposed Bishop Talbert and Congresswoman Neal to the light in the bargain, good.
“A bishop,” I said, leaving it at that.
“You mean Talbert?”
As I was about to reply, I glanced in my rearview mirror. The sight of Hattie Nickle behind us, at the wheel of a small, dark sedan, wiped Talbert from my mind and lips. When it came to the couple from hell, nothing was a coincidence. She was following us. “Don’t turn around, but Hattie is behind us in a BMW.”
Amused, Berg said, “She drives a BMW?”
“A newish model,” I said. “Small and dark. A lot like the sedan I saw in the parking lot last night.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“You always say that, but sometimes the hairs on the back of my neck tell me to do just that.”
“What did she say to you in the Quick Mart?”
“Huh?”
“Have you lost your hearing?”
“Not as much as you.” I swung into the right lane, turned at the next cross street, then made a swift U-turn and a sharp right, pressing down on the accelerator as I pulled back onto Overland.
The maneuver had me riding Hattie’s bumper.
“Warn me next time you do that,” Berg said, his grip hard on the overhead grab bar.
“Sorry. Wasn’t sure I was going to. Oh dear, she’s discombobulated, poor thing.”
“What’s the plan?”
“I don’t have one. I’m tired of them following us and I wanted to turn the tables. Why is Hattie driving alone this time of night?”
“She’s not an invalid.”
“Do you think she knows we were at the Refts’ house?”
In response, Berg pulled out his phone and tapped a number. A few seconds later he was warning Reft not to open his door to either of the Nickles—on the off chance they showed up. Elderly and with a frail bearing, the Nickles nevertheless might be dangerous, and they probably knew we’d visited him and his wife.
The pointless nature of tailing Hattie was beginning to dawn on me, especially as she was now backtracking, veering left and heading downtown via Walnut Street.
When Berg pocketed his phone, I said, “Hattie said Rusty was walking on Walnut Street for downtown.”
“I remember.”
“I can’t picture a small dog walking around here. There’s hardly any sidewalk, and look how far it is from their house. Though I guess it’s not far for a dog. But how did he manage not to be hit by a car?”
“Maybe the town is used to seeing him.”
Hattie made a turn onto Aspen Lane, a residential street in a recently built neighborhood, and plodded along at twenty miles an hour. “What did Reft say? Do you think the Refts are in danger?”
“Daniel’s not the sort of man to stop asking questions, but Helen might convince him to. I hope she does for now.”
“Hattie is taking us for a ride.”
“Or keeping us from the church.”
“Hadn’t thought of that. Devious woman. Hang on.” I made a U-turn on Aspen and got back onto Walnut, driving for the church.
Berg was quiet the rest of the way back. Something about our talk with Reft was nagging at him.
I pulled into the church parking lot and parked in what I now thought of as our spot. Berg must have been in a lot of pain—and perhaps that accounted for some of his silence—because he had some serious working out of the kinks to do before we could head inside.
I was relieved to see the lights on and steady as I loc
ked and chained the church’s front doors, but I suspected that happy situation wouldn’t last long.
Berg was as anxious as I’d ever seen him. In the sanctuary, he slowly paced the main aisle, praying in that low and solemn voice of his. On his return trip from the podium, he stopped at my pew, asked me to tear five sheets of paper from my notebook, then returned to his pacing.
“Now what?” I asked as he shuffled on.
He circled back to me. “Write a name at the top of each sheet: Ray, Hattie, Lebec, Talbert, Neal.”
The names Talbert and Neal gave me a shiver, and not because we were back in the drafty sanctuary. I hoped their involvement with Lloyd spoke of money and power, but down deep I knew it went beyond that.
As Reft had pointed out, the stolen donations, though in the thousands—perhaps tens of thousands—hadn’t made anyone wealthy, and more important, Lloyd’s rise to St. Michael’s had caused donations to fall and the church to close, throttling the gravy train. Money was not the object.
Berg sat in his pew and hung his cane on the seat back behind him. “After this, take a nap.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. I’m whacked. Are these our suspects?”
“Yes, though it may be too soon to include Talbert and Neal.”
“Not when it comes to bringing Lloyd in and making sure the church closed. But what about the murders?”
“They wouldn’t dirty their hands, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t know about and approve of what happened here.”
“Agreed.”
Berg pointed at the sheets lying side by side on my pew seat. “Every one of those people is responsible for bringing evil to this church. Specifically and deliberately, in his or her own way. It wasn’t the unintended consequence or natural outcome of their other thoughts and actions—like the Petersons with their Ouija board and Tarot cards. This evil was invited into the church, fed, fostered—and long before the Petersons arrived on the scene. I don’t know what the long-term goals for St. Michael’s are, but this was planned, possibly as far back as Lloyd’s decision to become a priest.”
“We can’t forget Lebec knew the man in the wall was Lloyd before he was ever identified.”
“She’s a minor player, but she’s involved. She’s being used.”
“I keep trying to walk back my suspicions of Bishop Talbert. I mean, a bishop.”
“You’d be surprised at the state of the clergy in some churches. Some of the assistant pastors in my own nondenominational church were real characters.”
“Characters? You’re being charitable.”
“I shouldn’t be. Wolves in sheep’s clothing, that’s what they were.”
“Do our suspects want to tear down this church like Wells tore down Thaddeus Meyer’s house?”
“Tearing the church down and building something else in its place would be a symbolic victory, and they’re not above symbolic victories, but I don’t think the building is terribly important to them. I think these people have goals beyond what we’re able to see at this point. After all, they didn’t need a bishop and congressman to ruin this church. That could have been accomplished by lesser hands.”
A terrifying thought surfaced. What if the group was after something bigger than Wells, bigger than the state of Illinois?
“Could Lloyd have been a dry run?” I asked. “A test case in an isolated town? Maybe they wanted to see if they could get him in, and if they succeeded in closing the church in the bargain, so much the better. There must be others involved in whatever’s going on, and Wells might not be the only place they’re active.”
“That’s almost a certainty.”
“But they worked to get Lloyd here.” I shook my head. “They had plans for him. So why kill him?”
“Maybe he disappointed them. Changed his mind. Or maybe he stole more money than they felt he was entitled to.”
“And that’s why he ran.”
“It’s all speculation. Still.” He nodded at our suspects’ names. “Let’s write down what we know for certain about them.”
I took up Bishop Talbert’s sheet. “Lloyd worked as a landscaper and handyman before going to seminary.” I performed some quick addition in my head. “For about seven and a half years, which means he was almost thirty when he decided to become a priest. After working as a landscaper and handyman, of all things.”
“Reft said he came to the priesthood later than most.”
“He was more circuitous than late. What if he was dissatisfied with his handyman lot in life and someone made him an offer? The donation skimming might have been one of his perks.”
“Huh.” Berg tilted his head back and gazed out over the sanctuary. “Yes, that’s possible. Very possible.” He returned his attention to the sheets of paper on the pew. “But I don’t think any of them would have made the offer, do you? They needed someone out of the public eye who nevertheless possessed authority or money. Talbert would’ve played his part as an innocent trying to help a promising young man, urged on by a promising young congresswoman.”
“Lloyd wasn’t in Neal’s congressional district. I don’t think.”
“He wasn’t. Chicago’s large enough to have its own congressional districts. And don’t look surprised—Iowa’s not that far from Chicago. When I was a teenager, we dreamed of big nights out in Chicago. Or better yet, across the river in Omaha.”
I laughed. “I keep forgetting you’re a Council Bluffs boy. How long have you lived in Colorado?”
“Thirty-six years.”
“Long time. Do you think Talbert is from Illinois?” Not expecting Berg to know, I laid Talbert’s sheet down and fired up my laptop. A minute later, after reading a short bio, I had my answer. “He was born in Lawrence, Kansas,” I said, reading from the screen, “and he served as an Episcopal priest at St. Matthew’s in Highland Park and St. John’s in Chicago before becoming the diocesan bishop of Chicago. It doesn’t say how long he served or how old he is, but I’d say about fifty.” I angled the laptop so he could see the screen.
“Becoming bishop of a diocese is neither simple nor quick,” Berg said.
“Maybe he had a bunch of Illinois boys helping him along, like Lloyd and Neal did. Speaking of Neal . . .”
A quick search garnered loads of information on Congresswoman Elizabeth Neal, a rising star—trailblazer was the word most often used—in U.S. politics. “Nothing especially hinky here,” I announced. “She was born in Nebraska, moved to Niles when she was a child, went to the University of Illinois at Urbana, became an attorney after attending the University of Chicago Law School. She married, had two kids, then decided to get into politics because the wonderful people of Illinois needed her brilliance.”
“Editorializing, are we?”
“Not by much. Here’s another site, not so fawning, but it’s just political complaints. It doesn’t say anything about her personal beliefs or indicate that she’s anti-church.”
“I wouldn’t expect she’d let anyone know,” Berg said.
“Not now, but what about when she was an undergraduate?” I started writing, making note of everything we knew about each of our suspects.
“Of course, this doesn’t solve our immediate problem.”
“Nope.” I stopped writing. “An Illinois bishop and U.S. congresswoman plot to bring an unbelieving priest to St. Michael’s. About the time the church closes, the paranormal activity starts. In desperation, the Petersons bring in Lebec and Meyer. Owen Draper previously gave my card to Lebec, and she already knew about me because of you. She gives the card to Ray Nickle, who also knows about you—and not in a good way. Then Nickle, in a sweet neighborly gesture, gives the card to Carissa.”
“A good summation.”
But I wasn’t done. “Then there’s this Jack business. The sympathy card before we even showed up, the Nickles’ dog, the paint, the note in the wall. And Lebec says she’s kept her ear to the ground the past three years, listening for dirt on you, looking for an opportunity to hurt or r
uin you. I suspect ruin.”
Berg sighed, nodded. Yes.
“Don’t you see, Berg?” I looked at him intently. “That’s why they chose St. Michael’s in little Wells, a mere twenty minutes from your house. They’re after you. Everything else is secondary, even for Talbert and Neal. It’s you they want.”
CHAPTER 25
I’m lying on the smooth blue bottom of a blue pool, six feet of crystal water and the yellow circle of the sun above me. The circle ripples as children cut through the water like dolphins, one to my left, one to my right.
Their innocence knows nothing but endless days of summer. More children pass above me and beside me, multiplying, filling the pool.
A figure forms and hovers over me, his face magnificent but dreadful. He commands me to open wide my mouth.
I shake my head. Anything but this.
“Open,” he tells me.
It’s my time and my due, but I’m terrified. I know the water will fill and burst my lungs, and that is a terrible death. Oh God, give me any other death.
The figure unfurls a long, bony finger and points at my face. “This is why we’re sick of the sight of you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. He orders me to open them.
“Look,” he commands.
I look. In a corner of the pool sits a child, her tiny face contorted in agony, her hands stretched toward the sun.
Screams. I hear screams like a thousand birds.
“What do you think that is, Teagan Doyle?”
I shut my eyes.
I open my mouth.
In an instant I was up off the floor, half-conscious and grappling for the pew back, heaving for breath.
“Teagan, it’s all right.” Berg was at my side. “Breathe.”
I shook away from him and stumbled down the aisle for the narthex, still fighting for air.
“Sit down before you fall.” He caught up to me, seized my arm.
“I’m drowning,” I gasped.
“No, you’re not. Stop and sit—now.” He guided me toward a pew.
Chasing Angels (Teagan Doyle Mysteries Book 1) Page 17