by Ron Levitsky
Jesse smiled. “She’s one of the ABC Sisters. Lives with her sisters Abigail and Beatrice. They’re getting on in years—Miss Celia, the youngest, must be about eighty-five. I believe Miss Abigail’s confined to bed.”
“When you’re that old, I’m not surprised.”
“It’s not age. She’s a school crossing guard, and a bus hit her. All three are real characters. Miss Abigail was a Marine in World War Two and saw most of the world by the time she left the service. Miss Beatrice was a civil rights leader back in the fifties and sixties, led Earlyville’s first sit-in. For years Miss Celia ran the radio station their daddy owned. She used to read selections from D. H. Lawrence and Henry Miller—drove folks crazy and got her arrested. I remember one time the police had to break the radio station’s door with an ax while she was reading James Joyce’s Ulysses. Guess all three ladies were ahead of their time.”
Again Rosen pointed to number two on his outline. “If we could substantiate that Claire arrived home after her husband, we’d have a start toward lending credence to the rest of her story. Could this Miss Celia be a little senile—maybe confused about the time?”
“I haven’t spoken to the sisters in almost a year, but they’re all pretty sharp—especially Miss Celia. I don’t think even you’d get very far tripping her up on the witness stand, and the jury wouldn’t like you trying.”
“Fair enough, but we’ll need to speak with her. Will she be at the funeral?”
“I expect so. The Hobbeses and Duncans go way back. Speaking of the funeral, we’d better get going.” As they stood, Jesse added, “Nate, I’m glad you’re staying on. This case isn’t keeping you from anything else you’ve planned?”
Rosen put the file back inside the folder. “My schedule’s been cleared. I owe you for a long-distance call I made last night—a personal call.”
“Forget it. I hope everything’s all right.”
Rosen hesitated then said, “Bess is getting remarried.”
“You called your daughter. That’s why you’re upset.”
“Yeah. You know, I’m not sure how I feel about it, but Sarah’s hurting bad. I tried talking to her.”
“How’d it go?”
“I went around the issue like a lawyer arguing a case he can’t win.”
“Sometimes these things just take time.”
“Maybe. I promised to call her in a few days.” Rosen tapped his knuckles on the table. “Well, enough of my triumphs. Let’s go.”
The day was beautiful; a few wisps of cottony clouds only gave depth to the powder-blue sky above the horizon. Turning onto Jackson Street, Jesse lowered the car windows to enjoy the cool air. With the breeze came those street sounds one could hear any morning in Earlyville, but which he’d heard—really heard—only on those somber days he drove to a funeral service. Leaves rustling, birds singing, mothers calling after children. The sounds he’d heard as a little boy walking to his grandfather’s funeral. Funerals of other grandparents, aunts and uncles, his own father, then cousins and friends not much older than he. On all other days of his life, time passed. He grew older, made his small failures, like burnt recipes quietly scraped into the trash, and endured. But on these few days reserved for remembering death, the trees rustled in the breeze, birds sang, and mothers called after their children. Would he hear the same sounds from under the ground, when others drove to his funeral?
Yet, today was not quite the same as before. On all those other days Jesse never had Bathsheba to think about, and for a few moments, instead of the sounds of the town, he heard her breath soft against his ear.
“Watch it!” Rosen warned, and Jesse quickly applied the brakes.
Traffic was slowing as they approached the First Baptist Church, where the service for Ben Hobbes would soon begin. The church parking lot would certainly be full, so Jesse drove into an alley behind a small medical building. He parked in its private lot.
“Belongs to our family doctor. He’s visiting his daughter in Connecticut.”
They crossed Jackson and joined the crowd of well-dressed men and women moving slowly toward the church. Jesse checked his watch—9:56. Those standing at the top of the long stone steps, between the Corinthian columns, walked through the church’s open doors, gradually lowering their voices. The organ music resonated loudly through the entranceway like the outcry of a mourner who forgot that, after all, this was a First Baptist funeral. Someone would no doubt be talking to the new organist, and, in fact, a minute later the music softened considerably.
The two men found seats in the third pew from the rear. The church was filled to capacity, probably more than five hundred people. Other old Earlyville families sat near the Hobbeses, as well as the lieutenant governor, a state supreme court justice, and local political leaders, including District Attorney Grimes.
Jesse nudged his friend. “Do you see those two elderly ladies across the aisle and two rows up? Beatrice and Celia Duncan. Miss Abigail must still be laid up in bed. You want to see them after the service?”
Rosen nodded as Reverend Taylor walked to the pulpit.
Although he had been minister to the First Baptist Church for over thirty years, Reverend Taylor didn’t look much different now than when he’d first come to Earlyville from a Detroit seminary. As always, he wore a gray suit that hung a bit loosely over his lank frame, his blue eyes still shone brightly, and his hair had whitened so slowly that Jesse always remembered its being that color. It had taken people a long time to get used to him and his ways. He often joked that, even after all this time, his tombstone would read: “That preacher feller from up north.”
Reverend Taylor surveyed the entire church and smiled gently. His soft voice, carried by the amplifiers, seemed to speak personally to each of the congregants.
“In our conversations over the years, you and I have defined a Christian as one who emulates Jesus. Our Savior is often portrayed as being gentle, loving, and filled with forgiveness. And so He is. But He is also a complex individual, as all of us are complex. He had great strength, which He used in behalf of righteousness—witness His actions against the moneylenders, his confrontation with Satan, and above all, during His Passion, when He sacrificed Himself to save us all.
“Ben Hobbes was a good Christian, because he did indeed emulate Jesus. Although a gruff man, he showed great love for his neighbors and workers in the generous actions he did on their behalf. And, in the last year of his life, he came to know the blessings of marriage. His wife can attest to the tenderness and love within his heart.”
As Jesse listened to the eulogy, he felt his body relax against the back of the pew. Reverend Taylor’s voice always said welcome like a soft pat on the shoulder. How different from last Friday’s service, with its shouting, falling on the floor, speaking in tongues, and serpent handling. Just thinking of those things made him shiver. He tried to concentrate on the minister’s words but kept hearing Claire Hobbes’s babble and saw the rattlesnake slowly undulate over Bathsheba’s shoulders onto her soft breasts, breasts that he himself had caressed. Growing warm, he took out a handkerchief, wiped his forehead, and leaned forward.
Jesse continued to listen and learned of a man who, as Reverend Taylor had said, was more complex than most folks realized. A man who loved his brother’s family like his own, who with Simon gave generously of the Hobbeses’ fortune—to the college, to the church’s social programs, to his workers. A man who worked side by side with the carpenters in his factory, making beautiful furniture with his hands, exactly as his father had done. “Has Jesus not been called a carpenter’s son?” the minister asked.
Jesse scanned the church. Brows furrowed slightly, shakes of the head—many of the congregants must’ve been posing the same question he asked himself, “Why would anyone murder such a man?”
He wondered if Reverend Taylor would mention the way in which Ben Hobbes had died, but the minister concluded his eulogy with a prayer of comfort for the deceased’s widow, family, and friends.
&nbs
p; As the congregants said “Amen” and began rustling in their seats, Reverend Taylor added, “As many of you know, Ben’s widow is not a member of our church. She has requested that her minister be permitted to say a few words of comfort. Therefore, if Reverend McCrae would like to take the pulpit . . .”
The church grew silent as heads turned. Jesse looked up and down the aisles.
Again the minister asked, “Would Reverend McCrae please come up to the pulpit?”
He was in the last row; maybe he’d been there during the entire service. Bathsheba and Popper Johnston sat beside him and remained seated, while McCrae slowly stood and walked up the center aisle. He wore an old black suit, shiny at the elbows and knees, which seemed tight around his shoulders. His footsteps echoed in the silence as he approached the stairs that led to the pulpit.
There was a loud scuffling in the front pew. Wearing a long black dress, Claire stood and clutched at a handkerchief. Breaking away from a series of arms reaching up to stop him, Simon Hobbes stumbled toward the stairs. Reverend McCrae reached out to help him. Hobbes pushed the other man away, started up the steps, then turned and clenched his fists.
McCrae said something softly, which only made Hobbes angrier. He seemed ready to strike the other man when Ruth Hobbes stepped between them. Holding her husband’s wrists she spoke rapidly while he shook his head. Reverend Taylor also tried to calm him. Hobbes stood very still for a moment, as if deciding what to do, then strode to the pulpit.
Leaning over the microphone, he barely restrained his anger. “This funeral service is in honor of my brother Ben, a man who loved this town and was loved by the people in it. I don’t want anybody to forget the beautiful words Reverend Taylor just said about Ben. I’ll tell you all one thing. Nobody”—he paused to glare down at Claire until she sat down—“nobody knew Ben like I did. He’d sooner ask the devil himself to come up here and preach, as have that man”—he pointed to McCrae—“take the pulpit. Nobody here’s said how my brother died. Nobody’s used the word ‘murder’ this morning. Well, now that man’s in our church, I’m saying it. ‘Murder’! I don’t know for sure who killed Ben, but I know the way he felt about that snake church his wife was mixed up in. And I believe with all my heart, it’s that snake church responsible for my brother’s death.”
Jesse’s gaze shifted to Reverend McCrae, who turned on the steps to face the congregation. His face showed a serenity different from the calmness Reverend Taylor displayed. This was something deeper, a brooding reminiscent not of Jesus but of God of the Old Testament. Although McCrae spoke without amplification, even in a back pew Jesse had no trouble hearing him.
“I was asked here t’give comfort to a widder, but it appears even in a church this big, there ain’t enough Christian love to honor her wishes.”
“Get out of here!” Simon Hobbes shouted.
“I’ll be goin’, but nothin’ll stop me from prayin’ with my brethren for Claire and the soul of her poor husband.”
“Amen!” someone shouted from the rear of the church. Jesse turned to see Popper on his feet, clapping and once again shouting, “Amen! Praise Jesus!”
Just inside the church doorway stood two television news teams with their video cameras running. One of the reporters worked for a national news affiliate broadcasting from Nashville. How long had the media been there—during the entire service, or had they just recorded Simon Hobbes’s outburst? What a story that would make for the evening news.
Without glancing at the cameras, Reverend McCrae walked down the aisle and through the church doors. Claire ran after him, stumbling to the floor just in front of the reporters. She looked up desperately in Jesse’s direction, and Rosen took a step forward. But she stared past them both, and a moment later Bathsheba was at her side, lifting Claire easily and stroking her hair.
As the two women walked outside, the video cameras, like a pair of obedient hounds, turned to follow them. The organ softly played “Resting in His Everlasting Love.” Men faced their wives and each hesitated, not knowing quite what to do. Then the voice of Reverend Taylor once again flowed through the amplifiers, reminding everyone where the burial was to be held and giving a few more pertinent announcements—the same voice most had been hearing in church since they could remember, the voice that made everything better.
Shaking one another’s hands, as they always did when services concluded, the congregants turned and, finding their smiles, walked from the church.
Chapter Ten
thursday morning
“Come in, Nate. I’m almost ready.”
Claire stepped back, admitting him to the foyer of her home. He stood where he’d first seen her, that morning of her husband’s death. The woman whose grief had moved him, despite what his rabbi once said: “When all other gates are closed to her, the gates of a woman’s tears are opened.” Even as it had moved him, Rosen instinctively distrusted his grief; now he grew even warier. She was smiling, and he smelled the faintest aroma of perfume—expensive perfume.
Claire wore a black dress that showed her figure. The skirt fell just below the knee, and her nylon stockings, sheer black, were more suited for a cocktail party than widow’s weeds. She wore no makeup; her soft face was framed by blond tresses combed back from either side of her forehead. Her body had lost its tenseness; standing erect, she actually appeared a few inches taller than he’d remembered.
“Thanks for coming. After what happened in church yesterday, I couldn’t face Ben’s family alone.”
“Sure. Besides, one of your attorneys should be present at the reading of your late husband’s will. Jesse couldn’t come—he has a class to teach at the college.”
“I like Mr. Compton and all, but I’m right glad you’re here.”
“I didn’t know your church would allow you to wear such a fashionable outfit.”
She blushed, coloring her cheeks and making her even prettier. “You’re right. Guess I don’t follow every bit of the Reverend’s teachings. Ben bought me this outfit—always said it was one of his favorites. I thought he might like me wearing it now and then.”
“I can’t argue with that.” Rosen checked his watch. “The reading’s at ten. I understand the attorney’s office is in downtown Earlyville.”
“That’s right.”
“We’ve got twenty minutes. I’ve got Jesse’s Porsche outside—shouldn’t take us nearly that long. Do you mind if I go upstairs and check your husband’s room again? I want another look at the physical evidence.”
“Go right ahead. I haven’t touched his room since he was . . . just ain’t had the heart. I’ll go into the kitchen and put my breakfast dishes away. Meet you back here in a couple minutes.”
Climbing the stairs, Rosen walked into Ben Hobbes’s bedroom. Bedsheets remained draped halfway onto the floor, where a few scrape marks had been made, first by the police, then by Rosen, to collect samples of the milk that Ben had spilled. He squatted near the bed and reached under the small night table. The telephone cord had been cut cleanly, probably by a sharp scissors or knife. After taking the poison, Hobbes would’ve been in great pain; the cut cord would’ve prevented him from calling for help.
Leaving the murder scene, he walked down the hall, through an open doorway, into Claire’s bedroom. The way she’d looked in the foyer, the way she smiled at him—this was the room Rosen really wanted to see.
Her bedroom was beautiful. Almost too delicate for real life, the furnishings seemed suited for a dollhouse. He thought of his daughter, Sarah, and the dollhouse he’d bought that Hanukkah before the divorce. How her eyes widened as he unpacked it. The three of them spent all evening putting it together. How they laughed. It was the last time he remembered laughing with his wife. Yes, there’d been a canopy bed and little rocking chairs for the dolls, but not . . . He sniffed the air. Not that.
It was the kind of smell that caused Rosen’s stomach to tighten and made him ashamed to be thinking about his daughter. It was perfume, the fragrance he’d noticed on C
laire but much stronger, as if the bottle had been spilled. He walked toward the bed and smelled something else among the rumpled bedsheets, something all the perfume in the world couldn’t make sweet. The heavy odor of sweat in an unholy bed. He shook his head and heard his rabbi’s voice whispering, “‘Yetzer ha-ra.’” “The evil impulse”—the one that made man no better than an animal. No, he was a lawyer, not a trembling yeshiva boy. Look for the truth! And glancing over the bedsheets, he saw the truth, one he didn’t yet understand.
On the top sheet near the pillow curled a hair—raven-black, about two inches long and wavy. Not Claire’s. Gideon McCrae had a thick mane of black hair combed straight back. Rosen had seen the two of them together, at the Reverend’s house, caring for Lemuel Banks. McCrae had rested his hands upon her shoulders and spoken soothing words until her tenseness ebbed. Was the bedroom another way of comforting the grieving widow? What had Ben Hobbes said to his wife about the church: “I know what they’re making you do. The evil, child, I know all about it.” Was this the “evil” Hobbes had been talking about?
Maybe the lab in D.C. could tell something from the strand of hair. As he put it into a fold of his handkerchief, Claire walked into the room.
She looked puzzled, then her face flushed. “I just come to get my gloves. You said you wanted to see Ben’s room.”
“I was just there. I couldn’t help peeking in here. It’s so beautiful—the bed, the rockers, everything. It reminded me of a dollhouse I gave my daughter a long time ago. I don’t get to see her very much, and . . .” He shrugged, slipping the handkerchief into his pocket. “Sorry.”
Rosen watched her watching him, but she was an amateur at that kind of game. He wouldn’t flinch, and she’d either have to call him a liar or accept his explanation. After a moment of indecision, she smiled and picked up a pair of black satin gloves from her dressing table.
