“Nancy Sanderson.”
Simms winced. Then he added the name to his chart.
I told him, “Nancy has some personal history that I’m reluctant to drag into this, but it’s highly relevant to David Lovell. Specifically, David senior.” I then ran Simms through the backstory: Nancy’s confusion with her emerging sexual orientation in high school. The attempted rape by David’s father. The psychological aftermath, the commitment issues, the continued therapy. The arrival of David junior in Dumont. And finally, Nancy’s inability to quell her bitterness when she recognized in David the man who had assaulted her.
Simms asked, “This is hearsay, right?”
“It was—until Friday, when I asked Nancy about it. Then I heard the entire story from her own lips. The attack by David’s father screwed up her whole life.”
“In the course of that conversation,” said Simms, “I assume Nancy admitted nothing regarding the murder.”
“No, Thomas—if she had, you would’ve been the first to know. But she did say she felt guilty for transferring to David junior the rage she still feels toward David senior.”
Simms made a note of it. Then he set down his pen, telling me, “David’s body will be cremated after the holiday, probably Tuesday—Jake Haines can’t put it off much longer. We need a break.”
There was a rap at our front door as a deputy opened it a crack from the outside. “Sheriff? Sorry to interrupt. When you have a minute?”
I saw the bobbing of Glee Savage’s big red hat while she tried to look over the deputy’s shoulder. “Brody?” she called. “We need to talk.”
“Yikes,” said Marson. “It’s the press.”
Moments later, we walked out front, where, ironically, the holiday atmosphere struck me as downright festive. A couple of cops cheerfully directed traffic in the street, exhorting drivers to keep moving. Mother Hibbard dumped a bucket in the gutter as Bob Olson checked the brushing technique of several volunteers, reminding them of the goal—“like it never happened.” Lillie Miller was pecking about, passing a plate, offering snacks that looked suspiciously like macaroons.
Grasping Glee’s elbow, I marched her away from the crowd, instructing, “No pictures, doll—understand?”
She smirked.
I tried begging. “Please? This has been rough. Marson and I are feeling victimized. Publicity will only … spread our shame.”
Glee put an arm around me and hugged my shoulders. “Sure, sweetie. I get it. We’ll have to report something, but I’ll make sure they generalize it—no pictures, no names, no specifics. Something about ‘petty vandalism downtown’ or whatever.”
“Thanks, doll.”
She asked me, “You okay? And Marson?”
“Everyone’s been great.” I gestured toward the brick wall, now clean, still wet.
“But I saw what it said,” Glee told me. “You were threatened. I’m worried.”
“Leave that to me—I’m worried enough for both of us.” I squeezed her hand.
She offered a halfhearted smile. Glancing past me, she said, “Look who’s here.”
I turned. Chugging up the sidewalk were Mary Questman and Berta. Walking at Mary’s heel was Mister Puss, on his leash.
Marson spotted them at the same time I did, and we converged to meet them as they joined the crowd.
Mary was aflutter. “I do hope nothing’s wrong. Why all the commotion?” She whirled her hands as she spoke. One of her hands held the leash, jerking Mister Puss back and forth on the pavement.
I picked him up. He purred as I told Mary, “We had a bit of excitement. Just some graffiti, probably kids, no harm done.” I was stretching the truth—big-time—but there was no point in upsetting her.
Marson picked up the conversation, joking with her, assuring her it was “just one of those things,” switching topics to the “glorious weather.”
For the first time that morning, I noticed that the weather was, in fact, glorious. Warm and breezy, it was perfect for a Memorial Day weekend. Thoughts of Memorial Day brought thoughts of summer. Thoughts of summer brought thoughts of picnics. And thoughts of picnics brought thoughts of Meteor Lake.
“Mary,” I said, “could I possibly ‘borrow’ Mister Puss for a few hours? I’ll get him back to you this afternoon.”
Both Marson and the cat gave me a curious look.
Mary said, “Of course, Brody. He enjoys your company ever so much.”
And within an hour—after Mary and the sheriff and the crowd had left, leaving only the two deputies guarding the house—we were in the Range Rover. Marson drove as I sat in the passenger seat with Mister Puss, heading out past the edge of town, where I was eager to show my husband Meteor Lake. Like many others in Dumont, he had grown up there and had heard of the lake, but had never seen it. After a harrowing night and a hectic morning, I thought the serene setting would be an ideal place to decompress—unless it was swarming with holiday picnickers.
But it wasn’t. Once again, the tiny county park was deserted. The wooden tables were vacant; the rusty old grills were cold. No one frolicked and laughed along the shore of the little lake. Beyond, no one splashed and rippled the placid surface of the water.
In the fluttering shade of a willow, Marson and I stood alone in the world—with Mister Puss, who circled my feet, purring as he tangled the leash. Marson kissed me and, dropping his hand, touched me. We shared a grin.
And soon we were tearing back to town in the SUV, parking at the curb on Prairie Street, saying good-bye to Mister Puss as we handed him over to Mary Questman’s loving arms.
And only a minute or two later, we pulled into our alley and parked with a quiet screech behind the loft. The sheriff’s deputy who was stationed there threw us a little salute as we slipped inside through the back door.
And then, under the watchful but unseeing eyes of our armed guards, we traipsed up the spiral stairs.
Chapter 17
Monday, Memorial Day, got off to a lazy start, feeling like an extra Sunday but lacking the disruptive excitement of the prior day’s cleanup brigade that had purged the graffiti from our façade. Opening the front door to retrieve the morning paper, however, I was reminded that yesterday’s troubling episode was not yet resolved when I got a discreet wave from the deputy parked across the street in a squad car. People were bound to notice—and wonder.
Fortunately, Glee had made good on her word. Seeing nothing about the graffiti incident on the Register’s front page, Marson and I divvied up the sections to look for a story inside. I finally spotted it, buried beneath the fold in the “Police Blotter” column, making vague reference to “petty vandalism on First Avenue.”
While Marson was pouring coffee, the iPad on the kitchen island signaled an incoming email. Marson read it, chortled, and handed me the tablet.
From: Curtis Hibbard
To: Marson Miles
Good morning, Marson, old chum! The Ninth was superb last night, and Miss Fleming made it abundantly clear that she still rules the roost—lest anyone had doubts. The entire evening lived up to all the hype, ending the season with the performance of the year. Even Yevgeny (who is not only discerning, but a bit of a snob) was impressed.
I wish you could have been there to hear it. For that matter, I still wish David Lovell could have been there with me, but alas, ’twas not meant to be.
Aside from the cultural update, dear Marson, I am writing this morning to pose two simple questions (partly at my Poopsie’s prompting, but also to assuage my own curiosity).
1. Would it be presumptuous of me to ask the nature of your relationship with Mary Questman? I know that the two of you worked together on the design of the performing-arts complex, and I was pleased to be included when you entertained her in your home. But I am wondering: In addition to your professional ties, do you and Mary count each other as friends? Close friends?
2. Back in our college years, you took a dim view of religion, and I presume that hasn’t changed. In the course of your career,
however, have you ever designed a church? Looking ahead, would you ever consider such a commission?
Clever lad that you are, you may sense a link between the first question and the second.
Best regards,
Curtis Hibbard, Founding Partner
Hibbard Belding & Smith, LLP
New York • London • Berlin
Marson and I had previously discussed, as a hypothetical, the possibility of church design for our firm, so I could guess how he would respond to Curtis in that regard. I also knew that Marson’s friendship with Mary was every bit as close and loving as mine was. What I couldn’t predict, however, was how Marson might respond to Curtis’s suggestion that there was a link between these two issues.
He sat next to me at the island, typing quickly. He sent the message with a decisive tap. Then he passed me the iPad to show me what he’d written.
From: Marson Miles
To: Curtis Hibbard
Good morning, Curt. I’m somewhat rushed today, so allow me to respond to your queries by number.
1. Mary Questman and I are indeed close friends. I have known her forever, but it was during the design and construction of Questman Center that we truly bonded. She gave me the most important opportunity of my career, and I delivered, in return, the project that will seal her legacy. I adore the woman. And I think it’s safe to say the feeling is mutual.
2. Le Corbusier was an avowed atheist, and yet he designed the chapel at Ronchamp, which has inspired generations of believers. No, I have never designed a church, but I have designed theaters, and if you think about it, churches and theaters share an uncanny similarity of purpose, scale, and effect. To answer your question, then: yes, I’d consider such a commission.
But also a caveat: I don’t need the work, and I am keenly protective of Mary’s interests.
Best regards,
Marson
Late that afternoon, while Marson was upstairs, figuring out what to wear to the public meeting of St. Alban’s parish vestry, I was down in the kitchen, browsing inside the refrigerator, wondering if there was anything on hand that might serve as a late supper after the meeting, which would begin at six. Nothing—we would need to eat out somewhere. As I closed the fridge, my cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
A squeaky voice asked, “Mista Nollis?”
“Yes, this is Brody Norris.”
“He-he-he. Are you two next? He-he-he. Get out now!” Click.
I took a deep breath. Then I phoned Sheriff Simms to report that I’d just received a call from the voice he’d described—fake Chinesey, high-pitched and giggly—quoting the graffiti that had been spray-painted on our front wall.
When Marson and I arrived at St. Alban’s, Simms was standing outside the doors to the lobby of the former gym, waiting for us. He stepped us away from the stream of people filing in. Arriving near the corner of the building, concealed by the green blob of an unshapely car-sized juniper, he told us, “We tried tracing that call. I didn’t think we’d get anywhere—and we didn’t. There’ll be plainclothes officers in the hall tonight. I hope there won’t be any real danger at the meeting, but try to stay alert.”
“You can bet on that,” I said.
Marson asked wryly, “Don’t you hate these long weekends?”
Simms winked. “Things should be back to normal by tomorrow, right?”
I was skeptical. But I said nothing as Simms slipped away, around the back of the building, while Marson and I returned to the front doors.
At six o’clock at the end of May, there were nearly three hours of daylight remaining in Dumont. The day had been warm, and now it felt hot as we entered the crowded lobby; back when the school gym had been built, air conditioning was an unthinkable luxury for such a space, at least in sensible, workaday Wisconsin. I unbuttoned my collar and removed my jacket—Marson loosened his tie—as we passed through the lobby and into the main room. Large exhaust fans whirled lazily at either end of the rafters, which made things more bearable, but not much.
The crowd milled and gabbed, but the dour tone of the chatter, punctuated by no laughter whatever, reflected the weighty purpose for which the parishioners had assembled. At the front of the room, the altar table had been moved aside, replaced by the row of folding tables where the vestry members would sit, some of them already in place. As at the earlier parish meeting, almost three weeks earlier, American and Episcopal flags drooped from staffs behind the table, with a small crucifix centered between them on the wall.
We mingled in the wide center aisle, greeting the people we knew, though they were far outnumbered by the rank and file of the congregation—all of whom, I presumed, were in attendance to witness this watershed moment in the history of their parish. I was delighted, and more than a little surprised, to see that Mary Questman had decided to come; she stood near the front of the aisle, surrounded by fellow parishioners who had not seen her in many months. Mother Hibbard hung near her as well, strategizing, no doubt, how best to convert Mary’s presence into Mary’s signature on a dotted line.
Tommy Simms stood with Hailey Olson and some of the other choir kids, who were joined by passing adults in congratulating Tommy on his stirring rendition of “Amazing Grace” at David Lovell’s memorial on the prior Thursday. Among them was David’s brother, Geoff Lovell, who shook Tommy’s hand. I did not see Geoff’s girlfriend, Spark.
Nancy Sanderson was there, which struck me as odd. She had not attended David Lovell’s memorial service, where I had expected to see her, so why was she present tonight? As far as I knew, she was not a member of the parish. While pondering this, I noticed Nia Butler, the city’s butch code-enforcement officer, mosey over to Nancy and strike up a conversation. As Nia spoke, she removed her granny glasses, smiling shyly as she pocketed them in her olive twill Eisenhower jacket.
And then, Glee Savage arrived.
With her big purse and her huge hat and her mile-high heels, she strutted down the aisle, parting the crowd, leaving in her wake a blinking pack of proper Episcopal stares.
Meeting me, she leaned to peck my cheek. In the warm room, the smell of her patchouli seemed even more intense than usual. She glanced about while pulling a notebook from her purse. “Nice crowd. Dead, though.”
Then Kayla Weber Schmidt arrived.
I got a glimpse of her black jumpsuit barreling down the aisle behind Glee, framed between Glee’s shoulder and the brim of her hat. I must have looked panicked; Glee asked, “What’s wrong, sweets?”
I stammered, “K-k-k-kayla’s here.” Recalling the scene she’d made at the first parish meeting, not to mention her verbal attack of me as we gathered for David Lovell’s memorial, I instinctively stepped out of view, as if hiding behind Glee—feeling deflated and stupid.
“Why, that snip,” said Glee, planting her hands on her hips and turning to face my nemesis. “Kayla!” she said. “Of all people—what brings you here this evening?”
We knew damn well why Kayla was here: she came to throw a shit fit.
Glee must have been as surprised as I was by Kayla’s buoyant tone when she replied, “It’s such an important occasion for St. Alban’s—and all of Dumont. It’s history in the making. Where else would I be?” She answered her own question with a breathy little laugh.
Huh? I leaned from behind Glee to take a peek at the woman, wondering if she’d been possessed by an alien spirit with a wily voice not her own.
She spotted me. Chipper as could be, she said, “Hello, Mr. Norris. I owe you an apology.” Glee stepped aside as Kayla moved near, extending her hand. When I offered mine in return, she held it gently. “I was way out of line when I saw you here last time. I hope you’ll forgive me, Brody. May I call you Brody?”
“Uh, yes…”
“It’s no excuse,” she explained, “but I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”
I asked, “The church issue?”
“There’s that, yes.” She hesitated. “But really, it’s my son. Aiden. He has d
evelopmental issues. They were diagnosed early on, but a few months ago, the reality finally set in. He’s four. In a year, he starts kindergarten. Maybe. Everything’s uncertain. It has me scared … and feeling guilty.”
Both Glee and I assured Kayla that Aiden’s condition was no one’s “fault,” least of all hers.
“That’s kind of you,” she said. “Kind and generous. But I’ve been in denial. And I’ve taken it out on … everyone.”
I reminded her, “Your husband loves you. Tyler will help you work this out.”
She smiled. “He’s with Aiden now. He told me about your visit. I’m sorry—I understand there was a close call with your cat.”
In an instant, I felt the same panic as when I’d feared for Mister Puss’s life, but the wave of alarm passed as I quelled the memory. I told Kayla, “That cat isn’t mine; he belongs to Mary Questman.”
“Really? The brown cat?”
“Right. He’s Abyssinian. His name is Mister Puss.” I wondered when Kayla had seen Mary with him.
“Oh,” said Kayla, as if recalling something. “Tyler asked me to give you his best. He said you liked the totems.”
“Loved them.”
Glee interjected, “See? Didn’t I tell you?”
A gavel rapped, hushing the crowd. Standing up front, Bob Olson said, “We need to begin soon, so please take your seats.” Then he moved behind the table, sitting in the center chair behind his nameplate: SENIOR WARDEN.
Joyce Hibbard, RECTOR, sat in the chair next to him. On his other side sat Lillie Miller, SECRETARY. At the far end of the table sat Nia Butler, representing the city. Other members of the vestry filled in the remaining six or seven seats at the table, and the room reverberated with the banging of metal chairs as the crowd got situated.
As before, I sat between Marson and Glee. Mary Questman sat in the front row, as did Clem Carter, our builder. I noticed three doctors in the room: Teresa Ortiz and medical examiner Heather Vance, both of whom had a professional interest in David Lovell’s death, and Jim Phelps, the veterinarian, who was a member of the parish. Sheriff Simms stood in one of the side aisles, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, discreetly scanning the crowd.
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