by Kris Pearson
“Chaplain in Afghanistan,” he said, totally surprising me. “Not so long ago. You learn things you feel you never need to know. And never want to see again.”
His taking cover by the pew suddenly made horrible sense.
“I didn’t know that about you!” I said, both shocked and intrigued. “In fact I don’t know much about you at all.” It was on the tip of my tongue to ask more but it definitely wasn’t the right time..
He closed his eyes. Then, maybe worried he’d been rude to me he opened them again and added, “Afghanistan’s not something I want to stir up too many memories about.”
I nodded soberly but my brain was going wild with shock. Did chaplains in the desert have to wear uniforms? I supposed they did. Black would be too hot, and far too visible to enemy snipers, not to mention they’d look like Islamic State converts.
It was no chore to imagine those long legs in dusty-colored camo trousers, tucked into the boots they always wore in army movies, and a helmet with twigs on it to disguise his outline. Where would he get twigs? And maybe chaplains didn’t wear helmets anyway? Although they’d need to wear something. I hadn’t edited any military novels for ages so my intel was somewhat lacking.
I wriggled on the thin pew cushion. I was trying not to look at Isobel’s staring eyes, and kept my phone to my ear as instructed. Then the Police operator said it would be between five and ten minutes until they arrived from Burkeville.
“That’s okay, the vicar’s here with me. It sounds like you’re pretty busy there.” I could hear other voices and signals that might be incoming calls.
“Always busy here,” she agreed. “More’s the pity.”
“Thanks for your help, then.” I disconnected, because I knew my battery was running low. As I returned the phone to my bag, my fingers contacted the smooth little pouch holding one of those old pleated plastic rain-hats women used to carry for emergencies.
Dear Mum, you were always well prepared for anything.
She must have loaned it to me such a long time ago I’d forgotten it was even there. I slid the white rain-hat out, pulled it open, and leaned far enough to lay it over Isobel’s face.
Paul sat back on his heels. “No, Merry. This is a crime scene. We can’t tamper with anything.”
“I’m not tampering,” I protested. “I’m just hiding her poor eyes. Not touching anything at all. Anyway, they’re on their way from Burkeville. Five to ten minutes she said, so they must have been parked halfway here watching the traffic or something.”
He looked down at the body amongst the flowers. “What I don’t get,” he said, “is who on earth would want to kill Isobel. And why? She lives alone, wouldn’t hurt a fly. I can’t imagine her antagonizing anyone to the point of an argument, let alone this sort of attack.”
“You can’t hit yourself on the back of your head,” I observed. Gosh I’m clever sometimes.
He bent over again, pushed the unfashionable rain-hat aside, and looked closely at her neck. Then he checked the buttons of her pink blouse and the nylons that covered her neat little legs. “No sign anyone’s grabbed her. No bruises on her throat, no buttons ripped off, no ladders in her stockings. Which is good, I suppose.” He shook his head, and the shafts of sunlight through the stained glass windows danced across his cheeks and forehead in red and violet washes. “No pulse, no breath on your mirror.” He handed it back to me and re-positioned the rain-hat. “Maybe we could have tried rescue breathing or CPR, but she’s been in here quite a time and I’ve seen enough head wounds to know that wouldn’t have worked.”
In the dim shadowy light of St Agatha’s he looked very large and strong and wasted on being a vicar. Although, no, I was thinking of Catholic priests, wasn’t I… I was all of a dither and you can’t blame me – not with poor Isobel lying there dead.
“This is very strange,” he added. “She lives out on The Point. Cute cottage, but isolated. A much better place to murder her.” Then he realized what he’d said and clapped a hand across his eyes. “Sorry, Merry. Ridiculous and awful thing to suggest.”
“Shock,” I murmured.
“Probably,” he agreed, peering guiltily over his hand as he pulled it away. “It’s still a lovely place though. Wild and untamed for the most part, although she keeps an amazing garden – a lot of which ends up here, I suspect.”
We looked at each other glumly. “Thanks for making the phone call,” he added. “I lost it for a moment, for obvious reasons. Then it seemed more important I checked the rest of the church.”
I thought he’d done better than me, especially once he’d mentioned Afghanistan. How brave did you have to be to cope with something like that?
*
The traffic must have been light because the Police arrived almost sooner than they’d estimated and the ambulance wasn’t too far behind.
“Next of kin?” the athletic-looking WPC asked as things swung into action and photographs were taken by a very large male constable. He’d lifted the rain-hat off Isobel’s face and set it to one side. For sure I wouldn’t be reclaiming it.
Paul had closed the church doors to assure privacy. “She has a sister,” he said. “Margaret Alsop. Also on the church flower roster. Would you like me to…?”
“Would you?” the WPC asked. She was wearing a badge that said Moody. “It’s the job I dread most, informing the families.”
He produced a phone from his shorts pocket, pushed the peppermints back in when they threatened to escape, and scrolled until he found the sister’s name. Of course I eavesdropped like mad because his English voice was beautiful – deep and serious and quite BBC.
“Margaret? It’s Paul McCreagh from St Agatha’s.”
I watched as he drew a long breath and closed his eyes.
“No – nothing to do with that, I’m afraid. Look, can I pop over home and see you? It’s about Isobel. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”
He pressed his lips together as he listened to her reply. “Not a good idea right now, Margaret.”
Then I saw him shake his head. “Okay, I’ll meet you outside the church. See you soon.”
“Dammit,” he said, sounding very un-vicarish. “She’s over at the shops and was wondering what the Police and ambulance people were doing here. I’ll try and keep her away, but it won’t be easy.”
“And it won’t make any difference,” the ambulance paramedic said. “Definitely dead. No-one could have survived an injury like this. Keep her talking long enough for us to get her sister off the floor and away from that blood.” He turned and spoke over his shoulder to the WPC. “Is that all right with you? You don’t need her for anything else right now?”
WPC Moody lifted both thumbs, which I thought looked a little flippant considering the occasion, but she added, “We’ve got the photos. Be careful you don’t touch anything else. I’ll come with you, Vicar. We can tell her together.” She looked across at me. “I’ll be back to take your statement.”
“Can I go as far as the door for a while?” I asked. “I could do with some fresh air and not being quite so close to her.”
“Yes, no probs,” she said. “There’ll be more questions to follow, but that’s Homicide’s territory now.”
Paul led the way out and she rapidly caught up with him on her muscular legs, leaving me to tag along behind. As we reached the steps he bent and tweaked a couple of small weeds from one of the big pots sitting there.
St Agatha’s has beautiful gardens around its foundations. Right now there was an edging of white primulas and behind them an absolute blaze of orange calendula. I couldn’t help imagining the church was a rocket blasting off for heaven. Orange flames, white smoke. And surely Isobel’s death had affected me more than I’d reckoned because that’s not the way I usually think.
I stood there between the pots for a few seconds, and then, feeling pretty wobbly around the knees, sank down and sat on one of the steps and took some deep breaths of salty air. The other two went out into the sun to their horribl
e task. Eight or ten Drizzle Bay-ites stood clustered close by, pretending they weren’t lurking or listening.
I heard the poor sister’s exclamation of distress and horror all too clearly. She was a shortie like Isobel, but with silver hair in a much more expensive cut, and dressed with more style and quite a lot of jewelry. Nice jewelry. I sneaked an envious look at the bracelet she wore – one of those where you buy the basic chain and then have to spend an awful lot more on all the charms and beads to thread onto it. A total status symbol and hers showed she had plenty of status because it was stuffed with glittering bits and pieces. A couple of thousand dollars’ worth at least. Maybe more. Someone loved her, or else she loved herself plenty.
Terrible way to think, Merry! She’s just lost her sister. No fancy bracelet makes up for that.
Vicar Paul and WPC Moody had each taken one of her arms and were possibly trying to keep her standing up. They were certainly trying to keep her away from the church, but she was tugging at them the way the spaniels always tugged at Graham when they were out for a walk. Then I heard the paramedics quite close behind me so I pushed myself up to get out of their way.
“No, you’re okay – stay,” one of them said, but I got up anyway. They were wheeling Isobel on the ambulance stretcher now and had stopped not far inside the church doors, well away from the puddle of blood. Obviously they expected her sister would come into the church for some privacy and they were right. I don’t know why I went back in with them; maybe I expected more questions. Paul closed the doors again.
People say strange things in stressful situations. Margaret chose to stare at her sister and wail, “Izzie, your timing is terrible. You know Tom and I are off on our cruise in a couple of days. What are we going to do now?”
Paul and WPC Moody looked at each other with raised eyebrows. “How long is the cruise?” Moody asked.
“A week,” Margaret said, dabbing at her eyes with a paper tissue which she’d produced from the pocket of her expensive looking cream linen skirt. “We can’t go now of course. What would people say? And there are her dogs to worry about, too.”
“A week until a funeral isn’t unusual,” Paul said, placing a consoling arm around her shoulders as she broke into renewed sobbing. “Often there are relatives who need to travel, so then the service is delayed for a few days. It would be a shame to cancel your cruise. I know how you and Tom have been looking forward to it. It won’t be quite the same of course, but you said it was the first reunion of the three brothers in more than thirty years. It would be terrible to let them down.”
She sniffed and shuddered, and reached out to touch her sister. The paramedic and WPC Moody both stepped forward to prevent her, so she drew her fingers away and blew her nose on the tissue again, shaking her head.
“Can’t contaminate the body,” the WPC murmured apologetically.
“I’ll be happy to conduct the service,” Paul said. “I doubt she’ll be released for burial straight away?” He looked at the WPC for guidance, and she nodded.
“Things to do yet,” she said to Margaret. “If you make the funeral arrangements then we’ll liaise with the vicar, and I’m sure everything can go ahead the day after you get back, if that’s what you’d like.”
Margaret sobbed and wailed some more.
“Can I find Tom for you?” Paul asked.
“He’s at the bowling club,” she said through her tears. “What a thing to happen. Poor Isobel.” She dabbed her eyes again and added more calmly, “There’s no point disturbing him until lunchtime.”
“How about I suggest some funeral directors, then?”
She pulled herself together a little more. “Thank you Vicar, but we’ll use the same people we had for Dad. They did a nice job.”
WPC Moody seemed happy with that. “Be sure to say that Isobel’s with – er – us for a little while,” she said with careful diplomacy.
“I really think that’s the best scheme,” Paul said. “Make your arrangements, go ahead with your holiday, I’ll choose a couple of her favorite hymns, and everything will have fallen into place by the time you return.”
“No, that’s terrible,” Margaret said, starting to sob again. “What will people think?”
“That the timing is most unfortunate and you’ve made a sensible decision,” he replied kindly but firmly.
“But the little dogs!” she wailed. “Itsy and Fluffy. They’ll have to be taken to kennels somewhere. They’ll never understand.” She turned her face against Paul’s impressive bicep.
“We might have a solution to the dog problem,” he said, patting her shoulder. “Ms Summerfield here, who was with me when I discovered Isobel, takes on short-term house minding and pet feeding jobs.” He sent me the slightest of winks. “Are you by any chance free for the next week, Ms Summerfield?” Then, while I was still nodding with surprise, he checked with the very large constable who’d just joined the WPC. “Would that be acceptable to the Police? I’m assuming you’ll want to examine her cottage for any useful evidence.”
“Aye, for sure,” the constable rumbled. He sounded like he’d been imported from Yorkshire or somewhere else in the north of England. “I don’t suppose the deceased has a handbag here?”
“For house keys,” WPC Moody inserted.
“In the vestry, I imagine,” Paul said. “I’ll get it for you. There was no sign anyone entered the church through the other door, by the way – I checked it was locked as soon as we found Isobel.”
The two men walked toward the back of the church together and Margaret turned to me. “If you really could look after the dogs then I’d be very grateful. I’d pay you in advance?”
She looked so hopeful I immediately offered to do it for free – it would get me away from Graham, after all – but she turned me down, so I lowered my price a bit and said, “Ten dollars per dog, per day, plus food. And that would include walks, of course.”
She nodded, and started fumbling in her handbag. “I’m sure there’ll be plenty of food for them at the cottage, but if there’s not…”
“I’ll keep the receipts and you can reimburse me,” I said as she began counting out twenties. It’d be a miracle if I ever had a hundred and forty in cash in my purse, but I guess she’s a generation older than me and not so keen on paying by plastic. And, mmm… maybe no tax if this was an untraceable job for cash. Suddenly I liked the look of my new career even more, even if the cottage was ‘isolated’ as Paul had said. I’d be okay, wouldn’t I?
Chapter 2 – A cottage of my own
And that’s why I found myself driving out to The Point late the next afternoon with a couple of changes of underwear, a nightie, and spare T-shirts. There’d be plenty of time in the days following to pop home and replenish my wardrobe once I’d settled in and decided what I really needed.
The very large constable (Henderson on his badge) had brought the keys and Isobel’s two little white Bichons to me at home while anyone who needed to check out the cottage did their thing. The Bichons and the spaniels got on remarkably well together once a lot of mutual sniffing was out of the way.
I decided I had Paul to thank for quite a lot, because surely people who find bodies aren’t generally given the run of the victim’s property the next day? I suppose it was reasonably straightforward though. Isobel had been seen alive and presumably well – and probably by people other than Paul as she parked her elderly Mini and carried her big bunch of flowers through the village center. No doubt the Police had had a good ask around. If you can’t trust a vicar’s word then it’s a poor outlook for the rest of the population.
PC Henderson told me the cottage had been searched and nothing was found amiss. He said it had been locked up securely, that the open windows had serviceable safety catches, there was no sign anyone had broken in, and no blood anywhere. I wasn’t the least bit spooked when I drove my new aubergine Ford Focus – a somewhat guilty purchase after Graham and I had inherited our parents’ savings – along the winding coast road. The lit
tle dogs seemed perfectly content in the car.
Seagulls swooped and dipped over the crashing waves visible on some of the bends. There were cliffs on my left for the first part of the journey, and bunny-tail grass and bright yellow lichen decorated the lower rocks. Then the land levelled out again and low-crouching ngaio bushes sprawled over some of the shingly ground; big dark green cushions impervious to the relentless salt spray. Bent and battered pohutukawa trees clung to rocky perches, a few unseasonal tufts of distinctive scarlet flowers just breaking out of their fat gray buds. In a few weeks they’d be a sea of tossing red.
I passed Shiny Cove where Graham and I had been brought to picnic as children, and then less than romantically named Drain Gully which was a well frequented ‘lovers’ lane’ with lots of isolated parking spots. I’d only once had the dubious pleasure of being courted in Drain Gully, but you can bet if someone like me knew about it then the local Police did too and probably spoiled quite a lot of teenage fun. I was kind of tempted to turn in there and have a quick look in daylight for old times’ sake, but time was getting on so I kept driving, finding the road unfamiliar now. I was a little surprised at how long it was taking to get where I was going. After many more bends I found an official road sign pointing at right angles to Drizzle Bay Road. What? Had I come the wrong way? I’d been so sure of the route I hadn’t thought to check my GPS. Drawing level I found I’d been on ‘Drizzle Beach Road’. Not helpful, people! At least I was nearly there now.
A shiny black pick-up truck crouched fifty or so yards from the cottage beside a well- weathered sign saying Beach Access. I slowed down again and gave it a suspicious glare. A path dived down between two gnarled karo trees, and there were surf-casting rods strapped to a rack on the roof of the truck. In my newly acquired role of semi detective I decided the truck looked authentic enough and perfectly safe. It had lots of chrome bars and assorted sporty logos. Expensive and well cared for, it was probably the toy of a bored, retired businessman with money to burn. A fishing rod hadn’t been the murder weapon, and surely a killer wouldn’t hang around the district to go fishing afterwards? I dismissed it as being of no interest.
