Desperate Measures

by M. Glenn Graves

  “Afternoon, Rogers. Hope all is well with you.”

  “As they say in some parts of the South, I’m about common.”

  “Still picking up those wonderful expressions, huh?”

  “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, or something like that. My life is about collecting and storing data. It’s my reason for being,” Rogers said.

  “I thought helping me was your reason for being,” I said.

  “Your desperate need for help most days does keep me active and versatile.”

  “Let’s not forget your unique qualities of utilizing that vast amount of information to help figure out things,” Rosey added.

  “Perhaps I underestimate my abilities,” she said.

  “It would be the first time,” I added.

  “Let’s not become too cute with the lines, missy. I am, after all, here to help you.”

  “Tell us what you have.”

  “I’ve been digging around some more in that ancient Canaanite religion that honored Molech as the supreme deity. You recall that some of the people groups a few thousand years back added Ashtoreth, the female counterpart, the fertility goddess to their list of divine beings.”

  “I do,” I said.

  “Well, I came across something that might be of interest as well as some importance to you in this particular episode of your life’s work. It seems that while there was more than one male priest connected with the worship of Molech or Cronus or whatever they chose to call him, when it came to the female side of the ledger, the groups had only one high priestess. They did allow for multiple female prostitutes, temple prostitutes they called them, but only one high priestess.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “It seems that it was a family thing, at least that is what I have uncovered thus far in my diligent research. Say, the high priest over the group had some underling priests working for him. Now this high priest was the main guy and his wife would then be the high priestess. Let’s say this little family unit had children, a son and a daughter. The son would be shaped towards the priesthood while the daughter would be waiting in the wings to become the high priestess if anything happened to her mother. Now say the mother died. The daughter is ready to become the high priestess once she reaches a certain age, if, in fact, she has not already reached that age. Are you with me?” Rogers said.

  Rosey smiled and I answered, “We’re with you.”

  “Okay, she is ready to take the reigns but suddenly the high priest, her father, decides to wed once more. He is lonely and wants a bride. He goes looking for a bride. When he finds one and marries, guess what happens?”

  “The new wife becomes the high priestess and the daughter is consigned to a lower position since there can only be one high priestess. The same would be true for the son of the high priest, would it not?” I said.

  “Yes, that is true. But are you getting my drift here?” Rogers said.

  “The green eyed monster raising its ugly head … is that where you’re headed?” I said.

  “It is where I am,” Rogers clarified. “Jealousy is older than murder. In fact, in the tradition of Judaism and Christianity, jealousy caused the first murder ever.”

  “I’ll let you know if your theory of the crime has merit. It’s certainly worth exploring,” I said. “Thanks for your due diligence.”

  “No snide remarks?” Rogers said.

  “Not when you come through with something this good,” I said.

  “You’re a ‘ard case, missy, a real, ‘ard case,” Rogers said with a pretty good Cockney accent.

  52

  The drive straight through to Boston was tiring for Sam and me. Rosey was the singular exception with latent energy upon our arrival at Uncle Walters’ place. He jogged for seven miles before retiring later that evening. Sam and I crashed.

  We coasted in the next morning, allowing the day to unfold slowly and purposefully around us with a late breakfast and some idle conversations about life in Clancyville and the doings of the Baptists down South. Walters was interested simply because it was his sister who was involved in what he called the politics of administration.

  My uncle was amused that I was caught up in the fracas of the local church.

  “Never thought I would ever hear of you doing conflict management in a church,” he said.

  “Chalk it up to my mother.”

  “Indeed, Rachel Jo has a way. I love the irony of her asking you to investigate and you end up proving that she had concluded wrongly about the minister.”

  “I think Mother was caught up in the chicanery of Jessica Thompson. Sometimes we believe what we want to believe despite the illogicalness of it all.”

  “Ah, yes. Dear old Jessica. She’s been around that town, well … it seems like forever. She was old when I was a youngster,” Walters said.

  “Ageless wonder. She seems to go on and on,” I said.

  “Entrepreneur,” Rosey said.

  “I think she sits around and thinks up new ways to get attention.”

  “Dream interpretation has been around for quite some time,” Walters said. “She may be trying to corner the market in Clancyville.”

  “Had it cornered, I’d say; but, this episode may do serious damage to her business. I would think accuracy to be a vital part of predicating the future. Even the staunchest devotees will not tolerate too many errors in a clairvoyant’s prognostications,” I said.

  “You might be surprised,” Rosey said. “I have limited experience in dealing with futuristic know-it-alls, but I have noticed that when people buy into a system, they generally follow the leader despite all evidence of accuracy to the contrary.”

  “I agree, Mr. Washington,” Walters said. “There’s a saying … what reason did not put there, reason will not take away, or something to that effect.”

  Detective Owens called and interrupted our dissecting conversation of Jessica Thompson and futuristic soothsayers.

  “You have some developments?”

  “A direction.”

  “Specific or generic?”

  “What I have is fairly specific. Where it leads us is anybody’s guess,” Owens said.

  It didn’t sound too promising.

  “What you got?” I said.

  “Found Raney Goforth.”

  “Where?”

  “What was the name of that town in New Hampshire where you were lost in the woods?”

  “Are you kidding me?”

  “No, ma’am. Same town.”

  “Same woods?”

  “Different woods from where you were, but since I wasn’t up there, I can’t pinpoint that with too much accuracy.”

  “Hiding out up there?” I said.

  “Hidden, to be more precise.”

  “Past tense?”

  “Yeah, something like that,” Owens said. “Hidden in some leaves.”

  “I got a bad feeling about what you’re gonna say next.”

  “Yeah. Wasn’t pretty. Shot in the head from the back. Smells like execution.”

  “Yikes. Somebody plays for keeps.”

  “It’s a wonder that didn’t happen to you,” Owens said.

  “I really needed to hear that,” I said.

  “Sobering. You might want to watch your back a bit closer.”

  “I’ve taken precautions. You have a line on the gun used?”

  “Waiting on the autopsy and a ballistic report. Looked like a forty-five, hollow-point. Nasty. He was a good lookin’ kid once upon a time.”

  “How long you figure he’d been dead?” I said.

  “Crime scene people guessed about forty-eight hours. Way past rigor and some decomposition had already begun. Most of his face was blown off, the right side. I’m guessing the shooter was left-handed.”

  “Ruins some theories I was developing.”

  “Yeah, me too. You wanna come over and chew the fat over coffee and doughnuts?”

  “You know the way to a girl’s heart,” I said.

  “I keep �
��em dangling on the end of the line, toots. It’s my easy-going casualness … and charm.”

  “And doughnuts.”

  “Yeah, doughnuts too,” Owens said.

  53

  Rosey and Sam rode with me to Weston. I figured that whoever was behind the death of Melody also had a hand in the death of Raney. My way of thinking was that I had just escaped a death sentence by having Raney hire two locals to take care of me. The luck of the draw. Or a charmed life. Probably need to visit my recent cheerless thoughts about luck running out on me. On the more cheerful side, I did have Rosey close. Helps to have friends with weaponry expertise to cover the bets against me.

  “I should call Jessica and see what the future holds?” I said, joking with Rosey.

  “I doubt if she would talk with you. You adversely affected her cash flow with some potential clients in Clancyville,” Rosey said.

  “Oh, it’ll cool her jets for a few days, but she’ll be back at it in no time. Besides, some of the folks will take her setback in style and get right back on that horse. I doubt if her business of explaining dreams and forecasting tomorrow will suffer long.”

  “So, you like this Owens guy?”

  “Like?”

  “Is he a good cop?”

  “Yeah, he’s a good cop. Works hard. No fluff with him, it’s all about the work, getting the job done, finding the guilty and putting them away. At least that’s the way he’s been with me, a stranger in his gate.”

  “Sounds like a credible fellow,” Rosey said. “So why do you want me to tag along?”

  “You make the bad guys cringe,” I said.

  “The sheer force of my aura?”

  “That, your brownish tint plus your gift with guns.”

  “They won’t see the wonder of my weapons unless there’s trouble. Must be the brownish tint that has them quaking,” he said.

  “Must be. We’ll see how much they quake. Besides, I like having you around. Makes me feel more secure.”

  “And allows you to take more chances,” he added.

  “I suppose it does,” I said.

  We met up with Owens at a little coffee shop somewhere between the police station and Regis College. It was far enough away from the campus that the clientele was composed mostly of locals. Owens was sitting at a table at the front facing the large window which looked onto the street. A box of doughnuts was center stage on his table. He was gulping his coffee as we approached. Sam remained in the car.

  Two coffees were waiting our arrival.

  Owens shook hands with Rosey, but didn’t stand to greet him.

  “Good to have you around, Mr. Washington,” Owens said. “I think your friend here has bumped into a few too many people who don’t like her snooping.”

  “It’s a growing list,” Rosey said.

  “At least she’s consistent with her approach,” he said.

  “Hey, I’m sitting here. I can hear you two talking,” I said as I took a couple of doughnuts from the box, a raspberry and the other I couldn’t identify.

  “That’s a black cherry,” Owens said. “You sure you want that one?”

  I handed him the black cherry and he smiled. I took another raspberry from the box. Rosey took the last plain one and wolfed it down before drinking the coffee.

  “You got a plan?” Owens said while looking out onto the street and chewing his doughnut.

  “Not so as you could follow it,” I said.

  “Is that a swipe at my cunning detective skills?”

  “I don’t think so. I can’t always follow my plans either. I just keep nosing around and wait for somebody to do something stupid.”

  “After you have aggravated the hell out of them?”

  “It happens from time to time. It’s been a successful strategy.”

  “Like trying to get rid of you,” Owens said.

  “Yeah, like that,” I said. “It’s the downside of persistent aggravation.”

  “Is that why Mr. Washington is here now?”

  “Partly. If the other side is going to play rough, then I figure it wouldn’t hurt any to have some people on our side who play rough,” I said.

  “I can play rough,” Owens said.

  I smiled at him, “I bet you can.”

  Owens was close to six feet but stocky. His barrel chest likely weighed more than my entire body. His arms were massive, but his lower body seemed to be trim and moving towards smaller. I would imagine that he had seen some fights in his early life, but there were only a few dents and scratches showing to indicate such.

  “You been in Weston your whole career?” Rosey said to Owens.

  “Last seven years or so. Moved here from Kansas City. Before that, I worked a few years in Los Angeles. I seen some things, done some things, and stopped some things. I like it here in Weston. Probably the best location for me so far. Not that much violent crime in Weston.”

  “Till now.”

  “Till now. First homicides we’ve had around here in maybe five years. Trouble lives and breathes in Boston, but only rarely gets out here. You must have brought it with you,” Owens said to me.

  “I came here investigating a suicide. Let’s not forget that.”

  “Yeah, I recall you saying something like that.”

  “Have I convinced you that it might be a bit more than a simple suicide?” I said to him.

  “Well, let me say this. You got my attention and I’m thinking about it.”

  “I can work with that.”

  “So talk to me about your hard-to-follow plan,” Owens said as he finished off the last cherry filled doughnut. The box was moving towards empty.

  “I want to talk with the good Reverend Fletcher yet again.”

  “You think he had something to do with Goforth’s murder?” Owens said.

  “Possibility, but we have nothing that points to him,” I said.

  “So why go back to him?” Owens asked.

  “Raney worked for him, Fletcher’s got a daughter, and not many other leads are out there for us,” I said.

  “I see what you mean by not-so-easy-to-follow plan. What’s the daughter got to do with anything?” Owens said.

  “The daughter is the high priestess in the church’s kingdom.”

  “Good for her. Does that come with health insurance and some meaning?”

  “That’s what I what to know,” I said.

  54

  Rosey, Sam and I parked in Fletcher’s driveway and plotted our strategy. Owens left us to do the questioning of Fletcher after the lab had called him to say they had the ballistics’ report and some other info about Raney Goforth’s demise. Owens went back to the station.

  The three of us waited inside the small portico of the mansion. Sam had insisted upon coming with us. Fletcher opened the door after a few minutes and smiled at me. It was not what you would call a welcoming smile. Forced and devious. Given the fact I didn’t like the man at all, my perception might not be wholly objective.

  “I figured you would return sooner or later,” he said.

  “Like a bad penny,” I said.

  “Like a persistent fly,” Fletcher suggested.

  I introduced Rosey to Fletcher without details as we moved through the threshold into the hallway. Fletcher had stepped back to allow us to pass.

  “Does the dog really have to come along as well?”

  “He insisted,” I said.

  “He could wait in your car,” Fletcher said.

  “Could, but he wanted to see you again. Up close.”

  “Is this an official visit?” Fletcher said.

  “Just a few questions,” I said. “Sorry about your devotee Raney Goforth.”

  “I just learned about that. He wasn’t, to use your term, my devotee, but he was a nice young man who had attended our church on several occasions.”

  “So you didn’t know him personally?”

  “Not really. I think he was part of a small group that my daughter knew, you know, from that college crowd. But I don�
��t recall having any conversations with him,” Fletcher said.

  Since I had tailed Raney to Fletcher’s mansion several days ago, I knew he was lying.

  “So that would also be true of Bo Johnson and Gerald Laney?” I said.

  “I have no idea who they are,” Fletcher said as he packed his carved ivory pipe. It was the same pipe he had smoked on the prior occasions when I had visited.

  “So you didn’t know that Raney killed Gerald Laney.”

  Fletcher puffed on his pipe and showed no obvious emotion from my question.

  “As I said, Miss Evans, I didn’t know Raney very well and I have no knowledge whatsoever regarding this Gerald Laney person. You seem to be involved in lots of nasty things. If I were you, I might want to use extreme caution. Death seems to be lurking about you,” Fletcher said.

  “Is that a threat?” Rosey said to him.

  “Observation, my good man, nothing more. It seems that Miss Evans finds trouble wherever she goes. Dangerous business, this investigative work she does.”

  “So you have no knowledge of a man named Gerald Laney or a man named Bo Johnson?” I repeated for affect.

  “The names mean nothing to me, Miss Evans. Are they both dead?”

  “Not yet.”

  “I see that you do have an understanding of the nature of your business,” Fletcher said with a wry smile all the while blowing smoke rings.

  “I also have an understanding of the nature of the people I investigate.”

  “Are you investigating me, Miss Evans?”

  “You remain a person of interest,” I said.

  “That would be true whether there had been a murder or not,” Fletcher said. “But I do know what you mean by that technical term. Still, I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Matter of opinion,” I said.

  “It’s a matter of law,” Fletcher said. “Do you have other questions? I have much work to do. We’re trying to recover from a devastating fire, as you know. Lots of meetings, planning sessions, and the like. We’re hoping to rebuild.”

  “That brings up an intriguing theological question.”

  “What, pray tell, is your theological question?”

  “If your emphasis is on the imminent end of the world, then why would you rebuild something that might take several years to complete?” I said.