He looked around for Ainsley, but couldn’t see her. His eyes darted through the crowd for Reverend Peck. He wasn’t around either. What was going on? Wolfe felt he might just turn around and leave, when a hand touched his shoulder.
“Garth,” Wolfe said.
Garth was smiling at him. “You’re at church.”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s one way to get the girl.” Wolfe was about to protest when Garth continued. “So I heard about your incident Friday.”
“Incident?”
“Passing out. At the theater.” Garth chuckled. “What happened?”
Wolfe was about to tell Garth to mind his own business, when Ainsley appeared.
“Ainsley!”
“Hi.” She smiled. “I’m so glad you came.” She eyed Garth, who managed to get the hint and walk off.
“What’s going on?” Wolfe asked.
Ainsley took him by the arm and led him to the front of the church steps. “That’s what’s going on.”
A heavy chain encircled the handles of the front door, and over the chain was a sign taped to the door. It read: GO AND DO WHAT I’VE TAUGHT YOU TO DO.
“Where’s the reverend?”
Ainsley shrugged. “No idea. He’s not at his house either. We already checked.” She glanced at the sign. “Kind of weird, huh?”
“Your attention please!” a loud, scratchy voice rang out. Ainsley and Wolfe turned to see a woman standing on the sidewalk, waving her cane at the crowd.
“That’s Missy Peeple,” Ainsley said. They went to join the crowd.
“Your attention PLEASE!”
The lady stood there with an aggravated expression that begged attention, and the crowd hushed. Wolfe wondered why everyone was so quick to listen. Perhaps she had some high position in the church.
“Now,” she said, her voice carried by the morning breeze, “in all my years of going to church—and that, mind you, has been since I was birthed on the fifth pew in the middle section—I have never come on a Sunday morning to see the doors locked, the lights off, and the church closed. Never!”
The crowd mumbled agreement.
“The sign and what it says,” she said, pointing dramatically behind her at the church doors, “indicate one thing, and one thing only!”
Suggestions followed without pause.
“We need to pray for the reverend!”
“We need to find the reverend!”
“I say we stand out here and wait for him to come back!”
“Let’s go have breakfast!”
“I think we oughta march around the building seven times!”
“No, no, no. No, NO!” Missy Peeple waved her hands wildly, a painful wince pinching her face as if each suggestion was more insulting than the first. “No! You people, you must listen. Be attentive! Think it through!”
The crowd hushed again, and from the back someone shouted, “What are we supposed to do then?”
Missy Peeple’s sagging skin tightened into what Wolfe thought was a smile, but he wasn’t sure. The lips were turned up, but she didn’t look happy. She leaned on her cane and eyed the crowd.
“Well, isn’t it obvious? We will hold a meeting!”
CHAPTER 18
IT TOOK ONLY fifteen minutes for the entire church crowd to move to the community center for the meeting. Wolfe and Ainsley stood at the back of the auditorium, watching the crowd speculate.
“I can’t imagine why Reverend Peck wouldn’t be at church,” Ainsley said. “It’s not like him at all. He never misses church. I can’t even remember the last time he took a vacation.”
She felt Wolfe’s strong hand on her shoulder, and her anxiety melted beneath it. It felt good to lean on someone. She’d been the one people leaned on for so long. Now maybe it was time to give up control. The concept was good. Doing it was going to be a whole other story, though.
She was about to look up and smile at him when she caught her father staring at them from across the room. She gave him a quick wave, but he only looked away. She glanced up at Wolfe, but fortunately he hadn’t seen the exchange. He was busy watching Missy Peeple.
“She’s an odd one,” Wolfe said, still watching up front.
“Miss Peeple?”
“I haven’t figured her out yet.”
Ainsley smiled, glad his hand was still on her shoulder. “Well, don’t try too hard. She’s not easy. She’s been around for ages, and when her sister was alive, they were quite the pair. These days she spends her time meddling in other people’s business. She’s a good source of information for my dad and his job, but I’d steer clear if I were you.”
“Thanks for the advice,” he said with a wink. A look of concern suddenly replaced his curiosity. “What in the world …?”
Ainsley followed his glance to a man she didn’t recognize. In his expensive coat and shoes, the man seemed out of place in her small town.
“Wolfe, what is it?”
He glanced down at her. “Nothing.”
The microphone screeched, and Missy Peeple raised her hands for silence from behind the podium, where she stood barely visible behind its dark wood. She was talking, but you couldn’t even see her mouth move. Her eyes, lacking expression and brightness, stared down the crowd.
“… and I don’t think I have to say that we’ve got a problem on our hands. Now folks, as long as I’ve been a Christian, I have never, and I mean not once, missed a Sunday service. When I was nearly on my deathbed with some crazy strain of botulism, I still made it to church. Now look, I’m not accusing here, and I’m the first one to stand here and say we must get to the bottom of this, but I think it’s awfully strange that our dear and beloved pastor would just not show up on a Sunday morning …”
Missy Peeple droned on, and Ainsley found herself becoming more and more worried about what might have happened to Reverend Peck. Part of her wanted to run up to the podium and tell everyone she was sure the reverend had his reasons. The other part wanted to grab her father and go look for him. Had something dreadful happened? Just as she was about to decide to do something, she felt a tug on her elbow.
“Ainsley,” Wolfe whispered. “Come with me.”
Ainsley followed Wolfe out of the auditorium and then to the sidewalk on the north side of the building, away from the wind.
“What is it?” she asked.
Wolfe looked around and then said, “I think we should do what the reverend said.”
“What?”
“The sign. On the church.”
Ainsley thought for a moment. What exactly did it say? To go and do what he’d taught them. She looked at Wolfe.
“What does it mean?” he asked.
Ainsley leaned against the brick of the building, staring at concrete below her feet. She thought of all the possibilities, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all.
Finally she took a deep breath and said with a small smile, “Come on. I know what to do.”
“Mrs. Owen? Hello? Mrs. Owen?”
“Ainsley? Is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well my goodness! What a surprise! Come in!”
Wolfe followed Ainsley through the entryway of the humble house to the living room, where an elderly woman with bright blue eyes sat in a matching blue recliner. A multicolored quilt covered her legs. She leaned forward and squinted.
“Dear, who is that with you?”
“This is a friend. His name’s Wolfe.”
“Oh my. Well, glad to have all the company I can. Please, come in. Sit down. Isn’t this Sunday? Why aren’t you at church?”
“Long story,” Ainsley told her, patting her on the knee before sitting on the couch next to her. Wolfe sat next to Ainsley, wondering what in the world they were doing.
“Well, honey, how are you?”
“I’m fine,” Ainsley said. “I’m just getting ready for Thanksgiving dinner.”
Mrs. Owen’s eyes turned sad. “Yes, I’m hoping my son can come home. He’s a
wfully busy, you know.” She glanced at Wolfe. “He’s a very successful businessman. He was home five years ago for Thanksgiving, and ever since last Christmas when he had to cancel at the last moment, he promised me he’d be home for Thanksgiving.” She smiled at the thought. “I can’t wait to see him. He’s such a handsome young fellow. And sharp as a tack.” Her eyes brightened. “And single, Ainsley. Still single.”
Ainsley blushed and glanced at Wolfe. Mrs. Owen seemed to pick up on the subtlety because she covered her mouth and then said, “Oh my! Are you two …?”
“Um …” Ainsley managed. Wolfe knew she was dying inside.
“I’m hoping so,” Wolfe said, grinning at Ainsley.
Mrs. Owen leaned forward. “Aren’t you a handsome young man? Could use a haircut. What is it that you do for a living?”
“Well, that’s a tough question. I’m a writer, but I’m currently looking for a new topic on which to write.” He glanced at Ainsley, whose smile was delightfully iridescent.
“Hmm. That’s a tough occupation, young man. Many people say they want to be writers, but very few have the resolve to stick with it, keep going in the face of all those rejections.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I like poetry myself. It’s old-fashioned, I know. But poets have a depth to them that I think most writers just don’t have. Poets must have command of the language. They must know more than the meaning of a word; they must know its influence. Paul Engle said, ‘Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.’ He said that in ’57, I believe. Was it the New York Times? I can’t remember. In my brain there floats this uncanny fog.” She shrugged. “Anyhow, it was Paul Engle who said it.” She smiled away the thought and looked at Wolfe. “What do you write, dear?”
Ainsley piped in, “Uh, definitely not poetry.” She glanced worriedly at Wolfe.
But Wolfe smiled back at Mrs. Owen. “Hopefully things that are meaningful.”
“Good for you, good for you. Keep your head up. Don’t let those rejections get to you.” She then turned her focus to Ainsley. “And how’s your father?”
As Ainsley and Mrs. Owen spoke, Wolfe had no doubt why they were here. And he knew they were doing what the reverend would want them to.
With the meeting adjourned and parishioners busy disseminating information in huddled groups around the community center, Missy Peeple felt it safe to talk openly with Oliver Stepaphanolopolis, Mayor Wullisworth, and Marty Blarty. And Garth, the scoundrel. All separately of course. Dressed in her Sunday best, she made her way around the room like a young and dazzling socialite.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Martin Blarty said. “But this whole town is freaking out. First Boo decides to get saved—did you see him here with Ainsley?—then the reverend decides not to do church. What’s next? I shudder to think!”
“So you see why we must do the grave thing of interfering, don’t you, Marty?”
“Martin. And I already have. I talked to Oliver. He’s going to talk to Ainsley.” Martin glanced over his shoulder. “They looked rather chummy this morning. And I’m gathering the well-dressed, hoity-toity man was the fellow writing the book?”
“You don’t worry about Alfred. Now, Marty, let me be clear. If Oliver is unable to get through to Ainsley, the task is up to you.”
“I don’t know her very well. I’m more familiar with her father.”
“Exactly.” Missy smiled and moved on, finding the mayor hiding out near the water fountains.
“Take a deep breath, Mayor,” Missy said, sensing that all this was just about to give the poor, handsome man a breakdown. “Everything is under control. I’m going to see Mr. Boone today. Straighten this whole thing out.”
“How?” Mayor Wullisworth’s voice boomed.
“Mayor Wullisworth,” Missy Peeple said, “do not presume to understand the ways of a spiritual woman.”
Mayor Wullisworth scowled and then dropped his head as if he might be dodging bullets. “But things are going south. People are starting to wonder whether Boo’s new novel is his last one. We’ve got businesses around here starting to think about changing their names. I mean, what is Tombstone Used Cars without Boo? Huh? Or The Haunted Mansion? Or Arsenic and Old Lace?” His voice rose with panic. But Missy knew his real concern was that his secrets might be found out.
“Shush. You’re acting faithlessly.” She leaned on her cane toward his face. A Stetson man. She liked that. “Trust me.”
The mayor swallowed and sweated and sucked air through his teeth, but finally nodded and sauntered on into a small crowd.
Missy spotted Oliver looking around, no doubt trying to find Melb Cornforth. Out of all the people she had assigned tasks to, Oliver seemed the most … unpredictable. She had to find a way to make him more stable. This would take some thought first. So with one more scan of the crowd, she decided her work here was done. She buttoned up her coat, threw her scarf around her neck, and made her way to the door. But before she could reach it, a hand grabbed her shoulder. Ah, Mr. Mayor, still needing comfort? She turned around with the most endearing expression she could muster and found herself face to face with an unhappy Oliver.
“I’m not doing this anymore.”
“Doing what, Oliver?”
He lowered his voice. “I didn’t find anybody that witnessed to Boo, and I’m not looking anymore.”
“So it could be a hoax then?”
Oliver studied her. “I don’t know. But I feel a little, well, it just feels a little … a little …”
“Spit it out.”
“Wrong. Okay? Wrong. It’s no one’s business who did this. If it’s a hoax, then it’s a hoax, but I’m not comfortable going around, snooping around, for this information.”
Missy smiled graciously. “Oliver, you always were such a fine, upright man. Honest. Even for a used car salesman. I like that about you.”
Oliver let his guard down a bit. “So you understand.”
“Sure. You know, you remind me a lot of Ainsley Parker.” Oliver frowned, not following. “You know her, don’t you?”
“Of course. We’ve been friends for years.”
“I thought so. She’s a fine young lady. I hope she knows what she’s doing … I mean, with Mr. Boone and everything.”
She watched with great delight as Oliver’s expression exposed his vulnerability. “Me too,” he said softly.
Missy needed Oliver. Badly. His task was perhaps most important of all. If no one witnessed to Boo, then he was for sure not converted, and therefore could still be saved back to his old self. But Oliver had more conscience than she’d counted on, so she would have to handle him carefully and with much cleverness. She would have to find one more angle to help the poor soul along.
She always did love a challenge.
Melb Cornforth’s fantasy about riding a horse at sunset ended abruptly when she saw Missy Peeple leave the community center. She rushed her like a strong south wind.
“Miss Peeple!”
“Good heavens, child! I’m not deaf!”
“I’m sorry. I get a little overanxious, and I haven’t eaten lunch, so that makes my blood sugar drop, and then I get fidgety, and I start biting things.” She glanced at Miss Peeple. “Mostly just fingernails.”
“What do you want, dear? I’m in a hurry.”
“I’ve been reading those novels.”
“What novels?”
“You know,” she whispered. “Those romances. The ones you told me to.”
“Oh yes.”
“Yes, well, they’re quite, um, descriptive as you might imagine. But they have depth, just like Boo’s novels! The characters, they’re so real. The plots, so complex! I’ve read five in five days. And I’ve come to a conclusion.”
“What is it, Melb? I’m quite busy, and though I’m sure your reviews of that smut are insightful, I—”
“I’m in love with him.”
“They’re character
s, Melb. Tall, strong, muscular men with long, flowing blond hair don’t exist. At least not with that kind of tan.”
“No. Not with a character. With”—she leaned forward—“with Boo.”
Missy did not seem to have anything to say, though Melb thought she saw her eyebrows lift ever so slightly.
“It’s taken these novels to make me realize what I’m missing in life. It’s him. He’s the one for me. I just know it. I didn’t realize it before. I thought I was just a fan of his work. But … I’m a fan of him.”
She watched Miss Peeple’s face soften into something thoughtful. “Is that so?”
“Why yes. Don’t you think we’d make a perfect couple? I’ve met him in person, you know, and he took quite a liking to me. There was this chemistry that I can’t explain. Like in those books. Love at first sight. It does exist.”
The old woman stared at Melb. “Deary, I think you’re going to come in handy. Yes. Handy indeed.”
“Handy? What do you mean?”
A tall, lanky man walked up to Miss Peeple as if Melb were invisible and said, “We need to talk. And I mean now. I’m sure you noticed the two of them at church, or lack-thereof church. Things are happening. Bad, bad things.”
His eyes took notice of Melb. She tried to smile politely. She knew him to be the town vet, Garth Twyne. She didn’t know him well. He was an intense sort of man. Sort of like Brandt, Belle’s love interest in Summer’s Eternal Flame. But he certainly didn’t have Brandt’s build … or Boo’s, for that matter. She turned to Missy Peeple, who was grinning from ear to ear.
“Garth Twyne, this is Melb Cornforth. Have you two met?”
Four hours later, after a long visit with Mrs. Owen and a shorter visit with Mr. Laraby, who had offered them coffee and a long conversation about nothing in particular, they found themselves at Deli on the Dark Side eating a late lunch. Ainsley tried not to worry about the reverend.
Wolfe spoke about his life as a famous novelist, and for the first time Ainsley thought she really understood him. He preferred obscurity to fame, which was why he chose to sink his roots in a small Indiana town. He despised the image that people created for him. For one, he could never live up to it, and two, he thought it was hokey. She laughed when he told her about some of the crazy fan mail he’d received over the years.
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