Marjorie set the cup down and blotted her mouth with a napkin. Then she zeroed in on me. “We all heard Stanley say it would be over his dead body before you preached at Faith Chapel. Well you sure took care of that, didn’t you, Pastor?” Her blotchy face threatened to grow as burgundy as today’s pantsuit.
Seriously?
“Now Marjorie, calm down. I know you’re upset,” Father Christopher said. “We all are. Stanley’s death—may he rest in peace—is a huge shock. Especially seeing him like that. However, we don’t know what happened. That’s up to the police to determine, so let’s let them do their job and not jump to conclusions or make wild accusations.”
Preach.
“Marjorie, I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot,” I said, “but if I killed everyone who doesn’t like women priests, there’d be a trail of dead bodies from here to the Bay Area.” And beyond. Including a small town in Wisconsin.
Lottie tittered, and Patricia barked out a laugh.
Marjorie harrumphed.
The timid Lottie spoke up. “Ethel and Stanley butted heads all the time. There was no love lost between them. Ethel said many times how much she’d like to ‘murder that man.’ And if you think about it”—Lottie released a nervous giggle—“now she has.”
Patricia barked out another laugh, Father Christopher’s mouth twitched, and I coughed to cover an un-pastor-like snort, which I knew left unchecked could morph into the out-of-control I-love-to-laugh scene from Mary Poppins.
“Lottie, show some respect for the dead.”
“I’m sorry, Marjorie. I didn’t mean to disrespect Stanley.”
“I’m not talking about Stanley.” Marjorie made a face. “I’m talking about Ethel. I don’t think our dear friend would appreciate her beautiful burial urn being used as a murder weapon.”
Ethel Brown had been a beloved member of the parish for years, as well as Father Christopher’s longtime secretary. She had passed away a few months ago, and Christopher had told me the church honored her with a memorial service—one her lone surviving relative, a distant niece, was unable to attend. The niece, however, would be in California next month, and had asked to delay the official inurnment of her aunt’s cremains until then. While waiting for that private service to occur, the urn containing Ethel Brown’s ashes stood on a small table beside the chapel altar. At least it had until recently.
“Actually,” Patricia said, a mischievous smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, “knowing Ethel and how she always liked to get in the last word with Stanley, I think she’d get a kick out of it.”
The room was silent for a moment. A slow grin stole over Marjorie’s face. “You know what? I think you’re right.” Then the most extraordinary thing happened. Marjorie Chamberlain giggled. Lottie joined in, and soon all three women were giggling nonstop. It took everything I had not to join the gigglethon, but a priest needs to be circumspect and dignified after a death. I stole a sideways glance at Father Christopher and noticed his mouth twitching beneath his bowed head.
“Glad to see you’ve recovered from the shock,” said Harold Beacham, lifting an eyebrow as he rejoined us.
The giggling came to an abrupt halt.
“Well?” Marjorie asked.
“Well what?”
“What happened to Stanley? Did someone kill him?”
“I can’t comment on an ongoing police investigation.” The police chief turned to his wife. “Can you stay here while I go notify the next of kin?”
“Of course.”
Todd and Samantha King. Stanley’s children. I grabbed my jacket.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Marjorie demanded.
“To do my job.” I turned to Harold. “If that’s all right with you?”
“I don’t see any problem, since we’re both going to the same place.”
Was it my imagination, or did the police chief look at me with less suspicion? Why? Far too early to be cleared by the medical examiner’s findings. Maybe he had his mind on other things. Like grilling me again, since I was in his custody. More or less.
“But—” my nemesis sputtered.
“Marjorie, Hope is in charge of pastoral care,” Father Christopher said. “That includes offering prayer and comfort to the bereaved.”
Lottie’s forehead wrinkled. “But you’ve always been the one to do that, Father.”
“Yes, and I’ll continue to do so, but it’s now Hope’s main ministry.” He picked up his keys. “I’ll come along too, Hal, since I’ve known Todd and Samantha all their lives. Hope, are you ready?”
On our drive over to the King residence, I thought of the first—and only—time I’d met the dead man. The Faith Chapel leadership had been looking me over during one of their vestry meetings a few months back to see if I’d be a good pastoral fit for their church when an imposing older man in an expensive sport coat and gray tweed cap burst into the rectory, followed close behind by a redheaded young couple.
“Where is she?” bellowed Tweed Cap, swiveling his head around the room and swaying on his feet.
One of the vestry members leaned over and whispered, “That’s Stanley King, former senior warden, and his children, Samantha and Todd.” She heaved a sigh. “Poor kids. Stanley is a tyrant. Not a nice man on the best of days, but even worse when he’s had too much to drink.”
I glanced over and saw the King family in a heated discussion with Father Christopher, who was trying to keep the peace. Stanley King mopped his forehead and yelled at his son, “You’re nothing but a useless good-for-nothing.”
Several vestry members looked away in embarrassment, except for cradle-Episcopalian Marjorie, who seemed riveted by the family feud. Todd King threw up his hands, shrugged at his sister, and left. Samantha King laid her hand on her father’s arm, but he shook it off and muttered something that made her pale face flush. She left also.
Then Christopher moved in closer to Stanley and said something.
“You’ve got some nerve,” Tweed Cap said. “How dare you talk to me that way?” He stabbed his finger into the old priest’s chest, causing Father Christopher to stumble. “I’ve had it with your holier-than-thou crap.”
As I hurried to rescue my possible new boss, Patricia and Harold Beacham joined me. Stanley King’s bloodshot eyes zeroed in on us, his mouth twisting in an ugly sneer. “Here comes the diversity cavalry, but where’s Fu Manchu? And Speedy Gonzales?”
“That’s enough, Stan,” Father Christopher said.
As the former vestry member removed his cap and mopped his sweating forehead again, Harold Beacham said, “Why don’t we go outside and cool off?”
“Good idea,” I said. “How about if we all take a nice deep breath and relax?”
“No woman’s going to tell me what to do,” Stanley said, his potent whiskey breath causing me to take a step back. “And do not think you’ll be preaching at Faith Chapel anytime soon, missy. Over my dead body.”
All at once, my father’s mottled face yelling at me, my sister, and my mother filled my head—a memory I’d thought I had exorcised years ago. Dad never drank; he was a teetotaler due to his religious convictions. Yet other than that, he could have been a twin to the enraged Neanderthal in front of me. Now, unlike the cowed child I had been, I knew how to cope with men like him. Reminding myself not to cast pearls before swine, I took a deep breath, expelled it, and relaxed.
Stanley King shot me a look of disgust, then barreled past, slamming the door behind him.
Now the man was dead.
“What can you tell me about Stanley?” I asked Christopher as he drove us to the King family home in his old Ford Taurus.
“Well, I’d like to say your introduction to him was an anomaly, but it was classic Stanley.” The rector gave a helpless shrug. “Stan is—was—a lawyer and member of Faith Chapel for decades. Unfortunately, the church did not have much of an impact on him—something I had hoped and prayed for over the years. I think Faith Chapel was a tax break for Stanley and simply
another way for him to display his wealth and success. He was the church’s largest benefactor, and he made sure everyone knew it.”
“Not a big believer in the whole giving-in-secret admonition?”
“I’m afraid Stanley wasn’t a big believer in anything except Stanley. And I’m sure he had quite a few secrets, but donating money wasn’t one of them.”
I wondered what kinds of secrets Stanley King had hidden. Any that might have gotten him killed? I glanced at my boss, but he appeared lost in thought, his eyes fixed on the road in front of him. Could Stanley have confessed any of those secrets to his priest?
Moments later, we pulled in behind Harold Beacham’s police cruiser parked in front of a creamy historic Italianate mansion with green trim, bracketed eaves, and a striking square cupola. Chief Beacham opened his car door and got out, squaring his shoulders and removing his hat for the painful task ahead. I offered up a silent prayer for him as Christopher and I joined Harold on the trek to the front door. Then I focused all my prayers and thoughts on Stanley King’s children.
Harold Beacham rang the doorbell. Moments later, the door swung open to reveal Todd King in a Grateful Dead T-shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops.
“Whoa!” the freckled twentysomething said. “Two priests and the police chief. I must really be in trouble.” Todd grinned and held up his hands in mock surrender. “I promise, Father, I did not steal from the collection plate.”
Chief Beacham inclined his head. “May we come in?”
“Sorry. Forgot my manners.” Stanley King’s son ushered us inside.
“Todd?” a female voice called. “Who is it?” Samantha King, the other half of the redheaded sibling duo that I’d seen at the infamous vestry meeting with the drunken Stanley, rounded the corner. Her pale skin grew even more pale when she saw us. “What’s wrong?” she asked in a tremulous voice, drawing near to her brother, who put his arm around her protectively.
“Why don’t we all go sit down,” Harold said, gesturing to a room off the foyer.
Father Christopher gently held on to Samantha’s hand as he escorted the King children into a sumptuous living room, followed by Harold. I brought up the rear.
When the two were informed of their father’s death, Samantha wept. Father Christopher patted her back comfortingly as her tears wet his vestments. Her younger brother, however, remained dry-eyed and stoic. Over the years, I have learned that everyone responds differently to death and that grief takes different forms. I thought back to when my David lost his battle with brain cancer. We’d had only a dozen years together, and when he died, I wanted to die right along with him. Even though I’d known the day was coming and thought I was prepared—especially since I was a priest—nothing prepares you for such a deep, profound loss.
I wondered how Stanley’s friends and fellow church members would respond to his loss. And would their response cause me—their new priest—to lose my job? I already had one strike against me with the traditionalist old guard because of my sex. Add in the dead Stanley and my hand holding the bloody urn? Strike two. It was clear I needed to learn more about Stanley King so I could figure out who might have wanted him dead.
Otherwise, it was strike three and I’m out.
Chapter Three
The choir finished its opening hymn with a booming—and flat—bass drowning out the three altos, two sopranos, and lone tenor. (The other bass, who doubled as a baritone, had defected to the Baptists last year, I later learned.)
“Thank you, choir,” said Father Christopher. “God said, ‘Make a joyful noise,’ and we’re grateful each week to our beloved choir for doing so.”
A silver-haired woman in the pew in front of me leaned over to her friend and said in a stage whisper, “I doubt God meant that.” Her friend hid a giggle behind an age-spotted hand.
Light streamed in through the trio of diamond-paned stained-glass windows above the altar. Looking up, I admired the vaulted wooden ceiling in the small A-frame church, which bespoke a time past of proud artisanship and detail. When I looked back down, I caught a few suspicious glances directed my way. The rumor mill must have gone into overdrive about the new girl in town. Especially when that new girl had been found kneeling over a dead church member holding the probable murder weapon. I steeled myself and repeated my internal mantra, which always saw me through difficult times: If God is for you, who can be against you? Then I focused my full attention on my new boss and rector.
“Good morning, and welcome to Faith Chapel,” Father Christopher said. “I’m sure most of you have heard about the unexpected passing of our longtime member Stanley King two days ago. Stanley contributed a great deal to Faith Chapel over the years, including funding the remodel of the chapel annex and columbarium as well as the landscaping of our beautiful courtyard, for which we are grateful. Please keep Todd and Samantha King in your prayers. We’ll let you know the funeral plans once they’re settled.”
Good job, Christopher. Short, sweet, and diplomatic. No crocodile tears or false sentiments. I made a mental note for the future.
“And now, in happier news, I’m delighted to share that the bishop has sent us a wonderful new associate pastor.” Father Christopher sent me a warm smile. “A few years ago when I was guest teaching at seminary, a student came up and peppered me with questions—some I couldn’t answer.” He paused. “I know you’re shocked your priest doesn’t have all the answers.” The congregation tittered. “Anyway, since then I’ve been following that young student’s—well, young to me—journey to ordination and beyond. Please join me in giving a big Faith Chapel welcome to Pastor Hope Taylor.”
Uncertain applause broke out along with scattered murmurings. A woman priest? And possible murderer? With a black eye, no less? (I had tried applying makeup to cover up my Elvis goose egg, which had morphed into a shiner, but the amount necessary to cover the bruising on my Scandinavian skin had left me looking like a lady of the evening. I’d settled for the shiner.)
“Well, it’s about time.” A snowy-haired woman in red, who bore the familiar widow’s hump of osteoporosis, stood up and applauded.
“Hear, hear,” said the middle-aged man next to her, who also got to his feet, along with Patricia Beacham, a young couple in the first pew, two altos, and the lone tenor. Several of the old-timers exchanged looks that ranged from dismayed to disgruntled, while two teen girls at the back of the church stood and raised their fists in solidarity. “Women rock!”
“Thank you, everyone, for your enthusiastic response,” Father Christopher said. “Please be seated. Hope, please come up and tell us a bit about yourself.”
I shed my light jacket and scarf, feeling like Scarlett O’Hara in that red dress Rhett made her wear to Ashley’s birthday party. Thankfully, my black clergy vest and priest’s collar were a lot less provocative. “Good morning, everyone. Thank you for the nice welcome.” I sent what I hoped was a reassuring smile to the mostly blue- and gray-haired congregation. Patricia gave me an encouraging nod. “As Father Christopher said, when we met, I bombarded the poor man with questions. I had so many questions. Up until then I’d been a teacher—which I loved—but about six years ago, God called me to become a priest, and I heeded that call.”
Joan of Arc heeded the call too, and look what happened to her. Ingrid Bergman’s luminous face at the stake flashed before me, but I banished her to Casablanca.
“Bah,” a wrinkled man in the front pew said. He stood up and glared at me, then stalked out of the church as fast as he could move his tennis-ball-bottomed walker. The metal walker made an angry clacking on the thin carpet with every step.
I love the smell of sexism in the morning. Outwardly I maintained my spiritual serenity, while inwardly I wanted to deck the guy. Not the most pastoral response. I returned to my pew and turned the other cheek—something I had done a lot since my ordination. As the congregation joined the choir in singing, “It is Well With My Soul,” I breathed out, closed my eyes, and sang my favorite hymn from memory, the wo
rds filling me with peace.
The peace was short-lived. At the parish hall after the service, a few dozen people stood around sipping coffee, munching on pastries, and chatting.
“I hate you!” shouted a magenta-haired teenage girl to a blonde middle-aged woman by the coffee urn. The woman put her hand on the teen’s arm, but she shook it off and rushed past us, a river of mascara coursing down her face. Another teen, clad all in black except for a vivid sleeve tattoo of hearts, flowers, and dragonflies, gave me an apologetic smile as she followed her friend.
“I should go make sure she’s okay,” I said to Christopher.
“Best to leave them alone. When Megan gets like that, the only one who can get through to her is her best friend Riley. It would be good for you to meet her mother, though.” We approached the attractive woman, who had two red spots staining her cheeks.
“Sorry, Father,” she said, twisting and untwisting her pearls. “These raging hormones are going to be the death of me.”
“It’s okay, Bonnie.”
“My stepdaughter and I had our share of knock-down, drag-outs during her teen years,” I said, “but now we’re good friends.”
“You mean there’s hope?”
“I should say so,” said Father Christopher. “Bonnie Cunningham, may I present Pastor Hope?”
She giggled.
“Prettiest priest I’ve ever seen.” A man in a charcoal-gray trench coat with thick glasses and wispy hair on his brown-speckled head appeared next to Bonnie. He gave me an appreciative once-over. “If you preach as good as you look, we’re in for a real treat.”
“Dad!”
“Oh, don’t ‘Dad’ me. I’m too old to be politically correct. Don’t know what the world’s coming to when a man can’t give a pretty girl a compliment without getting in trouble.”
I smiled at my admirer, who reminded me of Henry Fonda in On Golden Pond. “Thank you for the—”
“Eh? You’ll have to speak up. I’m deaf in one ear.”
“Thank you for the kind words,” I said louder. “I like your London Fog, by the way—my husband had one just like it.”
Hope, Faith, and a Corpse Page 2
