“As long as it’s not Fifty Shades of Grey.”
“Why Pastor, you read mommy porn?”
“No.” I could feel my cheeks reddening. “But since several of the young women in my last parish were reading and talking about what was at the time a huge pop-culture phenomenon, I thought I should at least be aware of it.”
“So, you did read it.”
“Only the first chapter, plus a few paragraphs in later chapters to see if the writing improved.”
“I already know that answer.” He grinned. “To quote my English-major niece, ‘What dreck.’”
Eager to steer the conversation away from the embarrassing rabbit trail we had gone down, I told James I would be happy to help Samantha and Todd any way I could and asked him to tell them that.
Bogie nosed my hand. “I think someone’s trying to tell me something. We’d better get going.”
“See you around.” James scooped up Nessa and jogged back up the driveway. Halfway to the backyard he stopped and turned. “Welcome to Apple Springs, by the way.”
I lifted my hand in a wave, and as Bogie and I continued our walk through town, I added James-the-uncle to my list of possible suspects. He clearly hated Stanley and blamed him for his sister’s death. Who knew what he might do to avenge her?
Avenge? This isn’t The Princess Bride: “My name is James Montoya. You killed my sister. Prepare to die.”
Too late, I realized I should have asked James more questions. Like, maybe, where had he been the day of the murder? Trixie Belden would be ashamed. Then I prayed that James would not turn out to be the guilty party, for Todd’s and Samantha’s sakes. They had already lost a mother and father. They didn’t need to lose an uncle too.
Chapter Five
As we turned the corner onto Main Street, the breeze that was formerly cool and welcoming now turned into a brisk wind. I stopped in front of a closed barbershop and pulled on my hoodie. Bogie and I passed several brick-and-wooden storefronts: Bonnie’s Blooms, The Mane Event, Apple Springs Market, Sonnets and Stuff Bookstore, and Margheritaville, a compact pizzeria wafting heavenly aromas. If I hadn’t had lunch an hour ago, I’d have gone in and had a slice.
“Pastor Hope. Hello! Who’s this gorgeous creature?” Dorothy Thompson, Faith Chapel’s sweetheart, clad in a lavender velour tracksuit and wearing purple-pansy earrings, held out her hand to my dog, who licked it eagerly.
“Bogie, that’s not polite.”
“That’s okay. I was eating some peanut butter pretzels, and I know how much dogs love peanut butter. Isn’t that right?” she cooed, petting his black head. “Are you named after Humphrey Bogart?”
Bogie woofed.
“Humphrey Bogart was my husband’s favorite actor. David especially loved his movies with Lauren Bacall.” I adopted the actress’s trademark sultry tone. “‘You know how to whistle, don’t you, Steve? You just put your lips together and blow.’”
“Good job.” Dorothy giggled. “Although I can’t say I’ve ever heard a priest recite that famous line before.”
“Maybe we should keep that between us.”
“My lips are sealed.” She made a zipper motion across her mouth. “Did you know Bogie and Bacall met and fell in love while making To Have and Have Not? So sad they only had a dozen years together before he died.”
My heart clenched. “Yes. He was the love of her life.”
Bogie snuffled Dorothy’s hand, searching for food. “I’m sorry, boy,” she said. “I don’t have anything for you.”
“Don’t be a beggar, Bogie. You’ll get treats when we get home.” His tail helicoptered at the word treats. As I glanced down at my dog, I noticed Dorothy leaning heavily on her cane. “Would you mind if we sat down? I need a rest. Bogie’s tuckered me out.”
“You read my mind.” Dorothy lowered herself gratefully onto one of the wooden benches ringing the camellia-dotted town square. She kissed her fingertips and touched them to a bronze plaque on the back of the bench.
I leaned in to read the inscription. You know that place between sleep and awake; that place where you can still remember dreaming? That’s where I will always love you. That’s where I will be waiting. —Peter Pan. In loving memory of Randall Thompson.
“Your husband?”
She nodded. “My Randy.” Her eyes glistened. “When he passed, I didn’t think I could go on. I didn’t want to. Sometimes I still don’t. I miss him every day.”
I squeezed her hand as I felt the prick of tears in my own eyes. “After my husband died, I could barely get out of bed, much less function. I went to the bishop ready to tender my pastoral resignation, but he wisely suggested I take a sabbatical instead, so I fled to England.”
“England?” Her wet eyes widened. “My favorite place in the world. We were stationed there, years ago, when Randy was in the Air Force. We loved it and always wanted to return but never got the chance before he passed. Instead, I went on a tour of Great Britain with my sister and fell in love with it all over again. When were you in England?”
“Two and a half years ago.”
“Not that long ago.” She offered an understanding widow-to-widow look. “What did you do on your sabbatical?”
“Stayed in a Devonshire monastery where I cried myself to sleep each night. During the day I slept or aimlessly wandered the grounds, unable to even pray, meditate, or attend vespers.”
“Thank you for telling me that, Pastor, rather than spouting scripture or trite platitudes about such a devastating loss.” A tear escaped and slid down her cheek. “When Randy died, I heard a lot of that. We weren’t at Faith Chapel yet, and for some reason people felt it was their spiritual duty to bombard me with sayings or scriptures like, ‘He’s in a better place.’ ‘God needed a new angel.’ ‘And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God …’”
“People don’t know what to say when someone dies. They often blurt out thoughtless things.” It was God’s plan. You’re young—you’ll get married again.
“They should learn to take a page from the ‘Silence is golden’ book.” Dorothy shook her head and then collected herself. “But tell me more about your sabbatical. Did you stay at the monastery the whole time?”
“No, only a couple weeks. Afterward I went to a Benedictine abbey in Yorkshire. There I added in some meditation and occasionally attended morning prayer. Then I made a pilgrimage to Canterbury Cathedral, where I stayed in a lodge on the grounds.” I closed my eyes, remembering. “In my room I moved my prayer book from inside the closed drawer to the top of the nightstand, cried only every other night, and began attending evensong. By the time I got to Oxford, I was saying the prayers in my prayer book daily and crying less frequently.” I patted Bogie’s head. “I was also missing my sweet dog and craving human companionship, laughter, and tea with scones, jam, and gobs of Devonshire cream.”
“I love Devonshire cream! We had cream teas all the time when we lived in England. Yum.” Dorothy licked her lips. “We should have tea and scones together one of these days. Maybe we could even have a ladies’ afternoon tea at church?”
“Did someone say tea and church?” Patricia Beacham appeared before us, looking as if she had stepped out of the pages of the Coldwater Creek catalog in her multicolored maxi dress and light cardigan. “That’s a great idea. We used to do teas regularly, but we haven’t had one in a few years.”
“Why is that, anyway?” Dorothy asked.
“Don’t you remember? The great Ethel and Marjorie debacle?”
“Oh yes. I had pushed that unpleasantness out of my mind. So far out of my mind I’d forgotten all about it.”
I looked from one to the other. “Would you like to share with the class?”
“Let’s just say two strong-willed women—each with very distinct ideas about how things should be done, and each who believes her way is the right way—should never be cochairs of an event,” Patricia said.
“Talk about a recipe for disaster.” Dorothy grimace
d. “As I recall, I don’t think Ethel or Marjorie spoke to one another for an entire year afterward.”
Sadly, I had seen it before in church. People become possessive of their small patch of power and do not want to concede it to anyone else. Differences of opinion escalate into clashes and hurt feelings. Priests often find themselves moderating conflicts between parishioners privately so that no one undermines the health of the church.
“They eventually made up though, right? I remember at the rectory Marjorie calling Ethel a dear friend.”
“Yes. Thanks to Father Christopher,” Patricia said. “He talked to them both individually and jointly. I have no idea what he said, but whatever it was, he persuaded them to bury the hatchet, and they were good friends again until the day Ethel passed.”
“So, after that, did Father Christopher put the kibosh on having another ladies’ tea?”
“Oh no. Nothing that drastic. I think both Marjorie and Ethel didn’t want to chance endangering their friendship again, so they steered clear of holding another tea.”
“Weren’t there other women in church who could have organized one?”
“Not this woman,” Patricia said. “I was working full-time until two years ago and already juggling several things. I promised myself, and my husband, I wouldn’t commit to anything else.”
“Lottie was always Marjorie’s right hand behind the scenes,” Dorothy said, “but she’s never been very good at being in charge.”
Bingo. Here’s my chance to do something for the women of Faith Chapel. “Well, I happen to be very good at being in charge, so I’ll take on that role. Once I get Father Christopher’s blessing, of course. In fact,” I said, thinking aloud, “what if we made it a classic English tea? Dorothy, since you lived in Merrie Olde, you could guide us to make sure everything’s authentically English.”
Dorothy’s face lit up like a kid hearing the ice cream truck. “I’d love to. Cucumber sandwiches and scones are a must, of course—genuine English scones, with jam and cream.” She scrunched up her nose. “Not those big old dry things they serve in all the coffee shops today. I’ll make my lemon squares, and I’m sure I can get the other Episcopal Christian Women to pitch in. Ooh, maybe Marjorie will make her wonderful curried chicken salad.” Dorothy turned to Patricia. “Remember when she brought it to Ethel’s reception?”
“How could I forget?” Patricia patted her nonexistent stomach and groaned. “I had four of those little sandwiches and two of your delicious lemon squares. Not to mention one of Lottie’s decadent brownies. I was bloated for days.”
“Well, I may be a lousy cook, but I make great sandwiches,” I said. “In fact, my sister-in-law has a wonderful recipe for ham sandwiches with an apricot cream cheese spread. They’re delicious.” I frowned. “Although I’m not sure exactly how English they are.”
“As long as they’re savory and don’t have crusts, that’s fine,” Dorothy said. “We could have ham, chicken, or salmon, or maybe even egg salad.”
As we brainstormed different food ideas, all at once I had a brain wave. “What if we asked the men of the congregation to serve us?”
“That’s a great idea,” Patricia said, in her role as senior warden of the vestry. “Harold can be in charge of the male brigade, and I’m sure a couple of the vestry members will be happy to help too. We can also put out a call for volunteers.”
Just then, a familiar-looking middle-aged man strode up to us. No time like the present.
I stuck out my hand and smiled. “Hi, I’m Pastor Hope. I remember seeing you at church this morning, but we didn’t get a chance to meet. Would you like to serve the women of Faith Chapel?”
“Be happy to.” He shook my hand. “Randy Thompson. At your service.”
“This is my son, Randy Junior,” said Dorothy proudly. “Randy, we’re talking about having a ladies’ tea and getting the men of the church to be servers.”
“Count me in. As long as I don’t have to wear a frilly apron.” Randy glanced at his watch. “Mom, we really need to get going.”
“Oh, of course. I don’t want to be late for my granddaughter’s birthday party.” She turned to me. “Now Pastor Hope, I’ll talk to the ECW women this week and see who’d like to help with the tea.” She squeezed my hand and sent me a gentle look. “And thank you so much for what you shared earlier.” Dorothy said her farewells and then picked up her cane, linking her arm through her son’s and beaming up at him with love and pride as they departed.
“I can see why Father Christopher calls her the sweetheart of Faith Chapel,” I said. “She’s a doll.”
“Yes, she is. Everyone loves Dorothy.” Patricia frowned. “Except Stanley. He wasn’t a fan.”
“Why in the world not?”
“She wouldn’t put up with his crap and called him out on it publicly a few times—usually when he was putting down his kids. Dorothy is a retired first-grade teacher. She taught both Todd and Samantha and wouldn’t stand for anyone bullying her kids.”
“Good for her.”
The more I learned about Stanley, the more I understood why someone might have wanted to take him out. The million-dollar question was who. Or maybe, as I was beginning to realize, the more likely question was, who wouldn’t? Figuring out the identity of his killer was going to be much harder than I’d first thought.
Patricia and I chatted about the tea and some church business. As we were doing so, a silver-haired couple passing by smiled and nodded at us. “Sergeant Beacham.” The man saluted Patricia before they moved on.
“Sergeant? You didn’t tell me you were in the military.”
“Police. Was. I’m retired, which is why I can be on the vestry now. For years my work schedule wouldn’t allow it.”
I stared at Faith Chapel’s senior warden. With my mouth open, apparently.
“Better watch out,” Patricia said. “You’ll catch flies that way.”
My mother used to say that. She would also say, “Do you have a bee in your bonnet, missy?” She had a host of expressions handed down from her mother, which she loved to apply to my sister and me. Like, “I have a bone to pick with you, young lady,” and my personal favorite, “You better learn how to cook, ’cause it takes face powder to catch a man but baking powder to keep him.” That was her response when I called to share the news of my engagement. I never did learn to cook, but David didn’t care because he loved to cook, as did his sister, Virginia.
I returned my attention to Patricia. “Did you and Harold meet on the police force?”
“Yes, ma’am. Thirty-seven years ago. He was my partner in the Sacramento PD. Harold didn’t take too well to a woman partner at first, but I soon set him straight.”
“I’ll bet you did.” I grinned. “How long have you been retired? And how come Harold didn’t retire at the same time?”
“In answer to your first question, two years. As for the second, good question.” She expelled a sigh. “I’ve been after Harold to slow down and relax for ages now. It’s not as if he needs to work. He could have retired at sixty-five with a full pension, but not my husband. The man is seventy-three and he keeps on going, like the Energizer Bunny. He has a perfectly good deputy who could step in and take over, but Harold has a hard time letting go.”
“Most men do.” I sang a snatch of “Let it Go” from Frozen.
“You should join the choir,” Patricia said. “They could use another soprano.”
Two boys ran past then, kicking a soccer ball on the grass. Bogie’s ears perked up. Then a family of four appeared. They spread a blanket on the ground and plopped down on it, and the mother opened a picnic basket and began handing out sandwiches. A young couple, arms entwined and eyes intent only upon each other, strolled by. Just another bucolic Sunday afternoon in small-town America. I could get used to this.
Soon another couple appeared—a white-haired one. Grandparents, I assumed, as I watched them swinging their granddaughter, in jeans and pigtails, between them. When they caught sight of Patri
cia, they smiled and waved. Then they saw me. The couple hesitated, smiles faltering. The woman leaned over and whispered something to the man. They did an abrupt about-face and headed the other way. “But Grampa, I wanna see the lady who kilt the King,” the little girl whined, swiveling her head around to look back at me.
Now I knew how Cary Grant felt in To Catch a Thief when everyone, including his love interest, Grace Kelly, accused the retired cat burglar of stealing jewels. Not quite on the same level as murder, though. I sifted through my mental movie database for a better example. Ashley Judd in Double Jeopardy. Except no way was I going to wind up in prison for a crime I did not commit. I definitely was not going to accelerate a car off a ferry into the ocean in a daring escape attempt—I’m a lousy swimmer.
“Don’t let them get to you,” Patricia said. “As one-half of the lone black couple at Faith Chapel, I know firsthand that folks here take their time with acceptance.”
How much time? Before or after I lost my job? But I didn’t want to be a whiner. Especially not to the vestry senior warden. I redirected the conversation. “I noticed there isn’t much diversity in church. Is Apple Springs predominantly white?”
“Pretty much. There are a couple other black families in town, but they attend First Baptist. There are a few Latinos over at St. Mark’s, the Catholic church, but we only have two Asian families here. The Wongs are Buddhists and Mr. Lee is an atheist.”
“Do you know what they all eat for breakfast too?”
“Pretty much. Let’s see.” Patricia thought for a moment. “The Johnsons over at First Baptist have waffles on the weekends, while their friends, the Montgomerys, usually go for omelets. The Garcias like their bacon and eggs, but the Martinez family prefers pancakes. Mr. Wong likes his French toast, but Mrs. Wong prefers English muffins and fruit. And Mr. Lee has oatmeal every day except Saturday, when he mixes it up with a Danish and coffee.”
“Remind me to hide my Cap’n Crunch.”
“When you live in a small town for any length of time, you know everything about everybody.”
Hope, Faith, and a Corpse Page 5
