Hope, Faith, and a Corpse

by Laura Jensen Walker

  “Obviously.” I unzipped my hoodie as the sun warmed the square. “Speaking of, what’s the story on Todd and Samantha’s uncle?”

  “James Brandon? He’s a great guy. Really good real estate agent and a perennial bachelor, like his look-alike George Clooney. Like George was, I mean. James just hasn’t met the woman of his dreams yet.” Patricia gave me a speculative look. “Or has he?”

  “Not me.” I held up my hands. “I’m not looking for romance.”

  “Then why did you ask what the story was on him?”

  “I meant his backstory.” I glanced around to make sure no one could overhear. “Do you think he could have killed Stanley?”

  “Are you playing Nancy Drew?”

  “Trixie Belden. Nancy drove a convertible and always had to run to her rich father for help. I am just trying to clear my name and keep my job. Kind of hard to do when everyone thinks you whacked the richest guy in town.”

  “Not everyone.”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but you’re in the minority.”

  “I’m used to that,” Patricia said dryly, “but I’m not the only one.”

  “Huh?”

  She looked around as well, and upon seeing a woman two benches over engrossed in a book, she lowered her voice. “I’m not the only one who thinks you didn’t kill Stanley. A little birdie told me he was most likely killed the night before you found him.”

  “Then I’m no longer a suspect?” I stopped myself from doing a fist pump and yelling out “Yes!” but barely.

  “Not officially. By the way, that tidbit is between you, me, and this bench.”

  “Got it. But back to my original question. From what you know of Todd and Samantha’s uncle James, do you think he could have killed his brother-in-law?”

  “I don’t think so. James is a really nice guy. He’s not the murdering type. Although …” A thoughtful look crossed her face. “He did get into a terrible fight with Stanley years ago when his sister Lily died. Attacked him at her funeral, in fact. James went a little crazy—started yelling and punching Stanley in the face. Stanley never was one to back down from a fight, so of course he fought back. Harold and I had to pull them apart. I thought James was going to kill Stanley.”

  “That’s what I’m sayin’.”

  “But that was over twenty years ago. He was crazy with grief over the loss of his sister. Why would he kill Stanley now?”

  “Good question.”

  Patricia’s attention was diverted by a beefy bald man in a tan suit crossing the street. “He’s certainly got a spring in his step these days.”

  “Who?”

  “Don Forrester.” The bald man saw Patricia and waved. She smiled and waved back, saying under her breath, “Stanley’s ex-partner in the law firm. For my money, he’s someone more likely to consider as a potential murderer than James Brandon. Stanley ruined Don. He lost his practice, his wife, and his reputation.” Retired cop Patricia then informed me of the most common motives for murder: money, passion, and revenge. “It took Don years to recover. It was a long, hard slog for him, but over time, he built his practice back up. Rumor is he also started seeing someone recently, although I don’t know who.”

  “Wait.” I stared at her. “You know what everyone in town eats for breakfast, but you don’t know their love lives?”

  “People tend to be more discreet about their relationships than their food choices.”

  “So, do you think this Don guy’s a serious suspect?”

  “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  We both jumped at the police chief’s voice, which made Bogie bark.

  “Shh, Bogie. It’s okay.”

  “Darling, you startled us.”

  “I noticed. Sounded like an intense discussion you two were having.” Harold Beacham joined us on the bench, crossing his khaki-clad legs. “Did I hear the word suspect, or did my ears deceive me? I’m hoping it’s the latter.”

  Pinocchio has nothing on me. I cannot tell a lie. Although my nose doesn’t grow, it does turn red and my face gets all blotchy whenever I tell an untruth. Since becoming a priest, I have given up lying altogether, and not just for Lent. “Your ears didn’t deceive you, Chief. I’m trying to figure out who could have murdered Stanley.”

  “Aren’t you a bit young to be playing Miss Marple?”

  “Trixie Belden,” I corrected him. “I’m trying to clear my name.”

  “Please leave that to the police. No offense, Pastor Hope, but how about you stick to pastoring, and I’ll stick to investigating?”

  “Sweetheart,” Patricia interjected, smoothly changing the subject. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve offered up your services to Hope.”

  “You what?”

  “We want to have a women’s tea at church and have the men of Faith Chapel serve us. I told Hope you’d be delighted to be in charge of the male servers.”

  Harold sent a wry glance at my T-shirt and affected an English accent. “Just call me Carson.” He stood and gave a bow. “One lump or two?”

  Chapter Six

  After the Beachams left, I decided to take the long way home. As Bogie and I wandered the outskirts of Apple Springs, I mulled over what Patricia had said about James and his fight with Stanley all those years ago. Adding that to what James himself had revealed to me, could it be he didn’t want to see history repeat itself and had killed Stanley before he had a chance to destroy his niece’s life as well? Then I thought of what Patricia had said about Don Forrester and how the most common motives for murder were money, passion, and revenge. Based on what she and Susan over at the diner had said about Stanley ruining his former partner, Don Forrester certainly had the revenge factor going for him. Could money also be a possibility? As far as I knew, Stanley and Don were the only two lawyers in Apple Springs. With Stanley now out of the way, Don Forrester would be the only game in town, legally speaking.

  Bogie strained at the leash, putting an end to my conjecturing. I noticed an open field before us dotted with massive oaks and squirrels, his favorite toys. “Okay, boy.” I unclipped his leash. “Go have fun.”

  He streaked across the field, heading for the nearest tree and a play date with his furry friends. I watched as two gray squirrels skittered up the trunk of the live oak, keeping up a constant stream of chatter. Bogie hurtled himself at the tree as the noisy duo toyed with him, scampering just out of his reach. Eventually he planted himself at the base of the tree and stared upward, his big brown eyes following their every movement. The squirrels put on a show for Bogie, the larger one playing a game of catch me if you can. The larger squirrel scurried around to the back of the tree, then back to the front, as his chattering pal on the branch above him cheered him on. Bogie followed, barking and circling the tree in a furious attempt to keep up with his bushy-tailed buddy.

  David and I used to laugh together over Bogie’s squirrel obsession. All my husband had to do was say “Squirrel!” and Bogie would be out the back door like a rocket, racing to our huge pecan tree and barking at the trio of red squirrels that called it home.

  Home.

  Ready to go home, I whistled, and Bogie came running. Exiting the field, we found ourselves in a small cemetery, and I realized we’d wound up on the grounds of Faith Chapel behind the annex. Christopher had mentioned that the church had a graveyard, but I had missed seeing it when I was last at the chapel crypt. Something about finding Stanley’s dead body.

  I have always loved cemeteries. When I was young, my parents would take us once a month to put flowers on my grandparents’ graves. After paying my respects, I would wander among the graves with my sister, reading the headstones. My girlish heart was touched by the lasting testaments and tributes to those who had gone before, and I would imagine what my headstone might say one day. One thing for sure, it wouldn’t be just beloved wife and mother—I had more exciting plans for my epitaph. Like dancer, artist, actor, Nobel Peace Prize winner …

  On our honeym
oon, David and I spent a couple of days in Normandy, where we visited the American Cemetery at Omaha Beach. Nothing could have prepared us for the terrible beauty of row after row of thousands of white marble crosses on a hill high above the English Channel. Afterward, we paid our respects at the nearby Bayeux War Cemetery, wandering among the graves of fallen Englishmen, Scots, and Canadians. There the epitaphs were more detailed—often with scriptures or lines of poetry. We saw a few that said, Greater love hath no man than this; that a man lay down his life for his friends, but the one that made me weep was To the world—a soldier. To us—the world. I recalled those poetic remembrances as I walked through Faith Chapel’s graveyard with its mix of old and new headstones. Some of the weather-beaten tombstones told the hard life story of the early days:

  Sarah Brown, age 18. Anna Brown, age one day, 1867. Forever united.

  Richard Chamberlain, age 1 year, 5 months, 25 days, 1869.

  Henry Chamberlain, age 11 months, 29 days, 1870.

  Mary Chamberlain, age 17 days, 1870.

  A banner over the family headstone of the three Chamberlain children—Marjorie’s ancestors, I assumed—read Lost on earth to bloom in heaven. I knelt and prayed.

  Bogie barked, interrupting my meditations.

  A dark head popped out from behind a massive oak a few feet away. “Hey. How’s it goin’?’

  As I rounded the tree, I saw the head was attached to a teenage girl with a familiar colorful sleeve tattoo and an open sketchbook in her lap. She introduced herself as Riley Smith and apologized for not being able to talk to me at church this morning.

  “Megan and her mom got into it, and she needed me.”

  “I understand. We all need friends we can vent to.” I glanced down at the sketchbook. “You’re an artist?”

  “I wish. I’m just messing around.”

  “Could I see?”

  “They’re not very good.”

  “I’d still love to see them. I always admire people who can draw. I can’t draw to save my life. Even my stick people bow their heads in shame.” I had scratched artist off my imaginary tombstone ages ago.

  Riley handed me the sketchbook hesitantly, then focused her full attention on Bogie, stroking his fur while I checked out her art. He rolled onto his back, offering her his stomach, and she scratched his tummy, sending him into dog ecstasy.

  I looked at the sketch she was working on—a meticulous charcoal rendering of Faith Chapel with the town of Apple Springs spread out below it and the cemetery headstones in the foreground. As I looked closer, I noticed a fairy peeking over the top of one of the headstones, adding a touch of whimsy to the peaceful scene.

  “Wow. This is really good.” I turned the page. The next sketch was also of the church grounds, only this time from a different angle. A gorgeous unicorn stood in the center of the graveyard, a mischievous wood nymph on its back, plaiting its mane. Fairies fluttered in the air above the unicorn. It could have been an illustration out of a fairy tale. “These are amazing. This one makes me want to jump on the unicorn’s back and fly off to Neverland.”

  “Really?” Riley blushed.

  “Really. You’re very talented. These could be in a children’s book. How long have you been drawing?”

  “Since I was a kid.”

  The next sketch was a colored pencil drawing of flowers, hearts, and dragonflies. I glanced at her arm and then back at the sketch. “This is your tattoo.”

  “Yeah. I knew what I wanted, but the guy didn’t have any examples in his shop, so I drew it out for him.”

  “How cool is that? Do you mind if I look closer at the real thing?”

  “Sure.” She extended her arm to me.

  I scrutinized the vivid ink. A water lily formed the centerpiece of her tat, with vivid green and blue dragonflies flying among trailing fuchsia vines entwined between pink hearts and purple canna lilies. “Gorgeous.”

  “My grandma had this dragonfly lamp she loved, and I was always fascinated by it as a kid, so drew my inspiration from it.”

  “That inspiration served you well. How long have you had your tattoo?”

  “Six months. It was my eighteenth birthday present to myself.”

  “My stepdaughter did the same thing when she turned eighteen.” I smiled, remembering. “Emily had wanted a tattoo since she was fifteen, but since you can’t get one until you’re of legal age, she asked us for one as a gift for her eighteenth birthday. Her dad was squeamish of needles, so I took her to the tattoo parlor instead.”

  “You did? Cool. My mom would never do that.”

  “Neither would mine. My mother wouldn’t even let me wear makeup in high school, much less get my ears pierced.” I glanced at Riley. “Are you out of school already?”

  “Not yet. A few more months before I graduate. I was held back freshman year.” She grimaced. “I suck at math.”

  “I hear ya. I almost didn’t get my bachelor’s because I kept failing the requisite math test. Luckily, there was a bonehead math class at the community college my final semester that I passed. Barely.” I hadn’t used algebra or geometry since, but I kept that fact of life to myself, figuring Riley’s parents wouldn’t appreciate my telling her that at this so-close-to-graduation juncture.

  “Have you been at Faith Chapel long, Riley? Does your family also attend?”

  “Nah. They’re Baptists. I was raised Baptist, but their music’s too happy-clappy for me, so I started coming here with Megan last year. I like the whole liturgy thing. It’s cool.”

  Be still my Episcopal heart.

  Riley locked her big dark eyes on mine. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything.”

  “Did you kill Stanley King?”

  I met her eyes with a steady gaze. “No.”

  “That’s what I thought. I mean, he was a real creep and all, but you didn’t even know him. Why would you murder the dude?”

  “Exactly. I take it you weren’t a Stanley fan?”

  “God no!” She blushed. “Sorry. I mean gosh no. He was a pig. Always hitting on every woman in sight, even though he was hella old. Gross.” She made a moue of disgust.

  My priestly radar went up. “Did Stanley ever hit on you?”

  “Yeah. A couple times.” She waved it off. “But I told him where to go. Then he hit on Megan, though, and she totally freaked, especially since he used to date her mom. Really creeped her out. She wasn’t even seventeen yet. The guy was a real perv.”

  Good thing Stanley was no longer around. If he were, I would have given him a piece of my mind, and my fist, and then reported him to Harold Beacham. I wondered if anyone ever had. “Did Megan tell her mom about Stanley coming on to her?”

  “Are you kidding? Her mom would lose it. Or worse, not believe her. They have their issues. Bonnie’s uber-protective with lots of rules—I think ’cause she’s a single mom—and Megan has a hard time following all the rules, so sometimes she lies to her mom. Nothing big,” Riley added hastily. “The normal stuff. You know. Like saying she’s done her homework when she hasn’t, or about where she’s going, what time she got home. Things like that.”

  I knew all too well. Emily had gone through her own rebellious teen phase—lying to us about where she had been, what time she had gotten home, and falling for a bad-news boyfriend. Thankfully, she outgrew all that and went on to college and got her degree. Emily was now married to a great guy—a lieutenant in the Air Force—and living in Germany with him and our three-year-old granddaughter, Kelsey.

  “Stanley was a total douchebag.” Riley’s thick eyebrows met in a scowl. “So mean to his kids. Did you know his son Todd’s this really amazing artist? You think I’m good, wait until you see some of Todd’s stuff. It’s epic.” A fangirling smile replaced her scowl.

  Someone has a crush.

  “Todd used to have this cool studio in town where he’d let the art students come and hang out and work on their stuff. Even our teacher painted some of her watercolors there.” Riley’s scowl retur
ned. “Then his dad kicked him out. Said he needed the space, but it’s still sitting empty. That creeper didn’t need it. He was just punishing Todd. The scumbag.”

  “Do you know Todd very well?”

  “Kind of.” Her cheeks turned pink.

  “He seems pretty tight with his sister.”

  “Yeah. They’re like best friends, I guess.”

  “What about his dad? I understand they didn’t get along?”

  Riley snorted. “God no. Sorry, I mean gosh. Todd hated his dad. I would have too if he had been my dad. Stanley King was the biggest control freak around. When Todd moved out, his dad couldn’t stand it. Didn’t want his son to have his own life, so he did all these things to sabotage him.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like putting him down all the time in front of other people, telling him he had no talent, and taking back the car he’d given him for his birthday. The worst thing, though, was two days before Todd was set to have his first art show at the studio, Stanley pulled the plug and kicked him out. Can you believe it? What an a-hole.” She blushed. “Sorry, Pastor.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve heard worse.”

  “Todd was so upset. He’d been working day and night to have enough pieces ready for the show, but because his dad is such a jerk, suddenly he had no place to exhibit them. Todd had to cancel the show. He was devastated.”

  “I can imagine. I would be too.” How could a father be so cruel? I was beginning to get a clearer picture of Stanley King, and it wasn’t pretty. No wonder someone had done him in. The question was, could it have been his own son?

  “What about Samantha? Do you know her too? How did she get along with her dad?”

  “I don’t really know her, but Todd said Stanley thought of his daughter as his property and tried to make her his arm-candy substitute wife whenever he had parties.”

  Bogie nudged Riley to keep petting him. “Sorry, boy. Was I not paying attention to you?” Riley plowed her fingers through his thick fur and scratched his back. “I know you’re not supposed to dis the dead and stuff, and I prolly shouldn’t say this, but to tell you the truth, I’m glad the guy’s dead. He made his son’s life and many others’ a living hell.” She swiveled her head, looking around, and said in a stage whisper, “I think I know who killed him.”