I stared at the walking, talking G.I. Joe encyclopedia. Who knew?
Bethann giggled as she broke a Twinkie in half. “You get my Dell going on Joes and he’ll never stop. To answer your question, Pastor, I was at the Barbie convention on the other side of the center. The Coke was out at our snack bar, and all they had was that awful Tab cola that tastes like something the cat drug in.” She shuddered and took a long pull of her Coke. “I walked to the other end of the building, passing G.I. Joes left and right to get to another snack bar, and guess who was there?” She stared at her husband, eyes brimming with love. “My Dell.” Bethann batted her false eyelashes at him. “Of course, he wasn’t my Dell yet.”
“Oh yes I was, honeybunch. I was your Dell ever since the first time I met you. It just took me three decades to find you again, and once I did, I told myself I was never going to lose you.”
“And you never will, sugar.” She planted a big kiss on her husband’s lips.
“How long have you two been married?”
“Twenty years,” Dell said. “Next month will be our twentieth wedding anniversary. We’re going to renew our vows at church and then have a big blowout in our backyard to celebrate.”
“Ah can’t wait!” Bethann said. “Now that mean ole Stanley’s gone, we can have one heckuva party. We’ll invite Todd and Samantha too—they’re not nasty like their daddy was. Samantha always stopped and talked to me when she saw me out front.” She frowned. “Bless her heart. Sami’s had some problems, but her biggest problems were with that mean ole father of hers. There were a couple times she was fixin’ to run away, but somehow or other Stanley always found her before she got too far and brought her back. Poor thing.”
Interesting. I tucked that piece of Samantha-and-Stanley information away to examine later. “Bethann, I love all your southern expressions. I met another southern belle down the street from me recently. Liliane Turner?”
“Shoot, honey, Liliane’s about as southern as I’m tall cotton. Ah’m the real southern belle. She just plays one on stage.”
“Tall cotton?”
“That means rich in the South.”
“Where exactly are you from? I’ve been trying to place your accent. Tennessee?”
“No, honey, that’s Dolly country.” Her face lit up like Clark Griswold’s house in National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. “You ever been to Dollywood? It’s amazin’. Wendell took me for our tenth anniversary. Y’all should go sometime.” She scratched her beehive. “What’d you ask me again, Pastor?”
“I was wondering where you’re from.”
“Oh, that’s right. You’ll have to excuse me. I get forgetful every now and then.” Bethann giggled. “I’d forget my head if it weren’t screwed on. Good thing Dell’s here to fill in the blanks. But before I go down another cotton-pickin’ rabbit trail, lemme answer your question. I was born and raised right outside of Biloxi, Mississippi. Em-eye-ess-ess, eye-ess-ess, eye-pee-pee-eye,” she recited in a singsong voice. “Or as I like to call it, the armpit of America.” She wrinkled her nose. “Summers down in Biloxi were so humid, everythin’ smelled. Biloxi’s claim to fame is its military base. On the weekends my girlfriend Suellen and I would go into town and sneak into the NCO Club with our fake IDs so we could meet some of those good-lookin’ soldier boys. We hoped one of ’em might be our ticket out of Biloxi.”
Bethann’s face clouded. “I guess you could say I was tryin’ to follow in my mama’s footsteps. She run off with a GI when I was nine, and my daddy like to went crazy afterwards, takin’ it out on all of us with his belt—and other things,” she said quietly. “As soon as I could, I hightailed it out of there. And then I was ‘discovered’ in a li’l honky-tonk and the rest is history.”
Before she continued with the rest of that history, I jumped in. “As a singer, Bethann, I’m surprised you don’t sing in the choir. It looks like they could use another soprano.”
“Now y’all don’t take this the wrong way, Pastor. Father. I don’t mean no offense, but that music’s too old-fashioned for me. I’m more of a doo-wop girl.” She jumped up and belted out “Soldier Boy” for our benefit, demonstrating that she still had quite the voice.
We all clapped, and Dell gazed at his wife with stars in his eyes.
“Bethann, Wendell,” Father Christopher said, bringing them back down to earth, “I was concerned when you weren’t in church yesterday.”
“Ah know, Father. Ah’m sorry. Dell’s gout was flarin’ up.”
“Now, honey, let’s not be telling fibs to our priest.” Her husband caressed her cheek. “Truth is, Father, we didn’t want to hear folks go on and on about what a good man Stanley was now he’s dead. Stanley King was an awful human being. I know it’s not Christian of me to say, but I’m relieved he’s gone. He was very mean to my Bethy and hurt her feelings. If I was younger and stronger, I’d have given him a real thrashing. As it was, all this seventy-eight-year-old body could do was yell at him.” His beige countenance reddened. “And you know what Stanley did after that? He laughed and walked away.”
Bethann patted her husband’s hand. “Let’s not talk about that now, sugar. Let’s think about happy things.” She turned to me. “Pastor, would you like a tour of our home?”
“I’d love one—as long as there are no gnomes lying in wait around corners to bop me on the head.”
She giggled and held up three fingers of her right hand. “Scout’s honor. Petula’s in the kitchen, but she’s not high-strung like Elvis.”
Chapter Eight
After Bethann showed off her vintage-sixties kitchen, she led me down another hallway. “We call this our higgledy-piggledy house, ’cause it’s been added on to over the years and goes all over the place.” She came to a door in the hallway and opened it with a triumphant flourish. “This here is Barbie’s room. Isn’t it pinkiful?”
“It certainly is.” The room even smelled pink—the spun-sugar pink of cotton candy, which I realized emanated from a nearby unlit jar candle. Bethann’s Barbie room featured the same pink shag carpet as the living room, but here the walls were Pepto Bismol pink as well. A petite pink crystal chandelier hung from the sparkly pink ceiling, and pink floor-to-ceiling shelves held Barbies of every shape and size. So. Many. Barbies.
Bethann proudly gave me a doll-by-doll tour. “This here’s Western Barbie, and Day-to-Night Barbie, and Enchanted Evening Barbie—don’t you just love her white gloves and tiny white fur stole? Then there’s Kissing Barbie, Wedding Day Barbie, and Malibu Barbie.” She proceeded to show me a host of other Barbies whose names I couldn’t keep track of.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many Barbies in one place before.”
“Shoot, honey, then you haven’t been to a Barbie convention.”
Another item to add to my bucket list.
Leaving Barbie world, Bethann nodded to another closed door across the hall. Dell’s G.I. Joe room, she said, adding that he would want to give me an in-depth tour of all his Joes, so it would be best to save that for another visit.
Thank you, Lord.
When we returned to the living room, Father Christopher and Wendell were discussing the legal threats Stanley had made against the Jacksons and their home in the past.
“It’s our property!” Bethann burst out. “He had no rights to it. We don’t live in one of them fancy communities with all those DOA rules and such.”
“That’s HOA, honey,” Dell said. “Homeowners’ association. DOA means dead on arrival.”
“I’m always getting those alphabet words mixed up.” Bethann giggled. “But I guess it means Stanley’s DOA, huh? Now that that old sourpuss is no longer with us, I have a confession to make.” She leaned in and said in a stage whisper, “Once I let all the air out of the tires of that fancy Lexor of his.”
“Lexus,” Father Christopher said.
“Lexus-shmexus. Nothin’ beats a Caddy in my book.”
* * *
“I always leave the Jackson home with a sm
ile on my face,” Christopher said as we exited the gnomey front yard.
“And Twinkies and grape Nehi in your tummy. Should I order some for the office?”
“Oh no. I don’t want too much junk food around tempting me. My once-a-week indulgence is plenty.”
As we walked, I told Christopher about my idea for the English tea. He gave me his blessing and brought me up to speed on the rest of our visits. Next, we were going to see Bob and Velma Hastings. Bob owned the barbershop on Main Street, Christopher informed me.
“He fell and broke his hip a couple months ago, and although he’s almost fully recovered now, his wife, Velma, is mostly a shut-in, with Parkinson’s and lymphoma.” My boss stopped abruptly on the sidewalk. “I need to warn you, though—Bob’s the one who stormed out of the service when you were speaking. He’s old-fashioned. Doesn’t believe women should be priests, and they certainly shouldn’t preach in church.”
“He must have been a good friend of Stanley’s.”
“Stanley didn’t have friends, good or otherwise, but he and Bob definitely shared some similar opinions.” Christopher pulled a face. “Very loud opinions. They were both on the same page about ‘the fairer sex.’ I tried to remind them that Jesus treated women as equals, but I wasn’t very successful. My prayer is that once Bob gets to know you and sees you in action, he’ll come around. Shall we give it a shot?”
“Why not? What’s the worst that can happen? Besides the tar and feathers, that is?”
We turned the corner and approached a buttery yellow cottage with a manicured lawn. Gorgeous red camellia bushes hugged the front of the house, window boxes brimmed with pansies, and sunny daffodils reminded me of England and Wordsworth. I wandered lonely as a cloud, that floats on high o’er dales and hills, when all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils …
Christopher knocked. A few minutes later, the robin’s-egg-blue door swung open to reveal a beaming Bob Hastings holding on to his walker. Quite a difference from the surly man I had seen at church.
“Father Christopher, right on time.” Then he saw me. Sparks flew from his faded blue eyes as they locked on to my dog collar. His hands shook as he gripped his walker. “What is she doing here? I will not allow that woman—that affront to the church—into my home.”
Well, all righty then.
“Now Bob—” Christopher began.
“It’s okay.” I laid my hand on his arm. “You go ahead. I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Are you sure?” He sent me a concerned look.
“I’m sure.”
My job was to provide spiritual comfort and care to parishioners who needed it. With this congregation, much of that comfort would involve the elderly and sick. Forcing myself on a frail old man adamantly opposed to women priests, and with an ailing wife to boot, would do more harm than good. That didn’t mean Bob Hastings’s deep-seated antagonism didn’t rankle, even sting, but now was not the time to show that. I hitched up my big-girl pants and told Father Christopher I would meet him in the square when he was finished. Then I nodded to the elderly man. “Mr. Hastings. Please give your wife my best. She’s in my prayers.”
As I turned and walked away, I took deep breaths in and out. I’ve never been big on conflict, thanks to my upbringing with a rageaholic father. I used to quake at the prospect of any kind of discord and went out of my way to avoid it. Over the years, however, I’ve learned how to manage my response to conflict and not let it get the best of me. Arriving at the square, I sat down on Dorothy’s husband’s memorial bench, pulled out my phone, and texted my San Francisco sister-in-law.
Guess what? The good old boys club is alive and well in Apple Springs.
I paused before hitting send. Did I really want to whine to Virginia?
Of course you do. She’s your oldest friend, and you don’t know anyone else here well enough to join you in your whinemobile. You can’t whine to anyone at Faith Chapel. Even senior warden Patricia. As her pastor, it would be inappropriate to dis one member of the church to another.
That’s one of the reasons our bishop always encourages his priests to have friends outside the church to confide in. My go-to person has always been Virginia. I hit send.
Within seconds, her response appeared.
Virginia: No! Say it isn’t so. Thank God you told me. I thought we would NEVER figure that out.
Me: Funny.
Virginia: Did another good ol’ boy walk out on you?
Me: No. The same one who left in a huff yesterday wouldn’t allow me to darken his door today. Once Barber Bob saw me, he nearly burst a blood vessel. Good thing he wasn’t giving someone a haircut. Talk about a close shave.
Virginia: Ba-dum-bum. So what happened?
Me: He wouldn’t let me in his home, so I left. Guess he thought I’d contaminate the place.
Virginia: Probably afraid you’d give his wife ideas. LOL. She added a wink emoji. Some men can’t handle a strong woman. But other than that, how’s it going?
Me: Good. I spent more time with the Elvis-gnome couple earlier and I’ve been learning more about some of the townspeople. I think I might have a good lead on a possible suspect.
Virginia: Beehive woman and Beige man?
Me: Yes. Their names are Bethann and Dell and they’re actually quite sweet. Eccentric, but sweet.
Virginia: Eccentric seems to be the word of the day for Apple Springs. So, which one is your suspect?
Me: Neither. Well—the husband might be, but there’s someone else who seems a lot more likely. He—
“Hi, Pastor Hope.”
I looked up from my phone to see two women from the congregation whom I recognized as the altos who had joined Dorothy’s standing ovation when Christopher introduced me. Could I remember their names, though? Not a chance. The joys of midlife. “Hi there. How are you?”
“Fine,” said the tall, older one. “We wanted to say how happy we are you’re at Faith Chapel. It’s great to have a woman priest.”
“Thank you.” I sent her a winning smile, hoping it would offset the fact that I had forgotten her name.
“Long overdue,” said her shorter, younger pal, who introduced herself as Judy. “It’s about time we had some female leadership in church. Seems Apple Springs is always a day late and a dollar short. It takes us a while to catch up with the rest of the world.”
You want to pass that on to Bob the barber?
Her tall pal, who revealed that her name was Jeanne, said, “Pastor, I don’t suppose you sing, by any chance? You may have noticed our choir’s pretty thin.”
“Except for Ed,” Judy said.
Jeanne snorted. “He’s loud enough to carry the bass section by himself. Now, if we could only get him to sing in tune.”
“Elizabeth tries, but it’s like banging her head against a brick wall. She’s hoping to find another bass soon to try and balance him out.”
The choir director, Elizabeth Davis, and I had met during coffee hour yesterday but had not gotten a chance to talk much. I was looking forward to tomorrow’s staff meeting, where I would hopefully get to know her better. As we were the only two women on staff, it would be nice to share a comrades-in-arms kinship.
“Well, I’m not a bass, but I do sing, although it’s been a few years since I was in choir.”
“That’s okay. It will come back to you. It’s like riding a bike,” said Judy, who seemed to have an affinity for clichés. “Are you an alto or soprano?”
“Soprano.”
“First or second?”
“First. I don’t read music that well, so I need to stick to the melody.”
“Works for me,” Jeanne said. She grinned and high-fived a beaming Judy. “Now the women will be evenly matched. We need to start hunting for some men.”
“I’ve been doing that for years,” Judy said, “and come up empty-handed.”
“Nuh-uh,” Jeanne said slyly. “What about Stanley?”
Stanley? Inwardly I did Bogie’s Scooby impression�
�Aarug?—while outwardly I maintained my pastoral composure. Here was the perfect opportunity to learn more about the dead Mr. King from someone who might have known him intimately.
Judy blushed. “As I said, I came up empty.”
“Stanley King? Did you two date?”
“If you can call three dates dating.”
“What was he like?”
“Very charming. At first. Flowers, fancy dinners out, compliments out the wazoo, the whole nine yards. When Stanley turns his attention on you, he’s laser-focused. Makes you feel as if you’re the only person in the world. It was all a game to him though, a game I caught on to quickly. Once I did, the real Stanley came out.” Judy made a face. “The nasty, narcissistic player without an ounce of empathy. The charm disappeared in a New York minute. After that, whenever I saw him, he acted as if I didn’t exist, which was fine by me. I really dodged a bullet there.”
“Stanley didn’t.” Jeanne winked.
“Huh?” Judy’s forehead creased. “He was shot? I thought someone hit him over the head with Ethel’s urn.”
“You’re so literal. It was a joke.”
Judy stuck out her tongue at her fellow alto before turning to me. “Elizabeth will be over the moon to learn we have a new soprano.”
“As over-the-moon as Elizabeth gets,” Jeanne said. “She’s what you’d call reserved.”
The two altos then filled me in on choir details, including what to expect from our choir director. Elizabeth Davis might be distant in her social interactions, Judy said, but when she put on her director’s hat, she was a stern taskmaster who pushed them hard and demanded excellence.
“Works for me,” I said. “I like to be challenged.” After a few more minutes of polite chitchat, the double-Js left.
I then returned my attention to my phone to discover multiple texts from Virginia.
Virginia: He what? Don’t leave me hanging after saying there’s a likely suspect in the murder.
Me: You there?
Virginia: Everything okay?
Hope, Faith, and a Corpse Page 8
