Hope, Faith, and a Corpse

by Laura Jensen Walker

  Me: Sorry. Everything’s fine. Can’t talk now. I’ll call or text you later.

  I leaned back against the bench and thought about my morning so far. When I woke up today, I had not expected to join the choir. I’ve always loved to sing, as did David. It was one of the things that drew us together—that and our love of old movies. We had been in choir together at St. Luke’s, but when David got so sick, we had to drop out. After he passed, I couldn’t face rejoining the choir and not seeing David in his familiar seat in the tenor section. This was a new church, though. A new choir. And I was ready—no, eager—to sing again.

  Then I thought of Bob Hastings, and my good mood dissipated. How was I ever going to get him and others like him to accept me? I might have to face the fact that they never would, and I would have to make my peace with that. I couldn’t force it, but neither was I going to turn tail and run because some old guys got their boxer shorts in a twist. As we had learned in seminary, not everyone in church is going to love you. It’s a fact of clerical life.

  One of those church people who did not love me walked past just then—Marjorie Chamberlain, in a yellow-and-orange-checked polyester pantsuit. She pretended she didn’t see me and kept right on walking.

  Chapter Nine

  I felt the need. The need for tea. Maybe even a piece of Susan’s yummy pie.

  Pie? Seriously? After the junk food you had at the Jacksons?

  It was only half a Hostess cupcake, I reminded my dietary conscience. I didn’t even eat the whole thing. It would have been impolite to refuse, especially during my first pastoral visit. The last thing I need is any more negative commentary.

  Susan looked up from wiping down the counter as I entered the nearly empty diner, which smelled of bacon, cinnamon, and coffee. “Looks like someone needs some liquid refreshment.”

  “Got any margaritas behind the counter?”

  “Sadly, no. I’d offer you a good cup of coffee, but since you’re the tea queen, why don’t you take a load off while I go get you some boiling water?”

  I sank into the back booth where I could gaze upon Cary Grant—always a good way to improve my mood. North by Northwest is one of my favorite Grant-Hitchcock collaborations. I used to wish I were Eva Marie Saint hanging from Mount Rushmore with my leading man of choice. However, gazing at Cary didn’t help this time.

  Susan returned, steaming kettle in hand. “Now what happened to give you such a hangdog expression? I thought priests were always supposed to be mellow and beatific like Bing Crosby.”

  “Easy to be beatific when you’re male and not the spawn of Satan.” I pulled out my PG Tips and dropped it into the cup. “I just came from the Hastings’.”

  “Ah, that explains it.” Susan poured the steaming water into my cup. “Bob’s—how shall I put this nicely? A chauvinist. He’s usually fine with me because I know my place. After all, I make and serve food—the best job a woman can have, after being a wife and mom.” She dropped into the seat across from me. “But when I dared to challenge him as a contender for president of the rotary club a few years ago, he about blew a gasket.”

  Sounds like my parents. When my mom and dad learned of my decision to become an Episcopal priest, they went ballistic. Called me a heretic and said I was going against the natural order of things. I invited them to my ordination, although I knew they wouldn’t come, and they didn’t disappoint me.

  I snapped out of my walk down unhappy memory lane when I noticed Susan’s lips moving.

  “Think of yourself as the spiritual Obi-Wan facing off against Darth Vader,” she was saying.

  “Bob Hastings isn’t Darth Vader. I’m not sure I’d even consider him a stormtrooper.” Actually, he reminds me more of Yoda, with his wispy head and big ears—but I didn’t say that aloud.

  “You’re right. Stanley King was actually Darth Vader. Or some other kind of alien life-form.” Susan snapped her fingers. “That’s it. Stanley was that ancient evil alien, and you’re Sigourney Weaver. Ripley was such a badass. Remember that last scene when she blasted that freakin’ alien into deep space?”

  “Don’t forget Aliens when she was protecting the little girl Newt and said, ‘Get away from her, you you-know-what.’”

  “You can’t say the b-word?” Susan glanced at my collar. “Oh yeah, I guess you can’t.”

  Although there is no official rule in the Episcopal Church against profanity and bad language, most priests avoid it. It was easy for me not to indulge because of how I was raised. I’ve shed much of my repressive upbringing, but some of it still clings to me like plastic wrap. “I can’t say the f-word either—and not the f-word you’re thinking of,” I confessed. “It wasn’t allowed in our house. We had to either say toot or pass gas. Actually, I prefer what they say in England—break wind.”

  Susan snorted. “Okay, Dowager Countess. Or is it Lady Hope?”

  The bell over the entrance jangled, and I looked up, expecting to see Christopher. Instead, in walked my number-one murder suspect in a gray suit and red power tie heading straight for me.

  The lawyer strode over, gave me a huge smile, and stuck out his bear paw of a hand. “Welcome to Apple Springs, Pastor Hope. Sorry I haven’t had a chance to meet you yet. I’m Don Forrester, Baptist and attorney-at-law, although not necessarily in that order.” He released a hearty laugh. “May I join you?”

  “Of course.” Saves me having to come up with an excuse to seek you out. I motioned for him to sit.

  Before he did, the jovial lawyer clapped his beefy hand on Susan’s shoulder. “Susan, could I have a cup of joe and some of your fabulous blueberry pie?”

  “You got it.”

  Don smiled and waved at someone across the room, then gave a thumbs-up to a middle-aged man at the counter before sliding into the booth across from me. He turned his full attention on me, giving me a megawatt smile, which revealed blinding white teeth. “So, what do you think of our little town so far?”

  I think you must have a great dentist.

  “I really like it. Apart from the obvious first-day debacle, of course.”

  He tilted his head to one side, the way Bogie does when he’s confused.

  “Finding Stanley King dead in the columbarium and being accused of his murder?”

  A scowl replaced Don Forrester’s smile. “I won’t pretend I’m sorry that ass—pardon my French, Pastor—piece of sh—I mean jerk, is dead. He got what was coming to him.”

  “That seems to be the prevailing opinion. Still, it’s disconcerting to be thought of as a murderer.”

  “Why the hell—excuse me, heck—would you kill Stanley? You didn’t even know him, did you?”

  “No. I met him once.”

  “Well then.”

  Susan reappeared with his pie and coffee. “Here you go.” To my dismay, she lingered. “How’s it going?”

  “Can’t complain, can’t complain.”

  I sipped my tea and listened with half an ear as the two caught up on the latest town gossip, trying to think of a way to bring the conversation back around to Stanley so I could casually grill his former law partner.

  Susan beat me to it. “Pretty shocking about old Stan-the-man, huh? I don’t think our sleepy town has ever had a murder before, has it?”

  “Not that I know of,” Don said, greedily forking down a mouthful of pie.

  “So who do you think did it?” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Some jealous husband? A spurned lover? Business associate?”

  Don choked on his pie. He grabbed his coffee and took a big gulp as his face turned red.

  “Are you okay?” I hoped I wasn’t going to have to give him the Heimlich. I knew how—I’m certified in first aid and CPR—but Don was a big guy, and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to wrap my arms all the way around him.

  He took another gulp of coffee. “I’m okay. Went down the wrong way.”

  Susan brought him a glass of water, which he downed.

  “Better?”

  “Much. If you’ll excu
se me for a minute, I think I’ll go to the little boys’ room.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Susan said. “Sure you’re okay?”

  He nodded.

  We watched after him as he headed to the back of the diner.

  “Well played, my friend, well played. Do you think he thinks you’re hinting he may have murdered Stanley?”

  “Maybe.” Susan leaned in and whispered. “But also I was tired of looking at those teeth. The guy beams all the time like he’s frickin’ Santa Claus or something. And even more so now that his ex–business partner’s kicked the bucket.”

  The bell over the front door jangled again. Father Christopher entered and looked around. Spotting me, he smiled and hurried over. “I thought you might come here for some fortification.” Then he noticed the half-eaten pie and coffee opposite me. “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?”

  “Not at all. Have a seat.” I scooted over. “Don Forrester will be back in a minute.”

  Susan held up the coffeepot. “Coffee, Father? And pie?”

  “I’d love a cup of coffee, but no pie today.” He patted his potbelly. “I’ve had my fill of sweets this morning.”

  “Well, that’s a first.”

  “I need to keep my boyish figure.”

  Don returned but did not sit back down. He dropped a ten-dollar bill on the table and said he had to leave for an appointment. The lawyer made his farewells and left, considerably less jovial than when he’d arrived.

  Christopher filled me in on the Hastings visit, and we discussed the upcoming vestry meeting and myriad church-life details until we couldn’t put it off any longer.

  “Are you ready for this, Hope?”

  “Yep. Let’s do it.”

  Our final pastoral visit of the day was with Todd and Samantha King to discuss their father’s funeral and burial arrangements. Christopher had given me a heads-up that the siblings would probably be unpleasantly surprised at what their father had arranged.

  Dealing with the bereaved is a tricky situation and can often turn ugly. Particularly when it comes to funeral arrangements. Sometimes one family member has a plan in mind while another has a very different idea. Trying to manage the needs of each family member requires tact and diplomacy. In this case, however, Stanley had not left much to chance. His instructions were quite clear.

  As we walked, Christopher told me how Stanley liked to play games with people. His latest game had been to tell his children he was going to cut them out of his will and leave all his money to the church instead.

  “And did he?”

  “I have no idea. As far as I know, they haven’t read the will yet, but I can’t imagine Stanley would have left his children high and dry. They were Kings, after all, and he wanted to leave a legacy.”

  Most people consider their children their legacy, I thought. Stanley, however, from everything I had learned about him, defined himself by his affluence. It would not surprise me one bit if he wanted to leave Apple Springs some sort of lasting monument of his wealth.

  Passing the Jacksons’ gnome wonderland, we continued around the corner to Stanley’s mansion. A tall boxwood hedge separated the two houses, blocking Stanley’s view of Bethann and Wendell’s higgledy-piggledy home and yard. We climbed the wide stone steps of the Italianate mansion, and Christopher rang the bell.

  Samantha opened the door, wearing skinny jeans and a black tee. “Father Christopher. Pastor Hope. Thank you for coming.” Although her eyes were red-rimmed, she seemed more composed today. She led us into the foyer, where I noticed a framed picture of Stanley and world-renowned opera singer Luca Giordano on the entry table, with Stanley holding a program from La Bohème. My favorite tenor. His version of “Nessun Dorma” always gives me chills.

  “Was your father an opera lover?”

  “Nope.” Todd joined us, clad in a Pink Floyd T-shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops. “What the King loved—besides money and himself—was being part of the elite rich and famous, and documenting it for everyone else to see.”

  “Todd, please,” Samantha said.

  “What? I’m just telling it like it is.” He nodded at the wall behind us.

  I turned around to see a collage of framed photos of Stanley King and various luminaries: Ronald Reagan, Steve Jobs, Joe Montana, Clint Eastwood, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Mary Kay Ash, and Vanna White. Interesting that the only two women on the celebrity wall were the founder of a cosmetics empire famous for its coveted pink Cadillacs and a pretty blonde who pushes letters on TV for a living. “That’s quite a collection.”

  “Yes, my father was very proud of his wall of fame,” Samantha said.

  “Prouder than he was of his offspring. Notice my sister and I didn’t make it onto good old Dad’s wall,” Todd said. “We’re in good company, though. Meryl Streep and Gloria Steinem didn’t make the cut either. He met them at a fund raiser where he was spouting his usual sexist crap, and they eloquently cut him down to size.” He grinned. “One of the highlights of my life.”

  “Why don’t we go into the living room?” Samantha led us into the large, celery-green high-ceilinged room with coved ceilings, crown molding, plush Oriental carpets, and a massive marble fireplace. In front of the fireplace stood a tall man, his back to us, gazing at something on the mantel. He turned as we entered, and I saw he had been looking at a silver-framed photo.

  “Father, you know Uncle James, but Pastor, I don’t think you two have met.”

  “We have, actually. Yesterday, when I was walking my dog.” No basketball shorts today, though. James Brandon was wearing gray dress slacks and a black button-down shirt, which highlighted his gray-flecked hair. If I was in the market, I might take a second look, but I’ve never been a big shopper.

  Samantha sent her uncle a questioning glance.

  “Nessa-the-Brave went into full-on protect mode against the reverend’s big Lab.”

  “My big chicken Lab. Bogie hid behind me while Nessa warned him off her turf.”

  “I’d like to have seen that,” Todd said.

  James glanced at my eye. “I like the purple and yellow.”

  “Shall we all sit?” Samantha said. “Would you like iced tea or coffee? Father, I’ve got your favorite French roast and chocolate pie from Suzie’s.”

  “Sounds heavenly.”

  I watched in surprise as Christopher accepted the piece of pie he had turned down at the diner not ten minutes ago. Probably to fortify him for the difficult task ahead. With that in mind, I accepted one as well so as not to be rude.

  As we ate, we made small talk about the weather (mild, with the potential for a cold snap), James’s Realtor job (encompassing Apple Springs and nearby Sutter Creek as well), Todd’s art (he was working on some new pieces for a client), Samantha’s return to school (for a teaching credential), and their beautiful home. Much to my surprise, I learned that the Italianate mansion had formerly been Marjorie Chamberlain’s ancestral home.

  “I can’t believe Marjorie sold this place,” I said, looking around. “She’s so proud of her heritage, I’d have thought nothing could move her from her family home.” Marlon Brando’s Godfather popped into my head. Maybe Stanley made her an offer she couldn’t refuse.

  “You obviously didn’t know the King,” Todd said. “He always had to have the best and the biggest. Chamberlain House was the best and biggest stately home in town. He bought it as a wedding present for my mother years ago.”

  James scowled. “Lily hated it. This place was way too big and grand for her. She would have preferred something smaller and simpler. She always called it the prisoner’s palace.”

  “Mom knew what she was talking about.” Todd shot his sister a meaningful look. “Right, Red?”

  “That’s another story for another day,” Samantha said. Setting down her half-eaten piece of pie, she looked at her uncle, who gave her an encouraging nod. “Uncle James has been a huge help in all of this.” Her voice trembled. “I don’t know what we’d have done without him. Thank you,” she
said to him as she retrieved a piece of paper from the table beside her.

  “You’re welcome, sweetheart. Any way I can lend a hand, you let me know.”

  “Nice to have you back in the palace again, Unc,” Todd said. “How many years has it been since you were last here?”

  “Quite a few, but that’s in the past. Time to look forward now.”

  “I agree.” Samantha took a sip of water and cleared her throat. “Father, Todd and I have been talking, and as he was a longtime member of Faith Chapel, we know Dad would like to have the funeral at church. We’re hoping maybe the choir could sing his favorite hymn, ‘Amazing Grace,’ and we’d like Elizabeth Davis to sing ‘Pie Jesu.’ Dad always said she had the most beautiful voice.” Samantha consulted her notes. “Afterwards, we’d like a reception in the parish hall, followed by a private family interment as we place Dad next to Mother in the columbarium.” She looked over at her brother. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Nope. You’ve got it pretty much covered, Red.”

  Father Christopher looked distinctly uncomfortable. I had never been more grateful not to be the one in charge. I watched closely to see how Christopher was going to handle it and sent up a quick prayer for him.

  “Samantha. Todd.” My boss tugged at his collar. “I’m afraid your father has made other arrangements.”

  “What?” Samantha said.

  “What kind of arrangements?” Todd asked.

  The rector cleared his throat. “Well, for one thing, Stanley has a burial plot in the church cemetery beside the fountain.”

  Samantha paled and James scowled.

  “Are you frickin’ kidding me?” Todd said.

  “I’m afraid not. He also has a headstone ordered that he picked out online a few years ago.”

  “Online?” The siblings exchanged incredulous looks.

  “He found an online company that makes headstones you can preorder,” Christopher said. “He told them what he wanted, and it should be ready within the next couple days. All that remained to be added was the date of death, which I sent to them at your father’s request after he passed.”