Hope, Faith, and a Corpse

by Laura Jensen Walker

  Susan stood up. “I assume you want your usual water for tea?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Any pie?”

  “No, thanks. If I keep eating how I have these last few days, I won’t be able to fit into my vestments. I don’t think the congregation would appreciate a priest who’s bursting at the seams.” The song from Carousel played in my head. Unlike June, I did not want to be busting out all over.

  “I can think of a couple people who’d probably appreciate it a lot,” Susan said dryly before she left to get my hot water.

  Virginia filled me in on all the things she’d done today while I was at work. She had decided to stay a couple of days to check out the town, keep me company, and make some of her mouthwatering home-cooked meals in place of the peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches and salads-in-a-bag I usually lived on. “Well, Hope, your Apple Springs is quite a cute little town. It’s got some nice houses for sale. I had a Realtor show me a few.”

  “What?” I stared at my sister-in-law. “Are you thinking of moving here?”

  “Maybe. You never know. If I sold my condo in the City, I could make some serious bank and buy a house outright here.” She sent me an innocent look. “At least that’s what the real-estate guy James said. He’s quite the hottie, by the way. I like that whole George Clooney vibe he’s got going on.” She leaned over and whispered. “He even gave me a first look at this gorgeous Italianate house he said will be going on the market soon.”

  “The Kings are selling their family home?”

  “Shhh. That’s not for public consumption yet. I just thought you might find it interesting.” She sat back with a satisfied smirk.

  Had I been Spock, I’d have arched a high eyebrow. “You’re sleuthing, aren’t you? You have no plans of leaving San Francisco and moving here. That was a ploy to investigate James Brandon. Right?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I really am considering leaving the rat race and moving here to Mayberry now that I’m retired and I decided to kill two birds with one stone.” She leaned in and said, “And speaking of killing two birds, did you know Stanley’s wife Lily was barely seventeen when they got married?”

  “Seventeen?” I knew California had no minimum age requirement for getting married, unlike most states where the age is eighteen. I had discovered this in my last parish when a pregnant sixteen-year-old wanted to marry her twenty-year-old boyfriend. I counseled them not to rush into marriage, since she was so young, but they got a court order and parental consent and were legally married. “How in the world did you find that out after just one afternoon with James?”

  “You know me,” Virginia said, exaggeratedly batting her lashes. “I have my ways.”

  True. My sister-in-law never met a stranger. People tell her everything.

  Susan reappeared with my water. “What’d I miss?”

  “Did you know Lily King was only seventeen when she married Stanley?” I asked.

  “No. Stanley always said she was eighteen. Although he was in his forties when they tied the knot, so in my book that still makes him a perv.”

  “Another reason James probably hated him,” I said. Would her younger brother have tried to stop Lily from marrying Stanley?

  Virginia’s voice intruded on my thoughts. “In other news, I heard a certain mansion might be going on the market soon.”

  “I thought that wasn’t for public consumption.”

  “Susan’s not public. She’s our friend.”

  “That’s right,” the diner owner said. “And I know how to keep my mouth shut. Unless I’m bribed with filthy lucre. Then all bets are off.”

  I stirred my tea and took a sip. “Well, I happen to have some interesting—and helpful—news as well.”

  “Spill.” Virginia’s eyes sparkled as Susan slipped into the booth beside her.

  “Apparently, a Rolex watch was missing from Stanley’s body, leading the police to suspect his death could have been a robbery gone wrong.”

  “That’s not news,” Susan said. “That was all over town two hours ago.”

  “Sure was,” Virginia said. “I don’t even live here and I heard about it.”

  “Great. I go to rehearsal for a couple hours, and when I come out, the whole place is abuzz.”

  “Better get used to the small-town rumor mill,” Susan said. “No one’s secrets are safe.”

  “Good thing I don’t have any, then. What I want to know, though, is if the Rolex theft story is a rumor or a fact.”

  “Why not get it straight from the horse’s mouth?” Susan inclined her head to Harold and Patricia Beacham, who had just walked through the door.

  The Beachams headed our way, and I introduced them to my sister-in-law, who piped up, “So, we hear the dead guy’s watch was stolen and it looks like a robbery gone bad. Does that mean Hope’s off the hook?”

  The police chief frowned, but his wife said, “Honey, it’s all over town already. You might as well fess up.”

  “Pastor Hope has been off the hook for a while. The estimated time of death was several hours earlier than the time she was found in the crypt with the deceased. And yes, Stanley’s Rolex watch was missing, so robbery is a possible motive and one of the lines of investigation we’re pursuing.”

  One of the lines? It didn’t sound like it was the main line. And the time of death had been several hours earlier than Friday morning? How many hours was several? I thought back to what Riley had told me in the cemetery about hearing loud voices in the small chapel and then seeing Don Forrester leave in a hurry the evening before I discovered Stanley’s body. I scooted out of the booth. “Could you excuse us, please? I need to talk to the chief for a moment. Harold, do you mind if we go outside?”

  “Not a problem.” He kissed Patricia on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a minute, sweetheart. Could you order me a cup of coffee, please?”

  As we walked to the door, I could feel all eyes on me. Virginia’s, in particular, were boring a hole in my back. I knew I’d need to give her the scoop once we got home.

  Once we were outside, the chief said, “I guess you’re going to give me a piece of your mind for not letting you know you weren’t a suspect.” He quirked an eyebrow. “I had the feeling, however, that someone had already passed on that information to you.”

  “That’s not what I want to talk to you about. I knew I didn’t murder Stanley, and I knew you’d realize that pretty quickly as well. You’re no dummy.”

  “Thanks for the compliment. I think.”

  I scanned the vicinity, then stepped closer to the chief. “I think I know who killed Stanley King. You said he was killed several hours before I found him in the columbarium Friday morning, right?”

  He nodded.

  “How many hours?”

  “You know I can’t reveal those specifics.”

  “What if I guessed a certain time frame? Say, maybe between five and seven p.m. the night before?”

  Harold narrowed his eyes. “What made you come up with that specific time period?”

  “Because at five forty-five Thursday evening, someone heard yelling in the columbarium, followed by a loud crash. Moments later Don Forrester was seen leaving in a hurry.”

  “Who told you this?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. It was revealed to me in confidence, but I thought it was information you’d want to know.” I patted myself on the back for my investigative prowess. Trixie Belden would be proud.

  Chapter Thirteen

  My idea for the English tea was running into some resistance. Not the actual tea itself, but the fact that I was in charge of it. Father Christopher had given his blessing and carte blanche to do whatever I wanted, within a specific budget, but I was getting pushback from some of the women in the congregation. Led by Marjorie, naturally.

  After her earlier unsuccessful attempt to take over the tea, Marjorie Chamberlain let it be known around church how she felt about being “pushed out to pasture” by the new, young “upstart” priest. A few of Marj
orie’s pals in Faith Chapel’s women’s group, whom Dorothy had approached to see if they would bake or make sandwiches, rebuffed her and told her in no uncertain terms that it was disgraceful to cast Marjorie aside “like an old shoe.”

  Invited to speak to the ECW group at their monthly luncheon, I talked up the tea and said how much I hoped they would all attend and that some would lend a hand, but the battle lines were clearly drawn. None of Marjorie’s cronies would help, except for Lottie, who volunteered to assist me in any way she could. That was a surprise. I knew how tight the two women were and that wherever Marjorie went, Lottie went. At the same time, I was pleased to see Lottie coming out of Marjorie’s shadow.

  After Virginia left Thursday morning to return home, the tea-planning committee, made up of Patricia, Dorothy, Lottie, and me, met at the diner to go over plans. Patricia reported that Bonnie Cunningham, owner of Bonnie’s Blooms, had volunteered to do the flower arrangements at cost. Patricia offered to provide pink tablecloths, in two different shades, left over from her daughter’s wedding the year before.

  “Reminds me of Julia Roberts’ wedding in Steel Magnolias,” I said, affecting a southern accent. “‘My colors are blush and bashful. I have chosen two shades of pink—one is much deeper than the other.’”

  “Great chick flick,” Patricia said. “Sally Field made me cry.”

  “I liked Shirley MacLaine as Ouiser.” I recited, “‘You are evil and you must be destroyed.’ Anyway, now we need to decide about the food. Dorothy, since you lived in England, would you head up the food committee?”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. Why not?”

  She sent a doubtful glance at her cane, propped against the table. “Are you sure?”

  “I have complete confidence in you, Dorothy.”

  “Me too,” Patricia said. “Why don’t you tell us about the teas in England and what they ate there?”

  “Well, it was always a nice mixture of sweet and savory.”

  “Savory?” Lottie quirked an eyebrow.

  “Salty or spicy rather than sweet. Finger sandwiches usually, or in the winter, something hot, like soup or quiche. Since it’s spring, though, I think we should have three kinds of sandwiches. Cucumber sandwiches are a must, and one or two with some kind of meat filling.” Dorothy’s face fell. “I was counting on Marjorie’s delicious curried-chicken salad, but I guess that’s not going to happen now.” She shot a hopeful look to Lottie. “Do you think there’s any chance Marjorie might come to the tea?”

  Lottie, who was taking notes, shook her head. “You know how Marjorie is when she gets her dander up.”

  I heaved an inward sigh. I knew I had really stepped in it with Marjorie and needed to make amends. She was a longtime member of the congregation, after all, and from one of the founding families, while I was the new girl in town. Correction. New priest. I determined to try yet again to smooth things over with Marjorie.

  Patricia offered to make salmon-salad sandwiches, which she had served to great success at her recent book club luncheon.

  “Perfect,” Dorothy said, turning to me. “Didn’t you say your sister-in-law gave you a recipe for ham sandwiches with an apricot cream cheese spread?”

  I nodded.

  “Yum,” Lottie said. “Sounds delicious.”

  “Okay,” Dorothy said, eyes agleam, “then we’ve got our three sandwiches: cucumber, ham, and salmon-salad. Now we need to decide on two kinds of scones. I recommend the classic English scone—I have a great recipe from when we were stationed over there—and another with some kind of fruit, usually currants, raisins, or blueberries.” Our former resident of Great Britain then explained that a classic English tea needs to be served on a three-tiered tray with savory offerings on the bottom, scones in the center, and dainty desserts on top.

  Luckily, Dorothy and I both had a couple of the three-tiered English china trays at home, and Patricia said she’d order one online. Dorothy suggested that she and Patricia could go to some of the antique stores in nearby Sutter Creek to hunt for a few more.

  “Please say you’ll make your amazing lemon squares, Dorothy,” Patricia begged.

  “If you want, but we’ll need something chocolate too.”

  Lottie shyly offered to make her triple-chocolate brownies. “Everyone always seems to love those.”

  “What’s not to love?” Patricia said. “Best. Brownies. Ever.”

  “Thank you. I was thinking, to make them more petite and tea-like, I could bake them in mini-muffin tins and maybe add a dollop of whipped cream with a cherry on top.”

  Patricia groaned. “I’ll have to wear a loose dress that day, since there’s no way I’ll be able to button my pants after all that.”

  “You and me both,” I said, determining to increase my daily walking between now and the tea.

  Dorothy tapped her chin. “Now let’s see … we still need one more petite sweet for the top tier.”

  Susan, who had stopped by our table several times during the planning meeting to fill coffee cups and water glasses, asked, “Do you have to be a member of Faith Chapel to get in on this tea action? If not, I could make mini fruit tarts. They’re like my pies, only smaller and cuter.”

  “Really, Susan?” Dorothy and Lottie chorused.

  “You’d do that?” I said. “That would be amazing. Thank you.”

  “As long as you don’t make me join your church club.”

  “Not on your first visit,” I said quoting another Steel Magnolias line. I looked at Susan. “You’ve given me an idea …” I turned to the rest of the planning committee. “What’s to say our tea needs to be only for Faith Chapel? What do you think about maybe making it a community-wide event and opening it to all the women in town?”

  “I love that idea!” Dorothy said.

  “So do I,” Patricia said. “We’ve been wanting to have more community events, but we’d have to run it by Father Christopher and the vestry for approval.”

  “Of course.” Oops. Way to forget going through the church’s chain of command, Pastor Hope. I really needed to work on my tendency to blurt out whatever popped into my head in the moment.

  “I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Patricia continued, “but we should discuss how many women to invite. If it was Faith Chapel only, we’d probably have twenty tops.”

  “Less than that if Marjorie and her pals don’t come,” Dorothy said.

  “What’s the maximum the parish hall will accommodate?” I asked.

  “Sixty,” Patricia said. “And that’s tight.”

  “So maybe we limit it to the first fifty women who sign up?”

  We discussed selling tickets to recoup the cost, with Susan weighing in on what we would need to cover the cost of food and Lottie, who lived on Social Security, worrying that it might be too much. Finally, we agreed on keeping the costs down as much as possible by asking church members to donate food or go in with others to donate some of the ingredients.

  “Remember, we want to make this an outreach to the community,” I said.

  “As long as you don’t try and convert everyone,” Susan said.

  “No, we’ll just make everyone stand up on one leg and recite the Nicene Creed while balancing a teacup on their head.”

  * * *

  Munching on a peanut-butter-and-banana sandwich at home, I crunched numbers for the tea. Father Christopher had said the church had a few hundred dollars in its discretionary fund and he thought a hundred or so could be earmarked for tea costs, pending vestry approval. Meanwhile, he gave me a twenty-dollar bill as his contribution. I pulled out the notepad I kept in the top kitchen drawer to scribble a few notes and saw the list of murder suspects I had created, with Don Forrester at the top. Probably useless now, since the police were investigating the unknown-robber angle. Although … that didn’t mean I couldn’t find out some background on Apple Springs’ now lone lawyer.

  When I did a Google search, the first thing that popped up was Don Forrester’s law office website w
ith a photo of the ever-beaming lawyer. I clicked through the pages, but nothing jumped out—standard boring business stuff. The next Google entry showed a picture of him on his church’s website leading a camp-out with the First Baptist youth group. Then I searched for Don on Facebook. I found his profile and didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary other than his liking Snoop Dogg and Wayne Newton. I scrolled through his entries, but Don didn’t post often. When he did, it was usually a plug for his law firm or links to funny YouTube videos.

  I entered a new Google search, typing in Don Forrester and Stanley King, which resulted in a plethora of entries—many of them going back to when the two had shared the law practice of King and Forrester. As I scrolled through several inconsequential items, one entry at last caught my eye. I clicked on the article from the Apple Springs Bulletin and discovered that Stanley King had been named as the correspondent in the divorce suit Don had filed more than a decade ago against his then-wife Debbie.

  One more reason for Don to hate his old partner.

  After spending most of the spring day inside, I felt the need to go outside and get my hands in the dirt. I had a couple of new rosebushes I was eager to get in the ground. Pulling on my gardening sweats, I headed to the backyard and the ancient shed in the far corner, followed by Bogie. I rooted around in the shed, looking for a shovel within the dark interior. An ominous creak froze me in place. What was that? I heard a rustling. My heart clenched. Another creak. More rustling. Then something ran across my foot. I squealed and backed out of the shed in time to see a huge rat streak across the yard to the overgrown ivy covering the fence in the far corner, a barking Bogie hard on its heels.

  “No, Bogie, no!”

  My mortal enemy scampered up the fence and onto an adjacent tree in the next-door yard as Bogie continued to bark below. I watched, heart still racing, as the hideous disease-carrying rodent leapt from a tall branch onto the phone wires high above and scurried away.

  Bogie rejoined me, panting and trembling. Kneeling down, trembling myself, I cuddled him to soothe both my jangled nerves and his. “Good boy, chasing that ugly old rat out of here. You showed him.” Stroking his head, I stared into his chocolate velvet eyes. “Thank you for protecting us.” He licked me on the nose.