Hope, Faith, and a Corpse

by Laura Jensen Walker

* * *

  While the medical examiner and forensic archaeologist examined the bones in my backyard, we all gathered over at Susan’s house. Everyone was eager to discuss who might be in the grave, but Maddie’s presence inhibited them. Luckily, Susan’s husband Mike arrived with his grandson Jason and took the two kids into the kitchen to make root beer floats.

  The moment the door closed behind Mike, Liliane burst out, “I’ll bet you anything that’s poor Betsy down in that grave, and Harry killed her in a fit of jealousy all those years ago.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the Harry I knew,” Susan said. “He was a nice, sweet old guy.”

  “I agree,” Nikki said.

  “You didn’t know him in his younger days.”

  “Harry would never have hurt Betsy,” Dorothy said. “He adored her.”

  Liliane snorted. “Lots of men who supposedly adored their wives apparently wound up killing them. Do the names Scott Peterson or Drew Peterson ring any bells?” She turned to retired cop Patricia. “Don’t police say most murders are committed by family members or someone the victim knows?”

  “Much of the time, yes.”

  “See. What’d I tell you?”

  “But let’s not rush to judgment,” Patricia cautioned. “They don’t even know how old the bones are yet. They could have been there for a hundred years or more. There was a huge Native American presence in this area, so they might well be Miwok remains like Dylan said. Let’s wait until we get the report from the archaeologist before jumping to any conclusions.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “It depends. Could be a couple days. Could be a couple weeks.”

  “Well, I still think it’s going to be Betsy,” Liliane said. “You mark my words.”

  Nikki shook her head. “I don’t think so. Harry was a doll. He was always kind and gentle with Maddie. I can’t see him doing something like that.”

  “Maybe it’s one of Marjorie’s ancestors,” Dorothy suggested.

  “Marjorie?” I glanced at my favorite parishioner.

  “Yes. Didn’t you know her family owned your house long before Harry?”

  “No. I wonder why Marjorie never said anything.”

  “I think she’s embarrassed by the fact. Back then, it wasn’t much more than a shack. Marjorie wanted to bulldoze it years ago, but Harry talked her into selling it to him when he got his first job. He fixed it up and made it what it is today.”

  Complete with sparkly harvest-gold linoleum. I had a feeling that was Harry’s wife’s touch. Most men I know aren’t into glitter.

  Liliane rested her pancaked chin on her hand. “If I recall correctly from what my grandmother said, Marjorie’s great-granddaddy Richard was originally from someplace back east. He came out west during the gold rush like hundreds of others, hoping to strike it rich. When that didn’t pan out, he settled here and became a banker, banking everyone else’s gold. Did quite well for himself.”

  “I remember that story,” Dorothy said. “I heard his mother moved out here to be with him after her husband died. After Richard Chamberlain became a successful banker, they left his original home—now yours, Pastor—and he built the grandest mansion in town, Chamberlain House.”

  “That’s right.” Liliane’s eyes sparkled. “He left his mother in charge of furnishing it, and she imported marble from Italy, chandeliers from France, and Oriental rugs from Turkey. They spared no expense to make it the biggest and best house in Apple Springs.”

  “I still find it hard to believe Marjorie sold that house,” I said. “I know it needed repairs, but you’d think she could have gotten a loan. Marjorie would have found some solution to hold on to her family home.”

  “That’s what we all said at the time,” Liliane said. “It like to killed her when she sold it to Stanley all those years ago. Everyone was so shocked when she did. That house was her pride and joy.” A sly look stole over her heavily made-up features. “I always wondered if Stanley might have had something on her that forced her to sell.”

  “On Marjorie?” Patricia said. “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, but that’s how Stanley was. You know—always poking around, finding embarrassing stuff out about folks and then using it against them.” Liliane’s mouth set in a grim line.

  “Like he did with poor Gus Clayton, who used to own the general store,” Dorothy said. “Once Stanley spread the word about Gus liking to wear his wife’s dresses, he and Roberta couldn’t hold their heads up in town. Had to sell out and leave.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “They sold the store to Stanley?”

  “For a fraction of what it was worth,” Liliane said.

  “I wonder what in the world Stanley could have had on Marjorie that caused her to give up her family home?” Patricia mused.

  “No idea, but I hear Stanley’s kids are planning to sell the house,” Nikki said.

  “Ooh, if that’s true, you can bet Marjorie will be first in line to snap it up,” Dorothy said.

  “Do you really think so?” Patricia asked. “At her age?”

  “What do you mean, her age?” Liliane said, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

  “No offense. I’m just saying that’s a lot of house and grounds to maintain. Mine is half the size, and it’s all I can do to keep up with it. I’m about ready to downsize.”

  “Best decision I ever made,” Dorothy said. “I love my cute mother-in-law cottage. It’s neat and compact and easy to keep clean, and best of all, no yard work.”

  Yard work. That was my cue to leave and see what was happening in my backyard. I found Chief Beacham conferring with Dylan, the kilt-wearing deputy.

  “We need to stop meeting like this, Pastor,” Harold said with a teasing glint in his eye. “Did you make a habit of stumbling over dead bodies in your last parish too?”

  “No. Just sea lions.”

  Then I noticed a slight woman with glasses and a chin-length gray bob squatting in the hole. Harold introduced me to Abigail “Doc” Linden, the forensic archaeologist. She informed us that the skeleton needed to stay put for now and that no one must disturb the site. In the past, she said, looters had stolen native artifacts like beads and arrowheads from graves and sold them on eBay. If the remains were Native American, which she could determine upon a more extensive on-site examination, members of the local tribe—in this case, likely Miwok—must carefully remove the bones and rebury them on tribal land in a sacred ceremony. If the bones were not Native American, she would then remove them from my yard and take them to the lab for carbon dating to establish how old the body was.

  “So I guess this means I can’t let my dog in the backyard?”

  “Absolutely not.” Doc Linden gave me a horrified look.

  “I think the pastor was kidding,” Harold said.

  * * *

  That night as I washed the dishes from my grilled-cheese dinner, I looked out the kitchen window and noticed the yellow tape around the grave fluttering in the breeze. Who are you? What’s your story, and how did you get in my backyard? Then I said a prayer for the unknown skeleton who had once been a person.

  I stayed up late watching The Best Years of Our Lives and ugly-crying as I always did at the part where small-town-boy Homer, who has prosthetic hooks in place of the hands he lost in World War II, is being tucked in by girl-next-door Wilma, his fiancée. Homer had nobly tried to release Wilma from their engagement after his injury, so when she kisses him and says, “I love you and I’m never going to leave you … never,” I start sobbing.

  It seemed I had just fallen asleep when Bogie awakened me with frenzied barking. Glancing blearily at the nightstand, I saw the digital clock glowing one thirty. “Shh, Bogie. Settle down.” He continued to bark, standing on his hind legs, his front paws on the bedroom windowsill. “What is it, boy?” I got up and went to the window in time to see a dark figure hurrying away from the backyard grave.

  I called the police, but by the time Deputy Braveheart arrived, the figure
was long gone. He checked out the site with his flashlight, however, and said the skeleton had not been disturbed.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Dylan said. “Probably just kids trying to score some souvenirs.”

  “Thank you. That makes me feel so much better.”

  “We aim to please, ma’am.” He tipped his hat and left.

  Did he really just call me ma’am?

  Chapter Fifteen

  Friday night I attended my first Downton Divas get-together over at Liliane’s Victorian. After she proudly took me on a tour of her southern-inspired home, complete with a cluttered den full of Gone With the Wind paraphernalia, we rewatched the Downton Abbey Christmas episode from the end of season two—the one where Matthew proposes to Mary as the snow falls gently around them.

  I wiped away tears.

  “So romantic,” sighed Liliane afterward.

  “Magical,” Dorothy breathed.

  “I’m surprised she didn’t freeze to death in that sleeveless gown,” Susan said.

  “Leave it to Susan to break the mood.” Patricia set down her teacup.

  “I save my romantic moods for Mike,” Susan said with an exaggerated leer.

  Liliane passed around a plate of Pepperidge Farm Milanos, and I excused myself. Washing my hands at the bathroom vanity with gold taps, I marveled at the frilliness surrounding me. Tasseled cords tied back shiny satin window curtains boasting six ruffled tiers in descending shades of lavender. The same satin ruffles repeated on the shower curtain, the curtain beneath the sink, the tissue holder, even the wastebasket. Textured damask lavender wallpaper covered the walls, and gold sconces held china figurines of women in hoopskirts holding parasols. Drying my hands on the ruffled, satin-edged towel, I escaped the frilly claustrophobia and returned to the Downton Divas.

  “Okay, now that we’ve all—or rather, most of us have”—I slid a glance at Susan—“swooned over Matthew and Mary, can we talk about the women’s tea for a few minutes? Do you mind, Liliane?”

  “Go right ahead.”

  I informed the group that, as of that afternoon, we already had nineteen sign-ups, and that was just Faith Chapel parishioners. Once we opened the tea to the whole town (providing I got Father Christopher’s and the vestry’s permission to do so), we might easily triple that number. Since the round tables in the parish hall seated eight, if we kept to our original plan of ending sign-ups at fifty, that would give us six full tables with two women left over.

  “So if you get the full fifty women, why don’t you just seat four tables of eight and three tables of six?” Susan asked. “Problem solved.”

  “Not quite,” I said. “We’re going to need more table hostesses now.” I held up my hand, ticking off on my fingers, “Dorothy, Patricia, Lottie, and I are each hosting a table. That’s only four. We still need three more women to serve as table hostesses.”

  “Well, by my count, you’ve got two more right here,” Susan said dryly, pointing to herself and Liliane. “What do you say, Lil? I’m game if you are.”

  “Count me in.”

  “So sign us up.” Susan cut her eyes at me. “Unless we need to get baptized or something at your church first?”

  “Oh no, as long as you say the secret password, you’re in.”

  “Secret password?” Liliane asked.

  “Sorry. I meant passwords. Plural. All you need to do is recite the Ten Commandments. Then you can be an official table hostess. Isn’t that right, Patricia?” I sent our senior warden an innocent look.

  “Oh yes. And of course the commandments must be in order.”

  Dorothy giggled.

  “Oh, y’all are funnin’ us,” Liliane said. “Pastor Hope, you should do stand-up comedy.”

  Susan tilted her head at me. “I wouldn’t quit your day job if I were you.”

  We discussed what was necessary to host a table, explaining to Susan and Liliane that linen tablecloths, napkins, water pitchers, and fresh-flower centerpieces would be provided by the church but each table hostess needed to bring her own teapot, china, glassware, and cutlery for each table member.

  “And decorations,” Dorothy added. “We’re going to award a prize for the best-decorated table,” she said excitedly. “I can’t wait to see everyone’s pretty china and how they decorate.”

  A competitive gleam lit Susan’s eyes. “Me either.”

  “We’re still one table hostess short,” Patricia reminded us.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I have someone in mind.” That someone was Marjorie. Time to take the high road. Visiting Marjorie and making amends had been on my to-do list for some time now, but other more urgent things kept popping up and taking precedence.

  Who are you kidding? Face it, Hope—you’re chicken.

  Don’t sugarcoat it, I told my conscience.

  It was too late to see Marjorie tonight, so I vowed to pay her a visit first thing in the morning. Clicking on my phone calendar to tap in her name, I saw I already had another morning appointment. One I couldn’t miss or reschedule—Stanley King’s funeral.

  * * *

  Stanley’s funeral was the most uncomfortable funeral I had ever attended. I had officiated at funerals before where feuding family members had to be seated as far away from each other as possible to keep the peace. I had even assisted at a funeral where wife number one was on one side of the aisle casting dirty looks at wife number two on the other side. Then there was the time I conducted a funeral where the deceased was laid out in an open casket wearing his lucky bowling shirt, sporting an odd smirk, and clutching his favorite bowling ball, ready to throw a final strike.

  None of those funerals were as awkward as Stanley’s, however. The weather was perfect, the music was beautiful, and the setting was lovely. Faith Chapel had undergone an extensive and thorough cleaning—paid for by the deceased, thank you very much. The pews gleamed with a patina of polish, the stained glass sparkled, and the altar dripped with flowers. White roses, Asiatic lilies, gladiolas, chrysanthemums, and Queen Anne’s lace filled the sanctuary, while a spray of white roses, orchids, and lilies covered the casket. There was awkwardness, though, among the assembled mourners who had come to pay their last respects.

  First, nobody wanted to do the eulogy. In his funeral instructions, Stanley had chosen a pal from the rotary club, who also headed the local Toastmasters group, to deliver his tribute. However, the “pal” had said he had to be out of town on an important business trip the same day as the funeral—one that could not be rescheduled. Father Christopher had then asked Todd and Samantha if either of them wanted to say a few words about their father, but they also declined. He then approached various community leaders and church members, including Stanley’s fellow traditionalist, Barber Bob, but everyone had an excuse as to why they couldn’t deliver the eulogy, so it was left to Father Christopher.

  Then at the last minute, choir director Elizabeth begged off singing “Pie Jesu” due to strained vocal chords. Although soprano Rosemary volunteered to take her place, Stanley had left strict instructions that he wanted a professional vocalist, not “some second-string choir member,” singing at his funeral. Instead, Elizabeth played a CD of Sarah Brightman performing the famous requiem. When “Pie Jesu” ended, per Stanley’s instructions, Sinatra’s “My Way” filled the church.

  Todd and James sat stone-faced, Samantha looked shell-shocked, and the rest of the assemblage exchanged incredulous looks and whispers. When Sinatra finished, I read the Twenty-Third Psalm and assisted Father Christopher with the rest of the service.

  * * *

  “Well, that cost a pretty penny,” Bonnie Cunningham murmured, nodding to a massive cascading flower arrangement of orchids and roses on a table in the foyer of the King home. “Nearly a thousand bucks, I’d say.”

  “You didn’t do the flowers?” Lottie asked.

  “No. He used some fancy Sutter Creek florist. Not that I’d have done his funeral anyway.”

  A middle-aged woman stopped to admire the f
loral display. “I know Stanley had a lot of faults,” she said, “but he could be quite the charmer.”

  “That’s how he sucks—excuse me, sucked—people in,” Bonnie replied. “The charm wore off quickly.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” alto Judy said.

  We moved into the large living room. The same way Bonnie’s Blooms was not good enough for Stanley, the parish hall was not grand enough for his funeral reception. Stanley had arranged for the reception to be held at his home—a home that apparently few of the townspeople had been inside, at least since he’d bought it from Marjorie two decades earlier.

  Father Christopher said that back in the day, Marjorie used to entertain a lot at the mansion. She would host diocesan events, vestry dinners, ECW luncheons, Easter egg hunts for the children of Faith Chapel, and a legendary annual Christmas Eve open house. Once Stanley took ownership of Chamberlain House, however, he allowed only a select few inside the inner sanctum.

  “He was probably banking on the curiosity factor alone to get people to show up,” Lottie said in a stage whisper to Marjorie, who looked like she had been sucker-punched at being in her former home.

  Don Forrester entered and strode up to Bonnie. He linked his arm with hers and kissed her on the cheek. She rewarded him with a blush and a tremulous smile. Don glanced around the room. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been here, but I see Stan’s taste in art hasn’t changed.” He nodded behind me. I turned to see a small painting I had missed the last time I visited. The oil canvas showed a man who bore a faint resemblance to Stanley dressed all in black on a red background smirking and flipping a bird.

  “How rude!” Marjorie said. “You call that art?” She accepted a glass of red wine from a passing waiter and took a big gulp.

  The server was part of a catering crew from a celebrated Napa winery who worked the crowd, serving wine and platters of coconut shrimp, mini beef Wellingtons, smoked salmon, bacon-wrapped scallops, chicken skewers, and crab puffs. I noshed on the hors d’oeuvres while chatting to parishioners and keeping a watchful eye on the crowd, wondering which of the guests might be Stanley’s murderer.