Hope, Faith, and a Corpse

by Laura Jensen Walker

  I zeroed in on Don whispering to Bonnie. Interesting that they had chosen Stanley’s funeral to make their debut as a couple. As I watched, Todd King, who looked uncomfortable in a navy suit, made his unsteady way toward the romantic duo. Uh-oh. Was he drunk and on his way to tell off his father’s former partner?

  Christopher must have had the same thought. He caught my eye, and we both headed through the crowd toward the trio.

  Todd snagged a glass of wine from a passing server and drained it in one gulp. Then he clapped his hand on Don’s back. “Hey, bro,” he said loudly, “good to see ya. Glad you could make it.” Todd gave a slight bow to Bonnie. “Lookin’ good, Bonnie. Happy to see your taste in men has improved.”

  Before Bonnie could reply, Christopher appeared beside them. “Hi, Todd. Could you show me where to find the dessert? My sweet tooth has a powerful craving.”

  “Sure, Father, no prob. Follow me.” A wobbly Todd led Christopher to a round table near the front of the room covered in a cornucopia of sweets, including assorted cheesecakes, truffles, Texas sheet cake, and platters of oversized cookies.

  “Mind if we sit down and have some coffee with our dessert?” Christopher asked.

  “Prolly a good idea.” Todd sank down in a nearby chair and loosened his tie.

  Taking the chair across from him, I munched on a chocolate-chip cookie as Todd and Father Christopher exchanged small talk. From my seat, I had a perfect vantage point of the foyer, where I spotted Marjorie looking around wistfully at her former home. She ran her hands lovingly across the mahogany banister of the wide staircase. Then she glanced upward and wrinkled her nose in distaste at the two oversized, elaborate chandeliers.

  I agreed. One crystal chandelier would have been plenty. Maybe I could use that as a bonding moment when I talked to her and asked her to be a table hostess—hopefully during the reception.

  Marjorie rejoined the group in the living room as Samantha motioned for Todd to join her by the fireplace.

  “’Scuse me, Father. Pastor. Duty calls.” Todd stood up carefully and navigated his way through the crowd to his sister’s side, snagging another glass of wine from a passing server as he did.

  Samantha gave him an uncertain look, but Todd gave her arm a reassuring pat. James, who was standing nearby, sent his niece an encouraging nod. Samantha cleared her throat and offered a tentative smile to the funeral guests. “My brother and I would like to thank you all for coming,” she began.

  “That we would,” Todd interrupted, raising his glass. “In fact, why don’t we have a toast? To dear old dad. We are gathered here to celebrate, not your lousy life, but your passing from it. Freedom!” he said, channeling Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Todd drained his glass and, as he did so, lost his balance and almost fell. James gripped his elbow and kept his nephew upright, then led him from the room, a flushed Samantha following.

  After a moment of shocked silence, a murmuring swept through the crowd.

  “He just said what everyone else was thinking,” muttered a gray-haired man in front of me.

  “Maybe so,” said his female companion, “but how tacky to say it aloud in front of everyone. That boy needs to learn to hold his liquor. Looks like he’s following in his father’s footsteps.”

  “Not entirely. I heard he and his sister are unloading this place and it’s going on the market soon. King wouldn’t like that—this was his Hearst Castle.”

  As they moved away, I turned to see Marjorie staring openmouthed after the duo. I started to walk over to her, but James Brandon reentered the room at that moment, and Marjorie made a beeline for him.

  I circulated through the crowd, making sure to stop and chat with all the Faith Chapel parishioners. Then I spotted Dorothy Thompson sitting alone on a burnished-leather love seat in front of a massive potted palm. “Dorothy, did you come by yourself?”

  “Oh no, Pastor, Randy brought me. He went to get me some dessert and coffee. Have a seat.” Once I did, she leaned over and whispered, “Isn’t this place something else? I’d sure hate to have to clean it.”

  “Me too.” We chatted about the grand mansion for a few minutes and then fell into a companionable silence.

  A voice I recognized as Rosemary’s from choir intruded from behind the potted palm. “Well, I don’t care what anyone says,” she said in a stage whisper. “I mean, take a look at this place! It’s probably worth at least a couple million. I’ll bet you anything Samantha did her father in so she could inherit.”

  “No. Do you really think so?” said a second voice I identified as fellow soprano Helen. “I thought they said it was a robber?”

  Rosemary snorted. “What would a robber be doing in the columbarium? I’m telling you, the killer was someone Stanley knew, and who knew him better than his own daughter?”

  I coughed to indicate our presence, and the two sopranos made a fast exit.

  Randy Thompson returned, carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a plate in the other, which he deposited on the table in front of us. “Mom, I got you a piece of cheesecake,” he said.

  Dorothy did not respond.

  We both looked at her, concerned.

  “Mom, are you all right?”

  She started. “I’m fine. Sorry, I was woolgathering.” The troubled expression in her eyes belied her words, however.

  “You sure?” Randy asked.

  “Yes. I’m just not big on funerals. In fact, I’m a little tired. Can you take me home now? I’d like to take a nap.” Dorothy wrapped the cheesecake in a napkin and tucked it into her capacious purse. Mother and son made their farewells, then left.

  Wondering if Dorothy’s distressed look was due to memories of losing her husband or something more, I determined to pay her a pastoral visit that week. Then, deciding I had stayed long enough to fulfill my pastoral obligation, I also left. As I walked down the stone steps, a slight movement at the corner of the house caught my eye—a blonde woman’s hair blowing in the wind. Continuing down the sidewalk, I turned right when I got to the street. That’s when I glimpsed Don Forrester and Bonnie Cunningham pressed up against the side of Stanley’s house, making out like two teenagers.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sunday after church, I headed to Suzie’s for lunch.

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Susan said as I walked through the door. “You want boiling water for tea, right?”

  “Nope. I’m going to mix it up a bit today. I’d like iced tea and a BLT, please.”

  “Way to live on the edge.”

  “I’m Episcopalian. That’s as edgy as we get.”

  When Susan left, I pulled out my phone and started scrolling through my emails to make sure nothing urgent had come in. I answered a question about the women’s tea, filed the reminder about tomorrow night’s vestry meeting, and downloaded the latest pictures from Emily in Germany.

  “Aw, who’s the cutie-patootie?” asked Susan, as she set down my iced tea.

  “My granddaughter Kelsey.”

  “She’s adorable, but you’re too young to have a granddaughter. What are you? Forty, maybe?”

  “Forty-two. Kelsey is my stepdaughter Emily’s child. Emily was fifteen when I married David.”

  “Fifteen? I’ll bet that was fun.”

  “The first year was no walk in the park. Can you say hormone city? But by her senior year, Emily and I had become good friends.”

  “You’re lucky. My daughter hated me her senior year and could not wait to go away to college. To be honest, I couldn’t wait for her to leave either. It wasn’t until she’d been gone nearly a year that she finally realized I wasn’t the evil ogre she’d made me out to be.” Susan shuddered. “I’m so glad those teen years are over.”

  “Ditto.”

  Riley Smith and her BFF Megan Cunningham entered the diner.

  Good one, God.

  Susan left to take another order, and I smiled at the two teens as they approached.

  Megan mumbled a greeting and slipped into the booth behind me
, while Riley lingered. “Hi, Pastor Hope. I hear you found another body.”

  “Yep. What are the odds, right?”

  “At least this one’s an old skeleton and there’s no blood and stuff.”

  “Thank God for small miracles.”

  “It was cool seeing you in the choir today. I didn’t know you sang.”

  “Only in a group where I can blend in.”

  “I liked the music,” Riley said. “Latin’s cool.”

  “Have you ever thought about joining choir?”

  She snorted. “Nah. Too many old folks.” Then she realized what she had said and clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “I hear you. I’m actually the youngest in the group. We could use some more singers, though, especially in the tenor and bass section. If you know any guys who might be interested, let me know.”

  “Will do.” Riley gave me a half wave good-bye and rejoined Megan.

  Susan reappeared with my BLT and fries and went to take the teens’ order. As I bit into my sandwich, I overheard Megan say they wanted to split a burger and fries, with two Cokes.

  “Just water for me,” Riley interjected.

  “Chill,” Megan said. “I told you I would pay.”

  “I know, but I don’t want you to keep paying for me.”

  “It’s no big deal. I got my paycheck Friday.”

  “You’re so lucky you have a job. I can’t find anything in this town.”

  “The only reason I have a job is because my mom needs cheap labor at the flower shop,” Megan said. “Trust me, stripping roses after school isn’t my idea of a good time. I keep getting pricked by thorns.”

  “Send me into that briar patch. I don’t care what I do, I need to find a part-time job.”

  Turning around in my booth, I said, “Sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing. Riley, do you have experience typing and filing?”

  She nodded. “I type ninety words a minute and used to do my dad’s filing when he was working from home.”

  “Riley’s a whiz on the computer, Pastor Hope,” Megan said. “She’s always helping me out with technical stuff.”

  “Have you ever used graphics software programs or worked on websites?”

  “Totally. I created websites for some friends and the art department at school. I’ve also done posters and graphics to promote school events.”

  “Well, I can’t promise anything, but I might have a clerical job for you. How would you feel about working part-time at the church?”

  “Serious? I’d love it! Cool.”

  “I’ll need to check with Father Christopher and run it by the vestry, but why don’t you bring your résumé by the church one day this week for us to review?”

  “I’ll bring it by tomorrow,” Riley said, eyes shining. “Thank you so much for this chance, Pastor Hope. You won’t regret it.” She scrambled out of the booth.

  “Where are you going?” Megan asked.

  “I need to update my résumé.”

  “Right now? What about lunch?”

  “I’m not hungry. You can have my share.”

  “Hang on. I’ll go with you.”

  Five minutes later the teens rushed to the exit with their boxed lunch to go, bumping into Harold and Patricia Beacham at the door.

  “Whoa, slow down there.” Harold reached out to right Megan’s Coke before it spilled.

  “Thanks,” Megan said.

  “Sorry, Chief. Mrs. Beacham.” Riley flushed.

  “That’s okay,” Patricia said. “Tell your folks hello for me.”

  The girls left, and Susan greeted the Beachams. Spotting me, they smiled and walked over.

  “Care to join me?”

  Harold glanced at my plate. “Looks like you’re about finished.”

  “Looks can be deceiving. I haven’t had dessert yet.”

  The couple slid into the booth across from me, and Susan arrived to take their order—the fried chicken special for Harold and a chef’s salad for Patricia.

  No wonder she stays so slim and trim. You sure you still want pie? my dietary conscience asked.

  “Susan, what kind of pie do you have today?”

  “Apple, cherry, and chocolate.”

  I ordered cherry and caught up with the Beachams. Patricia and I shared the latest pictures of grandkids on our phones while Harold talked about an upcoming fishing trip with his son and oldest grandson. Susan delivered our food, and Harold attacked his fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and gravy with gusto. Patricia tucked into her salad, and I enjoyed my warm cherry pie with the scoop of vanilla Susan had added. Patricia asked questions about the tea and I responded on autopilot, my mind elsewhere. I waited until the chief was almost finished with his meal before I pounced.

  “So what’s going on with Stanley’s murder investigation? Have you got any leads on who the robber might have been, or do you think he’s long gone?”

  “He?” Harold said, lifting an eyebrow. “What makes you think it was a he?”

  “Nothing. I guess I assumed …”

  “Pastor, are you getting sexist on me?”

  “Certainly not.” Then I saw he was teasing. “Okay, I deserved that. Do you think the thief—male or female—is someone local, or a stranger? Although,” I mused aloud, “what would make a stranger visit the columbarium? It’s not like it’s a tourist destination or anything. Doesn’t make sense. No, it must be someone local. What about Don Forrester?”

  Harold sighed. “I talked to Don, and he admits he and Stanley had a fight in the columbarium on the night Stanley died. Stanley said some nasty things about someone Don cares about, so he punched him in the nose and Stanley went down, hitting his head on the altar.”

  “The altar? But there was no blood on the altar. At least not when I arrived the next morning. Although … I suppose Don could have cleaned it up before he left.”

  “No. There was no blood on the altar the night before either. Don’s punch and Stanley’s subsequent fall resulted in a small bump on the back of Stanley’s head, nothing more,” Harold said. “Stanley King was alive and well when Don left. Well enough to refuse his offer of help up and to curse him out, at least.”

  “Is that what Don told you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  What is with all this ma’am stuff lately? Maybe it’s time to start coloring my gray.

  “And you believe him?”

  “Yes. His story corroborates the medical examiner’s findings. There was a small goose egg on the back of Stanley’s head, beneath the large bump and bloody gash caused by the burial urn.”

  “So we’re back to square one.”

  “We’re not back to anything, Pastor. Remember? You do the pastoring, I do the investigating.”

  Patricia sent me a warning look over her coffee cup, which I ignored. I was a priest on a mission.

  “Okay, but what about my skeleton?”

  “Your skeleton?”

  “The one in my backyard. The one someone entered my yard in the middle of the night to check out, as I’m sure your deputy told you.”

  “Dylan said the grave wasn’t disturbed, and it was most likely kids messing around.”

  “But who do you think it could be?”

  “The kids?”

  “No. My skeleton.”

  “I have no idea. We’ll have to wait and see what the archaeologist says.” Harold wiped his mouth with his napkin. “What I do know is, according to Doc Linden, those bones have been there for some time, and meanwhile, I’m knee-deep in the midst of an active murder investigation. Stanley’s murder must be my focus.”

  “Are you saying you’re not going to investigate my nameless skeleton?”

  “No, I’m saying it’s not at the top of my to-do list.” Harold expelled another sigh. “There’s nothing I can do about the skeleton until we get the archaeologist’s report on the age of the bones. Since they’re old, whatever happened is ancient history. Meanwhile, someone killed a member of my town, a member of my church. Our churc
h. On our church grounds, no less. My job is to find out who that person is.”

  He’s right. The sanctity of the small chapel and columbarium has been desecrated by a violent act. The most violent act of all. Even though I had met him only once and he’d left an unfavorable impression, Stanley King had been a member of Faith Chapel—a longtime member, and more importantly, one of God’s children. One whose life had been violently snuffed out.

  “Sorry, Chief,” I said, suitably chastened. “You’re right. Finding Stanley’s killer takes precedence.” Time to step up my efforts to try to figure out who murdered Stanley. Then in my spare time, I would do some sleuthing of my own on the skeleton in my yard.

  * * *

  Monday when I arrived at work, I found Riley’s résumé slipped under the door. I made myself a cup of tea and sat down at my desk to review it. Definitely not a run-of-the-mill résumé. Riley had included screenshots of websites she had done for her friends and school, along with their URLs, so I could check out the websites myself. She also included a link to her own website, which showed an online portfolio of her graphics and artwork. As I looked through a one-sheet promoting the art department, my phone chirped with a text.

  Hi Pastor Hope, it’s Samantha King. You said to call if I needed anything. Is there any way you could come over?

  I checked my calendar. Except for a meeting with Christopher at ten and a pastoral care visit to Albert Drummond later in the afternoon, I was free.

  Me: Sure. Is now a good time?

  Samantha: Now would be perfect. Thank you so much!

  I poked my head into Christopher’s office to tell him I was going to see Samantha but would be back in time for our meeting.

  “Take all the time you need,” he said. “Samantha is more important. We can always reschedule. Just give me a call and let me know.”

  “Or I could text you.”

  “You’re determined to drag this old priest into the twenty-first century, aren’t you?” He sighed. “Next you’ll want me to take a selfish or whatever they call it.”

  “Nah. I’m not big on selfies either. We’ll leave that to the Kardashians and the teenagers.” I handed him Riley’s résumé. “I would like you to take a look at this, though. I think I’ve found the perfect person to do the church bulletin and help us out with clerical work.”