by Beth Moore
A handful of criminal charges had been brought against him, mostly money-related, but he had always slithered through one loophole after another like he’d been greased on both sides. Folks liked to say he’d been involved in more suits than a menswear manufacturer. Olivia’s father-in-law was a legend, notorious among his contemporaries for being an out-and-out crook but so irresistibly charismatic that those who accused him usually ended up working for him. Unfortunately, Olivia’s late husband had inherited no such charm. Any shred of public favor came to wrack and ruin when he won a well-publicized lawsuit and his opponent left the courthouse bankrupt, drove straight home, and hanged himself by his belt from his bathroom closet door.
Adella had come into the Fontaines’ employment innocently, knowing nothing about the family history. When several people at church raised eyebrows over who’d hired her, she’d made a conscious choice not to pry open a single closet where she suspected a hanging skeleton. But that didn’t stop people from filling her in on the gossip over the years.
The financial books at Saint Sans were as clean as a whistle. Adella knew that firsthand. No crimes were being committed under that metal roof. Not that she knew of anyway. She’d have quit on a dime if she’d discovered anything legally iffy. The objections of a few stuffed shirts were based on old conjecture, and God didn’t hold one person responsible for another’s sins. That Olivia had personally invited the law over to this property should have made Adella feel better. But it didn’t.
“You had just cause—there’s no doubt in my mind—but for the life of me, Olivia, I can’t rightly picture you making that call.”
“Well, it’s been three months, and I have yet to hear any further word about the investigation.” Olivia’s explanation might have been completely expected and rational from anyone else, but it fit her about as well as a grown man’s water ski would fit a toddler.
“I didn’t know you were all that anxious for the details. I mean, of course, you should be. You have a right to know. Do they have any leads?”
“No. I doubt it’s a big priority. Officer La Bauve said they’d asked questions there on the street, but everyone either claimed not to have seen anything or talked too much nonsense to pay any attention to.” Olivia stared off into space as she talked. “The people that were closest to him out there aren’t the most credible witnesses.”
“Has the officer not kept in contact with you like he promised? Them showing up here in June en masse irritated me to no end, but they seemed sincere enough about Rafe’s case. I’d asked them to contact me instead of you, but of course, they refused. Confidentiality and all.”
“I’ve heard from them several times, yes.”
Adella drew down her brow and held her peace for a few moments because she knew Olivia hadn’t told the whole story yet.
“Adella, I did ask the officer here to see if there was any new information on the case, but that’s not the only reason. I also asked him to come by because something seems off around here. I think someone’s been on the property, right on the back porch. And maybe more than once.”
The possibility frightened Adella more than it should have, but she covered it with rationalizations. “People come and go all the time from the back of Saint Sans: the residents, repairmen, the pest control guy, the lawn man. Only a stranger knocks at that old frozen front door. You know that. I don’t understand your concerns.” Then why did your pulse just spike? Adella asked herself silently.
“I get feelings about things. Call it intuition, if you like. Items keep being moved around, but only enough for me to notice, I guess.”
“Like what? What kinds of things are getting moved around?”
Olivia shot Adella a look highly suggesting that the whole conversation was about to shut down if she didn’t stop interrogating her.
“Now, wait a second. I believe you. I’m just trying to get the full picture.”
“My chairs will be rearranged. I always have them just so. Once they were entirely switched around in order around that table. A pot of flowers will be shoved over maybe six inches. A spade that I know full well I left in the garage will just be lying on the porch table on a day when there’s been no gardener in sight. And anyway, it’s all happening at night.”
“Lord, have mercy. Maybe Mrs. Winsee’s gone to sleepwalking. I’ve always feared . . . Maybe we’d better—”
“It’s not Vida. I know it’s not.”
“How do you know?”
“Because that was my first thought, too. So after she turned in for the night a couple of times, I put a strip of clear tape on her door down at the bottom where no one could see it. The next morning, I’d purposely get up before her and the tape would still be adhered.”
Adella was astonished. “Well, I’ll be. You’ve gone all Sherlock Holmes on us here, Olivia Fontaine.” So that was why she’d caught Olivia up and moving around the kitchen on so many early mornings. “Girl, why didn’t you say anything?”
“Take one look in the mirror at your expression and you’ll answer your own question. Because all of you would think I was imagining it or doing it myself but forgetting it. And I didn’t want to spook anyone.”
“Well, we’re all adults here at Saint Sans. I hardly think you’ve told me anything that would actually scare us.” Adella lied through her white teeth. “I mean, what can Officer La Bauve do about some rearranged chairs?”
Fire shot through Olivia’s eyes. “Oh, give me some credit! Do I really strike you as the kind who would call the police over shifting chairs?” She dug into her pocket, pulled something out, grabbed Adella’s palm, and slapped the object into it. “This showed up on the porch table a few days ago with its edge tucked under the flower arrangement. You still think I’m imagining things?”
Adella’s heart nearly jumped out of her chest. It was a picture of Rafe. “So, someone’s been in your stuff? Into your pictures?”
“That’s not my picture. I’ve never seen it before. I am well acquainted with every picture I have of my only child.” Olivia’s tone dropped an octave and became hoarse. “I assure you I’d recognize it.”
The picture wasn’t recent, but neither was it old. It had to have been taken sometime over the last decade and during a fairly sober stint. His eyes were as clear as water and his expression looked, if not overtly happy, at least pleasant. Somebody else had been in the picture because it appeared to be a three-by-five print that had been torn—not cut—slightly off center.
The baby rattle Adella had found atop the doormat on the back porch nearly started shaking itself in the bottom of her purse. She moved the bag from her shoulder to her chest and guarded it with both arms. “Okay, Olivia. You’ve got my attention. Where do you think it was taken? And by whom, for heaven’s sake?”
“I don’t know. But somehow it feels too shady to be friendly.”
Adella had to give her that. “I know you’ve resisted a house alarm up to now, but maybe it’s time we got one installed. And maybe even a security camera.”
Olivia rolled her eyes. “Must you always fly to a ten when a five will do? I’m willing to talk about an alarm, although no telling how often it’s going to be set off by this scatterbrained bunch. But I’m not about to start putting us all on film.”
Olivia had never agreed to an alarm on Saint Sans before, arguing that she refused to live in fear in her own well-lit house. Adella always suspected the real reason was her fear that Rafe would show up on the back porch in need and too drunk to knock. He’d force a door open and every resident would be up and the police on their way before Olivia could slip him out of sight.
“What did Officer La Bauve recommend?”
Olivia hedged for a moment before answering, “A security camera.”
Adella threw her hands in the air.
“Or a big dog! But I’m not getting either one. I told him that. Not unless I have to. Think what a dog would do to my flower beds. First La Bauve recommended that I let him put me in touch with law en
forcement in this district, but once I showed him the photograph, he said it connected with his case enough to warrant his involvement a little longer.”
“Well, that’s some good news, I guess,” Adella commented. “He can at least make himself useful and whisper Clementine out of trees when need be.”
“It’s him or somebody new. You can surely understand that I want a new pride of police on this property as much as I want a liver transplant. He said at this point the picture doesn’t prove trespassing since it could have come from the house, which it most certainly did not. But he does agree that it is . . . Well, he called it creepy. Imagine a man his size using the word creepy. He’s going to talk to that Sergeant DaCosta we liked so much the first time around. It should be fun to see him again, don’t you think?” Olivia was never more at ease than when she was sarcastic.
“Some answers will at least bring understanding. Maybe a little peace,” Adella said.
“That all depends on what pans out to have happened. I don’t know how finding out who stabbed him in the gut can bring any peace, but I guess we’ll see about that.”
Adella wasn’t about to argue with her. She had been around enough people in the throes of grief to know that there was very little that could be said by an outsider, especially one that Olivia would consider “religious.” Besides, she suspected Olivia had not yet figured out exactly what she had lost. If a relationship wasn’t healthy in the first place, it was a whole lot harder for the grief to be healthy when it was over.
They both stood silently for a moment, first one drawing a deep breath, then the other. When Olivia’s nails started tapping on the small table next to her, Adella knew they were done. It was like a drum roll announcing somebody’s exit, and since they were standing in Olivia’s quarters, it was obviously going to be Adella’s.
“Well then, I’ll get back to the tasks at hand. Let me know what I can—”
“How’s Jillian?”
Scared out of her wits of getting arrested for stealing and she’s probably pregnant and all but penniless and has two detached kinfolks to her name, but beyond that, I’d say she’s peachy. “I think she’s okay. She seems to have inherited a distrust of the police. Go figure that.”
“The muffins were pretty good, don’t you think, if you can tolerate a whole hay bale of bran in one sitting?” That was classic Olivia. Every compliment showed its backside.
“Maybe that’s what’s wrong with my stomach.”
“Adella, you didn’t even have one. That’s what’s wrong with the rest of our stomachs. What’s wrong with your stomach is that you sent Clementine out the back door bird hunting. And for heaven’s sake, pull that wad of tissue off your big toe. It looks like the world’s worst aim had a shoot-out in the ladies’ room.”
“Atonement?”
“That’s right. Atonement. That’s all the card said. It’s a Bible term.” Adella heard Emmett come in from work through the kitchen door, so she stepped out the back door for privacy.
“I am aware of that much, Mrs. Atwater, but thank you,” Sergeant DaCosta responded, clearly struggling to be polite.
“Officer La Bauve is the one who’s up-to-date on the case. Perhaps you should just have him call me,” Adella suggested, not bothering to hide her own irritation. She hated having to explain a bone to a dog. “This is what you policemen do, is it not? Investigate cases? Consider the evidence?”
“Of course it is, ma’am. We’re just understaffed here in the busiest crime district in New Orleans. One of the busiest in the nation, I might add. We might need your patience. The phone is ringing off the wall with the flavor of the day. Today it’s car thefts. I will certainly pass word on to La Bauve, but several of us are involved in this case. I’m overseeing it, so let’s keep talking here for a minute. If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you’re making too much of it by reporting it.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Hold on a sec.” Adella opened the back door and yelled, “I’m out here, Emmett! I need another minute. It’s business, not pleasure! Eat an apple or something.” Was it two boys she had or was it three?
“Mrs. Atwater? Are you there?”
“I am here. Speak up!”
“I understand why you didn’t show it to Mrs. Fontaine the day of the burial, but why haven’t you told her since then?”
“Well, how exactly do you suggest to a grieving mother—and that’s what she is, no matter how strange she’s acting—that, by some sick person’s estimation, your son’s death was meant to ‘atone’ for something? Huh? How would you suggest I bring that up? The whole thing gives me the creeps.”
“Those are good points, but it’s time she knew. She may be the only person that can shed light on why somebody would want to take revenge.”
“Atonement and revenge are not the same thing, you realize, Mr. DaCosta?”
“Semantics. Listen, I’m trying to help here. I really am. But I wonder if we could forgo the competition and move to the same side.”
Adella wanted to ask him who was competing with whom, but she was afraid she’d overplay her confidence and start getting all convicted. “I’m a reasonable person, Sergeant, and I’ve always been easy to get along with.”
“I’m sure of that, so consider us officially getting along.” He paused, and Adella imagined him rubbing his temples. “Let’s do a little strategic planning. When should you tell Mrs. Fontaine about the card? Tomorrow morning or afternoon?”
Adella sighed. “I guess at the same time I tell her about the baby rattle.”
“What baby rattle?”
“The blue one I found on the back porch welcome mat not that long after the burial.”
“I don’t get the connection,” Sergeant DaCosta said. “Where would a baby toy fit into all of this?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking it was because Rafe was Olivia’s only child. You know. The kind of child that starts as a baby. A boy baby.” She felt like an idiot. “And babies play with rattles.” As Adella heard her own explanation, it seemed ludicrous.
“Understandable,” the officer responded. “To tell you the truth, we still need a lot more to go on. Trespassing is a long way from murder. My guess is that the two things won’t turn out to be related. But in the remote chance they are, if there’s an unwanted visitor to the place, someone there might catch the person in the act. Then we could question him.”
“Or her. So you’re saying that we need to catch the person committing the crime, and then we can move forward? We should put ourselves in harm’s way to help the case. That’s it, is it?”
The sergeant was silent.
“Fine, then. We’re set to go with our part around here. What’s your part?”
Adella looked through the screen door to see what her menfolk were up to. By this time, all three of them were circling around the kitchen like vultures, dive-bombing anything remotely edible. That’s when Trevor Don accidentally knocked his mother’s big red purse from the kitchen counter to the tile floor, sending contents flying. As he and AJ dove for a couple of quarters rolling on the floor, all three sets of ebony eyes focused on a single point on the floor. Adella didn’t have to see it to know what they were looking at: a small rectangular box labeled Early Pregnancy Test.
Both boys jumped to their feet like they’d been electrocuted. Each of them took a giant step back and stared in horror at Emmett. AJ’s expression took on a disgust so palpable, it looked like something would project from his mouth any split second. Trevor Don, on the other hand, turned into something resembling a mad, rabid dog about to take a chunk out of somebody’s thigh. Had Emmett been a foot shorter and considerably less broad, he might have been in harm’s way.
“What? Don’t look at me! I don’t know anything about this!” Emmett was clearly horrified and on his way to petrified.
That’s when Trevor Don took what, with generous imagination, might vaguely resemble a swing at Emmett. AJ grabbed him by the other arm and slung him out of the kitchen. The last
word Adella heard one of the boys say was “Sick!”
CHAPTER 17
MAY 1918
PASSERSBY SEEMED MOST IMPRESSED by the construction of a copper-topped belfry rising above the ten-by-ten entryway. Within it hung a heavy bell, slightly undersized to the critical eye but one that made a particularly impressive effort in the right hands. The four corners rose another ten feet above the chapel’s roofline, meeting at the tip, hinting at a steeple but stopping just short of a full commitment. Saint Silvanus was a sight for the sore eyes of its visionaries and, as it turned out, no eyesore at all for its community. Those with ostentatious tastes might have found it underwhelming, but it was sturdy, color-rich, and pristine. They’d come a long way from the one-room churches of their older fellows.
At the front of the chapel, beyond the organ, a corridor of slight unintended decline led off to the right, where four meeting rooms could be found. To have such a wing for Sunday school classes was a luxury to a petite congregation and a considerable source of pride.
On the opposite side of the church from the classroom wing was a detached parsonage, small but quaint. Its lower half echoed the church’s brick and mortar and its upper half was wooden siding, painted a glossy white. Matching wooden railings enclosed the house’s small front porch, and a cedar swing hung from two chains, wooing a couple to come and sit a spell and watch the world go by. Its roof was made of the same standing-seam metal as the church building’s. All told, the parsonage was a fine home for the family of a man of Methodist cloth.
The family who would first call it home was the Reverend R. J. Brashear and his wife, Evelyn Ann, and their young daughter, Brianna. The child had a sweet, tender disposition and a swath of freckles across her cheeks. She’d been crippled by polio for the better part of two years and was almost entirely reliant on a wheelchair to go any farther than from the parsonage to the church. Her father carried her there and back for each gathering as she latched her arms around his neck.
