by J B Hawker
When he heard the sirens, he was already a quarter mile away from the cabin, chewing on a chicken leg as he hurried away.
It occurred to Carver to hope the cops wouldn’t try to pin the dead guy on him, but then he reminded himself he would already be in the Canadian wilderness when they connected him with the burglary, if they ever did. And one more body wouldn’t make much difference, with his record.
Finally, completely full, he made himself comfortable and settled in to sleep until after dark.
This lucky break could be a sign he would snag himself some wheels that night.
*
The remainder of the night’s ride-along was without incident, giving Scott ample time to think about the burglarized cabin.
He didn’t like to think someone was capable of such an act as the wanton slashing of an elderly man just to steal some food.
Scott preferred to think the burglar had not known he was attacking a dead man. Murder in the commission of a robbery was at least understandable, but desecrating a corpse seemed so depraved.
Whether the burglar knew he was defiling a corpse or thought he was committing murder, Scott didn’t like knowing he was wandering around so close to his own hometown and loved ones.
The people of Bannoch were seldom exposed to such evil and might not be able to defend themselves.
Returning home following his shift, Scott checked to be certain Naidenne was safely tucked into bed, then locked the house up tight and left the outside porch lights on, just in case.
Scott thought about his old dog, Reacher, and lamented anew his faithful companion’s death from old age the previous summer. He began to think it was time to stop mourning the loss of his friend and protector and to start looking for a replacement.
Chapter Seven
The next morning Scott leaned down and pressed a kiss on his sleeping wife’s bare shoulder.
Naidenne opened her eyes and smiled up at him.
Spying the coffee mugs he carried, she sat up. Scooting back against her pillows, she took one of the steaming cups.
“Thank you, darling. How are you this morning?”
Scott settled on the edge of the bed beside Naidenne and sipped his coffee before replying.
“Not still upset about last night, I hope?” she asked.
“No. It was only a routine burglary and the death of a very old man from natural causes. I’ve seen much worse on these ride-alongs. I was a bit unsettled last night, though, thinking about what sort of person would slit the throat of a dead man before stripping him of anything valuable. I know evil exists in the world. It’s just hard to take when it pops up so close at hand.”
“I guess it has always been this way. One of the conference speakers from last night was talking about the origins of the Hebrew word, hamas. She said it means random destruction for its own sake. That’s practically the definition of evil. If the ancient Hebrews needed a word for it, even in Old Testament times, it shows how long wickedness has been around.”
“…and on this beautiful Sunday morning, oh, Best Beloved, we need to remember Christ has already defeated Satan and his minions, including last night’s housebreaker, they just don’t know it, yet,” Scott added.
“You look very handsome in your go-to-meeting clothes this morning, Pastor. Too bad you are already dressed for church. Otherwise, I might try to convince you to have a little cuddle before you go,” Naidenne patted the mattress beside her as she spoke and rolled her eyes.
Scott laughed, kissed his wife on the nose and went downstairs to grab his sermon notes and Bible before heading to the church, where it was his practice to spend at least thirty minutes in prayer and quiet preparation before worship.
Naidenne finished her coffee, then climbed reluctantly out of her warm bed to dress and have breakfast.
She paused before the open window, breathing deeply of the fresh sea air.
She relished these precious peaceful moments before the day’s activities began, since Sunday mornings for a pastor’s family were usually hectic.
She would follow her husband to church later, arriving in time to teach the primary age Sunday School class.
Once arriving at the church, both Scott and Naidenne would be fully occupied until after the worship service.
The couple seldom had a moment alone on Sundays, especially if they were invited out to dinner or shared their own mid-day meal with a church member, as was often the case.
Naidenne always dashed from her classroom as soon as the last small child was collected and frequently barely made it to the choir room in time to run through the morning’s music.
It wasn’t until she was donning her robe on this particular Sunday morning that she overheard a chance remark and remembered this was the day she would finally meet the infamous Maureen Oldham.
Jack Griffith, Shirley’s husband, was getting his own robe from the rack.
“Where’s Rosamund this morning, Naidenne? She caught the flu bug that’s been going around?”
“No. She’s fine, just taking a little vacation out of town.”
“Really? Well, I guess she deserves one. I can’t remember her ever taking a trip before.”
Naidenne was uncomfortable skirting around the whole truth of Rosamund’s absence and quickly changed the subject.
“Say, I hear a former parishioner has returned to town. Do you remember Maureen Oldham?”
“Oh...Maureen…er yes, I remember her.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to feel uncomfortable.
“We’d better get to our places. The director’s ready to run us through our paces,” he urged.
About fifteen minutes later, following the choral call to worship, Naidenne sat in the choir box at the front of the sanctuary looking out over the congregation, observing a few latecomers finding their seats.
A short, stocky woman, whose frizzy orange-dyed hair haloed an over-sized head and a generous beak of a nose, entered the sanctuary. She looked from left to right over the congregation, bestowing a tight smile here, a nod of the head there, in regal acknowledgement of those who recognized her.
Reaching a pew on the left, about half-way down the aisle, she stopped abruptly, hands on hips, and directed a glare of consternation toward the pastor.
Scott’s dismayed expression alerted Naidenne; this was the notorious Maureen and Scott had not followed the voice mail instructions about preserving her special seat.
Maureen leaned into the face of the unsuspecting claim jumper and snapped, loudly enough for all to hear, “You’re in my spot.”
Shock drained the face of the woman seated in the pew, who then flushed bright pink. Quickly gathering up her purse and Bible and sidling awkwardly along the pew, she accidentally plopped down painfully onto the bench’s low wooden sidearm and dropped everything into the far aisle.
An usher helped the flustered women retrieve her things and gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze before he returned to his post in the narthex, throwing Maureen a disapproving scowl as he passed.
His look was wasted on Maureen who was complacently settling into her chosen roost, oblivious to the general atmosphere of reproof.
Scott stepped into the pulpit and began the worship service with an unusually emphatic and heartfelt invocation of the presence of God and His Holy Spirit.
*
Fighting off a twinge of guilt for missing church that morning, Rosamund was sitting on the oceanfront balcony of her third-floor room at the Gold Beach Inn.
Finding it difficult to concentrate on reading, she set her devotional book on the ornate patio table, took a sip of Constant Comment tea and gazed out on the magnificent view of the ocean.
Earlier that morning she thought she’d caught a glimpse of a migrating whale and been stirred by the majesty of God’s creation.
She’d always been openly disparaging of people who claimed not to need a church building to worship the Lord. Such sentiments seemed to her like rationalizations for following one’s own i
nclinations on Sunday mornings. Looking out on the waves, now, she thought perhaps a sincere person could praise God as well outside of a sanctuary, after all. Occasionally.
After riffling through her mental file drawers, she finally recalled the last time she had skipped church. It had been the terrible winter when she caught pneumonia. She’d missed two Sundays in a row then, more than half a dozen years ago.
Perhaps the Lord would give her credit for time served and give her a pass for this morning’s dereliction of duty.
She decided this resort, near where the Rogue River empties into the Pacific Ocean, might well serve as an open-air cathedral. There were many easy paths to the beach and even little secluded garden areas scattered about. One couldn’t help but think of God amid such natural beauty.
Rosamund had been fortunate there was a vacancy when she arrived so late at night without a reservation.
She was surprised by the quality and variety of the free breakfast bar selections that first morning. She put off eating lunch until late afternoon each day and was making her money stretch by buying only one meal per day at a nearby restaurant.
This could be a perfect vacation spot, but as she turned from the views and grounds to look into her lovely room with its king-sized bed and matching recliners, she couldn’t help picturing Len here with her.
Getting away from home had calmed her frazzled nerves and helped her reclaim a bit of perspective. She was finally over her crying jags, too.
With each passing day, she became more certain she wanted to marry Len. Nevertheless, she couldn’t get past her unreasonable fear of an official engagement. She loved Len too much to risk tempting the bad luck which had taken her long ago fiancé.
Once again, she poured out her heart to God in prayer, begging his forgiveness for her ridiculous superstition and asking him to show her the way.
Sitting with head bowed, she’d almost dozed off in the balmy breeze from the ocean, when the barking of sea lions on the nearby rocks caught her attention.
Smiling, she watched the creatures’ antics for a few moments before suddenly sitting up straighter and saying aloud, “Of course!”
She jumped up, hurried inside to the telephone and began to dial.
*
“What a day!” Scott said, after draping his suit jacket over the back of a nearby chair and folding his long frame onto the living room sofa.
He tugged off his tie and leaned his head back, the picture of a thoroughly exhausted man.
Naidenne came from the kitchen holding a glass of red wine.
“Here, this will help, at least a little.”
“I’d drink a gallon, if only it would wash away the memory of today’s episode with Maureen.”
“Why on earth did you agree to have dinner with her after church, when you dislike her so?” Naidenne asked.
“It’s because I don’t like her. I’m the pastor. It’s my job to love the unlikable.”
“I suppose. Still, she does seem to go out of her way to provoke you. She certainly made some nasty cracks about Rosamund. I admired the way you kept your cool.”
“That’s the power of prayer for you,” Scott said with a laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“I was actually praying for the ground to open and swallow her up. It was that mental image that kept me smiling through all of her venom. I expect I’d better ask forgiveness…but I can’t genuinely repent just now. That woman is really something.”
“She is a good cook, though. I enjoyed her pot roast and I wasn’t just trying to make points when I asked for her recipe for the apricot dessert. I want to fix it for us some time.”
“Everything tasted like dust to me with Maureen spewing nastiness across the table. If you say the food was good, I’ll take your word for it.”
“Honey, try to forget her. We’re home, now, and you can relax.”
“Did you hear what she said about the church roof? How can she be meddling already, when she’s scarcely unpacked?”
“What did she say? I didn’t hear her.”
“Oh, never mind. She was just repeating a wacky idea the Trustees had about taking the price of a new roof out of my salary. It’s nonsense. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I was just so annoyed at seeing her already back to her interfering ways.”
“But, why would they want you to pay for the roof? That’s silly! You didn’t make it leak.”
Scott stood up, put his arms around Naidenne and pulled her to him.
“It was a stupid joke one of the trustees made, not seriously, I’m sure. It takes an old harridan like Maureen to try to act on it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. One lasting blessing of Maureen’s all-too-brief absence from Bannoch is she is no longer a church officer. She’s not on any of the boards, so she is in no position to make any real trouble.”
Naidenne began to protest, when Scott kissed her.
“Come on, we’ve given Maureen Oldham too much of our time already for one day. That glass of wine and your beautiful gray eyes have gone to my head and given me much better ideas of ways to spend the rest of the evening.”
Naidenne laughed and turned out the lights while Scott locked up, then followed him upstairs.
*
Carver Schramm awoke after dark with stabbing pains in his stomach, a raging thirst and a splitting headache. It took a moment for him to clear his head enough to see he was still in the culvert beneath the highway where he’d dozed off after feasting on his haul from the cabin.
Finding a half-full can of beer near his hand, he greedily gulped down the contents and immediately began to vomit.
When the spasms passed, he wiped his face on his shirttail and tried to assess his situation.
After heaving up his guts, he felt even worse than ever. Something was definitely wrong.
It must’ve been the leftover chicken, or something else he’d eaten. He should have known better. That place was such a dump; there could have been all sorts of microbes crawling around in the food.
He couldn’t stay here. He might die lying out in the cold when he was so sick. He had to find shelter where he could hole-up and recover.
Schramm rolled over and rose shakily to his feet. He made his way, retching, stumbling and crawling, out of the gulley and up into the woods above the highway. Sweating and fighting a wave of nausea, he was forced to ease down against a tree to catch his breath before moving on.
Chapter Eight
“Thanks for coming with me this morning, Deenie,” Shirley said, as she drove over the rutted track to Maizey Simmons’s place.
“I’m happy to come. I want to see the look on Maizey’s face when you hand her that one-hundred-dollar check for her husband’s sculptures.”
“Yes, I’m pretty sure the poor dear can use the money. There she is, now.”
Shirley parked in the gravel drive and waved to an older woman standing in the open doorway of a modest two-story farmhouse.
“Come on in, you two. Coffee’s on and I just took a batch of biscuits out of the oven,” Maizey called out.
“Homemade biscuits! Now, I’m really glad I came,” Naidenne remarked as she got out of the car.
Stepping through the wood framed screen door into the old-fashioned kitchen was like walking into another century.
Well-scrubbed butcher block counter tops and a square porcelain farmhouse sink would cost a small fortune in a trendy home supply store, but the signs of years of wear declared these were not some designer’s retro fashion statement.
A round oak claw-footed dining table, draped with blue and white checked oilcloth, filled the center of the room, while open shelving lined the walls.
Maizey set a heaping basket of hot biscuits onto the table beside a mason jar filled with wildflowers and a dish holding a dripping honeycomb.
“Do you keep bees, too, Maizey? I haven’t seen a honeycomb in ages,” Naidenne said.
“My old man was the beekeeper, but I�
�ve managed to keep one of the hives alive. That’s bramble blossom honey, just as tasty as you’ll find anywhere.”
“This is wonderful,” Shirley said, as she added honey to a biscuit already dripping with melted butter.
“Eat up, you two. It’ll only go to waste, otherwise, ‘cause my waist sure doesn’t need any.”
The women chatted through several biscuits and refills of coffee.
Shirley wiped her hands on one of Maizey’s handmade cloth napkins and pulled an envelope from her purse.
“Here’s the proceeds from the sale of those two sculptures, Maizey. Do you think we can take a look at what else you have?”
“Why, this is too much! Did folks really pay fifty dollars apiece for those piles of scrap metal?”
“Yes, indeed,” Naidenne replied. “We can sell more, I’m sure. Your husband was a very good artist.”
“Well, I never! Imagine that.”
Maizey sat quietly, just shaking her head, before looking up with a grin.
“The attic and basement are full of the dang things. Help yourself, girls. You can haul it all off and I’ll just start making plans for spending the loot.”
She chuckled, adding, “Seems I owe Mr. Simmons an apology. I was always after him for wasting time and making a mess, when it turns out he was a real artist.”
Shirley and Naidenne tackled the basement first and found many obviously unfinished pieces. They pawed through a maze of decomposing cardboard boxes filled with old clothes, moldy toys and empty canning jars, before uncovering three sculptures worth toting upstairs.
Setting these finds beside the door, the two women spied their hostess outside taking clothes from the line.
Shirley went out to tell Maizey what they’d found and to get directions to the attic.
When she returned to the house, Shirley led Naidenne through the back hallway to the narrow attic stairs.
Halfway up, Naidenne was overcome by a wave of nausea and sank down onto a step while it passed.
“Are you okay, Deenie?”
“Just a touch of vertigo, I guess. These stairs are a bit steeper than I’m used to. I’m fine, now.”
