by Carol Cox
When she completed her list, Kate read through the items and tapped the end of her pencil against her bottom lip. Surely she could come up with something better than that!
“Make my path straight, Lord,” she whispered.
She doodled on another sheet of paper while her mind went back over what she knew of the case so far.
Point one: sometime in the wee hours on Thursday morning, Roland Myers’ Mustang was driven into the Country Diner.
Flipping to a new page, Kate tore off a fresh sheet of paper and made a quick sketch of a car hurtling through the diner’s front window.
Point two: nobody knows who was behind the wheel, as the driver disappeared before the sheriff arrived.
She thought a moment, then added a set of footprints heading away from the scene.
Point three: someone reported the crash to the sheriff’s department. Then Loretta and LuAnne were notified and summoned a crew of workers to help with the cleanup.
Kate drew a cluster of cartoonlike circles representing the faces she and Paul had seen when they arrived at the diner.
Point four: my wallet was discovered on the Mustang’s passenger seat, and no one has any idea how it got there.
She penciled a small rectangle next to the car, with a series of question marks above it.
Point five: people suspect me of having some involvement with the incident.
Without conscious thought, she added down-turned mouths to the cluster of faces.
Point six: Roland Myers never reported the theft of the car and seemed upset when he learned it had been found.
A rough sketch of Myers’ house went in the upper corner of the paper. With a few quick strokes, Kate added a mysterious shadow hanging over the house.
Point seven...
There is no point seven, Kate thought gloomily, unless she counted the flurry of talk buzzing around town.
She studied her sketch, hoping for inspiration to strike, but inspiration appeared to be on vacation. No matter how she looked at the situation, it always came down to the same few elements: the car, the diner, the people. Nothing there sparked any new ideas.
Unless...
Was there something about the diner? A wisp of memory returned, the conversation between Pete Barkley and Elma Swanson about someone having it in for either LuAnne or Loretta or both.
Did Loretta or LuAnne have a secret enemy? Kate dismissed the idea. On the other hand, stranger things had happened. She knew some people didn’t like or trust J. B. Packer, but he only worked part-time at the diner. Crashing into the SuperMart in Pine Ridge, where he stocked shelves, would have been a better way to get to him.
What about the crowd of recruits who showed up at the diner to help clean up the rubble? Kate remembered the old adage about criminals returning to the scene of the crime.
Could the same thing have happened in this case? It would have been a simple enough matter for the unknown driver to abandon the Mustang and wait in a pocket of darkness, ready to blend in with the band of volunteers when they arrived.
Kate’s pulse quickened. Had she been face-to-face with the mystery driver?
She closed her eyes, trying to envision the late-night scene. If only she could remember the faces, she might be able to resolve this dilemma in short order.
She could picture LuAnne and Loretta. Sheriff Roberts, of course, and Skip Spencer. Pete Barkley and Elma Swanson. J. B. Packer standing next to Mayor Briddle. She knew J.B. well enough to know that he would have admitted to it if he had crashed the car. Besides, he had already been cleared. Who else?
Kate tried harder to concentrate, but the faces swam before her in a blur. It was no use. She had been too tired, too distraught over the discovery of the loss of her wallet to pay close attention to what was going on around her.
She added “Ask LuAnne and Loretta who was there” to her list. Maybe that would be the place to start, since she couldn’t find out anything more about the car on her own.
Or could she?
Sheriff Roberts had handed her one important piece of information: the name of the Mustang’s owner. And according to him, Roland Myers lived “way out east of town off Mountain Laurel Road.”
Excitement buoyed Kate even more than her morning jolt of caffeine. If nothing more, it was a place to start.
Seizing the pencil, she circled Roland Myers’ name with a flourish, then snatched up her car keys and purse and headed for the front door.
KATE SCANNED THE MAILBOXES that marked the sparsely scattered properties along Mountain Laurel Road. It was a shame Livvy couldn’t come with her. She seemed to know where everybody lived. But waiting for Livvy to get off work would have meant a delay of several hours, and everything within Kate demanded action right away.
There it was. Kate turned when she spotted the rusty mailbox with peeling remnants of the name “Myers” stenciled in black paint on its side. Gravel crunched beneath the tires of her Honda Accord as she made her way up the long rutted driveway.
To either side, derelict cars in different stages of dismemberment littered the ground.
Like an automotive graveyard. Kate shuddered when the thought sprang into her mind, then laughed at her flight of fancy.
The house, a white frame building with peeling paint, sat just beyond. Kate parked her Accord beside a decrepit International Scout sitting up on blocks. From the looks of things, the aging vehicle must have been laid to rest there years before. The trunk of a small sapling poked through one of the side windows.
She lifted a plate of brownies from the passenger seat and picked her way through the maze of auto bodies and assorted parts, still fighting down the feeling she was in some sort of bizarre cemetery.
Maybe it wasn’t such a surprise the man hadn’t reported the theft of the Mustang any sooner. Amid all this clutter, why would he notice one missing vehicle?
The screen door squeaked, and a slight man with sunken cheeks stepped out onto the sagging front porch. He watched Kate in silence, snapping one of his suspender straps against his faded red flannel shirt while she navigated the obstacle course.
Kate tried to size him up and keep her footing at the same time. He seemed harmless enough, with a pleasant expression and graying hair that fringed three sides of his head.
When she reached the porch at last, she held up the brownies and offered him her brightest smile.
“Mr. Myers? I’m Kate Hanlon. My husband is the pastor of Faith Briar Church. We haven’t had the chance to meet you yet, so I brought this for you as a sort of get-acquainted gift.”
His lips parted in a gap-toothed grin. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”
Kate’s shoulder muscles tensed, but she kept smiling. “Do you know Faith Briar? It’s the little white church near the high school.”
Myers chortled. “That may be, but you didn’t get that twang from anywhere in these parts.”
Kate’s shoulders relaxed, and she smiled in earnest. “I see what you mean. No, I’m not from around here. My husband grew up about an hour away from Copper Mill, but I’m originally from Texas.”
“Thought so.” The old man’s gaze shifted from Kate to the plate of brownies and back again. “My Mildred used to bake once a week. Wednesday—that was always her baking day.”
He leaned against the porch rail, and his eyes took on a faraway look. “Nothing like the smell of homemade brownies, fresh from the oven.”
He reached out to take the plate from Kate’s hands and held it up to his nose. Sniffing appreciatively, he let out a wistful sigh. “It’s been a long time since I smelled something that good. Thank you kindly.”
He reached for the handle of the screen door and tugged it open a few inches. “Would you like to come in? The place isn’t fancy, but I could brew up a pot of coffee that would go good with these brownies. Seems like the least I can do, since you managed to make your way through all that mess.”
His comment called Kate back to the reason she had come. She mounted the firs
t porch step and waved her arm in an arc, taking in the accumulation of cars. “You do have quite a collection here, don’t you?”
Myers’ laugh ended on a wispy wheeze. “You’re right as rain about that. Mildred used to call it a regular junkyard.”
Taking her cue from that, Kate watched him closely as she added, “Didn’t that Mustang belong to you? The one that crashed into the Country Diner?”
The old man’s grin disappeared like a flash. He ducked his head in a jerky nod. Kate could see his Adam’s apple bounce up and down like the basketball at Friday night’s game.
She pressed on. “Such a terrible thing! It must have been a shock to you when you found it missing.”
The handle slipped from Myers’ fingers, and the screen door slapped against the frame. His face darkened and took on a shuttered expression, and the friendly light left his eyes.
“I’ve talked to the sheriff, and that’s all I’m gonna say about it.” He thrust the plate of brownies back into her hands. “You ain’t bribin’ any answers out of me with a phony gift. You’d best be goin’.” He folded his arms across his scrawny chest and stood his ground.
Kate looked at the plate, then balanced it carefully on the porch railing. “I’m sorry if I offended you, but the gift wasn’t phony. Please keep it and enjoy it.”
Feeling like an utter hypocrite, she made her way back to her car. Well, that didn’t go well.
Or maybe she had gained more information than she knew. Something had triggered that sudden change in Roland Myers’ demeanor...but what?
She hadn’t accused him of anything, hadn’t voiced any sort of suspicion. But his manner seemed more like a guilt-ridden perpetrator than that of the innocent victim of a car theft.
What was he hiding?
She put the car into gear and cast a last glance around the property. What did one man do with so many broken-down old cars?
Kate caught her breath as she eased her car back toward Mountain Laurel Road. What were those operations called, where stolen cars were cannibalized for their parts?
She thought back to an investigative report on the subject that she had watched in San Antonio. A chop shop! That was it.
She turned onto Mountain Laurel. Could diminutive Roland Myers be running a chop shop on his property? She turned the idea over in her mind and nodded slowly. That could explain his delay in notifying the sheriff about the missing Mustang.
Kate pressed on the accelerator, and her thoughts seemed to pick up speed as well. Reporting the theft would only draw attention to himself and the illicit operation at his property, the last thing Roland Myers would want to do if he were involved in some illegal activity.
Kate pursed her lips and started whistling, then she broke off with a chuckle when she recognized the tune as the theme song from Cops.
“Don’t celebrate too soon,” she told herself. Her theory made sense, but she had no proof other than her instinct. Not yet, anyway.
Chapter Eight
Kate balanced an insulated carrier containing a fresh-from-the-oven casserole dish against her left hip as she opened the front doors of the church, then she slipped across the foyer and tiptoed downstairs with only minutes to spare.
Avery Griffin, the part-time custodian Paul had recently hired, was scooting the last of the folding tables into a straight line. The lines in his round face deepened when he turned a shy smile her way.
“Morning, Mrs. Hanlon. Looks like we have a good turnout today. Good thing there’s plenty of food in there.”
Kate smiled and nodded, too out of breath to respond aloud. Inside the kitchen, she set the pan of sour-cream chicken enchiladas on a warming tray and took a moment to catch her breath and massage her arthritic knee. It wasn’t like her to run late for a Sunday service, but she had taken special pains preparing the casserole that morning.
The whole church would be gathering downstairs after the worship service for the potluck meal, and she wanted to make something especially tasty. Something that would remind the congregation that their pastor’s wife was a normal, upstanding person, not the type to be involved in grand theft auto or a hit and run.
And it was just a reminder, she told herself. Not a bribe. Not really.
Lord, help my motives to be pure. To want to do my best to serve others, not just put a positive spin on things for my own sake.
From the looks of the laden table, she wasn’t the only one who had put forth an extra effort that morning. During her time in Copper Mill, she had learned that the ladies of the church—and some of the men as well—went all out when it came to these potluck meals.
A fellowship meal always brought out a wide range of dishes and culinary talents. She noticed a hamburger casserole in a plain aluminum pan sitting next to paprika-sprinkled deviled eggs, artistically arranged on a cut-glass platter.
Kate smiled when she recognized the platter. Only Renee Lambert would bring what was likely to be a family heirloom to a church potluck.
Lilting notes from the organ filtered down the stairwell and called her back to the moment. Kate slid the casserole dish from its insulated carrier and trotted upstairs to the sanctuary, where Sam Gorman leaned over the keyboard, letting worship flow from his heart through his fingers in a majestic prelude.
On her way to her seat in the second pew, she spotted Danny Jenner, flanked by his teenage sons, Justin and James. Kate peered past the trio, hoping for a glimpse of Livvy.
Danny smiled at her knowingly and shook his head. “Livvy isn’t here, Kate. She’s home nursing that cold. The way she’s been wheezing and coughing, I told her she’d better take care of herself, or it’s going to turn nasty on her.”
Kate nodded, feeling bereft. She longed to see Livvy’s smiling face, even more to talk to her and get more of her perspective on the diner situation.
She forced a smile, reflecting that she seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. “Tell her I missed her, would you? I’ll give her a call this afternoon so we can catch up on things.”
“It won’t do you any good.” Danny’s wry smile softened the words. “Her voice is pretty near gone.”
“Yeah,” James put in with a chuckle. “She can barely make herself squeak.”
“Oh. Well, then, tell her to take care of herself, and let her know I’m praying for her.”
She settled into her seat, trying to shake off the feeling of being abandoned. It wasn’t anything of the sort, she knew. Livvy would be there in a heartbeat to lend moral support and a healthy dollop of common sense if she could.
Kate lifted her chin and tried to look as if this was a Sunday morning just like any other. Deep in her heart, though, she knew it was only an act. She wondered how many in the congregation knew that as well.
Kate sat up straight in the oak pew and smoothed her linen skirt down over her knees. She had dressed with extra care that morning, wanting to present the picture of an eminently respectable pastor’s wife.
Paul stepped behind the pulpit and raised his voice enough to be heard over the murmur of voices.
“Let’s praise the Lord this morning. Please stand and join me in singing ‘How Great Thou Art.’”
Kate stood and walked to the front as the choir assembled on the stage, then let her voice mingle with the others as they all sang one of her favorite hymns. Normally the words flowed freely, but on this occasion she couldn’t force them past the lump in her throat.
The same thing had happened the first time she sang that hymn in this building, but then it was due to her gratitude at God’s provision in helping the members of Faith Briar rebuild their church from a pile of ashes.
This Sunday she felt more out of place than ever, since the day of their arrival in Copper Mill. Is this really happening, Lord? It seems more like a bad dream.
As the final notes of the hymn faded away, Paul gave the congregation the signal to be seated, and she settled back into the pew.
Standing behind the pulpit, Paul looked especially handsome in his favor
ite navy suit. Every strand of his salt-and-pepper hair was in place. He opened his Bible and gazed out over the assembled worshippers.
“This morning my text comes from Daniel, chapter six.”
Paul waited while pages rustled and members of the congregation located the spot in their own Bibles. Then he went on to read the familiar story about Daniel, the man of God, and his steadfastness in the face of adversity. Though lies and gossip threatened his standing and tested his faith, he remained strong.
Kate squirmed. Paul couldn’t have chosen a better topic to fit her situation. But how could he have known? She hadn’t said a word to him about the talk swirling around town.
Comments she had heard over the years from members of their congregation in San Antonio drifted into her mind: “Have you been reading my mind, Pastor Paul?” “You sure stepped on my toes during that sermon.”
Now she knew how they must have felt.
Paul set his Bible on the oak pulpit and looked out over the crowd. “The story is one we’ve all heard since childhood.”
He leaned on the pulpit, and a broad grin split his face. “Have you ever felt like you’ve been thrown to the lions?”
More than you know. Kate tried to keep her focus on what Paul was saying, but her thoughts kept straying to the people sitting around her. Were they paying attention to the sermon or, like her, were they jittery and distracted by recent events?
With an effort, she pulled her attention back to the front of the sanctuary. Paul looked so happy, so content up there on the platform. The move to Copper Mill had been good for him.
A murmur of assent rippled through the sanctuary, telling her she might not be the only one for whom Paul’s question struck home. Kate shifted ever so slightly in her seat so that she could catch a glimpse of the people in the rows behind her.
There was Joe Tucker, a look of rapt attention on his wizened face. One of his gnarled hands rested on the pew in front of him. Kate smiled as she watched his fingers stroke the smooth grain of the wood he had crafted with his own hands.
