A Dickens of a Crime

by Phyllis H Moore

  “That’s my take on it,” he responded.

  Meg leaned in closer. “I’ve actually known men who bragged about such things, especially if the woman was as attractive and vibrant as Lena.” She took another sip of her wine, glancing toward Rafe. She had no idea why she said that, but she was sure some men probably did participate in locker room bragging. The warmth of the wine was helping her tolerate the onslaught of their questioning.

  “Some might, but not if they were the head of a congregation and valued the opinion of their followers,” Sally added.

  “Oh, so you think it’s a religious leader?” Meg smiled inwardly. Now we’re getting somewhere.

  “Let’s just say there’s been talk and vehicles have been observed. There’s enough speculation to warrant suspicion,” Rafe said.

  Vehicles? “If that’s a concern, Rafe, you should go to the police.”

  “I haven’t been questioned by them like you have, Meg. You should mention this to them.”

  “It’s your duty. I have no firsthand knowledge of any of this. The police are interested in facts they can check. Speculation is of no use,” Meg told him.

  Dorie approached the group with a smile and took her mother’s arm. “It’s time to find our table, Mom.” She nodded to Sally and Rafe, leading Meg away. “You looked as if you could use saving,” she whispered.

  “Yes, I did. Thank you.”

  As they walked arm in arm, Dorie said, “I want you to chat with my friend Miranda. She’s here supervising the catering. We met at a conference a couple of years ago.”

  Due to her degree in interior design, Dorie worked closely with event planners in several nearby cities and had done some work with a major hotel in Dallas.

  “Miranda has a unique perspective on some of the people in Lena’s church. She’d be willing to speak with you in the kitchen after the dessert is served and the chaos has calmed.”

  Meg nodded and waved at friends as Dorie led her to a table near the dais. She caught a glimpse of Tom, who waved and motioned to an exit door heading to the powder room.

  Meg told Dorie she would join them after chatting with Tom, then made her way toward the door. When she exited the auditorium, Tom was gone. She walked quickly down a long hall, peering into rooms with open doors, glancing behind her. The hall was poorly lit, with a couple of closed doors and no one visible.

  She could hear the master of ceremonies, amplified by the public address system in the banquet hall, summoning attendees to their tables. Meg headed to the end of the hall, never spotting Tom. Turning and standing still, watching for movement of any of the doors, she knew she was alone. It was eerie.

  Striding faster back down the hall, Meg walked past the door closest to their table and around to the main foyer where they had entered the building. Tom was one of the planners of the event, he might have returned to the check-in counter.

  Meg walked toward Jill Ann, an employee of the foundation, and asked if she had seen Tom. “No, I haven’t, but he was looking for you. Check table ten. That’s where he’s seated.”

  Meg returned to the banquet hall and walked around the perimeter, but Tom wasn’t there. Giving up the hunt, she joined Dorie at their table. Throughout the meal and presentations, Meg glanced at table ten, but Tom never returned.

  Following the ceremony, Dorie and Meg left the banquet hall and met Miranda in a quiet part of the kitchen, where they soon discovered Miranda and her staff had a history with the HAH leadership.

  “I have no firsthand experience with the things I’m going to tell you, but the staff, especially the women were harassed by the men in the group. None of the women wanted to serve them, and a couple of the young men were leery too. The group had a reputation for being a little sleazy, if you know what I mean.”

  Meg was aware of servers working on the far side of the kitchen, but they were standing behind a stainless-steel island, some distance away. She held her hand to her face and spoke to Miranda in a low voice. “I can’t imagine having to endure such behavior, but how does this relate to me?”

  “I heard you found Lena Hillard’s body. I had met her several times at the hotel. She was one of the people who would come in after their extravagant parties and try to soft-pedal any hard feelings. We called her ‘the spinner.’” Miranda looked over to the workers at the far end of the kitchen. “Lena would attempt to spin another story about what occurred. Everyone from the hotel knew exactly what she was doing as she passed out large tips for the people in managerial positions.”

  Meg shook her head and glanced at Dorie. This was credible information that confirmed her worst suspicions. She immediately liked Miranda for her support of the servers. It was difficult to imagine Dorie at a younger age being placed in the same position as those who had been harassed. It made Meg queasy and brought up a memory of her own.

  “On several occasions, Lena visited the hotel alone,” Miranda continued. “She always requested the same suite, staying for several days at a time, shopping, dining at elite restaurants, and receiving various visitors.” Miranda looked to Meg with earnest eyes and no smile. “When Lena would return to the hotel after her shopping trips, the staff would often have to use the luggage carriages to transport her shopping bags to the suite from the limo.”

  Meg crooked her head to the side. “I see. Do you know if her husband was aware of the other visitors?”

  “They all seemed to be aware of each other,” Miranda said, pulling her head back. “They were cheerful and friendly at their arrival. It was a strange situation, making all of us at the hotel uncomfortable and frightened. We see a lot of things in this business, really odd things sometimes. We all knew the church was involved, and that made the whole situation even more salacious.”

  “When you say frightening, in what way?” Meg asked.

  “Lewd, suggestive comments, touches, offers of alcohol and gifts. There were also weapons—guns specifically.

  “When we heard about Lena’s death, we weren’t surprised. After an afternoon of drinking, there was always some incident later in the evening. Hotel security often had to intervene,” Miranda said, shaking her head.

  “How many people would you say were in this group?”

  “Usually about ten to fifteen, mostly men, about half of them with spouses. It was often difficult to discern the couples.”

  “Are you suggesting it was an orgy-type situation, Miranda?”

  “Yes, that describes it perfectly, or at least that was everyone’s impression. Room service staff always had a story to tell.” Miranda twisted her bottom lip to the side and raised her brows.

  “There’s something else. I met with a caterer who works the Dallas/Ft. Worth area and on into east Texas. He made a comment when we were planning a party for the Hilltop group once. This guy had worked a party in Tyler on a big estate belonging to a member of Hilltop. There was an attempted rape of one of the workers, weapons were brandished, and threats followed the management staff who worked the job.”

  Meg gasped and stood up straighter, shocked at the mention of attempted rape. She cleared her throat to regain her composure, but her heart continued to race. “Charges should’ve been filed.”

  “There was a complaint made to local law enforcement after the event, but the responding officer refused to accept it. My friend said the officer told him he didn’t know who he was messing with.” Miranda cocked her head.

  “For Pete’s sake. These people are bullies.”

  Miranda nodded “Yes, Ms. Miller, they are, and I think they’re dangerous bullies.”

  “Do you know Tom Richards?” Meg asked.

  “Yes, I saw him earlier this evening. He was one of the group, but I never thought he fit. If I’m not mistaken, Tom moved here from Tyler. No one has ever accused him of problem behavior, but we all wondered why he moved. It’s a unique position we have in my business. Texas might be big, but you really aren’t anonymous when you demonstrate such outrageous behavior. People talk.”

&
nbsp; That disappointed Meg and made her doubt her ability to judge character. Of all the people she knew, Tom was a person she had felt was trustworthy, after all he held a position of respect in the community. Where the heck could he be?

  EIGHT

  Jill Ann waved Meg down as she was leaving the banquet room, walking arm in arm with her son-in-law, Michael. “Did you find Tom?” Jill Ann asked.

  Meg shook her head, then patted Michael’s arm before walking toward Jill Ann. “I looked at table ten but he wasn’t there during dinner.”

  “Hmm. He was supposed to help tally the tickets but it seems he’s disappeared.” Jill Ann glanced past Meg, scanning the foyer. “No one’s seen him since before you asked for him earlier. Oh well, we have it under control. Hey, I meant to ask you. I noticed your locket. Did Tom give that to you?”

  She put her hand to her neck, wondering why Jill Ann would suggest Tom would give her jewelry “No, I’ve had this forever. It belonged to my mother. I misplaced it for a while, but I found it recently. Have you seen it before?”

  “I could swear I’d seen it on Tom’s desk, or one that looked exactly like it. It’s very unique and stunning. I admire it.” Jill Ann smiled. “That’s why I asked about it. I was sure I’d seen it before. Must be my imagination.” She shrugged and waved as she walked away. “Thanks, Meg. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

  Meg had worked with Tom for a couple of years on various volunteer activities, and she’d never known him to shirk a duty. He was always the first one on the job. His attitude wasn’t consistently pleasant, often preoccupied, but he was reliable. Meg wasn’t concerned about him. Tom worked on more than one project at a time, often ducking out of a social event to tend to something he considered more pressing. Her only question was why he hadn’t mentioned where he would be to Jill Ann.

  She was quiet on the ride home, sitting in the back seat beside Dorie, as they listened to Michael and his mother talk about chatting with his principal. Meg was aware Michael’s administrator held him in high regard, and she enjoyed hearing his mother take such pleasure in his success with his students, but Meg’s thoughts soon wandered. Her arms prickled with a chill remembering what Miranda had said about her employees being harassed. She could identify with the girls; she had been in a similar situation and felt helpless to deal with it. The feelings revisited her sometimes.

  She was glad when they finally pulled into her drive and she could get out of the car and step into the cool night air.

  LaRue ran out when Meg unlocked the back door. She turned and waved toward the car as they backed up the drive, then went inside to her small kitchen desk. The phone showed no messages. A quick glance at her calendar reminded her she was having brunch with Jean the following morning.

  The kitchen felt stifling. She ran her finger under her collar, attempting to relax it from her throat, then took off her hat and placed it on the kitchen table with her drawstring purse. The ring on her finger and garnet earrings agitated her, so she took them off also. The airless atmosphere niggled her, causing Meg to check the thermostat in the hall. Finding a comfortable temperature reading on the dial, she sat in a kitchen chair and took off her boots, rubbing her ankles.

  LaRue mewed at the back door, ready to reenter. Meg crossed the room, cracking the door a bit to let the cat scurry inside, the draft of cold air that rushed in with LaRue refreshing. Meg held the door open while she stood in the gap barefooted, relishing the crisp frigid air on her face. She bent at the waist to stroke LaRue’s chilled fur, wobbling when she stood upright. Meg grasped the edge of the kitchen counter to steady herself. That hadn’t happened in a while, the dizziness. She turned on the kitchen faucet, filling a clean coffee cup under the tap, and she took a few swallows.

  The engraved pen she’d been jotting notes with was on the kitchen counter. She picked it up, running her thumb over the letters in Paul’s name. The texture helped her focus her thoughts, like rubbing a worry stone, giving her something else to think about besides the incidents Miranda had shared. Those stories would take her breath away if she didn’t focus on something else.

  She could visualize the tree-lined courthouse square across from the library, where she’d walked across the street to join Paul for lunch at the corner café when they had worked downtown. She and Paul had made a conscious effort to remain in their small home-town and enjoy the slower pace. It was why she was so insulted about the brazen act of murder, especially since the victim was female and the scene so available to the public.

  Meg looked down at the pen, turning it in her palm and then running her fingernail along the etched letters. When Dorie was living at home, their weekends had been filled with family activities, soccer games, Girl Scout outings, and sleepovers. She missed Paul and Dorie being in the house. Now Meg’s time was filled with other things she was thankful for, especially her friends and her volunteer activities. So then what’s this feeling, this unsettled, restless distraction?

  She was enjoying her small cottage. Meg liked her neighbors, who were friendly and accessible, there when she needed them, but never intrusive. Though if it’s so perfect, why am I questioning my feeling?

  But she did know what was distracting her—even LaRue had an inkling.

  A panic attack could be coming. Sometimes, not always, a memory would swarm her, and a prickly sweat would bead all over her body like a neglected glass of iced lemonade. It would pool around her when she remembered the helpless feeling of being surrounded by three men taunting her and keeping her from doing her job.

  Meg looked down at the heavy velvet costume, suddenly weighing heavier on her body. It gave her claustrophobia. She removed the locket from her neck and began unbuttoning the stiff collar, pulling at the jacket as she walked toward her bedroom, anxious to discard the clothing she had so carefully stepped into earlier that evening.

  Leaving the costume in a heap on the chair in the corner of her room, Meg crawled under the covers, seeking the coolness of the linen against her skin. LaRue jumped on the end of the bed to a spot she sometimes occupied. It comforted Meg to know she was there; most nights LaRue slept in the kitchen on the banquette. Meg slipped her hand under the pillow, reaching for a fresh spot to caress her palm.

  She had a flash of a recollection about something Jill Ann had said. Tom Richards had a locket like hers on his desk. Could it have been mine?

  Intrusive thoughts began to ruminate when she tried to fall asleep. She hoped Wayne’s church had nothing to do with the death of Lena. Meg couldn’t imagine the scandal that would follow any link to the church. She wasn’t wild about there being any connection made to her, but she knew her intentions and the truth about how she had discovered Lena’s body. She prayed for the strength to bear any judgment or suspicion and wondered how people in the public eye managed such scrutiny. But mostly she prayed for the feeling to pass.

  There was a sudden flush of heat accompanying the remembrance she struggled to suppress. Her leg escaped the covers and she flung them away from her body to feel cool air against her. It wasn’t enough, both legs prickling as her heart rate quickened, and she knew she had to sit up.

  Easing to a standing position, she turned, placing her palms on the bed and letting her head drop to her chest, focused on regaining a normal breath. She stayed there, bent at the waist, until the feeling subsided.

  The sensation of the spells was always the same and terrifying, but also familiar. They lasted mere minutes at most, but felt like a lifetime.

  She trudged to the kitchen to get a drink of water. Why now? There was always a trigger. If she examined her day, she could find something, even if it was minute.

  Meg stared out the kitchen window across her driveway to the neighbor’s security light, losing herself in the glow, hypnotized by the glare and nothingness of the white orb. Closing her eyes, she told herself to stare at the drain in the sink when she opened them. She saw it several times each day, noticing the shape, the texture of the stainless steel, the stains. She ran
the faucet, watching the water swirl down and leave the sink. It was how she brought herself back to the present, back to reality; she watched what was in the past leave, swirling away.

  What had happened almost forty years ago was over. The incident couldn’t hurt her anymore or threaten anyone she loved, but it did. It revisited her periodically, taking her breath and forcing its way into her heart, making it pound and strain. It surged into her stomach, nauseating, and churning. Then it evaporated, leaving her drenched in sweat, her mouth dry, hair plastered to her forehead, her mind reeling.

  Meg had sought treatment as a college student, when the attacks persisted. She never mentioned them to her parents. A knowledgeable nurse in the college infirmary knew what plagued Meg, prescribing a common-sense routine for combating attacks: visualization, positive self-talk, and reminding herself to stay in the present, waiting out the onslaught of something that couldn’t hurt her.

  She often wondered what had happened to the friendly nurse she credited with saving her sanity. Meg knew the woman had been ahead of her time in recognizing her symptoms, “Panic attack, post-traumatic stress, or anxiety, it’s all treated the same,” the woman had said. “You’ll find your own ways to deal with this. Most people usually do. It’ll be what’s comfortable for you and as simple as a child clinging to their favorite toy or blanket.”

  Those words resonated with Meg, then and now. She did manage to deal with the sensations that barged into her body. She would have appreciated a warning, but there seldom was one. If she was honest, there were clues, but she usually denied them.

  “There’s medication,” the nurse had told her. “However, your power is in being aware of your own body and taking control. What you’re experiencing is real. I’m not saying it isn’t, but you have the means and the strength to deal with it.” So she did and had for decades.

  The feelings had been conquered, and they were gone for the time being. She wouldn’t let a worry about when they would reoccur hamper her routine.