“I resent that,” she snapped. She turned and walked away.
Burton and I stared at each other. “I think we need to talk to her after we come back in,” I said.
“You are direct,” he said. “Very direct.”
“Is that bad?”
“Different. I’m not used to that. Some people might not like it—”
“Does Burton like it?”
He seemed to ponder the question for several seconds before he said, “I think so.”
“Okay,” I said. “And back to Tonya—she’s suddenly quiet sensitive about something.”
We descended the four steps from the back door and started down the gravel path. Immediately I smelled the sage plant. I wish I could have seen the spices Roger or Tonya planted. Even though I couldn’t see anything, my nose told me. I can’t cook, but for some odd reason, I can identify spices. I recognized the peppery scent of savory and the fragrance of sweet marjoram. Strong breezes from the ocean seemed to fill the air with those aromas. I paused and breathed deeply.
Aware that I had stopped, I apologized, and we started down the path. The path was a good three feet wide, so there was plenty of space for us to walk side by side.
The stars were dimmed by broken clouds, and they shrouded the moon. The smell of rain was heavy in the air, but none had yet fallen. The night clouds were at least one shade darker than when we had been out earlier.
We had gone perhaps thirty feet when I stumbled and fell into Burton. He grabbed my arm, “Hey, steady there.” He took my hand and led me.
“Thank you,” I said and smiled in the dark. Apparently I had done a good job on the tripping. I had decided to play it like the helpless damsel and would have worried if he hadn’t responded. I liked the feel of his hand. He had stumbled at the beach, so I thought this was a good trade-off. I had perfected that tripping trick by age sixteen. In those days, I breathed deeply, sighed, stared into the boy’s face, and said, “You’re so strong.” That line no longer seemed appropriate.
What also didn’t seem appropriate was that he held my hand as he would that of anyone in distress. So far he hadn’t succumbed to my charms. That was okay. I decided I’d give him another chance before we left Palm Island.
As we walked closer to the cliff, the harsh waves and the heavy wind meant we had to lean close to each other to hear. I liked that. I had to put my lips about five inches from his face. He had a faint, masculine smell, and it took me another minute to identify it. Mennen Skin Bracer. That’s what my older brother used. He always said he hated the smell, but it was all he could afford. I figured Burton liked it even though he could afford better. That fragrance seemed right on him.
Despite having been on the island three times in the past, I had never been to the backside of the island and wished I could have had a daylight view. On my previous trips, I arrived from Atlanta at night. I left the next morning before daylight so I could avoid the heavy traffic going north on I-95.
I spotted a copse of oaks with Spanish moss swaying in the breeze. I counted three stunted palm trees in a sheltered area behind the oaks—just as Roger had said. We made the complete circle of the small island, but we still saw no sign of Mrs. Wright.
An involuntary shiver came over me.
Seven
“Let’s follow the path one more time,” Burton said as he started out. This time he held my elbow. I felt as if I were a tottering eighty-year-old and my grandson led me forward.
We stopped and moved into the shelter of the oaks. I didn’t want to hurry back, even though I did want to talk to Mrs. Wright. In the shelter, we could hear each other without shouting. He let go of my arm.
“So, you’re a reverend,” I said, “and that means?”
“Pastor. Or rector or preacher—whichever feels better.”
“You have a large church? I mean are there a lot of people?”
He shook his head. “I’m a shepherd, not a rancher.”
“I don’t get the difference. You mean you handle sheep and not horses?”
He laughed. I love it when I play ignorant and it pays off.
“I used to be the pastor of a large church in Oklahoma. It started small—just a little more than sixty people. But it grew and grew, and after four years, we had nearly three thousand. That’s when I left.”
“But why? Isn’t that the kind of thing most rever—I mean preachers—dream of?”
“Some might. They think that having a big church means getting more things done. I found I left more things undone.”
“Didn’t you have assistant priests?” (I used priests to show my ignorance.)
“Oh, I had four assistants, and they were fine, but that meant they got to do all the human-interest things. I conducted weddings and funerals and made a few hospital visits. You see, I’m a shepherd. For me, that means I like to know everyone by name, know where they live and what they like. When I became a rancher, I knew the names of maybe a few hundred. The rest were just people who shook my hand and called one of my assistants when they had problems.”
“I suppose that gives you more time for your family.”
“I don’t have a family; I’m not married; I have never been married—almost got married once.” He laughed. “Why is it that every time I meet an attractive woman, the first thing she wants to know is whether I’m married?”
(He said I was attractive. I liked that.) “I didn’t ask if you were married.”
“That would have been your next question, right?”
“You’re just too quick for me,” I said. I resisted batting my lashes.
“Look, you’re too bright to play college-age games. I like being with you. I like you. You’re bright and funny, but there’s one thing we need to face right now.”
“Oh, oh. You said but, and that’s always a giveaway word.”
“I like you, but I don’t think we have a future ahead of us.”
“Is something wrong with me?”
“That’s not the way I’d say it.”
“Oh, you can say it so it’s less offensive or—”
“Wait—wait. I want to make sure you understand. Give me a chance, please.”
“Okay, try it again.” I didn’t like the direction of this conversation. By now, I wanted him to be falling all over me.
“I find you attractive, and we seem to have some kind of mutual insight—some kind of connection with what’s going on around here.”
“So that’s wrong?” I asked, now really puzzled.
“Okay, I’ll say it like this. First, I’m a—well, I call myself a serious, committed Christian.”
“You mean you can’t listen to jokes?”
He laughed. “No, I mean I’m serious about my faith in Jesus Christ and that He’s the Savior—”
“Hey, I went to Sunday school—well, maybe six times. I actually know that stuff.”
“You may know about what I believe, but—”
“So, I don’t believe—at least not the way you do. Is that bad?”
Burton took a slow, deep breath. I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. “That’s not the way I want to say it. You keep bringing in judgmental words—like bad or wrong. I’d prefer to say it this way: You and I live in different worlds.” He held up his hand so I wouldn’t interrupt. “Julie, forgive me if I’ve misled you in any way. Jesus Christ is the most important thing in the world to me. I couldn’t—not ever—get serious about anyone who didn’t share my beliefs.”
“Oh, I see,” I said. “Yeah, I guess that is bad, because I don’t—I mean I don’t not believe exactly. It’s more—more that I just never saw much use in God. You know, calling on God when you face a problem instead of handling it yourself, and then ignoring Him—or her—or it—when things go well.”
“That’s not the kind of Christianity I believe in,” Burton said. “I don’t want to tell you my life history—”
“I don’t mind listening,” I said.
“I don’t want to tell it all, but
I’ll say this. I didn’t grow up in the church and didn’t turn to the Lord—to Jesus Christ—until I was in a pretty hopeless place in my life. I wasn’t looking for a crutch as much as I needed help—ongoing help. I needed something—Someone—to guide my life. I had sure made a mess of it. I came to God out of an intense search for meaning—for purpose in living. And that’s what I found.”
“Is this where you tell me about how sinful you were so that I can open up and tell you what a terrible sinner I am?”
“Hey, you have been around.”
I nodded. “You know why I like you, James Burton? You’re different. All the other Christians—preachers, boyfriends, or my girlfriends’ boyfriends—eventually got to this point and told me about burning in hell and—”
“I’d prefer to talk to you about a God who loves you—really, truly loves you,” he said. “And before you interrupt again, I want to say this: I like myself. I enjoy my life. I have peace I never had before.”
His sincerity sneaked through my line of defense. Okay, so I melted a little. “All right, I admit it, you’re different.”
“Will you think about this?” he asked. “I’d like to talk to you some more—a lot more—about the God who loves you very much.”
I didn’t know what to say, and without realizing it, I began to cry. “No one—no one has ever talked to me that way before.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings—”
I shook my head and sniffed several times. “You didn’t offend me.”
“I wouldn’t want to hurt you. That’s why I want to be clear about where I stand—where we stand.”
“Let’s find Mrs. Wright,” I said and rubbed my tear-stained face. “I’m not ready to talk about God.”
“Let’s do that.”
Again we circled the back side of the island, but we couldn’t find her. “She might have gone back at any point, and we missed her,” Burton said.
We walked back to the house. “Just one thing, James Burton. I do like you. I don’t understand your brand of Christianity—it’s certainly different from the kind I’m familiar with. All anyone wanted to do was get me to the altar so I would confess all my sins.”
“If you ever believe,” he said so softly I had to strain to hear him, “no one should ever try to force you to do anything like that. You’ll do whatever you need to do. I’m more concerned about your faith than I am about getting you inside some church building.”
I took his hand, patted it, and released it. “That’s why you’re different. You’re the first Christian who—who made me feel, well, that you care, and that maybe God truly loves me.”
“I do care,” he said, “and I’ll tell you something else. While we were walking along, I decided that I will pray for you—every day.” He turned and rested both his arms on my shoulders. “I feel we have some kind of—call it mental connection or whatever—but I will pray for you every single day. That’s my promise to you. I won’t bug you about Jesus Christ, but I’ll always be open to talk to you about the Lord.”
“I’m not sure how much I like you, James Burton, but at least you’ve passed the tolerance test. Not many preacher types do.”
He leaned close and kissed my forehead. “You know something? For a shrink type, you’re okay too. Just one thing—” and he laughed. “Okay, I promised I wouldn’t push. I won’t.”
“That’s the second thing I like about you.” No one had ever talked to me like that before. I didn’t know how to respond.
I wanted it to be clear that if I ever believed or turned to God or however they say it—I wanted it to be genuine and not just a means to get closer to Burton.
Once inside the house, we saw Wayne, Paulette, Reginald, Beth, and Tonya in the midst of some tête-à-tête in the drawing room. “Have you seen Mrs. Wright?”
All five shook their heads or mumbled negatives. They made it obvious they didn’t want us to join their group. Lenny sat in a corner by himself. He looked up at us, smiled, and was ready to say something—something stupidly unfunny I’m sure—but we both hurried back out of the room and into the dining room.
We knocked again at Mrs. Wright’s door, but there was no response.
“The kitchen?” Burton said, and we went there.
Simon sat on a stool and looked as if he had guarded a now-cold cup of tea for the past half hour. He shook his head before we could ask.
“But we couldn’t find her out there,” I said. “Come on, Simon, help us.” I looked at my watch. We had gone out just before 9:20, and it was now slightly past 9:45.
“Come,” he said. He left his stool, stopped at a kitchen cabinet, and pulled a large flashlight from the bottom shelf. “Likes walk. Stands near tree.”
We followed him outside. The wind had picked up even more. Thin, sharp drops of rain struck me. I tried to say something to Burton, but he wouldn’t have been able to hear me. He did take my hand, and I allowed him to lead me. So there was some compensation.
“There!” Simon shouted and pointed to a large, sprawling oak. He flashed his light on the tree. We walked up to the spot, and Burton dropped my hand. He leaned forward to examine the tree. It was fairly low, and someone had nailed four steps into the tree. I assumed Mrs. Wright climbed those steps and sat on the large, lower branch.
“Not here! Something wrong! Come!”
Simon grabbed my hand and pulled me down toward the path, and we kept going. After maybe ten more feet, we reached the precipice. “Careful!” he said and released my hand. He stood in one spot and flashed the beam downward. I don’t know much about tides, but I assumed the full tide had come and was now on its way out. Below I could see the tips of huge stones. I assumed they were there to retard the washing away of the land. I realized that we were on the high end of the island and the beach—what little existed—must have been at least fifty feet below.
For perhaps forty seconds, none of us said anything, but our eyes followed the slow, methodical sweep of the light. “See!” Simon said.
At first I saw nothing, and then I stared at the lighted area more carefully. Burton saw where Simon pointed.
“Oh no,” Burton said.
Then I saw it too. An arm stuck out from the rocks and waves rushed over it. As the next wave receded, I saw the body.
“Come!” Simon walked rapidly another dozen feet along the cliff and pointed to a narrow, uneven path that led down. “Stay!” he said to me and started down the uneven terrain.
I didn’t answer him, but I was miffed. I wasn’t some heroine in a 1950s film who stood and screamed for five minutes. I jumped in front of Burton and followed right behind Simon. I didn’t misstep anywhere.
As soon as he reached the rocks and had his feet firmly placed, Simon grabbed the protruding arm, reached under the cold water, found a leg, and dragged the body to the sand. Elaine Wright’s body lay face down. We knelt beside her, even though the waves trickled upward and touched my feet.
The back of her head was bashed in. The sea had obviously washed away the blood, but it wasn’t a pretty sight.
“Fall maybe?” Simon asked.
Burton shook his head. “I think she was hit on the head and pushed.” He pointed out that she was on her stomach. Simon tried to keep the light off her head and focused on her body so we could see bruises and cuts on her arms and legs. Even though the light wasn’t directly on the top of her body, I agreed with Burton. Someone had bashed in the back of her head.
“Murdered,” I said softly. “A second one.”
“Go. Move her higher,” Simon said and made the motions of wrapping her. “Tarp. Police.” He said enough that both of us understood.
“Just don’t disturb any evidence,” I said.
“I careful.” Disdain filled his voice.
“Go on. Both of you,” Burton yelled. “Simon, I’ll stay beside the body until you get back.”
Simon handed me the flashlight.
“I’ll wait with you,” I said to Burton.
�
�No, I want to stay here. Alone.”
“It’s safe. After all, who would come back and—”
“I want to pray for the others. For guidance. For the murderer or murderers. I need a few minutes alone.”
“Sure, I guess if it helps. That’s what we expect clergy types to do.”
“Laypeople also pray.” By now Simon had reached the top and disappeared from view.
“I want to be alone, please,” he said softly, turned away from me, and faced the ocean.
I did the Simon shrug and turned around. I made my way up the path. The sprinkling was just heavy enough to make the path slightly slippery. I shined the light at my feet and pondered what he had said. I thought about the death of Roger. Now Mrs. Wright. I agreed with Burton that someone had bashed in her head and then pushed her over the cliff. But why? What message had she tried to give someone in the room? Was it because she knew something or had seen something?
Just as I pulled myself to my feet, a lightning-like thought struck me: Murdered. At least one person inside the house killed two people.
A murderer? Who? Why?
I shuddered as I asked the next question aloud. “Who will be next?”
Eight
A killer is on the island, I thought. No, a murderer is staying in the same house as I am. I walked over to the oak, climbed the four steps, and sat down. I turned off the flashlight. I wanted to be away from everyone and think for a few minutes. The wind intensified, and more fat drops of rain struck my face, but I didn’t care. I thought about each of the people inside the house and asked myself, who would do this? Who would hate someone enough to kill?
Amanda said she hated her husband, and Jason didn’t seem to like him either—or said he hadn’t in the past. They could have done it, or one could cover for the other. One thing for sure, all the suspects were still on the island.
Wayne Holmestead was a snake. I wouldn’t put anything past him. Okay, just because I didn’t like him didn’t make him a killer. Dr. Jeffery Dunn might be the one, but he was so boring—or maybe he did do it. What about Paulette White or Tonya Borders? I obviously didn’t like Beth Wilson, but I didn’t have any feelings about her as the murderer. I sensed the carrot-headed Lenny Goss, who seemed to have a joke for everything, might be the most malevolent of them all. Reginald Ford seemed harmless enough. But then, I didn’t know much about him. Maybe I simply didn’t want him to be the killer.
Everybody Loved Roger Harden Page 6
