The Serenity Stone Murder

by Marianne Jones

  “Maybe it’s psychological, like when you can’t hear people without your glasses on, or maybe the hedges and trees actually do create a sound barrier as well as a visual one. Anyway, it is like a tiny bit of paradise.”

  “You really enjoy St. Stephen’s, don’t you, Eina?”

  Eina looked into her cup and sighed.

  “Yes, I really do,” she said quietly, almost sadly.

  “That’s usually considered a good thing,” Margaret said, confused by the melancholy expression she found on Eina’s face.

  Eina gave her a half-smile.

  “Yes, I know. I don’t mean to sound tragic. But when you have something as precious as this church and congregation, it’s not easy to see it falling on hard times.”

  “What do you mean?” Louise asked.

  Eina drained the last of her tea and stared at the white lilac tree in front of her.

  “It’s the usual story. We have an aging congregation who just isn’t able to keep the church going anymore. We’re either dying off or retiring to Florida, and there’s no younger generation interested in keeping on with the work.”

  “Things can’t be that bad. Aren’t you having a big celebration for your centennial soon?” Margaret said.

  “Yes, but it’s a bittersweet kind of celebration. I mean, it’s great to look back and be grateful. But looking forward . . . that’s another story.”

  “Surely the church isn’t talking about closing?” Louise asked, looking wide-eyed at Eina.

  Eina gave her a tired smile, as though this was a familiar conversation for her.

  “Well, not yet, anyway. But there have been rumbles. Just meeting our budget is a tougher challenge every year. Most of us are on fixed incomes, and we’re getting tired. Then people get crabby, and they start arguing among themselves about whose fault it is. It’s nobody’s fault; it’s just a fact that we’re not getting younger, and our young people have all moved away or lost interest in the church. The way it looks right now, we can hang on for a couple more years at best, unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  Eina hesitated. “Well, I’m telling tales out of school, but the casino has been making overtures to our board about taking over this property we’re sitting in. They need the extra parking space, and they’re willing to offer a pretty tidy sum for it.”

  “You mean—they want to buy this lovely garden?” Louise looked horrified.

  “Yup. They want to pave paradise and put up a parking lot.”

  “The church isn’t seriously considering it?” Margaret stared at Eina.

  “Well,” Eina continued as she stood up to stretch her stiff back muscles, “some members are. Most are against it, of course, but the bottom line is that we can’t operate in the red forever. If we can’t find some way to balance the books, we may not have a choice.”

  “I can see where that could cause some hard feelings,” Louise said.

  “That’s the understatement of the year. Our treasurer, Tina Harmer, carries a lot of power on the board. She thinks the casino’s offer is the answer to prayer, that the decision to sell is a no-brainer. Then you have old Thomas, who would rather burn the place to the ground than sell to the casino. I think it would destroy him to see his serenity garden turned into concrete—especially by a temple to Mammon, as he calls it. You know, before the casino was built, there was a huge controversy about it coming to the city. Thomas was one of the people most passionately opposed to it. He wrote letters to the editor, handed out leaflets and petitions, and when the plans went through anyway, he picketed in front of the construction site with signs saying Sin City, and Gambling is a Tax on the Poor.”

  “He’s got a lot of energy for an old guy,” Margaret said, impressed.

  “Oh, when he’s fired up about something, he’s a force of nature. I can’t say I blame him. This church, especially its garden, is his whole life. Not a bad legacy, when you think about it. Anyway, he and Tina are barely on speaking terms. They’re both pretty volatile and opinionated. Not a lot of flexibility in either of them.”

  “Well, what does the priest think?” asked Louise.

  “Father Brian? He’s a gem, a true peacemaker. He tries to see everyone’s point of view and avoids forcing his opinion on the congregation. He keeps reminding people that when tempers are running hot we are called first of all to love one another. Of course, no one listens. I think, deep down, he’s a realist. He doesn’t want to sell the property any more than most of the congregation, except for Tina, but he’s also aware that bills have to be paid and wishful thinking isn’t going to do it. I think he blames himself somewhat for not being a more dynamic leader. He’s great at caring for the people in the congregation, but unfortunately he’s not as good at attracting newcomers. This whole business has gotten him pretty depressed. I’ve told him that none of this is his fault—he inherited a congregation in decline—but he still feels responsible.”

  The three women sat in thoughtful silence for a moment.

  “Well, ladies,” Eina concluded, standing up, “on that cheerful note, I think it’s time to head back inside and learn how to become goddesses. I’m sure Roger will think it’s long overdue. Of course, if I’m transformed, I might want to start looking for someone more suited to my elevated status. Someone young and buff, preferably, who lives to do my bidding, and looks good in jeans while he’s renovating the basement.”

  The last hour of the evening session at the conference had been thankfully less eventful. Margaret and Ellen had ignored each other, like two mastiffs carefully avoiding another altercation after the first one had ended in a draw. And Margaret and Louise were on good terms again. Their arguments seldom lasted long, and Eina’s story had provided a welcome distraction just when they were teetering on the edge of escalating the tiff into something more dramatic.

  Unfortunately, their good humour had evaporated by the time they finally arrived back at Bubbles. Trying to skitter discretely up to their room, both Margaret and Louise did their best to avoid eye contact with any of the other patrons who were mulling around in the shabby lobby and hallway. Even so, it was impossible not to feel the curious stares burning holes into their stiff backs. The unnatural silence was punctuated only by the squeaky wheel of Louise’s suitcase as she tugged it briskly behind her, Vince again resting on her shoulder.

  “You ladies planning to stay awhile?” the desk clerk asked them, staring at their luggage as though it was some sort of alien artifact.

  “Only for a few days,” Louise had said hastily, grabbing their room key and making a run for the hallway, her noisy suitcase making a panicky squawk as it dragged behind her.

  Once they arrived safely in their room, the women collapsed in unison against the door as though they had been chased by purse snatchers and had only narrowly escaped—hooded purse snatchers, wielding machetes.

  “Quick. Lock the door.” Margaret said tersely.

  “There’s no one out there.”

  “I don’t care. I won’t be able to sleep, wondering who might be prowling around out there in the middle of the night.”

  Louise locked the door and put the chain securely in place.

  “Feel better?”

  “No. Do you?”

  “Not really.”

  They both looked at the door, as though waiting for it to burst open at any moment.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Louise finally said. She dragged a wooden chair from its place in the corner and propped it under the doorknob. “There! No one will be able to get in. And if they try, we’ll be ready for them.”

  “Ready for them how? Are we going to hit them with our purses?”

  “I just meant that, with the chair in the way, we’ll hear them coming,” Louise explained. “That way, we’ll have time to call for help, as opposed to having someone sneak in while we’re sleeping.”

  “Excellent. I feel so secure now.” Margaret said sarcastically, then squinted as she noticed a framed print of a bullfighter hangi
ng above the bed. “Is that supposed to have some sort of subliminal meaning?”

  Louise grimaced at the gaudy artwork.

  “I doubt it. They probably got a great deal on it. Though why they’d bother, I can’t imagine. Heaven knows nobody comes here for the décor.”

  “Décor is one thing. Comfort is another. Why didn’t you ask for a double room? I don’t like sharing a bed.”

  “Do you think I do? This is all they had available. What use would a place like this have for a double room anyway?”

  Once again, Margaret was impressed by her friend’s logic. What use indeed?

  Apparently Bubbles had little use for linens, as well. The bathroom boasted one facecloth, one hand towel and one small bath towel, all made with, or deteriorated into, the consistency of cheesecloth. When the ladies finally slid cautiously into bed, they found that the blanket over them was only slightly thicker than the sheet underneath them. That didn’t stop Louise from falling promptly asleep while Margaret was left listening to the drip in the shower stall while staring at a water stain on the ceiling, convinced that the stain was growing larger by the minute.

  The pink neon light from the sign outside their window cast an eerie glow into the room through the faded curtains. The pounding bass from the bar downstairs was counterpointed by Vince’s snores and random belching, and the steady intermittent drip of the shower head onto the drain beneath was the crowning touch to the cacophony of sound that seemed determined to keep Margaret awake.

  Margaret thought about Eina’s story of St. Stephen’s and Thomas Greenfield, and the controversy over selling the garden to the casino. It seemed like such a sad demise for something that had nourished people’s spirits for decades.

  The water stain seemed to take on the shape of the toreador in the picture as she watched. She wondered how people could justify the cruelty of a sport like bullfighting? Although, she mused, listening to Vince’s wheezy sputtering, I could be persuaded to justify some acts of violence.

  Eventually she fell asleep, dreaming of dancing downstairs in the Bubbles bar, draped in strategically placed cheesecloth towels, doing a mock bullfighter routine with Vince dressed up as a miniature bull, while Louise looked on in horror from the audience.

  “Good morning.” Louise’s voice was full of the energy and goodwill that comes from eight hours of deep, unbroken sleep. She stood in the middle of the room, dressed in her pyjamas and housecoat, toothbrush and makeup bag in hand. “Do you mind if I shower first?”

  Margaret groaned. “Go ahead. I’ll pass on the shower today. Unless I roll around on the bath mat afterward, there’s no way those little napkins they call towels will dry us both off.”

  “You could call down and ask for more towels.”

  “I’m not sure it’s that kind of place. Besides, with any luck, we’ll be checking out today.”

  “Really? You have an alternate plan?”

  “Yes. We’ll throw ourselves on Eina’s mercy. Surely she can’t deny us a couch or a sleeping bag on her carpet.”

  While Louise showered, Margaret dressed and packed her pyjamas away in her suitcase again. Her spirits were lifting at the thought that she might soon be saying farewell to Bubbles for good.

  Twenty minutes later they were looking for a parking spot outside St. Stephen’s when they saw the commotion; two police cruisers with lights flashing, an ambulance, a growing mass of bystanders, and a television news vehicle all crowded in and around the casino parking lot.

  “What the heck is going on?” Margaret barked.

  Louise slowed down to get a better look, but a police officer waved her to keep moving.

  “I guess we’ll find out,” she said.

  She parked the car on a side street, and they walked to the church from there.

  Inside, the workshop participants were abuzz, much more animated than they had been the previous evening.

  Eina spotted them, and waved at them excitedly before rushing over.

  “Did you hear what happened?” she asked.

  “We saw a crowd and the police,” Louise said. “What’s going on?”

  “You’ll never believe it,” Eina said. “Not after our talk last night. There’s been a murder—the casino manager!”

  “What? The casino manager murdered somebody?”

  “No, no. Somebody murdered him!”

  Chapter Three

  Margaret and Louise were speechless for a moment. It didn’t matter much, since Eina seemed more than happy to fill the shocked silence.

  “Grace Murray was coming in early this morning to set up and put the kettle on. She lives just a few blocks over, so she walked to the church. She was taking a shortcut across the casino parking lot when she saw a man lying face-down on the ground. In this part of town that’s not unheard of, but he looked too well-dressed to be homeless, or one of those poor old guys who live in the rooming houses around here. She thought maybe he’d had a heart attack, so she ran over to him. That’s when she saw a big gash on the back of his head. She tried to get a pulse, but she said it looked like he’d been dead for a while.”

  “How on earth do you know all that?” Margaret demanded.

  “Because she called me! Right after she phoned the police from the casino, she called me and asked me to open up the church for her since she was going to be tied up answering questions.”

  “Well, how did she know it was the casino manager?”

  “Not because she hangs out there, that’s for sure!” Eina barked. “Anyone from St. Stephen’s would recognize him because of the negotiations going on right now with the church. In fact, he came to make a proposal to the parish council just last night, and he and Thomas got into a shouting match. Thomas has quite the temper, and called Mr. Whalen from the casino a leech and a viper, not to mention a parasite on the city. Mr. Whalen asked Thomas to either simmer down or leave, and Thomas stormed out of the meeting, saying the casino would have the church’s property over his dead body.”

  “Wow. And the casino manager turns up dead the next morning? That’s quite the coincidence,” Margaret said.

  “Isn’t it? It certainly doesn’t look good, does it?”

  “You’re not suggesting that Thomas had anything to do with this,” Louise asked, wide-eyed.

  “Oh, I hardly think so. Thomas goes up like a Roman candle, and he makes a lot of noise, but he’s harmless. He just cares a lot, that’s all, and gets very protective of the things he loves. Still, it’s unfortunate, the two events happening like that. Thomas should really be careful about that temper of his.”

  “Ladies, ladies! Could I ask you please to come in and find a seat? Help yourselves to some chamomile tea first if you like, then join us in the circle.”

  Dr. Ellen was making her way through the knots of excited women, speaking in a voice of authoritative calm, like a kindergarten teacher attempting to restore order.

  “Rats,” Eina dropped her voice. “I’ll have to tell you the rest later.”

  Twenty reluctant women lined up for their hot drinks, finally sitting down with much scraping and shuffling of chairs. Dr. Ellen took her place in the circle. Today, she was wearing a long, brown, crinkly skirt, with a matching headband, and a hand-knitted sweater.

  “This morning’s events have been very upsetting to all of us,” she began, “so we should take some time to debrief before carrying on. First, I ask that we all close our eyes and focus with some centred breathing. That’s good, deep breaths in, slow breaths out. As we exhale, let us release our sorrow and sadness that a fellow traveller has left our planet. Focus on the thought that, even though we didn’t know him, we mourn his passing from among us.”

  She looked around the room, studying the group, looking for any signs of disruption. “That’s very good. Perhaps someone would like to share some thoughts or good wishes toward our friend on his journey. Alicia? That’s generous of you. Thank you, Alicia.”

  “Well,” said Alicia, a pale-eyed blonde woman whose thinness was
exaggerated by her black pantsuit, “Perhaps it’s not nice to speak ill of the dead, but I’m not sure how much sorrow anyone is feeling. I don’t know of anyone who had anything good to say about him.”

  “Exactly!” agreed the woman who sat across the circle from her. “He had more enemies than you could shake a stick at, and no friends to speak of, from what I heard.”

  The room erupted in an excited chorus that Dr. Ellen was able to calm only with great difficulty.

  “Maybe we need to refocus our energies,” she said when she finally managed to regain control. “Why don’t we move to the tables for our first activity?”

  With some reluctance the group acquiesced, shuffling over to the tables that each housed an assortment of empty glass jars, metal soup spoons, and pitchers of water.

  “We’re going to create a musical scale using glass, water, and spoons,” she explained. “The pitches will vary according to the size and shape of each jar and the amount of water you place in them. You need to work cooperatively. When you’re done, try out your scale by choosing a song and playing it.”

  Margaret and Louise’s group turned their attention to the collection of jars, ranging in size from baby food-sized to large mason jars.

  “We should arrange them from smallest to largest,” said Eina, a former piano teacher.

  “So, does anyone know if the police have made an arrest yet?” The woman who spoke wore a goddess name tag that read “Lana.”

  “Oh, no one knows anything at this point. But if anything happens, word will get around pretty fast. Yes, that looks good,” Eina said, surveying the jars lined up in order.

  “There’s no shortage of strong feelings about the man,” Margaret commented, reaching for the pitcher and pouring a finger’s worth of water into the first baby food jar.

  “He wasn’t in line for the Citizen of the Year award,” Eina agreed. She motioned at the pitcher, “Put a little more into the next one. Okay, let’s try them and see how they sound.”

  Louise tapped the two jars with the spoon. They sounded like small bells.