by R. R. Irvine
THE ANGELS’ SHARE
A Moroni Traveler Novel
By R. R. Irvine
To Robert Campbell
THE ANGELS’ SHARE
Copyright © 1989 by R.R. Irvine.
All Rights Reserved.
First eBook copyright © 2013 by AudioGO. All Rights Reserved.
978-1-4821-0209-3 Trade
978-1-62460-672-4 Library
Cover photograph © iStock.com.
Other eBooks by R.R. Irvine:
Robert Christopher Series
Jump Cut
Freeze Frame
The Face Out Front
Ratings are Murder
Moroni Traveler Mysteries
Baptism for the Dead
The Angels' Share
Gone to Glory
Called Home
The Spoken Word
The Great Reminder
The Hosanna Shout
Pillar of Fire
Nicolette Scott Mysteries
Track of the Scorpion
Flight of the Serpent
Wake of the Hornet
The Return of the Spanish Lady
Thread of the Spider
Novels
Horizontal Hold
The Devil’s Breath
Footsteps
Barking Dogs
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
1
STANDING ON the scorching sidewalk across the street from the temple, Moroni Traveler focused on Salt Lake City’s ten thousand-foot eastern barrier known as the Wasatch Front. The mountains, still tipped with snow in July, stored enough water each winter to keep the rivers running all year around, enough to irrigate a desert and create Brigham Young’s land of Zion.
At the moment the 10 A.M. sidewalk temperature in the promised land was one hundred degrees.
Traveler shuffled his feet to avoid blisters and waved at Mad Bill, who was picketing the Mormon temple. Known as the Sandwich Prophet, Bill carried his usual sandwich board. Today’s said: GOD IS MAKING ZION HOT AS HELL
As soon as Bill acknowledged the wave, Traveler dashed inside the Chester Building. Vaulted ceilings and marble floors made the lobby feel air conditioned, an illusion that would be dispelled when afternoon sun hit the front windows. The building’s owner, Barney Chester, was sampling the wares of his old-fashioned cigar stand. He blew smoke and words at Traveler. “You have clients waiting upstairs.”
According to the Regulator Clock on the wall, Traveler’s ten-fifteen appointment was early. He shrugged at Barney and headed for the elevator. Its operator, Nephi Bates, saw him coming and turned up the volume on a small cassette player that hung from a strap around his neck. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir sang out:
Israel, Israel, God is calling—
calling from the lands of woe;
Babylon the Great is falling;
God shall all her towers o’erthrow.
Come to Zion.
The third and top floor of the Chester Building was a good ten degrees hotter than the lobby, but still cooler than the streets outside. Father and daughter, or so Traveler assumed, were waiting in the hall outside his door.
“I’m Newell Farnsworth. This is my daughter, Suzanne,” the man confirmed. “I called yesterday for an appointment.”
“Sorry I kept you waiting.”
“We’re early.”
The daughter sighed as if to say punctuality was her own personal, parentally imposed burden.
Traveler unlocked the door and ushered them inside. His was a corner office with two windows, one facing north toward the temple, the other looking out on Main Street to the east. At the moment the Main Street window was acting as a magnifying glass. As a result the room felt on the verge of spontaneous combustion.
Traveler’s tan polyester slacks and white knit sports shirt clung like a wet suit as he opened both windows, hoping for the cross-ventilation Barney had promised when first showing him the office six months ago. What came in was a hot west wind, carrying with it the rotten-egg smell of the Great Salt Lake. From the streets below rose the sound of wind-whipped flags, part of the Pioneer Day decorations, which were flapping as noisily as banners at a used-car lot. The celebration was still four days away, July 24, the anniversary of the date in 1847 when the first Latter-day Saints—LDS, as they called themselves—arrived in Salt Lake. They’d crossed half a continent, including the Rocky Mountains, to blaze the Mormon Trail. Traveler’s great-grandmother had been with them. But family zeal ran out long before he was born.
“We have our choice,” he said. “What passes for fresh air or heatstroke.”
“The lake doesn’t bother me,” Farnsworth said as though he enjoyed the smell.
His daughter sighed again.
“The building’s owner doesn’t believe in air conditioning. He says it would be sacrilege to tamper with a landmark.” Traveler winked at his namesake, the Angel Moroni perched atop a temple spire across the street. The figure’s gold plate was all that kept it from tarnishing like everything else.
“Moroni Traveler is a good Mormon name,” Farnsworth said, his voice slightly off-key, probably with embarrassment, something that often happened when people came to see a private detective. He and his daughter settled into the two clients’ chairs that faced the desk. Traveler sat behind the desk, folded his hands, and studied the pair closely.
Farnsworth was gray at the temples and looked to be about forty, wearing sharply creased gray slacks and a short-sleeved dress shirt with a tie. He had heavily muscled forearms, blunt hands, and a worry-free face that reminded Traveler of every Mormon bishop he’d ever met.
His daughter was small-boned and overweight, on the verge of escaping her teens and maybe even the blemishes on her chin. A pale-green tent dress failed to camouflage her excesses.
“You look like a weight-lifter to me,” Farnsworth said, still avoiding the subject of the visit.
“I was when I played football. Now I prefer to use my head.”
“I followed your career. A Utah boy in professional football isn’t all that common.”
“On the phone,” Traveler prompted, “you said something about a missing person.”
“Your firm was recommended by a colleague of mine. Another dentist. I take it there are two of you.”
Despite the lettering on the door, MORONI TRAVELER & SON, Traveler’s father insisted on calling himself Martin, since he hated being named for an angel.
“Who’s missing?” Traveler asked.
“My daughter’s fiancé.”
Traveler nodded encouragement.
“Suzanne has been out of high school for two years now,” Farnsworth went on.
That ma
de her twenty, Traveler thought, slightly older than his original assessment.
“She’s been attending Westminster College, studying business while waiting for her fiancé to get back from his mission.”
Susanne blinked, causing Traveler to notice her reddened eyes. After a moment she wet her pale lips as if intending to speak.
Her father beat her to it. “ ‘The ax is laid at the root of the trees and every tree that bringeth not forth good fruit shall be hewn down and cast into the fire.’ ”
Suzanne surprised Traveler with a smile. “Daddy likes to give people the impression that he’s a religious scholar. But he only memorizes those passages in The Book of Mormon that suit his purposes. He thinks I should be having babies by now.”
“I’m a bishop in the church, Mr. Traveler, though I may be stepping down soon because of the growth of my dental practice. The more patients who depend on me, the less time I have to devote to scriptures.”
Suzanne’s left eye, the one that her father couldn’t see, winked. “Daddy was asked to step down. The church likes to maximize its tithe. The more money he makes, the more they get from him.”
“You see what this young man has done to us,” Farnsworth complained, though his tone was more amused than condemning. “His absence has set her against me.”
“My father wants me married. So do I.”
“I still don’t know the name of the man we’re after,” Traveler said.
“What am I thinking of?” Farnsworth tapped himself on the forehead. “His name is Heber Armstrong.”
Now there was a good Mormon name, most likely derived from Herber J. Grant, a former president and prophet of the church. One of Traveler’s classmates at Roosevelt Junior High had been named Heber. Everyone called him Heeb, a nickname he had detested to the point of fist fights.
Suzanne took a photograph from her green plastic purse and slid it across the desk.
“That was taken about two years ago, just before Heber left on his mission.”
The young man in the photo was gangly. But then Suzanne had been that way too when the picture was taken, fifty pounds ago. He had light hair and was squinting into both sun and camera lens.
She held out her left hand to display the small diamond ring that was half buried in the flesh of her finger. “It was the day we got engaged. Right after that he was called on a mission to England. He disappeared a month or so before he was due to come home.”
“What do the police here say?”
“That England is out of their jurisdiction,” Farnsworth answered. “That it’s more properly a church matter.”
“And the English authorities?”
“As a bishop I know a lot of important people there, in and out of the church. For months they’ve been telling me that everything possible was being done to find him. But nothing happened until the day before yesterday.”
Farnsworth stopped speaking and looked to his daughter.
“That’s when I saw Heber,” she said. ‘He’s here, back in Salt Lake, and hasn’t even called me. That’s why I know something terrible has happened.” She rubbed her eyes, making them redder than ever.
“Suzy was on the bus at the time. By the time she got off at the next stop and went back he’d disappeared into the ZCMI.”
Traveler could see the upper facade of the Zion’s Cooperative Mercantile Institution from his eastern window. In pioneer times, the ZCMI had been Brigham Young’s attempt to keep the faithful from spending their money with gentile merchants, gentile being the LDS term for all non-Mormons.
Farnsworth laid one of his blunt dentist’s hands on his daughter’s shoulder. “Maybe it was just wishful thinking on your part, honey.”
She closed her eyes. Continued movement beneath her lids suggested that she was watching some inner drama unfold. With a sigh she cradled her stomach as a pregnant woman might do. “Herber needs me. I can feel it inside.”
“Are you certain it was your fiancé?” Traveler asked.
“He looked right at me. And I’m sure he saw me. His eyes frightened me, though. They were desperate.”
“How long does it usually take to find someone who’s missing?” Farnsworth asked.
“That depends on whether they want to be found or not. If this young man is in town, I ought to be able to come up with something in a reasonable time. But you have to be prepared for bad news, Miss Farnsworth. He could be avoiding you because he no longer wants to get married.”
“I understand,” she said, though everything about her, her expression, her tone, said otherwise.
Her father cleared his throat. “Do you have a dental plan, Mr. Traveler?”
“I don’t trade services, if that’s what you’re suggesting. My fee is two hundred and fifty dollars a day, plus expenses.”
Farnsworth fingered his front teeth as if taking comfort from what he knew best. “Suzy hasn’t gone out with a man in two years now. I want grandchildren before I’m too old to enjoy them. So do whatever you have to.”
“A week in advance is my usual retainer. Whatever I don’t use will be refunded.”
Farnsworth snapped his teeth in shock, but wrote out a check just the same.
“I’ll need more information,” Traveler said as soon as he’d exchanged the check for a receipt. “Did you think to contact Customs to see if Armstrong has reentered the country?”
“The church reported that he had. It also said there’s no reason to believe that he’s returned to Zion.”
“What about letters, Miss Farnsworth? When was the last time you heard from your fiancé?”
“About four months ago, I think. I wrote twice a week right from the beginning, when he was still a greenie.”
Traveler smiled. He hadn’t heard that expression in a long time. It referred to missionaries who were just beginning their tour of duty.
“How often did he write back?”
“They kept him awfully busy. I understood that. He wrote whenever he could.”
“Did he ever indicate to you that anything might be wrong?”
“No.” Her head shook vigorously enough to keep her eyes from meeting his. She continued to avoid his stare even after the shaking stopped.
Traveler swiveled his desk chair and stared out at the temple, where the Angel Moroni shimmered in heat waves thick enough to make his trumpet wobble. He felt certain that she was holding back information, something that couldn’t be said in front of her father.
He went full circle until he was facing his clients again. “What about Heber’s family? Have they heard from him?”
“I spoke with them this morning before coming here,” Farnsworth answered. “They claim they haven’t been in touch with him.”
“Do you have any reason to doubt that?”
Both father and daughter shook their heads.
“I’ll probably talk to them anyway.”
Suzanne provided an address high enough on the Avenues to be somewhere near the LDS hospital.
Her father said, “We used to live down the block from them. But that was before we moved to The Cove.” At the mention of The Cove his tone changed; it let Traveler know that only professional men like dentists could afford to live in that exclusive enclave at the base of the Wasatch Mountains. Traveler had hiked that area as a boy, when deer still roamed freely and beaver dams marked every stream.
“I’ll need the names of his close friends.”
“Most of them were at seminary with him,” Suzanne said. An LDS seminary stood across the street from just about every high school in Utah, creating the illusion of separation of church and state.
“There was Ned Cody, Kent Brown, and John Neff. They also played basketball together in the church league.”
Traveler wrote the names down on a notepad. “Do you know their addresses?”
“Not specifically, but they lived somewhere in the neighborhood. You ought to be able to find their parents in the phone book.”
Traveler pretended to study his no
tes. “Were there other women?”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw her wince. “The only thing I know for sure is that when I’m nervous and alone, I eat too much.”
“God is with you, honey, and so is your daddy,” her father said softly.
“Over the last two years I’ve gained so much weight Heber won’t want me anymore.”
“I’d like to talk to your daughter privately,” Traveler said.
“Suzy and I have no secrets.”
The girl took hold of her father’s hand. “It might be best, Daddy. Sometimes it’s easier talking to strangers.”
Farnsworth glared at Traveler. “I’ll be right outside in the hall.”
The girl began to cry softly as soon as the door closed. Traveler took a small pack of tissues from his desk and handed it to her.
He didn’t speak until she blew her nose. “I can’t help unless you tell me the truth.”
She took a deep breath. “When Heber left for England I told him, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll never get a Dear John letter from me.’ ”
“And was he just as faithful?”
Her eyes closed; her chin dropped onto her chest. “He mentioned a woman in one of his letters. Nothing about love, only that he’d converted her to the church.”
“That seems normal enough.”
“Her name was Alma. She was the only convert he ever wrote about by name.”
“Is there anything else you haven’t told me?”
Tears kept her from answering for a few moments. In the silence he could hear her father pacing the marble hallway outside.
“In his last letter he told me not to wait for him, that he wasn’t coming back. He said he’d lost his faith and called himself a missionary of the damned.”
2
BEFORE LEAVING the office, Traveler left a note for his father, to which he paper-clipped Newell Farnsworth’s check.
Martin: We have a client at last. His bishop’s face tells me that you might be wise to cash his check immediately. I’ll tell you about our missing missionary at dinner.
When he reached the lobby, Barney was behind his cigar counter dispensing coffee to Mad Bill and Charlie Redwine. The three of them raised their cups at Traveler’s approach.
“Bill says God had turned his back on Zion,” Barney reported.
