“Let’s go to my study.” She smiles at me and I experience the tightening in my chest that most men would feel in proximity to so beautiful a woman. She leads me up the stairs and I see that her feet are bare. I can’t help noticing the sway of her hips as she ascends and I am tantalized by the thought that the robe might be her sole item of clothing, which inevitably leads me to imagining what her slender body would look like without it. As my body reacts, she turns and looks back at me; her smile intimates she knows my thoughts… and perhaps approves of them.
Pull yourself together, Rocky. I am letting my imagination carry me to places not compatible with my reasons for being here. My libido returns with unexpected strength at random, and inconvenient, times. I wonder if it would have been better to come here with Stammo after all?
At the top of the stairs, there is an open area with three rooms leading off it and more stairs that lead up to another floor. Her study is a small room with a desk and a couch under the window but I am drawn toward the wall to the right of the door. It is a floor-to-ceiling bookcase containing books on a variety of religious subjects, representing a variety of religions. Apart from the Bible, the Qur’an and the Torah, there are a number of Indian texts including the Bhagavad Gita and even the Karma Sutra. As I scan the titles, I see The Book of the Law by Aleister Crowley and The Golden Bough.
“Please sit down, detective Rogan.” She has perched on the arm of the sofa with her feet on the cushion, indicating for me to sit at the other end. But for this meeting I want to control the agenda so I sit on the corner of her desk, my back to the door, hemming her in. I look down at her.
“May I ask what your religion believes in, Reverend Harris?” I ask.
She gives her tinkling laugh, showing small white teeth. She is very beautiful yet the laugh makes her beauty less intimidating and more inviting. I have a sudden intuition that she knows this and uses her sexuality, with careful calculation, on both men and women. The knowledge deflates the attraction that I felt just moments ago.
“That is way too large a conversation to be having now. Suffice to say that we revere the Masters from many religions and philosophies and follow the path that is common to all.” She fixes her gaze on me. “You should come to one of our open houses on Friday evenings,” she ends in a flirtatious tone.
I lead with a lie. “We now know that Marguerite Varga was a member of your congregation.”
“When you called to arrange this appointment you said that it was to talk about the murder of Terry Wright.” The smile is no longer on her face nor is it in her voice, not in itself an admission.
“Yes, we’ll come to that. For now I would like to talk about Mrs. Varga. I understand that her husband didn’t approve of her attendance here?”
“I don’t think that man approves of anything not related to that damn bank of his.” I’ll take that as an admission; good bluff. “He came to the church just once, with Marguerite, and sat through a two hour open house with a sour face and not once did he ask a question or share in any way. It was like Marguerite had forced him to come here. Rather than talk to anyone, he just snooped about the house.”
“When was this?” I ask.
“A few months ago. September maybe. I could check the guest book if you’d like.”
“Maybe later. Were there problems between them, do you think?”
“I counseled Marguerite, detective Rogan. I have to respect the confidentiality of our conversations.”
“I appreciate that, Reverend Harris, but Mrs. Varga is dead, murdered. If your silence prevents me from catching her murderer…” I leave it hanging.
After weighing my comment for a moment, she volunteers, “Marguerite was a wonderful, vibrant woman who recently had been largely ignored by her husband. He’s completely absorbed in his work and when he wasn’t at work he was out—” she catches herself… or is it a ruse?
“Out doing what?” I ask.
“Just out.”
I look down at her and hold her gaze. She smiles but her charms hold no power over me now; I just look. For a moment it’s a staring contest then she breaks eye contact.
“He used to gamble. He would spend a lot of time out gambling. Marguerite didn’t approve.”
“Was his gambling causing them financial difficulties?”
“I honestly don’t know and I don’t think Marguerite would have known either. He makes a great deal of money at the bank but Marguerite was not privy to the details of their finances. He just transferred money into her account every month, like she was an employee… or something.” I wonder what that something might be.
“Were either of them having an affair?”
“Marguerite or Harold?” she asks redundantly. “No, I uh… No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely sure.” She’s telling the truth but not the whole truth and I don’t know what she’s hiding, so I don’t know what to ask.
Time to change tack. “Let’s go downstairs. I want to ask you something.”
The hairs on the back of my neck come to a bristling attention at the quiet noise behind me. I force myself to turn slowly; rapid movement is not a good idea. The dog is standing in the doorway, a growl rumbling in his throat. This time he is not leashed and his handler is nowhere in sight.
“Hello boy,” I say. What the hell’s his name? It was two letters. BJ? No. It was B something. But what? I skip mentally through the alphabet until I get it. “Hi BL, how are you, boy?” Making no sudden movement, I stand and extend my flattened hand to him. This time there is no sniffing, no tail movement, no softening of his brow ridges. Just the steady rumble.
We face each other down and I wonder why Morgan Harris doesn’t intervene. Then I feel her arm slip inside mine. She is standing to my right and slightly back and I can feel the shape of her breast through the robe pressing on my bicep. I look down at her and see the same expression that I saw on Stammo yesterday: naked fear. The dog is reacting to that fear in true canine fashion by maintaining his guard. I tense my muscles as I wait for him to move.
“BL!”
My eyes follow the sound of the voice and I see the dog’s minder coming up the stairs onto the landing.
“BL! Come!”
The man ignores us and continues up the stairs to the floor above. I watch him and can see how closely his face resembles my own. Stammo was right about that. It’s very weird. Given my family history it is more than conceivable that I could have a half-brother. If I do, I don’t want it to be him.
With a look of reluctance, the dog turns and follows and I feel Morgan Harris relax against me with a sigh. But she does not let go of my arm. “Let’s go downstairs now.” Her voice is no more than a whisper and once again she looks like a teenager, a small, frightened teenager at that.
She hangs on to my arm as we make our way down and, despite my new found belief that she uses her sexuality as a tool, I let myself enjoy the sensation of her nearness.
As we reach the main floor, there is a single bark from above, making her shudder and tighten the grip on my arm.
“If you’re frightened of the dog why do you have it here?” I ask.
“I’m only frightened when he is allowed to run free. Seth normally keeps him in the back yard and almost always has him leashed when he’s indoors.”
Seth. So the dog minder has a name.
“Why do you have him here at all?”
“When my father died, I took over the church and about fifteen months ago Seth came to live here. He’s my brother. He insisted on bringing BL with him.”
“Is Seth a Minister too?”
“Seth?” She laughs. It is not the playful, tinkling laugh that she affected earlier; it is of a much more cynical strain. “Hardly.”
So why is he here, I wonder?
I lead her to the picture I saw last night and take the time to examine it in detail. It is disturbing. In addition to its resemblance to Bosch, there are elements redolent of Hogarth’s Four Stages of
Cruelty. The figure in the foreground reminds me of Terry’s mutilated face and my stomach churns; I am picturing Ellie disfigured like that and the fear and horror she would have felt. I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t bring this monster to justice.
I cannot keep the outrage from my voice. “Why would you have this in a church?” I ask her.
“The way the pictures alternate, it reminds us that we must always strive to do good in the midst of evil.” Her response is calm, aggravating my anger, but she releases her grip on my arm.
Without taking my eyes from her face, I point to the figure in the foreground. “Why does this person have his eyes put out and a cross carved over his mouth?”
“This picture depicts the evils of lying,” she says evenly, “it reminds us that every time we lie, we blind ourselves to the truths of the Masters.”
“Did you know that Terry Wright’s body was disfigured in exactly the same way?”
The shock is palpable. Her body stiffens and she draws away from me. She glances at my face, perhaps to verify that I am telling the truth, then turns and looks toward the staircase we so recently descended.
“Noooooo,” she moans. She looks back at me. “No.”
I stay silent.
“How could he—?” Her voice chokes off in mid-sentence.
“How could who?” My body is tingling. The next words out of her mouth may give me the name of Terry’s killer and I have a gut feel about whose name it will be.
She doesn’t answer my question.
“How could who, Reverend Harris?”
She is breathing heavily, trying to gain control.
“Terry,” she says. “How could he have died like that? Whoever would do that to an innocent child?”
Did I jump to the wrong conclusion or has she just covered a slip?
“Do you have any idea who might have killed Terry?” I ask.
“No, of course not.”
I decide to go with my gut.
“Where was your brother between five-thirty and eight-thirty on Sunday night?”
“Here with me. All evening.” She either misses or is not worried by the implication of the question. “We don’t have services after the midday one on Sundays so Seth helps me with the accounts and we have a meal together.”
“Was anyone else here with you or did anyone visit?”
“No it was just the two of us.”
If I had more than just a gut feel, I would haul Morgan and Seth Harris in and interrogate them separately to see if I could break her alibi for him. But I have nothing. It’s out of the question.
My Blackberry buzzes. It’s a text from Damien Crotty. Looked at your gruesome pix. It’s not a pentacle. The X on lips and eye damage familiar but I can’t place it. Just getting on plane from NY to Frankfurt. Will email from there. DC.
It’s not a pentacle was not what I wanted to hear and there’s no mention of oboe.
I want to text him back but my next question is too important. Maybe my next call with Damien will shed some light on the latter.
I have just one more thing for Reverend Harris before I go. I move eight feet to my left and look at the next picture shrouded by black curtains. It is similar to the previous one but has no mutilated person in the foreground. I continue around the room stopping and examining each picture. In the eighth one I find what I am looking for: to one side there is a group of musicians. They are dressed in formal jackets with top hats but below the waist they have animal legs with cloven hoofs.
“Reverend Harris, would you come and explain this picture to me, please?”
She is still standing by the first picture and does not walk over but elects to speak to me from the other side of the room. “It depicts the evils of our ‘eat, drink and be merry’ society. If we listen to music other than the music which is inside us, we will lose our way to the house of the great ones.”
I point to one of the musicians. “Is this one playing an oboe?” I ask.
“No. They are playing flutes, pipes and drums. Simpler instruments from simpler times, Detective Rogan.” For a second time she has shown no reaction to the word.
And for some reason her complete lack of visible reaction increases my suspicion of this church, her and her brother.
I make a vow to myself that if they are involved with Terry’s death, even peripherally, I will find a way to take them down, even though right now, I don’t have a clue how to do it.
17
Cal
I cannot even begin to imagine how I would handle it if Ellie were like this. Michael is a lovely little kid but he seems somehow cut off from the world. At the moment he is sitting cross-legged in the Chan’s living room applying his full concentration to a glittery purple car in his hand. It is radio-controlled but he is just holding it up and watching the rear wheels spin. The sunlight from the window is shining on the wheels and reflecting off the turning hubs. He is swaying back and forth, as if in time to slow, gentle music that only he can hear.
I turn my attention to his mother. She is looking with love at her son but I can see the sadness underneath.
“Thank you for seeing me so quickly, Mrs. Chan. When I was here before, with Detective Stammo, Michael was repeating the letters O – B – O – E. We have reason to believe that this may have some relevance to what happened to Terry and I’d like to ask him about it.”
“Of course,” she smiles and I can see that a great well of kindness lives inside her. “If you ask me the questions, I’ll do my best to get Michael to answer them.” She gets up, takes a piece of paper from the coffee table and crouches beside her son. She puts the paper in his line of sight.
“Remember what we agreed, Michael?” She points to a picture on the paper, like the first frame in a comic strip. “First, you play with your car.” Her finger moves to the second frame. “Then we talk to the detective.” Her finger moves on. “Then you have two chocolate chip cookies.” She takes the car from his hand, switches off the motor and puts it down. Then she scoops him up in her arms and sits back on the couch. He does not venture a look at me but pulls the sleeve of his sweater over his hand and starts rubbing it on the tip of his nose.
Grace Chan looks at me and nods.
“I’d like Michael to tell me what O – B – O – E means.”
Before his mother can say anything he pipes up, “Ssshhhh! It’s a secret. Terry’s my friend.”
“Yes, darling. I know it’s a secret and it’s important to keep secrets,” she says, “but we talked about this. We shouldn’t keep secrets from our parents or from policemen. Do you remember?”
He nods. “Oboe is blood.”
“Oboe is blood? What does that mean, Michael?” I ask.
“I mustn’t say.” He is rubbing his nose faster.
“Why can’t you tell me, Michael?”
He is starting to rock again. “It’s a secret. They’ll hurt Terry if I tell.”
“Who will hurt Terry?” I ask.
“They will, the bad people. They’ll hurt him if we say the whole thing.”
“Who are these bad people, Michael?”
“I don’t know. Ask Terry.” Now his foot is flicking toward me.
“OK, Michael, that’s OK. You don’t have to tell me who they are,” I say. “I only have one more question, OK?”
“OK.” His voice is muffled by his hand which is now rubbing both his nose and his lips.
“You said that they’ll hurt Terry if you say the whole thing. Is ‘oboe is blood’ the beginning of something?”
“Yes.”
“Like a rhyme or a story?” I ask.
He looks at me for an instant, his little face distorted with anger, then diverts his gaze to the floor. “You said ‘one more question’, not ‘two more questions’,” he says.
“I promise you that nobody can hurt Terry now. I just need to know what ‘oboe is blood’ means.”
His voice is louder. “I don’t want them to hurt Terry. He’s my friend.”
He buries his face in his mother’s sweater.
Grace Chan looks at me and I can see moisture in her eyes. She shakes her head. “No more.” She mouths at me.
“I just wanted to ask—” the glare she snaps at me cuts me off.
“You were very good Michael,” she says. “It’s cookie time now.” His foot stops flicking and his body slumps a little.
I look at her and mouth the words, “Does he know Terry’s dead?”
She shakes her head again.
“OK, Michael,” I say. “You were very good. Thank you very much for helping me.”
Scooping her son up in her arms, she stands. “Please wait a minute, Detective. I’m going to give Michael his cookies.” She carries him through the living area and into the kitchen.
Oboe is blood. What could that mean? If Damien Crotty is correct and oboe is a hex, perhaps ‘oboe is blood’ is the beginning of some sort of incantation or spell or maybe a curse. As a kid I was always terrified of the occult ever since sneaking into the movie The Exorcist. But as an adult surely I’ve evolved beyond such silly superstition… haven’t I?
So why does the thought of an incantation run prickles along my spine?
I pull out my Blackberry and send Damien an email. What did you mean when you said it’s not a pentacle and does ‘oboe is blood’ mean anything to you? Cheers, Cal. He’ll still be in the plane to Frankfurt so I won’t get a reply until tomorrow morning.
While I have the Blackberry open, I Google ‘oboe is blood’ and Google tells me that there are twenty-six and a half million results. I scroll through and see references to the links between blood pressure and playing the oboe and a bunch of other stuff. I remember a Google trick someone taught me and I put the words in quotes. This time it says No results found for “oboe is blood”. Maybe Google’s not up to date on the black arts. I chuckle at the ridiculousness of that thought.
Maybe the truth is that this oboe thing is a huge red herring. Terry died three days ago and we don’t have much. His mother was a member of a weird church and he was autistic. Not much at all really. Perhaps we need to concentrate more on the parents.
Cal Rogan Mysteries, Books 1, 2 & 3 (Box Set) Page 42
