Saints & Strangers (A Sam Warren Mystery)

by Richelle Elberg

  “Excuse me,” said Barbie. Eileen’s boobs were practically touching Barbie’s nose.

  Slowly, Eileen stood straight. “Sorry,” she said to Barbie in a very un-sorry tone of voice.

  Barbie’s cheeks were red now. “I’d like a glass of white wine please. Do you have a Pinot Grigio? A 2008 if you have it.”

  Eileen looked at her. “We got a white and we got a red. You want the white, I take it?”

  “Yes. Whatever,” Barbie said and turned back to Dennis.

  “Dennis?”

  “Sure, Eileen. Bring another round for the table if you would,” he replied. “Thanks, hon,” he added.

  “Vulgar woman,” Barbie said after Eileen left.

  “Be nice, Barbie. Eileen’s a friend of mine.”

  “What’s that song? Oh, I know. ‘I got friends in low places….’” she sang and then laughed. None of us joined in; we were, after all, regulars at the Trap. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m just kidding.” She turned back to Dennis. “So how’s the case? It’s all anyone talks about at work now.”

  “It’s a bitch, Barbie. That’s really all I can say. A real bitch.”

  “Well, you know you can call me any time. Stop by for a drink…”

  Just then Eileen came back with our drinks on a tray. She put the tray down heavily and one of the beers fell over. It spilled into Barbie’s lap.

  Barbie jumped up. “You did that on purpose!”

  “I’m just so sorry,” Eileen said. A dark wet spot was spreading across Barbie’s crotch. “Let me get you some napkins.”

  I grabbed my Scotch from the tray and took a gulp. This was getting good.

  Eileen turned to go to the bar for the napkins and Barbie stuck her foot out. Eileen tripped and went sprawling onto another table, where more drinks were spilled. An old gull was staring down Eileen’s sweater as she pulled herself up out of the mess. She came back at Barbie and pushed her. “You bitch!”

  “Slut!” Barbie said and pushed her back.

  “Whore!”

  Dennis was out of the booth now and pulled Eileen away. “Calm down ladies. Let’s just calm down here.”

  Barbie glared at Eileen, then she grabbed her coat. “I’ll be calling your boss in the morning.” She turned to Dennis. “Call me if you’d like to meet for a drink in a respectable establishment, Dennis.” With that she stormed out the door.

  The bar had grown quiet during the ruckus; now everyone laughed. I felt a little sorry for Barbie, but then, she was rather undiplomatic, especially for a judge.

  Eileen shrugged out of Dennis’ grasp. “Sorry, Dennis, but I can’t stand women like that. Thinks she’s so much better…I didn’t really mean to spill the beer, you know.”

  Dennis looked at her with a smirk. “Not sure I believe you, darlin’, but if you’ll bring us another, we’ll be square.”

  She looked down at her wet sweater. “Guess I’ll go stand in front of the hand dryer,” she said. She brought Turk another beer and disappeared into the ladies room. Dennis sat back down and we all laughed some more.

  “Aren’t you the ladies’ man,” I said to Dennis. “What’s up with Barbie?”

  “She slummin’ after her divorce,” said Turk. “She be tired of men in suits. Now she after a rough ‘un.”

  Dennis shook his head. “Woman’s stalking me. Yesterday she showed up where we always eat lunch. I’m gonna have to mix up my routine.”

  “And Eileen?” I asked. I never knew Dennis had such an active social life.

  He shrugged. “We’ve been friends for a while.”

  Interesting. This was a side of Dennis I’d never seen before, but I was encouraged to learn that there was still hope for romance later in life. At this rate, I might be fifty before I figured out what I wanted. I looked at Milo out of the corner of my eye. Or rather, before I trusted what I wanted.

  “Guilty of willful murder, by plaine & notorious evidence.”

  “It might surprise you to learn, Ms. Bishop, that abortion was commonly practiced in Plymouth Colony. Here, as in England at that time, women ended unwanted pregnancies with black root, cedar root or other common herbs. In fact, abortion drugs were widely peddled across America until the time of the Civil War; it was a very large and lucrative business.”

  The man shook his head and sighed heavily. He looped a length of rope around his shoulder and placed his foot on the massive tree. He wore spurs over his tall boots and he ascended the wide trunk quickly.

  “You see, even the great men who founded our nation were in some matters…ill-advised. It was commonly held at that time that until the quickening—until the child could be felt moving—that the fetus was merely part of the mother, rather than a unique and blessed life.”

  Carolyn watched with wide eyes as the man reached the first large branch and easily scooted out. He sat comfortably astride the foot-wide arm of the giant oak about a dozen feet off the ground. He took his rope from his shoulder and looped it around the branch.

  “As a matter of fact, Ms. Bishop, moral outrage with this murderous practice didn’t really emerge in America until the 20th Century. Why, even the anti-abortion laws that were passed in the late 19th Century had no basis in morality.”

  He finished fashioning the noose and dropped it. As the rope bounced, Carolyn tried to shuffle backwards into the dense brush, but he’d bound her hands and feet securely and tied them together, wrists to ankles. She fell over and the dry leaves that carpeted the ground scratched her cheeks and filled her nostrils. Still, she tried to scoot along.

  Seconds later, strong hands grabbed her and pulled her roughly upright. She tried to scream again, but her mouth was gagged with duct tape and the muted sound faded quickly in the shroud of fog that blanketed the hill.

  He crouched before her, his cold, flat eyes staring into hers. “I haven’t finished your lesson in morality, Carolyn. It’s important to me that you understand why you’re here tonight.”

  He stood and dragged her by her armpits under the waiting noose, then moved in front of her. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small scrap of cloth.

  “No, the doctors that championed the illegalization of abortion in the 1800’s didn’t care about murder or God’s children. They were more concerned that midwives and charlatans were taking business away from their practices. And, because the so-called Female Monthly Pills were often highly poisonous, even fatal, the medical profession and the AMA succeeded in its campaign to illegalize abortion throughout the states.”

  “Eighty years later this same Godless group of men supported the legalization of abortion. But they were wrong. Murder is a mortal sin…and abortion is murder.”

  The man dug in his front pocket and pulled out a safety pin. He attached the scrap of cloth to Carolyn’s shoulder, and then reached for the noose that hung above her head.

  “Carolyn Bishop, you are guilty of willful murder, by plaine & notorious evidence. And so tonight you will die.”

  Chapter 19

  “He’s scary,” Milo whispered in my ear.

  I turned to reply, but the angry glare of a man seated in the pew in front of us stopped me short. I looked down and studied the program in my hands. Milo reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze and I felt at once thankful for his presence and flushed with heat. That electric shock thing wasn’t getting any weaker.

  The Sight Ministries congregation gathered in a large, traditional white clapboard structure with a tall narrow steeple. The building was large,—I’d stopped counting at two hundred people occupying the highly polished pews—hidden by dense forest on both sides, and it backed up to Little Island Pond.

  According to town records, the church owned a twenty-five acre plot with a lot of frontage on the pond. A lot of water frontage means a lot of money in Plymouth. The Ministries’ books and toys and conferences—all hawked shamelessly on its web site—apparently sold well. Charles and Liz Smit lived in the “parsonage,” which was on the water as well. We’d passed the large, imp
ressive home on our way to the church. Milo’s Duxbury neighbors would approve.

  “Our nation is gripped by fear,” Smit was saying. He was a tall, well-built, distinguished looking man with thick salt and pepper hair, pale blue eyes and unnaturally white teeth. He wore navy blue slacks and an Oxford shirt with a tie, but no robe, no white collar. His sleeves were rolled up. His voice was deep, at times melodic, but he raised it often with booming emotion. There’d be no napping during a Sight Ministries service.

  “We feel fear over the elections. Fear over the economy. Fear over the environment and fear of terrorism.” He clutched the pulpit and leaned into his microphone. Almost as one, the congregants straightened their backs and pressed forward. In a loud whisper he said, “But we no longer fear the Lord.”

  Leaning back, he bellowed, “Proverbs 8:13. The fear of the Lord is to hate evil.” He gazed out over his audience. People were nodding and whispering Amens to themselves. He waited a moment to give the passage its full weight.

  “Instead of hating evil, Americans toy with it. We toy with holidays like Halloween…”

  My mind wandered as I studied the faces in the congregation. Young couples and families with a lot of children filled the pews. Some older men and women came dressed in their Sunday finest, blue hair set and comb-overs rigid with gel. There were more men than women; in fact, there weren’t any women seated alone. Where were all the widows? I always thought church was big with widows.

  I didn’t see anyone that I recognized but I tried to commit faces to memory, particularly the younger men. I figured it would take someone strong to hang a woman and leave no sign of struggle behind—although Smit himself appeared quite fit for his age. I put him at about fifty.

  All of the women wore somber, conservative clothing; I felt conspicuous in my stylish red dress with matching heels. I’d worn it for college graduation; it was one of only two dresses in my closet. Now I realized I should have worn my black, Dad’s funeral dress.

  Smit was building up to a furor again.

  “Do not make light of evil! Halloween was conceived in evil. It’s a celebration that uses children to promote fascination with darkness and…”

  I stretched my neck and tried to get a look at the faces behind me. Immediately several angry eyes caught mine. I turned quickly forward. These people took Charles Smit very seriously.

  “Halloween makes light of the very things that the Bible defines as evil. Stand against such things and the world will find you very scary indeed. But do not be afraid, friends. God wants you to do what is morally right. Trust him completely and never be gripped by an ungodly spirit of fear.”

  Smit had lowered his voice again and I sensed the thrilling climax was coming. He started in a low voice but got louder as he progressed.

  “The scariest thing you can do this Halloween, my friends, is to get on your knees as parents and pray that the Lord will send you many children. Children who will fear God, not man. Children who will shun the glorification of witchcraft. Cultures that toy with evil end up being cultures of death.” He gazed solemnly around the room.

  “The Christian response is to be a people of life,” he continued. “That means babies.”

  Babies?

  “It means fearing God by honoring His command to be fruitful and multiply. It means remembering that the Scripture describes children as a blessing and a reward. Raise children that fear God more than man, and that will be answer enough to our Halloween-and-darkness-obsessed culture; for if you trust God over your womb and commit your children to a holy education, you will be very scary to the modern world.”

  A glaze of sweat sparkled on Smit’s brow. His eyes roamed the aisles; they seemed to connect with each and every parishioner. I stifled a shudder and looked at my lap before his gaze could meet mine.

  In a thundering voice, he concluded, “Come, my children, listen to me; I will teach you the fear of the Lord.” He lowered his eyes, clutching his podium. “Amen.”

  The men parroted Smit, their Amens echoing loudly throughout the nave, but when I chimed in I got another sharp look from the man in front of me. I raised my eyebrows at Milo and glanced around the room. Only the men were responding; the women were looking at their laps or mouthing their Amens silently with their eyes closed.

  Apparently Charles Smit expected the fairer sex to shut up and make babies. But those babies shouldn’t go Trick or Treating; Halloween was a no-no.

  My mother always took me trick-or-treating when I was young. One time in particular, when I was maybe five or six years old, stood out sharply in my memories. I’d worn layers of long underwear and two turtleneck sweaters under a cheap, cotton candy-pink My Little Pony costume. Mom walked me up and down Taylor Ave, making sure I said ‘thank you’ and chatting easily with the neighbors and the other parents out in the cold night.

  We collected a pillowcase full of candy and cookies, finally returning home with rosy cheeks and burning ears. She inspected the loot and then Dad and I were allowed to eat some. I got to stay up past my bedtime. Mom and Dad had a couple of beers and there’d been a lot of laughter. I treasured that memory; there was nothing evil about it.

  And even if you believed the origins of Halloween were evil, how did you make the leap from that to an obligation to procreate? It was creative, if nothing else. I watched Charles Smit some more. He was intense; his eyes darted about the room as if daring someone to challenge his word. But was Charles Smit a murderer?

  Some hymns were sung—by the men—and a collection plate was passed. Milo put five dollars in the plate, for which I was grateful, although the wrinkled bill looked small next to the dozens of crisp twenties that lined the shiny brass plate by the time it reached our row.

  Smit closed by reminding his flock to see a recently released Christian film in which a small town mayor valiantly takes on the ever-widening war on Christmas. There’s a war on Christmas? I’d heard about Iraq and Afghanistan; I guess I didn’t get the memo about this latest conflict.

  Smit marched down the aisle purposefully, smiling and nodding to the gentlemen as he passed. When he reached our row, Smit stopped and leaned in. He spoke to Milo. “Good morning and welcome to Sight Ministries. I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”

  “Yes, it’s our first time, sir. Your sermon was very—” Milo hesitated for only a fraction of a second, but I saw Smit’s eyes narrow. “—very stimulating, sir. Food for thought indeed.” He paused. “This is my fiancé, Sharon…Stone. We’ve just moved to Plymouth.”

  I extended my hand but Smit stopped me with a raised hand. Still speaking directly to Milo, he said, “Women must be silent in the church, sir. You can introduce your fiancé outside, before fellowship.” With that he nodded at Milo, backed out of the pew and continued out of the chapel.

  After a moment, we followed. I shrugged on my long, black coat and buttoned it as we walked, avoiding the parishioners’ curious glances. When we got outside Milo and I walked a little ways from the crowd, which was becoming loud and now included the voices of women as well as men.

  When we were far enough away from the others for privacy, I looked up at Milo.

  “Seriously? Sharon Stone? Really?”

  Chapter 20

  Milo threw his head back and laughed that great laugh. I whacked him on the shoulder.

  “You know exactly what went through his mind the second you told him my name is Sharon Stone. What were you thinking?”

  Milo’s laughter finally sputtered to a stop. I stood glaring at him, waiting.

  “The guy caught me off guard, Sam; it just popped into my mind.” He shook his head sheepishly. “Sorry.”

  “That’s just great, Milo. I was already the Jezebel in a red dress in there and now you’ve got him thinking I don’t wear panties.”

  He smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Do you?”

  I smacked his arm again, then glanced nervously toward Smit. He probably wouldn’t approve of women beating on their fiancés either, although
I figured Margie at the Galway Pub would be proud.

  Luckily, Smit was facing away from us. Liz Smit stood beside him, along with another couple. She smiled broadly at her husband as he entertained them with wild hand gestures and, presumably, a funny story. The couple soon burst out laughing. Liz Smit chuckled and linked her arm through his, then grasped her husband’s arm with both hands. She’d insisted that the emergency dispatch operator call her Missus Smit. Possessive? Insecure? Both?

  But how did that fit with my theory about her and John Clarkson? Maybe it didn’t. Maybe my theory was hogwash. I hadn’t yet hacked into their personal email accounts to check for any personal communication, but I had no doubt that John Clarkson had spoken of Liz with a high level of familiarity.

  As I stood there pondering, Milo took my hands and leaned over. “How do you want to play this, Sharon? Should we go speak to David Koresh now?”

  I squinted at him but nodded. “So what’s your name?”

  Milo didn’t hesitate. “Hanibal. Hanibal Fechter.”

  I giggled. “Seriously, Milo, we can’t be obvious frauds. You can be Brian. Brian Kinney. We’re from Colorado.”

  Holding hands, Milo and I approached the first couple of Sight Ministries. We waited politely off to the side while the minister shook hands and clapped shoulders with the other men. Milo’s large hand was warm and dry, but my palm was sweating. I really couldn’t put my finger on why, but Smit made me nervous. Maybe it was that whole possible serial killer thing, but really, it went beyond that. It was just him. I noticed that Smit still had little to say to any of the women who passed through his orbit. Liz Smit did a lot of smiling and nodding, basking in her husband’s aura.

  Finally Smit noticed us waiting and turned to face us. Again, he addressed Milo. “So, you two are new to Plymouth. What brings you to the cradle of the nation?”