A Memory of Murder

by Nichelle Seely

  She presses a finger to her cheek, thinking. “Alaska Amber. A Buoy Beer American pale, IPA from Fort George Brewing, Widmer Hefeweizen.”

  Might as well start tasting the community brews, although I do like a good Hef. “I’ll take the Buoy pale, and a cheeseburger. Medium well. No pickles.”

  “No special orders on Burger Tuesday. You gotta take it the way it comes.”

  “Right. That seems to be the story of my life.” Taking what comes. Maybe there's a lesson there, but I'm too tired and hungry to think about it. I mentally calculate the cost of my meal: twelve bucks, not counting tip. I think of my bank account, healthy with inheritance for now, but no fresh infusions on the horizon.

  “Don’t worry, we’ve got the best burgers in town. Everybody says so.” The bartender/waitress cracks a smile and goes behind the bar to pull my beer. When she brings it to my table, she says, “I’m Claire. Give a call if you want anything else.”

  Claire goes back to her tasks. The young gambler has emptied his wallet and shrugs on his jacket, looking like a hound dog kicked too many times. He leaves without looking at either of us. Some laminated flyers are tucked between the salt and pepper shakers and the napkin dispenser, and I pull them out.

  One is an advertisement for Burger Tuesday, with a photo of a dewy bottle of Budweiser. The second is a drinks menu. The third, not laminated, is an advertisement for a local church. I take a swallow of my pale ale. It has a pleasant citrusy hoppiness without the mouth-puckering bitterness of an IPA. I savor it as I examine the flyer.

  “The Church of the Spirit Welcomes You” it reads in a swirly font that looks like it should be on a wedding invitation. “The Spirit speaks to all! Join our worship and be infused with divine creative energy. Pastor Victoria Harkness officiating.” Below the words is a black and white head-and-shoulders photo of a white woman, mid-thirties, with long dark hair and penetrating dark eyes. Her Mona Lisa smile doesn’t show any teeth. Although her name is completely unfamiliar, I feel a chill frisson of recognition.

  This is the woman in my vision.

  My throat closes up, and perspiration dews my upper lip.

  Claire sets a plate down in front of me. I look up, blinking. The cheeseburger smells amazing, with an orange slab of cheddar melting down the side and a pile of thick and steaming French fries. I pick one up and take a bite for comfort. Delicious, despite the lack of customization.

  She says, “That’s my church, if you’re interested.”

  In general, I’m not a religious person. I’ve seen too much pain and base unkindness and the gross unfairness of the world to have any cozy illusions about the love of God or the possibility of salvation. But now I feel something I don’t understand, connection with the woman pictured on the flyer. I’m confused and a tiny bit terrified, but I rope that off into its own corner. Maybe an infusion of spirituality is called for.

  “Who is she?”

  “Our pastor. She’s wonderful. Really gifted. You should come listen to her speak.”

  “Is she filled with divine creative energy?” I ask, facetiously.

  Claire nods, not taking offense at my tone. “She is. And so is everyone who comes. It’s all about opening yourself to the Spirit, and allowing it to speak to you through your own creativity. People have produced some amazing works.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes, really.” She leans forward, her hands on the back of the chair with my jacket. “Listen, I know it sounds weird, but she’s something else. My husband and I followed the church to Astoria when she moved it from Portland.”

  Frankly, that sounds like a cult to me. But Claire seems so no-nonsense, not the kind of person you’d associate with a cult. Plus, the woman in my vision.

  I say, “You don’t seem very busy at the moment. Why don’t you sit down and tell me about it?”

  People can never resist talking about their churches or their children, and the bartender is no exception. I have no doubt it was she who had planted the flyers. I bite into my juicy burger, mop my chin, and decimate my fries as she speaks. I learn that the Church of the Spirit promotes the message that the Holy Spirit communicates to everybody, especially via creative channels. Every service, Pastor Harkness encourages congregants to bring their artistic efforts to the altar as an offering. They are also invited to share whatever message has been imparted to them.

  “Have you ever made an offering?” I ask.

  Claire looks down at the small glass of Budweiser she’s rotating in her hands. “I’m not an artist. But I really admire those who are.”

  “Do you have to be a good artist to make an offering? Me, I can barely draw a circle.” I sketch one in the pool of ketchup with a fry to demonstrate.

  “No, she accepts everything and everyone. One of the reasons I like her.”

  That sounds too good to be true. Plus, culty. But. I shouldn’t be judgmental. We continue to chat periodically as Claire makes occasional forays back to the bar. It's nice, the first real social exchange I’ve had since I’d arrived in Astoria, and casual enough to be non-threatening. As I finish my meal, Claire says, “You should come to a service. It’s Thursday night, because so many people in the service industry have to work on Sunday. Details are in the flyer, and newcomers are welcome.”

  I lay some cash on the table. “Maybe I will.” She’d been right about the burgers. Maybe I could trust her about the church. ‘Welcome’ is a word I haven’t heard in a long time. I want to see this pastor with my own eyes. And it sure beats another night alone.

  By the time I get back to the house I'm drenched anew. The street lamps are few and far between, and my little avenue is almost pitch black. I’d remembered to leave the porch light on, and I pause on the sidewalk, watching insects flutter in the glow.

  My edginess has softened in the beer’s gentle buzz. The little yellow craftsman stirs feelings of fondness, with its tiny detached garage and clapboard siding, looking welcoming in the darkness, rain pattering on the roof and dripping from the eaves. The lawn is patchy with moss, and the tiered flower beds next to the concrete steps which lead down from the sidewalk are a tangle of morning glory.

  In the house next door, warm light glows behind the draperies. I think of my neighbors: the judge, and the wife I haven’t met yet. Nice people, I’m sure. I'm tempted to go down and knock on the door, return the judge’s visit. Except I'm afraid it would be more than an exchange of pleasantries. They would be intelligent, discerning. People whose professions make them adept at ferreting out information. They’d naturally want to know about my past, and I don’t want to tell anyone. I want — need — to make a clean break, start fresh. Get away from everything that ruined my life.

  Maybe I’ll go to the church service tomorrow, talk to Claire again, and meet her husband. And the pastor. I wouldn’t have to reveal the truth: that I’m agnostic bordering on atheist.

  Yeah, that’s how they roll. Cult leaders, pimps, and dealers; hunting for the weak and wounded.

  Except I'm neither. Just going through a bit of a rough patch, is all. I'm a homicide cop, and nobody’s prey. But sketchy as it is, it still feels good to have a direction, a short path into the future.

  I give up my rain-drenched vigil and make my way carefully down the concrete steps, clinging to the cold steel-pipe railing that was made for that earlier, shorter, generation of residents. Once inside, I hang my dripping jacket on one of the many hooks in the hallway. I’m freezing, and jack up the thermostat. Warm air gusts from the old-fashioned grilles. Better, but I still have to brave the basement before I shuck my weapon.

  Darkness fills the lower story like a fluid. Rain rattles against the siding and the eeriness doesn’t dissipate even after I switch on the lights. Plus, it’s cold down here — all the exposed concrete, a hundred years old and showing it. Hurriedly, I check the windows and the outside door, confirming that all entry points are closed and locked before heading back upstairs for a cup of tea with a slug of JD.

  I’m safe, fo
r now. But for how long? The vision I had yesterday morning was so immersive. It felt like it was actually happening. And this time I can’t blame stress or street drugs.

  Street drugs — could I be having some kind of acid-type flashback? I’ve never done LSD, but sometimes I had to use, take things I couldn’t identify, in order to keep up my undercover persona. I just hope I haven’t messed myself up permanently.

  Too bad you flushed your meds. But you could get more.

  I brush aside the voice of temptation. I won’t go back to the drugs. I won’t.

  Killjoy.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AFTER TWO DAYS of kicking around my house and long solitary walks, I’m ready for some human contact. The address on the flyer for the Church of the Spirit turns out to be in an old converted Safeway down by the water. I recognize the signature swoopy roofline, and the shadow of the letters across the front facade. After parking in the lot, I step out of my car amidst the squawk of seagulls and the wash of the waves and the deep rumble of a passing tug. The tide is in, and the river laps just below the edge of the stone-studded bank.

  I left my weapon at home, and its absence makes me edgy. Through the big plate glass windows, rows of chairs are visible with their backs to the light, facing a podium. People are already filtering inside, and I square my shoulders and walk through the door. This will be my first large gathering since I left Denver, and even then I wasn’t the mingling type. So conflicted — I want the human contact but dread having to run a gamut of false friendliness from some insidious old biddy doing greeter duty at the door. God forbid that I might have to leave my protective shell and act like a normal person.

  As usual, my fears fail to manifest. A few folks give me friendly nods but no gushing, oily-handshake salesman materializes, and I commandeer one of the chairs without incident. I keep to an aisle so I can make my escape if necessary, and wait for the service to begin. It’s weird to sit in this big open space that dwarfs the congregation. It feels temporary and amateurish.

  Despite my reflexive skepticism, part of me is interested in what the message is going to be, and what Victoria Harkness is going to be like, and why I should have had a hallucination of her dying. I look around, observing the milieu like any good cop. Back behind the podium, leaning against the wall, is a series of paintings. Portraits and landscapes, oils and watercolors, and an obvious range of talent or lack thereof. Claire had told me about the tradition of artistic offerings. I wonder if these are past or current examples.

  The other congregants are a variety of types. Mostly dressed in jeans, flannel shirts, sweaters, and the like, it doesn’t feel like an upscale crowd. The majority are white and female. I spot Claire seated next to a man with thinning dark hair, a pronounced widow’s peak and horn-rimmed glasses. She doesn’t notice me. At a few minutes before the hour, people stop trickling in. The whole group numbers about fifty. Assorted noises of gathered humanity sound: rustling garments and muffled coughs and sneezes. The lights remain brightly lit, the naked grocery store fluorescent tubes casting an unflattering light on the people below and turning the speckled broadloom carpet a bilious yellow.

  I shift in my chair, crossing my legs. Others shift as well. Some glance at phones or watches. The pastor is late.

  Minutes tick by. Now people are looking at each other, frowns and shrugs and raised eyebrows expressing ignorance and surprise. At a quarter past the hour, the man sitting next to Claire stands and walks up to the podium.

  “Good evening, folks. As you can see, Pastor Harkness isn’t here yet. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation, but until she arrives, let’s adjourn to the fellowship hall.”

  I rise with the others. Outside, night has fallen, and the windows have become almost opaque, throwing back the ghostly reflection of moving people. I feel naked without my gun, and I can’t see outside. Someone standing in the parking lot could be watching and I’d never know it.

  The people now represent the protection of a crowd, and I hurry to join them.

  The fellowship hall is separated from the sanctuary by a partition wall. Some folding tables have been set up with carafes of coffee, tea, and plates of cookies. It has the same broad window wall and high ceilings as the sanctuary.

  I normally hate things like this. You know, walking around trying to make small talk with a room full of people who all recognize each other. It’s different when I have a role to play. But I also can’t bring myself to leave — both the incipient anxiety and the unexplained connection I feel with the absent pastor pull me into the throng like a net of knotted ropes.

  I angle my mental antennae and go undercover as a prospective congregant. With a cup of surprisingly good coffee in my hand, I nibble a peanut butter cookie and circulate through the people, listening to snippets of conversation. Most are speculating on Harkness’s absence, some advocating sudden illness, a traffic accident, a visit to an ailing follower. I hear anecdotes of the pastor’s surprise visits to her flock to help with gardening, child care, or yard sales. No one seems particularly worried, and I labor to adopt that same attitude as I drift through the eddies and currents of the group, avoiding direct contact, moving in and out of clouds of perfume, aftershave, and stale cigarette smoke.

  Around the perimeter of the space are more pictures and displays. One table exhorts people to pony up some cash for the fire sprinkler repair fund. Another encourages community service, asking for signups to volunteer at the county animal shelter or pick up trash along the designated ‘Spirit Mile’ on Highway 101. On a bulletin board with a banner reading ‘Support the Creative Spirit,’ posters advertise local musicians and theater groups as far south as Cannon Beach. I don’t get any sense of political activism or cultish intolerance. Bonus. Maybe it is as open and progressive as advertised. My suspicion drops a few notches, and I’m ready for some light interaction.

  Back among the congregants, I gravitate toward a group where the voices sound above the general hum.

  “She invited me to come, and now she doesn’t want to engage in honest discussion.” The speaker is a remarkably handsome Asian man, with a shock of thick black hair and chiseled cheeks and long-lashed dark eyes. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt that is currently buttoned up to the top with black pants and shoes. He looks more professional than the people surrounding him, more polished. I sidle closer, nibbling on my second cookie.

  “Reverend,” one of the other men is saying, “you know that’s not true. Pastor Harkness is open to hearing whatever anyone has to say —”

  “I doubt she wants to listen to me. I don’t approve of what she’s doing here and she knows it.” The reverend has a rich baritone voice that no doubt goes over well in whatever denomination he preaches for.

  “It’s not any of your business.” There’s definitely hostility in the tone. “You’ve got your own flock to attend to, and no right to come here to tell us what to believe.”

  I now recognize this other man as the fellow who had been sitting next to Claire. The bartender herself joins the small group, and sees me hovering on the edge.

  She smiles and speaks to me. “Hello. I’m glad you decided to join us tonight. I’m sorry Pastor Harkness isn’t here.”

  Everyone’s attention turns to me, and I paste on a smile. “Yes, I’m disappointed. You talked her up.”

  “Who is this, Claire?” asks the man in glasses.

  I think she might have forgotten my name, so to save her embarrassment I say, “I’m Audrey Lake, newly arrived in Astoria.”

  “She came in to the Portway last night. Audrey, this is my husband, Daniel.”

  I put the rest of the cookie in my mouth to free up a hand to shake. Daniel takes it with a perfunctory squeeze and an ingratiating smile. “Daniel Chandler, at your service.”

  Just a hint of used-car salesman. I kind of don’t like him.

  “Welcome to Astoria, Ms. Lake,” puts in the opposing reverend. “My name is Seth Takahashi. I’m the minister at the Riverside Christian C
hurch, and you’d be welcome in our congregation.”

  “Stealing souls again, Reverend?” says Daniel.

  He may mean it to be a joke, but the remark seems too biting to be simply social patter. Not that I’m especially good at this type of thing myself. Still, the man had been trashing their pastor.

  Takahashi says, “I care about people — about everyone here. And about Miss Harkness herself. I simply want to talk, make sure she’s aware of the message she’s sending. It’s just too easy to get off on the wrong track and make a mistake.”

  I’m no expert, but this sounds exceedingly pushy and overbearing. Claire seems to think so too, rolling her eyes and putting her hands on her hips.

  “Mr. Takahashi, please. Enough. You had your chance a couple of weeks ago.”

  He lifts his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I give up.” There’s a bit of an awkward pause, and he says, “Is Jason Morganstern around?”

  “Why do you want him?” Claire folds her arms, frowning.

  “Just to say hello.”

  Daniel takes this moment to horn in. “I haven’t seen him tonight, either. And I think you’ve about outstayed your welcome, Reverend.”

  “I’m telling you, Victoria invited me to come and have an open discussion after the service.”

  Claire says, “As you can see, she’s not here. We should be concerned about her whereabouts, not her theology. Where is she?”

  The question is rhetorical, and nobody has an answer.

  The coffee hour lasts about thirty minutes. The conversation drifts to other topics, none of which I can contribute to. I’m ready to leave but don’t know how to extricate myself from the group. At last, congregants begin to filter out, talking in low tones. Daniel, who turns out to be the bookkeeper for the Church of the Spirit, pecks Claire on the cheek and says he’ll be home in a couple of hours, and to keep the home fires burning.