When the broadcaster goes on to other stories, I click off the radio and lean against the card table, resting my head in my hands. The emotions, the sense of loss and anger, wash over me. I don’t understand my own feelings. Who is Victoria to me? I’ve never even met the woman. But I feel guilty for failing to find her. And a new sense of outrage when I think of the theft that occurred while I was in her apartment. And wonder about how her identity became public knowledge so quickly.
I call Claire; what else can I do? The case is over, and yet she may not know it. The ringing buzzes in my ear as I pace through the empty rooms. At last I hear her voice.
“Claire, it’s Audrey. Have you been watching the news?”
“Yes. Oh my God, I still can’t believe she’s dead.” She sounds stunned. “The police called the church earlier, and Daniel talked to them then.” Her voice is shaking. “There’s going to be an investigation.”
“That sounds right. They’ll have to determine how she died.”
“No, an investigation of the church. Her mother is pushing it, says we knew Victoria was missing and should have reported it. She wants to sue us.”
Elizabeth Harkness found that out from me. I feel a cold runnel of dread.
Claire’s voice is firmer. “Audrey, please, I want you to stay on the case.” Pause. “I got your message last night. Daniel was still hesitant about bringing in the police, but it looks like that’s out of our hands.”
I’m confused. “Why do you want me to stay on? I mean, I will if you want me to, but there’s not much left for me to do, now that she’s been found. Whatever happened, the cops will take care of it.”
“Pastor Harkness’s mother thinks we — the church — had something to do with it. Please, Audrey. I don’t know how she knows what she knows, but it was she who identified the body. She says she filed a missing persons report this morning — that’s how the police were able to identify the body so quickly.”
“Okay. Well then, I did some investigation yesterday after our conversation at Three Beans, so I’ll write up a report and email it to you.”
“Thank you.”
I put the phone down and stare out the window. The darkness is punctuated by street lights and headlights along Marine, and a few boats on the river. I climb the suicide stairs to my cot. Leaning up against a wall with a blanket over my lap, I begin to write up my findings. It’s thin — just what I found out from neighbor George and Elizabeth Harkness. Putting my illegal activity down in writing seems to be a bad idea, even if my intentions were good, so I don’t. And what about the theft? If I report that to the police, I have to admit to being in the apartment. And I also can’t talk about my vision of the murder without sounding like a lunatic. All the unmentionables are like an iceberg, barely submerged beneath the surface and just waiting to sink the ship.
If Victoria’s mother is blaming the church, I have some responsibility for that. I’m the one who told her Victoria was missing. If she came over from Portland to talk to the police, and found out there was no official inquiry, I can see how that would upset her.
But. I recommended to Claire that she file a report and she didn’t want to.
But. I could have filed one myself, after I realized that something was amiss.
But. Then I would have to admit I was in her apartment.
Around and around.
Regardless, it’s too late for that now.
Wouldn’t be the first time you crossed the line, though. Remember the Baxter Building? You were one of the regulars.
That was different. I was undercover. I had a legend to maintain.
Which one? The one about you being a criminal, or the one about you being a cop?
I’m awake for a long time, listening to the wind and staring into the dark.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DESPITE MY MANY and varied reservations, I decide to attend the Tuesday evening candlelight vigil. The church sanctuary is crowded. A table with small white candles in cardboard holders and a larger, central lit taper has a sign that invites us to add our soul magic to Victoria’s. I decline to participate, but many do, lighting a candle from the bigger flame and cradling it in cupped hands. Mostly, the group is somber, talking quietly in small groups, hugging or holding hands. Interestingly, no one is dressed in black, or very formally. Sweaters and shirts and blouses, khakis and clean blue jeans. Moisture-slicked raincoats.
A harpist plays in the background, a mournful Celtic air. Canvases and scraps of paper with drawings and paintings of all media and ability cover the walls. Scattered across the front where they are visible through the windows are sculptures, many abstract or of found materials. There are even some books written by congregants: self-published poetry and memoir. More spirit offerings.
I’m here because I feel like I need to be. Because despite the fact that I didn’t know Victoria Harkness, I recognized her. And witnessed her murder. That is arguably the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced. With anyone. Since I’m still investigating, I’ll observe all I can. Just being alert to mood and listening to conversation may provide a lead when more direct inquiry fails.
Daniel Chandler stands at the podium and taps the mic. “Welcome, all. Please, be seated.”
I commandeer a chair in the back. He waits while everyone finds a place and all the coughs and whispers have settled into silence.
“Surrounded by the offerings of Spirit, we gather to honor the memory of our beloved founder, Victoria Harkness.” His voice roughens, and he pauses. He bows his head for a few seconds and says, “I’m sorry, I can’t do it. Anyone else who would like to say a few words, please come up to the mic.”
There’s some shuffling of feet, then a young man walks up to the podium. He tugs the mic down to his mouth. He’s unshaven, with a thick mop of dirty blond hair.
“Victoria changed my life,” he says. His voice booms and the speakers squeal with feedback.
Chandler steps in, clears his throat. “State your name, please. We’re making a recording of the proceedings, for anyone who wants it.” He points to the video camera positioned in the aisle.
A glare flashes across the young man’s face, but he says, “My name is Jason. I —”
“Sorry, last name too?”
“Morganstern.” He pauses. “Can I talk now?”
“Of course.” Chandler gives a wide gesture of permission and backs away.
“I started coming to the church when it first got here. I was going to another one, but this one seemed better. Victoria really saw me. She showed me I could be a real artist. And she helped me when I was looking for work.” Jason drops his gaze down to the top of the podium, and almost whispers. “I loved her.”
“Thank you, Jason. We all did.” Chandler ushers Morganstern away. A flash of belligerence twists the young man’s mouth, but he relinquishes the mic.
I wonder if Claire’s husband is going to be that rude to everyone.
“Who’s next?” Says Chandler. “Come up when you’re ready.”
The harpist twingles in the background, running her fingers up and down the strings. A couple of other people say they’d found their true calling through Victoria. Then another man stands. He has thick shoulder-length brown hair styled in an artfully disheveled wave. His eyes are dark and deep set. He, too, is unshaven, but his stubble looks decorative, whereas Jason’s looked merely unkempt.
Behind the podium, the man surveys the crowd. He’s in his thirties, white, confident in his handsomeness and presence.
“My name is Eric North. I’ve known Victoria, off and on, for most of my life.” He smiles, gaze panning the crowd. “When I first saw her, she was climbing a tree in the yard next door. I was an artist even back then, sketching all the time, and I caught her image on paper…” the rich voice goes on, describing their friendship. How he’d always been drawing and painting, and how he hoped he’d inspired Victoria in some small way in her universal message of allowing the Spirit to speak through art.
N
othing like a little self-stroking at someone else’s wake.
I consider sharing how seeing her picture on a flyer in a tavern sparked a connection that made me want to hear her message, but I don’t. It sounds too touchy-feely-culty.
Plus, public speaking.
When no one else comes forward, Daniel Chandler, self-control restored, launches into a narrative, relating how he and his wife Claire had served the church in Portland, and followed Victoria to Astoria and continued to serve here. Chandler has a pleasant voice — I can see him as preacher, or a used car salesman. I shift, wishing that the folding chair had more lumbar support. I don’t know what I thought I was going to gain by coming here, but now I’m bored, strangely let down and ready to go home. Standing unobtrusively, I ease toward the door. And there, standing near the entrance, are Detectives Olafson and Candide.
My mouth drops open. Unattractive, I know. For a split second, I think they’re here for me. For breaking into Victoria’s apartment. For impersonating a private investigator. For all the things I’ve done and wished I hadn’t.
Get a grip, Lake. It’s not always about you.
Just then, Daniel announces, “We’re now going to have a prayer vigil where her body was found. Officers of the APD will escort us and manage traffic, and stand by while we send our prayers over the water.”
I feel equal parts relief and dismay. Because now I’m going to have to go through the entire ceremony. Anything else will look suspicious.
Plus, I’m damned if I’ll let those two scare me away.
The detectives lead us outside. It’s brisk — my phone says forty-six degrees — but at least it’s not raining anymore. A sunset blaze of hot orange and yellow illuminates the western horizon as indigo suffuses the east. Olafson takes the lead. The mourners become a straggling line of singles and couples, and their candles flicker like stars in the twilight, illuminating faces but leaving eyes in shadow. Patrol officers are stationed outside, directing traffic as the candle bearers cross Marine Drive and then head west along the sidewalk.
Jane Candide takes the drag position at the rear. I stay near the middle, not wanting to encounter either of them and risk a confrontation. I am, however, keeping my eyes and ears open. The question of what happened to Victoria Harkness still burns; maybe even stronger now that I know for sure she’s dead, robbed of all options and choices. Life has meaning, and therefore, so does death. Even if we can’t suss it out completely.
People in the procession are mostly quiet. Some are crying, some holding hands or with arms around each other. No one laughs, and conversation is sporadic and soft-spoken. One or two individuals within earshot are murmuring rhythmically, perhaps praying.
We cross the street again where it turns north beyond the roundabout, and proceed in a snaking, glowing line to the Riverwalk. The framework of the Megler Bridge makes a dark lattice across the sky. Just beyond the bridge is the tiny beach, tainted now by my hallucination. I clench my hands into fists, concealed in the pockets of my coat.
The procession turns and walks along the gravel causeway to the parking lot of the Cannery Pier Hotel. The hotel is illuminated by the white blaze of LED lights. The carport sheltering the bow picker is an angled silhouette. Detective Olafson leads the coiling line of mourners to the edge of the lot nearest the bridge.
When all have gathered, Olafson clears his throat, and gestures with his arm. “She was found here, below us, floating in the water. The hotel has generously allowed you to have this ceremony in their parking lot, but asks that you don’t linger too long. Therefore, if you could pass by, say your prayer or respects, and then head for your shuttle, it will take you back to the church.” He points to a sky-blue bus parked in front of the hotel. It has ‘Church of the Spirit’ emblazoned on the side in a curvilinear font.
Daniel Chandler looks up from where he is setting up the video camera. “The bus is for anyone who wants a ride back. We thought it might rain…” there’s a scattering of faded laughter “…and that the procession would break up here.” He finishes what he’s doing, and steps away from the camera, bending his head and murmurs a prayer, or maybe he’s just rehearsing his lines. He takes a breath and says, “Victoria Harkness loved all waters, but especially this river. She saw it as analogous to the current of life that flows to us from the Sprit. Thus, I say to you, O Great River, nestle her soul in your waters. Nurture her in your bosom, and convey her to the divine home that awaits us all.”
I try not to roll my eyes. That would be disrespectful. And it’s just a reflex anyway, indicative of my discomfort with anything spiritual. The truth is that I don’t know how to mourn for someone I never met. Instead, I look out over the water and wish Victoria Harkness Godspeed to whatever her next destination might be. If there is a destination beyond the present reality.
I step back to watch, envying the congregants their faith. If nothing else it gives them something to look forward to. The mourners fall into procession, looking out over the river, some of them casting flowers into the water. One person, the young guy — Jason Morganstern — who spoke first at the memorial, throws in his candle. Olafson steps in and grabs his arm.
“None of that. You don’t want to start a fire.”
“It’s water, ain’t it?” Jason tries to shake loose, but the detective holds him firmly.
I move forward. To support Olafson? To defend Morganstern? I don’t really know. Call it copper’s reaction, heading toward the trouble instead of away from it.
The detective’s voice takes on a steel sternness. “The pilings below are wood. And as you may know, Astoria has an unfortunate history with fire.”
“So? I ain’t from here,” growls Morganstern. “Let me go.”
Olafson maintains his hold for a few seconds more, to make his point, then releases the man after a little shake, and gestures toward the bus. Face crumpled with anger, and maybe sadness, Morganstern spits on the asphalt and walks away, straightening his shirt. Everyone else seems to be ignoring the altercation; more people move forward, hands cupped around their candles. Olafson speaks to some, nodding, acknowledging the people he knows. It’s evidence of how long he’s lived here, how embedded in the community he is. And how much of an outsider I am.
A woman’s voice comes from behind me. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” I turn, too quickly, and Claire Chandler steps back. Her eyebrow goes up. “Did I startle you?”
“A little. Do you know that guy?”
“Detective Olafson?” She shakes her head. “Not well. He was there when they recovered the body. I’m not happy about the police being here. It’s so intrusive. They should let us mourn her in our own way. But with Elizabeth Harkness involved, that’s too much to hope for.” Her eyes glisten with moisture. “I suppose — I suppose the church is done with. I don’t see how it can go on without her.”
“Surely you can get another pastor?” An image of Seth Takahashi surfaces briefly in my mind, like a cryptic message in a Magic 8-ball. “Or your husband. He seems to be stepping up to the role.”
“Oh, Daniel,” she momentarily closes her eyes, and shakes her head in negation. “It wouldn’t be the same. She had a light. I don’t know who will be able to take her place.” Claire brushes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Please. Figure out what happened to her. Daniel may want to keep the police at arm’s length, but I won’t let this lie. She was my friend, and if someone hurt her, I want to get to the bottom of it.” With a firm nod, she turns and walks toward the waiting bus.
I rub the back of my neck. I don’t have the resources to work the case properly. I’m off my game. And I don’t know the territory. At all. Olafson was right — knowing the people, the politics, the community — it’s the bedrock of policework.
But. I’ve been a cop for a long time. And whatever I experienced — hallucination, vision, faux acid trip — I saw Victoria murdered. Beyond saw — I was there, in a way I can’t explain. I may not be able to paint a picture, but I can offer this: the hope
of justice.
When I turn back to the river, my gaze intersects with that of Detective Candide. The set of her jaw speaks volumes: get off our turf.
In answer, I lift my chin and meet her eyes squarely, delivering my own subliminal message. Back off, lady. You don’t scare me.
Claire wants me to keep investigating, so I ride the bus back to the church and drink tea and mingle with the congregation, listening and gathering information about Victoria Harkness, sometimes guiding the conversation to when people had last seen the pastor. I hear anecdotes about how she had helped people; stories of creative talents discovered and tended with her encouragement; memories of times that she dropped in to help with a gardening project. But people didn’t generally seem to just hang out with her. The most recent sighting I note is a couple of weekends ago, so several days before she missed her Thursday night service.
At the minimum, she’d been missing four days before her body was found. At the maximum, over a week — say, ten days.
I’m not the only one on the stalk. Olafson and Candide have set up a table in the corner and are systematically interviewing people. But most folks don’t like to talk to cops, even if it’s for a good cause. Probably I’m gleaning more than they are. Olafson gives me the stink eye once, but otherwise ignores me. By eavesdropping on people after they leave the interview table, I learn that the detectives are mostly trying to establish a time of death. They don’t appear to be asking for alibis, or treating her death as anything more than a tragedy to be investigated. They just want to know when she was last seen.
After gleaning what I can, I leave before they decide to call me over. I had walked down from my house to the church, and I decide to walk back. Without saying anything to anyone, I cross the parking lot and head for home. I shiver and check the temp on my phone again: down to forty-two degrees, but it feels a lot colder, the damp wind from the river biting through my jacket. I bury my hands in the pockets and wish I had worn a hat.
A Memory of Murder Page 8
