A Despicable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries)

by Judith Campbell

  A Despicable Mission

  An Olympia Brown Mystery

  by

  Judith Campbell

  Mainly Murder Press, LLC

  PO Box 290586

  Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586

  www.MainlyMurderPress.com

  Mainly Murder Press

  Editor: Judith K. Ivie

  Cover Designer: Karen A. Phillips

  Cover Photo: Judith Campbell

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Copyright © 2012 by Judith Campbell

  Paperback ISBN 978-0-9836823-9-4

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9846666-6-9

  Published 2012 in the United States of America

  Mainly Murder Press

  PO Box 290586

  Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586

  www.MainlyMurderPress.com

  Dedication

  Quite simply, to Chris, my “Professional Englishman,” soul mate, singing partner and unsung hero, aggravating editorial nitpicker par excellence and best-best friend. And that’s the short list. From endless cups of fresh coffee, to silent sea glass walks on White Horse Beach, to arguing over the exact placement of a comma, in so many ways, you make it all happen. So, Kiddo … this one’s for you. Thank you doesn’t half say it, but it’s the best I’ve got for now.

  Acknowledgments

  To my fellow and sister MMP writers, who share this mysterious passion with me, for your generous companionship and encouragement; the 3-on-3 Writers, Vaughn, Melody, Ruthie, Fran, Charlotte, and Jon; the Oak Bluffs Library Writers, Kay, Peggy, Laurel, Barb, Charles, Allen, Iba, Debbie, Andrea, Stephanie, and Else; the British writing contingent, Louise, Steve, Jenny, Gillian, Alex, Annette, Michael, and Abi; to my immediate and extended family, the in-laws, outlaws and bylaws, many of whom appear, not too terribly well disguised, throughout my stories and are still speaking to me; Frimma, David, Deanna, Helene, Jennifer C., and Dan and Nina, my personal cheering section, folks who are “write” there for me on good days and bad; sister author and mentor, Cynthia Riggs, and to the varicolored, diverse, gregarious, and generous people of Martha’s Vineyard who give new meaning to the words encouragement, inclusivity, and beloved community. Thank you, thank you, all of you.

  Other Books in the Olympia Brown Mysteries

  by Judith Campbell

  A Deadly Mission

  An Unspeakable Mission

  What They’re Saying about the

  Olympia Brown Mysteries

  The Sinister Minister does it again—a forthright airing of an important social issue.

  -- Cynthia Riggs, author of the Martha's Vineyard, Victoria Trumbull Mystery Series

  If you are a fan of mystery, religion, and psych-thrillers, you will enjoy A Despicable Mission by UU minister, Judith Campbell. Protagonist Olympia Brown is a minister who takes the concept of a 24/7 job to new and surprising levels. The cast of characters from her newfound congregation on Martha's Vineyard show the best and worst sides of human behavior. This book is more than a mystery; it is a celebration of human values and liberal religious values in an intimate small town setting.

  --Don Southworth, Executive Director, Unitarian Universalist Ministers Association

  Finding herself in the midst of what appears to be a series of unfortunate accidents involving landed elderly widows belonging to her church, it does not take the ever-inquisitive Olympia Brown long to find herself steeped in the life crises of several members of her congregation. Uncovering the diabolical plot and the characters master-minding these apparent accidents quickly becomes the central focus of Brown’s summer ministry and personal mission. In the end we are satisfied with "Mission Accomplished,” and yet we are left with enough tantalizing information about Rev. Olympia’s ongoing personal relationships to leave the reader looking forward with great anticipation to Campbell's next installment. Olympia Brown is an enjoyable companion with whom to pass a lazy afternoon.

  --Rev. Robert Hensley, Rector, Grace Episcopal Church, Martha’s Vineyard.

  Judith Campbell … combines the beautiful island setting of Martha’s Vineyard with a suspense-filled mystery and emerges with another winner. …[The third Olympia Brown mystery] A Despicable Mission displays Campbell’s real talent … at creating those underlying sub-plots and, in this installment, there are several. Add to this her usual cast of colorful characters and her ever-present house ghost, Ms. Leanna Faith Winslow, and trust me, you won’t be disappointed!

  --Brenda Scott, Manchester Contemporary Literature Examiner, Examiner.com

  Prologue

  November 19, 1860

  Where to begin? It has been almost four months since I have written anything in these most personal and private pages. And in that time, my whole life has changed. I am carrying a child who will never know its father and am sworn to keep his secret to the grave. I am determined to keep this child and thus will go and stay with my beloved Aunt Louisa until my time is come. Lest I cause alarm by simply disappearing without a trace, I told one or two close friends who knew of my interest in religion that I planned to go off to the city of Cambridge for an extended Christmas holiday. I also said that during that time I would approach the deacons at Harvard College and inquire as to whether I might be allowed to attend some classes there and pursue my interest in theology.

  There is some truth in this as I do one day plan to further my education. I promised that once I was settled in I would surely write and tell of my adventures. But what will I write? What can I write? At present all this and more remains a mystery. So far I have managed to conceal my condition with the heavy wraps and shawls that we New Englanders must wear to guard against the cold. But I know I must leave soon.

  I’ve made my choice, and with God and Aunt Louisa’s help, I’m determined to see this through. And even as I write these words, a little hand or foot, I know not which, pushes up against my heart as if to underscore this promise and the words I write.

  More anon, LFW

  One

  Mary Elgin Parker, suddenly at home. Arrangements are incomplete at this time. A full obituary will appear in next week’s issue of The Martha’s Vineyard Times.

  “Two never goes without three.” Julia Scott-Norton refolded the newspaper and placed it on the wood plank table between them. She and one of her bridge ladies, Sharon McGrath, were enjoying a gossipy girl’s lunch at the Black Dog Tavern. Sharon was carefully dissecting a lobster roll, taking out the celery and lining up the bits along the edge of her plate.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  Julia settled into her story. “I mean that Mary Parker is the second elderly person to die alone at home in as many weeks. Maybe I’m being superstitious, but from my experience bad news always comes in threes. Mary Parker and the other one, Doug Bourke, were both getting on in years and determined to stay in houses far too big for them.” Julia paused for effect. “And both of them died as the result of a fall. Doug slipped getting into the bathtub, and Mary fell down the cellar stairs.”

  Sharon rested her chin on the palm of her hand and nodded sympathetically. “I know we’re all going to die, but think about it, alone and crumpled in a heap on a cemen
t floor. Poor thing, it must have been awful. I know it sounds gruesome, but was it instant, or did she lie there and suffer?”

  Julia frowned and shook her head. “Either nobody knows, or nobody’s talking. I do know it was a while before somebody found her. I hear they’ll be doing an autopsy. I guess it’s mandatory with an unattended death, and that means the funeral won’t be for a while yet.”

  Julia paused and smiled. “Remember how she loved wearing those big blowsy hats and going out to lunch? That woman could eat like a horse and run up a flight of stairs like a squirrel. I could never keep up with her. It’s hard to believe someone as spry as that could die in a fall. She was full of energy, but at the same time, she was always careful where she put her feet. That’s what’s so odd about it. It’s not like her.”

  “Is that that summer minister of yours going to do the funeral? Nothing like total immersion starting on day one.” Sharon chuckled at her own somewhat obscure baptismal joke.

  Julia nodded and tucked a paper napkin into the top buttonhole of her flowered blouse. “I called her and told her about it. Her name’s Olympia Brown. She’s never been on Martha’s Vineyard before, and the first thing we hit her with is a funeral for an island icon with a whole lot of questions surrounding the death.”

  “Did I hear something about the title to the house being in question as well? My husband Timmy works at the town hall. He said he heard some vague mutterings about it.”

  “Didn’t take long for that to get around, did it?” said Julia.

  “It’s a small island,” said her bridge partner, spearing a juicy pink chunk of lobster.

  “Too small sometimes, and that’s only one of the questions.”

  Sharon raised an eyebrow, lowered her voice and peered over her glasses. “What are you saying?”

  Julia pushed aside her plate, leaned across the table, and lowered her voice. “I’m saying that some people think it’s possible that Mary Parker’s death might not have been an accident.”

  “What about Doug Bourke?” asked Sharon. “He lived alone and died in an accidental fall in the bathtub.”

  “He really did drown. At least that’s what my sister said. She was at the hospital when they brought him in.”

  “It’s tough to get old,” said Sharon.

  “We don’t have much choice,” said Julia, holding up an expository index finger, “but from my perspective, it certainly beats the alternative!”

  Two

  The Rev. Olympia Brown was lying flat on the floor, trying to pry a glowering cat out from under the bed with a broom. She had already secured Thunderfoot, the larger and dumber of the two felines. But Whitefoot, the wily older one, had vanished the minute she saw the cat carrier. With departure time imminent, Olympia was resorting to desperate measures. If all else failed, she’d get out the vacuum cleaner. As luck would have it, the broom, a few dark threats, and a hand full of kitty treats persuaded the wary, flat-eared tortoise-shell into the open and ultimately into the travel cage.

  Earlier that year Olympia had accepted the offer of an eight-week position as a summer minister in an historic chapel on the island of Martha’s Vineyard. It was going to be a chance to try her hand at parish ministry, which in her current thinking could be the next chapter of her professional life. She knew all about Martha’s Vineyard. At least she thought she did, but never until this minute had she envisioned herself as part of that community. Now it was being handed to her on a silver platter, and the ungrateful animals had the audacity to complain. But, standing beside the untidy pile by the door, she asked herself, do I really need to take all of this? It’s not as if Martha’s Vineyard is a third world country. They do have electricity and indoor plumbing … but you never know until you get there what might happen and what you might need.

  The plan was that Frederick Watkins, her recently established live-in English gentleman, would accompany her to the ferry and then come down and join her on weekends when he could. Father Jim Sawicki, her best friend and clergy colleague, had promised to come down and visit for a couple of days as well. She looked at her watch as Frederick crashed through the kitchen door and skidded to a stop at her side. He was sweaty and dirt-streaked from a morning in the garden, and sweet as he was, at that precise moment he was not a thing of beauty.

  “Ready, Madame? Your carriage awaits. I just need a quick wash.”

  “The carriage isn’t loaded yet, Frederick. If you take the suitcases, I’ll get the box of books. Once those are in, if you’ll get the cats, I’ll take my clerical robe and lay it on top of everything so it won’t wrinkle.”

  “How in the world are you going to get all of this on the boat, Olympia? Well, actually, I’m going to help with that, am I not?” Frederick had answered his own question. He did that.

  “I’m worried about how I’m going to get it all back off. The woman who is my contact, Julia Scott-Norton, said she would be there to meet me. So I guess I’ll let her figure it out.”

  When Olympia’s ancient and honorable VW van was loaded, she dashed back for one final check and grabbed the canvas carryall she’d left beside her favorite chair. Earlier in the day she had packed the leather bound diary written by her resident house-ghost, Miss Leanna Faith Winslow, the last descendant of the family to live in the house that was now Olympia’s home. She’d been reading that diary in bits ever since she found it the previous Thanksgiving. It was her personal window on the history of the house and the woman whose grandfather had built it and whose direct ancestor years before him had came over on the Mayflower. Miss Winslow, as Olympia most often referred to her, was a very real and in-your-face ghost. In a moment of absurd reality that only Jim Sawicki and Frederick would understand, she realized she was going to miss, as in think wistfully about, Miss Winslow’s nosy intrusions into her daily life. With that thought, she picked up the antique, curved-top wooden clock from its accustomed place on the mantel over the woodstove, blew the dust off it, and stuffed it into the carryall. Now she could leave.

  “I’m ready,” she said as she pulled herself up into the driver’s seat.

  “I take it I’m driving back?” said Frederick.

  “Is there any another option, my dear?”

  Frederick took her right hand in his and held it to his lips. “I’m going to miss you, Olympia. It seems like I only just got here. There’s so much I want …”

  Olympia retrieved her hand and made a great show of starting the engine and backing out of the driveway. “Frederick, you’ll be joining me in less than a week. I’ll have nothing to do there but preach, visit the sick and have tea with elegant Martha’s Vineyard ladies. When you do come down we’ll have loads of time alone, and we all know that absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “And abstinence makes Freddy a grumpy, dull boy.”

  “Tighten your seat belt, Frederick, and think of England!”

  “What was that? Did I hear a bell or something?

  “Must be Miss Winslow’s clock,” said Olympia. I probably disturbed the mechanism when I stashed it in the back.”

  “Hmmph,” said Frederick. “There it goes again.”

  Inside Olympia’s antique farmhouse the answering machine was recording a message. “This is a message for Reverend Olympia Brown. This is Laura Wilstrom, your daughter. I’ve decided that I would like to meet you. My cell phone number is 781- 221-7329.”

  Three

  “Life is what happens while you are making other plans.” Olympia first saw those words on a bumper sticker in the Meriwether College faculty parking lot. She had just resigned from her position as Professor of Humanities and college chaplain and found herself thinking about them as the ferry churned through the whitecaps out of Woods Hole. The woman who had called her about the job said that the duties were pretty straightforward: preach on Sundays, cover pastoral emergencies and be a ministerial presence in the community. How easy is that? Olympia’s original plan had been to continue the restoration of her antique farmhouse, get to know Fre
derick on a considerably more intimate basis—and think about what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. Now, feeling queasy from the rocking of the boat and guilty from listening to the cats’ mounting wails, Olympia hoped that she’d made the right decision.

  When she turned in her last set of grades and said farewell to her professorial colleagues at her retirement luncheon, the island job offer seemed like a gift from heaven. That very same night Julia Scott-Norton, chair of the governing board of the chapel, called her and painted an idyllic scene of crayon-colored gingerbread cottages, Wednesday night hymn sings in the campground, and sun-swept beaches. The chapel, she said, was a historic treasure, almost two hundred years old, and it still had its original unpainted wooden doors and pews.

  It certainly sounded like the opportunity of a lifetime, eight weeks serving a congregation of forty or fifty people on the fabled island of Martha’s Vineyard. She could do it with one hand tied behind her back, and in the abundance of free time they had promised her, she would have enough time to read more of that diary and think through a considerable number of personal options.

  First and foremost on that list was her estranged daughter Laura. She had given birth to Laura thirty-five years ago and, under pressure from her mother, given her up for adoption. Only recently, Laura had contacted her through the Department of Records, saying she was pregnant and asking if there was anything in her medical history that might be of concern to her or the unborn child. Olympia wrote back saying that there was nothing that she was aware of and telling her daughter how very much she would like to see her. To that she added that she loved her, and not a day passed that she didn’t think about her. She included her Brookfield address and phone number, saying that more than anything in the world, she wanted to reconnect with her in whatever way would be most appropriate for them both. That was in April, and she’d heard nothing since. The waiting was agony.