2 - Secrets: Ike Schwartz Mystery 2

by Frederick Ramsay

  Chapter Forty-three

  The sun slid behind the school building, throwing the field into deep shadows. Mark sent his team around the track twice and into the showers. Blake walked off the field with Lanny.

  “I really came out here to talk to you, Lanny. I had no idea that the afternoon would translate into football practice. There are some pretty good kids out there.”

  “What did you think of Slade?”

  “Mark’s almost right. He has some talent and some tools. If he’ll listen, I can help him with his game, but that isn’t going to get the job done. He’s missing the third piece.”

  “And that is?”

  “Heart, desire, whatever you call it. He wants to play but not work. He’s cocky and not teachable. Are we going to have a problem?”

  “That depends. Who’s your alternative?”

  “Duane. My guess is Jimmy Slade will start the season because, work ethic or no, he’s still the best you’ve got. By the third game, when he’s hot-dogged the team into two losses, we could have Duane ready, and he could carry the team the rest of the way. A championship is possible only if you can get it with two losses.”

  Lanny shook his head and made a face. “Mark will be delighted to hear that. But you’re right about Slade. I know it, Mark knows it, but won’t admit it. How hard would it be to get Duane ready by day one?”

  “Lanny, I’m not a miracle worker, and I’m not that good with kids if you want to know the truth. But, if Duane wants it, and I can find the time, and if we can get the starting receivers to work overtime, maybe.”

  “Going to create some heat in the Slade household, I can tell you. His dad and mom are convinced their boy is going to a big university on a full-boat football scholarship. You take the starting job away from him, and all that goes down the drain.”

  “Your call, Lanny, I am just the volunteer, but I don’t see Jimmy Slade playing any higher than community college, and any kind of scholarship seems a reach to me. I know. I’ve been there. Tough problem for you, though. You heard about the father in California who sued the school system for a million and a half dollars because his kid got demoted to junior varsity basketball? I guess he figured that’s what he had coming to him for lost free tuition, meals, books and ‘pain and suffering.’ Not to mention the loss of revenue from big bucks playing in the NBA.”

  “I heard. And a mom in Alabama sued her school because her daughter didn’t make the cheerleading squad after the parents paid huge sums to a cheerleader coach for a year. We had a girl here who plagiarized her term paper. She didn’t graduate and her parents sued the school system. It’s crazy.”

  “It’s a litigious society, Lanny. Everybody seems to think they’re entitled to things whether they’ve earned them or not. People go after folks for all sorts of phony and self-indulgent reasons.”

  Lanny caught Blake out of the corner of his eye, and reddened.

  They walked on in silence, and finally Lanny said, “I’ve been thinking about the parking lot expansion and skateboard park. It’s a great idea, but I don’t think we should do it.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “Well, in the first place, the liability we would assume, for injuries and that sort of thing, would be huge, and I am not sure we could afford the insurance even if we could get it. You know how that half-pipe thing works?”

  “Not really. Sort of.”

  “Kids start at the rim on one side, skate down and up to the rim on the other. When they get there they fly through the air a little or a lot, depending on how good they are, twist and roll back down and up again. Do you have any idea how long it takes to master that, and how many cracked ribs, chipped teeth, and who knows what else a kid will experience before he does? We are taking a big risk for a small return there.”

  “Why a small return?”

  “Who’s on those boards? Young kids—twelve, fourteen, some younger, one or two older. By the time they get to be sixteen or so, most of them are done with skateboards and tricks. They’ll go to church, be involved in youth activities, but only if they’re coerced. Then they get their driver’s license and their interests shift. Now the kids you worked with today—they’re the ones who have developing spiritual needs going unmet. So they drift away.

  “My father started coming to Stonewall the year it opened. Except for a revised prayer book, nothing much has changed in the church since. The choir marches in, something gets said, and the choir marches out. We sing irrelevant Victorian hymns in keys that normal people cannot manage. We worry more about how the candles get lighted than what is taught and, no offense, the sermons are usually safe and cerebral.”

  “And why would a kid want to go to a place like that?” Blake finished for him. He thought a minute, then added, “If I were to put together a service for them, follow the book, but ditch the structure, the dreary hymns and the choreography, if you know what I mean, say on Saturday or Sunday evening, would you help me with the kids?”

  “I thought nobody would ever ask. Yes. And as for the lot, we can do something with it to make it more fun for the skaters, but they will be there anyway. Putting older kids in the picture makes more sense to me. The younger ones will follow them and build continuity over time. Why not put up basketball hoops and a beach volleyball court. That will bring them to the area. The rest is up to you.”

  ***

  Betsy Bournet bore in on Blake the minute he walked into her living room. He assured her he thought Mary a charming woman, all a man could hope for, the sun and the moon and the stars, indeed whatever Betsy said, but no, he had not thought past the moment. No, he had not contemplated a symbolic gesture like a ring (a lie), and no, he had nothing else to report. Betsy looked disappointed and then said she would check back in a week.

  The evening passed pleasantly. Blake played bridge, not well, but skillfully enough to hold his own. The conversation ranged over the current events in the nation and the city. He did not know much about the affairs in Roanoke. He barely knew the major players in Picketsville. Just when he felt comfortable and relaxed, Jackson Bartlett, Saint Anne’s attorney, turned the topic to Stonewall Jackson and the murders.

  “Has there been any progress, Blake?” he asked. Blake suspected his bland tone disguised a steely will. He had a reputation as a fierce prosecutor before he went into practice for himself. His connections in the city and Richmond brought him clients and a substantial bank account. Blake filled them all in on what they knew and what he supposed. Blake attempted to downplay Taliaferro’s missing files, but did not get away with it. Bartlett’s eyes narrowed and he bored in on him. He wanted details, reminding Blake that Saint Anne’s stood to take a heavy financial hit if the matter were not resolved. Blake knew it, but could offer no hope for their recovery just yet. He told them about the ballistics and the emerging picture of Millicent Bass and Waldo Templeton being killed by the same person and perhaps for the same reason. After a half hour, Bartlett seemed to be, if not satisfied, at least temporarily mollified. The party broke up and the guests said their good-byes. Philip asked Blake to stay behind.

  “I am terribly sorry about Bartlett,” he said. “I had no idea he would cross examine you like that. He’s a lawyer, you know, and that’s what they do, I guess. I hope you don’t think I brought you up here to have Jackson sandbag you.”

  “No, Philip, I don’t. I think you brought me up here to have Betsy sandbag me.”

  “Well, that part is true. Betsy has a vested interest in Mary, and you, too.”

  “Philip, this is a stab in the dark, but Waldo left a list of names in his house. Some of the people on the list are from Stonewall Jackson, some are his neighbors, and rest we cannot identify. Do you know any of these people?” Blake pulled his copy of the list from his pocket. Philip’s eyebrows rose and he cocked his head.

  “Actually, I do,” he said. “But
I don’t know what interest your late organist would have had in them. They are Saint Anne’s parishioners.”

  Blake let that sink in for a moment.

  “They’re yours? Does anything else stick out, anything they may have in common?”

  Philip studied the names again.

  “Well, I don’t think it means anything, but they are all people I referred to Tommy Taliaferro for counseling or therapy.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  It came as another small shock to Blake when he realized he’d started looking forward to Sundays again. He had once before, a long time ago. But this was different. Then, Sundays provided not so much a chance to serve, as to be noticed. Then, he enjoyed, no, he positively basked, in the attention he received as a pastor and priest. When he preached, he expected favorable comments and compliments. To the extent such a day went well, he believed he fulfilled his calling to ministry. On those days when it did not, he assured himself that his parishioners had obviously missed the point. As a member of the clergy, he was not alone in that bit of cerebral hoop jumping.

  But now, any thoughts he harbored for recognition were buried by a growing interest in the people around him. His eyes were still fixed on his doughnut, but now he also watched the hole with a renewed interest. He knew that if he continued to preach the way he did and promote the issues he felt strongly about, some of them would leave. He could accept, even welcome that. He just hoped the Mission Board would too. But in truth, he clung to the hope they would stay, would embrace change. He hoped.

  His eight o’clock congregation drifted in and worshipped their God as only they knew how. They were wonderful people, Blake thought, but firmly rooted in the late nineteenth century, God bless them.

  Mary arrived and turned on the organ and began to play. One by one the choir came in, music folders in hand, and practice began. Blake noticed the frown on Mary’s face. She paused and manipulated the stops and voices. Then, apparently satisfied, she started again.

  The congregation arrived in groups, and by ten-twenty the church was nearly filled. A surprise. It had never been this full before. The rule of thumb he had been taught years before held that in mainline churches, eighty percent of the available pew space occupied equaled one hundred percent occupancy. Today he guessed they were pressing ninety. Not bad, best he had seen so far. He supposed it must be a back to school, end of summer phenomenon.

  The service progressed very smoothly. The improvement in the choir led to more congregational singing, and that, he thought, led to an improved spiritual environment altogether. He could not prove it, but he believed that music affected worship in a very important way and that the extent to which the congregation participated in music measured the impact the service had on each of them. He had never really noticed it before, although several friends and colleagues had mentioned it to him over the years. How the congregation became part of and benefited from worship never seemed important to him before.

  And at that precise moment, Blake realized how much he, too, had changed in the months since he arrived. He shook his head and then, with a smile, walked to the crossing and began to speak.

  “Our first lesson this morning is, as you no doubt noticed, from the apocryphal book of the Wisdom of Jesus Ben Sirac, usually known as Ecclesiasticus. Let me recite a few lines for you.

  He that takes vengeance will suffer vengeance from the Lord, and he will firmly establish his sins. Forgive your neighbor the wrong he has done, and then your sins will be pardoned when you pray.

  “We all know of the terrible things that have been visited on this church. I should tell you, by the way, that it appears that whoever killed Waldo, also killed Millicent. How these two murders are linked is anybody’s guess. But it does seem clear to some of us that the verses I just read may apply. I cannot be sure, of course, but in my prayer time, before I decided on a theme for today’s sermon, these words kept coming back to me. I have not experienced that sort of direction before, at least not with the intensity I felt then. I take it as a direction from God and suggest to you that he wants the killer to hear these words. I cannot say I am comfortable in this, and I have never done anything like this before.

  “Moreover, I suppose it presumes whoever the killer is, he or she is within earshot and must be, therefore, one of us. That is not a comfortable thought. Then I asked myself, is this God speaking or just me talking to myself? I am sure many of you have felt this way in your own prayer life. Well listen again.

  Does a man harbor anger against another, and yet seek for healing from the Lord? Does he have no mercy toward a man like himself, and yet pray for his own sins? If he himself, being flesh, maintains wrath, who will make expiation for his sins? Remember the end of your life, and cease from enmity, remember destruction and death, and be true to the commandments. Remember the commandments, and do not be angry with your neighbor; remember the covenant of the Most High, and overlook ignorance. Refrain from strife, and you will lessen sins; for a man given to anger will kindle strife, and a sinful man will disturb friends and inject enmity among those who are at peace.

  “You see how it is? We have an obligation to stand before God without rancor in our hearts and anger toward our neighbor. Not just in the case of this terrible tragedy, but as a people of God who meet in this building on the Christian Sabbath and proclaim the Lordship of Jesus. We are a covenanted people. We are to be faithful to the commandments God gives us. Our hope is to become a community of faith, bound together in love and worshipping in community. We cannot do that if there is enmity in our hearts toward anyone, particularly anyone within the community.

  “We will have communion shortly. We will stand in the real presence of the Lord at this rail. I suggest to each of you that, after we have said the general confession, and are to pass the Peace, you should seek out the person or persons, if any, you hold some anger for, or feel some distance from, or whom you may have slighted or hurt in the past, and offer yourself to them in peace. It seems to me that if there is anyone in the building with whom you cannot honestly share the Peace, you are not prepared for communion and should not come to the rail.”

  As he spoke, he realized that once again, he spoke words that were nowhere in his notes. Indeed, he had strayed away from them within moments of beginning to speak. God, he thought, what are you doing to me? The rest of his remarks were equally unplanned, and he closed with a prayer. Grace, he noticed, missed most of the message for what he assumed was an exit to the ladies room. At the passing of the Peace, a tearful Mary came to him and hugged him briefly. Lanny and several Board members followed suit. He watched the others from the corner of his eye and caught the awkward but, he thought, sincere attempts by many to shake hands with people they rarely acknowledged before. It was a wonderful moment.

  He did notice the number of communicants who came to the rail dropped significantly and took that as a good sign. The recessional hymn produced a noticeable squawk from the organ, and Blake caught Mary frowning as she tried with not much success to work around it.

  He finished with the hand shaking at the door and walked the length of the sanctuary to the organ, where Mary sat pulling and pushing organ stops and running scales.

  “It’s hopeless, Blake,” she said. “This dinosaur has got to be looked at. The squeak has degenerated into a complete…well, you heard it, and it could all go blooey the next time.”

  “I’ll call a repairman. Is there someone special?”

  “This organ is from another age. The people who can understand the electronics, much less fix them, are few and far between. I think there is a sticker on the back with the company’s name. Call them. They’ll have to take the back panel off to work on the boards inside.”

  “You want to be there when they come?”

  “I can’t, I have to work. I’ll write them a note. Oh, and by the way, the back panel is fitted with a lock. You�
�ll need a key to open it. Do you have one?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose so. It must have been the one Amy saw on the ring with the organ key. I’ll try to find it and leave it out for them. I’ll try to have it done before Thursday and choir practice….Can I interest you in dinner tonight?”

  “Dinner again so soon? What will people say, Blake? I wish I could, but I am going to a baby shower tonight. I’ll tell you what, do you know that slab ice cream place next to the shoe store? Meet me there around nine-thirty.”

  Chapter Forty-five

  Schwartz called at three in the afternoon. “You have any more passing thoughts?” he asked.

  “No, not really, but I do have something for you. Do you remember those names neither of us could identify? Well, they are all members of Saint Anne’s Church. And here’s the good part—all of them were referred to Taliaferro for counseling or psychotherapy. Does that suggest anything to you?”

  “Krueger had the files. Whoever killed him, wanted them.”

  “But who?”

  “That’s the sixty-four dollar question.”

  Blake sat on the edge of his bed. “How about this instead. Millie Bass finds out he took the files and wants them back. I think—no, I’m sure she did her research in them when my predecessor was alive. So, she kills him and takes the files. Then someone else, who is afraid of what she’ll find, or has found, goes to her house to get them. Bass comes in, catches the guy and they struggle. The gun goes off and the intruder panics and runs.”

  “But not before shooting her two more times, and with her own gun? It’s kind of thin, Rev. And that does not explain the other names, or the ones from Roanoke.”

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Either way, you watch your back. If that message you got is for real, he or she thinks you have the files now, and you’re next.” He hung up.

  Blake stared at the faded wallpaper in his bedroom, the phone dangling in his hand. He replaced the handset in its cradle and stepped to the front door. He had to release his new deadbolt to open it. Fresh air. He could smell rain. Gray clouds scudded in from the southwest, and the first drops of what promised to be a soaker dotted the steps. He closed the door and made a pot of coffee. While he assembled cups and saucers, cream and sugar, he mulled over what Schwartz told him. Secrets. Secrets and blackmail made a fine motive for murder. But Millie Bass did not qualify as a killer, he knew that instinctively. No, there had to be some other connection, and the files were part of it. Maybe if he could figure out what the local people had to do with the list, he could get the rest. Blackmail?