The Revelation Congregation had bought the abandoned Bijou when the membership outgrew the town hall basement. Now the marquee no longer advertised film classics, but the big black letters were used to spell out brief Bible verses. Today, Lucy noticed as she parked the car, the message was “God have mercy on me, a sinner (Luke 18:13).”
She doubted, as she pulled open the ornately carved door, that DeWalt had himself in mind when he chose the verse. He did not seem like one who considered himself a sinner. No, he was a crusader for truth attempting to save evildoers from themselves and their wicked ways.
Once in the former lobby, Lucy waited a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dimness. Hearing the hum of a vacuum cleaner, she opened the doors to the theater, finding to her surprise that it had been converted quite tastefully into a sanctuary. A large cross hung where the movie screen used to be, and the once solid walls had been pierced with windows boasting Gothic arches. It didn’t look that much different from the Tinker’s Cove Community Church that Lucy attended now and then.
“Can I help you?” asked the man who had been pushing the vacuum cleaner.
“I’m looking for DeWalt Smythe.”
“His office is upstairs, where the balcony used to be. Just take those stairs.”
Lucy thanked him and climbed the single flight, finding a neatly carpeted hallway at the top. A table with a bowl of chrysanthemums stood under a window on one side: three doorways were on the opposite wall. One was ajar, and had the word PASTOR painted on it. Lucy tapped gently.
“Come in,” boomed DeWalt’s voice.
Lucy pushed the door open and entered. It wasn’t quite the booklined study of Dr. Howes, her minister, but looked instead like the office of a small business with a metal desk and file cabinets. A fax machine sat on a stand to one side, and a graph charting the growth of the church hung on the wall. The line climbed steadily upward, seeming to indicate that as more members joined the church, the closer they would all be to heaven.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” began Lucy.
“Not at all. That’s what I’m here for.” He chuckled paternally and spread out his open palms. “To be bothered. To care. To help. I always try to remember the words of our Saviour Lord Jesus Christ, ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’ That’s the twenty-fifth chapter of Luke, verse forty. But of course, you are not the least of anything, Mrs. Stone, and I am always happy to see you. Won’t you sit down?”
He offered her a steel chair, with a rigid plastic seat. Lucy sat down.
“Well, DeWalt, I’m trying to write a tribute to Carol Crane for The Pennysaver and I’ve been running into a lot of dead ends. I was hoping you could help me.”
DeWalt shifted in his seat, which was one of those expensive new types designed especially for executives. It sprouted knobs everywhere, making it infinitely adjustable to comfortably support the contours of almost any corporate body.
“What did you want to know?” he asked.
“Well, I know you were on the search committee that hired Carol. In fact,” continued Lucy, making a small leap of faith, “I heard that you lobbied strongly for her with the other committee members.”
“Indeed I did,” said DeWalt, puffing out his chest. “Carol was an outstanding candidate. She was highly qualified and came with very positive references.”
“I’ve discovered that her references weren’t genuine,” said Lucy. “In fact, it seems she planted the bomb herself, in order to get attention. It’s part of a pattern—she set a fire in Bridgton, and staged accidents when she was in college.”
DeWalt stared at her, open-mouthed. “I had no idea,” he sputtered. “I thought she was…”
“A shining example of Christian womanhood,” supplied Lucy. “At least that’s what you called her at the memorial service.”
He rolled his heavy head from side to side. “My wife warned me about her, but I didn’t listen.”
“Your wife?” Lucy was surprised.
“When Carol came to be interviewed—this was in July, I think—she stayed with us. It’s not unusual. Rather than spend school district dollars on motels, the committee members put up the candidates.
“As I got to know her, I discovered that we shared similar views on education. Carol seemed just as interested as I am in restoring Christian family values to the schools.”
“You mean you helped her get the job, because she would become an administration voice for the Revelation Congregation?” challenged Lucy.
“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with people who share the same values working together,” insisted DeWalt. “There was no formal agreement or anything, no deal. I just got an impression that she would be cooperative, that’s all.”
“But your wife was not so sure?”
“Zephirah is more perceptive than I am,” admitted DeWalt. “She says I’m always preaching, and it’s probably true. She was struck by something that occurred during dinner. I was explaining the beliefs of the Revelation Congregation, and I told Carol we believe in a literal interpretation of the Bible. For example, wives should be submissive to their husbands. For some reason, Carol really took exception to that. Zephirah said I must have touched a nerve—those were exactly her words. Touched a nerve.”
“Well, she was a modern working woman,” said Lucy. “That’s not such an odd reaction.”
“No,” agreed DeWalt. “I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, except for what Zephirah said.”
“So, once Carol was hired, did she cooperate with you?”
“She surely did. In fact, she was always running to me with reports about this one or that one. Especially Sophie. Sophie lost the room assignments. Sophie was spending too much on school supplies. Sophie was too old. I began to think she was trying to get Sophie fired.”
“What did you do?”
“I confronted her and counseled patience. After all, Sophie is due to retire in a few years, and there was no reason why the job wouldn’t go to Carol. I told her that I’m a minority on the committee, and even if I wanted to get rid of Sophie, I could never get the other members to go along with it. Not to mention Superintendent Eubanks.”
“How did Carol react?”
DeWalt scratched his chin thoughtfully. “She seemed angry. In fact, I remember telling her that she should let go of her anger. I tried to get her to come to Sunday service.”
“Did she?”
“No.” He folded his hands in front of him. “If she had, it all might have ended differently. Very few people who accept the Lord Jesus Christ as their Savior get themselves murdered—at least that’s been my experience.”
To Lucy, this seemed a bit self-serving. “But even though you knew Carol was no angel, you practically raised her to sainthood at the memorial service. How could you do that?”
“We have to use the tools the good Lord gives us. I don’t think Moses stopped to pull the Egyptian soldiers out of the Red Sea, do you?”
Lucy’s eyes were round with shock. “It seems to me that Carol is worth a lot more to you dead, than she ever was alive,” she blurted out.
“Are you suggesting that I killed her?” Something in DeWalt’s tone turned her spine to ice.
“Oh, not at all,” Lucy hastened to reassure him. This was not where she wanted the conversation to go. Next thing she knew, she’d be battling for her life in the baptismal tank.
“I feel the need to seek the Lord,” said DeWalt, falling to his knees and pressing his hands together. “Will you join me in prayer?” he asked, as he bowed his huge head.
“No, but thanks for asking,” said Lucy, getting to her feet and heading for the door. “I’ll just leave you to your prayers.”
Lucy was exiting the renovated theater when she was startled to hear her name called. Looking up, she saw Miss Tilley glaring at her.
“What were you doing in there?” the old woman demanded.
“Interviewing DeWalt,” said Lucy. “
For The Pennysaver.”
“It doesn’t seem to me that the paper ought to be giving him any free publicity,” she said, with a little sniff.
“You need have no fears on that account,” said Lucy with a smile. “I was just asking him about Carol Crane.”
“You’re investigating her murder, aren’t you?” Miss Tilley narrowed her eyes shrewedly.
“I’m trying,” said Lucy, “but I don’t seem to be getting very far.”
“My dear old poppa used to say that success was five percent inspiration and ninety-five percent perspiration.”
“That’s good advice,” said Lucy. “I’ll have to tell the kids that.” She took the old woman’s arm. “Can I give you a ride somewhere?”
“I was just headed home, from the library. I have to keep an eye on that new woman—she’s a bit shaky on the Dewey decimal system.” Miss Tilley had officially retired as librarian several years ago, but she still felt a certain responsibility toward the Broadbrooks Free Library.
Once Lucy had gotten her settled in the front seat, with the seatbelt fastened, she started the car. “Tell me,” she began as they pulled away from the curb, “what do you think of DeWalt?”
“He’s a fake. They all are, all these newfangled religions. I learned all about it by watching Norah.”
“The talk show?” Lucy was surprised. “I didn’t know you watch TV.”
“It fills the time,” said Miss Tilley, causing Lucy to look closely at her elderly friend. Filling time had never been a problem for her before.
“Don’t look at me that way!” she snapped. “I’m not getting feeble or anything. It’s an interesting show, that’s all. Norah is a very intelligent woman.”
“She must be—she’s the highest paid woman in America, after all. So tell me, what did Norah have to say about churches like the Revelation Congregation?”
“They take advantage of people who are unhappy, or stupid. They pressure the members to make large contributions. Some of them even dole out punishment to the members who aren’t up to snuff. It’s nothing at all like being a Unitarian, though even that isn’t quite what it used to be. You never hear Emerson or Thoreau mentioned these days.” She rolled her watery blue eyes in disgust.
“DeWalt seems so certain that he’s doing the work of God,” mused Lucy. “How can he be so sure?”
“Because he’s an egomaniac,” said Miss Tilley flatly as Lucy pulled up in front of her antique Cape Cod-style house.
She sat smoothing her gloves while Lucy climbed out of the car and opened the door for her. Taking her by the elbow, Lucy helped her out of the car and walked her to the door.
“I can manage perfectly well on my own,” Miss Tilley informed her.
“Of course you can. I’m just trying to show you how polite I am.”
“Poppa always said to judge people by their actions, not what they say. In that regard, Reverend Smythe comes up a bit short.”
“Oh?” asked Lucy.
“I’ve heard”—Miss Tilley leaned forward and whispered in her ear—“he has prolonged prayer sessions with some of the women in his congregation.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” said Lucy, patting the old woman’s hand. “Take care now.”
“I will,” said Miss Tilley, opening her door and disappearing inside.
Checking her watch, Lucy saw it was later than she’d thought, and the day-care center would soon be closing. Pressing her foot to the gas, and hoping the police were too busy with Carol’s murder to set any speed traps, she raced across town. As she drove, she thought about her talk with DeWalt.
Miss Tilley was right about him, she decided. The old woman had confirmed her own doubts. DeWalt had been hiding something, and Lucy suspected he was a lot closer to Carol than he admitted. Why else would he make a point of bringing his wife into the conversation?
If DeWalt had been involved with Carol, thought Lucy, he certainly got more than he’d bargained for. Had Carol made demands? Had she threatened to expose him? If she had, he would have had a motive to murder her. And from what she knew of him, he would probably have convinced himself that he was just doing God’s will. There was nothing more dangerous, she decided, than an egomaniac with a direct pipeline to the Almighty.
Lucy pulled up at the day-care center and braked. Pressing her hand to her forehead and rubbing hard, she tried to push all thought of the murder from her mind. She and Zoë had been separated so much since she began working, she thought, with a sharp stab of guilt and longing. The little toddler deserved her complete attention. They were really overdue for some special mommy-daughter time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Arriving at the office on Thursday, Lucy plucked a fresh Pennysaver off the pile on the counter. She winced to see Josh Cunningham’s picture, prominently placed above the fold. The unkempt, hounded figure in the grainy black and white photo bore little resemblance to the cheerful, confident coach she’d chatted with only a few weeks ago.
She read the story through one more time, looking for some discrepancy, some flaw in the DA’s argument that would prove his innocence. She didn’t find anything and, sighing, turned the page.
She took in her breath sharply when she spotted, right there on page three, her story about the parental notification bill. “By Lucy Stone” was printed in bold black letters beneath the headline. She was sitting there, grinning like an idiot, when Ted came in.
“Hi, Lucy.” He paused and studied her. “First time?”
Lucy nodded. “I can’t believe that something that’s this much fun is actually legal.”
“I know,” agreed Ted. “That’s how I feel, too. If I actually made any money at this, I’d have to feel guilty. Fortunately, that’s not a problem.”
“There’s more to life than money,” said Lucy, absentmindedly stroking the paper.
“That’s for sure, ’cause so far I’ve seen damn little money but plenty of life.” He paused and said slowly. “I got a call from Phyllis last night.”
“How’s her mother?”
“Much better. The chemo is going very well, and Phyllis said her mother doesn’t really need her. She’s coming back.”
“That’s wonderful,” said Lucy, wishing she meant it. Happy as she was for Phyllis, and her mother, she dreaded losing the job. “When will she be back?”
“Tomorrow,” said Ted with a little shrug. “Lucy, you’ve been great. I wish I could keep you on, but I really can’t afford it. I was up half the night crunching numbers.”
“I knew it was only temporary,” said Lucy, thinking that you have to be careful what you wish for. Only yesterday she had been wishing for more time to spend with Zoë. Now she’d have it in spades. She gave a weak little smile. “It sure was fun.”
“If you want to try your hand at freelancing, I can always use features.”
“I might just do that.” Lucy tried to sound enthusiastic, but it was difficult. Features meant interviews with prize-winning gladiola growers, and gabby old men who collected antique matchbooks.
“That’s terrific,” said Ted, pulling out his chair and sitting down at his desk, spreading the paper out before him. “Damn,” he muttered.
“What’s the matter?”
“Typo. In an ad, no less.”
“Oops,” said Lucy, but instead of her usual squeak, her voice was flat.
That afternoon, her final paycheck safely deposited in the bank, Lucy and Zoë were home well ahead of the school bus. Zoë was upstairs napping, and Lucy was catching up on the reading for her course when the three older children arrived.
“How come you’re home?” asked Toby, lifting the top off the cookie jar.
“Phyllis is back. Ted doesn’t need me anymore.” Lucy swallowed down the lump that had formed in her throat.
“Does that mean you’re going to be home all the time now?” asked Elizabeth suspiciously.
“I guess so,” said Lucy, sitting down at the kitchen table, ready for a companionable after-school
chat. “I’m going to miss working. It was fun.”
“Yeah,” said Elizabeth, dropping her book bag on the floor and heading for the stairs.
“Do you want a snack?” Lucy asked Sara.
“I’m full. We had cupcakes. It was Jared’s birthday. His mom made them.”
“Wasn’t that nice?” enthused Lucy, thinking that perhaps she could volunteer at the school now that she had more time.
“Do we have any shoe boxes?”
“Probably. Why?”
“I need to make a diorama.”
“Of what?”
“Life at the North Pole. I’m going to use my plastic penguin.”
“Better make it life at the South Pole, then. There aren’t any penguins at the North Pole.”
“There aren’t?” Sara was doubtful.
“No.”
“Shit,” said Sara.
“What did you say?” Lucy was about to lecture her second-grade daughter on the evils of profanity when a loud crash was heard upstairs.
“Get out of my room, you dork!”
“What’s going on?” Lucy charged up the stairs.
“Toby was in my room!”
“I only wanted to borrow a CD,” explained Toby.
“Well, then you should ask. Shouldn’t he, Mom? I mean, it’s bad enough that I have absolutely no privacy and have to share my room with a baby—”
“I’m not a baby!” exclaimed Sara, who had followed her mother up the stairs.
“You all better quiet down, or you will wake up the baby,” advised Lucy. “Toby, how about getting started on your homework. Sara, check the hall closet. I think there are some empty shoe boxes in there.” Lucy put her arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder and led her to her bed. “How are you doing?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Just wondering. Things have been kind of rough lately, with the asthma and all.”
“I’m okay.”
Back To School Murder #4 Page 17
