Nothing Done in Secret

by Scott Edwards

  * * *

  Catherine had known Lewis Franke since 1958 when he moved to Miner’s Flat to fill the need for a local insurance agent. She remembered he was about 39 then but seemed younger. His sweet-tempered wife was only a few years older than Catherine. Lewis and Betty Jane had been active members of the church since their arrival. Catherine and Betty Jane were quite close until Betty Jane’s death from heart disease in 1990. Lung cancer would take Lewis any day now. Martha, the minister’s wife, and Catherine were taking care of his basic needs and preparing to keep him company as he left this life for the next.

  * * *

  Catherine climbed the six steps to the porch without hesitation. For a 77-year old, she appeared to be in excellent condition, but she did have to take five different pills each day, prescriptions intended to keep her heart functioning as it should. Catherine heard the water running and walked directly from the threshold down the hall to the kitchen at the back right of the first floor.

  At the sink, wearing yellow rubber gloves, a freshly rinsed plate in her right hand, Martha turned her head, smiled sadly and shrugged. “I’ll just finish this and then give him his morphine tablet. Oh, Catherine, I can’t imagine it will be much longer. A matter of days.”

  “Will he eat anything?” Catherine sat at the kitchen table to rest from the exertion of her walk.

  “We should try. Maybe half a sandwich and a glass of milk, do you think?”

  “Um,” Catherine agreed. “I’ll wait about twenty minutes after his pill takes effect. It usually gives him a bit more energy.”

  Just then the phone rang. Martha dried her hands and picked up the hand piece from the yellow wall phone.

  “Yes…yes…ok,” she said to the caller. She hung up, a look of pained distress transforming her face.

  “It’s that horrible woman. She’s coming here now,” Martha said, choking with emotion.

  Catherine felt a sinking feeling, the muscles of her abdomen clenching. “Oh, no. What does she want?” She could scarcely believe she would be subjected to a second unpleasant encounter with Veronica Gillis in the course of just six hours.

  “She wants the keys to the Fellowship Hall, the Chapel and the office.”

  “I thought we had more time.”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t know for sure. Arthur won’t talk about it. Oh, dear Lord, I guess I have to give them to her.” She looked at her friend. Catherine’s sympathetic expression eased Martha’s distress. “She called from Harte Pines. She’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

  “I can give her the keys, dear. You can go home. You wouldn’t have to see her.”

  Martha declined. Filling a small glass with water, she took it and a prescription bottle up the stairs.

  * * *

  Seated quietly at the dining room table, Catherine watched the orange Land Rover pull up to the front of the driveway. Martha must have seen it from Major Franke’s room. She descended the stairs and was at the door when Ronnie crossed the porch. Entering the hall, the younger woman said “hello” in a loud, cheery voice while carefully examining the floor, walls, and ceiling of - from left to right - the living room, staircase, the hall leading to the rear of the house and the dining room. She turned to Martha and took the keys from her left hand. Martha’s mouth opened to speak but Ronnie began talking.

  “You’ll have to come by and see the architect’s sketches when we finish the design, Mrs. Pane. Those old stone buildings will be beautiful at the front of the development. Your little house will have to be torn down, of course - that’s where the lake is going - but we should be able to reuse the stone and the doors when we remodel that long building and the church into a recreational facility.”

  Catherine watched the younger woman with a mixture of shock and fascination. During her description of the planned development, Veronica Gillis opened her purse and withdrew a small digital camera. She kept up the flow of words and at the same time took photos of the living room, dining room and staircase.

  Martha did speak now. “I don’t know why you have to do this. The church is a hundred and fifty years old. We live there.”

  “Now, Mrs. Pane,” Ronnie scolded. “You folks got yourselves into trouble. You should have known what Clement Jones was up to with those kids. Really, you should do a background check on a youth activities director. Some people wonder if the problem might be a bit bigger than we’ve heard so far. Anyway, I did find your church a new location,” she said referring to the storefront in a strip mall outside of town.

  “We’ll be opening the sales office next year. Wait until you see the models. I can put you and Reverend Pane first in line for Phase 1.”

  Ronnie didn’t notice when Martha began to cry. “I’ll make a set for myself and return these tomorrow.” She shook the keys and chirped “Good bye, all.”

  * * *

  Forty minutes later, Ronnie was at the west entrance to the Fellowship Hall, what she called the long building. She set her purse on the railing of the veranda that ran the length of the building facing Second Street. She removed her cell phone and a tape measure, and punched the speed dial number for her Sacramento architect. Walking down four stone steps, she crossed the lawn and flowerbed to the side of the building. There she began to measure the height of the foundation near a small door to the crawl space. This call was her fourth of the day to the architect but, considering the fact that money flowed whenever Ronnie Gillis was involved, he was patient and attentive. Ronnie was on her knees peering at the wood framing the crawlspace when another person climbed the stone steps, came back down, retraced Ronnie’s path to the side of the building and fired a single shot that struck Ronnie two inches to the right of her left shoulder blade. Ronnie collapsed, her arms outstretched, her chin hanging over the edge of the concrete lined entrance to the crawl space.

  ~ ~ ~

  CHAPTER 2

  Contralto 15-year old Michelle, 5’2” tall, blonde, a little pudgy and as good-natured a person as you could meet, sang “We’ll Work Till Jesus Comes” with the others in the loft of the church when she heard the shot. Gunshots were a frequent sound in the mountains around Miner’s Flat but this seemed closer than usual. Michelle took two steps toward the gate of the choir loft but stopped when the choir director glared and waved her back. They moved on to “Almost Persuaded” and “The Crowning Day” before the director ended practice. Gathering her papers and backpack, she moved toward the front door with her fellow choralists.

  After the stuffy atmosphere of the choir loft, the evening spring air was cool and fragrant. Michelle stood in front of the church with the others exchanging compliments and generally agreeing that they sounded wonderful. She said a shy goodbye to the sixteen-year-old boy who was her main reason for joining the choir. Thirty yards away, a bicyclist moving north on Second Street caught her attention. She recognized him as her schoolmate Aaron, a boy she thought was cute but a little odd. He wore only a gray tee shirt and jeans and Michelle wondered if he wasn’t feeling the cold as he sped toward home. She started to follow her choir mates to the Old Church Canteen for fresh-baked cookies then thought of the shot she had heard, seemingly so near. She thought she would pass up the cookies for once and investigate the disturbance on her way home. She walked downhill on a stone path leading toward the street, passing the end of the Fellowship Hall on her left. Taking a short cut across the grass in the dim light, Michelle saw a dark mound seventy-five feet beyond the middle door. She moved closer and saw the body.

  A few steps more and the hole in Ronnie’s amber jacket was evident surrounded by a small amount of blood. Michelle’s eyes grew wide. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and was about to call her best friend Jo Ann but then wisely called her father instead. He answered on the first ring and sounded as though the call had frightened him. Michelle could tell he was relieved to hear the call was from her and not about her. She calmly reported what she had discovered. He seemed not to grasp what she said. There was silence for several seconds, th
en, in a stern voice, he told her to run back in the church or where ever there were people. He would have his wife call Edward Gordon, the Segovia County Police Reserve Officer then he would drive over there to get her.

  * * *

  When the architect’s conversation was interrupted by the ear-splitting crack of gunfire, he called Ronnie’s name several times. He heard nothing more. He waited about five minutes for a return call. Unable to imagine any explanation other than an emergency, the architect phoned 911. The Sacramento operator transferred him to the Segovia County emergency operator. That person took the information then phoned the police dispatcher on the first floor of the same building. The watch commander placed a call to the reserve officer’s cell phone, left a message and sent a patrolman from Highway 49, about ten miles from Miner’s Flat.

  Michelle’s father collected her at the north side of the church. She waited alone, for some reason having chosen not to join the few remaining choir members in the canteen, but she was unfrightened. He dropped his daughter off at home then drove back to Mariposa Street, where he saw the body for himself. He phoned the reserve officer again. By this time, Gordon had returned home from choir practice, answered the call to his home phone and finally learned about the body on the church grounds. Gordon drove quickly to the site where he met Michelle’s father and almost two dozen spectators, half of them teenagers including Michelle who had made a few calls then run back to the crime scene.

  Minutes later, the patrol officer arrived. His first action was to call Sergeant De la Peña, who reminded him of crime scene protocol and said he would send additional officers and notify the Medical Examiner. De la Peña phoned Captain Moffat.

  * * *

  In the hour since arriving home from the detectives’ office by way of Safeway supermarket, Moffat left Jean in the kitchen to work her magic with the soy protein and mushrooms. He opened a bottle of 2003 El Dorado Pinot Noir. On the backyard deck, seated comfortably on a rattan chair with four-inch inner spring cushions, Moffat enjoyed the wine and two small blocks of Stilton while he watched the lengthening shadows the evening sun cast on the vineyard and the rising of the moon. Jean’s roast seitan with porcini mushroom sauce was just five minutes from the table when Moffat spoke to De la Peña. Not for the first or the last time in their long marriage, Jean would dine alone.

  * * *

  The sky was still light but Miner’s Flat was getting dark when Moffat arrived in his light metallic green Toyota Highlander at the crime scene. Lights flashed from two patrol cars blocking the street on both sides of the church grounds. Sergeant De la Peña’s Camaro and a small Ford were parked between them, each with a portable flasher on its dashboard. The nearest patrol car moved back five feet to allow Moffat’s Highlander to pass.

  De la Peña jogged across the grass and sidewalk to meet Moffat as he opened the car door.

  “Dead from a gunshot wound. Medical Examiner’s on the way. I’ve identified the body.”

  The two men walked quickly toward the Fellowship Hall stopping on the sidewalk in front of the body.

  “Oh!” Moffat whispered, dragging out the word. He took out his wallet and removed a business card. “Veronica Gills.”

  “A witness heard the shot then found the body about twenty minutes later. We’re searching the site for any physical evidence. A twelve-member choir was practicing in the church but the rest of them went home before we got here. I’m just about to look for the minister. That’s his house behind the church.”

  “Hang on, Sergeant. Here’s the M.E.” Moffat and De la Peña walked back to the street to meet Dr. Lisa McDonald.

  “Hi, Alex. Is this your new Sergeant?”

  Dr. McDonald was the only one in the department who called him by his first name, let alone the shortened version. She had been hired soon after Moffat and they had quickly formed a friendship that included lunch two or three times a month. Lisa was a refugee from the Oakland Coroner’s Office who, like Moffat, had been subjected to the ugliest side of humanity for too many years.

  Moffat introduced the Sergeant to McDonald. De la Peña shook her hand then, as she pulled the paper “bunny suit” over her clothes, reported what little they knew so far. He was quite professional and focused but the 27-year old Sergeant did not fail to observe that the 45 year-old doctor was of medium height with short light brown hair and soft skin and appeared to be quite fit.

  Moffat sent De la Peña ahead to find the occupants of the minister’s cottage. He spent several minutes with the doctor discussing possible clues to the weapon, angle of entry and timing of an autopsy. Then Moffat spoke to Reserve Officer Gordon and three uniformed officers who had roped off the orange Land Rover and were expanding the search for physical evidence to include the entire block. Moffat released the witness Michelle and her father and asked the officers to disburse the spectators or, at least, restrict them to a point too far from the crime scene for a good view.

  * * *

  De la Peña walked a stone path between the church and the Fellowship Hall up the hill toward the minister’s cottage. The grounds were crowded with large trees and shrubs and it was fairly dark by now. A yellow lamp above the door glowed dimly. Seeing no lights on in the cottage, De la Peña considered the possibility that something may have happened to the minister and his wife. He knocked loudly at the door and was about to shout to get the attention of the home’s occupants when a tall, dark figure rounded the corner and came into the light.

  “Ah…” De la Peña cried out involuntarily as he saw a towering man with narrow shoulders, a long neck with bulging Adam’s apple and large intense eyes above dark circles and sunken cheeks. He wore work gloves and carried a shovel. De la Peña stepped back.

  “Los Angeles Police Department,” he shouted.

  Reverend Pane was as startled as De la Peña. If he wondered that a plainclothes policeman from Los Angeles would suddenly appear on his doorstep, it didn’t show. De la Peña quickly recovered and identified himself properly.

  Pane spoke in a deep, monotone. “I’m Reverend Pane. What is it you want?”

  “Do you know Veronica Gillis?”

  “Yes.” Pane removed his gloves, dropped them to the corner of the step by the door and leaned the shovel against the house.

  “She has been found dead back there by the street.”

  There was not the slightest change in Pane’s expression. His dark eyes stared at (or through) De la Peña.

  Walking between the buildings, Moffat saw the two men at the door of the cottage and called out to them. De la Peña introduced Moffat and continued his interview.

  “Do you know why Mrs. Gillis was here tonight, Reverend?”

  “No.”

  “How did you know her?”

  As the Sergeant asked this, a door closed in the Church Canteen, a large square building up the slope from the Fellowship Hall. Seconds later, a middle-aged woman appeared behind the tall man.

  “Arthur, what is it?”

  Moffat and De la Peña identified themselves and told the minister’s wife about the homicide. She gasped, placing her right palm on the center of her chest.

  We need to ask a few questions of both you and your husband, Mrs. Pane,” Moffat explained. “Maybe we should go in and sit down.”

  “Yes. Yes. Come in officers.” Brushing past her husband, she opened the unlocked door and turned on a light. There was a small entryway with a long living room to the left. Moffat and De la Peña followed the Panes to the right through a large arched opening into the dining room. The four sat at a dark table covered by a white lace tablecloth.

  “How did you know Mrs. Gillis?” De la Peña asked Reverend Pane. When he hesitated, Mrs. Pane spoke.

  “She was doing some work with the church board. She wasn’t a church member.” De la Peña took notes. Moffat said nothing. Realizing they expected more information, Mrs. Pane continued. “She arranged the sale of some property and helped us find a temporary location for Sunday services.” She paused the
n added “Not too far from here.”

  The Sergeant turned to her husband. “Mr. Pane, when did you last see Mrs. Gillis?”

  “Don’t know. I haven’t done business with her. Maybe a month ago at the board meeting.”

  Moffat asked, “What property was the church selling?”

  Pane slowly turned his gaze to Moffat.

  “This place, the church, the meeting hall.”

  “Where are you and your wife planning to move?” Moffat asked.

  “Don’t know yet.”

  De la Peña then said, “We’ll need to know where everyone was this evening.”

  Mrs. Pane stood up. “I should make some coffee. Would you like some, Mr. Moffat? Detective De…?” She had forgotten the Sergeant’s name.

  Sergeant De la Peña began to decline when Moffat interrupted.

  “That would be very nice, Mrs. Pane. Let me help you. The Sergeant can finish his questions for your husband.”

  They passed through a swinging door into the kitchen. Mrs. Pane set a glass carafe in the sink and turned on the water. From the cupboard, she removed a can of coffee and a box of filters.

  “Where were you this evening, Mrs. Pane?” Moffat asked softly.

  “Well, I was across the street at Major Franke’s house. Then I came back to the canteen to bake cookies for the choir. We serve refreshments after practice.”

  “Is that where you were around six?”

  “No.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Let’s not mention this to the Reverend.”

  “OK.”

  “After I put the cookies in, I ran a quick errand.”