Never Preach Past Noon

by Edie Claire

  "Oh, bosh," her aunt said sternly. "Heaven knows what sort of rubbish your mother has been feeding you about men all these years, but as a woman who's been married three times and only divorced once—let me tell you this. Men don't like mind games. Play it straight."

  Leigh said nothing. She was normally averse to taking advice on her love life, particularly from family. But her aunt did have some prowess in the area. Besides, she'd been ignoring advice her entire life, and it hadn't gotten her squat.

  "There it is!" Bess shouted as the mini-storage came into view. She pulled the key out of her purse and checked the number that was handwritten on the back of the plastic S.P.E. key chain. "Number 47. Pull over there."

  Leigh swung in front of the appropriate metal door and parked. She tried not to dwell on the fact that this marked the third time in less than a week that her aunt had trespassed in, on, or through Reginald Humphrey's private property. She also tried not to dwell on the fact that for two of those crimes, she had been an accessory.

  She helped Bess out of the car and onto her crutches. "You realize, of course, that it's broad daylight and there any number of people around here who might remember seeing us."

  Bess's arms were occupied, but she waved the concern away with a flick of her wrist. "It doesn't matter. I'll just say I was concerned about him and thought there might be a clue to his whereabouts inside."

  Leigh's eyebrows rose skeptically.

  "Then I'll think of something else later," Bess said impatiently. "Can you get the door up?"

  Leigh took the key from her aunt's hand and turned it in the well-oiled padlock. She slid the open lock out of position and pulled up on the handle below. The door opened easily.

  Bess was in no position to limbo under the rising door, but in her haste, she came as close to it as a woman on crutches possibly could. She swung inside, pivoted in place, and smiled with glee. "See there! I could have told you."

  Leigh surveyed the piles of boxes without enthusiasm. "Told me what?"

  It took a moment for Bess to answer, as she began hobbling around lifting box lids and grinning at the contents. "Don't you see? Furniture and a motorcycle, I could understand. But this is all just little stuff. Personal stuff. Here's a CD player, and an electric screwdriver. This one's full of clothes."

  When Leigh didn't respond, Bess sighed a little and went on. "He's been living in the parsonage for months now. Why wasn't all this stuff there with him? Why is he storing it at his own expense?"

  Leigh shrugged. "Maybe this is like a retreat for him. Maybe he comes and communes with his stuff on his day off. Who knows?"

  Bess shook her head. "If he planned on staying with the First Church of the New Millenium indefinitely, he'd have no reason to maintain a storage unit. There's plenty of room in the parsonage for all these boxes. I expected to find boxes in the attic when I went up there. You know what I found? Nothing. Not so much as an old pair of bowling shoes."

  Leigh considered. It was on the strange side. The unit was a small one; everything in it could probably be packed into one van. Why not keep it at the parsonage?

  "I'll bet my bottom dollar that at least some of this stuff was at the parsonage," Bess said pointedly. "People helped him move in—there'd be witnesses to know just how much stuff he had. But then he moved it here. Little by little, I'm guessing."

  Leigh started to get a sick feeling as she realized where her aunt's theory was headed.

  "Which can only mean," Bess said, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, "that he knew the parsonage was going to burn."

  Chapter 8

  "It would have been less suspicious if we'd just stayed," Bess chastised. "Running out like that only made us look guilty of something."

  "We are guilty of something!" Leigh retorted. She didn't care if the patrol car had just been passing through. One look at it was more than enough to make her bundle Bess into the Cavalier and skedaddle.

  "We'll just have to go back later, then," Bess proclaimed. "We didn't get a chance to open the boxes that were sealed—and you know they had the good stuff."

  Leigh had no intention of taking her aunt anywhere near the mini-storage again, but she knew better than to debate the issue now. "So let me get this straight," she said as they drove towards the First Church of the New Millennium. "You think that Humphrey isn't a real minister at all, that he's nothing but a con artist. The whole church is just some power trip for him, and he threw a Molotov cocktail through his own window because he wanted more privacy?"

  "Not his window," Bess corrected. "The church's window. He lost nothing—seeing as how he'd already moved out everything he cared about." She paused, and sighed a little. "Many a happy Presbyterian pastor has lived in that house over the years, but let's face it. The place was a bit of a dump when it burned. It hadn't been kept up for years, and it was always cramped and drafty in the winter. Not to mention the fact that it was under constant surveillance by the Ivey sisters. With the parsonage gone, Humphrey would be free to live in a nicer place, without being watched."

  Leigh chewed on the theory as she pulled into the church parking lot. "But wouldn't arson be risky? I mean, if he was suspected, the police would check out his background. And if he's a veteran con, he'd surely have a rap sheet."

  "He covered his tracks," Bess insisted. "Since he didn't own the house, he had no financial incentive that could raise suspicion. Plus, I think he planned on burning himself—a little. He could say he was too drugged up to notice the place was burning until it was pretty far gone." She let Leigh help her out of the Cavalier and onto her crutches. "I bet he never even had a headache."

  "But if all he wanted was to move out, why the high drama?" Leigh continued, playing devil's advocate. A part of her still wanted to believe that Reginald Humphrey was legitimate—if only because she hadn't seen through him immediately herself. "Why would he tell everyone at church that he thought somebody was out to get him? Why would he use something as violent as a Molotov cocktail instead of rags in the garage or a broken toaster?"

  Bess's mouth twisted in frustration. "Do I know everything? Give me some time, kiddo. I'll figure it out."

  Despite her aunt's bravado, Leigh could sense the nervousness that still brewed underneath. She also knew what was causing it. The fact remained that Humphrey had gone out of his way to cover up Bess's burglary attempt. And he probably had a less-than-pure reason for doing so.

  An unpleasant possibility struck her. "Aunt Bess," she said heavily, stopping before they reached the church door. "Humphrey didn't know you were hiding in his attic—all he knew was that you were upstairs. What if he thought you had seen him set the fire? Maybe he was trying to buy your silence!"

  Bess stopped too, and considered. "That's possible," she said thoughtfully. "But if the whole truth did come out, he'd have a lot more to lose than I would. Who would care about my harmless snooping once they knew he was an arsonist?"

  "The whole hero thing," Leigh thought out loud. "Maybe he was just upping the ante—giving you farther to fall if you did tell."

  Bess considered a moment more, then shook her head. "He'd need more than that to keep me from exposing him. Unless—" She swallowed, her pupils widening. "Unless he planned to hedge his bet by pinning the arson on me."

  An image of a flaming bottle flashed across Leigh's mind, and with it another image she'd almost forgotten. Her blood ran cold. "The morning after the fire," she said weakly. "Your recyclables bin was up on the front porch, right next to the door. It had glass bottles in it. Those expensive flavored-water things. Kind of a weird shape."

  "I don't drink anything like that," Bess said with surprise. "And I told you I didn't put the bin there."

  "But it was out front and center first thing Friday morning," Leigh continued. "If I hadn't moved it, it still would have been sitting there when the fire investigator showed up."

  Bess's voice turned icy. "And ten-to-one odds say the Molotov cocktail was the same kind of bottle." She looked up
at her niece, her eyes flashing with fire. "That S.O.B. was setting me up."

  ***

  Their conversation was interrupted by a short, stout woman about Bess's age. Her gray hair was cut short like a boy's, and she wore a western-style shirt decorated with embroidered vegetables. Leigh recognized her as one of the women she'd overheard talking in the kitchen last night—the one that had been so sure something terrible had happened to Humphrey.

  "Come on in! Don't stand in the cold!" she called, holding open the door for Bess.

  "Of course not. Thank you," Bess said, recovering quickly. She hobbled through the door. "Leigh," she said when they were all inside, "this is Barbara Jodon. She's one of our church secretaries."

  Leigh and the woman exchanged greetings, and the threesome walked down the hall to the church office. The First Church of the New Millenium had two other secretaries—Ted's wife Shannon and a chubby bleach blond whom Bess introduced as Cindy. Barbara's husband Ed, a frail looking man at least a decade older than his wife, sat at a desk stuffing envelopes. Shannon and Cindy stood in the center of the cluttered room, looking nervous.

  "What is it?" Bess asked, worried. "Has he still not shown up?"

  Shannon and Cindy shook their heads. Barbara began to pace. "No one's heard a word," she answered. "It doesn't look good. Shannon called the police earlier; they're going to trace the number."

  Shannon nodded. Her eyes were wide with alarm, but she kept her voice calm. "They were really very helpful about it. I explained how unusual it was for him to be out of touch, not to mention missing a wedding."

  "I made her remind them about the fire, too," Cindy piped in, her voice a frightened whine. "He was sure someone was out to get him. It looks like he was right!"

  "Please don't say that," Shannon pleaded. "It could just be his diabetes."

  "Hello, ladies. Mind if I come in?" The booming male voice came from the doorway behind them, and Leigh turned to see a Franklin Park policeman stride into the office. "Ms. Hugh?" he asked, scanning the room. Shannon caught his eye, and he proceeded. "I thought I'd give you the news in person. The number you gave me matched up with a private boarding house in Ohio Township. Little place—just four units. The manager said he had rented a unit to Humphrey over the weekend, but hadn't seen him since. He let me in the place, and I had a look around, but there's not much to tell. Suitcase full of clothes, half unpacked. Toiletry items. No signs of foul play."

  There was another moment of silence as the news sunk in, then Cindy whispered breathlessly, "He wasn't there?"

  "No, ma'am."

  More silence. "What about his car?" Bess asked.

  "No green Buick Skyhawk on the property," the policeman answered, "but we'll start looking for it. I'll need some additional information."

  None of the three women staffers seemed capable of movement. Barbara stood dumbly with her mouth open, Shannon had gone pale as a ghost, and Cindy was sweating profusely. "I'll do what I can," Bess offered, propelling herself toward the officer. "I'm a board member here. What information do you need?"

  Leigh walked over to Shannon, who of the three church employees looked most likely to pass out imminently. "Are you okay?" she asked softly.

  Shannon nodded, and pushed her thick glasses higher up her thin nose. "I'll be all right," she said, struggling unsuccessfully to keep a tremor from her voice. "I just don't know what could have happened to him. We should have started looking for him sooner…"

  Despite Shannon's efforts to sound brave, she was obviously close to tears, and Leigh couldn't help wondering what it was about this man that made people care about him so much. If he was a con, he was a darn good one.

  "Ladies?" Bess called from her position by the policeman. "Have any of you ever seen Reginald Humphrey go anywhere without his insulin kit?"

  The three women exchanged glances, then shook their heads.

  "A diabetic can't go without one for long," Bess explained. "Yet Officer Ward here"—she paused a second, bestowing a fawning look—"says there was nothing fitting that description at the boarding house. Ergo, Humphrey took it with him. Ergo—he meant to leave!"

  The women all stared at Bess. Even Barbara's husband Ed, who had continued to lick envelopes throughout most of the previous conversation, stopped suddenly and looked up.

  "It's a good sign, of course," Bess clarified, not without a touch of exasperation. "If Humphrey had met with foul play at his apartment, his insulin kit would have been there."

  "You're right!" said Cindy, her face brightening. "It is a good sign."

  What Leigh's peripheral vision caught at that moment, however, was not. She'd had that "hand in the cookie jar" feeling all morning, and it appeared her come-uppance was now due. She walked toward the figure in the office doorway with foreboding. "Hi, Mom," she said with as much false enthusiasm as possible. "What are you doing here?"

  Frances Koslow performed one of her favorite maneuvers—the dreaded chin-down, eyes-up, knitted-brow glare. "You're asking me? Your aunt had major orthopedic surgery less than forty-eight hours ago, and yet the two of you have been out cavorting for hours. I know, because I've been calling for hours. She should be at home with her feet up!"

  "Oh, lay off, Francie!" Bess said quickly, hobbling up. She grabbed her sister's arm and rotated her back towards the door and away from the general conversation. "Leigh's been doing a wonderful job of keeping me company, and we were just on our way out to lunch. If you promise to behave yourself, I'll even let you join us."

  ***

  Leigh steered her Cavalier out of the church parking lot and onto Nicholson Road with trepidation. Driving her mother anywhere was hard on the digestion, but having both Bess and Frances as passengers was a copayment waiting to happen.

  Bess had clearly been eager to keep her little sister out of the church's problems, but since Frances's trouble sensors were second to none, Leigh feared the attempt was ill-fated. To make matters worse, in this isolated instance she almost agreed with her mother. Bess had been up and around entirely too much since the surgery, and that couldn't be good for her ankle. Leigh was pretty sure that Bess had been ready to go home for a while before Frances appeared, but now she would probably hobble till she dropped.

  "How about Chinese?" Bess suggested cheerfully. "Or we could have fish sandwiches at the Fox Trot."

  "I think we'd all be better off with something light," Frances announced. "A good salad bar, perhaps."

  Bess scoffed. "You want to pretend you're a rabbit, fine. I want some real food. Hey, Leigh—how about the Franklin Inn? Francie can scrape the lettuce off my tacos."

  "Pothole, dear!" Frances informed from her position in the back seat. "Bear left. I'm sure I can find something healthy to eat at the Franklin Inn, but you'll have to turn around, you know. You're going the wrong way."

  Leigh gritted her teeth. She hadn't been going the wrong way for Chinese, but two women bickering in the car was enough. The Franklin Inn it would be.

  Without warning, Bess lurched across the front seat and nearly into Leigh's lap. "Turn around!" she ordered, sitting up and looking back over her shoulder. "I think I saw something!"

  Leigh pulled into the next driveway and back out again, like she'd been planning on doing anyway. "Saw what? You mean at the park?"

  "Yes!" Bess said excitedly. "Pull in there!"

  Leigh steered the Cavalier into the entrance of Winterhaven Park. "Now, what are you talking about?"

  "Down there!" Bess said excitedly. "I saw it down by the ball courts!"

  Leigh drove down the hill to where a green Buick rested in an odd position off the road, half in, half out of a clump of shrubs. "You think that's Humphrey's car?" she asked, parking.

  "I know it is," Bess said smugly. "How many green '85 Skyhawks do you think there are around here?"

  The car had hardly stopped moving before Bess opened the door and tried to get out by herself. Leigh cursed under her breath and ran around to the passenger side just as her aunt collapsed in a
heap on the grass.

  "You can't possibly walk over there," chastised Frances, who had emerged quickly from the backseat and was reaching down to pull her sister up. "The ground's uneven and there's frost on the grass."

  Bess struggled to her feet, shaking off Frances's steadying hand. "I'm all right," she insisted, her voice taut with pain. "Just give me the crutches."

  "You're staying right here," Frances commanded, tossing the fallen crutches onto the Cavalier's back seat. "What on earth is so important about that car?"

  Bess sighed. "Leigh, you go check it out, would you? I'll fill your mother in."

  Wondering what version of the truth Bess was planning to tell, Leigh headed towards the rusted Buick. Her insides churned as she looked for the outline of a head above the driver's seat. Of course he wouldn't be in it, she told herself. The car was in plain view from the ball courts; surely someone had been here in the last two days.

  She moved closer, her guts still anxious. One foot slipped in a hole, and she almost twisted her own ankle. She looked up self-consciously, but Bess and Frances were deep in conversation.

  Leigh looked back at the space above the driver seat. It looked empty. That was good. She kept moving forward until she was close enough to look in the back window.

  The Buick's back seat looked much like her own back seat, except with male-type junk. A neck tie, leather gloves, boots, a paper sack from Wendys, empty pop cans, and an ice scraper. She took a deep breath and stepped farther forward, looking into the front seat.

  A winter coat on the passenger side. Nothing more.

  She let out the breath and leaned against the car for a moment.

  "What is it?" Bess yelled.

  She shook her head. "Nothing," she called. "It's empty. Just a coat and some snow gear."

  Bess was quiet for a second, then yelled again. "What about the insulin kit? It's a black plastic case."