by V. M. Burns
Mama B lived only two blocks from the church on what can only be described as an alley. Few houses remained standing on either side of the narrow, graveled path. Most were partially burned and boarded-up shells where the homeless sometimes took refuge during the cold winter months. The buildings that hadn’t been torn down were falling down of their own accord. The absence of street lights left the alley pitch-black once night fell. Normal people didn’t like the looks of that alley, but Mama B wasn’t normal. She didn’t even think twice about walking through there day or night. To make mail delivery easier, the post office gave the alley a name, even though Mama B’s house was the only one on “Columbia Court.”
Within thirty minutes of the benediction, I sat on the front porch waving as various members of the congregation drove by and Mama B changed out of her Sunday best and put on something cool and comfy. Even from the front porch, the aroma of Sunday dinner worked its magic. I could almost taste the fried corn, collard greens, and hot water cornbread with fried pork chops. It was my favorite dinner, and she knew it, God love her.
Even if I hadn’t been hungry enough to eat a small cow, I would still have shoveled the food down with gusto. I knew the cook well, and I’d eaten here before. After the second service got out, half the congregation would stop by to say “hey” and talk about the goings on. I was determined to get at least one plate down before the onslaught.
The first visitor to arrive at Mama B’s was Laura Leigh Jackson. Laura Leigh was a forty-something Southern maid. Mama B had taken her in like an adopted daughter. Unfortunately, I always felt Laura Leigh had a more intimate relationship planned for me, so I never felt completely comfortable around her. I could hear her biological clock ticking like a time bomb. It wasn’t that Laura Leigh wasn’t attractive. She was close to six feet tall and slender, with long legs and a very pleasant, soft-spoken personality. She wore her hair in a short afro, and her skin was what Mama B referred to as high yellow.
“Laura Leigh, come in and have some supper,” Mama B yelled from the back of the house.
I tried to sound polite and a little distant. “How’re you?”
“Good,” Laura Leigh said in her West Georgia accent. “I thought I saw you at early service this mornin’, but I knew that couldn’t be right.”
“Why the surprise?”
Laura Leigh laughed. “I didn’t say I was surprised, but I think you were about twelve the last time I saw you at early service.”
She was probably right.
Mama B was still yelling from the kitchen, “Sis Green really tore up that song, didn’t she?”
“She sure did,” Laura Leigh yelled so Mama B could hear her. She made herself at home on the sofa.
The first plate of food had taken the edge off my hunger, and I felt a lot more social when Mama B came into the living room and plopped down into her favorite chair, a large leather recliner. The chair had probably been green leather once, although it was so old and cracked now it was hard to tell the original color. There were rips and tears, and much of the bottom was held together with duct tape. Stained with sweat, the chair had molded over time to fit Mama B’s backside perfectly. One year I’d tried to get her another chair for Christmas, but she made me take it back. She and that chair were bonded together for life.
“Laura Leigh, go fix yourself a plate,” Mama B said.
“Oh, I will.”
As Mama B had a favorite chair, so too did Laura Leigh. Her spot was the sofa on the end closest to Mama B. Of course, given the small size of the living room, everything was pretty close to that chair. I decided to go back for thirds as they settled in for what promised to be a long gossip. Normally, this would be my cue to exit stage right. However, I hoped to hear some tidbit that no one would volunteer to a cop. My job was to listen for any information that might shed light on the murder.
Mama B settled into her chair. “That was the best I’ve heard y’all sing in almost a year—since that fancy-pants choir director got here.”
“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Laura Leigh said. “Was it an electrical fire?”
“We don’t know for sure yet what caused the fire,” I said between bites. “We’ll have to wait until the fire inspector completes his report.”
“Well, I never did like those old houses. They have all kinds of problems. I’ll bet it was the wiring. It felt strange, him not being there. He never missed Sunday service. We was all runnin’ ’round like chickens with no heads tryin’ to figure out what to do.”
“Y’all should have got down on your knees and thanked God,” Mama B said as she rocked. “I never could stand that little fancy boy.”
To say Mama B never liked the new choir director would be like saying the Grand Canyon is a nice little hole in the ground.
“Well, you’re ’bout the only one who didn’t like him,” Laura Leigh said. “Half the choir was fallin’ over themselves to impress him when he was alive. They was all bawling in the basement before service like they’d lost their best friend.”
“I don’t know why,” Mama B said. “I don’t go for all that showy stuff. All those fancy outfits and choreography.” We laughed as she shimmied and shook, arms flailing and feet stomping, all from the comfort of her La-Z-Boy.
“Young people like all that showy stuff,” Laura Leigh said. “You have to admit, it really has drawn in the people. They like those modern songs.”
“Bringin’ the street into the church.” Mama B scowled.
Mama B wasn’t alone in her opposition to the changes the new choir director had brought into the repertoire of the various choirs performing for our small congregation. Thomas Warrendale’s musical taste was contemporary and lively. Every song had arm movements, flamboyant dance steps, or props. The songs he chose were controversial as well, especially for the younger choirs. The traditional gospel hymns and anthems were replaced with upbeat, hip-hop gospel, and even gospel rap. This one change had practically split the church in half. The older members of the congregation, like Mama B, considered the new repertoire blasphemous. I didn’t think anyone would be upset enough to kill him because of his song selections, but I forced myself to listen anyway and hoped they’d get to the meat soon.
“Well, you can’t argue with the fact that it has drawn a lot of younger people to the church,” Laura Leigh said.
Mama B shook her head. “Just coming to church won’t save your soul.”
“I know, but we’ve got to at least get them in the pews. You can’t deny the church has more than doubled in size since Minister Warrendale came.”
“He was not a minister, and just having your rear end on the pew doesn’t mean you’ve been saved. If you’ve truly been saved, you should see a difference. They don’t even tithe. I was always taught to pay your tithes—one dime from every dollar.”
Many Baptist churches considered the choir to be a ministry. Therefore, the choir director was referred to as the “minister of music.” No formal calling was necessary for this position, just an ability to sing, play an instrument, or direct a choir. Again, I doubted that anyone would kill for the position. Some churches didn’t even pay their minister of music. But money was always a good motive for murder.
“Nothing shows commitment like cash,” I said.
Laura Leigh pouted. “It’s nice to have a larger church.”
First Baptist Church had grown substantially. To accommodate the crowds, Reverend Hamilton was now preaching three sermons every Sunday, at eight, eleven, and five. The pews of First Baptist Church were crammed full each and every week, or so I was told. The new members were young, loud, and extremely rhythmic. Unfortunately, they had more passion than money. This, I learned from a conversation with the pastor. To be fair, Reverend Hamilton wasn’t as concerned about the money as he was about the eternal souls of his flock. Nevertheless, he was walking a tight rope trying to keep the two factions together. Similar situations had split two of our sister churches, and he was determined the same fate wouldn’t befall
FBC. So far he had only succeeded in keeping the two sides from tearing each other apart. Funny, you wouldn’t think by looking at the congregation there was so much strife and discord hiding behind those feathered hats and silk choir robes.
“They certainly didn’t need him today,” Mama B said. “Sis Green sang her wig off. Speak of the devil.”
Sis Green knocked on the front screen. The door was never closed when it was warm and Mama B was home. She just yelled from her chair, “Come on in.”
“How do? How do? How is everybody?” Sis Green spoke with the enthusiasm and country charm of Minnie Pearl.
Mama B was a gracious and welcoming hostess even though she rarely got up from her seat. From the recliner, she welcomed Sister Green. “Good. Come in and take a load off. How’re you?”
“Oh, I’m tolerable fair.” Sis Green laughed. She had a great laugh, and when asked how she was doing, she always responded in the same way. She came inside. Laurie Leigh slid down on the sofa, leaving the spot closest to Mama B open. Sis Green flopped down into the spot without missing a beat. Seating in Mama B’s house indicated the hierarchy of the visitors. The older and more respected you were, the closer you sat to Mama B. I was intrigued by the unspoken and unconscious protocol. I’m sure no one in the room even realized the silent game of musical chairs they were playing, which made it even more intriguing from an observer’s standpoint.
“Dorothea, you know you tore that song up today,” Laura Leigh chimed in.
“Thank you. Thank you kindly.”
“We missed you at the missions meeting this week, Ella,” Dorothea said, kicking off her shoes and settling in.
Mama B rocked and avoided my eyes. “My sugar was up. I didn’t feel like walking down there.”
“Lawd, I know what you’re talking about. It seems like it’s one thing or another. If it ain’t my sugar, it’s my pressure.”
I tuned out on the ensuing medical rehash. From A to Z, there was a disease or a med for everything. These women covered everything from Mother Lovelace’s Alzheimer’s to debates on the effectiveness of garlic for high blood pressure. If this topic held sway much longer, I’d be forced to guide the conversation back to Thomas Warrendale. I didn’t want to do that. I wanted everything to flow naturally. Thankfully, I didn’t have to wait much longer.
“So that fancy-pants choir director finally got himself killed,” Mama B said with relish.
“It might have been an accident,” Laura Leigh said.
Mama B snorted. “Pshaw. It wasn’t no accident. You read the newspaper. It said suspicious circumstances. That means somebody set that house on fire.”
Everyone turned to me, and I shrugged and continued to eat. I wanted them to forget I was there so I could listen to the gossip and the word on the pews. I didn’t want them on their guard. Information flowed easier when people thought I was just one of them rather than a cop who could arrest someone.
Laura Leigh crossed her legs and leaned in closer to Mama B. “You make it sound like he tried to get himself killed.”
Like any seasoned performer, Mama B enjoyed having an audience, and she had excellent timing. That’s when she made her statement.
“If looks could kill, Thomas Warrendale would have died at least three times last Sunday.”
Mama B rocked and waited for the room to recover from the bombshell she had just dropped.
“What?”
“No!”
Insincere words of shock and surprise echoed while the ladies urged her to continue.
“I was watching that floozy, Mercedes Jackson, last Sunday,” Mama B said, “and she was looking at Warrendale like a starving dog at a hambone.”
“What?” Laura Leigh said. “I heard she been messin’ around with Reverend Chapman.”
Mama B continued to rock. “Yeah, she messin’ around all right. She got that man so tied up he couldn’t get free if his life depended on it. He kept staring at Warrendale like he was ’bout ready to spit bricks. And so much steam was coming out of Tonya Rutherford’s ears, it ’bout took all the curls out of her hair.”
“But what makes you think they were angry at Thomas Warrendale?” I asked.
“ ’Cause that’s who they was all looking at,” Mama B said, as if talking to a halfwit.
I leaned forward in my chair and tried not to seem too obvious. “Any idea why they were so angry?”
Laura Leigh squirmed a little in her seat. “Well, I had heard Nettie Fay said she thought there was something going on between Tonya Rutherford and Warrendale. She thought she saw them kissing in the back parking lot after choir rehearsal a few weeks ago. But, well, I figured that was just Nettie Fay being spiteful.”
Not to be left out, Sis Green added, “And I heard Mercedes Jackson used to be foolin’ around with Warrendale for a while, but he broke it off.”
Mama B shook her head and let out a harrumph. “I guess even Warrendale must have had some standards.”
Before I could ask more questions, I noticed Reverend Hamilton at the front door. “Reverend Hamilton. Hello, sir.”
Mama B welcomed the pastor to her home. “Come on in.”
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentleman.”
“How do, Reverend,” Mrs. Green said as she moved down to make room for Reverend Hamilton.
“Interesting sermon today, Reverend,” Mama B said. “We enjoyed it, didn’t we, RJ?”
“Yes, I really did enjoy the sermon this morning.”
“Did you now? I have to admit, I have missed seeing you in church. I know your job is very demanding, but it’s good to see you. How is the knee? I—”
“Fine. My knee is just fine.” I didn’t mean to be short, but my accident and my knee were the last things I wanted to talk about, especially with this crowd.
“I will continue to keep you in my prayers,” Reverend Hamilton said. “It was very good to see you. I think you must have been twelve the last time you came to church that early. Sort of took me by surprise. But I thought I noticed you nodding off once or twice.”
I tried not to look as puzzled as I felt. Surprised? Why would he be surprised to see me, especially after he sent me a note specifically asking me to come to the early service today? Whatever his reasons, Reverend Hamilton didn’t want to discuss it in this crowd. So I played along.
“Oh no, Reverend. I’m sure I was in deep meditation and prayer.”
Reverend Hamilton got a big kick out of that one.
“I thoroughly enjoyed the sermon, although I admit it did seem a bit … forceful.” I struggled to find the right word to express my feelings in a manner that wouldn’t offend Reverend Hamilton.
“Reverend Chapman is a passionate man.” The ladies laughed, and even Reverend Hamilton had to suppress a smile before adding, “Well, it certainly smells good in here.”
“Reverend, would you like some supper?” Mama B asked as she pushed herself up from her chair to prepare a plate. But he motioned her back into her seat.
“Please don’t trouble yourself. I can’t stay. I just wanted to stop by to say hello. I have dinner waiting at home.”
Mama B returned to her seat, and Reverend Hamilton stood up slowly to leave. After years as a cop, I recognized a stall. He wanted to talk, but not in front of the ladies.
“Are you sure you don’t want to take a piece of pie home? It’s delicious.” I patted my stomach. “I’ll be happy to cut you a slice.”
“Well, if you don’t mind. I know Miss Ella’s pies are like a small piece of heaven on earth.” Reverend Hamilton followed me into the kitchen.
Taking a knife from the drawer, I cut Reverend Hamilton a slice of pie and wrapped it up quickly. “They’ll be suspicious unless you walk out of here with pie.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you,” Reverend Hamilton said rather hurriedly. “RJ, I really do need to talk to you alone. Can you stop by the parsonage tomorrow around ten?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, handing over the pie. “I’ll be there.”
Reve
rend Hamilton thanked Mama B for the pie and said his goodbyes. The rest of the afternoon’s conversation consisted of gossip, none of which was helpful in finding out who killed Thomas Warrendale. After checking my watch for the third time in less than ten minutes, I decided to make my exit. As I stood up to leave, Sis Green immediately jumped up and grabbed her bag.
“Lawd, look at the time. I better go. RJ, can I trouble you for a ride?”
It wasn’t dark outside and Sis Green, like Mama B, had nerves of steel. Yet, she certainly seemed nervous.
“Of course.”
“Your plate’s in the fridge.” Mama B never sent me home empty-handed. “And bring my good Tupperware back with you when you come by tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I knew you’d forget. Tomorrow I gotta go to the beauty shop. You said you’d take me.”
“I didn’t forget. What time is your appointment?”
“Nine.”
“Okay. I’ll see you in the morning.” I gave Mama B a quick kiss, then held the door for Sis Green.
On the short drive to her house, Sis Green seemed unusually quiet. She lived only two blocks from Mama B’s.
“Well, here we are. Let me help you with that door.” With one hand on the handle, I was just about to jump out when Sis Green reached over and grabbed my arm.
“Wait. I need to talk to you.”
Settling back on the seat, I noticed the tears on her face for the first time. Mama B had trained me to always have a clean handkerchief, which I was very glad to hand over, as it gave both of us something to focus on.
“I’m sorry. But I’m so worried about my boy.” Her boy was the fifteen-year-old grandson she’d raised since he was six months old.
“What’s going on?”
Sis Green choked up. After a moment, she recovered enough to add, “Chris is a good boy. I’ve done my best to raise him to fear the Lord and to be respectful and to stay in school. But, those good-for-nothing hoodlums won’t leave him alone.”
During the next few minutes, Sis Green spilled out her concerns and fears. Most of them were the same concerns any parent has for teenagers. However, several items raised red flags for me. Though Chris had always been a good student, his grades had dropped dramatically. Once talkative and outgoing, he had become introverted and secretive. His new friends, those she’d seen, both looked and acted tough. She was scared.
