“A girl made a horrible accusation against our Pastor Filbury,” Teruko said. No need for her to whisper. Teruko’s voice was soft as a whisper already.
“Then, before she could be questioned,” Anna said, “before the whole thing could be cleared up, the girl died.”
“Died?” Morgan squeaked.
Beatrice nodded. “Yes, Morgan, it was the same girl you found on the trail behind your shop.”
Morgan groped for a chair and sat heavily.
“What kind of accusation did she make?” Morgan asked. She couldn’t imagine the tattered girl coming anywhere near a church.
“The stuff that television docudramas are made of,” Beatrice said. “Her family didn’t attend our church, but she came to summer camp one year.”
“The girl I saw was an older teen,” Morgan said. “That must have been years ago.”
“Yes,” Anna said. “But that’s the way of the world now. People go their entire lives minding their own business, and then, whoops!” She flung her hands in the air. “Suddenly they remember some terrible thing from their childhood.”
“Repressed memories,” Morgan mumbled, remembering Piers’s offer of hypnotic regression therapy. She glanced up at Anna. “That can actually happen.”
“In this case,” Beatrice said, “it’s not true.”
Teruko shook her head. “Our pastor is not guilty. Of that I am certain.” She folded her hands in her lap.
“Dawn Smith didn’t have a father, and her mother is trailer-park trash,” Beatrice huffed.
“Dawn?” Morgan asked. “That was her name?”
“Yes,” Beatrice said. “Her mother was a drunk. The woman caused a lot of trouble in Golden Springs before she moved to Granite Junction. And now a police detective is in there questioning Pastor Filbury because of her wild-seed daughter.”
Sarah and Dave had gone to the day camp when they spent summers with Kendall and Allie. If the mild-mannered pastor was being interrogated by Detective Parker, he would confess any wrongdoing, Morgan was certain. She scanned the faces of the three women. “You seem sure that he couldn’t have done this.”
They answered at once, their words overlapping.
“Absolutely not.”
“Pastor Filbury is a good man.”
“He is innocent.”
Morgan certainly hoped so.
“If the girl is dead, why would the police question Pastor Filbury about the accusation? What’s the point now?”
Beatrice placed her fists on her wide hips. “Maybe she was murdered, and they think Pastor Filbury killed her to shut her up.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Anna said.
“In this day and age,” Beatrice said, “I’m sad to say it’s a plausible scenario.”
Morgan hoped, for his sake, that the pastor had a good alibi.
“I guess there’s not much I can do here.” Morgan stood. “If the police need me, they know where to find me.”
“What brought you to the church today?” Anna asked.
Morgan pulled fliers out of her canvas bag and handed one to each of the ladies. “A charity fundraiser for Amanda Palmquist.”
“That’s next Saturday,” Beatrice said, studying a flier. “I thought you were only here for two weeks.”
Morgan explained her car troubles.
“It sounds like you need a fundraiser,” Anna said.
“I have options.” Morgan didn’t add that none of them were appealing. “I just have to decide which one to take.”
“Bring your fliers to church tomorrow,” Beatrice said. “I’m sure the pastor won’t mind if you hand them out.”
“I will speak to the elder who makes the announcements,” Teruko said.
“Thanks,” Morgan said. “I’d better get going. I need to clean out stalls.”
“Be careful,” Beatrice said.
Morgan held up her hands. “I’ll wear gloves.”
“I’m not talking about Houdini and Adelaide,” Beatrice said. “This situation with Dawn Smith is turning ugly, and you’re right in the middle of it.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The girl had a name now. Dawn Smith. Rather than resolving anything, that just made her seem more real, and the horror of discovering her body more personal.
The rest of Morgan’s day was too full for her to linger on Beatrice’s warning. After cleaning the barn, she helped Del pull a dead tree to the back of the house using an ATV. It was one more task Kendall had neglected: gathering enough firewood for the winter.
Sunday morning, Morgan joined the ladies in the church kitchen. Teruko took Morgan by the hand.
“Come with me,” Teruko said. “Elder Mark Thompson offered to announce your charity race.”
She led Morgan into the social hall. Elder Thompson towered over the diminutive war bride, and was a head taller than Morgan. His gray hair was short, and his suit crisply pressed.
“Mark, this is the young lady I was telling you about.”
“I have your charity event on the announcement list,” Elder Thompson said, tapping a clipboard. “After the service, I suggest you stand in the doorway to hand out fliers.”
The introit music started, announcing the beginning of the service. Morgan and Teruko hurried to the seats Beatrice and Anna had saved for them.
“The pews haven’t been this full since Christmas,” Beatrice whispered. “Everyone comes out for a show.”
The service began, following the program laid out in the order of service. The hymns, the announcements, everything presented as though it was just another Sunday.
When Pastor Filbury stepped up to the podium, absolute silence fell over the congregation.
Ten minutes into his sermon, he stopped. Pastor Filbury looked out across the pews, a stricken expression creasing his face. Elder Thompson and another gentleman rose from their seats behind the podium and approached the pastor. He waved them back.
“I’m certain none of you can concentrate on my message,” he told the congregation, “just as I can’t concentrate on its delivery. What brought many of you here today is curiosity. You’re wondering whether all this talk around town is true.”
Elder Thompson jumped up. “James, you can’t . . .”
“I understand what I can and can’t say.” Pastor Filbury pressed the knot in his tie with his fingertips. “I wish I could clear up this whole matter right now. Unfortunately I have been told that I may not speak on the subject you, as a congregation, most want to hear about.”
He paused, taking a sip from the glass of water on the podium. Teruko wrapped her frail hands around Morgan’s arm.
“When we hear of scandal on the television news, or from our neighbor, we have a tendency to assume an attitude of outrage, especially when there’s a child involved.”
Gasps and mumbling rolled across the pews.
“My friends,” Pastor Filbury continued, “you will all have an opinion, based on reality or gossip or the newspaper headline. Stand by me or against me. It does not matter. Either way, this congregation will be divided. We don’t know how long this investigation will take, but I do know, with certainty, that this process will be too disruptive for our congregation. I have discussed this with the Board, and while they do not agree with my decision, they have given me permission to step down—”
The low murmuring escalated to a roar.
“No!” Morgan heard behind her. “You have to fight this!”
Others expressed similar sentiments.
Pastor Filbury held up his hands. The crowd quieted.
“My plan is to step down temporarily. The elders will appoint a rotating schedule of guest speakers. I’ll let Elder Thompson explain how this will work.”
Thompson stepped up to the podium as Pastor Filbury left the chancel. The elder held up his hands, attempting unsuccessfully to quiet the congregation.
Morgan had time to consider which side she was on, the ardent supporters of the kindly old pastor or the ones willing to believe the
worst about him. Her children had been in the very church camp the dead girl, Dawn Smith, had attended. If there was a danger, they had been exposed to it, while she was hundreds of miles away in Sioux Falls. But Sarah and Dave had never showed any signs of abuse. No sudden change of behavior, or reluctance to return to Golden Springs.
The crowd finally calmed enough for Elder Thompson to present the plan to request guest speakers from the district pool of semi-retired pastors, and pastors-in-training, to fill in for Filbury. He did not have the undivided attention of the audience.
The abbreviated order of service segued to the closing hymn. Morgan grabbed her stack of fliers, handing half to Teruko, and took her post at the door to the social hall.
People accepted the fliers she thrust at them. Some jotted their names and phone numbers on Morgan’s clipboard.
“Are we going to walk together?” a woman asked.
“We’ll meet up at the park the morning of the race,” Morgan said.
Voices rose to shouts in the social hall. Morgan could see Cindy’s redheaded husband, Herb, towering over the cluster of people surrounding him.
“This accusation came straight from the mouth of Satan,” Herb yelled. “Our pastor is innocent!”
A man answered, in a voice not quite as loud, that he preferred not to place blind trust in a man who had access to his children.
“It’s foolish not to investigate,” the man said. “Our children are at stake here.”
“Are you calling me a fool, Chris?” Herb asked.
“If the shoe—”
Herb swung his fist, but it glanced ineffectively off Chris’s shoulder. Chris pushed Herb. They scuffled briefly, grappling and shoving more than exchanging blows, until cooler heads pulled them apart. Elder Thompson placed a hand on each man’s shoulder.
“This is neither the time nor the place for strife,” he said. “We have to stand together.”
“How far do you expect to stretch our trust?” Chris asked. “Don’t you think it’s awfully strange, that girl dying right before she’s supposed to talk to the police?”
“Yeah,” another man said. “That was convenient.”
Herb raised his hands, clenched into fists.
“Brothers,” Elder Thompson said, “let’s not forget we’re in a house of worship.”
He calmed the crowd, sending the men and their families on their way with no further violence.
Beatrice pulled Morgan toward the kitchen.
“I never thought I’d see the day,” Beatrice said, shaking her head.
The ladies seemed as reluctant as Morgan to leave. They lingered over tea in the church kitchen, discussing the scenarios that could lead to a young woman falsely accusing Pastor Filbury of unspeakable crimes. Even more unimaginable to them was the willingness of people to believe the accusation.
No customers dropped in when Morgan opened for business that afternoon. Del and Cindy both had the day off. She grabbed the phone when it rang, desperate to hear a human voice.
“Hello?”
“Want to see a movie?” Bernie asked.
“What’s playing?”
“One screen, no choices,” Bernie said. “This week it’s a comedy. I heard it’s not bad.”
“I can use a laugh.”
“Tough day?” Bernie asked.
“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you,” Morgan said.
After the movie, they ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant, where Morgan filled Bernie in on the drama at Golden Springs Community Church.
By the time Morgan drove up the hill, it was late. Clouds darkened the sky. Morgan regretted not leaving any lights on at the shop. She almost missed the turn into the parking lot, despite the helpful dinosaur pointing to the rock shop. It was difficult to negotiate the driveway, until the motion sensor lights clicked on.
The converted carriage house filled with red light as Morgan backed in beside the ATVs. She closed the garage doors, and double-checked the latch on the gate.
Dry leaves clinging to the bushes rustled in the dark, although there was no breeze to stir them.
“Hello?”
Gravel crunched under feet other than her own. Probably deer, Morgan told herself. Del had told her there was a resident herd on the property. Or maybe the donkeys.
“Houdini?” Morgan called. “Is that you?”
There was no answer. The donkeys might be unusually charming, but they couldn’t talk. Morgan hurried across the empty parking lot, past the front of the rock shop, to the barn. She ducked inside the small door to the right of the double doors, and leaned against it, straining to hear above her own rapid breathing.
Whatever was lurking in the bushes, it hadn’t been a donkey. Houdini and Adelaide stood in their stall, half asleep. They woke for their hay and oats, and let Morgan know with reproachful glares and indignant stamping of hooves that it was well past dinnertime.
She tried to atone for her tardiness with the currycomb. The brush curved around the female donkey’s broad side.
“Adelaide, you didn’t need dinner. You’re getting fat.”
Morgan lingered in the barn. She didn’t look forward to the walk back to the dark shop.
Living alone in Sioux Falls, she had rarely been fearful. Her garage was connected to the house, the neighbors were right next door, and emergency services were a reliable phone call away.
Morgan peeked out the small barn door. She stepped outside, then took a deep breath and raced across the parking lot to the front door of the shop. She stumbled on something hard. It was a rock, not a body, but that realization didn’t slow her pounding heart. She wished she had the pepper spray in hand right now. Not that it would help her any. Barton had assessed her skill with his comment, “You need to improve your aim.”
The lid to a trash can crashed onto the stone walkway with a metallic clatter. It rolled across the gravel, slamming into an ore cart.
Morgan jammed her key into the lock. It wouldn’t turn. Her hands trembled as she fumbled with the key, wondering whether she had enough time to make a run back to the barn. The key turned. The lock opened. Morgan stumbled inside, slamming the door closed behind her. She waited a moment, listening. The only sound was her own blood pounding through her veins.
Safe inside the shop, Morgan struggled less with the lock to the living quarters. She checked the latches on all the windows, then braced kitchen chairs under the doorknobs of the door to the shop and the door to the back pasture.
Inside the bedroom, she jammed another kitchen chair under the doorknob, and tugged the wardrobe in front of the window.
Huddled under the quilt, Morgan clutched her nearly useless cell phone in one hand, and Del’s pepper spray in the other.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
When Del arrived the next morning, Morgan was perched beside the cash register, guzzling coffee as though it were the nectar of life.
“Excuse me for noticing,” Del said, “but you look like something the cat dragged in.”
“I didn’t sleep well. There was something outside.”
“I saw the trash can knocked over,” Del said. “Probably a raccoon.”
“Another raccoon,” Morgan mumbled. “Between magpies and raccoons, I’m going to have a heart attack.”
“The gate was open, too.” He reached for the coffee pot.
“The front gate?” she asked. “It’s always open.”
“No, the paddock gate.” Del poured the half cup remaining into his mug. “Move out of the way, and I’ll start another pot.”
Morgan slouched over to the aspen bench, clutching her coffee mug in one hand. Del headed to the restroom.
“Houdini and Adelaide were about to make a break for it,” he said. “An open gate is just an opportunity for those two.”
“I did not leave the gate open.” Morgan yawned. “It must have been the raccoon.”
Del walked back to the counter. He poured water into the coffeemaker and filled the basket with ground coffee. The pot gurg
led. The smell of coffee filled the shop. Morgan struggled to her feet and leaned on the counter, holding her empty mug out like a beggar seeking coins.
The phone rang. Del poured her a cup with one hand and picked up the telephone receiver with the other.
“Rock of Ages.” Pause. “Denver Post?” Pause. “What’s your business?” Del returned the carafe to the coffeemaker and put his hand over the phone receiver. “Do you want to talk to a reporter about the body? How’s that related to the pastor of the Golden Springs Community Church? And when were you going to mention all this to me? The last question is mine.”
“I don’t want to talk to any reporters.”
Del spoke into the phone. “Mrs. Iverson does not wish to speak to any reporters. No, not tomorrow or the next day either.” He hung up. “So what’s this about Pastor Filbury?”
Morgan blew on her coffee and took a quick sip. She set the mug on the counter. “Apparently, the girl I found, Dawn Smith, had accused Pastor Filbury of molesting her at the summer church camp when she was a child.”
“Have they said yet how she died?”
“No,” Morgan said. “They questioned the pastor, so maybe they suspect foul play.”
The phone rang. Del answered. It was another newspaper. Then one of the Granite Junction television stations called.
“Someone must know something,” Del told Morgan. “Or else the news people are just desperate for a scandal.”
A battered truck pulled up in the Rock of Ages parking lot.
“The phone isn’t good enough for them?” Morgan asked.
“That’s not a reporter,” Del said. “That’s Barton.”
“Great,” Morgan groaned. “The guy I almost pepper-sprayed.”
The shaggy-bearded runner entered the shop carrying a cardboard box that had seen better days.
“What ya got?” Del asked.
Barton set the box on the glass display case. “Tools. Cans. Wire. Some nails.”
Morgan peeked in the box. More rusted junk.
“How much you want for it?” Del asked.
Barton scratched his beard and scrunched his face, making his whiskers bristle. “I dunno. Doesn’t look like much, but I noticed the hikers have helped themselves to more every time I go up there.”
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