He nodded, glancing down at his plate. "I miss them too."
She stood there for another minute looking directly at him, then picked up Mallory's plate and utensils and carried them to the sink.
Noah took a bite of the scrapple and closed his eyes in sheer pleasure at the taste of it, the taste of home. "Is there something you'd like me to do for you today, Consuelo?" he asked. "Something that needs fixing, maybe?"
"Faucet leaks." She nodded in the direction of the kitchen sink. "I ask my husband for two years to fix it." She gave a wave of her hand. "He tells me si every day. He doesn't fix it."
Noah smiled to himself. Consuelo and Mateo were an interesting couple. She was at least ten years older than he was, and they argued constantly, yet they were utterly devoted to each other and would not stand to listen to someone else criticize the other. In their family, Consuelo gave the orders, and for the most part, Mateo ignored them. Noah's parents had hired them when Noah was still in high school—Consuelo to care for the house and help with the cooking, and Mateo to work in the vineyard alongside his parents. The Santoris had been as devoted to his parents as they were to each other.
When Noah had finished his breakfast and accepted a second cup of coffee from Consuelo, he joined Chester on the front porch. He was just easing down to sit on the top step and enjoy his coffee when he heard a vehicle approaching up the driveway. Despite the years that had passed, he recognized the old black truck and the bearded man leaning with his arm out the open window as he pulled into the yard.
Joshua Troyer nodded, lifting his sweat-stained straw hat as his truck sputtered to a halt. "Eeh-ya," he greeted.
Noah nodded back. "Morning, Joshua." He got to his feet, offering his hand to the man in his early sixties. Though Joshua was Mennonite, he still looked as if he were Amish, dressed as if he were Amish, spoke as if he were Amish. The only giveaway to his "leaving the church" to marry Miss Trudy Haan, a Mennonite, was the black '77 Ford pickup he drove. Even the "modern" Amish in Delaware still didn't drive cars, not for personal use at least.
"Good to have you home," Joshua said solemnly.
"Can't tell you how good it is to be home." Noah was touched that Joshua would come to welcome him home. "Can I get you a cup of coffee?"
Joshua shook his head. "Not thirsty. Just wanted to stop. Got to go to the mill." He stroked his brown beard, streaked with gray. "Outta chicken feed."
Noah nodded.
Joshua nodded. Spat on the ground. Glanced off in the distance. He was a man of few words. "Eeh-ya..."
Noah could tell the man had something to say, but there was no need to rush him. Joshua, like Mattie, wasn't a man to be rushed. He'd come out with it when he was good and ready.
"You heard the news from town?" Joshua said finally.
Noah took a sip of his coffee. "I've been out of touch with Stephen Kill for some time, Josh."
He nodded, running his thumbs beneath his dirty suspenders. "Eeh-ya... figured you might." He rocked back. "Last night's news."
"What's that?"
"Man stoned."
"Stoned?" Noah stared at him, his meaning not registering. Where he'd been living, stoned meant something different than what Joshua Troyer probably meant by it. "I don't understand."
"Kilt. Stoned to death." Joshua continued to gaze out on the fields beyond the house.
Noah took a step back, sitting down hard on the second step. "You're kidding," he breathed glancing up. "Who?"
"Johnny Leager from off Old Mill Road."
Noah closed his eyes for a moment, tenting his hands. He didn't pray, but old habits died slowly. Johnny Leager had been one of his parishioners at St. Paul's. He knew him well, knew his whole family. Johnny and Stacey had hit a rough place in their marriage at one point, and Johnny had come in for counseling.
"Nobody sayin' fer sure what happened." Joshua eyed him shrewdly. "But I heard he was kilt with the bricks from his own house. Head bashed in."
Noah didn't know what to say. A murder in Stephen Kill? It had been at least thirty years since someone was murdered in the sleepy little town, and that had involved a land dispute and two drunks with shotguns. They'd only had a police force for fifty years, and it mostly issued parking and speeding tickets and dealt with trespassing and hunting on private property. A murder so vicious... Noah couldn't imagine who could do such a thing. Certainly not anyone among them; it had to be a stranger from outside.
"Was it a robbery?" he asked. He couldn't imagine how it would be, though; the Leagers barely lived above the poverty line in a modular home built thirty years ago on a sandy piece of property outside of town. What could they possibly have to steal?
"Don't know that anybody knows yet why." Joshua gave the front tire of his old truck a kick and spat. "Eeh-ya." He stood another moment and then opened the door. "Wanted to greet ya, neighbor."
"Well, thank you." Noah rose from the step. "I appreciate that."
"Know it's gotta be hard comin' back." Joshua climbed into the truck and slammed the door, resting a suntanned arm through the open window. "Don't know where you'll be goin' to church, wanted to extend the invitation. We're all sinners in God's eyes, son."
Noah stared at his feet. He had no intention of attending Stephen Kill Mennonite Church, or any other church, but he wasn't going to insult Joshua. He was a good man with a good heart. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Eeh-ya." The older man cranked on the ignition and it fired. He threw the old truck into reverse, backed into the spot in front of the open garage, and pulled away, oyster shells flying, tipping his straw hat as he went.
Noah lifted his hand and watched the truck disappear. "Eeh-ya," he muttered mimicking the Mennonite.
Chester whined and trotted awkwardly down the front porch steps, wagging his tail. As Noah leaned over to pat the dog's head, he heard car tires on the driveway again. He doubted it was Joshua coming back; it just wasn't like him. He came to say what he had to say and then he was gone.
A moment later a blue sedan appeared, crawling slowly up the driveway. Behind the wheel was gray-haired Cora Watkins, the woman who had been the church secretary at St. Paul's for the last forty-some years and had served as Noah's secretary when he'd been the parish priest there. He wasn't surprised to see her. Maybe surprised she hadn't turned up sooner. She and her sister and their neighbor were the unofficial welcome wagon of Stephen Kill. Not only did they welcome newcomers to town, but they made an appearance at every death, illness, or crisis, being the first to inquire and collect the gritty particulars of any occasion.
Cora Watkins steered her old Pontiac into the parking space in front of the garage, fished something off the floor on the passenger's side and got out, making her way toward him with surprising vigor for a woman of her age and girth. Like most of the single or widowed middle-aged women in town, she was short, plump, and wore a sensible helmet of white hair, which she had done every Friday afternoon at the Fantasy Hair Salon across from the post office in town.
Noah wasn't certain he was ready to face his old secretary from the church, but it didn't matter because here she was. "Miss Cora." He stood his ground at the base of the porch steps, stiffening his spine, and Chester slumped into the grass beside him in a show of solidarity.
"Father Gibson—"
"Noah will do."
She drew a plump palm to her cheek, flustered. "I brought this banana nut bread over." She offered the foiled-wrapped loaf, neatly marked "Banana Nut" in black Sharpie.
The bread was cold in his hand. Frozen. He imagined she and her sister had hundreds of loaves in their freezer for just such occasions as welcoming their ex-priest home after a stint in county prison. "Thank you." He raised the loaf and let his hand fall, not knowing what else to say. It didn't matter; he knew Cora would do all the talking for him.
"Just wanted to welcome you home." She smoothed her navy polyester shirt over her slightly protruding abdomen. "Clara and Alice send a warm welcome. They were sorry they couldn't come by th
is morning, but it's folding day at the thrift shop. We thought about coming this afternoon, but I thought it wouldn't be right, waiting that long."
He nodded.
"We just wanted to see if you were getting settled." She glanced around the farmyard. "Are you getting settled? Rachel, she isn't home?"
He shook his head.
"No, I don't suppose she would be. Saturday. Mallory has a horseback riding class this morning, and Mattie's off to the sanctuary to rehearse for tomorrow morning, isn't he?" She clucked sympathetically. "One of God's angels, that Mattie. And Rachel a guardian angel for taking him in when nobody else would. Don't you think?" She didn't even wait for a response this time. "I see, well, I just wanted to see if you were getting settled, bring you the bread." She nodded in the direction of the frozen loaf he held at his side. "It's good. Fresh from this week. Alice made it, was her turn. Alice's banana bread. Special. She gives nobody that recipe. Not even me." She smiled, obviously feeling awkward but seeming to be in no hurry to go. "So are you?" she asked. "Settling in?" She paused.
He figured he was going to be forced to answer this time. "Yes, thank you. And thank you for the bread." He raised the loaf a couple of inches and let his hand fall at his side again.
"I should be going. I know you must have heard. A terrible tragedy at the Leagers'." Her gray-blue eyes lit up with a macabre excitement. "Clara and Alice and I thought we would wait until this afternoon, until after the police have gone, and then go to pay our respects to the widow and children. She'll be needing bread, don't you think? Terrible tragedy, just terrible. What with family coming and all for the funeral." She looked at him, his cue for another response.
"Yeah," he agreed, sliding his free hand into his jeans pocket. "It probably would be a good idea to wait, maybe even a day or two."
"Well, must be off." She raised her hand as she trotted for her car. "Enjoy your bread, Father."
"I will." He held up the frozen loaf that suddenly seemed immensely heavy to him. "Thank you, Miss Cora."
"Oh." She turned back. "Clara told me to mention to you that the bell choir still meets on Wednesday nights if you'd care to join us. There'll be brownies afterwards, of course." She gave a little giggle and got into her car.
As Cora drove away, Mateo strolled across the yard toward him, his face shadowed by the large, dog-eared straw cowboy hat he always wore.
"Miss Cora, my old secretary," Noah explained. "Banana nut bread."
"If I had pigs," Mateo said with a slight Hispanic accent, his tanned brown face devoid of emotion, "I’d feed the bread to the pigs. Bad cooks. Not like my Consuelo." He grimaced and then shrugged. "Come on. Posts to be planted." He walked past Noah, taking the foil-wrapped loaf from his hand and setting it on the porch rail. "Hard work. Sweat. It’ll be good for you."
Noah and the dog followed.
* * *
Snowden stood in the stone tile vestibule of St. Paul's Episcopal Church, his feet planted firmly, his thumbs tucked in his wide, black leather gun belt, trying not to fidget. His partner today—a Miss Delilah Swift, barely five feet tall, blond and cute as a button—stood beside him, her attempts far less successful. The handcuffs on the back of her belt jingled as she seemed to dance, reminding him of a busy bee. Ordinarily, he didn't get the chance to do much real police work anymore, but she was still in training and he didn't want her working alone yet.
"I can't believe someone would kill a man that way, Chief, can you?" she asked in her sweet southern drawl, not giving him time to answer before she went on. She continued to shuffle through the leaflets on a table near the entrance from the street. "I mean, you know this kind of thing happens, you read it in the magazines at the doctors' offices and the like, but you just don't think it can happen to you, do you? Not a nice town like this, not nice people like the Leagers."
Snowden slid his hand into his gray uniform pocket, checking again to be sure the photocopy of the note was still there, even though he knew very well it was. He was a detail man. A man who didn't lose things and didn't make mistakes. A man better than most because he had to be.
The original note left at the scene of the crime was already sealed and placed in the evidence box back at the station. He didn't know what to make of it, that was why he was here, but he had a bad feeling in his gut. Aching bad.
A door clicked somewhere, echoing in the high ceiling overhead, and Snowden instinctively gazed upward to the vaulted ceiling with its intricately carved, arched beams and the old chandelier that had once held candles but been altered for electricity at some point in time. It was one of the church's finest antiquities, he had learned from reading the brochure on the table behind him.
Father Hailey appeared dressed in jeans, an oxford shirt, and shiny white Rockport sneakers. He was an ordinary man, late fifties with a slight paunch and a bald head except for the characteristic ring of white hair he wore like the crown of olive leaves on the saint's head in the stained-glass window behind them. He offered his hand, pumping Snowden's. "Chief Calloway."
"Thank you for seeing me, Father. This is Sergeant Swift."
"Pleased to meet you, Father," she said in her southern drawl, shaking his hand.
"I'm only sorry it's not under better circumstances. Let's go to my office." He gestured, showing them the way. "I understand you're new with our fine police force, Sergeant."
"Yes, sir. Transferred from a little town west of Atlanta. Needed a change of scenery after I had to lock up my boyfriend for assaulting an officer of the law." She smiled sweetly.
Snowden smiled inside. He liked Delilah, and had from the first fax he received from her applying for the job.
Of course there had been nothing but talk since he hired her. A black man, hiring a twenty-eight-year-old white woman instead of the fifty-year-old ex-marine everyone said should have had Snowden's job to begin with. To his disappointment but not total surprise, the talk had turned foul within days of her arrival, once everyone got a look at her and found out she was attractive and single. Twice in the first month she'd been on the force, he'd had to place an order with the public works department to have inappropriate graffiti referring to their relationship removed from city facilities, once on the brick wall in front of the junior/senior high and then on one of the dugouts at the Little League park. Whichever little pecker-head had done it hadn't even gotten the anatomy quite right, though he'd been a stickler for skin color.
"I'm not certain that I can be of much help," Father Hailey said, leading them down a short flight of steps, then a hallway lined with preschoolers' drawings of lambs and rocks. "I've already been out to see Mrs. Leager. A doctor had to be called in to sedate her, so I thought I'd return this evening. She has family flying in this afternoon."
"What I have to show you, Father, must be kept in the strictest of confidence. The state police recommended that we not reveal to anyone that a note was left. It's a way of filtering out false leads."
"I understand, of course. Confidentiality is in the job description." He flashed a wane smile over his shoulder as he passed the secretary's empty desk and led them through a doorway into his office. He indicated they should sit in one of the chairs in front of his desk as he walked around to the other side and sat in the executive chair.
Snowden chose to stand, and when Delilah realized he wasn't sitting, she popped off the end of the chair, her handcuffs jingling. It almost would have been comical, had it not been for the circumstances.
As Father Hailey settled behind his desk, Snowden took the opportunity to study the bookshelves that lined one wall of the cramped, musty-smelling office. Books could reveal a great deal about a person, he had discovered over the years. The priest had the usual various translations of the Bible, biblical commentaries, and concordances. Then there were hardback and paperback books on the Gospels and an assortment of annotations on Old Testament books. On the far end, toward the bottom beside a child's sculpture of what was either a Christ figure or a penguin, was Father Hailey's small, pe
rsonal collection: a daily devotions workbook; a small, worn Bible; some Christian men's magazines; and a book on freshwater angling. Snowden found that last book interesting because southern Delaware was far from any angling river he knew of.
"Chief Calloway, could... could I see it?" Father Hailey asked putting on a pair of large wire-framed reading glasses. Suddenly he seemed a little nervous.
"Of course." Snowden turned from the bookshelf and slipped the photocopy from his pocket. He leaned over the desk to hand it to the priest. "The original has to be kept for evidence," he explained. "We were just wondering what your initial impression of it was, you being a man of the cloth. I intend to visit Father Clyde at Our Lady of Lourdes as well."
Father Hailey glanced at the copy quickly and then peered over the rims of his glasses. "The verse is from the Old Testament, of course."
"Yes, Leviticus." Snowden watched him carefully, interested in his change in demeanor. Why was his forehead sweaty all of a sudden?
"You know your Bible, Chief. Leviticus is a book most of us like to avoid if at all possible."
"Grandson of a Southern Baptist, sir. The more hellfire and damnation, the better we like it." His gaze strayed to the cross-stitched sign on the opposite wall from the bookshelf. It was poorly done, in bad color combinations.
"My wife made that for me years ago when I was first ordained," Father Hailey explained, smiling.
"Mr. Leager was murdered Father, in a very personal way." Snowden's gaze returned to the bookshelves. "Nothing was stolen. Nothing inside the house was disturbed. There is not even any indication that an intruder entered the house. This note, which we assume was written and left by the killer, would suggest Mr. Leager had committed adultery, don't you think?" He glanced at the man behind the desk.
"I wouldn't be at liberty to say, of course... if he had," Father Hailey answered fiddling with the piece of paper. "I mean if I knew he had."
Delilah looked at Snowden. She thought it was a strange response to the question, too. Snowden hadn't asked the father if Johnny Leager was cheating on his wife. "We just wanted to confirm our interpretation. And see if you recognize the handwriting."
Unspoken Fear Page 4
