The Preacher's First Murder

by K. Gresham

  He put down the glass. “The vet said whoever did it hadn’t given Shadow enough to kill him.” Bo looked Angie straight in the eye. “There’s no doubt it was intentional. It was wrapped up in a ball of raw hamburger.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “Wasp poison.”

  Chapter Four

  Love and the Muster Tree

  Elsbeth Novak, wife of James W., stood at Matt’s church office the next morning before the ten-thirty worship. Her well-rounded form was tightly cinched into a double-breasted brown suede suit, and the double strand of large pearls at her neck made sure the world knew she had money.

  She looked the picture of gluttony, Matt thought as he sorted through the keys for the one that fit his office door. Smelled it, too, he realized with disgust. She had enough perfume on to perform duty in a funeral parlor.

  “I need a minute of your time.” Elsbeth followed him into his office.

  “A minute’s about all I have,” Matt said, glancing at his watch. He’d gotten a late start on his sermon last night, after finding Shadow in the church parking lot and going back to Angie’s. Of course, he’d already written one for today, but last night’s events had provided new inspiration. The fact that he’d skipped breakfast to make it to church on time added to his discomfort.

  “I’m here about next Sunday. Lay Sunday?” Elsbeth settled herself with a squeak into the black upholstered chair opposite Matt’s desk. “I have the best news!”

  He looked impatiently out the door as the sound of voices increased in the narthex. He should be getting his robes on for the service.

  “Jimmy Jr. is comin’ to town next Sunday!” Elsbeth said triumphantly.

  That caught Matt’s attention. He laid the sermon folder on his desk. “The soon-to-be- governor, Jimmy Jr.?” He smiled. “I look forward to meeting him.”

  “You’re not just goin’ to meet him,” Elsbeth said with excitement. “He’s decided to preach!”

  “Preach?” Matt echoed, the wind sucked out of him.

  “It’s Lay Sunday, Reverend! Isn’t that perfect?”

  “We already have three lay people lined up with talks, five minutes each.”

  “Oh, five minutes would never do,” Elsbeth continued. “Jimmy Jr. has a whole platform he can talk about. His campaign theme is ‘Do unto others.’ That’s right out of the Bible!”

  “Yes, I know, Mrs. Novak.” Matt felt his neck start to redden.

  “The media is travelin’ with him now. You should see all the attention he’s gettin’. Texas Monthly is even doin’ a story about the family!” Elsbeth went on. “Think of what that’ll do for evangelism for Grace.”

  Matt listened to her chatter, all the while counting in his mind the length of the next week’s service. Besides the three lay people who were giving talks, two choirs would be singing, and Warren Yeck, bless him, was doing the prayers. Warren, who served as part-time custodian for Grace Lutheran, was a mastermind with a hammer and nail, but it took him twenty words to say what most folks could cover in three.

  Now Elsbeth wanted her son to use the service as a campaign stop.

  “Perhaps you could give me your son’s phone number,” Matt said, thinking that a dinner after Sunday service might be a better forum for the gubernatorial candidate.

  “He can’t be bothered with phone calls, Preacher. I’ll make all of the arrangements. It’ll be wonderful. You’ll see.” She grabbed her expensive leather handbag and stood. “By the way, my husband said somethin’ about your being over at the Fire and Ice House last night. Even after I talked to you about That Woman yesterday afternoon. I’ve decided, however, I don’t need to mention that to Miss Olivia. You know how she feels about that place.”

  She headed for the door, then turned back, a victorious smile on her face. “I’ll tell Jimmy Jr. that you’re delighted about next Sunday. Thanks for your time, Reverend.”

  ***

  One of the things Matt enjoyed most about being a preacher was Sunday morning worship. To be sure, many clergy dreaded the exercise. Choirs and Bible readings and sermons needed coordination. Ushers and acolytes had to be recruited and trained. And every parishioner seemed to have some tidbit of business that they’d saved up for Sunday when they saw the preacher.

  For Matt, however, the Sunday morning experience was exciting and worshipful. Sure it was hectic, he acknowledged, but for the most part it was people coming together to celebrate God. Everyone had an opinion on how this or that should be done, of course, but the very fact that they had an opinion meant they cared.

  This Sunday was the celebration of Epiphany. Matt would talk, sing, pray and meditate about the very thing that fascinated him most about God.

  Love.

  After Warren Yeck finished with the gospel reading, Matt got up from his seat in the front pew. He climbed the four stairs to the stage that held the pulpit on the right, the lectern to the left and, straight ahead, the altar which was elevated another three steps. Above the altar was an intricate stained glass window depicting Christ as the Good Shepherd.

  He walked to the pulpit which was carved in the same dark oak as the altar. Matt had preached fourteen sermons from this pulpit since he’d arrived at Grace. Six Sunday mornings’ worth, four midweek Advent, two services Christmas Eve, one Christmas morning and one New Year’s Eve. Every one of those sermons had followed the gospel for the day to the letter. Every one of them would have made his seminary instructors proud. They’d been theologically truthful. Scripturally sound.

  And, very possibly, blatantly boring.

  His congregation seemed pleased with Matt ever since he’d arrived. He’d like to think it was because he was a good minister. He suspected it was because he hadn’t asked them to think much about their own ministry.

  The honeymoon was about to end.

  As the last strains of the sermon hymn echoed from the congregation, Matt bowed his head in silent prayer.

  The congregation waited expectantly for the safe, old story of the Wise Men visiting the baby Jesus—the event that marked Epiphany. Folks sat comfortably in their pews, legs crossed, eyes raised in contented curiosity; a few blew their noses in anticipation of the silence that should accompany the sermon of the day.

  Matt looked off to his left. The Yeck brothers, Warren and Ben, sat in the very last pew, ready to fix a squeaky microphone or adjust a dimmer on a light switch as needed. Pearl and Ernie Masterson were in their appointed pew—lectern side, fourth row back from the pillar that marked the halfway point of the sanctuary. Sundays were the only days Matt saw Ernie Masterson out from under the slime of his garage, though Matt still felt a touch of grease always remained somewhere on Ernie’s countenance. Other Sunday morning regulars sat in their customary spots, ritual rather than choice dictating their seating arrangement.

  Finally, Matt let his gaze fall on the second pew from the front, pulpit side. Though three members of the Wilks clan usually took up the seats nearest the center aisle, today only Elsbeth Novak and Miss Olivia sat in the pew.

  James W. was still out looking for Maeve O’Day.

  Matt drew a deep breath. “Epiphany,” he said, looking out over the congregation. He let the word hang in the air while over a hundred and fifty pairs of eyes stared back at him. “The time we celebrate the Three Wise Men following the Star, fulfilling their destiny, and finding the baby Jesus.

  “What is our destiny? What is it about Epiphany that we can celebrate in our own lives today?”

  He scanned the faces of his congregation. After six weeks, he knew most of his parishioners by name.

  “It’s very simple, dear brothers and sisters in Christ. Jesus told us to love God with all of our hearts, minds and souls. And then he said to love each other as we love ourselves. When we do as Jesus commanded, we fulfill our own destiny.”

  He looked at the second row. Miss Olivia, her sharp eyes and sharper chin pointed directly at him. Next to her, Elsbeth Novak furrowed her brow in curiosity.
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  He held her gaze for a solemn moment before continuing.

  “Today we have a special opportunity to show that love to a fellow member of our community. As many of you have heard, Maeve O’Day, a victim of Alzheimer’s disease and a longtime resident of Wilks, Texas, is missing.”

  His voice softened. “I understand you’ve all met at the Muster Tree before—another time, another missing person.”

  He allowed his gaze to connect with Elsbeth Novak’s. There was no doubt as to her level of emotion. Whereas Miss Olivia’s face was white as her hair, Elsbeth’s was as red as the hymnal she held in her lap. “Bad times bring a community together,” he said more in one last plea to the two women rather than to the total of the gathering before him.

  “As a congregation, we can show the love of Christ to this community. Though this may not be the first time we’ve had to look for a lost member of Wilks, we can all pray this is the last.”

  Chapter Five

  On the Scent

  “Cold day,” Matt called out as he stepped over the sidewalk chain.

  James W. looked up from the map he studied under the tall live oak that dominated Wilks Town Square and snorted. He’d gotten an earful from his wife about the new pastor’s sermon. James W. was loath to risk Elsbeth’s anger by having a jovial conversation with the preacher in eyesight of his mother’s house, where he knew Elsbeth and Miss Olivia were watching the activities on the Square. He shrugged off the notion, however. He was the sheriff. His wife was . . . sometimes . . . a pain in the neck.

  James W. stuck his hands in the front pockets of his wrinkled khaki uniform pants and nodded. “Gonna be colder,” he said. “Norther’s blowin’ through. We’ll be lucky if Shadow gets a scent before it rains.”

  “Shadow’s all right, then?” Matt asked.

  “Weaker than hell,” James W. said and pushed off the bumper of his four-door truck. “Let’s get this shindig started,” he called to the group of fifty that had gathered around the tree.

  He waited wearily while his deputies passed around maps and coordinated cell phone numbers. He’d been up all night looking for Maeve O’Day. He had a bad feeling about not being able to find the old woman.

  It reminded him too much of the futile search conducted thirty-five years earlier for his father.

  That search party had started out small as well, no one really thinking any harm had come to Cash Novak. Danny Don Dube had been the sheriff. James W., just twenty-five years of age, was the newest deputy on Danny Don’s staff. After a full day and night of searching, however, Danny Don had called together a search party. Like today, a good number of townsfolk had come out. More on horses back then.

  On that day as well, the weather had also been cold and getting colder—a late-spring cold spell in April 1980.

  The month from which his family had never recovered.

  April 1980 was the month the entire nation had plummeted into despair at word that President Carter’s attempt to free the American hostages in Iran had failed with the death of eight soldiers. Then the next day, a Saturday James W. would never forget, word that his brother was one of those killed in the rescue attempt had been delivered by a uniformed colonel from Fort Hood and Pastor Osterburg, then the pastor of Grace Lutheran. Roth Novak, James W.’s older brother, was dead.

  Suddenly the grief of a nation held hostage became personal. No longer was the pain he felt only for the Americans “over there.” Now his anguish was for the American that would never return. His half-brother.

  Miss Olivia had been alone that day when the news came. Cash Novak was a mover and a shaker in Texas politics although he’d never held office and had still been in Houston after the Reagan/Carter Presidential debate. There were no cell phones back then. Ernie Masterson had finally found a friend of a friend who knew where Cash was. Ernie gave Cash the news of Roth’s death and supposedly Cash had left Houston immediately to come back to Wilks. He never made it home.

  One stunning event after another. In a way, James W. had never recovered from those events. In one swoop, he’d become an only child and a son with no pa. As much as it affected him, however, James W. knew that his mother changed in her very soul. He’d known Miss Olivia to be stern before April of 1980. Thinking back now, however, he struggled to remember a time since then that Miss Olivia had laughed.

  None came to mind.

  “Split into parties of twos and threes.” James W. pulled himself from his memories when he realized the crowd was staring at him expectantly. “Warren, you take the church van and load up the first aid equipment. Every group should have my cell number on speed dial, and don’t be textin’ to anybody else while we’re looking. Y’all got your assignments on the maps Richard gave you. Questions?”

  James W. surveyed the crowd. A good portion of them looked to be members from Grace Lutheran. “Thanks for the help, Preacher,” he said in an aside to Matt, then turned back to the crowd. “Let’s go!”

  ***

  “I heard what you did in church today,” Angie said as she gave her dog a drink from the jug she carried. For two miles she’d walked wordlessly between the pastor and the sheriff as Shadow led the group west, passed the Yeck Feed Store, the broken-down trailer park where Dorothy Jo Devereaux lived and on out toward open country. The group had come to a rest stop at a clump of trees, when they realized Shadow was leading them up the entrance ramp to Interstate 71.

  Matt shrugged. “It seemed like the Christian thing to do.”

  “Some people in that church don’t give a hoot about what’s the Christian thing to do.” She put the cap back on the jug and patted Shadow’s head. He had Mamma’s scent all right. The dog had set a fast pace for the group to follow.

  “Your dog knows right where he’s going,” Matt said, as if reading her mind.

  “He’s a good huntin’ dog,” Angie allowed.

  “Good hunting dogs are hard to come by.”

  “Not as hard as good people.” She turned on her heel and walked away. She couldn’t figure the preacher out, and right now she didn’t want to try. All she could think about was her mamma. How far out in the country Shadow had already led them. How her frail mother could never have walked this far out of town.

  “Is Shadow all right?” James W. joined them.

  “He’s angry we stopped,” Angie said.

  Indeed, it looked as if Shadow was impatient to get going again. The dog stood on the ramp, pulling against his leash first to the right of the road, then the left.

  “He’s gonna wear himself out,” James W. said. “The vet said he’s nowhere near bein’ well.”

  “We could ride until the first exit,” Matt suggested.

  “He’ll lose the scent,” Angie said in disgust.

  “He’ll pick it up again if it’s there,” Matt answered. “If it’s not, we’ll know we’ve gone too far.”

  James W. crooked his head. “You know about bloodhounds, Preacher?”

  “I know about search dogs. My brother was a cop in . . . Denver. Kept a dog to sniff out drugs and . . .” He looked at Angie and stopped. “Whatever.”

  “Dead bodies,” Angie finished for him.

  Matt bowed his head. “Sometimes.”

  James W. turned to the search party. “Saddle up or get in a truck. We’re headin’ out.”

  The group headed up the entrance ramp. Matt watched from his perch in the back seat of the sheriff’s truck as the odometer tripped one mile, then two before coming to the first exit for Schulenburg.

  “This is stupid.” Angie sat in the front of the cab. “Mamma couldn’t have walked this far. She sure as hell didn’t have to wait for an exit to get off the highway. On foot she could’ve taken off anywhere.”

  “She wasn’t on foot,” Matt said quietly.

  “What?” The sheriff’s head snapped around.

  “Shadow’s been getting the scent from the bushes and grass. He’s crossing from one side of the road to the other trying to get a better trail. Your mamma’
s scent came out of a car’s air filtration system.”

  “But that means someone drove . . .” Angie let the words hang.

  “Yeah. It does.”

  ***

  James W. pulled his truck over to the side of the Interstate. “I hope this works, Pastor,” he said as Angie jumped from the cab to get her dog out of the truck’s long bed. “Those clouds look like they’re gonna drop rain any minute.”

  The search party had traveled a full eight miles out of Wilks. Three times on its trek down Interstate 71, they stopped at exit ramps to see if Shadow could detect Maeve O’Day’s scent. At the last stop, the dog had gone in circles, sniffed the air, the truck, Angie.

  Shadow had lost the scent. James W. had told the search party to turn around and head back to the previous exit.

  Now the group stood at the Highway 159 exit ramp.

  Despite his resting in the truck’s bed between exits, Shadow looked like he was failing fast. His brown-and-black coat clung to his heaving sides. His tongue hung low to the ground, and his nostrils flared widely in rhythm with his panting.

  “Richard, follow us in the truck,” James W. barked to the deputy who’d been tending Shadow in the back.

  Matt jumped down from the Dodge and stretched. As he looked to the sky, he saw ominous clouds approaching from the north, three times darker and more intense than the already heavy clouds that hung overhead.

  A nasty storm was on its way.

  He had little time to muse on the weather, however, as Angie, James W. and Shadow headed down the ramp. Matt jogged to catch up with them, then walked wordlessly beside them as Shadow strained at the leash.

  “He’s on the scent now,” James W. observed.

  Shadow led them a half mile down the asphalt, then turned north onto a dirt road marked “Heller Road.” Finally, after a mile, the group came to a halt at a line of barbed-wire fence with the posted sign “No Trespassing.”

  James W. put hands to hips and blew out a frustrated breath.