by K. Gresham
“That’s why you became a pastor.”
“I had the choice of hating day in and day out, letting that hate consume me, or of loving day in and day out. Letting that love consume me.”
Angie sneered. “That’s a cop-out.”
“Nope,” Matt said quietly. “That’s a solution. Mine, anyway.” He got to his feet.
“How did your mom, your family, feel about that solution?”
Matt closed his eyes and drew a breath. “Let’s just say we don’t talk much anymore.” He snorted. “My fiancé opted out. She was prepared to be a cop’s wife. Not a minister’s wife.” He still remembered the day she turned down going into the witness protection program with him. It was as if someone had turned a knife in his heart.
Angie’s eyes rounded in surprise. “You were engaged.”
“I can be lovable,” he said easily. Too easily, he realized.
She studied his face. Though he was smiling now, he was hiding something. Something important. Maybe he was right, though. The more she learned about this man of the cloth, the more she was beginning to like him.
She lightened the topic. “So you were goin’ to be a cop?”
“I was going to be a darned good cop,” he said, sensing a challenge. “Why?”
“You don’t seem like the cop type,” she said.
“I did then.”
A crash of thunder sounded overhead. Matt got up and walked to the fireplace. “Might lose the power at this rate,” he said, shifting the logs.
“I’d better get home.” Angie put her wine on the box, stood and headed for the door. “I’ve got my answer, Preacher. Now I have to decide what to do with it.”
“I don’t feel I’ve been much help.”
Angie turned to him and let a hint of a smile tweak the corner of her mouth. She realized it was the first smile she’d felt in days. “You don’t always have to play the preacher, you know.”
He was ruffled. When Angie O’Day looked at him like that—her eyes half-smiling, half-knowing—his insides felt quite a jolt. “I’ll get you a coat,” he said, averting his gaze.
Matt reached past her to the entryway closet to get his to loan her. His hand grazed her shoulder and he dropped the slicker. Even more flustered, he stooped to pick it up but stopped cold when she put her hand on his shoulder.
Angie grinned. “Have you been around women much since you’ve become a pastor?”
Matt swallowed uncomfortably, straightened and held the coat up for her to take.
“Well, don’t worry, Preacher. When I make a move on you, it won’t be because I feel sorry for you, or ’cuz you caught me at a bad time.” She shrugged into the coat.
“I’m sorry,” Matt said.
All pretense of a smile dropped from her face. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.”
“I’ve given you the wrong impression.”
“You haven’t given me a wrong impression. You’re as interested in me as I am in you. The difference between us is that you’d feel it was a sin if you did kiss me, and I wouldn’t.” She squared her shoulders. “I don’t bring men to sin.” She pulled open the front door, and a slap of rain hit them both hard. “Even preachers.” With that, she turned and walked out into the night.
***
Miss Olivia clutched her fist to her heart. The pain was happening again. Just as it had thirty-five years ago. Was it a simple physical reaction to the emotional stress she’d been enduring, or maybe punishment for deeds better left to a higher power?
God had given her the strength to be married to Cash Novak. Surely, he would give her five more minutes to crawl to the phone and call for help.
The pain streaked down her arm, her left arm. She knew the signs all too well. She could barely catch her breath as she pulled herself across the hallway to the phone that rested on the antique table by the front door.
The phone and marble table crashed to the floor. She pulled the receiver to her ear. Her breath was so heavy in her chest, she couldn’t suck in enough fresh air to push out the old.
More from rote than from thought, she dialed the familiar phone number of her beloved son.
James W. Everything had always been for James W. And now, Jimmy, Jr. The Wilks name would live on in honor.
The last thing Miss Olivia remembered was a ringing sound in her ears. Whether it was from the phone or her own dizziness, she’d never be certain.
Chapter Eighteen
Roth and Cash
Having lent his raincoat to Angie, Matt Hayden was dripping wet when he entered the waiting room of the Wilks Medical Clinic.
“I appreciate your gettin’ here so quick.” Sheriff James W. Novak stubbed out his cigarette and rose from an uncomfortable-looking chair.
Matt shook the rain off his umbrella before easing the door closed behind him. The rain was turning to ice. The umbrella had done little to protect him against the windblown sleet, but the two-block brisk walk from the parsonage had gone a long way to clearing Matt’s head of Angie’s visit.
“How is Miss Olivia?” Matt asked after solemnly shaking the sheriff’s hand.
“Dicey.” James W. locked his thumbs in his uniform belt loops. “Guess we’ve been lucky so far. She hasn’t had a real attack for a long time now.” He looked fearfully at the solid steel door that separated the waiting room from the clinic’s emergency room. “They’re tryin’ to stabilize her.”
“Heart attack, then?”
“Yep. We’re lucky she made it to the phone. Elsbeth got the call. She didn’t hear anything but breathin’. Thank God she didn’t think it was a pervert on the other end of the line.”
Matt nodded and suppressed a smirk.
James W. eyed the pastor carefully. “I know Elsbeth has given you some grief over the last few days, Preacher, but she’s really a good heart.”
“Of course she is, Sheriff,” Matt said earnestly. “I apologize if I’ve intimated otherwise.”
“You didn’t.” James W.’s smile was sheepish. “I just know my wife, that’s all.”
Matt did his best not to smile back and decided it would be diplomatic to change the subject. He spied a coffee bar in the corner. The coffee steamed with a rich roasted scent. “Fresh coffee,” he said appreciatively.
“Just finished brewing.” James W. sat down hard on the couch.
Matt poured himself a cup, then reached for the sugar. He’d learned way back that pastors spent long nights in hospital waiting rooms.
“You know, that’s what attracted me to Elsbeth,” James W. said.
“Excuse me?” Matt asked. He took the chair catty-corner from the sheriff.
“Elsbeth. I know she has a mouth on her, but that’s one of the things that attracted me to her.” James W. shook his head. “My mother, she’s always so close-mouthed. Never says much of anything, good or bad. You have to guess with her.” He let out a chuckle. “You never have to guess with Elsbeth. She tells you what’s on her mind, no matter what it is. It was kind of refreshing not to have to guess where I stood all the time.”
“I was over to your mamma’s house today. Beautiful mansion.”
“Mamma wasn’t too happy when Elsbeth and me built the place outside of town. That mansion’s been in the Wilks family for over a hundred and fifty years.”
“Elsbeth didn’t want to live in the mansion?” Matt sipped his coffee.
James W. laughed. “She wants the Wilks mansion, all right, but not with Mamma in it. They’re two strong-willed women, Pastor.” He cast a glance toward the parking lot door. “Elsbeth’ll be here shortly. She’s callin’ Jimmy Jr. to tell him about Miss Olivia.” He picked up the Styrofoam coffee cup from the stained wood end table and downed it in one gulp. “Yeah, Elsbeth and Miss Olivia might be a different pattern, but they’re sure cut from the same cloth.”
“Your mother has always been the quiet type?” Matt searched for conversation. He hadn’t found that to be exactly true. Miss Olivia had definitely had her say at coffee earlier. The sheriff wa
nted to talk, however, and Matt was there to comfort.
“Mamma believes that a closed mouth catches no flies. That’s probably one reason she has heart trouble. Keeps everything inside.” Too restless to sit, James W. got to his feet and began pacing. “My mother has seen a lot of trouble in her life. More than her share.”
“Your brother was killed in Iran, I understand?”
“Helluva time, that. Carter sent Operation Eagle Claw, that’s what they called it, to free the hostages. After ’Nam, we’d let our secret ops go down the tubes. Didn’t need them, said the Washington bean counters. But then the Shah came to the U.S. to get his teeth filled or some such bullshit, and the U.S. was welcomed into the world of international terrorism. Roth volunteered to go into the Special Forces Group that was supposed to rescue the hostages. He was one of three marines who died. The Navy lost five.”
He turned and looked at the pastor. “Miss Olivia and Cash had their problems, but both of them sure were proud of that boy.”
“Problems?”
“Well, Roth was my half-brother, actually. Cash Novak was a widower when he married Miss Olivia.”
“I didn’t know.”
“It was a long time ago. Miss Olivia was the last of the Wilks. Cash . . . well . . . my pa was a scoundrel. There’s no doubt about that. The only person he ever really cared for was his first wife, Geneva Yeck. Warren and Ben’s youngest sister. When she died . . . well, he didn’t care about much anymore.”
“He married Miss Olivia, didn’t he?”
“That was pretty much the decision of the two families. Miss Olivia was an only child—the last of the Wilks. She was four foot eight, not what you might call pretty . . . well.” He shrugged. “She was headin’ into spinsterhood real quick. And Cash was so distraught over Geneva’s passin’ he wasn’t much of a father. So the two most prominent families in town, the Novaks and the Wilks, decided Cash and Miss Olivia should get married. Then all the money and Roth’s care would be wrapped up in one nice package.”
“Cash and Miss Olivia’s marriage was arranged.”
“Times were different back then, Preacher. Good people didn’t take hand-outs. Roth needed to be cared for. The Wilks wanted their line continued. A person did what had to be done. Miss Olivia, she did her duty.”
“Duty,” Matt repeated. Something in Matt snapped. “She had you.”
James W. smiled. “And made sure the Wilks line would go strong for another generation.” He sat back down on the couch. “It was enough for her to have a son with Wilks blood, even if she had a marriage with no love. That’s why I’m not a Junior after my pa. She made sure my middle name is Wilks, so that I’d never forget my blood.”
“More coffee?” Matt asked, getting to his feet.
“I’m Lutheran, ain’t I?” James W. grinned and held out his cup. “Can’t blame her much,” he said, more to himself than Matt. “Cash Novak was a rounder.”
Matt poured two fresh cups of coffee and brought one back to the sheriff. “Cash died not too long after Roth, right?”
“First Roth. Then Pa. That’s when Miss Olivia had her first heart attack. Broken heart, I always said.”
“Now here we are, thirty-five years later.”
“Same waitin’ room.” James W. looked around. “Same awful fake leather couches. Heck, even the same plastic plants. Some things don’t change, I guess.”
The cell phone on James W.’s wide black leather belt went off. He checked the number. “It’s Elsbeth,” he said, and brought it to his ear. “Hi, hon.”
The sheriff’s face paled. He listened some more, mumbled an expletive, then finished with, “I’ll be right there.” He snapped the phone back onto his belt.
“Problem?” Matt asked.
“Elsbeth’s on her way over. Could you stay until she gets here?” James W. picked up his coffee cup, poured its contents into the plastic palm tree, and tossed it in the trashcan. “Then come on over to Ernie’s Sinclair Station. Pearl’s gonna need you.” James W. grabbed up his khaki jacket and threw it over his shoulders. “Call me if Mamma’s condition changes.”
Matt stood. “What’s going on?”
The sheriff slapped his hat on his head. His mouth was set in a hard line. “Ernie didn’t come home for dinner, so Pearl went lookin’ for him. Found him on the floor of the garage. Dead.”
Chapter Nineteen
This Is Murder
“What do you figure happened?” Matt squatted by the body of Ernie Masterson. A neat white chalk mark was drawn around the outline of the body. That was the nicest thing he could say about the scene before him.
Ernie lay at the back bumper of Grace Lutheran’s Aerostar van parked in the middle bay of the Sinclair Station. His face was crushed in on one side as if he had hit a wall. On the other side of his head, a small dent was caved into his skull. A can of Dr. Pepper was spilled on the floor beneath him.
Despite the fact the garage door was now open, the fumes of car exhaust were heavy in the air.
“I think someone wants us to think this was either an accident or a suicide,” James W. said. He had the door of the van open and was studying the dashboard.
“It isn’t,” Matt agreed flatly.
The deputy, James W.’s only other official on the scene, looked up from where he photographed Ernie’s body. “How can you be so sure? Ernie turned on the motor to do himself in, then slipped on the soda as he came around the truck.”
“Richard Dube, how long you been workin’ for me?” James W. stuck his head out the Ford’s cab.
Richard cleared his skinny throat, which separated his skinny head from his skinny body. “Three weeks.”
“Now, your daddy was a good sheriff. Mainly ’cuz Danny Don knew when to listen and when to shut up. This is your time to shut up.”
The deputy’s pock-ridden face reddened.
“Dube,” Pastor Hayden repeated. “You’re Sheriff Danny Don Dube’s son?”
“Yes, sir.” Mortified, Richard Dube returned to his job of taking pictures of the dead Ernie Masterson.
“Well, don’t be feelin’ too bad, son,” Matt said kindly. “Someone went to a lot of work to make this look like a suicide. It doesn’t figure, that’s all.”
“What don’t figure?”
“That somebody who wants to kill himself starts the motor of a truck, but opens himself a Dr. Pepper before he starts suckin’ fumes.” James W. climbed down from the cab and slammed the door shut. “Get a good shot of his hands. They’re as greasy as ever.”
Matt looked up questioningly at the sheriff. “No smears on the ignition or keys,” James W. explained.
“So we had us an accident on Friday and a murder on Tuesday,” Matt said.
James W. moved over to the pegboard by the empty first bay where all of Ernie’s tools hung.
They were in order, Matt realized with surprise. Ernie had never struck him as the organized type.
“I know what you’re thinkin’, Pastor. You still think Maeve O’Day’s death was more than an accident.” James W. stepped closer to the tools, studying them intently. “I can’t justify hanging murder on some fool for shooting a lost old woman with Alzheimer’s who was in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He motioned to the deputy with his hand, still looking at the wall. “Richard, come ’ere.”
Obediently, Richard Dube took a last picture of Ernie’s grease-encrusted hands, then went to the sheriff.
“Right here, Richard.” James W. pointed at the row of crowbars.
All but one hung with the looped end facing the office door.
Richard snapped off three or four pictures and in the last one, James W. pointed to the crowbar with the loop pointed away from the office door. His hand still gloved, he pulled down the crowbar that hung in the opposite position. He walked over to Ernie’s body and held the curve of the crowbar above the curve of the small indent in Ernie’s skull.
Even from where Matt stood, he could see that the arc of the crowbar mirrored the imp
ression flattened into Ernie’s skull.
James W. looked at Richard, then at Matt. “But this,” he said pointedly, “is murder.”
Chapter Twenty
The Night the Lights Went Out
Pearl Masterson lived simply, but she struck Matt as being the type that didn’t demand much from life to begin with. The apartment above the Sinclair Station had been the home of Pearl and Ernie Masterson since the day they were married. Olive shag carpeting, a holdover from the seventies Matt imagined, ran throughout the quaint two-bedroom home. In the kitchen, where Matt sat holding Pearl’s hand, navy blue and white checks dominated the decor, with an occasional slice of watermelon on a towel here, a cornice there.
The four of them, Matt, James W., Richard Dube, and Pearl, were gathered in the small kitchen. Matt decided Pearl found comfort in staying busy. The sound of a washer and dryer running came from the adjoining mudroom. The scent of fresh coffee filled the air. Apricot kolaches steamed on the small kitchen table. Now, with her busy work finished, Pearl allowed herself to sit.
She’d already been crying, Matt noted. Her eyes were puffy, her nose swollen. What little bottom lip she had, she’d worried red.
“It looked like he slipped,” Pearl said quietly. James W. shifted his weight against the counter and stared out the window above the sink into the black night. “It looked that way, Pearl. That don’t mean it happened that way.”
“Was he . . .” She took a deep breath. “Drunk?”
“We’ll have to wait for the autopsy,” James W. said.
Pearl sighed at the word and closed her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Pearl, but I’ve got to know what Ernie’s movements were tonight.” James W.’s voice was gentle, and Matt could see the interview was hard for him. Pearl was as close to a sister as James W. had. “Richard’s gonna write down what you say, all right?”
Dutifully, Richard Dube pulled out a notepad and pen from his jacket and hunched down over the table to write.
“He didn’t come home,” Pearl said. “I called over to the garage when it got late. He didn’t answer. I figured he’d gone drinkin’.” She took a shaky sip from her coffee.
