Chasing Angels (Teagan Doyle Mysteries Book 1)

by Karin Kaufman

  And Reft had made a point of telling Berg and me that his vestments had been stolen, giving himself an alibi should they ever be discovered. If you find them, I know nothing.

  No one had stolen them. All along they’d been in his possession. Except for the stole. He’d been searching for it. No doubt he’d asked Carissa if she knew what had become of it, and Carissa, needing another souvenir, had said no.

  I held the stole close. I ran my eyes along it, examining every inch. First the purple side, then the green.

  As I walked outside, I raised the stole in my hand. Like a victorious sword.

  And Carissa turned, in the words of that old rock song, a whiter shade of pale.

  CHAPTER 40

  “I’d check the locket Carissa’s wearing too,” I told Dempster. “There might be more evidence in it. She keeps things.”

  He’d cuffed her, put her in his squad car, and called the station, and now he was on the front steps waiting for backup. Matt had given permission to search the church, asking only to return to the Quaker Inn with Liam and Sophie before the search began.

  While cuffing Carissa, Dempster had told her that Nicole Ellis was under arrest for killing Wesley Meyer, the statement adding a sheen of legitimacy to his next, and quite false, declaration, that the Nickles had accused her of murdering Edward Lloyd.

  Turn the lunatics against one another. Dempster was good.

  Then, while Dempster listened, I’d added my own little nail. Something I’d been considering the past few hours. “Who would know better than a former nurse how and where to cut a throat, Carissa? Your first attempt was hesitant, but your next cut was strong and well aimed. Right through the carotid artery.”

  She told me to shut up.

  But I wasn’t finished. “You laid a plastic tarp down before you cut his throat. Keeping it nice and neat. So tell me, did you hit him on the head first or did Ray Nickle?”

  She told me to go to hell.

  I continued. “Hiring some poor waitress to paint the name ‘Jack’ on the podium, telling us objects were moving. You moved them, you pathetic liar. You moved them, and then you lied to your husband and children. Did you give Nicole a key so she could make sounds at night? Terrifying your own children?”

  At that, Carissa called me things that shocked even her husband. Then she told me I’d soon pay with my life for coming to St. Michael’s. Reft and the Nickles weren’t finished with me.

  I didn’t mind. She was digging a prison cell with her own mouth.

  And her children would be free of her.

  Standing in the narthex minutes ago, examining the stole, I’d found three small, similar-shaped blood smears on the green side, as though the killer had thrice dabbed the stole into Lloyd’s blood. And the blood was certainly Lloyd’s, not Meyer’s, because the stole had been under Sophie’s bed for a month.

  After Dempster locked Carissa in his car, Berg told him about the altar cloth we’d discovered in the Petersons’ bedroom. I went to my Explorer, found it, and gave it to the detective. I didn’t want to know if there was blood on it. If there was, it was a microscopic amount. Anyway, I’d seen enough blood.

  Just after the first officer arrived on the scene, and while Dempster waited for the rest of his backup and a forensics team, he agreed to let Matt inside the church so he could ready himself and his kids for the Quaker Inn. “Officer Willis has to go with you, and we’ll have to search anything you bring out,” he said.

  “I don’t mind,” Matt said. “You can search it all.”

  When the church door shut behind Matt, Dempster looked to his car, to the woman hunched in the back seat, her arms drawn behind her back by the cuffs. “Know what she said when I belted her in? She said, ‘Someone had to step up.’ That’s what she calls murder and child abuse. Stepping up. Imagine being that sick of a puppy.”

  “Are we sure Matt’s not involved?” I asked.

  “We’re not,” Dempster answered. “But I’ll find out. We’ve got Nicole, and she’s starting to realize what’s in store for her, so she’s talking more. We’ll get the two crows before long. They’re just dying to tell me how clever they are.”

  “DNA on Nicole?” I asked.

  “Couple more days.”

  Red and blue cruiser lights flashed up ahead on Oliver Street. No sirens. Two PD vehicles turned into the church parking lot. A uniformed officer got out of one and handed Dempster a piece of paper, saying, “The judge was at home. Issued on the spot when he heard about the kids.”

  When Berg gave Dempster a questioning look, he said, “I like covering my bases. Can’t hurt to have a search warrant too.”

  The detective told his officer that Matt was inside with Officer Willis, getting his kids’ things together. “Don’t let him walk around or touch anything but what he needs,” he warned.

  “Sir.”

  Dempster watched the officers enter the church, evidence bags in hand. “It’ll be dark soon. Man oh man, I hate November. It’s not really fall and it’s not Christmas. And damn, I’m going to miss these people.”

  Though I was sure he kept it a closely held secret, Dempster was in fact a sentimental guy. Or maybe, like me, he hated endings.

  “You won’t miss your chief,” Berg said.

  “No, not my chief. What’re you two going to do?”

  “We’re going back to Fort Collins,” Berg said.

  “Job done?”

  “And job started.”

  “Talbert and Neal?” Dempster asked. “You’re not letting it go.”

  “Are you?”

  “Me?” Dempster laughed. “I’m too insubordinate, or so I’ve been told. When there’s something that juicy to be dug up, I’ll be doing the digging.”

  “Did Marshal Toomey get back to you on whether Lloyd was really in Ridgway and for how long?” Berg asked.

  “A couple hours ago. He says Lloyd’s sister was telling the truth about Lloyd living with her until September twenty-seventh.”

  “Maybe she’s a good liar,” I interjected. “Carissa is. Matt is—or was. And that damn lying bastard Reft.”

  “Teagan,” Berg said with a grimace.

  “Only psychopaths lie so convincingly,” I said. “He knew exactly what we wanted to hear—how Lloyd was an unbeliever stealing from the church, trying to destroy it from within. How much of that is true?”

  “I do think he was stealing from the church,” Berg said.

  “Toomey thinks so,” Dempster said. “Lloyd’s sister paid off her car loan last month like magic. Over eight thousand dollars. She says the money was a gift, and with Lloyd dead and it being a cash deal, there’s no way to argue with that.”

  “You can’t trace stolen cash donations,” Berg agreed.

  Like a dog with a bone, I couldn’t let go of Reft. Carissa had fooled me, but Reft had sucked me in, made me an ally. Made me like him. “What I can’t figure out is why Reft was involved. What did he get out of it?”

  “I’ll tell you one thing he’s going to get out of it, and that’s a visit from Detective Morrison,” Dempster said.

  “Your replacement?” Berg asked.

  “Yup. I start in Fort Collins tomorrow. I’ll ask Morrison to keep me apprised.”

  “Why did Reft tell us about Talbert and Neal?” I asked.

  Dempster thought for a moment. “He wanted you to know. He has a purpose. Or whoever instructed him to tell you has a purpose.”

  Berg nodded. “Like I said, job started.”

  “Speaking of Reft, I almost forgot,” Dempster said. “When I was in the Nickles’ house this morning, while the crows were fixing me coffee, I happened to wander into a bedroom off the kitchen. Just as they turned their backs, you know. I can’t be trusted. And guess what I saw? An altar. Creepy as hell, with a white cloth and statues on it. I can’t be sure it’s the altar in the photo, but it looked about the same size. I thought Hattie was going to spear me with a serving fork when she saw I’d left the kitchen. Until she remembered I was a
cop, that is.”

  “God help Fort Collins,” Berg said with a laugh.

  “So now we know what happened to St. Michael’s altar,” I said.

  As he exited the church, one of the officers held an evidence bag at chest level, showing it to Dempster. “Looks like blood on this handkerchief,” he said. “Found it in the parents’ room.”

  “What’s with that woman and blood?” Dempster asked as the officer trod down the steps. He looked back to Berg and me, folded his arms over his chest. “You know, you two did damn well—excuse my language. How did you know about the doll, Teagan?”

  “I didn’t. I just started talking to Sophie. She told me.”

  “Teagan attended the police academy in Fort Collins,” Berg said proudly.

  “Ages ago, Berg.”

  Astonished, Dempster asked, “You were a cop?”

  “A washed-out candidate. I failed the final PAT.”

  “Well, they were fools to lose you. I wouldn’t call what you’ve done here failure. You put two and two together on Nicole before I did. Probably saved her life in the process. It’s not like the Nickles were going to let her roam free. Better than that, you saved that little girl from who knows what fate with that witch mother of hers.”

  “Yes, she did,” Berg said. “She certainly did.”

  “You were no slouch yourself, Berg,” Dempster said. “I should deputize you both. I’d still be walking around trying to find my back end with my hands if it weren’t for you two. How did you get on with the cosmic-hipster stuff?”

  “It’s hard to tell,” Berg said. “I hope the troubles here are gone, and at the same time I hope Matt Peterson and his children never return to this place.”

  “I hope so too,” said Dempster.

  I waited for the smile, the joke. The detective liked to jest about the cosmic-hipster side of life. He didn’t believe in the supernatural.

  But neither did he think Berg was the sort given to flights of fantasy. By now Dempster knew Berg was a sensible and honest man who didn’t invent trouble or spin tales for his own satisfaction. On the one hand, the supernatural didn’t exist—or so Dempster wanted to think—and on the other, Berg was intelligent and logical. How to reconcile these opposing sets of facts?

  “Well, good,” the detective said again.

  “What will happen to Sophie and Liam?” I asked.

  “They won’t be going back to their mother, you can bank on that,” Dempster said.

  I believed him. He wasn’t going to let it happen. Neither would Detective Morrison, if Dempster had any sway with him. And neither, I thought, would Matt. He’d done everything possible to prevent his world from falling apart, but once it had and there was no going back, he would protect the only two people left to him in the world.

  A door swung open and I stood back to make room for Matt and his kids. Matt was carrying a large suitcase, and Liam and Sophie held one cheap grocery-style tote each. All the belongings they’d take from what had been their home, at least for now. The family paused on the landing, behind them one of the officers.

  “I’ve searched them and the bags,” he told Dempster.

  “Fine. Good.”

  The officer resumed his duties inside the church. Matt lingered a moment. A man not sure where to walk next, at least figuratively.

  “Have you got relatives you could stay with a while?” Dempster asked.

  “Yeah, Cheyenne. Already thought about that.” He handed Dempster a scrap of paper. “Here’s their phone number.”

  “Grandma and Grandpa?” Sophie asked. “Can we go?”

  “I wanna go too,” Liam said.

  “Tomorrow,” Matt said. He looked like he wanted to ask Dempster something but couldn’t work up the courage.

  “Take care of your kids,” the detective said. “The department will be in touch.”

  As Matt led his family down the steps, Sophie turned and waved at me. And smiled.

  “I’d better get the she-wolf to the station,” Dempster said when they were out of earshot. “My last collar in Wells, hallelujah.”

  As he started for his car, Berg called to him. “Did you and your wife find a house in Fort Collins?”

  Dempster halted. “Yeah, but closing’s not for twelve days, and we close on our Wells house this Wednesday. In the meantime we’ll be staying at the Fort Collins Hilton, living the life.”

  “Why don’t you join me for dinner this Thursday, say, six o’clock? You’ll both need a break by then, and I’m not a half-bad cook.”

  “Well, thanks, Berg. Thank you, yeah. Sheila would like that.”

  “You know my address, of course.”

  “I’m a detective.” He took off, waving at us over his shoulder.

  “You’re invited too, Teagan,” Berg said. “You have Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday to catch up on your sleep.”

  “And take a shower.”

  “And to think over what a fine and good thing you did here today.”

  He left it at that, wise man. I knew what he meant. Atonement. Of a sort.

  I followed him inside, back to the sanctuary, where we cleared our food and the case notes we’d made. I stuffed my computer, notebooks, and the binder from the church’s library into my backpack and then walked Berg’s book, A History of St. Michael’s in Wells, to the library.

  At the bookshelves I paused and listened. I knew we hadn’t heard the last of the Nickles, Reft, Talbert, and Neal, but for now, all was quiet in the church.

  In the sanctuary, Berg was leaning on his cane in the aisle, gazing at the stained glass. Feeling my footsteps on the old wood floor, he said, “I wonder what’s going to become of this place.”

  “I know it’s not likely, but I hope it becomes a church again.” I bunched up my sleeping bag and tucked it under my arm.

  He turned. “All right if we ditch the sixties and seventies rock on the drive back?”

  CHAPTER 41

  We took our coffees to the living room and gathered around the fireplace, Berg and me in armchairs, the Dempsters on a brown leather couch facing the chairs. Berg had set pine logs, twigs, and crumpled newspaper on the grate, an effort I was sure had taken him half an hour, and Detective Dempster offered to start the fire. He set a match to the newspaper, waited for the flames to take hold, then sat with his wife, Sheila.

  Dempster had been spot on: she was a little thing. On the thin side, maybe five foot one or two, with short and bronzy auburn hair that curled at her temples and the back of her head. She was younger than the detective by three or four years.

  The couple had two grown children, a boy and a girl, and already I’d surmised that, unlike Matt Peterson, Sheila wouldn’t hesitate to take a baseball bat to someone threatening her kids. Her laughter was loud and warm, her opinions plentiful and without apology. A good match for Dempster.

  Sheila and I had offered to clear the dining table, but Berg had said he’d have none of it. We were guests. Sheila and I quietly agreed to clear and wash the dishes when we’d finished our coffee.

  After dinner, Berg had put out a plate of cheeses and sliced pears and apples, and the detective leaned toward the coffee table, speared a few cheese slices, plopped them on his saucer, then eased back in his seat with a satisfied ahhh.

  I concurred.

  The fire grew quickly, the flames and the scent of woodsmoke cheering the living room, banishing the cold November evening. I could still smell Berg’s roasted chicken and root vegetables, and taste his warm apple-cranberry pie.

  “I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed this evening,” Sheila said.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Berg said. “We’ll have to do it again.”

  “At our house,” Sheila countered. Then after taking a sip of coffee, “Closing day can’t come soon enough.”

  “Amen to that,” Dempster added.

  “Moving is stressful,” I said absently, staring into the fire.

  As though we’d now said all there was to say, the room fell silen
t for a minute or two, save for the sounds of Dempster eating his cheese and the rest of us drinking our coffees.

  Then the detective sat forward, setting his cup and saucer on the table. “I was going to tell you, but I didn’t want to spoil dinner by mentioning certain names. Carissa Peterson confessed to killing Edward Lloyd.”

  “Did she?” Berg’s white brows knit together. “I thought she’d hold out for a trial.”

  “I was told she didn’t give up the Nickles,” Dempster said. “She claims she did it as a sacrifice to the gods or something, and that no one asked her to do it.”

  “Baloney,” I said.

  “Another weird thing.” Dempster relaxed in his seat, sinking into the old leather cushion. “She says she asked Lloyd down to the basement to help carve something in the wall, and he agreed.”

  “A lightning bolt?” I said.

  “That’s right. How did you know?”

  “We found a few carved lightning symbols in the church, including in the basement.”

  “Along with the word ‘Tillers’ in the basement,” Berg said. “With everything going on, we forgot to tell you.”

  Dempster shrugged. “I wouldn’t have made a connection to the Lloyd case, and before Mrs. Peterson confessed, there wasn’t one to make.”

  “Did Carissa explain how she managed to kill Lloyd and place him in the wall on her own?” I asked.

  “She claims that after he carved the bolt, she got him to stand on a paint tarp, which he thought was there for renovations,” Dempster replied. “Then she hit him on the head with the working end of a hammer, which she later threw out. That fits with the medical examiner’s report on the wound and weapon. And she smeared his blood inside the wall because, apparently, she has a thing about blood.”

  I sneaked a look at Sheila, expecting to see a horrified expression, but on the contrary, she was perfectly at ease. A detective’s wife who’d heard this kind of thing before.

  “She killed him, tore down drywall, dragged his body inside the wall, then put up new drywall?” I asked in disbelief.