Dempster smirked. “Here’s the cherry on top. Morrison says Carissa Peterson and Nicole Ellis now claim they worked together. Nicole didn’t say word one about that until we arrested Carissa. Then all of a sudden”—he snapped his fingers—“Carissa did the bludgeoning and the throat cutting, but they both put him in the wall and patched it up. Nicole says one of her brothers is in drywall, and as it turns out, he is. Hard to argue with her on that.”
“But the Nickles knew Lloyd’s body was in the wall,” Berg said. “Are we supposed to think Carissa did all this by herself then told the Nickles what she’d done?”
“Doesn’t pass the smell test, does it?” Dempster said. “And we still don’t know why Meyer was killed, or why Lloyd made such a good sacrifice. But for now all we can do—all the Wells PD can do—is charge them both with murder and keep looking. The Nickles are up to their beaks in this.”
“But the police haven’t got much to go on,” I said.
“No, and if you give my former chief two confessions, he’s a happy camper,” Dempster answered. “Why investigate a closed case?”
“Those two women are guilty,” Sheila said, looking to her husband, “regardless of who else is and regardless of their motives, and you put them away, Joe.”
“Agreed,” Berg said, lifting his coffee cup.
Oh Lord, they’re going to toast each other again. “But what about Talbert and Neal?”
“I haven’t finished digging,” Dempster said, and then to his wife, “The bishop and congresswoman.”
“Oh, yes,” she said with a nod. “Fascinating.”
Dempster did not keep secrets from his wife.
“Hecht and the Order of the High Places?” I asked.
A larger mystery remained unsolved. Something planted before Berg and I went to St. Michaels, perhaps planted long ago, was now flowering. And for a purpose beyond our current reckoning, we’d been shown a sliver of that mystery.
“I’m keeping an eye on Hecht,” Dempster replied. “I can do that now, being in Fort Collins. This order thing. Is that the club you mentioned?”
“Yeah, we keep meaning to tell you about that,” I said.
“No matter. Matt Peterson filled Morrison in on it yesterday when he came to the station. Something else I was going to mention.”
“You’re full of surprises,” I said.
“Yeah, well, Morrison’s promised to stay in touch. He says Peterson confessed to hitting a boy on a bike while he was driving drunk months back, and claims Hecht and the Order of the High Places—pompous fool name—made sure he wasn’t charged.”
Astonishing. “Matt confessed?”
“And he’ll probably get off clean since the boy’s parents don’t want to press charges and his breathalyzer test vanished,” Dempster said. “I think the parents were paid for their goodwill, but they can’t let the Wells PD know that, or they’d be in the soup too.”
“I’m glad he told them,” Berg said. “It was the only way to make a fresh start with his children.”
I had other thoughts. “Matt knew Hecht made a permanent pact with the boy’s parents. He had nothing to lose by confessing and everything to gain. It makes him look innocent.”
“You’re a ray of sunshine,” Dempster said.
“Thanks.”
“I have you two worked out now,” he added, wagging his finger.
“Do you?” Berg asked, a glint of humor in his eyes.
“Yes. You’re the glass-half-full one, and Teagan here is the glass-half-empty colleague who brings you down to earth.” He gulped the last of his coffee. “Funny thing is, it’s a good match. You work well together.”
Dempster was partly right about Berg being a full-glass guy. What he didn’t know was how wounded my friend was. Though sitting by the fire, laughing, enjoying ourselves, no one would’ve known the burden he carried. He was resilient. He could put the past behind him and see good in the future. In the land of the living.
“Anyway,” the detective said, “the case feels unfinished. Good results, but threads left hanging. More to do.”
“I have the same feeling,” Berg said.
“So what’s next for you two?” Sheila asked.
“We have a new job, if Teagan agrees,” Berg said. “A letter came in the mail today, from an attorney representing a man, a writer, who lives in an old, historic house on the west side of town. His caretakers and housekeepers are terrified of the goings-on there and keep quitting.”
“What fun you have,” Dempster said. He speared more cheese.
“When do we start?” I asked.
“You didn’t ask why they leave.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“We start Monday morning. Are you sure?”
“November in an old house? I wouldn’t miss it. Besides, any old house is bound to be warmer than St. Michael’s.”
Berg finished his coffee and set the cup on the table. “That brings me to my other news. I thought you’d all be interested. The Evangelical Presbyterian Church wants to buy St. Michael’s. It’ll be a church again.”
“The Petersons agreed to sell?” I asked.
“Matt insisted, I hear, and Carissa doesn’t have much of a standing. By the time she leaves prison, she’ll be an old woman.”
“How did you find out?” I asked.
“A contact.”
“Naturally.”
“Matt agreed to sell the church at a small loss, and sell only to the EPC, and because he purchased it at a bargain price himself, the EPC could afford it.”
Suddenly thinking of the Nickles and the Refts and how furious they’d be when they found out, I laughed. “Poor Ray and Hattie, and poor Dennis Reft and his scheming wife.”
“Poor Hecht,” Dempster said with a chuckle. “Poor Order of the Whatchamacallits.”
“Though we haven’t heard the last of any of them,” I pointed out.
“See? Glass half empty,” Dempster said.
“Glasses don’t enter into it, Joe,” Sheila said, her tone serious. “From what you’ve told me, Teagan’s right. I hope you’re both careful. Two people were murdered.”
Dempster pointed at his saucer. “What kind of cheese is this?”
“Manchego,” Berg said, pleased Dempster had noticed it wasn’t cheddar. “Sheep cheese from Spain.”
“Yeah? I never.” Dempster stared. A new world had opened to him.
We sat another ten minutes or so, sometimes silently, sometimes chatting about the weather, which we all felt was rounding a corner, sliding into winter. Then, before Berg could object, Sheila and I went to the kitchen to deal with the dishes and pans.
As we washed up, she told me she’d taken early retirement the year before and used to work for Colorado State University, in the Archives and Special Collections section. Before that she’d been employed by various records projects in Fort Collins. “You let me know if you need information you can’t find elsewhere,” she said. “On Hecht, Talbert, or anyone else. I have helpful friends in other cities and states, and I love a good dig as much as Joe does.”
I liked this woman.
After our cleanup, Sheila and Joe said their thanks and headed out to their car, promising we’d get together soon, especially now they knew Berg could cook like that.
I settled with an exaggerated sigh into my armchair, reluctant to leave. “We start again in a little over three days,” I said, contented and pleasantly tired.
Berg wandered over to a small table on the far end of the couch, opened the little drawer at the top, and pulled out a white box. “It promises to be interesting.”
“Something occurred to me. I signed up with you a year and a half ago, but we’ve only worked six cases together.”
He sat, the box on his lap.
“Now we have two cases end to end,” I said, “and except for St. Michael’s, the cases I’ve worked haven’t been too difficult. You’ve been taking cases on your own, shielding me from the tough stuff.”
“Until St. Michael’s.”
“Then I’m right?”
“In this business you can’t jump in with both feet. You need to grow in experience. But St. Michael’s proved you’re more than ready.”
“Ready for the cemetery?”
“When I say the next case promises to be interesting, I mean—”
“It’s going to be another case from the pits of hell.”
“Something like that.”
He looked tired and sore, and I knew I should leave, but I felt protective of him. Worried that he lived alone, and with memories that haunted him. Made him weep forty-five years later. I understood how memories haunted, but I didn’t suffer the extra burden of a failing body and widowhood. “Can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
“Do you think about your brother a lot?”
“Every day.”
“I’m sorry, Berg. I hate to see you unhappy. It’s not right.”
He gave me a quizzical look. “I’m not unhappy, Teagan. I’ll always regret what I said to Jack and always miss him, and when I think of that day, the pain feels fresh. It always will. But I love doing what God’s called me to do, and I believe He’s pleased with my work. I enjoy life. I enjoyed this evening.”
“You’re not just saying that?”
“Dempster was shocked he was not only eating sheep cheese, but liking it.”
“I mean about—”
“I know what you mean, and no, I’m not just saying that. I mean every word.” He stuck out his hand, offering me the box. “Don’t make an old man get up again.”
“What’s this?” I rose just enough to lean across the coffee table and take it from him.
“A little present. Something apropos to the topic at hand.”
“Since when do you give me presents?”
“Don’t be ungrateful. Open it.”
Not being one to put off surprises, I dropped to my chair and quickly pulled the top off the box. “Berg.”
“You lost your old cross during our Timnath case.”
“Yeah, I never found it.” I looked at him across the table. “It’s still in the weeds somewhere.”
“The chain’s sturdy, I think, and I had the back engraved.”
I lifted the plain silver cross and turned it over in my hand. Engraved on the back was “Phil. 4:4.” I couldn’t memorize Scripture half as well as he could, but that verse I knew.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
I felt my throat tighten. This was kindness. An act of generosity in the midst of pain—his and mine. And yes, very apropos.
“So . . .” He slapped the arms of his chair. It was time for me to leave. Before either one of us got all soppy. “Meet me here Monday, about nine in the morning? I’ll email you with more information over the weekend.”
“You got it.”
He walked me to his door, where I unhooked my coat from a wall rack and slipped it on. For safekeeping, I stuffed the little box deep into my right-side pocket.
“We’ll do this again soon,” he said.
“Dempster will make sure of it. He ate like a starving man. You should give Sheila your apple pie recipe. Or give it to me and I’ll give it to her.” I hugged him. “Pies are important, you know.”
He watched me walk to my car, waited for me to click the key remote and open the door.
“Drive safely,” he called, “and promise me you’ll keep that music down.”
When I turned to tell him I could promise no such thing, he leaned out the door and shouted, “What’s that verse on your cross?”
“‘Rejoice in the Lord always,’” I called back. “‘Again I will say, rejoice.’”
CHAPTER 42
I hoisted myself to my seat, started the car, and hit the heater button. A light snow had started, flakes drifting lazily to the windshield. I was sitting a moment, letting the car warm up, relishing the embers of the evening, when something caught my eye.
On the floor of the passenger side was a white greeting card tied with a navy blue ribbon.
It sure as heck wasn’t mine, and I was positive I’d locked the doors.
Berg? What was he up to now? The older he got, he once told me, the more he liked to surprise people, often in small and fun ways. It was so easy yet gave so much pleasure.
I switched on the wipers. Lights in his living room shone behind his pulled drapes. His emerald green front door was closed.
I picked up the card, pulled off the ribbon. It looked like a handwritten party invitation, by someone very skilled at calligraphy.
The Day of Reckoning is coming, Teagan Doyle.
You are cordially invited.
They will never be finished with you.
This is the call of chaos.
Porta clausa est,
The Tillers
My eyes shot to my left and right, to the rearview mirror. Nothing. No one. Berg’s street was still, quiet.
The Day of Reckoning?
So a new round of threats had started. They hadn’t wasted any time. Hecht, Neal, Talbert, the Nickles, whoever. Whoever was behind this. Whatever this was. I knew they hadn’t finished with me or Berg.
Given my twisted sense of humor, the wording of the invitation was almost laughable, but a chill swept through me when I realized they could break into my Explorer without setting off the alarm or raising suspicions among Berg’s watchful neighbors. They were like ghosts.
And yes, I was afraid.
Berg’s drapes twitched. He peered out, no doubt wondering why I was still in his driveway.
No way was I going to disturb the rest of his evening. He’d basked in the glow of it, the joy of good company and good food, and I would leave him to that. The card could wait until Monday. I waved at him through the windshield and backed out of his driveway.
You don’t have to cordially invite me, I thought. I’ll be there.
With spiritual matters I was slow to learn, but I’d learned something important over the past week. God could still use me.
Sophie had smiled. On her way out of that church, away from a mother who was stealing her innocence. She had smiled.
God could use me, this broken and corrupt vessel.
They will never be finished with you.
Oh yeah? Well, as Joe Dempster would say, Hallelujah, ain’t that sweet.
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CALL OF CHAOS
TEAGAN DOYLE MYSTERIES BOOK 2
CALL OF CHAOS, CHAPTER 1
SNEAK PEEK
Berg hitched himself up to the passenger seat of my Explorer and belted himself. He didn’t smile or offer me one of his homemade pies. He mumbled a “Good morning, Teagan,” but that’s all. We were on our way to a supposedly haunted house on the other side of Fort Collins, and Berg was always talkative and cheerful when we started a case.
It couldn’t have been the weather getting him down. We both liked mid-November in Colorado. The world, gray and still, was drawing into itself. Resting before Thanksgiving travels and Christmas and January snows.
As I backed down his driveway, I hit the play button on my iPhone and Rory Gallagher’s “Bullfrog Blues” boomed from my back speakers. He didn’t say a word. Or make a joke about a thirty-seven-year-old woman who preferred her rock and roll on the vintage side. Something was weighing on his mind.
I turned the volume knob until the music was a whisper. “What’s wrong?”
Berg let out a long sigh. “Dennis Reft is dead.”
“What?” I pulled to the curb. That snake of a man was dead? I’d seen him only days earlier. “What happened?”
“I got a call from an old pastor friend twenty minutes before you drove up. Reft jumped in front of a fully loaded gravel truck driving down Timberline Road last night.”
I paused, giving mature consideration to what I was going to say. “That’s the dumbest th
ing I’ve ever heard.”
Berg gave me one of his John Bergland, Retired Minister looks. Don’t do that. He was a human being.
But Reft was a vile man. He’d lied to Berg and me on our last case. Sucked us in, turned us around until we couldn’t see the truth. Worse, he’d thrown away his faith—if he’d ever had it—and gone down some weird pagan path, corrupting his former church. He’d once been an Episcopal priest, for crying out loud.
Worst of all, he’d tried to initiate a young girl and her mother into his weird pagan ways and had probably encouraged that mother to commit murder. The police in Wells still didn’t have all the facts. Regardless, I wasn’t sorry Reft was gone.
“So he killed himself by jumping in front of a gravel truck?” I asked, trying to take it in. “The poor truck driver.”
“There were several witnesses, and all of them stated the driver had no time to react. I hope he understands that.”
“Why was Reft in Fort Collins? He couldn’t find a gravel truck in Wells?”
“Teagan.”
“Poor man. The driver, I mean. Reft didn’t strike me as suicidal. Arrogant monsters don’t jump in front of trucks. But you said there were witnesses?”
Berg shot me a sideways glance. “I agree it doesn’t sound like the Dennis Reft we knew.”
“Your radar’s going off.”
“It is. But for now, let’s focus on our new case. You got my last email?”
“Yup.” I pulled from the curb and continued west down Chestnut Street. “Phillip Reese is a forty-nine-year-old writer living in Gordon House, built in 1881 by his great-great grandfather, who founded a bank and constructed some historic buildings in town, among other things.”
“Gordon Park is named after him.”
“Funny thing, though. I did some genealogical research online and couldn’t find a Reese in the Gordon family tree. That’s odd, isn’t it?”
“You do your homework.”
“He has no children and his only sibling died four years ago,” I went on, “meaning the house is one hundred percent his. And he was a wealthy guy to begin with, originally from Rhode Island.”
Chasing Angels (Teagan Doyle Mysteries Book 1) Page 29
