by Glen Ebisch
Brenda laughed. “When you put it that way, I guess I’m pretty much off the hook. But I’d still like to know what happened. To be honest, this whole thing makes me feel a little nervous about being a real estate agent. I’m alone in houses and apartments with strangers all the time, and I’d like to know that there isn’t someone out there waiting to kill me.”
“I can understand that.”
“So do you think you can give the police some help in finding out what happened?” Brenda asked.
“It not really my place to do that, and I’m sure they’ll get to the bottom of this on their own.”
“I suppose. But I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I knew you were at least involved to some degree. I know that if you take it on, you’ll keep working on it until it gets solved. If there’s one thing you are, it’s persistent.”
Clarissa smiled. “There’s only a small distinction between being persistent and being obstinate.”
Brenda reached out to touch Clarissa’s arm but paused a few inches away. “I’m serious. This is going to really bother me, and you know that might make me less effective at selling the properties I represent, including your church building.”
“That’s sounds a bit like extortion,” Clarissa said with a smile.
Brenda shrugged. “Just an observation. I’m not asking you to take over the case, but you and Sergeant Rudinski are a couple, right, so maybe the two of you could just informally discuss what the police find out.”
“How do you know about me and Rudsinski?”
“Everybody knows.”
Clarissa sighed to herself.
“I’ll think about it,” Clarissa said. “But I’m not promising anything.”
Chapter 5
“Doesn’t sound like the police have much to go on,” Ashley said the next morning.
She was at her desk, and Clarissa was sitting in front of her on one of the cheap plastic chairs that the previous pastor had purchased for the public after overspending on his own office.
“Not unless her sisters have some new information on why she was here, or the newspaper story brings in folks who saw her while she was staying in town.”
“It could be a random murder. She could’ve met some creepy guy in a bar and things went wrong. It happens all the time.”
“Sadly, you’re right about that. And if it was some sociopath she met at random, we may never catch him until he kills again or someone who saw them together identifies him. But it could be that the killer was someone she knew.”
“Yep. Friends and family, they’ll do you in every time. The statistics prove it. Can’t live with them; can’t live without them,” Ashley said, smoothing back her hair, which was dyed an improbable shade of black to go with her black outfit. The only touch of color was a red rose pinned to the front of her blouse, which somehow made everything else appear blacker.
Giving a noncommittal nod, Clarissa stood up and headed back to her office. “I’ll be working on my sermon. Give me a ring if anyone needs me.”
Back behind her desk, Clarissa stared at the mahogany wainscoting in her office. Although an expensive extravagance on the part of her predecessor, she found it soothing. There was something calming and timeless about the English men’s club look, even if it didn’t exactly jibe with her more feminist values. She turned back to the notes for her sermon on community. The idea of a community jarred her into remembering that she’d promised Rudinski and Baker that she’d get in touch with Jonathan Porter, the spiritual leader of The Good Grace Church, to find out what she could about Rebecca Carlson. A quick internet search revealed a website for the church, which promised worship that provided a meaningful religious experience with like-minded people. Standard and bland, it advertised what every religion claimed to offer. There was nothing mentioned about living together in a closed community. Clarissa wondered if that more intimate experience was reserved for a select few. She called the number listed on the website. The person who answered was a woman who sounded rather young.
“Hello,” Clarissa said. “I’m the pastor at Shore Side Community Church, and I’d like to meet with Reverend Porter to welcome him to our community. Do you think that would be possible?”
“How very nice of you,” the woman responded cheerfully. “Let me check with Shepherd Jonathan to see if he’d be available. Just a minute.”
Shepherd, Clarissa thought, while she waited on line, picturing a man with a crook herding a group of people along the beach in Shore Side. It seemed a rather pompous title; one that was rather demeaning to the people he served. On the other hand, it was part of the Judeo-Christian tradition to see God and Jesus Christ as good shepherds. But still, she wondered, outside of pastoral communities, wasn’t it a reference that was a bit past its due date.
“Pastor Abbot,” the young woman said, returning to the line, “Shepherd Jonathan would be happy to meet with you this afternoon. Would three o’clock be satisfactory?”
“That will be fine.”
“We’ll look forward to seeing you then.”
Clarissa hung up the phone. The young woman certainly hadn’t sounded cowed or depressed, but of course, even a repressive cult would choose its most cheerful member to speak with the public. The real test would be whether she got the opportunity to have a private conversation with Rebecca Carlson.
Clarissa returned to working on her sermon and by lunchtime had a fair draft of the whole thing. She’d polish it tomorrow and give herself a practice reading out loud in her office the next day. Then she’d make any changes to improve the flow and do one more rehearsal on Saturday. Although she knew that she was a bit obsessive about preparing her weekly sermons, Clarissa had found that ministers who preached well also served as the best spiritual leaders of their congregations. People wanted to believe that their minister had good ideas as well as a pleasant manner. Heart and mind had to go together.
Since it was time for lunch, Clarissa headed back to the parsonage where Mrs. Morgan would no doubt have a lunch waiting for her that would be suitable in size for three or four. As she walked through the outer office, Clarissa saw that Ashley wasn’t behind her desk as usual. Ashley often brought lunch from home and ate in the office. Usually it was something healthy, heavy on the greens and non-meat products. This was to give her some relief from the food her Aunt Mona, whom she lived with, liked to serve. Ashley often complained that her life was probably being shortened by decades as a result of the high cholesterol diet she received at home.
Clarissa wondered briefly, as she walked along the short path to the parsonage, where Ashley had gone for lunch today. As she entered the large kitchen in the back of the Victorian house, Mrs. Morgan looked up from the casserole she was preparing at the kitchen counter.
“I’m making a nice rice and ground meat casserole for your dinner tonight. You can heat up as much of it as you’d like.”
Sounds wonderful, Clarissa thought, managing to keep from smiling. Mrs. Morgan had a huge repertoire of differently titled casseroles, all of which seemed to be remarkably similar. Clarissa enjoyed cooking and would be happy to prepare her own food, but she knew the older woman would be hurt. And the members of the congregation had insisted that Mrs. Morgan have this job after her first husband had died, both to help her financially and keep her active. But Clarissa wondered how long the woman would want to retain the position now that she was remarried and had someone else to look after.
“For lunch, I’ve made a chicken club sandwich,” Mrs. Morgan announced, placing a large sandwich-and-a-half neatly cut into triangles in front of Clarissa with a side of potato chips and a pickle.
“That looks fine,” Clarissa said, knowing that she would eat less than half of it.
The long-running dispute between them was that Mrs. Morgan thought Clarissa was too thin, and that she needed more food. Tied into that was her disapproval of Clarissa’s enjoyment of running, which she thought was unseemly for a young woman and burned too many calories. Clarissa suspected
that Mrs. Morgan’s ideal weight for her was about ten pounds more than she would be happy carrying.
Clarissa sat at the kitchen table to eat, unlike her predecessor who’d insisted on being formally served at the dining room table for all his meals. Mrs. Morgan had at first been disturbed by the casualness of having Clarissa eating in the kitchen, but now seemed to enjoy it as an opportunity for the two of them to gossip. The truth was that Clarissa found that she learned a lot about both the congregation and the larger community by listening to the older woman.
“I heard there was a murder in town yesterday. A body was found in one of the condos.”
Clarissa glanced up in surprise, once again amazed at how little stayed secret in a resort community.
“Where did you hear that?” Clarissa asked, struggling to conceal her amazement at Mrs. Morgan’s prompt access to information.
“Well, apparently the murder happened in a condo that Brenda rented, and she naturally had to report it to Mr. Royal, the owner of the agency. He told Jessie Carmichael who’s in my quilting group, and she called me because I know Brenda.”
“I see.” Clarissa maintained a deadpan expression.
Mrs. Morgan stared at her, as if willing Clarissa to say more. Finally she gave up. “Brenda also told Mr. Royal that she’d asked you to go to the police department with her.”
“That’s true.”
Mrs. Morgan waited some more, and then said in frustration, “So what did Lieutenant Baker have to say?”
“Not much. He had Brenda go over what she saw once more. That’s about all.”
“I heard the poor woman was hacked to pieces. What sort of a crazy person would do that? And why?”
“That description might be a bit extreme, but your question as to what kind of a person kills someone is a good one. I don’t think anyone knows anything about the motive. When the police discover that, they will be on their way to having a suspect.”
“Are you planning to get involved in this case like you did in the others?” Mrs. Morgan asked, the worry obvious on her face.
“That only happened due to circumstances.”
“Well, Brenda has already told Mr. Royal that you were going to help the police solve the case.”
“I never said that.”
“Doesn’t matter. It’s all over town already.”
Clarissa put down her sandwich and took a gulp of water. She was annoyed with Brenda for exaggerating what she’d said and getting her into what could be an awkward situation with the police.
“I hate it when you put yourself in dangerous situations.”
Clarissa nodded. “And I appreciate the fact that you’re just looking after me. Don’t worry, this whole thing will probably come to nothing, and the police will have it solved in a couple of days without any help from me.”
Mrs. Morgan sniffed. “I hope so. Have you thought about how Sergeant Rudinski will feel when he hears that you think he needs your help to solve a case?”
“I’ll explain what happened to him. He’ll understand.”
Mrs. Morgan looked doubtful. “Men aren’t all that understanding when you call their ability to do their jobs into question. And what Lieutenant Baker has to say will be even worse.”
Clarissa paused in her eating to consider that. She might be able to get Rudinski to understand, but Baker was an entirely different kettle of fish.
Chapter 6
Clarissa looked up at the building that housed The Church of Good Grace. It was a large, rambling house lacking any discernable coherent style. There was a discreet sign in front giving the name of the church. Since there was no space for parking beyond a narrow driveway, Clarissa suspected that most attendees at services were either from the surrounding neighborhood or parked up by the pedestrian mall and walked the four blocks down to the church. Clarissa climbed up on the porch and rang the bell. A few seconds later, the door opened and a young woman with blond hair and what seemed to be a ready smile under her mask gave Clarissa a welcoming look. She was wearing a loose white dress that reached well below her knees.
“Pastor Abbot?”
“That’s right. Here to see Reverend Porter.”
The woman stood back out of the doorway, inviting her to enter.
“We call him Shepherd Jonathan. Reverend sounds so pompous, don’t you think?”
“I prefer to be called Clarissa.”
The young woman frowned slightly as if wondering whether that was an implied criticism of their spiritual leader’s title.
“My name is Miranda.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“How did you hear about our community?” Miranda asked as she led Clarissa down a wide hall past a staircase, which led up into the mysterious darkness of the second floor.
“Someone mentioned it to me. Nothing stays unknown for long in a small city like Shore Side.”
The woman nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s true, but we don’t publicize our activities, so I was surprised you’d heard of us.”
“Don’t you conduct services that are open to the public?” Clarissa asked.
“Oh, yes. We have Sunday services in what used to be the second floor ballroom of the house when it was a private mansion, but the people who attend have usually heard about us by word of mouth. We don’t list in the local newspaper or the phone book. Good Grace isn’t for everyone.”
Clarissa almost said that it should be, but decided that there was no reason to start off by provoking hostility.
They reached a door at the end of the hall and Miranda gave a soft knock. A male voice from inside bid them enter. The young woman opened the door and stepped aside to allow Clarissa to go first.
The center of the huge room was filled with a sizeable desk. Off to the left was a seating area with several upholstered wingback chairs. To the right was a conference table with enough chairs for ten. Behind the desk was a set of French windows leading out to a garden. All Clarissa could see was a maple tree in the center of a neatly trimmed lawn with leaves starting to burst into full fall color.
Clarissa’s attention snapped back to the desk as the man behind it rose to his feet. He was about six feet tall and wearing a black mask. He walked around the desk to face her and gave a friendly nod.
“I’m Shepherd Jonathan, and you must be Pastor Abbot.”
“Clarissa.”
“Ah, Clarissa it is, then. Would you like anything to drink, tea or coffee perhaps? And I’m sure we could find some baked goods if you wish. Some members of our congregation are very skilled in that direction.”
“I’m fine, but thanks for offering,” Clarissa responded.
“That will be all, Miranda. Thank you.” The young woman who was still standing in the doorway gave a brief nod, and left.
“Why don’t we sit more comfortably?” he said, directing Clarissa over to the wingback chairs.
“This is a beautiful room, Shepherd Jonathan,” Clarissa said sitting down and looking around her.
“Yes, this house was built for a rich merchant in the late nineteenth century. But please, call me Jonathan. The title is a bit over the top, don’t you think?” he asked, appearing to smile behind his mask.
“Why do you use it, then?”
“When you’re running a community composed primarily of young people, you have to maintain clear lines of authority. Having structure makes everyone more comfortable. But I have to admit that sometimes I cringe when I’m called by that title. It makes we want to go out in the countryside and find a herd of sheep.”
Clarissa grinned. “I don’t use a title, but I can appreciate the problem. I have to be close and comforting to the members of my congregation, but at the same time maintain a bit of distance, because ultimately I am in a position of authority.”
“Exactly. And the less formal the community, the more of a struggle it is to define where that line should be drawn. Sometimes I envy priests who are working in a tradition with very clear hierarchy. A level of intimacy, no doubt, is
lost in that structure, but at least people are more or less cognizant of where they stand,” he said.
“I’m afraid the trend today is in the direction of less formality in all aspects of life, including the religious,” she replied.
“Yes, and especially when you’re working with young people. They don’t have much time for rules and regulations. It’s more about feelings. So you have to wield authority with a gentle hand.”
Clarissa studied his face. Although it was hard to tell what the man looked like under the mask, his eyes were a deep brown, his hair was wavy, and he appeared to be in his early to middle thirties. She guessed that he was most likely rather attractive. That would make the lines of authority even harder to maintain.
“Do you have a community that lives here in this house? Miranda mentioned that you do conduct Sunday services for the public as well.”
“Yes, but for only a limited public. They’re usually people who are friends and family of our resident community. I started this place as a shelter for young people. Not teenagers, but young people over eighteen. Few people realize how difficult life can be for adults who are just starting out in life. They leave high school or college and suddenly find themselves on their own, trying to make their way in the world. Many don’t want to return home to live with their parents, but are profoundly unhappy on their own. I’m trying to provide them with an alternative.”
“Do you have both male and female members?”
“Currently it’s about two thirds women and one-third male. We have a female dormitory on the second floor, and a male dormitory on the third. We don’t encourage fraternization; it leads to a lot of complications. But nature being what it is, it sometimes happens. We then require that the couple leave the community, and we help them to set up in an apartment on their own. They can still attend the public services.”
“What if they break up?”
“Then they can return here, but we haven’t been in existence long enough to have much experience of that.”
