A Truth for a Truth (29 page)

Deena finished her sandwich and went into Ed’s study to turn on the computer, most likely to report our conversation anonymously on the blog under “Dumb Things Parents Say.” I tried to deal with all her revelations.

The big revelation and relief, of course, was that Stephen Collins was an innocent man and a good teacher. I had incorrectly assumed the poor guy had made advances. Deena’s secrecy, her obvious reluctance to tell us why she really ditched the debate team, and his refusal to discuss the situation had led me to one conclusion. Sex.

But wasn’t sex in some form or the other, often a culprit? What kind of mother would I be if I refused to consider this possibility and check it out? Still, how often do we jump to that conclusion, when something else is in play?

That sounded familiar.

I stopped and tried to figure out why. When recently had I assumed that something had to do with sex, without really looking at the other possibilities? The answer wasn’t hard to find.

Win’s murder.

Fifteen years ago Win Dorchester engaged in an affair with Marie Grandower. From that indisputable fact I had widened the net, looking for all kinds of sexual indiscretions in the man’s past. Yet nothing I’d found so far had led to any. Zoey had insisted Win was nothing but helpful, and that neither she nor her mother had ever had anything more than a counseling relationship with him.

Then I had immediately jumped on Geoff Adler’s suggestion that Win may have had other affairs. Hildy had set me straight on that this morning. She staunchly believed, and now I supposed I did, too, that Win had made one mistake, not many.

So twice in the past weeks I had been led astray. I had gone right for the sensational, when the answer had had nothing to do with sex. At least not when it came to Deena and her debate coach. Now it was also time to remove sex as a factor in Win’s death and see what was left.

If Win had
not
died because of an ongoing or previous affair, then why had he? And what was the connection between Win and Ellen Hardiger? Helping Zoey leave town, of course, and perhaps the answer was that simple. Maybe Craig “Red” Brown really had murdered them both, because of his sick obsession with his ex-wife. But Roussos didn’t think so, and more and more, neither did I.

We had missed something important. I could feel it deep in my bones. If the two deaths were linked—and I refused to believe they were not—then there must be another way in which Ellen and Win were connected.

I got a pencil and started scribbling in the margin of the
Flow
.

Ellen worked at the nursing home.

Win visited patients at the nursing home.

Ellen thought so highly of Win that she asked him to counsel her daughter, in hopes Zoey would leave her abusive husband.

Win counseled Zoey. Zoey left town.

Both Win and Ellen were murdered within days of each other here in Emerald Springs, after long absences.

Zoey’s ex-husband was living in town and was present at the party where Win died.

What else had Ellen said about Win? I tried hard to remember our brief conversation at the memorial service reception. She had told me how she knew Win, that he had visited patients at Russell House, and not just ones who were connected to the church.

Hadn’t she said something about the way he listened so carefully, and compared Win to her priest, who’d charged in only at the end, most likely because he had a much larger congregation and more duties?

That felt right, although obviously the priest was not a suspect. And what else? I remembered feeling annoyed, that her praise was another manifestation of St. Godwin, who I hadn’t really liked all that much.

What else?

I remembered that Ellen had talked about how much her patients loved Win. This caring, patient man was a side of Win I hadn’t seen, and I’d been reluctantly impressed. How had she put it? She’d said they were so grateful. Hadn’t she said that some of them even made him little gifts in their craft classes? I remembered, because I had envisioned Popsicle-stick birdhouses and crocheted coasters.

I’d been tired and frustrated that day. Charity had been at a premium.

There was nothing helpful here. I closed my eyes and tried to envision Ellen, with her pale eyes, her papery white skin.

“Some of them even wanted to leave your church money in their wills,” Ellen said in my imagination.

I opened my eyes. Had Ellen
really
said that? I’d been surrounded by noise and confusion, plus I’d been on my way to put out fires and explain why the burial had been postponed. I’d explained that to Ellen, too, and she’d said she was going to stay in town long enough to see Win buried properly.

A decision that cost her her life.

“Money in their wills.” That still sounded right to me, as if Ellen had actually verbalized this, although of course, it was all too hazy for me to be sure. But what if somebody
had
left the church money on Win’s watch? I couldn’t imagine what that might have to do with his murder, unless an angry relative had killed him for derailing an inheritance, but at least this was a detail I could follow up on. And this was a connection between Ellen and Win of sorts. After all, Win had been at the nursing home before he died asking Jamaican Cinda questions.

I knew this was a long shot and a weak premise, but it should be possible to find out if anybody from Russell House had actually left the church a bequest. Church records were still jumbled in boxes, waiting to be returned to the third floor after the wiring was repaired, but I wondered if Ed had separate records in his office. Financial reports, maybe, or budgets presented at our annual business meeting?

I tried his cell phone, since this was Monday and the office was closed. I knew after he let the electrician in, he’d planned to attend a ministerial luncheon, then stop back by the church to check progress before he came home for the day. I hoped I could catch him before he did.

He answered on the second ring. I wallowed in his rich baritone before I told him why I was calling. I expected a delay in getting my answer, even a pile of files by our bed for me to go through on my own, but he told me to hang on a moment, and he would see.

He came back on the line well before his battery could go dead. “We have a legacy list,” he said. “Kind of an honor roll of people who left money to the church or the endowment. It’s been in force for a couple of decades. We publish it in the newsletter every year during the pledge campaign to show how many people have left money in their wills.”

“I don’t remember seeing it,” I said.

“You don’t read the newsletter, Aggie, don’t deny it. But we have a committee designing a plaque with all the names to hang in the back of the sanctuary next fall.”

I imagined the plaque was one part to honor past generosity and one part to encourage more.

“Are the names arranged by dates?” I asked.

“Right.”

“Can you isolate the years of Win’s ministry?”

“Easily.” He paused. “There
were
a couple of bequests back then, but I recognize the names. Members of long standing. People still talk about them.”

“How about after he left?”

Ed was silent a moment. “Somebody donated a large sum to our endowment about ten years ago, but again, I recognize the name. Her husband’s still alive, and she would have been somewhere more upscale than Russell House. Everything since then looks familiar, too.”

I thanked him and told him to expect a quiche in his future. He said he’d be home as soon as he spoke to the electrician, and we planned a quick bike ride once Teddy got back from school, because he was going to be at a board dinner all evening.

No records of any unusual bequests during Win’s ministry and none right after. My theory was a long shot, and I knew it. I nearly discarded the whole line of thinking, but a new thought nagged at me.

Was it possible Win had embezzled a bequest, before the church received it? He was a hands-on administrator, so it seemed possible. He could have made sure the information and the check made it into his own pocket. In the guise of kindness and pastoral care, had he convinced some poor old person to leave money to the church, just so he could steal it?

I hated to think this way, since Win’s kindness at Russell House was an image I wanted to preserve. But still, whether I liked the idea or not, I needed to follow up on all connections to Ellen and the retirement home. Wasn’t it possible that somebody had discovered Win’s deceit and murdered him for it?

But why murder Ellen, too? Had she known, and because of her gratitude, failed to report it?

Ellen’s compliance just seemed so unlikely. So did Win’s stealing money from the church. But stranger things have happened in ministries. Every denomination has its stories.

Stories. Win had been a great storyteller. I’d bored myself silly reading sermons filled with them. And I’d only read a fraction. The rest were still waiting for me.

Whether Win had inspired a bequest or even embezzled a bequest, a clue to what he’d done might be in a sermon I’d never got around to. And if not, maybe I’d find something else, some hint that led me to his murderer.

I was afraid that after the girls went to bed, I had another long night ahead of me. I just hoped that this time, I found something of lasting value in Godwin Dorchester’s words.

An octogenarian named Daisy Dreyfus owned a lot of real estate in Reverend Godwin Dorchester’s sermons. On Monday night after Greek salads with my daughters, I plunked myself in the middle of our bed and began to sort them. Not by date or subject, but by whether Russell House was mentioned. After an hour of scanning pages and making piles, I found ten sermons that qualified. Of those nine, Daisy was mentioned by name in seven.

By the time Ed came in and was ready to go to sleep, I cleared the bed and took the sermons down to the living room. I didn’t really intend to read and take notes on all of them that night, but that’s what I did. Call me committed or call me obsessed, I wanted to be sure I kept all the facts in my head without sleep erasing them. It was two AM before I made my final notes. Daisy Dreyfus dominated them.

Through dogged pursuit, I had pieced together her story. Her childhood had been tough. Alcoholic parents, frequent upheavals, an uneven education, because even as a young teen, she’d had to help support her family. When she left home at last, she fell in love with a man she couldn’t have, and after that disappointment, she never found another she wanted. She lived frugally, cleaned houses and waited tables, and once she had saved enough to buy a little house in Weezeltown, a rundown section of Emerald Springs, she took in foster children.

That decision marked the moment when Daisy’s life changed for the better, and she found her true calling. By the time she entered Russell House, Daisy had raised eighteen children and set them on the road to adulthood. Some were marvelous successes, some not so much, but according to Win, all were better off for having had her love and support. The “kids” visited Daisy frequently at Russell House, and she continued to dispense love and stern advice, as if she wasn’t sitting in a wheelchair and far too fragile to make sure any of them followed through.

Win was at his best when he talked about Daisy, and what he had learned from observing her. Respect shone through every word, and by two AM, I liked the man better. Of course now that I’d absolved him of a slew of extramarital affairs, it was easier.

Wills and bequests were not a part of these sermons, at least not until the next to the last one that mentioned Daisy. Then I sat riveted in my chair and read and reread his words.

“Daisy Dreyfus will leave a lasting legacy. Not in the funds she claims she will leave Russell House because of their kindness to residents, and not in the funds she threatens to donate to our church because I visit the home each week. Not even in the small bequests she will leave each of her foster children, small enough, she insists, to make sure they will keep working hard and never look to others for rescue. No, Daisy’s legacy is even more lasting. It comes from a life well lived, in spite of a difficult start, a life dedicated to service and love. A conversation with Daisy is a lasting legacy for anyone lucky enough to have engaged in one. I count myself among the privileged.”

I stared at the words written more than fifteen years ago. I was sorry I had never met Daisy Dreyfus, who must surely have died by now. I was more sorry that I hadn’t read all of Win’s sermons on Saturday. Two days had passed when I could have looked at his life with clearer vision, and when I might have checked out this possible new link between Win and Ellen. I still had no idea what any of it meant, if Daisy had actually had money to leave our church, and if so, why someone would kill Win and Ellen because of it. By this time it was nothing more than a cloud in my head, made wispier by the late hour. I turned off the lights and went to bed. There was nothing I could do at two in the morning except get some sleep.

The girls were gone by the time we sat down to muesli and strawberries I’d bought at DiBenedetto’s. Ed and I caught up a little. He told me that the electrician thought mice or squirrels must have stripped the wiring directly above the storage room archives. The rest of the wiring needed to be updated, but nothing looked imminently dangerous. In return I told Ed what I’d learned from the sermons.

“Russell House caters to people with few resources,” he pointed out after I finished. “It’s unlikely Daisy Dreyfus had anything to leave anybody. Look at what you know. Waiting tables, raising foster children. Nothing very lucrative there.”

“True, but we don’t know all there is to know about her.”

“Are you planning to check it out?”

I was, and by the time he left, I had showered and dressed for the trip across town. The best place to find out about a resident of Russell House was at the home itself. A call to Flo’s turned up the fact that she was now permanently working mornings, so if nothing else, I could talk to her.