A Truth for a Truth (5 page)

Yvonne hasn’t been the same since she quit smoking more than a year ago. Underneath I know she’s the same affable and compassionate friend she has always been, but these days she cuts to the chase quicker than a foxhound.

“I thought Hildy was going to wrestle you for the microphone.”

I lowered my voice. “Damage control. Quick. What do I do?”

“Hildy and her family left with the body.”

I pitied the coroner and felt slightly better. “Who’s going to give me the most trouble?”

First she asked about Ed, and I explained the situation. Her lips were a tight, thin line—I knew she wished a cigarette was between them. I was proud of her and slightly afraid.

“I’ll be your second,” she said. “You get the Booths, Ida Bere, Marie Grandower, Geoff Adler . . .” She contemplated for a few seconds more. “Anybody else who gets in your face. I’ll take everybody else I can get to.”

“Ed’s as out of it as I’ve ever seen him. Those antihistamines really whacked him.” I fished for and finally held out Ed’s iPhone. “He left this in the social hall in plain sight when he went over to the sanctuary.”

Yvonne’s eyes widened. The gravity of Ed’s condition was finally clear. “Easter Sunday’s going to be a nightmare.”

She had nothing to worry about. I’d already decided to sneak over and empty all the water from the vases once the church was dark. By morning the lilies would be irrevocably wilted, and the flower committee would have to remove them. I would offer to buy potted hydrangea replacements. Desperate measures. Sneaky measures, too, but I had Hildy’s feelings and Ed’s allergies to consider.

Hildy, whose husband might have been murdered.

“Showtime,” Yvonne said tightly.

The social hall was buzzing when we walked in. Hildy was sure I needed tutoring, but even she would have approved of my courage and determination. I scanned the room and zeroed in on Fern and Samuel Booth. Fern has graying hair, which she wears in an unflattering bob, plus a bulldog face and demeanor. I’ve never quite figured out if she disapproves of ministers and their families in general, or just the ones with the misfortune to inhabit our parsonage. Samuel served as board president during Win’s ministry, and has taken on other positions through the years. But Fern’s sole job seems to be judging us and communicating her verdict.

As I went I chatted when I could, explaining quickly that I’d gotten the funeral director’s call during the service, and I’d simply done as he instructed. After all, throughout history people have survived enormous catastrophes by claiming they were just following orders.

I took a deep breath before I reached the Booths. I nodded, but didn’t smile. From experience I knew Fern was immune to my dimples. “I thought you might have questions,” I said. “I know my announcement was a shock.”

“Only a little more so than seeing you climb over the pew during the most important memorial service our church has ever held,” Fern said in a voice tight enough to choke a chicken.

“I figured I was going to step on enough toes as it was. Believe me when I say I didn’t enjoy the trip or the announcement.”

“What’s going on?” Samuel asked, for once inserting himself into the conversation. “Why did they take Win’s body to the coroner’s for an autopsy?”

I contemplated my possibilities. Shrugging. Holding out my hands, palms up. Shifting my weight from side to side evasively. Looking sad or resigned. Dashing for the door.

“The funeral director didn’t say.” I knew that wasn’t good enough and plunged on. “But I’d have to guess they want to be sure of the cause of death.”

“Everybody knows Win had a heart attack.” Fern was glaring at my forehead, as if I’d developed an extra eye.

I looked thoughtful. “Everybody but the coroner.”

“What made the authorities decide this at such a late moment?” Samuel asked.

“I honestly don’t know. He was calling Ed, and I had his iPhone, so I got the call.”

I realized I’d provided my own perfect lead-in. I stepped closer, to establish a little intimacy, which was too much like cozying up to a pair of cobras. “Ed had a horrendous reaction to all the lilies, and he had to take whopper doses of antihistamines to get through the service. He just barely made it, poor guy. He’s home resting.”

“Lilies?” Fern made a noise like my mother’s vacuum cleaner when it’s sucking up throw rugs. “Please!”

“The flower committee has standing instructions not to use them. I’m glad he’s still breathing.”

I had never been happy to see Ida Bere in my entire life, but when I realized she had come up beside me, I wanted to weep with gratitude. Ida looks like a female Arnold Schwarzenegger, only several decades older and a lot more liberal. But next to Fern, Ida is Mother Teresa.

Fern told Ida what I’d just said, giving it her own personal twist. By the end, even I believed that the entire Wilcox family was part of a conspiracy to destroy the good name of Win Dorchester.

“Win was in favor of a pedestrian mall,” Ida said, as if Fern hadn’t been outlining a possible murder. “
He
supported any and all social justice causes.”

Both Ed and I think a pedestrian mall in downtown Emerald Springs is, in theory, a lovely idea. The reality is that, like too many Midwestern towns, our little burg is suffering high unemployment and low tax revenues. Our downtown businesses are at best hanging on, and our city government has a freeze on new projects. A pedestrian mall, which would cost a fortune to design and implement, is an idea for a better day, when people have disposable income, and leisurely shopping expeditions aren’t limited to a bag of potatoes and a pound of coffee.

“There’s definitely something to be said for the pedestrian mall,” I said diplomatically. “I know it’s important to you.”

“That little girl of yours is quite a speaker.” Ida looked around, as if to see where Teddy was in the room. Although I’d been sure my daughter had gone home right after the service, I was wrong. There she was in the corner surrounded by admiring women, Dolly Purcell and Esther, our organist, among them.

When Teddy caught my eye, I motioned for her to join us, and she came right over, a plate of hummus sandwiches clutched in one hand and punch in the other. Could even Fern be hateful in front of my eight-year-old cutie? I figured we might be locked into some sort of spiritual Rorschach test.

“Did you like being in front of all those people?” Ida asked Teddy, after I’d made quick introductions and given Teddy a hug.

“Sure,” Teddy said, as if she couldn’t imagine why anyone would think otherwise.

“I think children need safe places to walk, don’t you?” Ida rested her arm around Teddy’s shoulders. “Wouldn’t it be fun if you could go downtown without worrying about cars?”

I would fiercely protect my daughter from wild animals and hurricanes, but until that moment I’d never been called on to protect her from marauding social justice advocates. Luckily, judging from my daughter’s expression, I wouldn’t be called on today either. Teddy was clearly interested in the discussion. I wondered if she would ask about the theological implications, or quote her favorite political analysts. I watched them stroll off together, and felt only slightly guilty. I smiled at the Booths and headed off, as if I really had some place to go.

As I moved through the room toward Marie Grandower and Geoff Adler, longtime members who only rarely came to church, I was stopped repeatedly. Each time after I gave my spiel, I was inundated with Win stories. Win had done this, and Win had excelled at that. Apparently Ed’s predecessor was even more revered now that his cause of death was up in the air. Those who hadn’t gone to the microphone to eulogize him finally had plenty of good things to say.

An older woman I’d never seen in church stopped me, delicate fingers on my bare arm and a tentative smile.

“You’re the minister’s wife?”

“I’m Aggie Sloan-Wilcox,” I said, extending my hand. “My husband is the minister.”

“I’m Ellen Hardiger.” She shook gently. She was probably in her early seventies, with the kind of tissue paper complexion that ages beautifully. She had thin silver hair lightly permed for body and eyes the color of morning mist.

We exchanged the usual “happy to meet you” formalities. I was considering pushing on, but clearly she wasn’t finished.

“I’m not a member of your church,” she said. “Catholic from birth.”

I nodded and hoped she wasn’t going to tick off comparisons. I hated to think she would judge our church by this particular service.

“Did you know the Dorchesters?” I asked.

“I knew Reverend Win. I was director of nursing at Russell House. I moved to Florida after I retired.”

I’ve never been to Russell House, but I did know that once it had been an overcrowded, long-term nursing care facility. In the past years, with the help of grants and creative thinking, they had expanded and added a new building for assisted living. Ed claimed the complex was now well run and cheerful, considering that most of the residents had little more than Medicare and Medicaid to fund their stays. Our Women’s Society puts on a special afternoon tea there twice a year, but always at the time my girls are coming home from school.

“Was he visiting a patient?” I asked.

“Oh, not just one. He came weekly. I could set a clock by him. Two o’clock, on Wednesdays, and he stayed as long as he needed to. Some of the other pastors whipped in and out as fast as they could, and my own priest only came right at the end. You know . . .” She looked as if that reminder saddened her. “Father Shea gave a lot of comfort to the dying, of course. But Reverend Win? He gave time, comfort, advice, whatever was needed. Every week.”

I tried to imagine the bombastic Win Dorchester holding gnarled hands and nodding gently. The picture wouldn’t form because it was a new one for me. There was something else, too. We’re a small church, and most of our members were or had been professionals with decent retirement nest eggs and long-term care insurance. There are more expensive and expansive facilities in town, and when care is needed, they usually choose one of them. I couldn’t imagine that things had been that different at Russell House in Win’s day.

Ellen Hardiger seemed to read my thoughts. “He came, you know, whether he had a church member to see that week or not. People began to depend on him visiting, and even if he didn’t have anybody from your congregation, he’d drop by and visit our regulars. They adored him. They made him little gifts during craft classes. They wanted to give back whatever they could, although most of them had next to nothing themselves. They even talked about leaving your church money in their wills.”

Saint Godwin the Magnanimous. Sadly, I guess I’m all too human. I was growing annoyed at this praise for Win. Maybe I was just sorry to see that ministers have to expire before they finally get their due.

And if Win had been murdered, who had given him his?

“Did you come all the way here for his funeral?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine a retired nurse paying the extraordinary prices for a last-minute ticket.

“No, I came last week to hear him speak. A friend told me ahead of time he would be back in your pulpit. I wanted to come north and visit anyway, and the timing was good. I even got to chat with him after the service. Then, when I heard he’d died . . .” Her eyes misted. “Such a sad thing. Can you tell me . . . why they took his body?”

I gave her what was now a thoroughly rehearsed speech. She nodded sadly. “It’s a mistake. No one would hurt Reverend Win. He was good to everybody. He even helped my daughter when she needed counseling, and she was never a member of your church.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” At least I sure hoped so.

“I suppose I’ll stay to see him buried. I hope it will be soon.”

She thanked me and shook my hand again, then I started back toward the Grandower-Adler enclave. I thought about the nurse’s words. It had been interesting to hear accolades from a person Win hadn’t needed to impress. The man was obviously kinder than I’d guessed, and as I neared my target, I tried to put that in perspective.

Marie Grandower was a slender, attractive woman who wore her fifty-something years well. Her dark hair showed no traces of gray, and it curled softly around a face that may or may not have spent time in the hands of a plastic surgeon. I decided that if she’d had work done, it had been minimal. With her oval face and high cheekbones, Marie would always find Mother Nature to be kind. She wore unrelieved black, no jewelry, no tasteful scarf at her neck. Mourning suited her.

Geoff Adler was probably a little younger, thin as well, like someone who runs compulsively. His face was lined and long, and his steel gray hair was cropped short. I could picture him in a blinding white lab coat, since I’d seen him that way in advertisements. He was a pharmacist and businessman, the fourth generation Adler to own and run our local Emerald Eagle drugstore. But Geoff had gone one better than his ancestors. He had taken a small family business and was quickly turning it into a successful Ohio chain.

Now that I’d arrived, I wasn’t sure what to say. Their conversation had stopped as I approached. Now they seemed to be waiting for me to speak first, and Marie didn’t look happy to see me.

I greeted them both. “I’m just filling in some of the blanks of what’s happening,” I went on. “Ed would do this, but he’s having the worst allergy attack of his life. He’s home in bed trying to sleep it off, along with too many antihistamines.”

“I thought he looked distressed.” Geoff didn’t smile, but his expression was benign, even encouraging. “Do you know what he was taking?”

“Something superstrength the doctor gave him, and he doubled up.”

“When he wakes up, tell him I said not to do that again.”

I smiled my thanks. “I don’t have much more information than I gave at the service, but I wondered if either of you had questions?”

“Yes.” Marie spoke for the first time since my arrival. “How can something like this happen to somebody like Win Dorchester?”