Death in the Secret Garden (10 page)

‘About fifteen years, give or take a year. It evidently began when the judge's practice began to decline.'

‘A hundred and fifty thousand,' Bea said. ‘That's just about enough to make up the loss of the judge's legal income when he began to fail. It would seem that maintaining appearances with a high standard of living were important to her.'

‘Probably coupled with a misguided protection of the judge's pride,' Lyon added.

‘That is also our conjecture,' the canon replied.

‘How did you find out?' Lyon asked.

‘We have a relatively new church member who has become quite active in church affairs. John Chimes is a CPA with an accounting firm in Middleburg. He became suspicious when he heard that our bookkeeper never took a vacation. He asked my permission to do a money count of the collection plates each Sunday before the funds were turned over to Barbara. Of course I turned him down since I felt that such underhand tactics would have shown our lack of faith in Barbara. John kept on at me about the secret audit. He said I would be derelict in my duties if it wasn't done. I finally gave in and allowed them to proceed.'

‘How long did you do it?' Lyon asked.

‘We counted the money every Sunday for two months,' Mead replied. ‘Monday's bank deposit was consistently two hundred dollars short. Never a penny more, and never a penny less.'

‘And the money was in Barbara's possession?' Bea asked.

‘Yes. Four ushers pass the collection plates during the service and then bring them forward to the altar for my blessing. The four plates are then taken into the vestry where the money is consolidated on to one plate. That one is taken to the church office where Barbara waits with the door to our small safe already open. She puts the money in the safe, shuts the door, and spins the dial.'

‘And on those Sundays, you counted the collection in the vestry before it went to Barbara?' Bea asked.

‘John Chimes counted in front of the three other ushers who acted as witnesses. The reason I've come to you, Lyon, is that we want a third party to intervene. We don't want to formally charge Barbara with a crime. We only want restitution of the funds and her resignation.'

‘You don't want her to do time?' Bea said.

‘My goodness, no. We are a Christian institution. We must forgive those who transgress.' He stopped abruptly and looked at them in confusion. ‘Do you know, I have to honestly confess that it will be a great relief to me personally to have her out of the church office. For years she has been smothering me.'

‘And you want me to talk to Rocco off the record?' Lyon said.

‘If you would,' Mead answered.

‘She could raise the money by selling that old house of theirs,' Bea said. ‘The parcel is large enough for several building lots.'

‘It's going to take real pressure from Rocco to bring Barbara into that frame of mind,' Lyon added.

‘I have no choice but to insist on restitution,' Mead said. ‘It is not a question of my personal forgiveness. When the bishop finds out about this he will insist on it. The bishop is a very frugal man.'

Lyon went to answer the phone in the kitchen. ‘Yes?'

‘Barbara Styles was just shot in the office of Saint James Church,' Rocco said. ‘She made it outside and died in the street from a wound in the umbilical region of the lower abdomen. The killing is similar to the young woman in the woods. A prelim ballistics test indicates that the same gun fired both shots. In addition to all that, Spook is missing.'

Movement caught in the corner of his eye caused Lyon to look out the kitchen window toward the barn at the side of the property. The loft door slowly swung shut. ‘He's in my barn. What about the division patch?'

‘We found one clutched in her fingers just like Boots Anderson. Who's in your barn?'

‘I think Spook may be in my loft. Who did you say found the Anderson girl's body?'

‘Canon MacIntire from Saint James … Oh, for God's sake, Lyon. We're talking about the saint of Murphysville here. His idea of living dangerously is climbing a tree to count the eggs in a bird's nest. He's not into shooting women in the groin.'

‘Come out here and collect Spook. When you arrive, ask the good canon about Barbara Styles' creative bookkeeping.' Lyon hung up and returned to the living room. ‘Tell me, Mead, did you know a young woman by the name of Boots Anderson?'

‘Oh, you heard about her tragedy. A terrible thing. Yes, I knew her. The Andersons are not members of Saint James, but the Rumfords are. Young Skee Rumford came to me recently for pastoral counseling. It would seem that he and the Anderson girl were … I guess I can break the confidence now that the child is dead. Well, they were intimate and came to me for help.'

‘They came together?' Lyon asked.

‘Oh, yes. We had several sessions between the three of us and then I met separately with each of them alone.'

‘And you are the one who found her body?' Lyon said.

‘Oh, yes. It wasn't far from here, out in the state forest. I was bird-watching for returned eagles.'

‘I think your problem with Barbara Styles has just disappeared,' Lyon said.

Mead MacIntire looked confused again. ‘I don't understand.'

‘She died today,' Lyon said. ‘In the street outside the church. She was shot to death in the same manner as the Anderson girl.'

Seven

Sarge Renfroe crossed his arms over his apron and smiled over the bar at Spook. The former First Cav infantryman had three beers with matching shots of whiskey neatly lined in front of him. He was diligently working his way through the formation. After he downed the last shot, Sarge gleefully poured another with an accompanying hit for himself.

‘The captain sure knows how to treat his men,' the bar owner said conspiratorially to his customer.

Spook placed empty shot glasses over his eyes and smiled impishly. ‘He said if I came down without trouble he'd buy me a snootful.'

‘How much is that?'

‘You'll know when I fall off the stool.'

Rocco and Lyon sat in the far booth. The large police officer had placed himself so that he was turned away from the spectacle at the bar. ‘It's got to be destroying his liver,' Lyon said.

‘Do you really believe he has one left? He's been known to drink shaving lotion toward the end of the month.' Rocco began to scratch his chest with both hands. He yelled across the room to Sarge. ‘Shut off the spigot. That's all I'm paying for.'

‘He's got a couple coming from the well,' Renfroe shouted back.

‘What is wrong with you?' Lyon asked as his friend continued a frantic scratching.

‘It's the damn body armor Martha makes me wear. It's itchy as hell.'

‘When did that start?'

‘Since I got shot last year during the bank hold-up. I promised her that whenever I do anything confrontational I'd wear the damn stuff. Spook might get confrontational one day if he mistakes me for Cong.' He stood and handed Lyon a flimsy copy sheet. ‘Read this. It's a copy of the 911 call Barbara Styles made after she was shot. I'm going to the latrine to shuck this stuff.'

Lyon read the sheet. ‘You won't believe who has just shot me. But I can't wait for you. I am hurt.' He looked up as Rocco returned.

The chief threw the armor vest on the seat and slid into the booth. ‘She dropped the phone, but the line was open and there was a 911 trace to the number. Get the wording? “You won't believe who has just shot me.”'

‘The implication being that it was someone known to most people in town, but a rather far-fetched killer.'

‘Agreed,' Rocco said. ‘But Spook is not in that league. I get complaints every month about him. Most people in town think he's capable of anything, although all he ever seems to do is pee on the gazebo or pass out on a playground slide. I think if he had shot her, Barbara would have said “the Spook has finally done it,” or words to that effect. She didn't say that. The killer was someone completely unexpected.'

‘Like hinting at the saint of Murphysville? You're suggesting that the good canon is planting red herrings by dispensing First Cav patches to all his victims?'

‘Those patches are why I have to stash Spook somewhere safe. If I don't there will be lynch mobs a-gathering.'

‘I don't think we've lynched anyone in town since they strung Hetti Brun to the hanging tree on the green and called her a witch.'

‘After I arrest our Episcopal Pope for popping a teenage girl and then offing his secretary,' Rocco said, ‘they'll call me worse things than that.'

‘Evidence?'

‘Working on it. We do know that the canon found out Barbara Styles had her own share of the wealth plan. It's not too far from that to have him knock her off in a rage. He knows you and I are friends so he drives out to your place to establish an alibi.'

‘That's within the realms of possibility, but how do you line up our saint with sexy Boots?'

‘He misread her come-on. She flirted with him during one of their private sessions and he didn't know how to handle it,' Rocco said.

Lyon thought of his own teaching background with its exposure to slightly similar situations. Young women, just discovering their sexuality, sometimes experimented with their seductive skills. Although they might not have any real sexual intentions, their flirtations could be misunderstood. He sometimes compared adolescent seductresses to kittens learning to pounce on harmless things before becoming true predators. He didn't think his wife would care for that analogy. ‘So, maybe the girl was a little comeonish, but few mature men, particularly a minister, would put any significance in her true sexual signals.'

‘Some men are naive. When his holiness gets the teenage seduction number done on him, he takes it for real. He makes a date to meet her in the woods for a little hanky-panky bird-watching. Or, it came down another way. He's out there alone checking on a sparrow flyby. He catches her nude sunbathing. When she turns him down he kills her in a rage.'

‘Do you have much experience with crime among the bird-watching set?'

‘I admit to very little. But new dimensions in modern decadence are constantly being discovered,' the police chief said.

‘If I buy that possibility,' Lyon said, ‘I'd want to know why the good canon was out in the woods with a handgun.'

‘He was worried about an attack by a flight of crazed robins.'

‘Think about how our canon looks and how he ordinarily acts,' Lyon said. ‘How many rages do you think that guy gets in a decade?'

‘Enough to kill two of our women.'

‘Come on, Rocco. Even you can't cobble a case against the canon with a straight face.'

‘Let me tell you something, old buddy. Outside of innocent bystanders gunned down during a drug turf war—which we have none of in Murphysville—most killers and victims know each other. They have some prior relationship.'

‘I have another possibility,' Lyon said. ‘You've scratched Skee Rumford off your list. He had a relationship with both women. He was Boots' lover and his family were church members at Saint James. Let's assume Skee finds out about Barbara Styles' collection-plate pilfering. He tries to shake her down. She objects. He threatens her with the gun stolen from Eddy Rashish. Gun goes off. He plants patch to implicate Spook in a second killing.'

‘He has an airtight alibi for the morning Boots was killed.'

‘Allegedly
in class.'

‘Attendance records prove it.'

‘What class?'

Rocco consulted his ubiquitous small notebook. ‘Survey course in English lit.'

‘I taught for too many years, Rocco. A large undergraduate seminar like that could have a hundred students. Attendance is taken by signing a sheet, not by personal knowledge of the instructor.'

‘Does that mean anyone could sign for someone else?' Rocco asked.

‘A possible. Did you personally examine the sign-in sheet?'

‘Hell, Lyon, I have twelve officers in my department. On a good day I can muster three for a shift. I called the college and someone in the Dean's office verified Skee's attendance.'

‘I think you had better check it out in person,' Lyon said.

‘Incoming!' Sarge Renfroe bellowed before he broke into huge belching laughs.

‘Take cover!' Spook screamed. His shot and beer rocketed toward the ceiling as he dove across the room to slide head-first under a booth.

Rocco ignored the incident, but seemed mesmerized by a vehicle driving past the bar. ‘I think we have two stops on our way to check attendance sheets at the college.'

‘Take Spook to the VA hospital is one; what's the other?' Lyon asked.

‘Judge Styles just tooled his Lincoln down the street doing a cool seventy.'

‘I thought you yanked his license?'

‘I did. And this is a thirty-mile-an-hour zone. Bring Spook,' Rocco said as he dashed for his cruiser.

Lyon bent over the booth to see that Spook had both arms pulled over his head. ‘You've been wounded by a small piece of shrapnel, soldier. We're going to the battalion aid station.'

‘Thanks, Doc. But it's not bad. I can stay with the unit.'

‘Captain's order,' Lyon replied. He tried to recall at what point in their relationship with Spook they had abandoned all pretense of reality.

The two passengers in the back seat of Murphysville Police Cruiser One were a dissimilar pair. The judge sat stiffly erect with his hands on his knees. He stared rigidly ahead. Spook, anesthetized by a series of boilermakers, leaned his head against the window and snored.

‘I have a sanity hearing in my court, Randolph,' the judge said imperiously to Rocco.

‘That's for sure,' Rocco mumbled in reply.

‘Drop me at court and pick me up in two hours.'