Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 04 - With This Ring (4 page)

“How could you conclude asphyxiation was the C.O.D.?” I had learned a new acronym and I was determined to use it as often as possible. I was like a kid with a new toy.

“Primarily, his lungs were swollen, indicating a lack of oxygen, and he had broken blood vessels in his eyes. He didn’t have any recent trauma to his heart. There was also a tiny fragment of cotton fiber found in his moustache, which looked like it could have come from a pillow. However, since he could have been in bed when he was awakened by an intruder, that is not significant in itself,” Wendy said. Once again I was troubled by how smug Wendy sounded when describing what she and Nate Smith had discovered during the autopsy. How could this cold-hearted woman possibly have come from my womb? But I couldn’t dwell on that thought now. There was more to be learned about the pastor’s death.

“Yes, I see. According to Wyatt, Nate determined the T.O.D. to be around five in the morning,” I said. I wanted to parade one of the latest acronyms I’d learned in front of my daughter.

“Yes, that’s correct. And I’m impressed, Mom. I can tell you’ve actually been paying attention to some of what I tell you about my job. That is, at least, when you don’t have your hands clamped over your ears to shut out all the gory details,” Wendy said with a chuckle. I was too single-mindedly fixated on the fact our pastor had been intentionally murdered to laugh at Wendy’s words. I couldn’t help that I was not fascinated by blood and guts like Wendy was. I was beginning to wonder if my baby hadn’t been switched with someone else’s at the hospital when Wendy was born. Not even her father, Chester, could be blamed for this gruesome trait my daughter exhibited.

“Are they officially classifying his death as a homicide then?” I asked.

“Yes, since that’s what our findings indicate. It’s difficult, but not impossible, to asphyxiate yourself, Mom. There’s easier ways to commit suicide.”

“Oh, the poor man. What a terrible thing to happen. I really adored him.”

“Yeah, I liked him a lot too. He gave uplifting and interesting sermons the few Sundays I was there to attend church with you and Stone. And he seemed like such a gentle soul. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill him. Can you?”

“No, not at all, Wendy. This couldn’t have happened to a nicer individual. And as far as Stone and I are concerned, it couldn’t have happened at a worse time. What are we going to do? This is even worse than I’d first thought. If the pastor had died from natural causes, it’d be one thing, but this is something else entirely. We can’t possibly carry on with our wedding plans in the midst of a murder investigation. Or can we?” I asked, hoping in vain for a positive response from my daughter.

“I wouldn’t think so. It might appear to be in very bad taste. Particularly to everyone in the congregation at your church who knew he was set to marry you two soon. They’re apt to think you’re being very selfish, only interested in yourselves and unconcerned about the death of the dear pastor.”

“I was afraid you’d say that. And, of course, you’re right. But once the suspect is identified and apprehended it might be a different matter altogether. If an arrest happens in the next day or two, the funeral could be done and over with by the weekend, and then it might not appear to be too callous and unfeeling to go ahead with the ceremony,” I reasoned. I wasn’t normally so self-absorbed, but a lot of planning had gone into this wedding and I didn’t want to have to start backtracking at this late date.

“Well, I still think—” Wendy began. I knew she still had her reservations, and I didn’t particularly want to hear her elaborate on them, so I quickly changed the subject.

“Gee, I wonder if there might be some way to speed up the process of identifying the perp,” I said. “Perp” was another bit of slang I’d picked up from my daughter. I used it now to impress her. She used the term as if the word “perpetrator” was just too unimaginably long to use in a casual conversation. Four syllables did waste a lot of time when just one would suffice.

“No. No way, Mom. I already know where this is heading. You want to once again stick your nose in where it doesn’t belong. You want to interrogate his family and friends, don’t you? You want to pry and snoop and possibly put yourself into dangerous situations. Well, neither Stone nor I are going to sit by and let you get involved in another homicide investigation.”

“Well now, ‘involved’ is a bit much. I could just show a little interest. Maybe ‘encourage’ is a better word to use. With a little encouragement, our local homicide detectives might have Pastor Steiner’s murder solved in no time at all. They might already have an idea who the killer is. This entire conversation might be just a waste of both of our time.”

“Yes, it probably is. I’m sure they’ll have someone in custody soon. Just another reason for you to stay plum out of it. Do you remember what has happened in the past when you have ‘shown a little interest’ in murder investigations?” Wendy asked.

“Yes, I know there were a couple of unfortunate incidents, but—”

“But nothing, Mom,” Wendy said, exasperation evident in her voice. “You are lucky to be alive. Repeated attempts on your life are not ‘unfortunate incidents’ by any stretch of the imagination.”

“Okay, darling,” I replied, hastily. “I’ve really got to get busy. I’ve got a few chores to get done around the place and it’s getting late. I’m sure we can continue this conversation at a later date.”

“I don’t trust you, Mom. I’m going to have a word with Stone. Andy’s due in town tomorrow, arriving with the U-Haul trailer in the afternoon. As you know, he’s moving into his new ranch property just in time for the wedding. Maybe among the three of us we can restrain you from putting your fool neck on the line once again.”

“No, please don’t speak to Stone, Wendy. With the wedding hopefully just days away, I don’t need any friction and turmoil between Stone and me. I have enough anxiety to deal with as it is.”

“Okay, I’ll give you a pass—for now, anyway. But remember what you just said. The best and fastest way to stir up trouble with Stone is to get involved in Pastor Steiner’s murder case. You know how he would feel about it. You’ve already put him through enough stress and worry as it is. Promise me you’ll stay out of it.”

I always hated to make promises I wasn’t one hundred percent sure I could follow up on. I didn’t intend to get too deeply “involved,” but I couldn’t predict the future. I desperately wanted this wedding to go off as planned. Postponing everything now would be a real hassle. Asking a question here and there couldn’t hurt any, could it? I would just be very clever about it, and not bring to anyone’s attention the fact that I was trying to speed up an arrest.

I faked a knock on the door, and told Wendy I had to get off the phone to run and let some guests in the front door. It was past the time we usually locked all the exterior doors at the inn. Just short of making any rash promises, I got off the phone in a hurry.

* * *

Early the next morning I sat out on the back porch, sipping coffee, and reading the daily
Rockdale Gazette
, which Howie Clamm had pitched onto the front lawn just as I opened the front door. It was a nice spring morning, so I didn’t mind the lengthy walk down to the end of the driveway to retrieve the newspaper. Stone expended a lot of time and energy keeping the grounds of the inn immaculate, and it never looked as lovely as it did at dawn when the dew was still glistening on the nicely manicured grass.

As expected, an article about the death of Thurman Steiner covered the entire front page of the daily newspaper. The local pastor was known by many of Rockdale’s citizens. After all, for years he’d led the congregation at a large church located in a small town. He’d participated in many other local functions, as well. The article, which included several quotes attributed to Detective Johnston, had little information about the details of the murder. It was primarily a tribute to a revered man. Many friends and church members were quoted and no one had anything but positive things to say about Thurman Steiner. He was the epitome of the term “pillar of society.”

The news story went on to explain something I already knew. Thurman Steiner had always been referred to as “pastor” at his own request because he wasn’t particularly fond of the monikers “reverend” or “minister,” and was especially opposed to being called a “preacher.” I found this aspect of his personality very endearing. “Pastor” sounded gentler and more humble, and I thought this was appropriate for the soft-spoken man we’d come to adore.

I could hardly fathom how a man of his stature and loving nature could have any skeletons in his closet, and I wondered again how he could upset someone to the point of murder. I was convinced the crime had to be a random murder, probably an armed robbery that had turned violent or the result of the pastor being assaulted by a deranged sociopath. Rockdale was not exactly littered with homicidal maniacs, but one or two in the area was not beyond the realm of possibility. Although it was difficult to imagine, we could even have a serial killer on the loose.

I did learn a few things about the late minister in the process of reading the long article. For instance, he’d served in the U.S. Navy as a Seabee during the Vietnam War. After a four-year stint in the service, he’d attended the still, at that time, relatively new Nazarene Theological Seminary down on East Meyer Boulevard in Kansas City, Missouri.

After being ordained, he began his career as a minister in a small Baptist church in Topeka, Kansas. Following a number of years there, he moved to Rockdale to be nearer to several close members of his family. He’d ministered at our church since 1990 and had no intentions of retiring any time soon, even though he’d been set to receive his first social security check the following month. Teaching the word of God was his life and his passion. Sitting on a rocking chair on his front porch hadn’t appealed to him at all.

Thurman was a widower, having lost his wife, Stella, to esophageal cancer twelve years prior. I recalled he’d spoken lovingly of his late wife in many of his sermons. I was surprised to read that Thurman and Stella had produced six children—four sons and two daughters. I’d only heard mention of a daughter and two sons during the year I’d been attending services at his church. Before then I’d lived in Shawnee full-time and attended a smaller non-denominational church in my neighborhood.

Almost by accident I found a more informative article at the bottom of page twelve, as if it had been added mere moments before the paper went to press, stating no suspect had been named and little evidence had been found at the scene, save for the piece of fabric in the victim’s moustache, and numerous fingerprints, all but a few belonging to Steiner himself. The fabric was cotton, but what wasn’t in this day and age? And the absence of fingerprints was not altogether surprising, as the killer had probably donned a pair of gloves so as not to leave any identifying clues at the scene of the crime. Of course, it was possible some of the foreign prints belonged to the killer.

Thurman Steiner’s neighbors had been questioned, and one man named Larry Blake told authorities he’d seen a small red pickup in the victim’s driveway earlier in the day, and the floodlight over the parking area at the home had been lit at ten the previous evening. But he couldn’t recall the very bright light being on at five-thirty, the morning of the murder when he went out to get in his vehicle and leave for work. Blake had to clock in at six at the small local community college where he worked as a janitor. Normally, in early spring, it was still rather dark at five-thirty which made the light much more noticeable when it was accidentally left on overnight. Blake didn’t recall this being the case that morning.

Larry Blake also remembered hearing a voice coming from the direction of the pastor’s residence early in the morning, a kind of muffled shout, but he hadn’t thought much about it at the time. Blake now wondered if by chance he’d gone over to check out the odd sound he might have interrupted the murder and saved the life of his friend and neighbor, the esteemed Thurman Steiner. He had actually considered it briefly but didn’t want to be late to work and be reprimanded for the same offense twice in the same week, Blake was quoted as saying.

And that was all I gleaned about the homicide from reading the morning paper. I was a little disappointed in the progress of the investigation so far. Perhaps a longer interview was scheduled with the observant neighbor, Larry Blake, and anyone else in the area who might have witnessed something. I’m sure Mrs. Bloomingfield might have more to add also, having been the one to find the body and notify the police. Maybe I should see if I could draw any more pertinent information out of her. It couldn’t hurt anything to try.

And maybe I could run by the junior college to chat with Blake on my way to the local blood drive where I’d planned to donate a pint. My blood type, the universal 0-positive, always seemed to be in great demand and I was happy to help out in any way I could. A blood donor had once benefited me following a nasty car accident in my college days, and I felt I should return the favor and help a stranger the way another stranger had helped me. In the same vein, I always made certain to check “organ donor” on my driver’s license whenever it was renewed.

After I served breakfast to Stone and the guests at the inn, I’d clean up the kitchen and head downtown. The only guests staying at the inn at the moment were a college professor here on sabbatical for a few days, and an elderly couple from Colorado, in town to see a granddaughter’s graduation from the community college. They were only in town for two more days and would be spending the day at their daughter and son-in-law’s home.