Jolly Dead St. Nicholas (23 page)

Getting up, Adelaide closed the study door, more as a gesture than anything else. She wasn’t really expecting anyone with a key to come into the church this morning, but you never knew. Once she was seated again, she said, “I promise you, Douglas, anything you tell me this morning will be kept in strictest confidence. I will not tell my son.”

He eyed her shrewdly as though trying to decide whether he should believe what she said. Finally he sat back in his chair, folding his hands across his middle. “I had no reason to kill Jerry Hatfield. His threat, the one you overheard on Friday morning, was worthless. The previous week, I filled out my retirement papers. I intended to file them this week. I’m leaving the ministry.”

Adelaide could only stare at him open-mouthed.

He continued, “I told Susan on Saturday afternoon. That’s why she tried to break it off. She was making a sacrifice. She didn’t want me to abandon my career. I finally convinced her I planned to retire anyway, as well as end my marriage. I was going to wait until after the holidays to tell Fran I was leaving her.”

“I don’t know what to say, Douglas.” Deep down, Adelaide had to ask herself if she believed in him simply because he was a minister and her upbringing had taught her they were above immoral deeds. Of course, they were human and as such susceptible to the same temptations as anyone else. Recent scandals within various denominations had proven that. But there was something about this entire case that bothered her on a visceral level, a gnawing in her gut that said things were not as they seemed.

Standing up, Douglas began shuffling through some of the papers on the desk. “I’ve done some things through the years I’m not proud of, but I really am in love with Susan. I want us to have a life together. You go back to the office. I can handle this.” His tone left no room for argument. She’d been dismissed.

Returning to the office, she checked her watch. It was nine-thirty. Just when she thought it was going to be a slow day, the phone started ringing. Evidently Carl’s mugging had made the local TV news. Church members were calling to find out about his condition. Adelaide was kept busy answering inquiries for the next couple of hours. By eleven-thirty she was hoarse and out of sorts. The coffee pot was empty. She left the office to go rinse out the decanter, passing the pastor’s study on her way. The door was wide open, the place stripped bare of all his personal belongings, including most of the books in the built-in shelves along the wall. She’d been so busy she hadn’t even heard him leave.

After lunch, which was a ham sandwich eaten at the desk, she decided to do a little sleuthing on her own. An afternoon with no pastor underfoot would be quite uneventful, she was sure. She felt confident she would be able to examine the scene of Jerry’s murder without interruption. Voice mail would pick up any calls and only church members with keys could enter the building without being buzzed in. She’d just keep an ear out for the annoying, harsh sounding buzzer.

The sanctuary was dim, almost foreboding. The beautiful Christmas tree near the altar looked like a shadowy stalker, ready to strike. Turning right, she made her way along the back of the pews to the balcony stairs. The crime scene tape was gone. Slowly she examined the stairs, including the banister—for what, she didn’t know. Had the killer come this way? She stopped midway up the steps. Turning, she went back down, walking behind the pews, crossing the main aisle to the other side of the sanctuary. An old door, rarely used now, was located along the wall next to those balcony stairs. It was kept locked at all times. In fact, Adelaide doubted if anyone even knew where the key was. Adelaide tried the door. The oddly shaped oval knob creaked as she turned it but the door didn’t open.

But the knob does turn. If someone had the key…

The balcony steps on this side of the sanctuary were only about five feet away from the old door.

How easy it would be to slip in here—this door faces the alley—and quickly go up the stairs. Jerry was near the center of the balcony near the steps to the belfry. He would have been preoccupied with getting changed into the Santa suit. Later the killer could just retrace his steps and slip out the same door. The church basement was full of people coming and going through the main entrance. It would be quite simple to use the alley as an escape route.

Adelaide’s mind was in a whirl, her thoughts rambling. However, that scenario did make a certain amount of sense.

She slowly walked between the balcony pews, looking for any sign of blood. Had the killer cut himself? That often happened. Stabbing someone wasn’t as easy as it sounded. Attackers often got small cuts on their own hands. She stopped at the spot where she’d found Jerry’s body draped over the balcony railing. A shudder quivered up her spine. She leaned forward, viewing the pew below where the pool of blood had settled.

There’s nothing here. The lab technicians vacuumed, swabbed and fingerprinted every inch of this area. What is there left to find?

Feeling totally disheartened, Adelaide descended the stairs, making her way back to the church office.

Around three o’clock a call came in from a parishioner with an address change. “I’m spending the winters in Florida now. I want the church newsletters sent here from December to May,” the woman said. Adelaide wrote the information on a pad of paper then told the woman to enjoy her winter in the sunny south.

“I’m so sorry to hear about Jerry Hatfield,” the woman said. “It’s just awful. Is it true Reverend Underwood has been suspended?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“What about Carl. Is he still in the hospital?” the woman asked.

For someone in Florida, she surely knows a lot about what is happening here.

Aloud, Adelaide said, “He’s still in a coma.”

As though anticipating Adelaide’s unasked question, the woman said, “I read about everything on the Internet.”

“The Internet?”

“The
Rosewood Gazette
has a website. They’re covering the story. I’m sure Rick Blanchard at the
Tribune
is putting out special editions like mad.”

Adelaide cringed. “Yes, he surely is.” They chatted for a few more moments, but Adelaide didn’t give the woman much more information.
Let her get it online.

After ending the call, Adelaide turned on the computer monitor, opening the file that contained church members’ information. She’d done this task dozens of times. Once the information was entered, she closed out the file. On the main screen were numerous icons. One in particular caught her eye, but when she clicked on it, a window appeared asking for a password.

She logged off that site then moved the cursor up to the Favorites tab. Knowing Brenda, she probably had all the local news stations and papers listed there. Adelaide was right. She clicked on the
Rosewood Gazette
where she scanned the story about Carl’s attack. She felt her chest tighten when she read that one paramedic said lying in snow had staunched some of Carl’s bleeding, perhaps saving his life.

Scrolling down, she passed about a dozen files. Near the bottom she found the listing for the local TV station’s website. There she read not only about Carl’s attack, but the murder of Jerry Hatfield. She went back to the Saturday night newscast, when the story first broke on the local station. There were some videos which she watched with avid interest. It was obvious from the beginning that the police were focusing on the widow and her lover, the local preacher.

Snorting with disgust, Adelaide turned off the machine.

When she left the church at four-thirty, she decided to drive to the medical center to check on Carl. No doubt Ethel would be there, keeping her vigil. She knew what it was like to sit for hours beside a sickbed. Moral support from friends and family was always welcome.

When she arrived on the second floor, she saw through the glass partition into Carl’s room that Ethel was having one of her fifteen-minute visits. Glancing around the half-full waiting area, Adelaide took a seat on one of the uncomfortable vinyl chairs. Moments later, to her surprise, she saw Harold Purcell walk in. He spotted her, a look of relief coming over his face. As always he was dressed tastefully, this time in a navy blue suit with a white shirt. Looped over his arm was a dark gray overcoat.

“I just had to stop by to see how he is doing,” Harold said, sitting in the empty chair next to Adelaide. “If only he’d let me give him a ride home after the meeting.” The regret in his voice was evident. “I should have insisted.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Harold. I don’t think there has been any change,” Adelaide told him. She glanced into the room. Ethel was now holding Carl’s hand.

“Will they allow us to visit?”

Adelaide shook her head. “Family only, for now.” After a few moments of silence, she asked him, “How did the phone conference go last night with Leland Carver?” Adelaide had known the district superintendent for many years, having served on district committees herself. She’d always respected the man, but now had mixed feelings about him after discovering he’d assigned a known adulterer to their church.

Harold nodded. “They’re sending Reverend Preston on Sunday. As for Reverend Underwood, he’s been relieved of his duties for the time being.”

Adelaide nodded. “I know about the suspension. Douglas was at the church today, cleaning out his study.”

“You spoke to him? How does he seem? Did he say anything about his situation? The rumors going around town are getting really out of hand.”

Adelaide sighed. “I’m sure.” She had promised Douglas that their conversation would be confidential. “Even though I’m disappointed in his behavior with Susan, I still don’t think he killed Jerry.”

Harold frowned. “You know, something else may have been going on with Jerry at the time of his murder, Adelaide.”

This perked up her interest. “How so?”

“Carl said something last night about Jerry being preoccupied in the weeks before his death. We agreed it couldn’t have been because of Susan and Douglas’s affair since he obviously didn’t know about it until right before he died. The more I thought about it, the more I realized Jerry did seem a little distracted during the time period Carl was referring to.”

“Distracted how?”

“Like he had something weighing on his mind. Something nagging at him.” Harold pursed his lips thoughtfully. “In fact he made a comment to me a few weeks ago, around Thanksgiving, about things not always being as cut and dried as we’d like them to be.”

“Did he say what he meant?”

“It was after a Rotary Club meeting in Marietta. I said something about some criminal case that was in the news. I told him I didn’t understand why the jury was out so long when the person was obviously guilty.”

Adelaide was a little confused. “Did he think the person was innocent?”

“Not really. In fact I asked him that and he said no. But he added that sometimes justice can be served in a less intrusive way, by giving the person a chance to make things right.”

“What was the case about?”

Just then, Ethel came barreling out of Carl’s room. “He squeezed my hand!” Her chubby cheeks were rosy with joy. “I have to tell them.” She hurried off to the arc-shaped nurses’ station in the center of the floor.

Harold stood up. “I’m just going to go to the glass and look in on him for a moment. Do you think they’d mind?”

Standing also, Adelaide took hold of Harold’s arm. “We’ll go together. If they object, they’ll have to boot both of us out.”

It was snowing again on Wednesday morning, the day of Jerry Hatfield’s funeral. The flakes seemed to fall in slow motion, coating everything with a heavy wetness. The weather forecasters predicted another three to five inches by mid-afternoon.

Adelaide dragged herself out of bed feeling completely drained. She drank three cups of strong coffee before she felt human again. Oscar was sitting on the wide sill in the dining room window making clacking noises with his tongue as a bright red cardinal took advantage of the bird feeder Adelaide always kept full.

Once the caffeine kicked in she felt unnaturally energized. She cleaned the living room, then gathered the wrapped gifts from the guest room closet, arranging them under the tall Christmas tree. Moving on to the dining room, she dusted and vacuumed. As always, the noise of the sweeper sent Oscar scurrying off to some secret hiding place. In the foyer she polished the parquet floor to a high sheen. Gathering all the throw rugs, she took them to the basement and put them in the washer.

As she dusted the banister, she thought about her conversation yesterday with Douglas. If he intended to leave the ministry and end his marriage to Fran, what motive did he have to kill Jerry? Then a thought struck her. She needed to talk privately again with Susan. Perhaps she’d find an opportunity before the funeral or during the get-together later at the Hatfield’s home.

Adelaide often wondered where the tradition of gathering after a burial to eat everything in sight started. Somehow she’d always found it to be rather disrespectful—standing around scarfing down potato salad and ham sandwiches while your loved one was barely cold in the grave. When Albert died, she’d had no such festivities after his funeral.

She and Daniel had come back here and spent the afternoon quietly reminiscing about him, looking at old photos, watching home movies taken when Daniel was a boy. Many of the casseroles or desserts neighbors delivered during those three days between Albert’s death and the funeral were taken to the homeless shelter in Rosewood. She and Daniel had celebrated Albert’s life in their own quiet way. Many people in town hadn’t understood. They’d thrown Adelaide worried looks, talked amongst themselves that she was in denial, whispered to each other that she should probably
talk to someone
to help manage her grief. She’d ignored them all. She knew she would miss him every day for the rest of her life. No amount of counseling would change that. Albert had been her one true love.

Sometimes she worried that Vernon had unreasonable expectations about their relationship now that Albert was gone. She’d never broached the subject with him, nor would she. If he ever brought it up, she’d be honest. She owed him that much for all his years of unselfish friendship.