Murder in the Second Pew Page 2

  “I wasn’t brandishin’ anything. Did you want me to let them kids get bit?”

  “And I want an explanation why you got a .45 Colt in a bar in the first place.” James W. said, hitching a foot on the stool.

  “Angie knows what it takes to keep order around here. She don’t carry her brains in her back pocket. You can take it up with her when she gets back.” Bo pulled the Shiner’s beer tap to fill a frosted mug. All that came out was foam. “Dadgum,” he said. “The refrigeration must’ve gone out again.”

  “Anybody know when that will be?” Matt asked, trying to diffuse the situation. When he got a blank stare, he clarified. “You know, when Angie’s coming back from Ireland?”

  Bo shrugged. “Not me.”

  “Gettin’ her to say when she’s comin’ back is like tryin’ to put socks on a rooster.” James W. shook his head. “Just as well. It’s too damned hot for any celebrations.”

  Deputy Richard Dube came in through the front door and joined the group at the bar. “Geez, it’s hot.” He wiped the sweat from his face with his sleeve. “This drought has been goin’ on for over seven months. Seems like the last time we had a decent rain was in January when that ‘norther came through and we lost power.”

  Matt nodded. That was the night Ernie Masterson had died. The sheriff had been a lot more tolerant of the pastor’s interference in his police business since Matt had solved that mystery and kept the sheriff’s family out of the gossip.

  “Hey, Richard.” Chelsea’s voice was almost lyrical it sounded so sweet. “Can I get anything for you?” she asked.

  Richard Dube’s pock-marked face turned the color of the red tea tumblers. He looked sideways to see if the sheriff was watching—Matt noted that he was—then almost whispered, “Just tea.”

  The phone mounted on the wall between the kitchen and bar rang, and Dorothy Jo reached across the pass-through to retrieve it. “Fire and Ice House.” Her eyes flickered with humor and she put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Mrs. Novak,” she said with a grin. James W. sighed, pulled his hat back on his head and got up to take the phone.

  Dorothy Jo shook her head. “She doesn’t want you,” she said and pointed the phone toward the preacher.

  Matt sighed heavily. “I was meeting with your wife before all the commotion.” He walked around the bar and took the phone. “Yes, Elsbeth.” He waited a moment, then cringed. “Yes, Mrs. Novak.” He sent a glare James W.’s way when the sheriff smirked. “I’ll be right there, Mrs. Novak.” He handed the phone back to Dorothy Jo. “Gotta get back to work.”

  James W. chuckled. “No rest for the wicked, ain’t that what they say?”

  Matt downed the rest of his tea in one gulp, then put the tumbler on the bar. “I had no idea how bad I’d been.”

  Chapter Two

  Hell Hath No Fury Like a Church Lady Scorned

  Elsbeth Novak was on a rant. She was wearing her brown polyester suit, her chosen attire when a truly serious matter needed to be discussed. How the suit had survived the pounds she had put on since its original purchase was a question only God could answer, in Matt’s estimation. Pearl Masterson dutifully sat at Elsbeth’s side, dressed in a gray dress with a gray sweater draped over her shoulders, despite the record heat outside. She was silent as usual, only nodding her head, letting the louder and larger Elsbeth make the complaint.

  In his eight months at Grace Lutheran, this had become a familiar scene for Matt. Elsbeth and Pearl would show up almost on a weekly basis with the steady offering of “input” for his “edification.” He’d come to dread the meetings, but knew better than to interrupt the routine.

  “We’ve used those altar cloths since Pastor Janssen founded this church seventy-five years ago.” Elsbeth’s overpowering voice echoed against the white plaster walls. “They are the originals. And this Mandy Culver, coming in here like she already owns the place, not appreciating our history—well, all I can say is that I think God would take issue with her lack of respect.”

  Altar cloths. Elsbeth Novak was claiming to know God’s thoughts on altar cloths. Matt wondered, not for the first time, how parishioners could get so attached to the tradition of the church that they forgot the mission of the church.

  The mission of the church had nothing to do with what cloths were put on the altar.

  “Honestly, Pastor Hayden, don’t you think that this should be the decision of the Altar Guild?”

  Matt hid his smile. Elsbeth and Pearl were the Altar Guild.

  “We’ve taken care of looking after the sanctuary for over forty years,” Elsbeth continued. “Why, between the two of us, that’s almost a century.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Matt agreed. “Your service has been faithful.”

  “And we don’t want anything changed.” Elsbeth turned to Pearl. The old wood chair beneath her squeaked. “Right, Pearl?”

  “Right, Elsbeth.”

  Matt noted those were the only words Pearl had spoken all morning other than “Good Morning, Pastor.” He quietly jotted them down on a notebook by his desk, giving the appearance of recording Elsbeth’s accounting of jurisdiction. It was a technique he used to stay calm when the two ladies came to his office. So far Pearl only had to utter “Good-bye, Pastor” on her way out and she would have met her quota for the meeting.

  He realized after a moment that both women were now silent and looking at him expectantly. He cleared his throat and sat up a little straighter. “I take it you’ve spoken to Mrs. Culver about your concerns?”

  Elsbeth’s heavy cheeks puffed as she formed her retort to the preacher’s inappropriate query. “Ever since Mandy Culver was hired as the pre-school teacher at Grace—a hire I strongly opposed, as you might recall—she has trounced around here acting like she owns the place.”

  Matt sighed. Ordinarily he tried to maneuver around Elsbeth, but apparently today he was not going to be so lucky. Sometimes a man needed to say what needed to be said.

  Even a pastor.

  “Mrs. Novak,” he started, then nodded at Pearl, “Mrs. Masterson. Matthew, chapter eighteen, verse fifteen tells us that if you feel wronged by another person, you should go to that person and talk to him or her about the problem. Just between the two of you. If that person refuses to listen, then you can involve others. I think you need to go to Mrs. Culver and talk with her about the paraments issue. You might find—”

  “So! You’re going to take her side!” Elsbeth cut him off.

  “I didn’t say that—”

  “Besides, who can talk with that woman? She’s from Austin, for God’s sake. Austin!”

  “That would be where she got her degree in child development.”

  “You don’t understand, Preacher,” and this came from Pearl. He looked at her, intrigued. This was not her normal nonparticipation.

  “What don’t I understand?”

  She edged forward on her chair, as if she was about to share a great secret. “Austin is full of—” she cast a furtive look Elsbeth’s way, then lowered her voice. “—Democrats.”

  “Exactly!” Elsbeth nodded. “And she shouldn’t go around representing herself as Mrs. anybody when she was only married for six months before her husband up and died.”

  “I believe he was a Navy SEAL killed in Afghanistan,” Matt said, trying to keep his tone calm. “He won a Purple Heart, posthumously.”

  “Which means she’s the one who gets all the benefits. Not him. If you ask me, she’s a calculating fake. Who else would marry a Navy SEAL before they’re deployed unless she was banking on the widow benefits?”

  “Maybe she was in love with him,” Matt said. He could feel his temper building.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake! You’ve fallen for her sympathy ploy hook, line and sinker. That’s how she got this job. And don’t think she doesn’t have bigger plans. I reckon she’s out for you, too.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A pretty young thing working every day with a nice, single man like you. Don’t think th
at didn’t have something to do with her applying for this job.”

  That did it. Matt’s self-control snapped.

  “Elsbeth, Mrs. Culver has led a tragic life. Her senior year of college she married a man who had taken a pledge of service to his country, and he died performing that duty before she graduated.” At this point he stood. The nonverbal gesture of him towering over her had the desired effect. Elsbeth was forced to look up at him.

  “As for Mrs. Culver’s duties here, she has been an exemplary addition to the staff. Our pre-school enrollment has doubled in the three months that she has been here, mostly because she has gotten herself involved in several church and civic activities.”

  Elsbeth started to speak, but he raised his hand as he walked around his desk.

  “As for the paraments, I believe she said in her letter of offering that she wanted to do this for the church with her husband’s memorials because he would be so appreciative of how the Wilks Community, Grace Lutheran in particular, has welcomed her into our hearts.

  “Now, I understand that you are attached to the altar cloths that have served this church ever since its inception, but I also know that they are falling apart. Which is why—” at this point Matt sat on the edge of his desk to brace himself, knowing that he was about to throw down the gauntlet “—when Mrs. Culver asked me for suggestions on what she could give the church, I mentioned the paraments.”

  There. He’d said it. Lord, have mercy on his soul.

  Furious, Elsbeth jumped to her feet. “You are the one who came up with this outrageous idea?”

  “Yes, I did,” he said, crossing his arms. “Right after the back half of the undercloth finally disintegrated into threads last communion Sunday and Warren Yeck, who was helping serve communion, tripped on the shreds and dumped the communion wine all over Deborah Seegler’s fiancé.” The man had been a sight, not sure whether he was dripping in merlot or if the blood miracle happened when the wine was blessed.

  Elsbeth recoiled. Her face was dotted with red blotches and her chest heaved so strongly that Matt feared the buttons trying to contain all of that mass would pop.

  “You have no right to make such a suggestion without talking to me first,” she sputtered.

  “Actually, I thought you might be tickled with the idea. Mrs. Culver stated in her offer that she would leave design decisions up to the Altar Guild. That would be you, wouldn’t it?”

  By this time, Elsbeth’s face was full-on crimson. “I have been so wrong about you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Her voice turned quiet, which with Elsbeth was even more menacing.

  “I thought you might actually work out here at Grace. I knew it would take some training. I’d need to be here almost daily to guide you. I can see now I was totally wrong. You can’t see people for what they are. You have no respect for our history. For our traditions.” Her eyes leveled into hate. “And you broke the Ten Commandments right here in your own office.”

  “Say again?”

  “Today. The second commandment. You swore—in front of us!”

  Furious, Matt stood. Realizing this would be his last chance to get a word in edge-wise with the woman for a very, very long time, by golly, he was going to have the final word.

  “Elsbeth, if you’re referring to my reaction to hearing gunshots outside my window, I would suggest you need to refresh your memory on exactly what the second commandment says. Which is, and I quote, ‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain.’ Ergo, saying ‘shit’ is not taking the Lord’s name in vain. But since we’re on the subject, I do think that the commandment is broken when someone has the audacity to proclaim they know God’s judgment about this or that, including how He feels about people who are trying to donate altar cloths. And while you’re at it, take a look at the eighth commandment: the one that says you’re not supposed to backbite or slander your neighbor—in this case, exactly what you have been doing to Mrs. Culver!”

  His rebuff had the desired effect. Elsbeth was so stunned, she had nothing to say. She grabbed up her purse and stomped toward the door. Pearl, her negligible chin wobbling in disbelief, stood and looked first at Elsbeth, then at Matt. Then she too hurried out the door, joining Elsbeth in a march through the narthex and out into the blazing Texas heat.

  Well, that wasn’t very smart, Matt thought, immediately feeling remorseful. He realized his blue eyes were probably bulging and his face was probably redder than Elsbeth’s had been.

  When, when, when was he going to learn to control his anger? After his family was attacked, he was so angry he could have become a murderer himself. Only giving that hate to God had kept him sane. Today, however, showed he still had a long way to go on that score—and he was pretty sure he was going to pay a significant price for his outburst with Elsbeth.

  He sat down at his desk, and was just putting his head in his hands when he heard Ann Fullenweider’s faint voice come from the other side of his office wall. “Thank you, God, for letting me live long enough to see someone put that woman in her place.”

  Matt crumpled up a piece of paper and, grinning, threw it at their adjoining office wall.

  Chapter Three

  Too Dry, So Die

  Tuesday morning, Owen Seegler realized he was missing two more cows.

  He’d arisen before the sun, as was his habit. Dressed, gone out to the barn, made the coffee and put feed in the stalls as usual. Turned on the country music that kept the cattle calm while they were hooked up to the automatic suction tubes, and put out a pan of milk for the barn cats. Then he’d gone to the gate to let the cows in for milking and begun counting them as they found their way to their individual stalls.

  He was two short.

  Without even looking out to the range, he knew he’d find the corpses of two cattle out there somewhere, lying on their sides, dead because there was no water to drink.

  He went through the motions of milking the herd, though the product was precious little. Owen was a man of figures, and he knew that this was the death knell to his bottom line.

  How was he gonna take care of his family? His oldest daughter Deborah was getting married, Rebecca was heading for college and his youngest, Joshua, was going to require assisted living for the rest of his life. And Owen wasn’t even going to make the mortgage payment on the farm this month.

  “Too bad ya ain’t dead, Owen,” he muttered to himself, watching the last of the soiled hay and manure he’d mucked travel down the conveyor belt. “At least you’d have the farm paid off.”

  Suddenly he stood up straight. He would have the farm paid off. Ten years back he’d bought that insurance that pays off a man’s debts if he dies. And he had another policy—a life insurance thing—that would be a bunch of cash for his wife, Sherylene. Plus, she could sell the land…or maybe turn the barn into one of those bed-and-breakfast places that all the Yankees seemed to think were the rage.

  The sun glinted through the slats in the barn and hit his eyes hard. His thoughts drowned out the sound of the country music and the flies buzzing in the ever-floating dust. He looked around the emptiness, seeing the space as if for the first time.

  But it wasn’t his barn anymore. In his mind he saw a new kitchen where the milk storage tank was now. Sherylene at one of those double-oven Viking stoves she was always peeking at, pulling out her beloved pies. The milking stalls were replaced with café tables and a refrigerated display case filled with pastries. A chalked menu of daily specials hung above a cash register. A stairway had replaced the ladder going up to the loft and a sign read “Guest rooms this way.”

  He shook the vision away. He was a Christian man, and God did not create man so that he could kill himself. Suicide was a mortal sin.

  Ashamed of himself now, he stomped back to the house to take his morning shower. He made sure the water was good and hot—the need to purge the sinful thought from his soul overwhelming. He toweled the steam from the mirror and studied his reflection. His hair, once strea
ked from the sun, now was a faded tan. His shoulders, once muscular from good, hard farmwork, were now stooped with worry. His face, brown from months of working in the sun-blanched fields, was wrinkled and sullen.

  What a pitiful excuse for a man.

  By the time he’d dried and dressed and come to the breakfast table, his shame had turned to anger. Hadn’t he done everything he was supposed to do? Raised a God-fearing family? Helped feed the world? Gone to worship every Sunday? Served as treasurer on the church council for the last five years?

  Yes, he’d had that slip with the bottle right after Josh was born. Owen knew farming. He didn’t know nothin’ about raising a mentally challenged child. After the fire, though, he’d made it all right with the Lord and been sober ever since.

  “Owen?” Sherylene’s soft voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Hmm?” He looked up from the scrambled eggs he hadn’t realized he’d been eating. He saw his beautiful wife’s face tired with worry.

  “You haven’t said a word all mornin’, honey. What’s happened?”

  He dug his fork into the eggs. “Two more dead.”

  She nodded, understanding immediately. “We’re gonna make it, honey.”

  “Don’t know how any more.” He took a piece of toast from the stack in between them and shoved it in his mouth.

  “The Lord don’t give us any more than we can handle. It says that in the Bible.”

  Owen shoved away from the table. “The question is, how do we handle it?”

  “The Lord also gave us brains.” She put her coffee cup down. “We’ll figure somethin’ out.”

  “I’m goin’ into town,” he answered flatly. “See if Norm Krall’s got a contract job he needs help with.”

  “Will you be back for dinner?” she asked hopefully.

  “Not sure. You and Rebecca take care of the milkin’?”