Murder in the Second Pew Page 4

  “Of course not. Every agent wants their charge in the witness protection program to take on a profession in public speaking.”

  “You come to hear a sermon?” Matt finally sat down in the chair across from Frank. Apparently the man wasn’t going away any time soon.

  “Let’s be straight about this.” The lines on Frank’s forehead creased to cavernous proportions. “I don’t care if you’ve found religion, I just wanna know why, given the circumstances, you didn’t go to a monastery somewhere and take a vow of silence.”

  “And not enjoy these deep, philosophical conversations with my witness-protection babysitter?”

  “Just wanted to catch you up on some things, Mike—excuse me—Matt.”

  The “mistake” had its effect. In one short word, Frank had flung him back in time to when his name had been Mike—Mike Hogan Jr. For a brief second he was back on the Miami dock, holding his dead father in his arms, the roar of the motorboat’s engines in his ears as his father’s murderer escaped across the harbor. In that moment the shock and grief had been overwhelming. The unstoppable anger had come later, when he’d found out that one of their own had hired the kill.

  Matt forced himself back to the present. “What things?”

  “Court date.” Frank leaned forward, pulled out his phone and called up the calendar. “Trial begins December fifth. You’ll need to be available for the month of December.”

  Matt shook his head. “That’s Advent.”

  “You got a problem with the date?” Frank looked incredulous.

  “Advent is our busiest time, except maybe for Holy Week. I can’t just leave my congregation for a month at a time like that. There’s the midweek services, the choir’s Christmas concert—”

  Frank leaned forward. “You’re too busy to testify against the man who murdered your father? The man who you personally vowed to bring down? And when you went rogue to do just that, he retaliated by blowing up one of your brothers and paralyzing the other? My God, you’re a sanctimonious sonuvabitch.” Frank snapped his phone back into his belt. “By the way, your mom wanted me to let you know that your brother finally was able to feed himself last month.”

  Matt paused for a moment to let it sink in. It had taken four years, but his brother Luke had finally gained control over his arms and hands.

  “I skyped with your mom before coming here. She was so happy. Luke was trying to spoon some jello into his mouth. He made a mess, but, still, it brought a tear to the eye.”

  “I didn’t go rogue, Ballard. But I sure wasn’t going to find the evidence to convict a police chief of drug dealing and murder by staying out in the open.”

  “Yeah, that’s why they took out your brothers instead.”

  The knife in Matt’s heart twisted.

  Frank continued. “I’m still looking to see how that goes over in trial. Is Captain Howard P. Rutledge a demon or a hero? Sometimes you have to look the other way when a grunt does a deal, because what you really want is the big man.”

  “I know you don’t like thinking that Rutledge is bad. He’s a damned hero in Miami.” Matt shoved his fists into his pockets to keep from pummeling Frank’s face. “But any way you look at it, he murdered my father, my brother Bryson, and almost killed Luke. He’s going down for it.”

  “Only if you can be bothered to interrupt your Christmas.”

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to be there. I just don’t know how I’m going to explain it to my—”

  “Maybe you can do us all a favor and get terminal cancer or something. Just don’t die until after you’ve finished on the witness stand.” Frank headed for the front door. “I’ll be in touch with you on how we’re going to transport you—and when. Maybe I can borrow Santa’s sleigh, so we can keep your holiday spirits up.” He pulled open the door.

  James W. was standing on the front porch, hand at the ready to knock, a startled expression on his face. He looked from Matt to Frank, and Matt knew the sheriff sensed the tension in the air. “Preacher?”

  Matt had to think quickly. “My college roommate’s dad decided to stop by. Sam, meet our town’s sheriff, James W. Novak.”

  Frank fell into the story without skipping a beat. He held out his hand to the sheriff, a sincere smile replacing the contempt of a moment ago. “Sheriff, good to meet you.” He stepped back to let James W. into the room. “I was on my way from Houston to Austin, and thought I’d look up my son’s old college roommate. We had some good times back then, didn’t we, Matt?”

  “Great times,” Matt confirmed. “Say hi to Jack for me.”

  “I don’t mean to chase off your company, Pastor. I just wanted you to know the coroner identified the body that we found in the riverbed earlier today. It’s Melinda Platt, all right. And the coroner’s listin’ the cause of death as ‘suspicious.’ Gotta send the body away for more tests.”

  “Goodness, son,” Frank interjected, his eyes freezing on Matt’s face. “You aren’t investigating murders here, are you?”

  “Callie Mae Platt is one of my parishioners,” Matt returned. “I think the sheriff’s here so that I can go with him to help comfort her when he tells her that her daughter is dead.” After a return glare, Matt grabbed his keys off the entryway table.

  “If you got company—” James W. began.

  “No problem.” Matt put a stern hand on Frank’s arm. “Sam was definitely leaving.”

  “Walk me out to the car, son,” Frank said, putting that arm around Matt’s shoulder, commanding him down the sidewalk. When they were out of the sheriff’s earshot, but not his suspicious gaze, Frank stopped. “Don’t tell me you’re not interested in this murder. No point trying to bullshit a bullshitter. I never could stand your cover, but you’d better keep it pristine. You are in frigging danger, my friend.”

  Matt slowly backed out of the marshal’s hold. “I won’t argue that you’re not full of excrement. But I have a pastor’s duty to perform here, and if anyone set off signals about my cover, it was you.” He plastered a smile on his face, turned on his heel and headed back toward James W. “Have a safe trip,” he called over his shoulder.

  “You okay, Pastor?” James W. asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Good, ‘cuz tellin’ a mother that her daughter’s been killed takes a strong heart.” The sheriff slapped his hat on his head. “Looks like Wilks has another murder, Pastor.”

  Chapter Six

  Dinner and a Show

  James W. and Matt walked silently side by side, down the sidewalk away from Callie Mae Platt’s small home and the sound of her sobs. Both men had their heads bowed, knowing they could do nothing to console the grieving mother.

  They climbed into James W.’s quad cab and sat in silence.

  “That was hell,” James W. finally said.

  “I’m supposed to know what to do. What to say.” Matt’s voice was very quiet.

  “Don’t kick yourself, Preacher. That was ten years of grief waitin’ to break.”

  Matt knew the sheriff’s words were true, but he couldn’t shake off the memory of Callie Mae’s ragings that God was the devil. How could anyone convince a wronged mother that God was all-loving, all-good, all-powerful after telling her that her daughter had been murdered, brutally, and left to rot in a river where the fish could feed on the carcass. The revelation that Callie Mae had served fresh fish pulled from that same river in her café gave the entire scene a stroke of macabre cannibalism that he didn’t want to think about.

  “You look like you could use a drink,” James W. said, interrupting the disturbing picture in Matt’s mind.

  “Yeah. I could.”

  James W. put the truck in gear and headed toward the Square. “Preacher, she didn’t mean what she said.”

  “Of course she didn’t,” Matt agreed. “But it still raises the question.”

  Matt wasn’t surprised when James W. pulled up behind the Fire and Ice House. In fact, he felt relieved. Somehow, this bar that had no “appropriate” place in h
is life seemed like home.

  Zach Gibbons had hit the mark too accurately yesterday. Pastor Matt Hayden was a lonely man.

  They walked across the parking lot, up the steps of the new porch and into the sounds and smells of a different life. The TVs blared baseball games and sports news, while in the far corner a few twenty-somethings gathered to watch a soccer game. Matt followed James W. to a distant booth.

  The incredibly curvy, very beguiling Chelsea was there before they’d settled themselves against the booth’s new upholstery. “What’ll it be?” she asked, her Cleopatra-lined eyes smiling about something that neither man was permitted to think about.

  “Fireman’s Four,” James W. said with a nod.

  “Same,” Matt agreed.

  “Fireball chaser,” James W. added and arched his brow at Matt.

  “Make that two.”

  Chelsea smiled and turned, intrigued at the unique order coming from the town’s uppity-ups.

  Realizing he had not eaten since breakfast, Matt called after her. “What’s the special today?”

  “Meat loaf and mashed potatoes,” she answered.

  Matt nodded. “That’ll be fine.” He took a long breath and let it out. “I can’t say a thing to Callie Mae right now that will give her peace.” He looked pointedly at the sheriff. “Catching the murderer might. You got any ideas?”

  James W.’s brow furrowed. “That was a long time back.”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Well, Danny Don Dube was the sheriff back then. I was his deputy. The girl went missin’, that’s all.” He thought a moment. “Well, both girls went missin’.”

  “Both girls?”

  “Melinda Platt and Diane Turpin. They hung together, pretty wild. When they disappeared, everybody figured they’d headed for professional barrel racing like they’d always threatened.”

  “I never understood the rodeo reviews posted up on the wall in Callie Mae’s Cafe before. All those barrel racing awards—they were Melinda’s?”

  “Oh, yeah. That girl could ride, and Lord, she looked good on a horse.” James W. caught himself at that last admission. “Sorry, Preacher.”

  Chelsea came up, her tray heavy with the two beers and, to Matt’s consternation, three chasers. “Bottom’s up, gentlemen,” she said, taking one of the fireballs in hand and waiting for them to join in.

  Dutifully the two men downed the whiskey shot in one gulp with the barmaid. She sashayed away, only to be whistled at by another patron. She fixed her vixen eyes on the new prey and headed in his direction.

  “So two girls disappeared,” Matt prompted. “I know I’m just a preacher, but if I can help you at all it might help Callie Mae.”

  A fire flickered in James W.’s gaze. He slowly took off his hat and placed it on the table. “You know, Preacher, I’ve never asked you much about your past.”

  Matt’s hand stopped in mid-reach for the beer mug.

  “But that man was right—what was his name? Sam?” James W.’s keen eyes were fixed solidly on Matt’s face. “Looked a little steamed at you. Like he knew you, uh, have a habit of investigatin’ murders?”

  Matt’s thoughts swirled. James W. was going down a road that Matt had hoped to avoid. Then again, how long could he put off mixing his present with his past?

  James W. nodded. “Here’s the deal. I’ve been a law man for a long time, and I know when somethin’…or someone…ain’t exactly who he appears to be.” He folded his hands on the table, waiting for Matt to say something.

  Matt trusted James W. with his life—of that there was no doubt. However, he wasn’t ready for James W. to have that knowing look in his eyes every time he glanced Matt’s way.

  Apparently, James W. perceived he’d put Matt in a tight spot. “I’ll put it to you plainly, Preacher.” Only then did Matt realize he hadn’t been treated to a Texas metaphor since James W. had started this conversation.

  “We both know you’ve been somethin’ other than a preacher in the past. The way you put together the murders last January, the questions you asked, the methodology you followed—it’s clear you’ve been trained in keepin’ the law.”

  Matt knew that witness protection policy would dictate that he deny it, but he remained silent.

  “But now you’re a pastor.” James W. held up a hand. “And a good one, I might add. Except maybe for what you said to Elsbeth yesterday. But when I walked in on you and ‘Sam,’ if that really is his name, I saw a side of you I’ve never seen before. And don’t give me any horse manure about him bein’ the father of your college roommate. If ever I saw men who wanted to punch each other out, it was you two. So here’s the deal.”

  James W. took a drink from his beer. “Now, you know that I know that you ain’t ‘just’ a preacher. I’ve tried to show my respect by not askin’ you about your past. And I appreciate how you fixed things with my family so that my son could still hold his head high and proudly run for governor. But I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t insult my cop intuition by implyin’ I don’t know you have a story behind you.”

  Busted, Matt thought.

  James W. stood and looked Matt straight in the eye. “If you want in on the police business, those are my terms.” The sheriff reached for their mugs. “Beer’s flat. Be right back.”

  Matt watched the sheriff head past the row of booths toward the bar, then something caught his attention. The last booth in the corner, the one mostly shadowed from the light by a video golf machine, was occupied. Matt was surprised when he recognized its sole occupant.

  Owen Seegler, the church council treasurer.

  He was debating whether or not he should go over and visit with the man, when a distracting squeal came from close by.

  “C’mon, Zach! I’ll bet you can do it tonight!” Chelsea was leaning forward at the third table over, allowing her substantial cleavage to hang tantalizingly open to Zach Gibbons’ leer. “You get it in this time and the shots’ll be on me!”

  She handed him a wadded up straw cover and stepped a little closer to the table. Zach took aim and managed to toss the paper square between her breasts. The tables around broke into hoots and applause and calls of, “Lemme try that,” or “Hey, Zach, go for two out of three!”

  Zach grinned. “I’ll go you one better,” he offered. “Chelsea, if I make four outta five, you buy shots for all of my friends here.”

  “Deal,” she said with a laugh as she bent down for another round.

  “What in the world is goin’ on there?” James W. slid into the booth across from the pastor and pushed a bottle of Shiner Matt’s way. “Fireman’s Four keg is bad.” His gaze, however, was full on Chelsea and Zach.

  “A bar game, I believe,” Matt said.

  Three more choruses of cheers went up as each of Zach’s launches hit its mark.

  “All right, boys, I’ll get your shots, but you remember me at tip time,” Chelsea said and winked.

  “Lord, that girl’s askin’ for trouble,” James W. said. “Reminds me a little of Melinda Platt, now that I think of it.”

  Meanwhile, Matt watched Chelsea pour out six shots of Jägermeister and carry them back to Zach’s table. She handed each man a shot and took the last one for herself. “Bottoms up!”

  The six chugged the Jäger in one motion and slammed the shot glasses down on the table, to the applause of several other customers who’d been observing the show.

  Then, one by one, the spectators grew silent, and even Zach stopped smiling. Chelsea was the only one who kept giggling.

  Matt turned to see what had sobered everyone’s mood. That’s when he saw her, standing at the kitchen door.

  The angel by day, devil by night Angie O’Day was back.

  Matt sucked in his breath. She was as beautiful as ever. Her red hair flamed around her like an angel’s fire of vengeance, and her eyes danced with anger. Her low, husky voice cut like a knife through the room’s sudden tension. “Exactly who is payin’ for those shots, missy?”

 
Chelsea finally turned. “Who the hell are you?”

  Angie eyed the scantilly clad waitress from head to toe, then sneered. “I’m your boss, the one who’s not paying for those drinks.” Without taking her eyes off the girl, Angie held out her hand to Bo. “Give me that girl’s tip jar.”

  Bo, looking as stunned as everyone else to see his boss, reached under the bar and pulled up a mason jar. He offered it to Angie.

  “Give me twenty-four dollars out of that jar,” Angie said, her gaze not wavering from Chelsea’s face.

  Chelsea flared. “It’s only three dollars a shot.”

  Angie held out an expectant hand to Bo, and he counted twenty-four dollars into her palm. “It’s ten o’clock at night, and this ain’t happy hour. It’s four bucks a shot.”

  The silence of the bar patrons was only magnified by the blaring games on the TV sets. Angie, her gaze still thunderous, walked over to the cash register, rang in the order, and put the twenty-four dollars in the drawer.

  She turned to Bo and said, “Serve a round to whoever didn’t get a free one from her and kick those assholes”—she nodded to the five men—“outta my bar.” She hooked a finger toward Chelsea. “You. Here.”

  Though she obviously didn’t want to, Chelsea complied. Matt hoped the proximity of the two wouldn’t lead to blows.

  Angie had her hands on her hips. “I own this place, and I’m the only one gives free drinks in this bar. Got that?”

  “You ain’t been here,” Chelsea challenged.

  “Well, I’m back now. Got it?”

  Chelsea nodded her head once. The two stared at each other, Angie making sure her meaning was clear. “You and I are goin’ to have a meetin’ tomorrow mornin’. Ten a.m., sharp. And don’t let me ever catch you stealin’ from me again, or I’ll shoot you between the…” she allowed her gaze to travel from Chelsea’s Cleopatra-lined eyes to her opulent bust and then back up. “Eyes.”

  Matt and James W. shared a wide-eyed glance and picked up their beers. “Holy hell,” James W. muttered before he took the swallow, “The Angel’s back in town.”

  The two men drained their Shiners.