A Good Man Gone (Mercy Watts Mysteries) (15 page)

I started to ask Ameche another question, but stopped myself.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “I was going to ask about more exits, but I don’t think it matters.”

“Why not?”

“Because if the killer was one of the guests, then he returned here after doing it. He didn’t need an escape route. He would’ve stayed till the police came. He would’ve been interviewed.”

“What about the blood?” asked Ameche.

“There wasn’t any spatter. The blood was just smeared around, like with her hair as she struggled. He might not have gotten much on him, except for the hands. He could’ve just washed up in the bathroom and rolled up his sleeves,” I said.

Ameche elbowed me. “It could be a she, you know.”

“It’s not beyond the realm, but, come on, how many women stranglers have you heard of?” Ameche shrugged and I continued, “If it wasn’t someone from the party, they’d have gone out the front door and it still doesn’t matter.”

“I guess. How do you know all this stuff anyway?”

“My dad likes to talk things over. Helps him think about the possibilities when he says it out loud.”

“He discusses cases with you?” Ameche narrowed his eyes at me, and I could see my dad was dropping in his esteem.

“Hardly.” I smiled.

Ameche relaxed.

“My mother was always his sounding board, but he did like to tell me his general method and I have an unfortunate habit of eavesdropping.”

“You’re kidding.”

I punched Ameche in the shoulder and said, “Shut up and tell me about the guests.”

“How can I do that if I’m shutting up?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Just tell me. I don’t have all night.”

“I do,” he said.

I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

“Nope, cause I don’t know a damn thing.” His grin took over his whole face.

“Why not?”

“Cause I’ve been on the force for eight months. I direct traffic,” he said.

“Right. I don’t know what I was thinking,” I said.

“Look, I’ll tell you anything I pick up.”

“In for a dime, in for a dollar?”

“May as well. If anybody finds out about this, my ass is grass. Your dad is really going to put in a good word for me, right?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “We pay our debts and remember our friends.”

“Friends?” Ameche’s eyebrows went up under his hat.

“Sure, why not? You’re not so bad.”

“Very complimentary.”

“I try,” I said.

“You better go. I’ve got to get back out front,” he said.

“No problem and thanks.”

“Mention it, please mention it.”

We headed back towards the door, Ameche reached for the doorknob, but we both froze with a jolt when we heard a woman’s voice say, “What are you doing here?”

Ameche wheeled around. I studied his face to figure out how deep a shit we were in, but he betrayed little. Mild surprise at best. Not “My life is over. Someone shoot me.” We could save the situation and, if we could, it was up to me. I was probably a more accomplished liar than Ameche. Helping Dad out gave me plenty of practice. I turned with a fixed look of mild interest on my face, praying she wouldn’t recognize me.

Don’t look scared. Don’t look scared.

A woman stood ten feet away from us under an archway that had an exit sign over it. She crossed her arms. “Well?”

“Hi. I’m Mercy Watts and this is Officer Ameche. Have you two met?” I walked the ten feet extending my hand to her. She shook it briefly and put her hands on her hips.

“Not formally, no. I’m Reverend Coleman,” she said.

“Pleased to meet you, Reverend.” Ameche extended his hand. She shook it and her hand snapped back to her hip.

“What are you doing here? I wasn’t told about any more people coming tonight,” said Reverend Coleman.

Think fast. Think fast.

“Are you with the forensics team?” A furrow formed between the reverend’s eyebrows and I knew I was fast missing the window where she could learn to like me. In a split second, I had to judge her by looks alone.

Did the reverend have a rough past, causing her to suspect everyone of everything? Did I have to lie and get the hell out before she called Chuck? Or was she an average person with average experiences who’d take me at my word and give up some information?

Reverend Coleman looked like a nice guy. She had a lot of Aunt Tenne’s elements and if there ever was a nice guy, it was her. The reverend was tall, at least five eleven, and a good fifty pounds over weight. She knew how to wear it well in varying shades of gray and a scoop neckline. Nothing pinched or pulled. Despite her bulk she looked smooth. Her makeup was low key and well applied. But it was her eyes that showed her desire for goodness. They were blue with crinkled corners. They were probably the cause of people saying behind her back, “She’d be so pretty, if she’d just lose some weight.”

I decided Reverend Coleman was normal (aka not a criminal or victim), and to listen to my dad. Don’t tell him I said so. Dad says that normal people live normal lives where major lying isn’t a everyday occurrence. Non-criminals assume you’re telling the truth and want to believe you. In fact, they’ll go to great lengths to believe.

“No, I’m not with forensics. Actually, I’m working on another case.” I smoothed my dress and tried to look super honest. It was a stretch. “Do you think we could talk for a couple of minutes?”

Reverend Coleman relaxed, and Ameche let out a long-held breath.

“Sure. My office?” she asked.

“That would be great.”

“Do you need me for anything else?” Ameche asked me.

“Not at the moment. Thanks.”

“I better go patrol the grounds.” He nodded to the reverend and left.

“I’m sorry. I’m not familiar with the layout. Where’s your office?” I asked.

“In the main building. Follow me,” said Reverend Coleman.

We walked back over to the church and took the path around the rear to the door that Ameche and I had first entered. She opened the door and I noticed fingerprint ink on her hand. She led me down the hallway to a plain door with two dozen drawings and finger paintings on it. Most of them had her name and various versions of her face and body on them. The kids were a little too accurate for my taste and I wondered how the reverend felt about them. Maybe she was a big enough person not to care, but her careful dressing and makeup said different.

Reverend Coleman offered me a cream-colored armchair and sat behind the desk. She sighed, rubbed her eyes carefully so as not to smudge her mascara, and put on a pair of glasses.

“What can I do for you, Miss Watts?” she asked.

“I’m not sure to tell you the truth, Reverend. I’m just fishing here.”

“You said something about another case. Please, tell me this isn’t going to get any worse.”

“It’s been pretty bad then?”

“Oh, the cameras and reporters. They have no decency, no shame. I don’t know when we can start services again. I don’t want them bothering our parishioners.”

“I don’t think you can prevent that,” I said.

“I suppose you’re right. What’s the other case?”

I fished around in my purse, slipped Gavin’s picture out of my wallet, and handed it to Reverend Coleman. “Do you recognize the man on the right?”

She hesitated, shook her head no, and peered at the picture again.

“He’d be a bit older looking and much thinner,” I said.

“No, I’m sorry. Has he been here?”

“Not that I know of, but he did call here probably on Saturday. Do you keep records of incoming calls?”

“It depends on what the caller wanted,” she said. “Are you sure it was on Saturday?”

“I believe so,” I said.

“That was Rebecca’s wedding day.”

“Did you know her well?”

“Why do you ask?” The reverend rubbed her eyes again.

“You referred to the wedding as Rebecca’s as though you knew her personally.”

“Did I? Of course I did.” Her eyes got misty and she cupped her palm over her mouth, her fingers spread over her cheek. She looked at her lap for a moment, and then dropped her hand. “I knew her quite well. She volunteered here for the last three years. We had such fun planning the ceremony. Was he calling her?”

The question startled me. My mind had wandered to Gavin and I’d forgotten what we were doing, what we were talking about. A flush of grief rushed to my face and my answer came out as a strangled croak, “I can’t be sure, but I suspect he was. Who was on the phones then?”

“No one. Everyone was at the wedding and reception. We were all invited, of course.”

“Of course.” I cleared my throat. “Well, someone answered the phone. Any idea who that might’ve been?”

“No, but Rebecca wouldn’t have spoken with him unless he was on her list.”

“What list?” I asked.

“Rebecca only took calls from certain people. We were very careful never to say whether she was here or not. She was grateful, I think, not to have to worry about that here,” she said.

“What exactly was she worried about?”

“She had some trouble a while back. Some man was bothering her. I think he threatened her. She moved and changed her phone number, but he wouldn’t let her alone.”

“Did she make a police report?”

“Dozens, for all the good it did. One of the cops said he was extremely good or they would’ve have been able to get him.”

“They never got a name or a description?”

“She never saw him and, obviously, he didn’t leave a name,” she said.

“Right,” I said. “I suppose you told all of this to the detectives working her case?”

“Yes. Do you want the list?”

“That’d be great,” I said.

“We keep it in her file in my secretary’s office next door,” she said.

We stood up, walked out of her office and into the door to the right. It, too, was covered with drawings and some photos of church gatherings. Inside was a waist-high wooden partition with a bell, in-and-out trays and a stack of flyers advertising a new bible study group. We walked around the partition to a triple set of filing cabinets. Reverend Coleman opened a drawer and thumbed through a manila folder.

She murmured something under her breath.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s not in here.”

“Could it have been taken into evidence?”

“Maybe, but I don’t remember mentioning the list to anyone. I should’ve. Evelyn might have told the detectives. Evelyn’s my secretary.” She looked at me, her brows furrowed.

“That’s probably it. Do you remember who was on the list?”

“Her parents, of course. Her sister, some friends, people where she worked,” she said.

“A lot of names?”

“No, not a lot. Maybe fifteen or twenty.”

“Do you remember if Gavin Flouder was on the list?” I asked.

“Doesn’t sound familiar, but I hadn’t looked at the list in a long time.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t answer the church phone much, so I didn’t need to look. Rebecca did say he stopped bothering her.”

“When was that?”

“About the time she met Lee. She was so relieved, I can tell you,” she said.

“Who’s Lee?”

“Her fiancé, I mean husband. Poor man. I don’t know how he’s going to get through this.”

“Have you seen him since it happened?”

“Twice. He couldn’t stop crying the first time. Kept saying he didn’t want to live without her. The second time he was on something to calm him down, I think.”

“Did he say anything that time?” I asked.

“Not really. I couldn’t understand him,” she said.

“When did you say they met?”

“Six months ago. A few days after Thanksgiving, I think.”

“Short engagement.”

“I thought so too, but they were so in love and so happy. I can’t tell you how good he was for her. He got her out. She wasn’t afraid when she was with him.”

“So Lee got rid of the stalker?”

“Stalker? Yes, I guess he was a stalker. Rebecca never called him that. She just said ‘that guy’ or something to that effect. I guess Lee did get rid of him. I never thought about it. That guy must’ve figured out that bothering Rebecca was pointless, don’t you think?”

“Unless he didn’t,” I said.

“You think he did it, too? I can’t imagine anyone else. We all loved her. She was a good person. She’d never hurt a fly.” Reverend Coleman turned to a corkboard on the back wall, pulled out a stickpin, and handed me a snapshot of a young blond woman surrounded by smiling children.
 
“The kids are taking it hard. She organized most of their activities and chaperoned. We’re having counselors here during Sunday school next week.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” I said, as I looked at the photo. Rebecca Sample had blond hair and a shy smile. She didn’t look like a stalker’s favorite target. Not being famous, beautiful, or anything I imagined stalkers to go for, but I knew nothing about stalkers except what I’d seen in news magazines. Dad had only had a couple stalker cases in his whole career, and I didn’t remember him saying much about them.