Kathy Hogan Trocheck - Truman Kicklighter 01 - Lickety-Split (28 page)

“I can’t give you any advice myself,” Ms. Aristozobal said. “It would be a conflict of interest. But if I were to give you some advice, it would be to check out those church services. And have your attorney contact your state’s real estate commission or revenue office. See if Newby’s meeting all Florida’s regulations for tax-exempt status.”

“I’ll do that,” he said gratefully. “Thanks a lot, Ms. Aristozobal.”

“For what?” she asked. “I didn’t give you any advice.”

Curtis was taking inventory, counting cans of motor oil and air filters and alternator belts and singing some moronic song about an achy-breaky heart. Butch was sitting with his feet up on his desk, watching the five o’clock news.

“Hey,” Butch said suddenly. “Shut up. Listen to this.”

The news anchor had on her “this is serious, folks” look.

“And in Treasure Island,” she said, “authorities from the State Environmental Protection Division said they are holding a barge containing fish waste from the Mayhall Seafood Company.

“Authorities seized the barge last Monday, with an estimated three tons of rotting fish waste aboard, charging that Mayhall was illegally dumping waste in the Gulf of Mexico.

“The barge has been tied up at a Florida Marine Patrol dock at Treasure Island since last week. Residents of the area have complained about the stench, but the state says the barge is evidence.”

“You hear that?” Butch was on his feet, highly agitated. A vein in his forehead was bulging. “You hear what they’re saying?”

Curtis sniffed. “I don’t smell nothing.”

Butch sat back down and buried his head in his hands. “It ain’t just mullet heads rotting on that scow down there, boy. They got a dead Mafia guy buried in there with all those fish guts too.”

“You mean … the place where we dropped the you- know-what?”

His father nodded. Then he stood up and got the truck keys. “Let’s go,” he said resignedly. “We gotta go take a look at that Florida Marine Patrol dock, see what’s what.”

It took Truman two hours to get his room back to some semblance of order.

He finally decided to take a break. He’d just lain down on the white chenille bedspread and closed his eyes when the whine of an electric drill started up, right outside his door.

He got up and opened the door. A workman stood on a ladder, fiddling with one of the ceiling fixtures in the hallway.

“Do you mind?” Truman said irritably. “People around here like to take a rest in the afternoon.”

“Too bad,” the worker said, applying his drill to the fixture’s cover. “I got a work order.”

Truman slammed his door. He thought of the conversation he’d had with Leda Aristozobal. “Nuisance stuff,” she called it.

Now he was fighting mad. He dialed the AP bureau number in Tampa.

“Gibby? Truman Kicklighter here. Listen, remember that talk we had about the outfit that’s trying to take over my hotel?”

“Hotel?” Frank Gibhart sounded vague, distracted. “Oh, yeah. That preacher. Sure. You let me know if anything comes of that. Okay?”

“Something is coming of it,” Truman said. “I just talked to a woman who works for the Texas Department of Revenue. This guy’s got a whole empire going. Wants to make our hotel a link in the chain. And he’s pulling dirty tricks now. Deliberately harassing people. Letting security go to pot. We’ve had two break-ins just this week.”

“I’ll look into it, Truman,” Gibhart said. “Call you next week.”

Truman was left looking at the phone in his hand. The brush-off. He knew it well. Had given it to well-meaning pests hundreds of times over the years. “We’ll look into it.” Hell.

He went to the sink in his bathroom, washed his face, and wet a comb before applying it to his hair.

It was Wednesday night. He’d seen a flyer posted in the lobby advertising services for the Church of Cosmic Unity at the old Rialto Theater at Seventh and Central. He had a sudden hankering for religion.

The old glass-enclosed box office that stood in the black-and-white-tiled lobby of the Rialto was empty, the glass shattered by what looked like a BB. A faded and torn Coming Attraction poster showed Julie Andrews romping through an Austrian meadow.

The lobby was jammed. It was an odd crowd for any place except St. Petersburg. Nobody looked to be any younger than sixty. As usual, men were a strict minority. It was a blue-hair, white-shoe, walker-and-wheelchair crowd. Truman decided that even in St. Pete he had never seen such a collection of the aged and infirm.

People were filing slowly into the auditorium, taking programs from a woman dressed in a white blouse and red skirt.

Others were milling around a table that held a scale model of something that looked suspiciously like the Fountain of Youth Retirement Hotel.

But this building had pale gray stucco on the outside and a tasteful carved plaque proclaiming it to be Jerusalem House. A diagram showed where the clinic, the pharmacy, and the “assisted care living area” would be. A photograph of a unit showed cozy living/dining room combinations, galley kitchens, and bedrooms with sitting rooms. A far cry from Truman’s spartan bedroom/bath.

The only young person Truman saw in the room stood beside the display, hands clasped in front of him, a wooden smile on his lips.

The man held out a hand as Truman approached. “Hello! I’m Reverend Newby’s son, Jewell Jr. But everybody calls me Jim. Get it, Little Jewell, Gem?”

Truman peered at the model. “Some operation you’ve got here.”

“Every inch of it will be first-class all the way,” Jim said. He picked up a light gray folder from a stack on the table. “Would you like to see our prospectus?”

“I’d love to,” Truman said. He opened the folder and looked at the contents. There was a letter from Newby, a glowing description of the project, floor plans, and letters of endorsement from residents of Newby’s other “senior environments” in Scottsdale and San Antonio.

“No price list?”

Jim frowned. “Reverend Newby likes to discuss financial matters with prospective residents on a one-to-one basis,” he explained.

One of the “hostesses” stepped into the lobby. Overhead lights flickered on and off. “Services are beginning,” she called.

Jim gestured toward the auditorium. “Will you be joining the service, Brother … ?”

“Kicklighter,” Truman said. “I’m looking forward to it.”

The house lights had already been dimmed. Truman found his way to a seat on the left side, squeezing past two plump women who had stationed themselves on the aisle, leaving the inner part of the row empty. Now he remembered why he’d quit going to church.

A banner was pinned to the faded red velvet curtains on the stage. In bold red script it said “jesus loves you—yes he does!”

From the back of the theater, a tape was switched on. Itwas a tinny recording of a gospel choir singing “Amazing Grace.”

Audience members struggled to their feet. They were singing lustily, clapping their hands, faces alight with joy.

A shaft of light emitting from the projection room broke the darkness. Truman turned around in time to see the Reverend Jewell Newby bound through the lobby doors. He strode down the center aisle of the auditorium, stopping to shake hands, pat someone on the back, lean over and kiss the occasional wheelchair occupant, like the patriarch at a giant family reunion.

The recording looped back and started again and everyone stayed there, standing and singing and clapping their hands raw until the Reverend Newby clambered onto the stage.

Now the music faded and a single blue spotlight picked out the spiritual leader of the Church of Cosmic Unity.

Since it was a midweek service, Newby had opted for a casual “folksy” look, crisply pressed khaki slacks and a short-sleeved plaid sport shirt. A thick gold watch gleamed on his wrist.

The blue light made Newby’s thick wavy hair look like platinum, his teeth like pure white marble. He was, Truman thought, perfect for this old theater and this particular audience. He was a matinee idol.

Someone came out on stage and clipped a tiny body mike to the collar of Newby’s shirt. He looked out at the lambs in his flock and gave them a dazzling smile.

“Are you ready for blessings?” he asked.

” Yes!” the crowd called back.

“Are you ready for a message of unconditional love?” he asked.

“Yes!” the lambs answered.

“Good,” Newby said, bowing his head and closing his eyes. “Now let us pray for the prosperity our Heavenly Father so wants us to have a share in.”

After the prayer Newby launched into a heartfelt sermon that started with the biblical tale of the prodigal son.

“‘How could I not kill the fatted calf?’ the father asks the jealous older son. ‘For he was lost and he is found. He was dead, but now he is alive.’

“And the message,” Newby emphasized, “is love. Unconditional love. Our father’s unconditional love. And the love he commands us to have for one another.

“You,” Newby said, stretching his hands out to the audience, pointing here and there in the crowd. “You are the church family. You, Emma Rauscher, you, Hattie Mae Squires, you, Harry Ballard, you, Caroline Crouch, you are family. You matter. You are not alone. Jesus loves you. We love you.”

Now Jewell Newby was joined onstage by Jewell Jr., who took a pointer and waved it at a five-foot-high chart. The words “Jerusalem House” were at the top of the chart. There were columns for “Gold Plan” and “Silver Plan” and “Platinum Plan” and “Apostles.” Each column was marked in gradients and none was below the halfway mark.

Jim Newby held the pointer under the Apostle column.

“We have a new apostle tonight,” he said, beaming. “Let’s have Sister Jeannette Boynton stand up for a love offering.”

A tall, elegantly coiffed woman in the front row stood slowly and gave a brief, queenly wave before sitting back down. The crowd stood, clapping and cheering, for a long time.

Truman recognized the name Boynton, if not Jeannette Boynton. The Boyntons were an old Pinellas County pioneer family. Founders of banks, hospitals, and a fortune that, from what he’d read, grew larger every year. He didn’t know what Jewell Newby’s apostle plan entailed, but he was willing to bet the price didn’t come cheap.

Fifteen more minutes were spent giving love offerings to half a dozen members who’d signed up for various plans, although no other apostles were recognized.

Then Newby’s face grew grave. Miss Cookie Jeffcote, the church’s “vice president for marketing” had been the victim of an unfortunate accident. He urged the audience to remember her in their prayers, as he did every night and morning.

Vice president, Truman thought. Cookie had gotten a promotion.

There were more announcements. A free bus trip to Sea World would leave the church on Friday. Sign-up sheets were available in the lobby for the church shuttle bus to take church members to the doctor’s office, grocery, or drugstore. And everyone was invited to the covered-dish supper Friday night at Reverend Newby’s home.

Then another tinny recording began, this one of “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” Father and son Newby waved to the crowd, then disappeared behind the curtains.

The lights came on again and Truman saw that the old movie house was filled with excited chatter, laughter, a general feeling of shared community. Jewell Newby, Truman thought, had pulled the old water and wine stunt. He’d taken a roomful of strangers, the elderly, the infirm, the isolated, and made them feel unique. Special. Of course there was a price for that. But Newby’s lambs were obviously eager and willing to make their own love offerings.

The walk back to the hotel was uneventful. But for every five steps he took, Truman looked back over his shoulder, searching for a blonde in a black sports car.

“Mrs. Skinner? Annette Sowers Skinner?”

“This is Carl Skinner. Her husband. I’ll get Annette.”

Truman waited for what was surely five minutes. Long distance to Albuquerque, New Mexico.

“Hello?” A woman’s voice. “Who’s calling, please?”

“Truman Kicklighter here,” he said. “I’m a reporter for the
St. Petersburg Times
. I’m working on a story about Jewell Newby.”

A grim laugh. “Newby, huh? He kill some rich old lady down there?”

“What?” Truman said, startled.

“He killed my mother,” Annette Sowers Skinner said. “For the money. The land. You knew about that, right?”

“I knew your mother deeded the land over to him,” Truman said. “But no charges were ever brought against him. Isn’t that correct?”

“We couldn’t prove anything. But up until that last year, Mama was healthy as a horse. Mean as a snake, too. We never knew anything was wrong until they called to tell us she had died.”

“What were the circumstances of her death?” Truman asked.

“Circumstances? There were no circumstances. Newby said he was at her house, having Bible study with her, and she keeled over. By the time we got to Scottsdale, all that was left of our mother was her ashes.”