Lethal Lineage (9 page)
My afternoon at the sheriff’s department was uneventful. Like the job was supposed to be. I checked some of the databases I didn’t have access to on my home computer, but could not find any records on Talesbury.
Betty Central would relieve me at five. I spent my time compiling a list of expenses and composing the weekly report for the
Gateway Gazette
. It was worded as though offenders were anonymous, but there wasn’t a person in town who didn’t know exactly who had committed an offense within minutes of the occurrence.
Sam had once threatened to send all our forms directly down to the boys at the coffee shop and save our office the work of filling them out.
About three Bishop Rice called.
“I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” he announced.
I laughed. “Is there any other kind?”
“The good news is the bad news, actually. The Right Reverend Ignatius P. Talesbury is really and truly a bishop.”
“So that means Tammy is really and truly confirmed.”
“Yes, possibly.”
“Possibly?”
“There are circumstances regarding Talesbury that are a bit peculiar.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Has he been defrocked? Just released from the pen?”
“No, no, nothing like that, and I didn’t mean to give that impression. He was ordained in Africa many years ago.”
“Africa?”
“Yes, his father, John Talesbury was in the Peace Corps there in the 1960s. He fell in love with another volunteer who was actually from Western Kansas. Someplace around where you built your little church.”
“Another small world story.” I emptied a box of thumbtacks and starting sorting them by color as I listened.
“Yes, but it’s complicated.”
I smiled weakly, full to the brim with daily complications.
“The father was Catholic, and mother Episcopalian. In fact, she descended from an Englishman who settled in Kansas.”
“I know a lot about these settlements,” I said. “They tried to recreate the Church of England on the High Plains. I’m working on an article about them, but go on about Talesbury.”
“Of course the mother had to agree to raise the child Catholic.”
“I knew it! Or rather, you’re the one who said Talesbury was Catholic right off the bat.”
“Not only that, but being raised in the Church abroad explains why the ways you described were old, old rituals. That is often the case in other parts of the world. He may have even been raised hearing the Latin Mass long after it was discontinued over here.”
“So their son became a priest?”
“Yes, and went to a very strict seminary.”
“Obviously. But I want to know how he became an Episcopalian.”
He sighed. “The usual way, naturally. He met a woman, left the priesthood, and of course, our church welcomed him with open arms. Better to marry than to burn, not everyone has the gift of celibacy. Yadda, yadda.”
“As in St. Paul. How to keep from going to hell. Etcetera, etcetera. “
“Yes, well.”
“Did the marriage take?”
“No. As you can imagine from what you’ve said about him and according to some letters from parishioners I had faxed to me, he was a very rigid man.” He sighed. “Some priests carry a token stole everywhere in case unexpected circumstances call for vested rites.”
“Rigidity is often a disguise. Please don’t tell me he’s some kind of pervert. Or a thief.” Although our denomination hasn’t been plagued with the massive sex scandals devastating our Roman counterparts, we’ve had our share of sticky-fingered clerics.
“No. He has an absolutely stellar ethical background in one sense of the word. In fact, that seems to be the problem. He has no tolerance for human fallibility. It’s a despicable mindset. He’s supposed to be the mediator between the people and our Lord. Instead he’s refused communion to an appalling number of persons if he’s heard about a whiff of scandal.”
“He can’t do that,” I said. “It’s one of the things that can get an Episcopal priest in deep trouble.”
“Exactly. And that’s just what happened.”
“And the Diocese kicked him out?”
There was a long silence on the other end. “Miss Albright, actually we have another way of referring to this procedure. It’s called a statement of disassociation.”
I stirred my little pile of thumbtacks and messed them up again. “So that makes him what?” I asked. “Exactly what is he now? What is his position or status within the church?”
“Well.” I could visualize this elegant man’s face struggling against the impropriety of making light of Bishop Talesbury’s unexpected appearance in our little corner of the world and his sense of humor that appreciated irony. “Well, this makes him an ex-Catholic priest who married, became an Episcopal priest, then a bishop in a little country in Africa we know very little about.”
“And then he came over to America where he went over like a lead balloon.”
“Exactly. And then he went back to Africa to a region where he was appreciated.”
“But why did he come to America?”
“That’s one of the few things I do understand. Anyone who had a lick of sense got out of Africa in the nineties. Did you see the movie,
Hotel Rwanda
?”
“Yes. Massive killings. Massacres and governments changing every little whip stitch. There wouldn’t have been any problem getting over here, since his parents were American citizens. Even if he was born in Africa.”
“There was no problem with any of his papers.”
“And his wife? Was there a problem with her credentials?”
“What wife? As one might imagine, the marriage didn’t last any time at all.”
“Was she an American?”
“No, Afrikaner.”
“So, he migrated to America alone?”
“Yes. No children. Oddly enough, African bishops and the Episcopal Church are often linked in the news lately. Many conservative American congregations who object to the ordination of gays find ardent supporters in African bishops who are all too happy to come here and perform sacramental duties.”
“I’m aware of the controversy.”
“That’s too lengthy a topic to go into over the phone,” he said, “but I was quite vexed to learn that it was an African bishop making this end run into my Diocese.”
“Thank you, sir. I still have some questions, but you’ve cleared up a lot of them.”
“Glad to talk to you. Let me know if you need more information.”
“I will. Again, thanks.” I was tempted to tell him about the results of Mary’s autopsy, but Sam had become a stickler about protocol since last fall, and I supposed I should wait until we knew the method used to murder.
We said our goodbyes and I started to hang up, then I wanted to get in one last question.
“Sir, Talesbury’s parents. You said the mother had come from around here. What was her maiden name?”
“Deal.”
I do my best thinking on the drive home between the sheriff’s office and our farm, Fiene’s Folly. So named because our house is very extravagant for Western Kansas: multi-storied with many frou-frous. Actually, it’s smaller than a number of the Tudor or contemporary homes that family corporation farmers built in a fit of euphoria during spikes in wheat or cattle prices.
Deal.
That one word had cleared up a number of mysteries. Talesbury was a Deal on his mother’s side. And even if he had not been trained in Africa, it explained his mean little mind. No matter what their occupation, a Deal was always a Deal.
Keith was coming from the west and he honked and waved giving me first dibs on pulling up the lane. He parked his Suburban beside my Tahoe, and rolled down the window. “Want to go out for a bite to eat before I put this up for the night?”
“Great. Let’s.” I pushed the remote and drove into my side of the garage, parked, then flew up the stairs to strip out of my sheriff’s shirt into a blue and black striped T-shirt and a black fleece jacket. The jeans would stay, of course. There was little reason to wear anything else anywhere at any time.
When I wanted to put on the dog, as I did now and then, I went back to visit the urban scene with Josie. Plus my husband could look like a million bucks when he chose to do so. And he did so choose. I saw to that even if it were only an appearance at one of Josie’s charity functions. Usually for battered women. Black tie. Expensive.
I would like to say these events were primarily attended by pampered married couples and women whose idea of trauma was choosing the right nail polish. But Josie had set me straight on that. The jewels, the expensive hair-dos, the European vacations, the cars, were often facades for hiding patterns of cruelty that curled my hair.
Families, relationships, are the same everywhere. Happiness in those least likely. Devotion, devastation, cruelty, all those traipsing down Thoreau’s path of quiet desperation.
Keith was going through the mail when I came down the stairs. “Boy oh boy, do I ever need this.”
“Thought so,” he said, as we swayed into a kiss that came dangerously close to derailing the night out. “Gonna ply you with likker.”
“When has that ever been necessary?”
I loved these evenings even though the Broken Pony was a dive. The lower part of the walls were corrugated steel like that used in stock tanks, and the upper section sported old paper bags slit open and pasted into a rustic collage. Naked single bulbs hung from the ceiling and the floor was bare concrete.
There were rumors that the owners intended to paint it someday in a mottled brown that emulated upscale places in Denver, but I doubted it. There was no need. It was the closest place to go outside of the Moose Lodge in Gettysburg and that was a forty mile drive.
They served wonderful prime rib, even if their idea of scotch and soda was a sinus clearing double jolt of some concoction that came from god only knew where. In fact, I suspected it was residue from our local ethanol plant. But anything was better than Keith’s home brew.
Brenda Gold waved us toward a table where menus were stuffed into a plexiglass stand adjacent to paper napkins. The placemats had connect the dots drawings and a little word game along with a large picture to color.
She did not offer us any Crayolas. She silently slammed our drinks down on the pocked, cigarette-burned, chipped, Formica-topped table. She stood before us and waited for our order, then stamped off as though we’d affronted her when we asked for prime rib and baked potatoes.
A fight with her husband again.
We’d learned not to take this erratic service personally. I didn’t mind. In fact, it was infinitely preferable to evenings when the two of them were getting along and I was bombarded with complaints about her “cretin neighbor who turned on his screeching woodworking tools night and day and if I didn’t do something about it she was going to kill him herself.”
Keith winked and walked over to the jukebox. I sipped my scotch and studied his broad back, knowing exactly what he would select: one of the few old country classics listed.
I smiled as Kitty Wells launched into her reply to the “Wild Side of Life.” I was ridiculously happy. These evenings began with good talk and ended with good sex. And while we were here, I would tell him every last detail of this incredible tangle of persons involved in Mary Farnsworth’s murder.
And he would treat me like an adult law enforcement officer instead of some beautiful wild animal in a nature conservatory needing protection from predators.
God bless scotch. All it took was a couple of swigs and I bravely launched in to “there’s a few things you need to know.”
His eyes narrowed. “She was murdered.”
I checked myself before I murmured, “Maybe.”
She was, and I needed to face that.
“Yes.”
“I thought you said there’s no way someone could have put poison in the wine without everyone being poisoned.”
“There wasn’t, Keith. There just wasn’t. And besides, all the tests run on the residue in the chalice and on the carpet were negative.”
“So what then? How?”
“Don’t know.” Our salads came. We were quiet for a couple of minutes. “Oh and the bishop called.” I told him about Talesbury’s background.
“I think we should start writing soap operas,” he said. “Sort of a rural husband and wife team.”
“They would be an instant hit.”
My cell phone rang. I glanced at the ID. Betty Central. I considered letting it go to voice mail, but didn’t.
“He didn’t show up,” she said happily, loving to be the bearer of bad news.
“Who?”
“Troy. The new deputy. He’s supposed to be on duty, but he didn’t show up.”
“Is he alive?”
“Sort of. When he didn’t answer the phone after three separate tries, I sent one of his neighbors over to check. He was there watching
American Idol
with his girl friend. Bertha said they were already three sheets in the wind,” she added triumphantly. “So I decided to call you. Sam is plumb tuckered out. So I called you first.”
In fact, Sam and I had agreed on new rules. One of us was to be on duty at all times. When that proved nearly impossible, we’d wrung enough money out of the commissioners for a part time deputy.
Troy was fired. Right this instant. I called him and told him so and managed to keep my voice steady. He was too drunk to ask why.
I could have wept, but I didn’t. My lovely evening gone. And I hadn’t even gotten laid yet.
“I’ve got to work,” I said simply. The façade, the little lie I assumed in the presence of my husband when I first became a deputy sheriff slipped back into place. Despite my pledge to be honest at all times. My heart ached with disappointment but I wanted him to see me as a professional.
He sighed and examined his hands. Whatever he yearned to say, he kept to himself. He rose and headed toward the cash register. I followed. He paid for uneaten steaks, knowing that Brenda would raise hell if he didn’t. It would be all over town the next day that Keith Fiene and his high-falauting city wife walked away. Just walked away from a bill.
The Suburban was cold and so was Keith.
“You going to be all right?” he asked as he parked in front of the office and let me out.
“Yes. I didn’t even get to have a full drink and all I have to do is sit here because the chances of something coming up is…”
“Remote? Shit!”
“Damn it.”
“And by the way, I hate to challenge your notion of just how fine you are, but I think I should point out that you don’t have a car here.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Got you covered. I’ll take Betty out to the house with me and she can bring your Tahoe back.”
“OK. She was supposed to go off duty when Troy got here, but I suppose she won’t mind a bit of overtime. I’m sorry.
He said nothing and drove away.
I threw my purse into a corner, then remembered I didn’t have my gun there and called Keith on his cell and asked Betty to pick it up before she came back. I went to the closet where I kept an extra shirt and changed into it.
We have a cot set up and a little mini-fridge. I was starving since we had left the Broken Pony before we were served. I opened the fridge and took out a withered apple and checked out the half-loaf of old bread for mold. It looked iffy, so I threw it away and settled for cheese and crackers and brewed a bracing pot of coffee.
Betty came bouncing through the front door, gave me my gun, and gleefully announced that Keith didn’t seem like himself and she hoped nothing was wrong between us. She hopefully scanned my face for some trace of affirmation.
“Everything is fine,” I said brightly. “He just had a hard day. Some kid’s 4-H lamb died.” A bald-faced lie, but she deserved it.
Her face fell. “I’ll be off then. Call me if something comes up.”
“Will do.” She didn’t live far from the jail and one of her very few virtues was that she woke instantly and relished the idea of being called in when something happened. Which it rarely did.
She left. I found one of Sam’s old paperback westerns and settled down to a long still night in Western Kansas. I couldn’t concentrate on my book and ended up pacing back and forth. I laid down and tried to sleep, but it was fitful. I jerked awake about one. The wind had come up. I looked at the deserted street.
Dead tumbleweeds that had piled up against the grain elevator last fall were making their escape. Bugs zoomed around the street lights which barely illuminated the few scattered cars.
Suddenly the electricity snapped off and I felt my way toward Sam’s desk. I opened the top drawer where he kept a flashlight. We had one land line phone that didn’t depend on electricity so folks could call in a 9-1-1. There were no street lights.
Nothing to do but go back to sleep now. Literally nothing. No reading. No watching the cheap portable black and white TV. It usually had miserable reception under the best of circumstances, so even if the electricity was on, there was little point in firing it up.
I winked back tears. My wonderful evening ruined for nothing. I couldn’t even make lists. Lists help, no matter what Josie thinks of them. A crash. I jumped, then peered out the window. A tin bucket dislodged by the wind ricocheted down the street, joining the tumbleweeds in a wayward journey.
Women had gone crazy on the prairie years ago. I’ve often thought about what it must have felt like to sit in a one-room soddy with a passel of kids when the wind was blowing. How did they stand it when the wind rounded the corners with an eerie whistling sound? A teasing sound. If it blew long enough and hard enough to dry out precious banks of overturned sod, it could strip the topsoil little by little and layer by layer and blow the seed right out of the ground.
Even when I couldn’t hear it, the air was charged inside my own tight house with good windows. Static electricity hung in the air and we might as well have been living in a mental institution that applied electroshock therapy.
I went to the cot and stretched out on the thin mattress. I pressed my fingers against my temples, hoping I could ward off a headache.
Deprived of light, too exhausted to sleep, I was forced to face facts I had been evading. I wasn’t able to manage these two part-time jobs. Part-time jobs have a way of morphing into full-time. I couldn’t keep up our household either. It showed and I knew Keith hated it, although he never complained and pitched in whenever he could.
I felt guilty wherever I worked. I was behind on the county history books. Sam and I were run ragged when anything came up that drew us out of our daily routine. On the home front, I could barely manage to keep up with the laundry and daily chores.
Unless I made some changes, my overworked life was not a temporary condition. I was sinking into a bog.
But
I can still reason
, I thought. I punched my pillow. Time to climb out of the quicksand.
We needed a reliable deputy, and I would find a weekly housekeeper. Someone who would run errands.
I absolutely would not reduce the hours our historical society was open. Perhaps I could tickle Margaret into organizing a search for more volunteers. Perhaps if I gave her more authority to boss to people around, she would be flattered. And perhaps pigs would fly.
When the thrill of planning concrete action wore off, I began to cry. Why not? I was safe here. Not likely that someone would come in or call or even need me. The only person who needed me was home alone in our lovely king-sized bed.
And I was here alone on a lumpy cot.
