Tara Holloway 03 - Death, Taxes, and Extra-Hold Hairspray (8 page)

Nick pulled into a spot near the back of the lot and we climbed out of the car. Though it was only mid-morning the temperature was already stifling. The big boat was at least a quarter mile away. We’d have to make the trek in this heat. A glimpse into hell.

Nick had worn black boots and a bolo tie with a light gray western-cut suit. Cowboy chic. Today’s belt buckle was a rectangular silver model with a bucking bronco embossed on it. He carried his jacket draped across his arm.

I’d thrown on a bright red cotton sundress and sandals, no panty hose for me on a hot day like today. Cleary I was underdressed. Each of the women I saw in the lot was dressed to the nines, maybe even the tens, in high heels and designer dresses, with carefully coordinated scarves and accessories. It was a parade of Prada, a vision of Versace, a deluge of Dior. I knew I paled in comparison to these women. Still, it would’ve been nice if Nick had commented on whether I’d succeeded in making myself
purty
. Or perhaps the fact that he’d said nothing was a comment in itself. Grr.

Chill, Tara. It doesn’t matter what Nick thinks. You’re in a committed relationship with Brett,
I reminded myself. Then I argued with myself.
Shut up, bitch. You’re a woman. Every woman wants to know whether a man finds her attractive.

I looked up at the sky. Totally clear, not a cloud to be seen. That was a relief. Part of me feared that God might send a lightning bolt down on us.

As we neared the building, we discovered a six-foot-wide moat of sorts surrounding the structure, making it appear as if the boat actually floated on water. Pearlescent white koi swam in the man-made canal, their feathery fins like angel wings. Congregants entered the building up a series of wooden ramps that stretched over the shallow water.

Nick glanced around and snorted as we made our way up the ramp. “The only thing missing is a guy in a mouse suit.”

“Mickey or Chuck E. Cheese?”

“Cheese,” Nick replied. “Definitely cheese.”

As we entered the building, we were met by a duo of grinning greeters, what would be cruise directors if this were a real ship. The two were a married couple judging from their name tags.
GEORGE
JOLLY
and
JUDY
JOLLY
.

The husband was tall and silver-haired, dressed in a tasteful navy suit. The wife’s sleek platinum-blond bangs lay flat and smooth across her forehead, the rest pulled back in a tight French twist. She’d coated her bulbous, Botoxed lips with shiny, bright red lipstick. The combination gave her the look of a sophisticated sock monkey. Her fitted black Yves Saint Laurent number would have been appropriate for an art gallery opening but seemed a little much for a house of God. The plunging neckline framed a set of boobs too perky and perfectly shaped to be natural.

Judy took in Nick’s getup then looked me up and down, too, forcing a porcelain veneer smile at us. “First-time visitors?”

That obvious, huh? I gave her my best smile in return. “Yep.”

“Welcome to the Ark.” She took my hand in both of hers. “So glad to have you with us today.” She grabbed a bulletin from the stack on the marble-topped table behind her and held it out to me.

“Thanks.” I took the pamphlet from her and glanced over it. The front bore a charcoal rendering of the Ark, while a series of business card ads filled the back cover. A probate lawyer. A dentist who specialized in cosmetic procedures, possibly the one responsible for Judy’s veneers. A mortgage broker. Hmm. Maybe I should give the woman a call. Interest rates had declined since I’d bought my town house. Maybe I could save myself some money.

“Our annual women’s retreat is next weekend,” Judy said. “There’s information in the bulletin if you’re interested. We’re taking a charter bus down to the Hill Country Resort and Spa in Fredericksburg.”

A sauna, facial, and massage? Yep, I’d call that a spiritual experience. “I’ll look into it.”

She gave us one last smile as we stepped away. “Have a blessed day.”

“We damn sure will,” Nick said.

The greeters’ grins became confused.

I pulled Nick away, rolled up the bulletin, and smacked him with it. “Behave,” I hissed. “God is watching you.”

“I thought He loved me.”

“He does,” I said. “But He’s keeping an eye on you, too.”

“God sounds a lot like my granny.”

In the center of the lobby stood an enormous cylindrical saltwater aquarium, extending upward the full three stories. Colorful angelfish and clown fish swam around a pastel-hued display of coral. A sizable sea turtle swam upward, its flat underbelly exposed as he climbed inside the tank. Children gathered around the base of the aquarium and watched the fish. Some of the kids were mesmerized by the animals’ fluid movements, while others were more animated, pointing and pressing their faces to the glass. Around the perimeter of the lobby hung enormous, rough-hewn rope nets. A white nylon banner was strung across a wall, proclaiming
I WILL MAKE YOU FISHERS OF MEN.

The smells of coffee and vanilla wafted through the lobby from a busy coffee bar and café across the way. A sign to the left caught my eye.
GIFT SHOP
. I jerked my head toward the store. “Let’s check it out.”

Nick groaned. “What is it with women and shopping?”

“Coming here was your idea, remember?”

“It might have been my
idea,
” he replied, “but it was your
decision
.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “In that case just shut up.”

We wound our way through clusters of chatting churchgoers and entered through the glass door of the shop. The gift shop featured a wide variety of Christian- and ocean-themed items, all of them overpriced. Ceramic angel figurines on white pedestals graced the entryway, welcoming shoppers with their beatific smiles. On the side wall hung crosses in copper, wood, and glass, something to match every décor. Rods and reels stood in a rack against the back wall. An assortment of colorful lures even Big Bob would envy hung from pegs to one side. A rotating glass case featured pendants, earrings, and charm bracelets shaped like starfish, sand dollars, seahorses, and crosses, some made with so much bling they were nearly blinding. A nearby shelf displayed fish-shaped car magnets in two sizes. Boxed starter sets of plastic Noah’s ark toys sat on another shelf, pairs of the more exotic animals sold separately. A wooden bin overflowed with plush angelfish, sharks, and stingrays that could be purchased for twenty bucks a pop, a portion of the proceeds dedicated, of course, to funding the Ark’s mission trips.

Nick and I stopped before the display of lures. Nick fingered several in the selection, eventually choosing one that resembled a small green and blue dragonfly. I selected a couple of colorful lures, too, and stepped up to the counter. The register was manned by an attractive brunette woman modeling some of the jewelry, Swarovski crystals refracting light from her ears, neck, and fingers. As she rang up my purchase, her jewelry sparkled in the lights, making her look like a human disco ball.

“You fish?” Nick asked me.

“Nah. They’re for my dad.”

Next to the cash register stood a display of hardback books, Pastor Fischer’s face beaming from the cover. I had to admit, the guy looked angelic. From his shimmery, white-blond hair to his sky-blue eyes and perfectly proportioned, nicely tanned features, he looked like a modern-day Lucifer.

The title was embossed in gold lettering across the top of the book.
Toss Your Net
. Nick picked up a copy. “Let’s see what this tosser has to say.” He plunked the book onto the countertop along with the lure and addressed the cashier. “Add these to her bill.”

I pushed the book and lure back at him. “Buy your own stuff.”

Nick cut a grin my way. “This is
your
case, remember? I’m only along to help out.”

Damn. My own words coming back to bite me in the butt.

I handed the cashier my credit card.

CHAPTER TEN

No Old-Time Religion Here

The overhead lights flashed off and on twice as I paid the cashier.

“Power troubles?” Nick asked the woman.

“No,” the woman replied. “The flashing lights mean the service will start in five minutes.”

The service or the show? Though flashing lights were used in theaters to draw people back to their seats, I’d never seen the method used in a church.

I handed Nick the copy of Fischer’s book and slid the small bag containing the lures into my purse. Nick and I continued on into the crowded sanctuary. Apparently you had to arrive early if you wanted a good seat. The first floor was packed wall to wall. Even the limited-view seats positioned behind the television cameras were full.

The ushers directed us up two flights of stairs, relegating us to a back corner of the second balcony, what would be the cheap seats if this were a ticketed venue. Nick and I settled in.

“Nice,” Nick noted, easing his seat back into a reclining position.

The chairs were indeed comfortable, slightly smaller versions of the seats at stadium-style movie theaters. No hard, butt-numbing pews for these well-heeled parishioners.

Nick rested his elbow on the armrest. I used my own to push it aside. “My case, my armrest.”

He cut me a sideways glance and a grin. “Whatever you say, boss.”

I looked down at the altar, which appeared tiny from our vantage point near the rafters. “If I’d known we’d be this far up I would’ve brought my binoculars.”

“No need.” Nick pointed across the cavernous opening to three jumbo-sized screens. One was mounted on the wall directly opposite us, while the others flanked it at slight angles like the three-way mirrors in the Neiman Marcus dressing rooms.

I glanced behind me to see a recessed pit of colored lights and the latest high-tech audiovisual equipment. A team of seven men sat at the consoles, headphones on their heads, ready to rock and roll. I hadn’t seen such an elaborate setup since Lady Gaga came to town.

“Think they’ll be serving drinks on the Lido Deck after the service?” Nick asked. “I could go for a banana daiquiri.”

I elbowed him in the ribs.

Down below, the choir filed in, the members dressed in aquamarine robes the color of the Caribbean ocean. There had to be over a hundred singers taking places on the risers. An orchestra of near equal size filed in next, filling a wide pit in front of the choir. The musicians wore white shirts with aquamarine bow ties and vests. Not only did the group include the traditional brass, woodwind, and string instruments, but five electric guitars, three bass guitars, and two acoustic guitars were also in the mix. A shiny black grand piano sat off to the side, with two wide electronic keyboards situated next to it.

Once they were all seated, a dark-haired man stood from the front pew and made his way up the five steps to the podium, his movements tracked by several television cameras situated off to the sides of the sanctuary. Though he was a mere ant when viewed with the naked eye, he was a giant on the jumbo screen. He had a plain but friendly face, a trim build, and a slightly pensive demeanor. He wore a basic brown suit and tie, along with wire-rimmed glasses. I half expected him to direct us to our lifeboats to perform a muster drill.

He introduced himself as Associate Pastor Michael Walters, welcomed everyone to the service, and stated his hope that the service would be a source of inspiration and spiritual connection to a higher power. He quickly ran through a list of housekeeping items, asking the congregants to silence their cell phones and to shift to the inside seats to accommodate late arrivals waiting in the wings for an available place to sit. It was a full house today, a sellout crowd. “A great problem to have,” he acknowledged with what appeared to be a sincere smile.

Walters led the group in a short, simple prayer, “amens” were murmured, and he left the podium.

The lights dimmed slightly and a spotlight shined on a man wearing black pants and a sport coat in the same greenish-blue as the choir robes. He made his way to the platform and stepped up to a podium that faced the singers and musicians. As he raised his conductor’s wand, the musicians lifted their instruments into place, the percussion section holding their sticks poised over their drums.

The music director began moving his wand, mouthed “One, two, three, four,” and the orchestra and choir launched into a modern, quick-tempo version of “Amazing Grace,” the mix of classic and contemporary styles reminiscent of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra. Though the words were familiar, the normally solemn hymn now sounded upbeat, cheerful.

All around us the crowd rose to their feet, singing and clapping in rhythm to the music. So as not to be conspicuous, Nick and I stood, too. I had to admit, I found myself drawn to the joyful music, and my singing and handclapping were only partly to make sure I blended in.

The next song, ironically, was “Old-Time Religion.” This megachurch offered anything
but
old-time religion. But from the size of the crowd, it was undeniable the Ark appealed to a broad market. People had grown tired of the stuffy, uncomfortable church environments of their youth, tired of the fire and brimstone, alienated from a God who’d smite sinners or send them wandering aimlessly around a desert for forty years without benefit of GPS, searching for the promised land. People wanted a more progressive, less regimented religion, a kinder, gentler, less demanding deity.

Churches across the metroplex had begun to market their services, and the Big Guy Himself, much differently. They offered a new way to worship, a new type of forum, a fresh take on God.

Some diehard traditionalists frowned upon the watered-down “religion lite” promoted by these churches. Others praised the ministers for keeping religion relevant in a world that posed so many new temptations, new ways to sin. When the popular
VeggieTales
show launched some years back, there’d been controversy whether cartoon vegetables were qualified to teach children fundamental biblical doctrines, just as there’d been debate whether the rise of Christian rock bands was good or bad. But for right or wrong, the Ark was packed to the rafters with worshippers.