“Do you know where Shana went?”
“What?”
“Is Shana here?”
She gestured impatiently, turned away, and banged back into her place. I couldn’t tell if she was mad because she couldn’t hear me or because she didn’t give a damn what Shana did. I shrugged and left the front porch, walking between the two cottages to the rear.
Everything looked the same, except that some animal-a dog, or maybe a raccoon-had tipped over her garbage cans and spread her trash around. Very classy stuff. I climbed the porch steps and peered in the kitchen window as I had before. It seemed clear that Shana hadn’t been home for days. I tried the back door, wondering if there was any reason to break in. I couldn’t think of one. It is, after all, against the law, and I don’t like to do it unless I can anticipate some benefit.
As I went down the steps, I noticed a square white envelope among the papers littering the yard. The same one I’d been sniffing at the other day when I talked to her? I picked it up. Empty. Shoot. Gingerly, I began to sort through the garbage. And there it was. The card was a reproduction of a still life, an oil painting of opulent roses in a vase. There was no printed message, but inside, somebody had penned “Sanctuary. 2:00. Wed.” Whom could she have met with? Bob Haws? June? I tucked the card in my handbag and drove over to the church.
The Floral Beach Baptist Church (Floral Beach’s only church, if you want to get technical) was located at the corner of Kaye and Palm streets-a modest-sized white frame structure with various outbuildings attached. A concrete porch ran the width of the main building, with white columns supporting the composition roof. One thing about the Baptists, they’re not going to waste the congregation’s money on some worthless architect. I’d seen this particular church design several times before, and I pictured ecclesiastical blueprints making the rounds for the price of the postage. A florist’s truck was parked out on the street, probably delivering arrangements for the funeral.
The double doors were standing open and I went inside. There were several paint-by-the-numbers-style stained-glass windows, depicting Jesus in an ankle-length nightgown that would get him stoned to death in this town. The apostles had arranged themselves at his feet, looking up at him like curly haired women with simpering expressions. Did guys really shave back then? As a child, I never could get anybody to answer questions like that.
The interior walls were white, the floor covered in beige linoleum tile. The pews were decorated with black satin bows. Tap Granger’s coffin had been placed down near the front. I could tell Joleen had been talked into paying more than she could afford, but that’s a tough pitch to resist when you’re in the throes of grief. The cheapest coffin in the showroom is inevitably a peculiar shade of mauve and looks as if it’s been sprayed with the same stuff they use on acoustic ceilings to cut the sound.
A woman in a white smock was placing a heart-shaped wreath on a stand. The wide lavender ribbon had “Resting In The Arms Of Jesus” written on it in a lavish gold script. I could see June Haws in the choir loft, rocking back and forth as she played the pipe organ with much working of the feet. She was playing a hymn that sounded like a tender moment in a vintage daytime soap, singing to herself in a voice with more tweeter than woofer. The bandages on her hands made her look like something newly risen from the dead. She stopped playing as I approached, and turned to look at me.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said.
She put her hands in her lap. “That’s all right,” she said. There was something placid about her, despite the fact that the tincture of iodine was working its way up her arms. Was it spreading, this plague, this poison ivy of the soul?
“I didn’t know you doubled as the organist.”
“Ordinarily, I don’t, but Mrs. Emma’s sitting with Ann. Haws went over to the hospital to counsel Royce. I guess the doctors told him about Oribelle. Poor soul. A reaction to her medication, was it? That’s what we were told.”
“Looks that way. They’ll have to wait for the lab reports to be sure.”
“God love her heart,” she murmured, picking at the gauze wound around her right arm. She’d taken her gloves off so she could play. Her fingers were visible, sturdy and plain, the nails blunt-cut.
I took the card out of my bag. “Did you talk to Shana Timberlake here a couple of days ago?”
Her eyes flicked to the card and she shook her head.
“Could your husband have met with her?”
“You’ll have to ask him about that.”
“We haven’t had a chance to talk about Jean Timberlake,” I remarked.
“She was a very misguided girl. Pretty little thing, but I don’t believe she was saved.”
“Probably not,” I said. “Did you know her well?”
She shook her head. Some sort of misery had clouded her eyes and I waited to see if she would speak of it. Apparently not.
“She was a member of the youth group here, wasn’t she?”
Silence.
“Mrs. Haws?”
“Well, Miss Millhone. You’re a mite early for the service, and I’m afraid you’re not dressed properly for church,” Bob Haws said from behind me.
I turned. He was in the process of shrugging himself into a black robe. He wasn’t looking at his wife, but she seemed to shrink away from him. His face was bland, his eyes cold. I had a vivid flash of him stretched out across his desktop, Jean performing her volunteer work.
“I guess I’ll have to miss the funeral,” I said. “How’s Royce?”
“As well as can be expected. Would you like to step into the office? I’m sure I can help you with any information you might be pressing Mrs. Haws for.”
Why not? I thought. This man gave me the creeps, but we were in a church in broad daylight with other people nearby. I followed him to his office. He closed the door. Reverend Haws’s ordinarily benevolent expression had already been replaced by something less compassionate. He stayed on his feet, moving around to the far side of his desk.
I surveyed the place, taking my time about it. The walls were pine-paneled, the drapes a dusty-looking green. There was a dark green plastic couch, the big oak desk, a swivel chair, bookcases, various framed degrees, certificates, and biblical-looking parchments on the walls.
“Royce asked me to deliver a message. He’s been trying to get in touch. He won’t be needing your services. If you’ll give me an itemized statement, I’ll see that you’re paid for the time you’ve put in.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll wait and hear it from him.”
“He’s a sick man. Distraught. As his pastor, I’m authorized to dismiss you on the spot.”
“Royce and I have a signed contract. You want to take a peek?”
“I dislike sarcasm and I resent your attitude.”
“I’m skeptical by nature. Sorry if that offends.”
“Why don’t you state your case and leave the premises.”
“I don’t have a ‘case’ to state at this point. I thought maybe your wife might be of help.”
“She has nothing to do with this. Any help you get will have to come from me.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “You want to tell me about your meeting with Shana Timberlake?”
“Sorry. I never met with Mrs. Timberlake.”
“What do you think this means, then?” I said. I held the card up, making sure the penned message was visible.
“I assure you I have no idea.” He busied
himself, needlessly straightening some papers on his desk. “Will there be anything else?”
“I did hear a rumor about you and Jean Timberlake. Maybe we should discuss that as long as I’m here.”
“Any rumor you may have heard would be difficult to substantiate after all this time, don’t you think?”
“I like difficulty. It’s what makes my job fun. Don’t you want to know what the rumor is?”
“I have no interest whatever.”
“Ah well,” I said. “Perhaps another time. Most people are curious when gossip like this circulates. I’m glad to hear it doesn’t trouble you.”
“I don’t take gossip seriously. I’m surprised you do.” He gave me a chilly smile, adjusting his shirt cuffs under the wide sleeves of the robe. “Now, I think you’ve taken up enough of my time. I have a funeral to conduct and I’d like to have time alone to pray.”
I moved to the door and opened it, turning casually. “There was a witness, of course.”
“A witness?”
“You know, somebody who sees somebody else do something naughty.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow. A witness to what?”
I fanned the air with a loose fist, using a hand gesture he seemed to grasp right away.