Jeanne Glidewell - Lexie Starr 04 - With This Ring Read online

  “Look, Lexie,” Stone said. “I’ll bet that’s the truck that was parked at the pastor’s house earlier in the afternoon the day Steiner was killed. It looks like Perry Coleman, the organist at the church.”

  “Yes, it is Perry. He’s also an elder. Wyatt said he was highly emotional when notified of Pastor Steiner’s passing.”

  “I should think if he’d been at Steiner’s house just hours before the pastor was murdered, Perry would take it hard. The killer could have come earlier in the day and killed both of them, not wanting to leave any witnesses. I’m sure the thought crossed Perry’s mind,” Stone said. “Or, it’s even possible that Perry’s presence might have thwarted the murder altogether. Overtaking two grown men would have posed a bigger challenge than just overpowering the pastor himself. Perry isn’t a large man, but he’s taller and heftier than Steiner was. And probably ten years younger.”

  Wendy and I both agreed. I felt certain the crime scene investigators had spoken with Perry. He was probably the last person to have seen Steiner alive except, of course, for the murderer. I wondered what he and the pastor had discussed that day. Could they have had a disagreement of some sort? Did Steiner seem anxious, worried, or out of sorts for any reason during their visit? I hoped to get a moment to speak with Perry before the funeral service.

  Stone must have been thinking the same thing. He stopped on the sidewalk and waited for Perry Coleman to exit his car. Naturally, we stopped too. “Good morning, Perry. Would you care to walk with us?” Stone asked. Perry nodded and fell in to step with us. “It looks like there will be a huge crowd here this morning. The church grounds are already teeming with people.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Perry said. “Thurman was a fixture in town and loved by everyone.”

  Well, not exactly everyone. There was someone out there who hadn’t placed the pastor high on his or her list of favorite people. Would that someone be attending the funeral this morning? I’d heard it was not unusual at all for the killer to show up, pretending to mourn the deceased to help ward off suspicion.

  “Are you playing the organ at the service this morning?” Stone asked.

  “Yes, I’ll be playing ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ and ‘In the Garden’ with Frieda singing the vocals. The hymns were selected by Thurman’s children.”

  “Good song choices,” Stone said. “I heard the family also selected a casket made of solid oak. Those are beautiful, but quite expensive.”

  Enough small talk, I thought. We’d be at the church in a short amount of time. Before they started discussing the types of flowers in the casket spread, I decided to jump in with some questions of my own.

  “Detective Wyatt Johnston, who’s a good friend of ours, told us you were at the pastor’s house, making a social call, earlier on the day of his death. With that being so, it must have been a terrible shock to you to hear he’d been killed just hours later.”

  “Yes, I was shocked and quite devastated. I just broke down at the news,” Perry said. “But it wasn’t strictly what you’d call a social call. We were deliberating on whether or not to add a Bible study class for teenagers and young adults. We’d argued about this many times before. Thurman told me we couldn’t afford it at this time because the church was experiencing some financial troubles. But I thought, and still think, making the church attractive to youth is essential to the future of the church. We need to draw young people into the fold anyway we can.”

  “So what did you decide?”

  “We couldn’t come to a compromise, so we decided to put the matter on the shelf for the time being. We chatted about other church matters over a couple of glasses of wine, and then I left, never expecting it to be the last time I’d see Thurman alive.”

  How badly did Perry want a new Bible study class? Had he taken it back off the shelf and decided to settle the matter once and for all? I couldn’t imagine an elder of the church committing cold-blooded murder, against the pastor of all people. But nobody could be ruled out until a suspect was apprehended and convicted. How spirited had their discussion about the class been? Had it elevated beyond a civil debate? Could Perry possibly be that passionate about a Bible study class for the youth in town? I knew Perry and his wife had several teenagers in their family, but it still seemed like a stretch to me. A Bible class was not worth killing over, for God’s sake!

  “Perry, do you know why the church is having financial problems? It seems to me with a congregation the size of ours, money would not be an issue. How much can supporting a Bible study class cost? It seems to me it would be a nominal expense.”

  “I don’t really know the details, because, although Thurman expressed a concern to me about the money problems, he didn’t go into any details about the cause. He said the money seemed to be going out as fast as it came in, with nothing substantial to show for it. I’d like to talk to the treasurer, Betty Largo, to see if she knows what could be going on, and where all the income is going. I haven’t given up on the Bible study class if we can get our spending under control. Whatever we can do to help keep our kids off the street would be a blessing.”

  I’d like to talk to Betty Largo too. Was something corrupt going on behind the pastor’s back? Was someone on the financial side of things misappropriating the money? Had the pastor caught wind of it and been offed by the person involved in the misappropriation, maybe out of self-preservation? I suddenly had the feeling that if you could find out who was behind the money problem, you could find out who killed Pastor Steiner.

  We were almost to the front steps of the church. I had just one more thing I wanted to ask Perry Coleman. “Were you questioned by the police, Perry? I know they expressed a concern about who was driving the little red truck that was parked in Thurman’s driveway hours before his murder.”

  “Well, yes,” he replied. “And I was fingerprinted too. I was told it was routine, and that I was not considered a suspect in the investigation.”

  “No, I’m sure you’re not. I was just curious.”

  “As it turned out, my fingerprints matched two that were found in Thurman’s kitchen, but the detectives weren’t surprised by that after I explained to them that I’d been to see him just hours prior to the crime, and had gone into the kitchen to pour Thurman and me each a refill of wine.”

  “Of course,” Stone said. “I’d expect your fingerprints to be found in his kitchen, too. Well, here we are at the church. It was nice to see you this morning, Perry.”

  Now all the fingerprints found at the scene seemed to be accounted for. As far as I knew, none were deemed suspicious. That indicated to me that the killer wore gloves while murdering Pastor Steiner. If someone entered his house already wearing the gloves, it stood to reason the murder was premeditated. Of course premeditation had been assumed all along; otherwise the killer would not have shown up at the house at such an early hour. Could the presence of Perry’s fingerprints have been prematurely dismissed? Had he discussed the argument he’d had with Steiner with the investigators? Had the treasurer, Betty Largo, been questioned by the police?

  Surely Betty Largo would be at the funeral. I’d never spoken with her, but I knew who she was. She sang in the church choir, I recalled. Maybe I could find some way to speak with her and worm out a little more information on the church’s financial situation. Talking to Perry Coleman had generated more questions than it had answered. I needed to find some answers to those questions.

  Chapter 9

  The place was packed. Mourners spilled out into the hallways, and out on to the front lawn of the Rockdale Baptist Church. It seemed as if everyone in town had come to pay their respects. There was no way this many people would be able to partake in the services if held in the inner sanctuary. I wasn’t surprised when Reverend Bob Zimmerman stepped out onto the front steps and announced the service would take place on the large back lawn of the church. It was a beautiful spring day and the perfect solution to the problem. Chairs were being placed in a section near the front for those who wer
e unable to stand throughout the funeral service, Reverend Bob informed the crowd.

  Wendy, who had ridden with us, pointed out Detective Wyatt Johnston on the front steps of the church, just to the left of where Reverend Bob had just stood to make his announcement. Wyatt was speaking with the chief of police and two other detectives. I would have loved to be an ant standing in the middle of that foursome, listening with interest to their conversation. There had to be facets of the investigation Detective Johnston wasn’t passing on to Stone and me. I’m sure he had some kind of protocol he had to follow, and I know he didn’t want to encourage me in any way if he could help it. With my luck, however, if I were an ant I’d probably end up squashed beneath the heel of one of their shiny black boots.

  We mingled on the front lawn with fellow parishioners, family, friends, neighbors, and local businessmen who had attended the funeral. Harold and Bonnie Bloomington were there and I spoke briefly with them. Bonnie seemed to be very alert and cognitive. She was having a good day. She told me she was still very upset over finding her neighbor’s body, and wished she’d had the opportunity to do something proactive to prevent his death. I assured her that hindsight was 20/20 and no one could have predicted what would happen early that morning. I told her she’d reacted to the situation with due diligence, and should be commended for her actions. She beamed at my words of praise.

  When asked how she herself was feeling, Bonnie told me she felt very good and had been working in the flowerbeds alongside the front porch. Harold merely nodded to acknowledge my presence. Apparently he was holding a grudge against Stone and me for insinuating Bonnie might be viewed as a suspect in the crime. We hadn’t really meant to convince Bonnie she was a killer. In fact, we hadn’t intentionally meant to upset either of them. I could have pointed this out but chose to ignore him. At least Bonnie didn’t appear to be holding a grudge or resent me in any way. Of course, it could be that she either didn’t remember me, or couldn’t recall the anguish I’d put her through.

  Stone was busy talking to Cornelius Walker, a previous guest at the inn who worked as a manager at the local farm and ranch supply store. Cornelius and his wife, Rosalinda Swift, had been the first couple to marry in the gazebo Stone had built behind the inn. Pastor Steiner had officiated the wedding and couldn’t have done a finer job. I so wished he were still alive and healthy and preparing to officiate at ours. His presence would be sorely missed.

  We hoped to host other weddings in the gazebo and receptions in the parlor in the future. Part of the reason Stone and I had decided to wed there was to promote the idea around town. There was nothing more productive than word of mouth advertising. A photo of the Walkers, toasting with their fluted champagne glasses in the gazebo, ended up on the front page of the Rockdale Gazette, and was even more beneficial to our cause. Later that week, we received two requests to rent the grounds for future weddings.

  While Stone was chatting with Cornelius, I walked over and greeted Larry Blake. I tried to ignore the fact he was staring at my breasts with one eye while checking out cloud formations with the other. “I barely recognized you in a suit, Mr. Blake. You sure do clean up nicely.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I did wear my nicest jacket. Natalie, did you know the Rockdale Police Department didn’t even realize they had a Witness Statement Records Collector, or a WSRC, as you called it, on their staff?”

  “Imagine that,” I replied. Okay, this little chat was over with. I didn’t want to have to explain my little ruse to gain information from Larry Blake. “It was nice to see you again. Got to run, Mr. Blake.”

  “The offer still stands,” I heard him say as I walked away.

  Mourners were beginning to file back to the rear lawn of the church. I hurried over to Stone and Wendy and found that Wyatt had joined their little group. He was explaining to them the recent developments in the police department’s crime scene investigation. So far every witness and possible suspect they’d interviewed had been cleared of any wrongdoing, but there were still a couple of people they were waiting to speak with. I assumed the murderer was none of the people they’d cleared, or was a very good liar. If someone was devious enough to commit murder, he or she was surely capable of telling bald-faced lies to investigators. What would the killer have to lose at that stage of the game?

  Wyatt assured me that Perry Coleman had been questioned and cleared of any suspicion. He reiterated the fact that the two remaining fingerprints had belonged to Perry and dismissed as inconsequential. He didn’t believe, however, that Betty Largo had been questioned.

  The detectives had spoken to all of the church elders, most of Steiner’s neighbors and family members, and a few of his closest acquaintances. No suspects had been named, few additional clues had been found, and none of those few clues found had been productive in finding the killer. A number of tips had come through the hotline, but none of them proved to be viable. In other words, no progress had been made by the Rockdale Police Department, and, most likely, none would be made in the near future. I was very disappointed by this accounting. Wyatt tried to assure me it was only a matter of time before a suspect was apprehended. The investigators were being very thorough, he told me. “As always, they’re doing the best they possibly can, given the circumstances, and the lack of evidence.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they’re doing the best they can,” I said, unconvinced. Their best was not proving to be good enough to get the job done. Of course, the Rockdale detectives were seldom called upon to investigate a murder, but they seemed to be getting more and more opportunities the longer the Alexandria Inn was in business.

  “How are you doing this morning, Lexie?” Wyatt asked, after he’d finished with his update. “How’s the wrist feel today?”

  “Well, I’m still looking at the grass green-side up,” I said, without thinking. Oh my God! Did I really just make that morbid off-hand remark at a funeral? Why couldn’t I ever think before I opened my mouth and let words start spewing out? I needed to have my lips sewn together and be fed through a tube in my stomach. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to say such a terrible thing at such an inappropriate time and place.”

  Wyatt gave me a sly little smile, while Stone and Wendy just rolled their eyes and shook their heads. I hung my own head in mortification and followed them silently to the back lawn, vowing to keep my pie-hole shut the rest of the morning.

  I noticed a grave had been dug and covered with a blue open-sided tent in the small cemetery located just east of the church. The mourners would walk to the gravesite following this memorial service. There would be no funeral procession through town with a long line of cars following a hearse. With the size of the crowd gathering, it was probably quite fortunate to have the cemetery located so near to the church.

  Besides the obvious logistics, I also thought it was fitting for a long-time pastor to be buried on the grounds of his own church. The only more fitting final resting place would have been a sarcophagus in a holy chamber inside the church. Maybe the stone coffin could have been inscribed with John 3:16 or The Lord’s Prayer, and have a golden cross at the head of it. I thought if there were ever an individual deserving of that honor, it would be Thurman Steiner. He had invested a lot of time, effort, love, and devotion to the Rockdale Baptist Church, in his many years as its presiding pastor.

  Once the service began, people started crying, and some were out-and-out sobbing in grief. I took a tissue out of my purse and dabbed at my own eyes. The fourth of Thurman Steiner’s sons, whom I’d yet to meet, gave a moving eulogy for his father, telling a few humorous stories about his childhood. He and his siblings had been surrounded by the love of a doting mother and father and were grateful for the good times they’d shared with their parents.

  As I had filed past the casket earlier, I’d noticed Thurman Steiner still had on the Black Hills Gold wedding band he’d had on the previous night. It still rested on the ring finger of his right hand, so could possibly have represented something other than his long-ti
me marriage to his wife, Stella. It could, in fact, represent nothing at all, other than the fact the pastor was fond of that style of ring. Either it held no sentimental value to his children, or they wanted him to be buried with a reminder of the deep love he’d shared with his late wife. I now felt a bit guilty that both my father’s wedding band and my mother’s engagement ring were stored in the jewelry chest at my home in Shawnee. I was touched by the devotion Pastor Steiner had still obviously felt toward his late wife and hoped my marriage to Stone was just as wonderful and lasting.

  Glancing around, I saw Buck and Sandy Webster standing in the back of the crowd. Bonnie and Harold Bloomingfield were sitting in chairs up at the front of the large gathering. All of the pastor’s children, and a few other close relatives, were standing directly behind several rows of fold-up metal chairs. I spotted Teddy Steiner talking to his sister, Paula. They were whispering back and forth, appearing to be engrossed in an argument. Both had determined expressions on their faces. I had to wonder what they were discussing. Teddy looked uncomfortable, but he appeared sober, at least. Paula just looked angry. Neither appeared emotionally distraught.

  Steve Steiner, the real estate mogul, and his wife, Julie, stood off to the side of the casket, with solemn expressions on their faces. They waved or nodded occasionally to various mourners in the crowd. They made no effort to speak to those mourners, or to each other. They appeared almost detached from the events occurring around them.

  Just as I turned to point the couple out to Stone, I saw the church treasurer, Betty Largo, slipping through the back door into the rear of the church. I pointed Betty out to Stone instead, and said, “I’d like to go speak with her for just a minute or two.”

  “Right now? Does it have to be done today? Is this really an appropriate time? I’m sure the detectives will speak with her.”