Chapter 1 #2
I popped open the back and reached in for Nana’s metal walker. Before I could get to her, she’d opened her door and was climbing down. She snatched the walker out of my hands and then, thrusting it in front of her in a dangerously uncontrolled way, headed toward the house.
I tried telling her to slow down but was drowned out by her friends greeting her. Each of them held a casserole dish, some kind of small-town custom I just didn’t get. Casseroles in hand, they’d come to see me after Nana first had her stroke.
It was a custom that made me feel as though I had no idea how to feed myself. Actually, that wasn’t far from the truth. I’d been distressed to discover there was no such thing as delivery in Masons Bay, and that the nearest McDonald’s was a thirty-five-minute drive. I felt like Robinson Crusoe.
Staring at Nana’s friends, I remembered I’d never returned the baking dishes they’d brought the first time round, which made me wonder how many baking dishes did these women own? My grandmother and I couldn’t be the only people in Wyandot County in need of casseroles.
“Emma, slow down, we’re not going anywhere,” Bev said.
“I’m sorry, my bone-headed… I’m sorry Henry locked the door.”
I wanted to say again that I was nearly killed just a few feet away, but they all knew that.
Barbara said, “You know what it’s like in the city. Those habits are hard to shake.”
Nana Cole came to an uneasy stop so she could turn and look at me. “Well, unlock… the door. Let them in.”
I gently eased Reilly down, and as I did, said, “No one ever tried to shoot me in Los Angeles.”
“That you know of,” was my grandmother’s retort. “They probably just missed.”
While I was glowering at her, we clambered inside; me and five women over sixty. This was now my life. Horrible thought.
Immediately, the women began rearranging everything.
They installed Nana Cole at the table, fusing over her to make sure she was comfortable.
The kettle was put on the stove. One of the dishes wasn’t actually a casserole—better yet, it was a coffee cake.
The casseroles went into the fridge, while the coffee cake landed on the table after being cut into bite sized squares.
My dishes from the night before weren’t washed—okay, I admit it was several days’ worth—which earned me a snide look from my grandmother. Without asking, Jan began washing them.
“Henry will do that—” Nana Cole said.
“Mooch, Nana,” I corrected her. Preferring my nickname.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” she said to me. We’d been through this before. Then to her friend, “Jan, stop.”
“It’s no trouble,” Jan said. “It’ll take me half a second.”
“I didn’t know we were entertaining,” I mumbled.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Barbara said. “Men are hopeless at housework.”
I resented that and would have said so if it weren’t so obviously true in my case.
Questions were asked about Nana Cole’s health, some subtle, some not. While the women chatted, Bev took me aside and asked, “Do you think you’ll be coming back soon? I have a stack of inspections that need doing.”
“Oh, um, yeah. I guess. I mean, as soon as it’s safe to leave my grandmother alone.”
And I had no idea when that would be. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the job with the conservancy, it was…
well, no, I guess I didn’t like it. It was a lot of tromping around wetlands and working farms and the kind of places I’d never deliberately go to.
You literally had to pay me to wander around in the woods. And even then…
“Oh my God, what are you talking about?” Nana Cole said suddenly. The room went dead quiet. Everyone turned and looked at me. The kettle on the stove began to whistle.
“What?”
“You didn’t tell her?” Bev asked.
“Tell her what?”
“About Reverend Hessel.”
“What about Reverend Hessel?”
“He was killed. During a robbery,” Dorothy jumped in.
“Oh.”
Well, how was I supposed to know? I really hadn’t seen anyone for weeks except my grandmother and her caregivers. I didn’t read the Eagle, Mason Bay’s weekly newspaper. Nor did I watch the local 9&10 News. Basically, if it wasn’t on my Yahoo! start page or on NPR I had no idea it had happened.
I can’t say I had any fondness for Reverend Hessel.
I’d only met him twice. Once at a pancake dinner and then at the hospital a few days after Nana Cole had her stroke.
I’ll never forget the way my grandmother’s eyes lit up when he entered her hospital room.
She said a few garbled words, so I explained, “They’re optimistic about her regaining her speech. Maybe even fully.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” he said as he sat down on the side of her bed. Smiling, he said to her, “Emma. Dear Emma. You have nothing to worry about. God would never give you more than you can handle. You’re going to come through this with flying colors.”
He took her hand in his and asked, “Would you like to pray?”
She said, “ehsssh.” Which was actually a big improvement over the day before when she’d been saying “eggggg” instead of yes.
Reverend Hessel turned to me, but before he could ask me to join them in prayer, I said, “I’ll wait in the hall.”
Standing in the hallway, I started thinking about God not giving us more than we can handle.
I didn’t believe it for a minute. I mean, what about the people who’d jumped out of hundred-story windows on 9/11?
Did God think they’d just handle it? Or the people Jeffrey Dahmer killed?
Or Jews being ushered into gas chambers?
Seriously, I could spend all day coming up with examples of God giving out far more than people could handle.
Reverend Hessel stayed in the room with my grandmother for about ten minutes.
Once I stopped making a mental list of horrific tragedies God could have chosen not to give us, I spent the rest of the time staring at the walls in the hallway.
They were mint green on top and a dirty pink on the bottom.
Every ten feet there was a painting of sandy dunes at a beach.
Not for the first time, I asked myself why? Why would anyone think pink and mint green were soothing colors? I mean, did they really think you’d stand there thinking, ‘my loved one is dying, but the walls remind me of sherbet, so it’s okay?’
When Reverend Hessel came out he caught me off guard, and before I knew what he was doing, he had my hand in his and seemed not to want to let it go.
“If there’s anything I can do for you, please let me know.”
“Thank you.”
“I know church isn’t something you’re into, but we’re always there for you. God is always there for you.”
Instead of looking at him, I was looking at his shirt. I noticed that he wasn’t as pudgy as he used to be. I was tempted to ask if he’d been going to Weight Watchers, though he’d probably just tell me he’d prayed the pounds away. I realized he was waiting for me to say something.
“My grandmother seemed happy to see you.”
“She’s one of my favorites. So feisty. I’m glad the doctors are optimistic.”
“Me too,” I said, finally pulling my hand away.
Jan turned the burner off under the teapot. She got cups out of the cupboard. I glanced at Nana Cole, who looked a not-very-optimistic ashen gray.
“When did it happen?” I asked, about Reverend Hessel’s murder.
“Last Thursday,” Bev said. To my grandmother she added, “I didn’t want to tell you. I was concerned about your condition. I still am.”
“When is the funeral?” Nana Cole asked, her voice hollow.
“It was on Monday.”
“I missed it? Was it nice?”
“It was lovely.”
“Good. I thought Reverend Hessel was such a kind man,” she said. “It’s a shame. A terrible shame.”
“I don’t understand it,” Jan said. “I mean, I understand why Reverend Hessel would try to stop them, but why would someone steal from a church in the first place?”
“Well, for the money,” I said, stating the obvious. But then, quickly, it wasn’t all that obvious. “Wait a minute. You said, Thursday. Why would you steal from a church on a Thursday?” They each stared at me, clueless. I suspect they had trouble getting past ‘Why would someone steal from a church?’
I continued, “Think about it. The big money day is Sunday. The collection money probably goes into the bank on Monday. Was there some kind of event on that Wednesday? A reason someone might think there’d be money lying around?”
Apparently not, since no one said anything.
“Do we know anything else?” Nana Cole asked.
“The news reports have been very thin,” Bev said.
“People are talking about it,” Barbara said. “They’re just not saying much.”
“I heard he was beaten to a pulp,” Dorothy said.
“Emma doesn’t need to hear the gory details,” Bev admonished her.
“What kind of person beats a minister to death?”
“If he was severely beaten it implies anger,” I said. I’m sure the information came from CSI or maybe Diagnosis Murder one or the other. “That doesn’t sound like a robbery.”
“Well, there wouldn’t seem to be any other explanation,” Barbara said.
“Did they break in?” I asked. “That’s one way to be sure it was a robbery.”
“The doors of the church are always open,” my grandmother said, pointedly.
“It’s terrifying to think whoever did this is still out there,” Dorothy said. “Our minister. None of us are safe.”
“Henry will go and have a talk with the sheriff,” Nana Cole volunteered.
“No I won’t.”
Ignoring me, she told her friends, “He has a good relationship with Sheriff Crocker after solving the Sammy Hart murder.”
Nothing could be further from the truth. Just the week before I’d picked up my reward, which had included a photo op, one that would likely show up in the Eagle soon. It hadn’t gone well. And…
Ugh! The reward money. Now there’s a disappointment—more about that in a minute. But before I left, the day I picked it up, Sheriff Crocker sidled up to me and said, “I hope you’re planning to take that money and leave town.”
Well, that had been exactly my plan, but he sounded like he was telling me to leave town. I wasn’t so great at being told what to do and then there’s the fact that—
Nana Cole was giving me the evil eye, so I said again, “No. I said, no.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”