Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
I don’t belong here. This is not where I should be.
I had those thoughts a lot. Seriously, I was completely wasted in Masons Bay.
I suppose you’d call me a twink. Now, in case you don’t know, a twink is a young guy, thin, with excellent hair and mucho sex appeal.
Some people use the term derisively, comparing us to the famous, over-processed snack cake.
But since there are a whole lot of attractive men interested in twinks it’s not so bad.
Unlike a classic twink, my hair was brown (though sometimes I went blond), my eyes were brown and soulful (I get told that a lot) and my features symmetrical. Well, they were symmetrical until I’d smashed my face into a steering wheel. My nose had not yet recovered.
Tragically—since I was nearly twenty-five—I would only be a twink for a few more months. I really had no idea what I would do. The only plan I’d been able to come up with was moisturizing more and lying about my age.
I had no plan B.
Anyway, the next morning it was cold and raining, so I made Nana Cole oatmeal.
It seemed like a good idea and it was simple, you just follow the directions on the package.
I added butter, milk and some raisins I’d found in the pantry.
I should have known, though. When I set it in front of her, she looked at it as though I’d done it all wrong. Honestly, it didn’t look that bad.
“Is there any coffee cake left over from yesterday?”
“Oatmeal is good for you.”
She made a face.
“Why do you have it in the cupboard if you don’t like it?”
“I like oatmeal cookies.”
“Well, this is basically the same thing. Almost.” I was guessing. I had no idea what was in an oatmeal cookie. Other than, you know, oatmeal.
I tried staring her down but gave up quickly—she was so much better at it—and got the remaining piece of coffee cake, which I’d hidden in the breadbox planning to eat it myself. As I set it down in front of her, she said, “Bev is coming by soon if you want to go out and do something.”
“Like?”
“You could try to find out more about Reverend Hessel.” Left unsaid was the phrase, “…and then I’ll pay you.”
“You were supposed to pay me after I talked to the sheriff,” I pointed out.
“You didn’t talk to the sheriff, though. You talked to the detective.”
“What is it you expect me to find out?” She had seemed happy with the idea the murderer was a desperate meth-addict. Very happy, in fact. Why couldn’t we leave it at that?
“Well, you need to find out who did it. No one’s really safe until we do.”
“We could just lock the doors.”
“Will you stop. I shouldn’t have to lock my doors. It’s my God-given right to leave them open.”
It took a great deal of effort, but I left that alone. An hour and a half later I was in Bellflower walking into a coffee shop called Drip.
For Northern Lower Michigan it was a very trendy place and would have been considered perfect in Los Angeles about five years ago.
It had corrugated metal halfway up the walls and a sort of bamboo wallpaper above that.
I could almost hear the architect’s pitch about the excitement of clashing materials.
I bought a latte with regular milk, a gooey chocolate brownie, and then sat in the corner in the back. It crossed my mind that my back was to the wall since I was “investigating” a murder—again—and might already be in danger. The thought made me break out laughing all alone at my table.
Well, it was funny, wasn’t it?
I’d worked my way down to a hearty chuckle when Opal walked in. I’d met Opal a few months before when she and two friends of hers offered the reward for information about Sammy Hart’s killing.
She was a thick-hipped, bisexual, geeky girl with heaps of attitude.
Even though she was exactly the kind of girl I avoided in Los Angeles, she’d been useful for information and rides—she had a Volkswagen beetle done up like a ladybug with spots and eyelashes on the headlights.
My plan was to see if she had any information on Reverend Hessel.
Her hair, which had been orange and then purple, was now approximately an eighth of an inch long and green with yellow and orange dots here and there. She looked like a leopard. If leopards came in fluorescent colors.
Wearing a dingy raincoat—even though it wasn’t raining—a black leotard, black tights and pink ballet slippers, she plunked down in front of me.
“You’re going to buy me coffee, aren’t you?”
I hadn’t planned on buying her anything.
“Sure,” I said, hoping there was enough room on my Visa for a second coffee drink.
“I want a soy latte and a lemon poppy seed muffin.”
I guessed I also had to wait on her. I went back up to the counter, told the barista what she wanted, gave him a name, paid, and tipped generously. Thankfully, the charge went through.
Back at the table I said, “Ugg, I can’t tell you how nice it is to see someone my own age.”
“But you don’t like me.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not nice to see you.”
“What do you want?”
“I thought it would be fun to catch up.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Suspicious much?”
She simply glared at me until the barista called out, “Topaz, Topaz.”
“Seriously, you think that’s funny?”
I did, actually. She pushed her chair back noisily and went over to the counter. She picked up her coffee and her muffin and was back in a flash.
“You got the reward, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
Did she want me to say thank you? I really didn’t think I needed to. You don’t say thank you for things you’ve earned.
“You shouldn’t have taken it. A lot of people contributed small amounts to make that possible. I gave five hundred dollars.”
“So, you would have given the money back to all those people?”
“No, but it could have gone to the Turley HIV Clinic. Sammy would have liked that.”
That was messed up. They offered a reward and now she was pissed because someone collected it. What had she thought was going to happen?
“Well, the government took half of it anyway,” I said. I sipped my coffee. It wasn’t bad, but it was cooling off fast. “Somebody killed Reverend Hessel. My grandmother’s pretty upset about it.”
“Well, he was her pastor, I guess she would be.”
She broke off a piece of her muffin and ate it.
“He was your pastor too, wasn’t he?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“But you were at that pancake supper we went to.”
“I don’t belong to a church, all right? I think I told you that.”
Maybe she had. I had a sort of a vague memory of it.
“Is this why you wanted to see me? To talk about my religious beliefs?”
“No, I want you to tell me everyone you know who’s a meth addict.” I had, of course, completely rejected Nana Cole’s theory of a traveling tweaker.
Opal’s mouth dropped open. “What?”
“I said—”
“I heard what you said. Why do you think I know anyone who’s a meth addict?”
“You went to high school here. You must know who the druggies are.”
“Why don’t you ask your buddy Ronnie Sheck?” she suggested. He was a drug dealer she’d introduced me to. See, it wasn’t so far-fetched that I thought she’d know meth addicts.
“Ronnie Sheck? I’ve only met him once. We’re not exactly buds.”
“Well, he knows more about local meth addicts than I do. You should ask him.”
I stared her down. “So you’re really not going to tell me?”
“I don’t have anything to tell you.”
“How many people were in your high school graduating class?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“There were twenty-eight hundred in mine, and I knew who the meth addicts were.”
Okay, that was a huge exaggeration. Maybe there were twenty-eight hundred kids in my whole school—or at least one of the schools I went to, but I think I made my point.
“Well, I guess you’re just smarter than I am,” she said.
I was getting nowhere. I might have to try Ronnie Sheck after all. Though I doubted he’d tell me who his clients were. I mean, drug dealers had a secrecy thing, you know, like attorneys.
“So, if you didn’t go to Reverend Hessel’s church then why were you at the pancake supper?”
She didn’t say anything for a few moments. I could tell she didn’t want to tell me. That was interesting. Finally, she said, “I’m friends with Carl Burke. I thought he might be there.”
“Why did you think that?”
“Carl is Reverend Hessel’s stepson. Was, I mean.”
“So you know Hessel’s family?”
“Yes, I just said that.”
“Tell me about them.”
“Did someone offer a reward I haven’t heard about?”
“My grandmother is paying me.”
Sort of. Maybe.
Opal studied me like I was a math problem. I could see that she’d rather not tell me anything at all but then someone would. Eventually. And it was probably better if I heard it from—
“Reverend Hessel came here about three years ago. He wasn’t a reverend then.
He was plain old Chris Hessel. He came from Chicago.
At first, he said he had relatives in the area, but that turned out not to be true.
It didn’t matter though, because he’d already started ingratiating himself to everyone at the church.
And Ivy Greene was already head over heels—”
“Ivy Greene?” I asked, a little appalled.
“Carl’s mother. She didn’t take her husband’s name. Either time.”
“You mean she wanted to be Ivy Greene?”
“Seriously? Your name is Milch.”
“So. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yes, it does. Milch means a mammal that gives milk.”
I decided not to ask how she knew something that ridiculous. Probably she learned it while giving a dairy farmer a hand job.
“Then how did Reverend Hessel become a reverend?”
“After he married Ivy Greene, he became more and more indispensable around the church. He played piano and organ, and then he was the choir director when Sue Langtree suddenly backed out. He’d give the sermon sometimes when Reverend Wilkie couldn’t.
So when Reverend Wilkie retired, well, it was practically unanimous that Chris Hessel take over. ”
“And that was how long ago?”
“Six months, maybe seven, something like that.”
“You said, he told people he had family here, but he didn’t. Nobody thought that was odd?”
“I already said he’d ingratiated himself.
I don’t know. Maybe that’s not the right word.
Someone brought it up once, and he said he’d never said it.
He said he’d come because his family had vacationed here when he was a kid and that he’d never forgotten it.
He said people must have misunderstood him.
Carl remembered what he’d said, though. He did say he had family in the area. ”
“Maybe he does then.”
“Or he lied. He probably lied.”
“Do you have any idea why he left Chicago?”
“He said he didn’t feel safe there. He called it murder city.”
“Oh, well that’s ironic.”
Then I thought of something that would definitely get Nana Cole to give me the money. “Do you think you could help me talk to the family?”
“Ivy and Carl? No. They’re very upset right now.”
“Because Reverend Hessel was murdered?”
“Of course because he was murdered. What do you think?”
“They could be upset because they’d found out why he was lying about having family here.”
“I have to go,” she said, picking up her muffin and coffee. “I’m going to have them put this in a to-go cup.”
I thought she was being rude and a little obnoxious.
“One more quick question.”
“What?”
“Does Ivy Greene have a sister named Olive?”
She didn’t even crack a smile at my joke. Quietly, she said, “Yes, she does. Henry Milch.”