Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
“What was that about?” I asked as we pulled away from the church.
“Sue Langtree knows things. I’m sure of it. Now you have an opportunity to ask her.”
“I thought you decided it was an anti-Christian hate crime?”
“That’s still a strong possibility. Sue is just the sort to have liberal friends.”
“Nana, a lot of my friends are liberals. None of them are violent.”
“Mmmm-hmmm,” she said, clearly not believing me.
I rolled my eyes but decided not to continue down that very dark road.
“I think you should pay me the money you promised me.”
“And I think you should actually earn it.”
“I did what you asked. I talked to someone in the sheriff’s office.”
“Yes, well, after thinking about it, I think you need to do more. I’ll pay you after you talk to Sue Langtree.”
“You told her I have a very sweet voice.”
“It’s all right to lie for the right reasons.”
“Did you not pay any attention to the sermon today?”
“Well, you might have a sweet voice. I’ve never heard you sing.”
“Trust me, I can’t sing.”
“I thought as much. Your mother can’t sing either.”
That I knew. I don’t think my mother had ever taken a shower without mangling something or other from the Whitney Houston songbook. Grudgingly, I admitted to myself that spending a little time with Sue Langtree was probably a good idea. I mean, if we were really going to figure this out.
“Reverend Wilkie doesn’t like you.”
“Of course he likes me. It wouldn’t be Christian of him not to like me.”
“You don’t like him.”
“I’m not a reverend. I don’t have to like everybody.”
“Okay, so why don’t you like him?”
“He just isn’t… he isn’t inspiring. That’s all.” That sounded like code for something. Like she didn’t care for his politics, or she preferred a minister who’d threaten them with hell and damnation rather than pointing out that lying is a bad thing.
“Why don’t you just go to another church?”
“I’ve been attending Cheswick Community Church since I was a child. It’s always been my church. More so than his.”
“Do you think he killed Reverend Hessel to get his job back?”
“Henry, what a thing to say.” I could tell she thought she should be horrified but couldn’t quite pull it off. “That would be very extreme, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. “In L.A. you can end up dead for just cutting someone off on the 405. Killing for a job seems almost reasonable.”
We were passing by Benson’s Country Store, and I remembered there was a little sandwich shop in the same complex. I turned in and parked in front of Megan’s Nook and asked my grandmother what she wanted for lunch.
“We have sandwich fixings at home, don’t we?”
“This is better. What kind of sandwich do you want?”
“The kind I can make in my own kitchen.”
“Uh-huh. How about turkey?”
“Roast beef.”
“On whole wheat?”
“Sourdough.”
I was sure someone had said she should be watching her diet—i.e., avoiding red meat and white bread—but I decided to settle for getting her to eat at all. I got out of the SUV and walked into the little shop.
And by little, I mean miniscule. There were three tables, a counter where you could order, and behind that an itsy-bitsy kitchen where the sandwiches were made. Above the counter was a blackboard menu. Every item had a cutesy name. I struggled to figure it out.
The sandwich maker, a middle-aged woman with crinkled brown hair, stepped over and asked, “What’ll you have?”
“I’ll have the Turkey Trot.” A turkey, Swiss and cranberry sauce sandwich on dark wheat. “And… do you have just roast beef on sourdough?”
“That would be the Mad Cow.”
Well, that was an unfortunate name. I added a couple of red cream sodas, paid, and then waited for the crinkle-haired woman to make my sandwiches.
She decided to talk while she made them. “You’re coming from church, aren’t you?”
“We are,” I said reluctantly.
She nodded while she laid out the bread. “I always get busy when church lets out.”
I was alone in the shop. I guess I constituted a rush.
“Who gave the sermon this morning?”
“Reverend Wilkie.”
“And the congregation was glad to have him back?”
“I don’t know if I’d say that.”
“I suppose I gave them too much credit.”
“You didn’t like Reverend Hessel?”
“He was cheating on his wife.”
“You mean Reverend Wilkie?”
“That old man? No, I mean Reverend Hessel. He was cheating on his wife.”
“How do you know that?”
“I hear things, that’s all.”
Well, that was inconclusive. I didn’t think I could actually believe her. I mean, had she even known Reverend Hessel? I went ahead and asked, “Did you know Reverend Hessel?”
“He’d come in every so often. He liked the Corny Rube.”
“…and he’d lean over the counter and say, ‘by the way, I’m having an affair.’”
“A friend of his wife told me. I don’t want to say more than that. I’m not a gossip.”
Obviously, she was a gossip. She was telling me stuff and she didn’t know me from Adam. She set the bag of sandwiches and sodas in front of me.
“Tell your grandmother I said, ‘hey’.”
Okay, so I guess she did know me from Adam. I thanked her and slipped out of the shop. At the Escalade, I opened the passenger door behind the driver and put the bag of sandwiches onto the floor since I didn’t want the sodas to spill all over.
I did not tell my grandmother about Reverend Hessel’s possible unfaithfulness.
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. But what did she want to hear?
The idea that her beloved reverend was killed by a burglar hadn’t satisfied her.
And as much as she like the idea of an anti-Christian hate crime, that wasn’t exactly sticking.
So, what would? I mean, we weren’t going to find out he was killed because he was such a great guy. If it wasn’t a burglar—and honestly, I didn’t think it was—then he had to have done something to make someone want to kill him. Most of the time that would mean he’d done something bad.
Turning the radio on, I found my regular NPR station. As I drove, I learned that the Czech Republic had voted to join the European Union, something happened or didn’t happen in the Middle East, women are better than men at going without sleep, and Sex and the City was beginning its final season.
I adored Sex and the City, having spent a weekend watching the first three seasons on VHS tape (which meant I was still two seasons behind). Samantha Jones was my spirit animal.
“Can we get HBO?”
“No.”
I swear, murdering my grandmother seemed like a better idea every day. I mean, I wouldn’t really… but that thought brought me back to Reverend Hessel as I drove up to Nana Cole’s house. Honestly, I couldn’t care less who killed him. I just needed the money.
Before we went into the house, I said, “You know, it probably was a burglar who killed Reverend Hessel.”
“You don’t really think that, do you?”
“Why not? Yeah, there were people in his life who had a reason to kill him, but that doesn’t mean they did.”
“It doesn’t mean they didn’t either.”
“Well, who would you like to have killed your minister?” I asked. It was certainly a different approach to things.
“You’re not taking this seriously. You’re humoring me to get the money I offered you.”
Unfortunately, that was very close to the truth. Well, not close, actually the truth. Wanting to change the subject, I asked, “Have you made up with Bev?”
“I don’t see where that’s your business.”
“In other words, no.”