Chapter Fourteen #2
“Well,” I say. “It was his RV in Dean’s garage, but Ezra might never have known about the marijuana, heroin, and fentanyl hidden inside.
And Joel Shepherd might once have done a healthy trade in weed, but he’s been behind bars for twenty years and never—as far as anyone knew—dealt the strong stuff. They’re all connected but…”
“Everyone’s connected in a small town,” Hollis says, finishing my thought, using almost the exact words Dishman had used earlier.
My phone buzzes and I look down to find a text from Katie.
Just checking in. Everything going okay?
I hold the phone in my hands, thumbs poised over the screen, and sigh.
I could tell her about my brakes being cut, but what purpose would that serve but to worry her?
I could tell her about the traces of drugs in her father’s RV, but without corroborating evidence, it doesn’t yet mean anything. I’ve got nothing solid. Not yet.
Instead, I type: Following up on some leads but nothing solid yet. Should have more tomorrow. Talk then?
I wait while she types and then, eventually, the next message comes through. Sounds good. Thank you, Annie.
Hollis gives me a questioning look.
“Text from Katie—Ezra’s daughter—just checking in,” I tell him.
He nods, takes a swig of his beer, then says, “You know, I do kind of remember them. Her and her mamma, Maggie. I used to see them in the Dairy. Cute little girl. It’s a shame Maggie ran off like she did. I always heard she went off with another man, but…”
“You didn’t believe it?” I ask.
His mouth twitches and then he says, “I never knew her enough to know anything about it, if I’m honest. But, looking at the pair of ’em, her and Ezra King, I could see a million reasons a girl like that—pretty, young, smart—would leave a man like him.
He was dangerous, wasn’t he? I mean, even without the snakes and what have you.
He had a gambling problem, you know, going way on back.
And then—as he’d tell anybody with ears—he had a little talk with Jesus and that cured him. ”
Hollis pauses, takes another long drink of his beer, looks down into the bottle.
Still looking away from me he says, “Far as I know, Ezra King always kept his nose cleaner than clean. But … I never trusted him. He was a show-off. Did Jesus really tell him to trade cards and dice for snakes and sermons?”
“Or,” I say, “did he just find another way to get his kicks?”
“Exactly,” Hollis says. “And now here you go finding drugs in his RV.”
“Drugs he might not have known anything about,” I say. Hollis throws me a skeptical look and I pick up another slice of pizza as I tell him, “I’ve got no real evidence he knew anything about it. The RV wasn’t even on his property.”
“So what?” Hollis says. “You gonna give up?”
“No. No, I haven’t done my job until I’ve explored every possibility, and the fact that two other guys—Dean Griffon and Billy Shepherd—both died violently the same weekend as him … it’s not something I can leave alone.”
He wipes his fingers on his napkin, balls it up, and tosses it easily in the wastebasket. Then he starts toward the door and, before walking out, says, “Well, you know what they always say in the books.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
He grins. “Follow the money.”
I laugh to myself, and as soon as the door shuts behind Hollis, I open my phone and find the number of the church secretary who found Ezra’s body: Thelma Worley. She answers on the third ring—the sound of kids shouting over a TV in the background—and hushes me when I apologize for calling so late.
“Honey, these grandbabies of mine’d like to never go to bed. They’re binge-watching some vampire show. What was it you wanted to know?”
She listens patiently while I ask about the bookkeeping for the church.
“Well, yes, honey, I sure do keep the accounts. Have for years. That’s why I know how bad we needed that bake sale money today. We’re about to have to choose between a new roof and a new furnace and I don’t like the idea of doing without either one.”
“So, would you mind if I had a look at the financial records for the church and Ezra’s tent ministry?”
There’s a pause on Thelma’s end and then I hear her whisper-shouting to someone else, “Go and turn that down. No, tell him to turn—I said turn it down! I’m sorry, honey—you wanted to see the church’s financial records?”
“Yes, please. And the records for the tent ministry.”
“Well, I don’t mind one bit to show you the records for the church, though I can’t imagine why you’d want to look at them. It’s pretty dry reading. But the records for the tent ministry and all of Ezra’s outreach, well, he kept all that himself.”
“He did?” I ask, leaning forward as if she’s right in front of me. “Why?”
“Oh, who knows,” Thelma says, exasperated, as if she’s just picking up the tail end of a long-standing aggravation. “He said it was his responsibility and he didn’t like to bother me with it.”
I thank her, hang up, and call Will Carpenter. He answers immediately, sounding frazzled and exhausted.
“Will, are you aware that Ezra did his own records for his outreach and tent ministry?”
“I mean … I guess?”
“But Thelma did all the books for the church,” I say, hoping he’ll have more information than he’s letting on.
But he only says, “Yeah?” More of a question than a statement.
“Do you know why Ezra kept things separate?”
“He said he didn’t like giving Thelma more work than she could handle. He kept everything from his traveling ministries in a ledger. He’d write it all down while he was still on the road so he had less to do when he got back.”
“A ledger?” I ask, my heart swelling with sudden hope. Ezra’s money trail seems more and more suspicious all the time. “He didn’t use software? It was all by hand?”
“That’s right. He was kind of old-fashioned. He liked pen and paper so he kept all his outreach stuff, the tent ministry and everything, in a big brown leather ledger.”
“So where is this ledger now?” I ask.
There’s a long exhale and then nothing. I almost wonder if he’s hung up on me. Or maybe fallen asleep. He really sounds that exhausted.
“Will?” I say, more insistent. “Do you know where the ledger is?”
“No. Maybe the parsonage, maybe the church office, maybe the RV?”
“Probably not the RV,” I say, more to myself than him. “I watched the police going in and out and didn’t see them take out anything like a ledger.”
“Miss Gore,” Will says, his voice edged with irritation. “This is a quiet town. You come here and get people thinking Brother Ezra was murdered when his death was a terrible, tragic accident. God, it was … You didn’t see it, Miss Gore. It was horrible.”
“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. It’s not my intention to stir people up. But, Will, if Brother Ezra was murdered, wouldn’t you want to know?”
“Of course!” Will says. I can picture him, red-cheeked, pacing back and forth wherever he is.
“Yes, of course I would want to know. But I saw the bites. I saw the … the body. Brother Ezra died and…” His voice cracks with tears, raises an octave.
I listen to him sniffle before he says, “Here I’ve had six different people calling me asking about whether a serial killer murdered Brother Ezra.
Or whether there’s a cult of devil worshipers in Mount Zion!
These people need quiet time to grieve, Miss Gore!
And here you are just stirring them up!”
I give him a moment to calm down, wait for his breathing to settle.
“Will, I’m sorry, but I really need to look at this ledger. Maybe we could go through the parsonage and the church office together? I promise I won’t disturb anything too much.”
“No,” he says. “I can’t…”
“Listen,” I say softly, “Why don’t we all get some rest. Then, I could come by first thing in the morning?”
“I’ll think about it,” he says.
“Okay,” I say. “Get some sleep.”
We hang up and I finish off the rest of the pizza, take a shower, brush my teeth, and crawl into bed.