Chapter 7
JUNE
Church felt surreal.
June sat in the familiar pew, Sara Lee beside her, listening to Pastor Pete's sermon about loss and community.
His words were well-intentioned. Pete always meant well, but today, the sermon washed over her without truly landing.
Her mind was elsewhere, replaying the morning's discovery in vivid, unwelcome detail.
Raymond's body on the park bench. The unnatural stillness. Those half-open eyes staring at nothing. The silver flask on the ground beside him. The torn piece of newspaper peeking from his jacket pocket.
She glanced at Sara Lee and felt her heart constrict.
Her granddaughter's hands were twisted together in her lap, knuckles white with tension.
June reached over and covered those trembling hands with one of her own, squeezing gently.
The touch seemed to anchor Sara Lee, bringing her back to the present moment.
June understood. Finding a body was traumatic in ways that stayed with you. Now, with the sun streaming through stained glass windows, painting rainbow patches on the wooden pews, these familiar sensations would forever be linked in Sara Lee's mind with death and discovery.
Carl sat on Sara Lee's other side, with Ted next to June. The young veterinarian kept glancing at Sara Lee, his face creased with concern. June approved of his attentiveness, not caring about his lack of focus on the sermon. Considering she wasn't focusing either, she couldn’t judge.
Pastor Pete's voice wavered slightly when he spoke about compassion for those who struggle with demons.
June's attention sharpened. Pete was a good man, but he had a tendency toward the abstract when concrete compassion was what people needed.
Still, she supposed a sermon about finding grace for difficult people was appropriate, given the circumstances.
June noticed Helena sitting in the front pew, her spine rigid, hands clenched in her lap.
The pastor's wife usually had a serene quality during services…
a peaceful demeanor that came from genuine faith.
But today she looked like she might shatter if someone touched her.
Her shoulders were drawn up near her ears, and even from several rows back, June could see the tension radiating from her small frame.
Interesting, June thought, filing the observation away. Helena had been one of the people Raymond targeted at the festival with a nasty slur about her "cookbooks." June had no idea what he was referring to, but it clearly left a mark deeper than simple embarrassment.
When the service finally ended, people didn't disperse the way they usually did. Instead, they clustered in small groups on the church lawn, speaking in hushed tones that carried a particular buzz that came from scandal and speculation.
The discovery of Raymond's body spread through Meadowlark Creek like wildfire, which June expected.
Small towns had their own communication networks, more efficient than any telephone tree.
Someone had seen the ambulance, called a neighbor, who called another neighbor, and within hours, everyone knew that Raymond Melton had been found dead on a park bench.
June moved slowly down the church steps, Sara Lee beside her, both of them observing the scene unfolding around them.
"Heard he drank himself to death," one woman said to a group of ladies near the steps, her voice carrying that particular tone of someone who wanted to sound sympathetic but was actually enjoying the drama.
"Always knew that man would come to a bad end," someone else murmured.
"Poor Petunia..."
“Yes, but now she won’t be bedeviled by her brother-in-law anymore…”
June's jaw tightened slightly. People were already looking at Raymond's death as something less than a tragedy. Perhaps, June thought with a chill, it was something someone had done to Raymond. But then, he certainly brought about strong emotions.
Her gaze swept across the church lawn, cataloging reactions with the same methodical attention she'd once used to catalog library books. Every person was a volume, and if you knew how to read them, they told you their stories.
Jerry and Ivy stood apart from the others near the parking lot.
Jerry's expression was unreadable as he spoke quietly to his wife. When one of the town’s most notorious gossips approached to offer condolences about the things Raymond used to say toward Jerry, the response was curt and loud enough for June to hear clearly.
"Can't say I'm sorry. The man was a poison."
Ivy touched his arm, clearly embarrassed by her husband's bluntness, but Jerry didn't soften. "What? Everyone's thinking it. I'm just honest enough to say it."
June watched the older woman retreat, uncomfortable with Jerry's candor. But Jerry was right, wasn't he? Many of the townspeople were thinking the same thing. Raymond had been toxic to those he encountered. His death removed that poison from their community.
The question was, had someone decided to help that removal along?
Lucy emerged from the church, Orville trailing behind her like a nervous shadow, his usual bluster gone. One of the ladies from the Garden Beautification Committee approached Lucy to offer sympathies about the incident at the festival. The lemonade throwing had apparently become common knowledge.
Lucy's chin lifted with particular defiance that came from someone who decided to own their actions rather than apologize for them.
"That man deserved far worse than cold lemonade. I have no regrets." Her voice carried across the lawn, bold and declarative, making several people turn to stare. Then she swiped at an errant tear that managed to slip past her defenses. “Who cares about the festival now? He’s dead,” Lucy said, her voice breaking. Orville took Lucy’s arm, and they hurried away, as she continued to dab at her tears.
June filed that away too. Lucy was proud of having humiliated Raymond. That suggested either remarkable confidence or remarkable desperation. Or both. But the tears and loud proclamation that he was dead didn’t seem to fit her behavior.
Bob stood with Bill near their truck, speaking in low, urgent tones.
June was too far away to hear the words, but she could read the body language clearly.
Bob's face was flushed with anger or stress, possibly both.
When Bill tried to touch his father's shoulder in what looked like a gesture of comfort or restraint, the older man jerked.
"Not now," Bob snapped, loud enough for others to hear. "We'll deal with it later."
Deal with what? June wondered. The debt Raymond had mentioned? Some other business matter? Or the fact that Raymond was dead and whatever leverage he'd held over Bob had died with him?
Horace and Petunia were not-surprisingly missing, having to deal with the aftermath of Raymond’s death.
"Let's go home," June said quietly to Sara Lee, touching her granddaughter's elbow. They'd heard enough speculation, seen enough revealing reactions. Now it was time to process what they'd observed.
As they walked past the murmuring groups, June nodded politely but didn’t stop to engage. She could feel the weight of curious gazes following them, considering everyone knew they'd found the body. Everyone wanted to ask questions, hear details, feed the gossip mill.
But June had no intention of satisfying that curiosity. Not yet. Not until she understood what really happened.
"You're very calm," Sara Lee said finally, breaking the silence as they turned onto their street.
"Am I?" June kept her tone mild, conversational. She glanced to the side, observing the tension in Sara Lee’s tight posture and how her hands clenched her purse strap. “How are you doing?”
"I keep seeing his face. His eyes. I can't stop thinking about it." Sara Lee's voice cracked slightly. "How are you so composed?"
June's heart ached for her granddaughter. Quiet for a moment, she chose her words carefully. "I've lived many years, sweetheart. I've lost people I loved. So have you." She paused, letting that truth settle, then adding, “Death isn't new to us, though it's never easy."
That was true. Death had visited June's life repeatedly… sometimes gently, sometimes with terrible violence. Her husband's heart attack at sixty-three. Sara Lee’s parents’ car accident on that icy road. Countless friends and colleagues over the years, each loss leaving its mark.
"What bothers me most about this isn’t that Raymond died, but how he died," June continued. She let those words hang in the air, watching Sara Lee's expression shift to curiosity.
Before they had a chance to talk more, June spotted Helena on the sidewalk ahead. The pastor's wife moved quickly, almost frantically, as if she had somewhere urgent to be, or perhaps, somewhere desperate to escape from.
"Helena," June called out gently, not wanting to startle her but needing to speak with her.
Helena stopped, turning with obvious reluctance. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and June could see she'd been crying. "Ms. June. Sara Lee." Helena's voice was strained, tight with emotion barely held in check.
"Are you all right, dear?" June asked, though she could see clearly that Helena was upset.
Helena's laugh had a brittle, almost hysterical edge. "Am I all right? No. No, I don't think I am." She glanced back toward the church where her husband was probably still greeting parishioners, then seemed to make a decision, like some internal dam was breaking.
"That man... that horrible man. Raymond.
.." The words tumbled out in a rush. "He said terrible things…
accusations." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper, though they were alone on the sidewalk.
"Things that weren't true. But people will talk anyway, won't they? They'll wonder. They'll whisper."
"Helena—" June began, wanting to offer comfort as well as to ask more questions.
"I need to go. I'm sorry." Helena hurried away before June could say another word, practically fleeing down the sidewalk, leaving June and Sara Lee standing there watching her retreat.
June filed away Helena's panic. Her specific mention of accusations. Her certainty that people would talk despite the accusations being false. The way she'd said Raymond's name with such venom—that horrible man.
People didn't use that kind of language about someone unless there was real hatred there. Or real fear. Maybe even real pain.
When they reached their house, June and Sara Lee moved through their usual after-church routine, first changing into comfortable clothes.
The casserole that had been warming in the oven while they were at service was soon plated.
She kept the conversation light and inconsequential, feeling that her granddaughter needed normalcy.
Finally, tea was made and poured, and they moved to the study.
It was one of June’s favorite rooms in the house.
As with many Victorian homes, the front living room was more formal, but the study was for comfort.
June's sanctuary. Her thinking place. The small room off the main hallway was lined floor to ceiling with built-in bookshelves her husband had built, crammed with mysteries, fiction classics, and reference volumes collected over a lifetime of reading.
Two comfortable reading chairs sat angled toward each other in front of the bay window with a small coffee table in front.
A small writing desk occupied one corner.
This was where June did her best thinking. Surrounded by books filled with the accumulated wisdom of hundreds of authors, she could usually find her way through any problem.
It was the perfect retreat. Or the planning stage.
The Sunday sun slanted through the windows, painting everything in golden light that should have felt peaceful but somehow didn't. Too much had happened. Too much had changed.
Pippi trotted in and lay at June's feet, sighing contentedly. Mister Smee jumped onto the desk, seeking a sun spot where several books had been left.
Sara Lee sank into her chair, looking exhausted. June sipped her tea for a moment, organizing her thoughts and preparing for what she needed to say next.