EVEN THOUGH SHARON NEVER WENT TO CHURCH anymore, she had talked to numerous ministers, had been given many tours of churches, had read many religious pamphlets and books in her Summer Whitney research. But no matter how many times she told herself that this was research, that this time was just like all those other times, driving now into the church parking lot felt different. This time it felt personal. This was the church Katie and Cos went to. This was the church that held Katie’s funeral.
The church was an L-shaped building, and the older part, the sanctuary, faced forward, and along the back a rectangular newer addition had been built. There were two other cars in the lot, and Sharon parked beside a brown Buick. The door that led into the newer part of the church was unlocked. She opened it slowly and stepped into a carpeted foyer, like dozens of other church foyers she had been in. This one had the requisite coatrack along one wall, a lone sweater hanging crookedly in the corner. On the top were a few stray hats, a pile of loose Sunday school papers, and a bunch of Bibles. There were posters on the walls advertising children’s summer camp, Third World relief, and vacation Bible school. An umbrella in a round bin stood beside the door, with a pair of black shoe rubbers next to it. The whole place had that quiet, reverent smell of old hymnbooks and choir gowns.
From a hallway to her right a figure emerged. He wore a casual gray sweater vest and wire-rimmed glasses.
“Hello there,” he said. “Need help with anything?”
“I’m not sure. My name’s Sharon Colebrook. Katheryn Sullivan was my aunt. Did you know her?”
“Katie!” His face brightened. “She was a wonderful woman, our Katie was. And you’re Sharon, the writer. She often spoke of you.”
“I hope good stuff.”
“Only the good stuff.” He had a ready smile. “My name’s Barry,” he said as he stuck out his hand. He took hers and shook it vigorously. “Barry Brannin, the minister here.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m sorry I missed her funeral.”
“Katie was quite a sweetheart. She used to tell stories—”
“Oh, I know all about her stories.”
“—to the seniors. They all loved her. She could take a Bible story and act it out, and her audience would become completely mesmerized. Everyone loved her.”
“No stories of trolls and fairies?”
“Trolls and fairies?”
“When I was little it was stories of trolls and fairies.”
He grinned. “Oh, I don’t remember trolls and fairies. She and Cos were quite an addition to our little group here.” His face momentarily clouded. “I’m a little afraid for Cos now. He seems so lost without her. Do you know him? I haven’t seen him at the services since Katie died. I’ve been up to see him a few times, and I should go again.”
“I’ve visited with him.”
“That’s good.”
She looked around her. “So this was Katie’s church?”
He followed her gaze. “This was Katie’s church.”
“It’s nice.”
“It’s on the historical register. We’re right across from the museum so we get a lot of tourist traffic in the summer. It’s quite an old building, as you can see. Built in the early 1800s. This new addition,” he pointed to the right, “was added, oh, a dozen years or so ago, just before I got here. We’ve got a gym now, and classrooms, and a well-needed couple of offices.”
She pointed to a set of large decorative oak doors to the left. “That’s the sanctuary over there?”
“Yes, it is. It’s a very beautiful one, with stained-glass windows done by one of the foremost artisans in New England.”
“May I go in there?”
“By all means. Feel free. The sanctuary is always open. Unlike many Protestant churches, which have taken to locking their doors, we leave this one open, even at night.”
“You don’t worry about vandalism?”
“We’ve never had a problem with it. And if the occasional homeless person or traveler wants to seek refuge within its walls—well, isn’t that what the church is all about anyway? We leave the doors unlocked for prayer and meditation. Would you like a tour?”
“Yes, thank you.” Sharon got out her notebook.
“You taking notes?”
“I’m writing up something about my aunt.”
“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea.”
She followed him across the thick carpet to the office area.
“Let’s start with the newer addition, shall we? Save the best for
last.”
A perky, chubby secretary said hello with a strong Boston accent. Barry introduced her to Lucy, and they shook hands. Barry showed her the classrooms and the gym, talking nonstop while they walked.
“Nice,” Sharon said.
On their way back to his office, he snapped his fingers. “Hey, I bet you’d like to see the bulletin for Katie’s funeral. I think we’ve got a few of them kicking around. Lucy saves bulletins, keeps them right in order. She tells me it’s so we don’t repeat hymns too often.”
“I already have one. There was one at the house.”
She followed him into the office, where Barry told Lucy, “She’s writing a biography of Katie.”
“A book?” Lucy asked.
“Well, I don’t know what form it will take. I don’t know if it will be a book. Maybe only short pieces.”
“Why don’t you have a seat?” Barry said. “We could talk for hours about Katie, couldn’t we, Lucy?”
Lucy nodded.
Sharon took notes while the two of them talked. Everyone loved Katie, that’s basically what she learned.
Sharon tapped her pen on her notebook. “Did my aunt ever talk about a murder? A body on the beach?”
Barry winked at Lucy. “You know, of course, that this is Sharon Sullivan Colebrook, the mystery writer.”
Lucy’s eyes widened.
Sharon doodled on her page. “A lot of Katie’s stories concerned a murder.”
“As far as I know she only told Bible stories,” Lucy said. “That’s all I ever remember. I don’t remember anything about a murder.”
Barry’s hands were on his knees, but he, too, was shaking his head. “Only Bible stories. You should have seen her tell the story of David and Goliath. She’d get right into the parts.”
“My favorite was Daniel and the lion’s den,” Lucy said.
“Shame she didn’t share them with the children, though,” Barry said. “She told stories to seniors, to groups of adults, even to the young adult’s clubs, but never to children’s groups. I would say, Katie, can we put you down for the children’s story this week? Can we drive you out to the children’s camp? But she always said no.”
Sharon shrugged. “She wasn’t good with children.”
He shook his head. “I’m not so sure it wasn’t something else.”
“What do you think it was?” Sharon asked.
“I can’t put my finger on it.”
The phone rang. It was for Barry, and he said he would take it in his office. He waved to Sharon. “Sorry we didn’t get to complete that tour, but by all means, you go into the sanctuary. Have a look around. When I’m finished with this call, I’ll join you. Point out some of the features.”
Sharon shoved open one of the large ornate doors and entered the quiet. She stood for several seconds in the back of the sanctuary. Barry was right. The stained-glass windows were exquisite. She sat in a back pew to admire them. The scenes were the same—Jesus’ baptism, the ascension, the Last Supper—yet there seemed to be more light to these windows, more shades of yellow, more brightness. The sanctuary itself seemed brighter, lighter, more cheerful, more joyful than some she had toured.
She was not alone in the sanctuary. From the front she heard noises, a faint whimpering. Her first thought was that a stray dog or kitten had somehow gotten inside. She made her way down the aisle and stopped. Ahead of her a woman was kneeling at the altar, her head bent into her hands. She wore an apron around her tiny body, and her shoulders were shaking.
Sharon backed away.
Doreen was weeping, her little shoulders shaking, crying bitterly. Sharon left without waiting for Barry to return.