Sixteen

 

Jaymie proceeded into the house and looked around. The place was immaculate, as it always was when Becca and Kevin were in residence. Her older sister was tidy by nature, whereas Jaymie was a little messier. She checked the parlor. It was already decorated for the holiday season with some of the Leighton family’s prized decorations out on tables: the brass candle chime set, a ceramic house with Santa poised to come down the chimney, and brass candlesticks on the mantel. It was festive, but not overdone.

When compared with the Nezer home it was humble, but she preferred her own hearth to even Bella Nezer’s impeccable taste in furnishings and Christmas decor.

So they’d have a few Christmas drinks and some Christmas-themed snacks. Of course her mind turned to cooking. Maybe a cheese ball, traditional at Christmas, and festive if it was decorated with olives and pimento to look like holly. And some sweets . . . she’d have to think on that.

She was such a homebody, she thought as she retrieved a book from her shelf upstairs. As she descended, her mind returned to the murder. The crime, even down to the staging of the scene, felt domestic in nature, and yet at the same time slightly theatrical, including the peanut butter on the camera lens. That was such a do-it-yourself way to cloud the camera, and yet ingenious. Who would think of that? She might, if she were trying to hide her identity. It did make her think that whoever killed Evan had also been the arsonist, though. How many criminals did they have roaming the village streets at any given time?

She checked her watch; ten to two. She’d better get moving.

At exactly one minute to two she pulled into the Queensville Inn lot and parked in a visitor’s slot. There was a luxury sedan in a lovely mink color parked halfway over two spaces; the license plate was PSTR INK. So, the gentleman had already arrived. Jaymie pasted on a smile and made her way to Mrs. Stubbs’s room, tapped on the door and entered. Inn staff had created a little dining area near her big double sliding doors that looked out onto the terrace. Centered on a round table was a vase of pretty burgundy chrysanthemums on a gold tablecloth. Gold and red leaves scudded past and piled up against the glass.

Mrs. Stubbs waved her over. “Jaymie, I’m so pleased you happened to drop in! This is Pastor Inkerman. We were having tea and discussing his book.” A copy of Living Your Best Life Through Scripture lay on the table between them.

The pastor stood, laying his napkin on the table, and bowed slightly. “Good day, Mrs. Müller. We met at the Nezer party.” His intended smile looked a little more like a grimace. “That was . . . that was an unfortunate night,” he said, sitting back down.

“How so, Pastor?” Mrs. Stubbs asked. “Jaymie, pull up a chair and sit and help yourself. We have some pastries provided by Pierre,” she added, speaking of the Inn’s French-Canadian pastry chef.

The pastor waved one hand, flapping it disconsolately. “That man, Evan Nezer. He was a dreadful person!”

“I heard about some terrible accident involving him,” the woman said as she lifted the heavy teapot.

Jaymie worried through the pouring but would not take away Mrs. Stubbs’s hostess duties. Older folks lost so much along the aging path that retaining dignity was vital.

“Yes, he was . . .” The pastor leaned across the table and softly said, “ . . . murdered!” He sat back, a look between delicious horror and self-satisfaction on his blandly handsome face. “I cannot help but think it was the result of a lifetime of putting people down and giving a negative energy to the world. One cannot live that way without reaping what you have sown.”

“Yes, I do know he was murdered,” Jaymie said. “I’m the one who found him in the display I had set up for Dickens Days.”

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry,” the pastor said. His cheeks colored a delicate peach. “I . . . I didn’t mean to make light of it.”

“It’s all right. It wasn’t a pleasant occurrence, but he wasn’t a pleasant man. I don’t mean to be cruel, but it appears his death suited his life. The only times I saw him he was berating a handyman, and at the party he seemed in conflict with just about everyone,” Jaymie said, pouring milk into her tea. She glanced up at him. “I know he upset you badly. You found out at the party he was a critic who slammed your book?”

“What’s worse is, I discovered that people I know—people I trust—already knew that he was the reviewer who trashed LYBLTS.”

“Do you mean your college colleagues, the college president, provost and dean?”

He nodded, swept back his blonde hair and took in a long deep breath. “He was a broken human being who appeared to enjoy hurting folks. I can’t help but think that someone he hurt decided to strike back at him.”

“Interesting thought. So you think maybe someone he injured killed him?”

The pastor blenched at her frank words. “I . . . it was a sudden thought.”

“Did you know him well?” Jaymie asked, exchanging a glance with Mrs. Stubbs.

“He was a professor at Wolverhampton College, and I’m the interfaith chaplain there. As such, we often came into contact at faculty events. He was so . . . so encouraging at first when I was writing my book. It felt like an utter betrayal when I discovered he was the author of that scurrilous attack.”

Jaymie remembered that Nezer had implied there was a whole lot in the pastor’s background that belied his “best life through scripture” message. He used the word affairs, but that could cover everything from a personal relationship to financial misdeeds. It was difficult to know how to approach that subject, though. “What made you write the book?”

“I’ve . . . I’ve suffered through so much in life,” he said, his expression troubled. “It hasn’t been easy. I never had a father, and was a foster child, pushed from home to home.”

“I’m so sorry,” Jaymie said. “Did you never know your parents?”

“My mother was too young to look after me when I was born. I knew her, but she wasn’t able to take care of me.”

“Was foster care tough?”

“At times, but I finally landed in one where faith was the bedrock. They helped me through so much, and I’m grateful. The book is my way of, hopefully, paying forward that faith is central to living your best life.” He opened it to a front-matter page and pointed to a simple dedication to the Inkerman family.

“So being a pastor helped? Your faith must be a comfort in times of trouble.”

“It’s the only thing that got me through sometimes.”

“Through what? I don’t mean to be blunt, but do you mean the foster care system or . . . something else?”

“Much of it is personal.” He tipped his head up and took a deep breath. “But I wasn’t always . . . I mean, at one time I was lost. Profoundly, utterly lost. I’ve made mistakes. I was given another chance.” He smiled. “I’m proof that faith and humility are life-changing.”

Nice words, but he seemed to be dancing around the issue. She should press for more; she should ask him what “mistakes” he made. She slumped and acknowledged the truth: it just wasn’t in her. She’d never be a reporter, that was for sure. Still, she must soldier on. He was a suspect. Where was her backbone? “I’m so sorry you had that trouble at the party,” she said, coming at it from a different angle. Motive was one thing, but opportunity was more important. “Where did you go after your argument with Professor Nezer?”

“I went to church,” he said softly.

“Church?”

He colored pink on his high cheekbones and swept his blonde hair off his high forehead. He seemed prone to fluctuations in color, and Jaymie sympathized. She had always been an easy blusher. It was getting better as she got older, but still it happened from time to time.

“Reverend Gillis of the Methodist church is my spiritual advisor. I banged on his door very upset. That is a gentleman who lives the scriptures. Even though it was late, he took me in and gave me comfort.”

“It’s nice to have someone to turn to,” Mrs. Stubbs said, her tone bracing. “Come on, you two, I ordered the most lovely pastries from Pierre and I don’t want them to go to waste.”

They chatted about other things while they drank tea and ate pastries, but Jaymie kept coming back to his statement that he had sought help from his spiritual advisor. Nice deflection, but that didn’t mean he was there all night.

Jaymie heard a faint snore and glanced over at her friend; Mrs. Stubbs had dropped off to sleep, her head sagging sideways. She smiled, then met Pastor Inkerman’s gaze. “Interfaith chaplain: what exactly does that mean?”

“It means I hold group meetings for those of many faiths. Or no faith at all. It sounds contradictory, I know. I have spoken with Sikh visitors, Muslim students, a Buddhist or two, and Jewish students when their rabbi is away. But I’ve also comforted troubled students and staff of no faith. Some of my most faithful—pardon the pun—attendees are agnostics and atheists, folks who need to talk to someone.”

“It sounds lovely,” Jaymie said gently. It was what the world needed more of, conversation, not arguments. Honest differences of opinion openly stated, debates where both sides respected the thoughts and beliefs of the other. “Is that what led you to write your book?”

He frowned down into his teacup. His blonde forelock drooped and he swept it back. “No, I think it’s the other way around. Writing the book led me to a better understanding of my interfaith duties. As I read the scriptures I began to listen to the heart of them, not just the literal words.” He looked up and met her gaze with an open expression. “We can’t follow scripture literally. It was written for a different time, a different world, and written by humans, after all, even if we believe it was inspired by revelation from God. We are all different people now, and I hope we’re learning from our past mistakes.” He sighed. “The book came from my yearning to do better, to be better.”

She felt the tug of his gentleness; she wanted to believe every word he said. But she didn’t know him. Was it genuine, or was he espousing what he thought he ought, as a chaplain? She hated to be cynical, but it would be too easy to be taken in by her wish to believe in the goodness of people. Some folks told the truth, some lied, and some thought they were telling the truth about themselves while hiding a lie. “You spent the night at the pastor’s home?”

He looked startled and blinked rapidly. “Well, no, of course not. I . . . I went home.”

Interesting pause. “Where do you live, Pastor? In Queensville?” Jaymie took a sip of her tea, watching him over the rim of the cup.

“Wolverhampton. The college has kindly given me a house as part of my pay.”

“A house! Are you married?”

“No. I’ve never been blessed with a wife.” He colored faintly. “I’ve been too shy with ladies, and too involved with my work. Unless a lady is aggressive I don’t . . .” He shrugged. “I don’t understand romance, I suppose. And . . . and it’s difficult sometimes for a man of religion to make the leap between the professional and the personal.”

“So how do you look after a house on your own?”

“Oh, I’m quite domestic. I learned early to look after myself, and like cooking, part of the reason I enjoy your column so much. I find cleaning and tidying meditative, almost. I’m a neat old bachelor by now, I’m afraid.”

“Do you ever wish you’d married?”

“I wish it often, but unmarried young ladies are so . . . choosy. And a pastor is not first in their choices when they are swiping left or right on their cell phone dating apps.” He leaned forward with some eagerness. “I noticed you had a friend there, that night, at the party, a young lady named Heidi? Is she . . . I mean—”

“Is she married? No.”

“Where does she work?”

“She, uh . . .” Jaymie never discussed Heidi’s family wealth, and didn’t know how to explain her lack of a job. “Are you interested in her?”

“She appeared so ethereal, so lovely, like a beautiful butterfly among moths. But I couldn’t work up my courage to speak with her.”

“And there was quite a bit going on that night. You were . . . upset.”

“Yes, there was that.”

Jaymie was virtually certain that the pastor was not the type of guy Heidi would go for a relationship with, and couldn’t encourage him.

But he pulled his wallet out of his jacket pocket and fished around for a card. He handed it over to Jaymie. “Please, give her my card. I’d be most grateful if you would speak with her on my behalf.”

“I can’t promise anything, Pastor. She’s a very outgoing woman. Maybe someone more retiring would suit you better?”

“I think the opposite,” Mrs. Stubbs said, rousing herself from her catnap. “It has been my experience that retiring gentlemen are perfectly suited to outgoing ladies.” She smiled. “My husband was a quiet sort and left all of the social engagement to me. It worked out splendidly. Perhaps, Pastor, you should be attending local go-go dancing bars to find suitably vivacious potential mates.”

“Tell me more about your work at the college, Pastor,” Jaymie said, giving her mischievous friend a censorious look.

He was enthusiastic about his work, and he was far more worldly than he at first seemed. He had taken his Master of Divinity degree from the University of Edinburgh, where he had lived for several years. Jaymie gained respect for him as they chatted, and she began to sincerely hope he was not the killer. But . . . he was as domestic as she had surmised the killer was, and the Dickens angle . . . that might appeal to someone who so loathed Nezer’s Scroogey ways. Also, she had seen him at the back door later, so even after he stormed out he was still around. Maybe he came back after speaking to Reverend Gillis.

“This has been delightful, ladies,” he said, standing. “But I must go. I have a class this evening and early office hours tomorrow.”

“I’ll walk out with you,” she said, winking at Mrs. Stubbs, who winked back.

They departed, stepping out through the sliding doors and walking to the parking lot together, stopping by his car.

“You are an inquisitive and intelligent young lady.” He smiled. “I know all about your exploits, you know, from the Wolverhampton Weekly Howler. I’ll confess, as shocking as it is, I am a bit of a true-crime aficionado.” He blushed. “Oh, not that I’m a fan of crime, you know, but . . . I’m interested in the solutions, and you do seem to find the solutions.”

His tone . . . was there insinuation there? It was hard to tell, and his face still held the same cheerful expression. “This one is a doozy, though, Pastor,” she said, seizing the opportunity to speak of it with him. “The murder of Professor Nezer. It seems that there are more people who wanted him dead than wanted him alive.”

“I hope you don’t include me in your suspicions,” he said, looking alarmed. He leaned slightly toward her. “So many people are keeping secrets! Like Ben Nezer and Jacklyn Marley.”

“What are they keeping quiet?”

“I thought you might know already,” he said with a significant look, brow arched, eyes sparkling. “I married them a month ago, in the college chapel.”