Natchez
Monday
Michael rose at the crack of dawn to begin his new exercise regimen. Although he’d been on the high school track team, his respectable hundred-meter dash hadn’t paved the way for a lifetime of physical fitness. Truth be told, he was about the flabbiest skinny guy in western Mississippi, maybe in the entire state. He pulled his brand-new pair of Brooks running shoes from the box. Paying a hundred fifty bucks for a pair of sneakers should prompt him to take this phase of his reinvention seriously. Every cop, private detective, and bounty hunter in the business needed to be in as good shape as the criminals. According to television, felons spent their days pumping iron and playing basketball in the prison yard in preparation for illegal activities upon their release. He hoped he wouldn’t encounter any serious bad guys until the regimen improved his strength and endurance.
Slipping on a sweatshirt, Michael jogged down the riverfront trail at an easy pace. All of Natchez lay within easy reach of his second-floor apartment above a law firm. Moving from his parents’ house in the suburbs, surrounded by families, had been a good idea. Frugalness kept him living at home longer than most men his age. Even after paying his parents rent, he was able to amass a sizeable down payment. But because he no longer needed a house, moving to Natchez put him close to work and far from his mother’s disappointment. Judging by her sorrowful face, you would think she’d been the one jilted.
After a head-clearing run and a hot shower, Michael drove to the office of Calvary Baptist. After yesterday’s disappointing service, he was bound and determined to make progress in the investigation. Parishioners before and after church were friendly enough…to each other. But they hadn’t exactly poured out their hearts to a stranger. His explanation that he recently relocated here earned him a weekly bulletin, along with info on VBS and the women’s club. When he explained that he possessed neither wife nor child, interest in him waned. Or maybe he imagined it. Either way, nobody volunteered anything helpful about the Deans, and his eavesdropping yielded solely how to remove gum from a child’s hair. Elizabeth will not be impressed, he thought. And Michael wanted nothing standing in his way at Price Investigations.
“Good morning. You must be Mrs. Purdy. I’m Michael Preston.” He flashed a smile as he walked through the door.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Preston? I heard you were interested in joining our church.” The middle-aged woman dropped what she’d been doing and pulled a brochure from the drawer. “I understand you’re from Brookhaven.”
Instead of gleaning tidbits from the congregation, he had provided conversation fodder. “Yes, ma’am, but I already have the brochure. I’m here on behalf of Mrs. Dean. She hired our firm to tie up some loose ends regarding her husband’s death.”
Mrs. Purdy returned the brochure to the drawer. “Are you with the marble engraving company? I thought the funeral home would handle the headstone.”
“No, I’m here to look at the church’s financial records. I understand there’s some confusion, and I’d like to straighten it out.”
She blinked several times. “Financial records?”
“Yes, ma’am. Most likely, you have an accounting program that manages receivables and payables, and separates the contributions into various funds.”
“Well, sure, we have a separate account to pay salaries, utilities, and maintenance. Then there’s a mission fund and the building fund for the new school. But I don’t have the password to those files. I just handle prayer requests, email, the daily devotion, and the weekly newsletter.” She pushed up from her desk. “Care for a cup of tea, Mr. Preston? I was about to make one for myself.”
“I would love one, ma’am.” Michael followed her to a tiny kitchen. “I want to do anything I can to help. I feel so sorry for Mrs. Dean.”
“My, yes. Paul was such a good man.” She sighed as she filled the teakettle with water.
“I don’t know how she’ll manage without the pastor’s salary.” He leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. “It’s expensive to raise a daughter these days.”
“Money is one problem she won’t have.” Her voice lost its tender concern.
“Oh, does Mrs. Dean work outside the home?” Michael took two mugs from their hooks and set them within easy reach.
“Of course not. Women like her don’t work,” Mrs. Purdy sneered. “She had a million-dollar policy on her husband. I know, because I witnessed his signature on the application. Paul told me not to talk about this, but with him gone, why should I protect her reputation? What does a God-fearing woman need with that big a policy? You need enough for a decent burial and to put the kid through college. More than that would be greedy. The premiums must have been through the roof.” She took the mugs and filled them from a hot-water dispenser by the sink.
“It does sound a tad extravagant. Do you remember which insurance company issued the policy?” Michael tried not to sound as though he were on the verge of an investigative breakthrough.
She tapped her lips with an index finger. “Hmm…I’m not sure. It’s been a while.”
“Unfortunately, most policies won’t pay in cases of suicide.”
“Oh, my. What a shame,” she said, dunking her tea bag vigorously. The glint in her eye underscored her words’ true meaning.
“Who did have the passwords to the accounts, ma’am?” he asked to get back on track.
“Only the reverend and Ralph Buckley, our finance director. But Ralph left town right after the funeral. I suppose he needed time to mourn.”
“May I see the checkbook register for the church account?”
“Sure, but it isn’t here. Paul took it home to get bills caught up. He worked in the evening after supper.”
“Was that normal? I mean, didn’t you say Ralph Buckley was in charge of finances?”
“Yes, but Ralph’s been under the weather due to his angina.”
Michael sipped his tea to hide his disappointment. No access to the church hard drive or the checking account. Zero for two. “Thank you. I’ll stop back after Mr. Buckley returns. For now, please accept my condolences on the loss of your friend.”
Her face brightened. “Thank you, young man. Paul was my friend. And Lord knows that man needed all he could get. See you on Sunday,” she added when he was halfway down the hall.
Michael received a less cordial reception at stop number two.
Alice Dean opened the front door barely enough to hold a conversation. “Mr. Preston? I understood Miss Kirby wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.”
“Correct, but she asked me to start reviewing financial records in her absence. According to Mrs. Purdy, the church checkbook is here.” He smiled. “May I come in, please?” For one dreadful moment, he thought she would refuse.
“Very well, as long as you don’t need my help. I’m quite busy today, as you can imagine.”
Actually, he had no idea what recent widows faced but thought it prudent not to ask. “Could you point me in the direction of Reverend Dean’s study?”
Mrs. Dean turned on one heel and marched down the hallway, stopping at the last door. “The church account is the red leather-bound book on the right. All checks have an old-fashioned duplicate copy. Payables are entered into the computer on a daily basis. Take as long as you need and then let yourself out. I’ll be upstairs emptying out closets.”
The moment she disappeared, Michael relaxed. He sat down at the pastor’s cluttered desk and immersed himself in papers, files, and ledgers. Finally, a world he was comfortable in.
Although his eyesight was excellent, Michael slipped on a pair of readers. Magnifying whatever he focused on allowed him to concentrate on details. But after an hour of poring over the last six months of checks drawn on Calvary Baptist’s account, he’d found nothing out of the ordinary: utilities, payroll for Mrs. Purdy, insurance, plumbing repair bills, a new air-conditioning condenser—the endless costs of maintaining a public building. Then he noticed one troubling discrepancy. Although the person authorized to sign on the account was Paul A. Dean, the signatures weren’t remotely the same. At least half the checks had been written by someone else—someone who made little attempt to emulate the pastor’s hand.
And Michael had a good idea who forged the pastor’s name. With a shiver of excitement, he pulled out the agency’s signed contract from his briefcase. He might not be a handwriting expert, but considering Mrs. Dean’s fondness for mixing block letters with cursive, none would be necessary. Who beyond the sixth grade still uses a snowman for the numeral eight? Some of the checks to pay church expenses had been signed by Alice Dean. Correction, forged by Alice Dean. With the barest twinge of shame, Michael rummaged through the pastor’s desk until he found the Deans’ personal checkbook register. Although both names were on the account, hadn’t she stated that her husband paid the household bills? Not according to the signature on most of the checks.
Alice Dean held the financial reins of the family, and maybe for the Calvary Baptist Church of Natchez too. She might already be rich, but if she played her cards right, she was about to add another million dollars to her coffers. All she had to do was find someone to take the rap for her husband’s death.
And she thought he and Elizabeth were here to help.