The morning service was half over by the time Gage parked the van in front of the Western Pacific Unitarian Church. The name sounded like a weird amalgam of a financial institution and a place of worship. The building itself reflected this split identity. It was across from the outlet mall, one block east of Highway 101, in the building Goodwill used to occupy before they built a bigger store a few blocks south. The church had built a metal tower of sorts on the front, a decorative scaffolding that was probably meant to break up the boxy, retail-like design, but to Gage it seemed pretentious and artificial, a strained effort to make the building look like something it wasn't.
He figured a new coat of paint would have been enough. They could have even called it Goodwill Unitarian and saved themselves some money. If you're going to put your church in a Goodwill, you might as well own it.
If the parishioners had an issue with their church's appearance, it would have been hard to tell by the packed parking lot. A popular place. He killed the engine and debated about whether to go in now or wait until after the service. He'd come here on a whim, looking them up at an internet terminal in the hospital waiting room. All God's children are welcomed with open arms, the site had proclaimed. Christians, Jews, Buddhists—they said they welcomed all faiths. If they knew who Gage was, and what he had done in his life, he wondered if their arms would be quite as open.
He was about to get out of the van when he saw a teenage girl with purple hair cross the road from Arrow Outlet Mall heading toward the church.
Brianna Hobart.
It could have been someone else, but with the purple hair and the silver jewelry glinting on her face in the sunlight, he doubted it was anyone other than the troubled high schooler Rita Rodriguez had told him about. She wore a baggy red and white plaid shirt over a black T-shirt, black leather pants with holes in the knees, and green army boots that were a couple sizes too big judging by how much they jostled with each step. She walked with her shoulders hunched, head low, glancing over her shoulder repeatedly.
When she reached the corner, she stopped and chewed on her fingernails, studying the church's front door. She wasn't carrying anything, no backpack, no belongings. He remembered Rita saying nobody knew where she was, but she didn't look homeless. She may have had a ragged look to her, but it was a deliberate ragged look; her hair was neatly combed, her pale, coconut skin clear, her clothes scuffed and rumpled but in only the specific way that a teenager highly concerned with her appearance could pull off. There was something else, too, an emotional reaction to seeing her that Gage didn't understand until finally the obvious occurred to him.
She reminded him of Zoe.
Not the new Zoe. Not the young woman who'd left her aggressive counterculture appearance behind, but the old Zoe, the one who'd put the Goth in Goth Girl, the one who'd sooner flip him the bird than even deign to say hello when she'd first come to live with Mattie, his old housekeeper. Somehow, even when Rita had said how much Brianna had reminded her of Zoe, he had not made the connection. He didn't see until now how similar she was. He didn't know her, of course. He didn't know if this similarity extended beyond the surface, but he still felt something paternal toward her. He also felt a longing for the real thing. He wished Zoe was here. He wished she hadn't moved away.
It was a lot of emotion to hit him at once, emotion he had not been prepared to feel.
He waited, not wanting to disturb her, hoping she was about to go inside. She torpedoed this possibility when she stopped chewing her fingernails and hustled back toward the mall—picking up her pace, nearly running.
Gage got out of the van and pursued, leaving his cane behind because it would have slowed him down. The sun glared off the windshields of the cars. The air was cool and still. Traffic from nearby Highway 101 buzzed past, a constant murmur. A couple of seagulls strutted across the grass that bordered the outlet mall. He'd closed about half the distance—down to about fifty feet—when she finally looked over her shoulder and saw him.
They both stopped. In the bright sunlight, her purple hair had a plastic glint to it. She was on one side of the road, the mall side, and he was on the other, near the church. For the moment, there were no cars. She stood with one boot on the curb, the other on the road, her expression clouded.
"Brianna?" he said.
She squinted at him. He saw, closer now, that her eyebrows had actually been drawn on her face; there was no real hair there. Standing the way she was, so still, as if posed, and with her plastic hair, pale skin, and fake eyebrows, she looked like a mannequin in a punk rock store. He got the feeling that if she stayed too long out in the sun, she might melt.
"Did you come here because of Harriet Abel?" he asked.
She stared. A Volkswagen Beetle, a newer model, drove past, heading east up the hill. He waited, seeing if her curiosity would win out over her wariness, but she didn't say anything. She wasn't running, though. That was something.
"I heard about you from Rita Rodriguez," Gage said, hoping to put the hook in deeper.
"Who are you?" she said.
"My name's Garrison Gage."
"So?"
The edge in her voice could have cut steel. She could have given the old Zoe a run for her money. Gage looked both ways. No cars. "Can we talk for a second? It's a little awkward yelling across the road."
"What do you want?"
Gage took a step. She made a move to flee, so he stopped a couple feet into the road.
"I just want to talk," he said.
"Did he send you looking for me?"
"Who?"
"I just want everyone to leave me alone."
"Who do you think sent me?"
"Just go away."
"I'm trying to find out what happened to Harriet."
"So you're like, what, a detective?"
"Let me buy you a cup of coffee."
"I don't drink coffee."
"Okay, let me buy you a chocolate sundae. There's an ice cream shop over there."
"I gotta go."
"You don't like ice cream? Who doesn't like ice cream?"
"Just leave me alone."
"Please. Anything you can—"
A brown UPS truck roared past. The wall of wind drove him back a step. It only blocked their view for a moment, but when it was gone he saw that she was already halfway down the covered sidewalk inside the mall. He hurried across the street, but she glanced over her shoulder and broke into a run.
Before he'd even reached the other side of the road, she was gone.
Visiting the church seemed anticlimactic after his encounter with Brianna Hobart, but Gage still felt like he might learn something. If nothing else, just visiting a place that had been important to Abel, being around people she'd been around, might raise other questions. Of course, he'd had no problem raising questions. He had nothing but questions, and they kept multiplying like rabbits. Who did Brianna think had sent him? Why did Winnie Rallins have bucket loads of money in her suitcase? What was the purpose of the paint set that Harriet Abel had bought the day before she died? At some point, Gage needed a few answers.
As soon as he stepped through the double glass doors, Gage felt tension in his neck and shoulders. It surprised him. Where had that come from? He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually stepped inside a church—Janet had been a staunch atheist, and her antipathy toward organized religion had been even fiercer than his—but it might have been as far back as his preteen years. He'd gone a few times to Mass with his mother, hadn't he? Christmas, Easter, the few times either nostalgia or her conscience got the best of her, that's when they'd gone. The memories were foggy but not entirely unpleasant. He remembered holding her hand as they stepped inside. He remembered the smell of the threadbare carpet. He remembered the old women who'd pinch him and say how cute he was.
No threadbare carpet greeted him within this church. He stepped into a spacious entry with a polished granite floor and high stone walls, a miraculous contrast to the exterior. The voices of hundreds of people raised in song filled the room. He saw them straight ahead, past ornate wooden doors that had been left open. An old man standing just inside the door saw him and stepped out to greet him. His reddish tan and weathered face made Gage think of beef jerky.
"First time?" the old man said, whispering.
"Yes, sir," Gage said.
"Good, good, plenty of room in the back. Here you go."
He handed Gage yellow parchment paper folded in half and pointed toward some pews just inside the door. It was crowded. A family in the last row saw him and squeezed to the left, allowing him to stand mostly inside the pew.
The main hall, a huge space that must have once been the retail area, had been transformed even more thoroughly than the lobby. There were no windows of any kind, but the beautiful stained glass art high above functioned almost like windows the way spotlights shone on them from the ceiling. Only one of the stained art images depicted Jesus; the others were pictures of the Buddha and other religious or scholarly figures. Most of the rest was mahogany and granite, though the blue carpet and all the tapestries between the stained glass softened the room and kept the voices from echoing. A gay pride flag hung to the right. Most wore their Sunday finest, though the congregation, as befitting a Unitarian church, was a motley mix—young and old, clean-cut career types standing right next to long-haired free spirits.
The minister, a bald, broad-shouldered man in a gray suit, stood behind a mahogany lectern on a dais up a good six feet from the floor. He wore a simple blue tie rather than a white clerical collar, and he had a white stole draped around his neck that was adorned with symbols of all the major religions of the world: the cross, the Star of David, and more.
It felt warm enough that Gage wanted to take off his leather jacket, but he didn't know where he would put it. He heard the faint hum of the air-conditioner high above where three ceiling fans turned slowly. He studied the room. Was there anyone he knew? He saw Martin Jaybee, who owned Jaybee's Grocery. They'd played poker once upon a time. Up at the front, he saw a blackjack dealer he remembered from the casino, but otherwise most of the faces were just faces to him, some vaguely familiar, most not. He did see one person that truly surprised him, in the second row next to a heavyset woman in a purple dress, the two of them standing close and both reading off the same program: Brisbane, the rumpled detective. He looked just as rumpled in a black suit as he did in a gray trench coat.
While Gage was looking at them, Brisbane looked over his shoulder and made eye contact. He shook his head and looked away.
After another hymn, the minister read from a list of news items, a Halloween bake sale, changes to next year's philosophy camp, and other minor happenings, then told a brief story about how tragedy can cause us all to hold each other a bit tighter. He had a voice like Charlton Heston, deep and commanding. They sang one last hymn, then the minister reminded everyone that there would be a brief gathering in the social hall afterward as an informal remembrance to Harriet Abel. When they knew about a service for Mrs. Abel, of course, they'd post it on the website.
When the minister reached the end of his remarks, he made eye contact with Gage. It was not a suspicious gaze. There was warmth there, some kind of recognition, a welcoming nod. After it was over, there were lots of hugs and shaking hands, and about half the people headed for the social hall and the other half for the exit. Gage hung back at the rear, waiting.
Eventually the minister, shaking hands and patting backs on his way, reached Gage.
"Hello, sir," the man said, extending his hand. "I'm Reverend Bard. John Bardelman is the full name, but nobody would probably know who you're talking about if you refer to me that way. You look familiar to me. Do I know you?"
Gage shook his hand. For such a big man, he had a surprisingly weak grip. It felt like squeezing a pillow. "I don't think so. My name's Garrison Gage."
"Garrison . . . Ah, you're that detective! The one I've read so much about."
"Hopefully not that much."
"I'd say you're famous around these parts. You know Bob, I take it?"
"Bob?"
"Bob Brisbane. He's a detective with the police department. Let's see, he's right over . . ."
Gage didn't even know Brisbane had a first name. He'd always thought of him like Cher or Madonna, a single name sort of person. "Oh yeah, I know, Bob. We've had a lot of engaging conversations over the years."
"I see. Well, that's not surprising since you both have suffered terrible tragedies. I'm very sorry about your wife."
This surprised Gage on two levels. First, it had been years since his wife died, and Reverend Bard spoke as if it had happened yesterday. Certainly it often felt like yesterday to Gage, but he didn't expect anyone else to act that way. Second, he had no idea that Brisbane had suffered a terrible tragedy, and he didn't want to admit his ignorance by asking what it was, not now. It did make him feel a twinge of guilt, reducing Brisbane to a one-dimensional caricature.
It was only a twinge, though. Suffering a tragedy was no excuse for being an asshole. He should know, he was often a grade-A asshole himself, and he didn't expect anyone to cut him any slack because of it.
"What church do you attend, Garrison?" Bard asked.
"I don't," Gage said.
"Oh."
"Never been my cup of tea."
"Ah. An atheist, then?"
"I eschew labels."
Bard chuckled. "You'd fit right in here. That pretty much sums up the Unitarian philosophy on a bumper sticker. No labels. Besides, any man who can use the word eschew and get away with it belongs in my church."
"I'll keep it in mind. The belonging, that is. Not the eschewing. I'm a man entirely comfortable with his diction."
"I'm glad you had the "tion" at the end of that word. Otherwise it would have been a very different kind of statement."
He smiled. Gage would have laughed if he wasn't so surprised. A man of the cloth making crude jokes? This certainly wasn't an ordinary minister, which meant this probably wasn't an ordinary church.
"I'm . . . speechless," Gage said.
"I can see that. I'm afraid my wicked sense of humor is not always . . . appreciated by my congregation. I can't help myself, though. We are what we are, right? But that aside, I meant what I said. We're not just about Christianity. We have agnostics, atheists, deists, Buddhists, Muslims—you name it, we've got it. We're just here to help people find their way in this crazy town of ours."
"Did you help Harriet Abel?"
Bard winced. "I'm afraid I didn't know her very well. For someone always in the public eye, she was a very private woman."
"I keep hearing that."
"Yes, I didn't realize how much so until after she was gone. I thought I knew her better . . . Well, I need to get downstairs. Will you be joining us? You're more than welcome."
"Thank you. I'll be down in a minute."
"I just hope . . . Well, you won't be asking any uncomfortable questions right now, will you? I know there must be an investigation, but this is a remembrance, and I hope to give people a bit of space to grieve."
Gage measured his response. Despite himself, he liked Reverend Bard. He wasn't sure why. The man had a beguiling way about him, as religious leaders often did, but it didn't seem phony. That was no guarantee of authenticity, of course—there were probably more true thespians in the spiritual community than on the stage—but it made it more difficult to put him in a predefined box and disregard him.
A few stragglers milled past, eyeing him suspiciously, so Gage stepped closer to the minister.
"I understand your concern," Gage whispered, "but a woman was murdered."
"I understand, but—"
"And the way these things work, you have to talk to people to find out things."
"Yes, but—"
"And the sooner I talk to people, the more likely I am to get answers. I'd like to think you want to help me rather than hinder me. I'd like to think that Harriet Abel would want that too."
If Bard was angry, it would have been almost impossible to tell based on his reaction. No muscles in his big round face tightened. His slate gray eyes did narrow, but not in a judgmental way. He simply regarded Gage as if he was trying to see through a cloud of smoke that had wafted between them. It was then that Gage finally realized who Reverend Bard reminded him of: the Buddha. Not the stoic one, but the statues of what people often called the Laughing Buddha. Bald, portly, serene even as he smiled, meditating with hands on his knees and entirely at peace with himself—that's who the bald, portly, round-faced Reverend Bard resembled.
"How about we negotiate?" Bard asked. "You can ask me any questions you want, and I'll also refer you to two people I know who might actually be able to help you. If I think of others later, people who might appreciate being left to their own thoughts today, I'll call and let you know."
"I don't have a phone."
"Oh."
"Otherwise, that's fine. You can call Books and Oddities. My friend Alex Cortez owns it and is more than happy to take messages for me."
"All right, then. Should we go down?"
"One question, first. Can you tell me if Brianna Hobart is a member of your church?"
"Who?"
"High school girl with purple hair, pale as snow, lots of facial jewelry? Kind of hard to miss."
"I don't think so."
"Okay. Who are the two people I should talk to?"
"I'll point them out to you. Let's go."
The social hall was a room about half the size of the main hall and with an industrial ceiling with ducts and exposed pipes that had been painted white. Gage guessed it had once been the warehouse portion of the store. They'd done a good job of breaking it up and decorating it, blocking off part for a kitchen, the other area with nice rows of folding tables covered with white cotton tablecloths, but it still felt as if someone had converted a warehouse. A picture of Harriet Abel in front of a dozen lighted candles sat on a table by the door. A bowl of punch and a variety of snacks sat on another table. People milled about, talking in hushed tones, a few sitting, some children in the back playing tag and oblivious to the somber nature of the proceeding. Bard shook hands all the way inside.
As promised, Bard pointed out two people Gage should approach. The first, an older Asian woman dressed in a black dress, was Alice Zeitel, the recently retired high school secretary who'd worked with Harriet for years. She sat next to a teenage girl who looked like a miniature version of her, though perhaps with slightly more Caucasian features. Sixteen or seventeen, maybe. The other person was a fiftyish Ned Rand, a short, caramel-skinned electrician who'd lived on Abel's street for two decades until he'd recently moved into an apartment.
While the minister drifted away to talk to members of his congregation, Gage approached Ned Rand, who sat at the back of the room by himself staring into a cup of coffee. His hair was dark black but cut so short Gage could see the gleam of his scalp. He had big hands, wrinkled and rough, and his blue plaid shirt and blue jeans were in the same condition. If they'd ever been ironed, or even washed, it would have been hard to tell. The steam from his coffee rose in thin tendrils past his weathered face.
"Divining the secrets of the universe?" Gage said.
Ned looked up, squinting at him with one brown eye, frowning with the right half of his face. It was then, before the man even spoke a word, that Gage realized the left half of Ned's face was unresponsive—nerve damage, or a stroke maybe. When Ned spoke, he confirmed it; only the right half of his mouth moved, making the words come out a mumble.
Gage couldn't understand a word of it. He sat down across from him.
"I'm Garrison Gage," he said. "I'm a private investigator, and I'm looking into the death of Harriet Abel. Pastor Bard told me you lived down the street from her for a long time."
"Yah, da true," Ned said, most of it a garble. "Sa wha ha'n to her. So sa . . ."
"I'm very sorry. Did you know her well?"
"A bih. Mo afer I cou'n wer no mo. I sih on my por, ya know, si ou der all da time. Sumime she sta on her wah an tah a bih."
It took Gage a moment to put this together, but he assumed the man said A bit. More after I couldn't work no more. I sit on my porch, you know, sit out there all the time. Sometimes she stopped on her walks and talked a bit. "What did you talk about?" he asked.
"Dings. Nunin imporan."
"Do you have any idea why anyone would want to hurt her?"
He shook his head.
"She get along with her daughter?"
"I din know she ha a daher."
"Really? Winnie never came to visit?"
"Nehr saw nun viz her."
"Nobody?"
"She kep 'self. Een whe we tah, it 'bou da weher and stuh. Buh she awa as me how I doin'. She wanna mah sur I'm fine. Nice lay, ya know. Real nice lay."
Gage assumed the man said Nice lady, since the alternative seemed extremely unlikely. "When did you move away?"
"Sih mons," Ned said. "I jes couldna tay care da hou no moh, ya know?"
"And you didn't see her after that?"
"In chur, da all."
"Right. Is there anything else you can think of—"
"She din wan me da sell da house."
"What? Why not?"
Ned shrugged—a single-sided shrug that only raised his right shoulder. "I as her why and she say we shouldna all sell to the vacay copanee. She say she understoo buh it ma her weel sah, me movin."
"What, say that again? That last part?"
"The vacay copanee."
"Vacation company? You sold your house to some kind of vacation company?"
Ned nodded.
"Which one?"
"New Show."
"New Show?"
"Showrrr. Showwrr."
"New Shore?
Ned nodded and stared down into his coffee again. Gage leaned back, digesting this information. There were a number of companies, real estate syndicates, essentially, that bought up houses on the coast to use as vacation rentals, so it wasn't much of a surprise that Ned had sold his home to one of them. It also wasn't that much of a surprise that Harriet Abel had been displeased that he'd done this. While the bulk of the Barnacle Bluffs economy was driven by tourist dollars, more so every year, many of the locals mourned the loss of the city's charm that came from so many transient people coming and going all the time.
Yet it still piqued Gage's interest. He hadn't heard of New Shore, but for such a private woman to be so concerned about who bought Ned's house might mean something.
He talked with Ned a while longer, but the man actually didn't appear to know much of anything. Abel was gone a lot, which was no surprise since she was involved in so many things. He saw no men coming or going, not unless you counted a plumber, a mailman, and the guy who installed new gutters. He'd moved into the neighborhood after her husband had died, so he hadn’t known Marvin Abel at all. With each question, Ned's speech slurred worse and his head dropped closer to his coffee, so Gage figured it was time to move on to Alice Zeitel.
He almost missed her, catching up to the mother and daughter in the parking lot as Alice was unlocking a silver Toyota Highlander with a fob remote, a car so new it still had the dealer plates. The girl walked with her attention focused on her iPhone, her dark hair hiding her face.
"Alice?" Gage said.
Alice flinched. The girl barely reacted, other than a quick glance up from her phone.
"I really don't have much to say," Alice said.
"You know who I am?"
"Yes. We really have to go, I'm sorry."
In height, neither of them reached Gage's shoulder, the teenage girl only a few inches shorter than Alice, both sturdy but not heavy. With their pale skin and dark eyes, they made Gage think of porcelain dolls. The older woman wore heavy make-up, but not enough to hide the deep bags under her eyes. Her hair seemed too dark to be natural.
"I only want a few minutes of your time," Gage said.
"I'm sorry."
She opened the driver side door. The girl, still fixated on her phone, moseyed to the other side of the Highlander. Many of the cars that had filled the parking lot were gone, but some people remained, gathered behind bumpers and leaning on hoods, chatting in low tones, faces somber. Many eyed him warily. The sun gleamed on the windshields.
"Why the rush?" Gage said.
"We just—we just have to get going. We're late."
"Reverend Bard told me you worked at the school."
"I retired. I'm not there anymore. I have to go."
"Can I make an appointment to talk to you later?"
She'd climbed into the car and was reaching for the door. Gage put his hand on the glass, holding it open.
"Please," she said.
"Running away only makes me want to talk to you more."
"I'm not running. Just have to go."
"Alice," he said, "a woman was murdered, a woman you knew well enough to come here today dressed in black. Don't you think you can spare just two minutes for her, or is that too much to ask?"
She made a feeble attempt to close the door. Gage resisted. He saw anger flash across her face, and thought she might yell for help, and he wasn't sure what he would do then. Fortunately, the anger faded as fast as it had arrived, and her face crumpled. She bowed her head, crying. This finally got the girl's attention, though only enough for her to put her phone down and stare at Alice with concern for a few seconds—only a few before she went back to scrutinizing her phone again.
"I don't mean to make you upset," Gage said.
"It's not you," Alice said, sniffling. "I just—this is so hard. I wasn't sure I could even come today, but I didn't—I didn't want to be at home either."
"How well did you know her?"
She shrugged. "As well as anyone. You probably know she didn't talk about herself much. She was private that way."
"When did you retire?"
"Last spring."
"Is there anyone you know who might want to hurt her?"
"No, no, of course not. This is all very shocking. Please, we really need to leave. There's nothing I know that might help."
"Did you know Brianna Hobart?"
She flinched. It was so subtle, and so quick, that Gage would have missed it if he hadn't been standing so close to her.
"Yes, of course," she said. "I heard she was expelled. She had many problems her first few years in school, but Harriet . . ." She shook her head.
"What?"
"I was just going to say she really tried to take her under her wing. But some kids, it's hard. Their home life doesn't make it easy."
"What about her home life?"
"Oh, I don't know. It's . . . Well, I shouldn't talk about it. I did work there, you know. Some things are confidential."
"This is a very nice car. You just bought it, huh?"
"Yes."
Gage peered over at the girl. "How about you? What's your name?"
"Trina," the girl said, without looking up. She spoke like she was answering a prison guard, flat and subdued.
"Did you know Brianna Hobart?"
"She doesn't go there," Alice said. "She's homeschooled."
"Oh really? Is she your daughter?"
"Granddaughter. My daughter died during childbirth. A heart problem, nobody knew. I'm sorry, I really do need to go."
"I'm sorry about your daughter. Are you sure there's nothing you can tell me that would help?"
"No, no, nothing," she said, but Gage could see that there was. There definitely was. "If I think of something, I'll—I'll tell Reverend Bard. He's a good man. He'll let you know. Now I'm sorry. I must go."
She started the car. Gage took his hand off the glass and let her close it, which she did, forcefully. He stepped away from the vehicle and watched them go. Neither Alice nor Trina made eye contact with him. He memorized the license plate number and made a mental note to check into it later.
He got some penetrating stares as he made his way to his van, some ogling and some awkward glances. He felt bone-weary, tired of all the running around and all the nonsense, wondering, again, why he couldn't do it like most people did their jobs, eight hours square, time off, weekends to himself. It never worked that way. When he was in New York, Janet used to beg him to take a day off now and then, but once he was on a case, he could never let it go until the case was finished—and he was always on a case.
Getting in the van, he saw a sheet of white printer paper, folded in half, under the wiper. He figured it for some kind of ad, a new restaurant or some event at the casino, and angrily snatched it off the glass.
It wasn't an ad. It was a badly photocopied page from a high school yearbook, a photo in the middle circled in black marker.
Zoe.