In small towns people scent the wind with noses of uncommon keenness.
—Stephen King, The Stand
BOOKSHOP BUSINESS DELAYED my visit to the First Presbyterian Church of Quindicott until the afternoon. I hitched a ride with Bonnie Franzetti, who had finished her shift for the day.
Without a car, I figured I’d be walking back.
Both the Reverend and Mrs. Waterman were busy working inside the church, but the reverend was out of uniform, and his wife was hardly wearing her Sunday best.
“Hi, Mrs. McClure,” the young reverend said, wiping his paint-stained hands on a towel. Though over thirty, you would never guess Tad Waterman’s age by his round, boyish face. The sweatpants and Brown University sweatshirt only enhanced the image of youth. Lately, he’d grown a close-cropped blond beard, no doubt in an attempt to garner a bit of gravitas. Unfortunately, the fashionable facial hair only made the reverend seem younger.
“Oh, hello, Penelope,” Mrs. Waterman said as she self-consciously patted the paint-dotted bandana covering her head. Nearly a decade older than her husband, Mrs. Waterman was an attractive woman with refined features and precise manners that came across as haughty to some, but I never saw her that way, and I knew she worked hard for her husband’s congregation.
“Excuse the mess,” Reverend Waterman said. “We’re trying to brighten things up.”
It was a tall order. The hundred-and-twenty-something-year-old stone church was solid and staid and had too much dark woodwork for the interior to be anything but somber. And the narrow, medieval-inspired windows would come in handy in defending the place from a Viking raid, but they didn’t admit much sunlight.
“How can we help you?” Mrs. Waterman asked.
“I wanted to talk to you about Norma Stanton. I know you both heard what she’s been accused of.”
“Yes, we gave the police the address of Norma’s sister in Millstone,” Mrs. Waterman replied. “But only to help Norma clear her name.”
Reverend Waterman nodded. “I’m positive it’s all some sort of misunderstanding. I only hope the police caught up with Norma at her sister’s place and she straightened everything out.”
“It didn’t exactly happen that way,” I replied. “Dorothy Willard isn’t Norma’s sister and Norma wasn’t there when the police arrived.”
“Oh my. What did Dorothy Willard tell them?” the reverend asked, genuinely puzzled.
“Nothing. Someone murdered her.”
Shaken, Mrs. Waterman sat down in a pew.
“May the poor woman rest in peace,” the reverend said.
“How did you come to have Dorothy Willard’s address, Reverend?”
“Norma worked with some of the members of our church. People with . . . emotional issues. We wanted to know the name of a next of kin in case something happened.”
While I digested that, Mrs. Waterman spoke up. “Does this have anything to do with Norma and those missing diamonds we heard about?”
“I think so.”
I let that sink in for a moment. “Did Norma volunteer her time to the church? Or was she employed? What exactly did Norma do?”
Mrs. Waterman and her husband exchanged glances. The woman lowered her eyes, while the reverend, who was not usually at a loss for words, suddenly was.
“What am I missing here?” I asked.
The pair remained awkwardly silent for a long moment. Finally, Mrs. Waterman spoke.
“Let’s show her.”
With a nod of agreement from her husband, the two set their paintbrushes aside and led me out of the old church to the rear door of the large house that served as the pastor’s residence. The path between the church and the house was lined with the very same purple blossoms I’d seen all around Dorothy Willard’s house and yard.
The coincidence struck me, and I was about to say so when Mrs. Waterman spoke again.
“We found out about the recordings only recently. We weren’t sure who we should tell. If anyone—”
Reverend Waterman jumped in. “Norma should be informed of what’s transpired. But it’s not a crime, as far as we know—of course, it is strictly against the rules of confidentiality.”
I was baffled by their statements but simply listened, like a good detective should (or so Jack taught me). Once through the back door, the Watermans led me down carpeted steps to a finished basement. There were stacks of folding chairs against one wall, a table with a large coffee maker against the other, and a desk with a computer in the corner, which is where we ended up.
“It started with these,” Reverend Waterman said, handing me a bundle of envelopes, all addressed to the First Presbyterian Church.
“Anonymous donations, all of them. Some have notes. Some don’t. They began showing up in the mail only recently. Most of the gifts are small, but so far they add up to over five hundred dollars.”
“And more come in every day,” Mrs. Waterman added.
“What do these have to do with Norma?” I asked, handing them back.
The reverend set the envelopes aside, bent over the computer, and punched a few keys. On YouTube, he expanded the image to full screen and stepped aside.
“See for yourself. We learned about these videos in one of the first letters we received.”
The screen showed a woman addressing a group of people circled around her; one of them was Reverend Waterman. It took a moment for me to realize that the speaker was Norma and the recording had been made in this very basement.
“You go where your habits take you,” Norma said, sharing that wise smile of hers.
She paused a long moment, putting her hands in the pockets of her denim overalls, allowing everyone in the group to digest those words before continuing—
“Rosa Parks once said, ‘I have learned over the years that when one’s mind is made up, this diminishes fear; knowing what must be done does away with fear.’
“That’s so true, isn’t it? I’ve found it so on my journey—a long journey and a challenging one. You’re all on that journey too. The journey of life. Divine life. Precious life. A priceless treasure you hold in your own hands. You see, you are rich because you have life. You are powerful because you are in command of it.
“You are the captain of your mind and body, nobody else. It’s your ship to steer, and you’re charting its course every hour of every day with every choice you make.
“If you don’t like where you are, consider how you got there, and where your choices are leading you. Because there is no spontaneous condition. There is only cause and effect. What you do today is what effects your tomorrow.”
Norma paused a final time before echoing the words she began with—
“You go where your habits take you.”
“She’s speaking to our Addiction and Substance Abuse Group,” Reverend Waterman explained. “It’s a rather large gathering. Over twenty regulars and more who attend a few times a month.”
“The group meets twice a week,” Mrs. Waterman explained. “Norma first came eight weeks ago and attended every meeting since.”
The reverend nodded. “In that short time, Norma became something of a group therapist. Our members found her words inspiring. Attendance rose dramatically. And, as you can see, someone was moved enough to record Norma and post her remarks online.”
“Her words were always hopeful and inspiring,” Mrs. Waterman said.
“Norma’s message always struck a powerful spiritual chord,” the reverend added. “And she projected such authority.”
“How long has this been going on, Reverend? The secret recordings, I mean.”
“There are fourteen of them online,” he replied. “They’ve been posted twice a week for the last seven weeks. By someone who calls himself Repentant.”
Repentant about what? I wondered.
“In a recent video, Norma mentioned the name of this church,” Mrs. Waterman said. “That’s when the anonymous donations started coming in.”
“You should read some of the notes that came with those donations,” the reverend said. “Norma truly influenced lives and touched people’s hearts.”
“Norma wasn’t aware this was happening?”
“Not unless she posted them herself, which I doubt,” the reverend replied, “since she doesn’t even own a phone.”
“Then you don’t know who was making these recordings?”
Mrs. Waterman shook her head. “Not yet. But we intend to get to the bottom of it.”
We were interrupted by the doorbell. I figured I was done and followed the Watermans upstairs. We crossed their tidy living room to the front door, where Seymour Tarnish was waiting—this time in his official capacity as the local mail carrier.
“Hey, Reverend. Hello, Mrs. Waterman. I’ve got a big bundle for you today.” Seymour handed over a rubber-banded wad of envelopes an inch thick. “And they’re all from out of town, too. Are you running a televangelist operation by any chance?”
Before the reverend could reply, Seymour spotted me.
“Oh, hi, Pen. I’m surprised to see you here.”
I was more surprised by the two potted plants that flanked the front door—those purple blossoms again, in brown clay pots.
“Mrs. Waterman, did you happen to get these potted plants from Norma?”
She blinked, surprised. “Why, yes. She brought them a few days ago. They’re New England aster. They bloom in late autumn. You can find them yourself growing wild in the woods or near water. Norma called them Michaelmas daisies.”
“Aha,” Seymour cried. “So that’s where they came up with that goofy name.”
“What goofy name?” I asked.
Seymour frowned. “Don’t you guys ever read those circulars sent out by our esteemed state senator?”
“No,” the Watermans and I said in unison.
“If you did, then you’d know the last one had our senator bragging about the cleanup of Millstone Creek. It used to be so polluted from the old textile mill, remember?”
“What about it?” I replied.
“Well, the mill is long gone, and now the creek is all cleaned up, thanks to the state senator and the EPA. Anyway, the creek ends at a place called Michaelmas Pond. The senator claims it’s so clean that fishing there is safe again.”