“Do we let him get away with that?” Peters exploded when I finally let him talk.
“We don’t have a whole hell of a lot of choice.”
“It’s…” Peters stopped, totally at a loss for words.
“It’s the way it is,” I finished for him, “and nothing you or I do is going to change it. We just have to work around it, that’s all.”
The drive from Capitol Hill to Magnolia was hair-raising. It’s common knowledge that police forces are stocked with frustrated juvenile delinquents who have grown up and gone straight, driving like hot rodders and justifying it in their minds because they are finally on the right side of the law. We didn’t talk as we drove. I was too busy considering whether or not my Last Will and Testament was up-to-date.
We wheeled onto Gay Avenue. “Oh-oh,” I said when I saw Maxwell Cole’s rust-colored Volvo parked in front of Suzanne Barstogi’s house. Max, Suzanne, and Michael Brodie were huddled on the front porch, deep in conversation. They broke it off as soon as we pulled up behind the Volvo. Peters didn’t recognize the car, but he swore under his breath when he recognized Maxwell’s walruslike visage.
Max hurried down the steps toward us as though some trace of the conversation might linger in the ethers of the front porch. He checked his speed and sauntered up to the gate.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I said before he had a chance. “What did they do, yank your column back onto the police beat?”
He reddened slightly. “I’m working on the column right now, as a matter of fact.”
Suzanne Barstogi came down from the porch and stood near the dangling gate. I ignored her and spoke directly to Maxwell for Suzanne’s benefit. “I hope you warned these nice folks that you don’t always quote people verbatim.” The good pastor came down to stand protectively, or maybe defensively, behind Suzanne.
“Knock it off,” Maxwell muttered.
“They know you’re the one who plastered Angela all over the front page this morning? I’ll bet they think you’re a really nice man. You tell ‘em what kind of movies you like to watch?”
“I said knock it off!”
“You know,” I said, focusing on the bulbous nose supporting his sagging glasses, “I’d like nothing better than to knock it off.” Maxwell got my subtle message.
He grabbed open the gate with such force that he wrested it from its last frail hinge. For a long moment he stood there holding the gate in his hand. I think he considered throwing it at me. Instead, he slammed it down and pushed his way past me to clamber into the Volvo. He drove off, leaving a trail of rubber on the asphalt.
“I’ll give you that one,” Peters grinned.
We turned our attention to Pastor Michael and Suzanne. I’ve already mentioned that I put in some time as a Fuller Brush salesman. In fact, that’s how I worked my way through the University of Washington. I learned a lot about life from a sales manager there. He had a list of trite sayings he would spew with little or no provocation. One that I particularly remember is, “Men change but seldom do they.” Those words flashed through my mind as Pastor Michael cordially extended his hand. “I suppose you have some more questions.”
My partner shot me a wondering glance. “We certainly do,” Peters said.
Brodie gave Suzanne a gentle tap on the shoulder. “Why don’t you run along inside with the others.” His smile was benevolent. “They can talk to you later if they need to.”
Suzanne backed away from him as though she, too, was wary of his change in demeanor. Unconcerned, Brodie picked up the fallen gate and appeared to study the possibility of reattaching it to the fence. There was a long scrape across the back of his hand. Peters saw it the same time I did.
“Will you be conducting the funeral?” I asked, looking for an opening.
“The services,” he corrected gently. “In Faith Tabernacle we don’t have funerals. Even though the circumstances in this case appear tragic, it is always an occasion for thanksgiving when one of the True Believers is called home to be with our Maker.”
“I see,” I said unnecessarily. I was trying to reconcile this seemingly soft-spoken, considerate man with the explosively tempered one I had seen the day before. It was inconceivable that the two could be one and the same. Yesterday he had been out of control. Today he was the picture of unctuous self-confidence.
“The Thanksgiving Service will be Sunday at two up on top of Queen Anne. You’re welcome to come, if you’d like,” he added.
Inconsequential small, talk quickly exhausted Peters’ patience. “How long have you known Suzanne Barstogi?” he interjected.
There was a slight but definite pause. “Eight or nine years, I suppose,” Brodie replied.
“You’ve known her since before Angel was born?”
Brodie nodded, and Peters continued. “What became of her husband?”
Brodie shook his head sadly. “Andrew slipped away from our flock of True Believers.”
“That’s why Suzanne divorced him?” I asked.
“Yes.” Again there was an almost imperceptible pause. “There can be no marriage with someone outside the Faith.”
“Do you have any idea where he is?”
“No, I don’t. When someone leaves us, we believe they have died and gone to perdition. No contact with any one of the True Believers is allowed.”
“Will anyone try to let him know about Angel? After all, he is her father. He would probably want to be here,” Peters suggested.
Brodie looked at Peters as though the detective was a little dense and hadn’t quite grasped the finer points of the conversation. “It would be very difficult for someone who is already dead to attend someone else’s Thanksgiving Service.”
“I see what you mean,” I said. Peters’ temper was on an upswing again. Maybe control comes with age. I fervently wished Peters could age ten years in about as many minutes.
“How’d you get the scratch on the back of your hand?” Peters asked.
Brodie looked at it. “We’ve been doing a lot of yard work around the church,” he said. “It happened the other day when we were pruning.”
A car pulled up just then. A man and three women got out. They walked past us, nodding to Brodie as they picked their way into the house. “We’re having a prayer session right now,” Brodie explained, backing away from Peters and me. “We’re praying for the murderer’s immortal soul. It’s our way of turning the other cheek.”
“Is the whole congregation coming?” Peters asked.
“The ones who aren’t working.”
“Speaking of working,” I said, “what about Benjamin Mason. Does he work?”
Brodie’s face went slightly brittle. “He does yard work.”
“You know where he is now?”
The pastor shook his head and I handed him a card. “You have him call me when you see him.” Brodie took the card without looking at it, then excused himself to go deal with his flock. The purpose of the prayer meeting stuck in my craw. I would have preferred the prayers be for Angel Barstogi or even Suzanne. I didn’t think the scumbag who murdered Angela deserved any prayers. I didn’t then, and I don’t now.
Chapter 4
We were standing with the doors open, ready to climb into the car when a voice hailed us. “Yoo-hoo,” a woman called. “Over here.”
Gay Avenue looks as though it started out to be an alley for another set of streets. Everyone, except the builder of 4543, seemed to understand that. Suzanne Barstogi’s house was the only one that fronted on Gay Avenue. All the rest showed reasonably well-kept back doors and backyards. It was one of those backyards, across the street and down one house, to which we were summoned.
A five-foot cedar fence provided an incongruous foundation for a massive wild blackberry bramble. The bush and the fence were like two drunks holding one another up, the resulting wall totally impenetrable. “Over here.” It
