so quickly-before she had to ask for a second refill to keep her seat.
“The grocer, Milton Sedge, works at a local market, Sedge’s-do you know it?”
“Yes, thanks, it’s near the Lexington house.”
“He works from about six in the morning until closing, every day, according to the woman who answered the phone when I called. He closes at around nine. Hard worker.”
“Hey, he comes from good Puritan stock,” Jenna said casually. “Did you say that I was coming by to talk with him?”
“I mentioned that someone assisting in Smith’s defense would be by-I didn’t give your name. She was sure that Mr. Sedge would be happy to see you. I think it’s going to be dicier to talk to the boys who claimed he was seen at the cliff.”
“Who are they?”
“One was Joshua Abbott. Have you heard of him?”
“No.”
“The other is a kid named David Yates.”
“Ah.”
“Ah?”
“He’s the kid who believed that Malachi Smith gave him the evil eye,” Jenna said. “His father is Andy Yates, a councilman.”
“Good luck, kid,” Jake said. “And, hey, be careful up there.”
“People here are really good people, Jake.”
He laughed. “Oh, Jenna, no doubt. But it doesn’t matter where you are-people come in good, and in bad. You’re trying to prove that Malachi Smith didn’t commit horrible murders. If he didn’t, someone else very violent did. Be careful.”
“Always, Jake,” she promised him.
Jenna hung up, walked back to her uncle’s and got into her car. She was off to talk to Milton Sedge. While she was talking to him, she just might be able to figure out a way to get to the boys who claimed to have seen Malachi after Earnest Covington was murdered. She grinned at herself. She hadn’t met them yet, but she was sure they were pretentious little liars.
People judged so easily!
The Old Meeting House was a whitewashed building a little ways down the highway.
Sam estimated that it held a couple hundred people, tops, during meetings. There were no crosses or other symbols on the outside of the structure, and a carved wooden sign announced simply, Worship With Us. All Are Welcome.
He opened a picket fence to follow the brick walk to the front door. There was nothing ornate about the columns of the single-story structure. When he opened the door, he saw that there was simply a podium at the end, with a red runner leading to it. The pews were simple hardwood, and the kneelers were wooden as well, with no cushioning.
The room was shadowed in darkness, the plain, paneled windows allowing just a few streaks of light into the simple space. Sam thought that he had entered into an empty building at first, but as he stood near the entry, blinking against the murky shadows, he heard a voice.
“Hello, and welcome.”
A tall man with long gray hair, his face covered in a long beard and mustache, walked toward him. He was clad simply in a white dress shirt and ill-fitting black suit; his arms were too long for his sleeves and the pants were short.
“How do you do,” Sam said, offering his hand. “I’m Sam Hall, attorney, and I’m defending Malachi Smith.”
“Oh,” the man said, looking at him gravely. “I’m Goodman Wilson, pastor and elder of our little congregation. How can I help you?”
“Well, frankly, I wanted to know what you thought about the whole situation. You must be aware that many people believe that your religion is unorthodox. Do you think that Abraham Smith was so strict that his son-aware of other choices in society-might have thought that he was
Sam was blunt and to the point on purpose: he wanted to see Goodman Wilson’s immediate reaction to such questions. He had half suspected that the pastor would immediately be on the defensive and show him the door.
He did not.
“We’re not quite as fanatic as many believe,” Wilson told him. He smiled. “We don’t believe in idols of any kind, and nor do we drink, swear, gamble or imbibe drugs. Actually, we have a number of ex-addicts in our fold, those who need guidance to stay on the straight and narrow. We welcome them, we welcome all.”
“But Abraham was a hard man, or have I been misinformed?” Sam pressed.
“Sit down, sit down,” Wilson offered. “Our chairs are hard, but…”
“A hard chair is fine by me.”
They sat together on the rear hard pew, staring up toward the simple podium.
“Thank you for your help,” Sam said.
Wilson gave a somewhat pained smile. “We do believe in justice. Not vengeance, justice. I knew Abraham Smith, of course. I knew the family, and I knew Malachi. The boy is quite amazing, really. He has a deep and fundamental belief in God. But he wasn’t among our fold.”
“No?”
“We don’t have music,” Wilson said. “No music, no dancing. Our faith is really simple-God requires that we appreciate what he has given us. The earth, the sky, the air we breathe. We work, because society demands that we pay for our living-and that we all pay taxes too, right?”
Sam smiled. Wilson seemed to think his words very entertaining.
“Jesus believed in simplicity. He didn’t need ornate clothing, and he didn’t need a mansion. He taught us to love one another. He didn’t sing to the masses-he spoke to them.”
“And Malachi needed music?” Sam asked.
The pastor nodded gravely. “I’m afraid I can’t help you if you need me to testify that the boy might have been crazy. He wasn’t crazy. He was honest-he had been taught not to lie. He came to me, though he did so in confidence, and he told me that he couldn’t see anything evil in the piano, and therefore, he had to leave our fold. I suggested that he think about it long and hard. I disagreed with his decision, but his deliberations were honest, thoughtful,
“He left the church because of the piano? Because of music?” Sam said.
“That surprises you?”
“I’d have thought that it might be something more…”
Goodman Wilson laughed. “You thought we might be slaughtering goats or chickens, and the boy was appalled by blood? No. Malachi told me he couldn’t comprehend a faith that didn’t see God’s beauty in music, and I explained the very basic nature of our beliefs. Malachi told me that he was sorry-he saw God in music. Do you have any religion in your life, Mr. Hall?”
“I believe in God, Pastor. But I don’t know who among us really knows what he wants,” Sam said. After what seemed to him like a respectful pause, he continued on. “Did Malachi ever offer any violence toward his family?”
“Never. In our congregation, children honor their parents. They pray, they reflect. They take the time to care for the elderly. They don’t steal, and they don’t fornicate. There is no bodily punishment that we offer them-just excommunication, if it comes to that. We are a family here, and that is a terrible punishment when you love your family.”
“How did Abraham discipline Malachi? As a good church member, he was said to beat him for infractions, but did he?”
Goodman Wilson was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “I worried, sometimes. Not that Malachi was beaten, but…parents can speak to a child in a way that is totally demoralizing. They can make a child feel as if they can’t do anything right, as if they’re worthless. I believe that Abraham could be verbally abusive at times, but, Mr. Hall, I don’t think that’s particular to members of our church. Sadly, I’ve seen many a father rip a child apart, and too
