“The remains have now been identified as Victoria Harkness, pastor of the Church of the Spirit, a local religious group. Anyone with any information should contact the police. At this time, the cause of death is unknown. A candlelight vigil will be held Tuesday evening at 7:00 p.m, at the Church of the Spirit, and the community is invited to attend.”
When the broadcaster goes on to other stories, I click off the radio and lean against the card table, resting my head in my hands. The emotions, the sense of loss and anger, wash over me. I don’t understand my own feelings. Who is Victoria to me? I’ve never even met the woman. But I feel guilty for failing to find her. And a new sense of outrage when I think of the theft that occurred while I was in her apartment. And wonder about how her identity became public knowledge so quickly.
I call Claire; what else can I do? The case is over, and yet she may not know it. The ringing buzzes in my ear as I pace through the empty rooms. At last I hear her voice.
“Claire, it’s Audrey. Have you been watching the news?”
“Yes. Oh my God, I still can’t believe she’s dead.” She sounds stunned. “The police called the church earlier, and Daniel talked to them then.” Her voice is shaking. “There’s going to be an investigation.”
“That sounds right. They’ll have to determine how she died.”
“No, an investigation of the church. Her mother is pushing it, says we knew Victoria was missing and should have reported it. She wants to sue us.”
Elizabeth Harkness found that out from me. I feel a cold runnel of dread.
Claire’s voice is firmer. “Audrey, please, I want you to stay on the case.” Pause. “I got your message last night. Daniel was still hesitant about bringing in the police, but it looks like that’s out of our hands.”
I’m confused. “Why do you want me to stay on? I mean, I will if you want me to, but there’s not much left for me to do, now that she’s been found. Whatever happened, the cops will take care of it.”
“Pastor Harkness’s mother thinks we — the church — had something to do with it. Please, Audrey. I don’t know how she knows what she knows, but it was she who identified the body. She says she filed a missing persons report this morning — that’s how the police were able to identify the body so quickly.”
“Okay. Well then, I did some investigation yesterday after our conversation at Three Beans, so I’ll write up a report and email it to you.”
“Thank you.”
I put the phone down and stare out the window. The darkness is punctuated by street lights and headlights along Marine, and a few boats on the river. I climb the suicide stairs to my cot. Leaning up against a wall with a blanket over my lap, I begin to write up my findings. It’s thin — just what I found out from neighbor George and Elizabeth Harkness. Putting my illegal activity down in writing seems to be a bad idea, even if my intentions were good, so I don’t. And what about the theft? If I report that to the police, I have to admit to being in the apartment. And I also can’t talk about my vision of the murder without sounding like a lunatic. All the unmentionables are like an iceberg, barely submerged beneath the surface and just waiting to sink the ship.
If Victoria’s mother is blaming the church, I have some responsibility for that. I’m the one who told her Victoria was missing. If she came over from Portland to talk to the police, and found out there was no official inquiry, I can see how that would upset her.
But. I recommended to Claire that she file a report and she didn’t want to.
But. I could have filed one myself, after I realized that something was amiss.
But. Then I would have to admit I was in her apartment.
Around and around.
Regardless, it’s too late for that now.
Wouldn’t be the first time you crossed the line, though. Remember the Baxter Building? You were one of the regulars.
That was different. I was undercover. I had a legend to maintain.
Which one? The one about you being a criminal, or the one about you being a cop?
I’m awake for a long time, listening to the wind and staring into the dark.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DESPITE MY MANY and varied reservations, I decide to attend the Tuesday evening candlelight vigil. The church sanctuary is crowded. A table with small white candles in cardboard holders and a larger, central lit taper has a sign that invites us to add our soul magic to Victoria’s. I decline to participate, but many do, lighting a candle from the bigger flame and cradling it in cupped hands. Mostly, the group is somber, talking quietly in small groups, hugging or holding hands. Interestingly, no one is dressed in black, or very formally. Sweaters and shirts and blouses, khakis and clean blue jeans. Moisture-slicked raincoats.
A harpist plays in the background, a mournful Celtic air. Canvases and scraps of paper with drawings and paintings of all media and ability cover the walls. Scattered across the front where they are visible through the windows are sculptures, many abstract or of found materials. There are even some books written by congregants: self-published poetry and memoir. More spirit offerings.
I’m here because I feel like I need to be. Because despite the fact that I didn’t know Victoria Harkness, I recognized her. And witnessed her murder. That is arguably the most intimate thing I’ve ever experienced. With anyone. Since I’m still investigating, I’ll observe all I can. Just being alert to mood and listening to conversation may provide a lead when more direct inquiry fails.
Daniel Chandler stands at the podium and taps the mic. “Welcome, all. Please, be seated.”
I commandeer a chair in the back. He waits while everyone finds a
