“When was the last time you saw or spoke to Victoria? Did you see her the day of the service? The one I attended?”
“Not that day, but the day before, on Wednesday morning. We had a ten o’clock meeting. She came into the office and we discussed church finances. It ended at around ten forty-five.”
“How did she seem?”
“Normal.” He takes off his glasses and polishes them on his sleeve. “Believe me, I’d no idea —” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “No idea it would be the last time I saw Vicky alive.”
“I know.” I try not to be brusque, but I really want to get a move on. I prod him for the list of congregants.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“I’m going to shake the trees and see what falls out.”
He grumbles, but hits a few keys and puts the information on a flash drive. It’s a little old-school, but I see he’s got a handful of them scattered across his desk.
“We don’t have formal membership. These are the folks who have asked to be on our newsletter mailing list.”
“Perfect.” I pocket the drive and fake leave, turning just as I reach the doorway. “One more thing…who stands to benefit from Pastor Harkness’s death?”
His answer surprises me. “The church, I suppose. There’s a key person life insurance policy for a hundred thousand dollars that was supposed to cover the expenses of finding a new pastor if the unthinkable ever happened. We had a salesman in about a month ago. Vicky swallowed his pitch, hook, line, and sinker. She even bought a policy for me. Since I don’t have any other benefits.”
“And now that the unthinkable has happened?”
“I just don’t know. We’ll look for a new pastor of course. But Vicky herself was the main draw. Everyone is going to miss her. So much.”
He’s not looking at me when he says this last, but I can see his face is red.
I wait until I’m out the door and away from his line of sight before thumbing off the voice recorder on my phone. It never hurts to have a record. What I’ve just done is illegal in Oregon. But. I don’t have a photographic memory, and I’m not planning on using this for evidence.
Plus, As Victoria Harkness herself apparently believed, you never know when you’ll need a little insurance. Detectives are a suspicious lot, and client or no, I’m not convinced that Daniel Chandler is as squeaky clean as he lets on. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least to learn that he and Harkness were having an affair.
So. Shaking the trees.
Daniel’s list of newsletter recipients totals fifty-three. The majority are women; only nineteen are male.
I spend the rest of the day on the phone. I explain I’ve been hired by the church to collect information to help with the police investigation into Harkness’s death. Just a little fudge, to beef up my bona fides. I ask about their movements, when they’d last seen the pastor, how well they’d known her, and if they have any ideas as to what had happened. Almost everyone assumes it was an accident, and I don’t disillusion them.
People are stunned; a few sound heartbroken. Some are matter-of-fact: these things happen. I learn that no one saw her after Wednesday: that makes Daniel Chandler the last one to see her alive, always an interesting position.
The trouble is that I don’t know exactly when the killing took place, so I can’t really press for alibis. My vision seemed to be at night, but which one? I’m forced to ask general questions and listen to whether someone seems to know more than he should, or is otherwise ‘off.’ I hear about jobs and dinner dates and television shows. I hear about political conspiracies and am urged, jokingly, by a fellow impressed with his own sense of humor, to follow up on jealous wives.
“Why jealous wives?” I ask, antennae alerted.
“Well, you know,” my informant replies, “Pastor Harkness was beautiful. Any man would be attracted like a moth to one of those killer bug lights.”
“Are you saying she had intimate relationships with members of her congregation?” My conversation with Phoebe rears up in my memory, and her descriptions of sexual control being a prime identifier of cults.
“Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“What are you implying, then?”
“It’s just that, to watch her on stage, to listen to her speak, was mesmerizing. You couldn’t help but be attracted.”
“Did anyone go beyond attraction? Did you?”
A guffaw. “Not me — my wife stands too handy with a frying pan. But some of the younger guys, maybe. Guys like the welder or the painter. I mean the real painter, North, the guy who did the big picture hanging in the fellowship hall.”
“Why them in particular?”
“They stood right up at the service and said they loved her. Or try that other preacher, the one who thinks we’re all going to hell.” A chuckle. “He looks like the type who might go off the deep end. Too buttoned up and serious.”
I thank my informant and go over my notes. Eric North isn’t on my list, but I had seen him at the vigil. And he presented the organization with such a nice piece of art. He’s on my radar for follow-up.
When it gets too late to make phone calls, I watch the copy of the video Daniel filmed on the night of the vigil. I'm able to cross-reference the names of the congregation with the faces of the mourners. Nothing stands out to me except Jason Morganstern, the belligerent young man who’d thrown his candle in the water. He hasn’t answered his phone, so I’m no further with him. The only one who has any apparent motive is the preacher, Seth Takahashi, and he wasn’t at the memorial service. Murder seems to
