Give me a break. None of these holy rollers ever see their own hypocrisy.
I hadn’t intended to get into a religious debate with this man, and it feels like I’m floundering in the deep end without my water wings. “What do you think should be done with people like that?”
“They need to be stopped, before they do incalculable damage, which is why I called the radio show.” We have reached Seth’s car, and he punches the fob and climbs inside. “I’ve got to go.”
“Wait. Do you think someone stopped Victoria?”
He starts the engine, and I have to strain to hear him. “I think maybe God stopped her. God or someone acting as His instrument.” He begins to reverse. The car has been boxed in by two large pickups, and he’s going to have a hard time getting out.
Seth’s remark gives me the chills. It makes him seem cold and judgmental, not at all like the friendly, sincere helper I’d seen at the shelter. Even if he’s innocent, his ability to lay the blame at God’s feet seems unhealthy, at best. At worst, he has just expressed a motive for murder.
While I’ve been standing on the sidewalk thinking, Takahashi has been maneuvering his vehicle in a twenty-point turn. Now he lowers his window. “If you really want to know why I began opposing Victoria, stop by my office in a day or two and we’ll talk further.”
“You have another reason?”
His hand tightens on the steering wheel. “She misled one of my flock.”
I jog alongside as he pulls out into the street. “Who?”
“A young man named Jason Morganstern.”
I stop dead, and watch as the preacher drives away. I’ve shaken the tree, and instead of an apple, I’ve gotten a mango. An unexpected fruit.
And I’ll have to be satisfied with that for now, since I completely forgot to ask him about the last time he saw Pastor Harkness.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE INSIDE OF the Bowerstein Boatworks warehouse echoes with clanking, shouts, and engine buzz. Forklifts dart about with sheets of fiberglass, crates and engine parts. Four boats are up on blocks, and workmen cluster around them. The sharp metallic scent of hot metal mixes with the acrid stench of burning plastic.
I’m here to speak to Jason Morganstern, who is employed here as a welder. I’d gotten that bit of info from Daniel Chandler. The main office of Bowerstein is in a metal building owned by the Port of Astoria, and the receptionist had directed me here, to this warehouse turned workshop. Apparently, they don’t care about someone wandering around their job site, which suits me fine. I want to learn about Morganstern’s movements in the last few days, and follow up on Takahashi’s reference to Jason as a former member of the Methodist Church. I don’t know if that has anything to do with Victoria Harkness’s death, but at least I’m uncovering some connections between the people who may be involved. Still, I caution myself to take things slowly.
I walk toward the telltale spray of sparks and a single figure beneath a welder’s mask. I wait until he reaches the end of his seam, being careful not to look at the blaze of the arc. He lifts his mask and wipes his forehead, and I wave a hand to get his attention.
“Jason Morganstern?” I recognize him from the memorial service.
He nods, eyes darting and wary. His dirty blond hair is damp with sweat, tousled from the mask, and rings of moisture darken the armpits of his flannel shirt.
“Who’re you?”
“My name is Audrey Lake. I’m here to ask you some questions about an ongoing investigation.”
“I’m working.”
“This will only take a few minutes.”
He lays down his torch and put his mask beside it. He jerks a thumb and leads me outside.
“Quieter out here. What’s this about? Are you doing a report? Because all that about taking tools, it isn’t true. I didn’t take a welder off premises. I don’t know who did.” He folds his arms.
“That seems clear enough. Except, it’s not why I’m here. I’ve been hired by the Church of the Spirit to look into Victoria Harkness’s death. I’m calling all the members of the congregation, but you didn’t answer your phone.”
Morganstern doesn’t say anything, just stands there, frowning, with his arms crossed.
I decide to shake his complacency. “Where were you when Victoria Harkness died?”
A multitude of micro-expressions flit across his face, like a school of minnows in a pond. His voice hoarsens. “Here, in the shop.”
“How do you know for sure? There’s been no time of death established.”
“You trying to trap me?”
“Just asking questions. How do you know when she died?”
“I don’t. But I been in the shop twelve, fourteen hours a day for the past couple of weeks. Salmon season coming up. Lots of boats to fix.”
“I see.” I give him ten seconds to elaborate, then I ask. “How did you become involved with the Church of the Spirit?” During the next few laborious minutes of conversation I’m able to elicit a few facts, that he joined the organization soon after it relocated to Astoria, after being a member of Riverside Christian for ten years. He’d been going through a rough patch, and Pastor Harkness had helped him find a job, and encouraged him to express himself creatively. She’d even gotten a real artist, Eric North, to help him get started. No one else, it seems, has ever done that.
I ask, “Do you know anyone who would want to harm her?”
He clenches his fists. “No one. I thought she just fell in the water.”
There’s a long pause, during which I study him. A lean and hungry white guy, forearms corded with wiry muscle. He’s younger than me; I guess early thirties. His faded flannel shirt is stained and frayed, his jeans the same, showing evidence of prior contact with engine oil and sparks
