She turns around. “Ms. Lake, I appreciate your efforts, but I don’t feel up to talking any more today.”
I’m surprised and put off by her abruptness. She’s been fairly cooperative. But maybe she’s just getting emotional. I can understand, but some questions need answers. “Just one more thing. What about Eric North?”
She looks confused. “The neighbors were named North. When we lived here in Astoria. Is he connected to them?”
“Yes.”
“I barely remember him. I believe he was older, a teenager. Why are you asking?”
“He’s still in town, and I believe he and your daughter had…renewed their acquaintance.”
“Tell me she wasn’t seeing him romantically.” Her voice is colored with disdain.
“Not as far as I know.” I think about the painting. “He might have admired her, though.”
She nods, once. “Everyone admired my daughter.”
“What do you remember about Eric?”
“Nothing. Other than the fact his father was a fish-packer and his mother was a secretary. Now. Forgive me for being rude, but please leave. I have a great deal to do.”
“Okay, Ms. Harkness. Thanks for your time.” I make a show of putting away my notebook. “If you find anything useful on her laptop, please give me a call.”
“It has a password.”
So she’s looked. “You might want to see if someone can help you retrieve the data. It could throw some light on your daughter’s state of mind, and how she spent her final days. Plus, I’ve heard she was writing a book.”
She stares, fingering her necklace. “A novel, you mean?”
“No,” I look back at her blandly. “Nonfiction. Perhaps a memoir of sorts.”
Ms. Harkness doesn’t like that. I can see it in her eyes.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MY NEXT STOP is the Riverside Christian Church where the Reverend Seth Takahashi is ensconced. Yesterday, he’d seemed sincere in his desire to help and protect people, if a bit misguided; he’d teased me with the mention of Jason Morganstern. Would he still be willing to talk today?
I called to set up the appointment, so he’s expecting me. The receptionist ushers me in to his office. He’s sitting behind a scarred desk, the kind of faux-wood furniture available from big box stores. His desk has knife-edged stacks of papers, a couple of pictures facing away from me, a computer monitor and a telephone. A yellowing spider plant dangles its progeny from the window sill. One plantlet has already detached itself, made the leap, and reposes in a browning clump on the carpet.
“Hello, Audrey,” he says. His movie-star smile appears on cue. “Sit down. Would you like some tea, or coffee?”
I wonder why hospitality always seems to begin with a beverage offer. “No, thanks. I just want to talk to you about Victoria Harkness.”
His smile vanishes. “I thought we covered that yesterday. Is there more tragedy to report?”
“How do you feel about her death?”
“Sad, of course. It’s always sad when someone dies before their time.”
Poke. “I thought you would be relieved that she can no longer delude vulnerable souls.”
He winces. “Ouch. Well, I probably deserved that. But it’s not my habit to dance on anyone’s grave. I’d rather she’d been able to use her gift for the furtherance of the gospel.”
“I think she thought she was.”
“You know my views on that. But I was very sorry to learn about her death. I had hoped she and I could come to an agreement, not a parting of the ways.” Seth leans back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. His expression is troubled. “I liked her, you know. She was bright, thoughtful. I loved her passion — she was really dedicated to her church. Even if we didn’t agree, I think she was sincere. But it’s just those qualities which can be dangerous when applied wrongly.”
“You said yesterday that she had ‘misled one of your flock.’ Can you tell me more about that?”
He sighs, leaning forward on his elbows. “There’s a young man who used to attend my services regularly. He was troubled and vulnerable, hadn’t had an easy life. But he was coming to know God. I had high hopes for him. At least, until he began going to the Church of the Spirit.”
“This is Jason Morganstern?”
“Yes.”
“I saw him at the candlelight vigil Tuesday night. He seemed upset.”
“I’m not surprised. I’ll reach out to him. Maybe he’s ready to come back. It’s not unusual for people to investigate other denominations.” He jots a note on a yellow post-it.
“You said he was troubled. What does that mean?”
Takahashi hesitates. “I don’t like to breach someone’s privacy, but I suppose it’s part of his police record. He’s done some petty crime, engaged in minor violence. He had some inappropriate attitudes about women.”
“What do you mean?”
“He tended to either idealize them or demonize them. Put them on a pedestal, and then when they weren’t perfect, turn them into monsters.”
An alarm bell is clanging in my mind. “What’s that about, do you think?”
Takahashi shifts in his chair, adjusting his collar. “He had a disturbing relationship with his mother. I’m not prepared to say anything further about that. But it colored his outlook. I actually thought he might become attracted to Catholicism, and their sanctification of the Mother of Christ, and I wanted to steer him away from that. He needed help, and I worked with him quite a bit when he joined my church. I was getting him to see that his criminal actions weren’t justified, despite his anger toward society. He still needed forgiveness, and to repent if he wanted to get closer to God and have Jesus be a presence in his life. He wanted to blame other people for his lot in life, but we can never control what others do. I was trying to show him that “society” isn’t some abstract entity bent on holding him down, but just a group of individuals, like himself, all trying to succeed in life as best they can.”
“So, empathy.” What
