“How do I know what’s important?” He cracks his knuckles, proceeds to tell me about how much Victoria inspired people, what a good speaker she was. Her physical beauty. All the stuff I keep hearing.
“What about her family?”
“She didn’t have any siblings, and I never heard her mention her father. Her mother is one of those society women, always on the hunt for the next rung in the ladder. Vicky didn’t really get on with her. She said her mother was disappointed in her daughter’s choice of vocation. Not enough lucre in it. Or real religion.”
He laughs nervously. I’m not sure why. Then I think about the missing pictures in the fellowship hall, and ask him if he’s taken them.
“Guilty as charged. Right now the church is drowning in bills. Rent on this behemoth. Utilities. Vicky used to supplement with her own money, but now of course that’s impossible. So, I’ve been selling a few of the better ones to raise operational capital.”
“Is that legal?”
“They belong to the church. Assets. If we go into receivership, they’ll be seized anyway.”
“What about her key-person insurance?”
He looks, very briefly, annoyed. “American Life is dragging their feet. You know what insurance companies are like. In the end, we’ll probably have to close the church.” He shakes his head and rubs his eyes again, rumpling the already-rumpled eyebrows. “That’ll be hard for Claire.”
“But not for you?”
“No, it’ll be hard for me too — but there’s been financial hardship for a long time now. It’s not like I haven’t seen it coming — the curse of being the bookkeeper. One of the reasons we came out here was to cut operating expenses. But unfortunately it also lost the church’s most generous members and patrons. I went around and around with Vicky about her decision to come to Astoria, but she was absolutely immovable. Said she had to return to the river. Which is nonsense — Portland has a river, too. Two of them — the Columbia, and the Willamette.”
“What about her book, the one you told me about? Maybe you could publish it posthumously, with some of her talks. As a memorial.”
“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. But I’ve only seen a rough draft. And it’s pretty personal. I’m not sure anyone else could complete it. Or that it would even make much money.” He looks at his watch, glances over my shoulder to the doorway and back at me. “Listen, I’m pretty busy here. Can we talk later?”
Remembering the laptop in the apartment, I think the book is probably on the hard drive. Wish I’d snagged it when I had a chance. Any amount of information might be hidden there. Too late now. Or is it? Maybe her mother will let me try to access the contents.
Belatedly, I think he seems a little agitated, but I’m not letting him go just yet. I nail down another item of curiosity. “Did Victoria do any art herself?”
“Not like the congregants, no. Her offering, she always said, was her heart and soul to her people.”
Careful. You’re gonna get a cavity from all this sweetness.
“What about you?” I ask. “Any of those pieces out there yours? Or Claire’s?”
He shakes his head, cracking his knuckles again and shifting in his chair. “Not me — I don’t tap into the Spirit, or at least not the right one. Claire is doing some sewing thing. Little quilted squares. I think Vicky might have taken them home. She liked them.”
I remember seeing some fabric pieces hanging in Harkness’s apartment. But his response feels weird to me. I mean, he doesn’t seem, I don’t know, devoted. He seems flippant. And taking down the spirit offerings and selling them feels disrespectful, a betrayal of the original givers’ intent. But probably not illegal.
“Are you not a believer in the Divinity of Art?” I offer in a tone that is slightly amused, slightly sarcastic, but not so much that he can take offense, in case he is some kind of devotee.
“Just never had the bent for it. But I loved to hear Vicky talk, and inspire other people to access their creative gifts.”
Sounds like a racket to me.
“How’d you wind up as bookkeeper anyway? Answer an ad? Or were you already in the congregation?”
He sighs. “I’d done some book work for another church, so I knew the ropes. And they needed someone, so I spoke up.”
“So you were already in the congregation?”
“Not an official member, no. But I was in the faith community, so I was aware of her, and became a member when she hired me.”
“I see.” I pause, wondering what is niggling at me. He just feels so networky and insincere. Plus nervous. But. I suppose church workers have to make a living. “What was the other place you worked for?”
There’s a beat, two, which sets my antennae quivering. How hard is it to reel off your former employers? But then he says, “Beaverton Foursquare.” And glances at his watch again.
“Is there a problem, Mr. Chandler? You seem edgy.”
“No, no problem. Just—”
“Busy. I know.” I nod, no wiser. He’s hiding something, but I can’t think of anything more to ask him. And my feet hurt, a headache is starting, and there’s still several blocks to walk home, all uphill. So I tell him goodbye.
As a parting shot, he says, “We really need some results on this, Audrey. Otherwise I might not be able to pay you.”
That remark leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Because it’s manipulative. And because his concerns about money seem to override his concerns about Victoria. And justice. And the moral arc of the universe. I’m fuming as I make my way home.
Could Daniel be the killer? He’d certainly know the victim’s habits, and be trusted by her. He’d definitely have opportunity. But why? There was no benefit that I could see. In fact, her death had hurt him. He had more work in the short term and no job
