“Let’s continue our visit in the sanctuary,” Souvaine said, taking my arm and guiding me out of the small wooden entryway and toward a room to the left. Deacon Ortiz entered the room behind us and closed the door.
The sanctuary was nothing special-an uncluttered desk and chair in the corner away from the windows, a black leather sofa, and two matching chairs with little round black buttons all over them. Jammed but neat book shelves covered the long walls. The wall behind the desk held a large, not very good painting of Jesus Christ, flanked by an equally bad painting of George Washington on the right and a much worse painting of Abraham Lincoln on the left. Below the painting of Christ was a photograph of a sober-looking man with a bushy black mustache and a collar that dug into his double chin.
“Who’s the guy on the bottom?” I asked.
“That,” said Souvaine, looking at the photograph of the uncomfortable man with reverence, “is J. Minor Frank, departed husband of our major benefactor, Mrs. Bertha Frank. This room,” he said, with a wave of his right hand as he sat on the sofa, “is the J. Minor Frank Sanctuary. Please sit down.”
I sat in one of the leather chairs. It squooshed as I sat.
“Is there anything I can get for you before we begin?” Souvaine asked smoothly. “I’ve asked for some lemonade.”
“You can have Mr. Ortiz take a seat or lean against the wall or stand somewhere I can see him,” I said.
Souvaine chuckled, amused by unfounded suspicions.
“Mr. Ortiz,” he said. “Please take a seat at my side.”
Ortiz looked at me as he moved next to Souvaine and sat straight on the edge of the sofa, both feet firmly on the ground.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Now that we are comfortable,” said Souvaine. “I assume you have some questions you would like answered. I will be happy to oblige. In fact, it is my obligation to the church and God to respond to all honest inquiry.”
“How did you know my name?” I asked.
“I suppose you would not believe it if I told you God gave me your name in a vision,” Souvaine said.
“I would not.”
“And you would be correct.” Souvaine laughed, looking at Ortiz. “I’m trying to find Mr. Ortiz’s sense of humor. It is buried deeply by misfortune.”
“Do I get fifty bucks if I make him laugh?”
Souvaine laughed again. “I’m afraid I cannot spend our Lord’s money in such a manner,” he said. “When Mr. Ortiz and God are ready, Mr. Ortiz will laugh.” He looked at Mr. Ortiz with satisfaction. Mr. Ortiz continued to look at me.
“Your automobile,” said Souvaine. “We simply had one of our parishioners who is employed by the local government make a call to the State Automobile License Bureau. We knew your name and the fact that you are a private investigator before you left the Opera building.”
Someone knocked at the door and Souvaine called for whoever it was to enter. In came the old lady who had spotted me from the window. She was carrying a tray, which she placed on a table in front of us.
“Bertha,” said Souvaine. “How thoughtful of you. And of the kitchen ladies.”
Bertha straightened up and looked at me. She wasn’t sure what her feelings should be. I confused her even further.
“You’re J. Minor’s widow, aren’t you?” I asked, reaching for something that might be lemonade. There were two other lemonades on the tray. When Souvaine reached for the one in front of him, I put mine back on the tray and took his. He shook his head and accepted the trade.
“I am,” Bertha said.
“Is that the best picture you have of J. Minor?” I asked, turning to look at the uncomfortable man.
“My departed was fond of that photograph,” she said, beaming at the photograph through her thick glasses. “I think he looks very stately.”
“I think he looks like a man with constipation,” I said.
“Mr. Peters,” Souvaine said with just a touch of what might have been warning. “Is it necessary to insult the dead?”
“No,” I said, “but Puccini is dead, too. Your people, including the widow Bertha, are standing in front of the Opera insulting him all day.”
“He did suffer from constipation,” Bertha said.
“Puccini?” I asked, surprised.
“No,” said Bertha, flustered. “J. Minor suffered from constipation.”
“You have a picture somewhere where he looks less in eternal pain?” I tried.
“Mr. Peters, I must …” Souvaine said gently.
“Only the one at the beach in his bathing suit with Errol and Faye on my birthday,” said Bertha eagerly. “I think I could find it. Would that be acceptable, Reverend?”
“If it is your will and that of God,” he said, turning to Bertha and taking her hands in his as he stood. “If God doesn’t mind J. Minor Frank being witnessed cavorting on the beach in his briefs, then I certainly do not mind. It is between you and God.”
“I don’t think I’ll do it,” she said, looking down at me. I sipped my lemonade and shrugged.
“Good lemonade,” I said.
Souvaine ushered Bertha to the door while I toasted Deacon Ortiz, who watched me without taking his drink. When Bertha was safely out, Souvaine went back to his couch and smiled, showing perfect white teeth.
“You are good,” Souvaine said.
“Not as good as you,” I said. “At least at this kind of game. I play other games better.”
“Our Mr. Ortiz in his youth played many games,” Souvaine said, patting Ortiz’s ample leg. “I think he is capable of playing them again. Is there anything else you wish to alter in the sanctuary?”
“Those paintings,” I said. “Bertha must have done them.”
“No.”
“Then whoever sold them to you took you for a ride.”
“You don’t like our Jesus,” he said sadly. “Or our Washington or Lincoln. You have no empathy for the heartfelt primitive artist.”
I leaned forward. “You got junk on your wall, Rev,” I whispered. “What do you think?”
“Mr. Ortiz painted those pictures,” the Reverend whispered back.
“A man of many talents. Let’s get down to business,” I said.
Mr. Ortiz took his lemonade and drank it down in two gulps.
Souvaine leaned back and examined the backs of his hands before he spoke.
“Gladly,” he said. “This nation was founded under God, trusting in God. It is part of our heritage. The principle of separation of Church and State is not possible. It is neither possible nor right. God does not forsake any part of his dominion. There are conflicting forces in our nation. There is a new burst of religious understanding. Do you know what the
“
“
I wasn’t sure that religious fervor accounted for the popularity of best-sellers, but Souvaine was into a sermon now, pacing the floor.
“But you are right, too, Mr. Peters. There are godless books, godless candidates. The Japanese are a godless race. To allow the presentation of a play which sympathizes with a Japanese harlot and makes a Christian American naval officer seem heartless would be to play into the hands of the enemy. And let us be clear about this. Japan is not only the enemy of the United States but the enemy of our God-for God and the United States must remain inseparable.”
“Whose God?” I asked.
“There is but one true God,” he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a clean, ironed handkerchief to wipe his brow and palms.
