Murder in the Boonies: A Sleuth Sisters Mystery (The Sleuth Sisters Book 3) (17 page)

“I saw Ben at the credit union a couple weeks back,” Diane said. “I told him we missed them at church. He said he was busy on the farm. Rose and the girls too.”

Joan spoke for the first time, and it sounded like the voice of doom. “I pray he was ready when the Lord called on him to explain how a man can be too busy to come to church.”

The other women nodded, and one of them added an “Amen.”

When the last backpack was in the shipping box, the pastor still hadn’t returned. “I guess I’ll come back tomorrow,” I told the women. “It was nice meeting everybody.”

We left the building as a group, but Dee put a hand on my arm. “Walk with me.” She locked the door then pointed east. “I live over there, and it won’t take a minute to make us a cup of tea.”

Joan hung back, obviously hoping to be invited along, but Dee wished her a good day and turned away. I got the impression Joan wasn’t the type people hang around with any more than necessary. Godly, yes, and capable, too. Just not much fun.

On the other hand, Dee seemed good-humored and upbeat, the kind who doesn’t let the shadows of evil in the world block out the rays of sunshine. She grasped my arm. “I’m going to have to lean on you a little,” she said. “Got a bum hip, and standing on that tile floor has started it barking at me.”

Dee chatted about the neighborhood as we walked the block to her house, a clapboard-sided remnant of the 1950s. In her sunlit kitchen she put the teakettle on, set out two china cups with saucers, and gave me my choice of Earl Grey or Orange Spice tea. Once she poured hot water over the bags and set the kettle back on the stove, she sat down across from me, met my eyes, and asked, “What are you up to, Mrs. Stilson?”

My face burned with embarrassment. Though it had been years since Don’s death, my picture had been in the paper plenty of times back then. A hat and glasses might fool some people, but there’s always one sharpie who’s paying attention.

Something in Dee’s forthright manner made me answer honestly. I told her about the detective agency, the farm, and the girls. She listened closely, at first, I think, to see if I was lying, but later with interest in the story.

When I finished, she said, “Those poor girls! Rose is a bit impractical, but she’s a good mother. I doubt she’d run off and leave them with Ben.” Looking away for a moment she said, “It’s a sin to gossip, and the Devil loves it when somebody starts, so I’ll tell you only what I saw and heard myself. There’s been plenty of talk, but I won’t pass that along.”

I twitched in my chair. This was what I’d come for, though I wasn’t exactly getting it the way I planned.

“I love our church,” Dee began. “It’s small, and it isn’t under the thumb of some national organization that tells us we have to let gay ministers baptize our babies or change the litany to suit somebody’s idea of politically correct wording.” She gave me a hard look. “God is a He as far as I’m concerned, because that’s what the Bible says. And while I have no desire to stone gay people, they don’t belong in my church until they stop doing what the Bible tells us is an abomination.”

“I understand.”

She smiled grimly. “That’s your way of saying you disagree, but let’s leave it at that. As I said, I like my church, but for the last year or so, we’ve had some trouble.”

“With Ben McAdams?”

“Colt Farrell is the ringleader, but Ben and a few of the men and even some of the women agree with him.”

“About what?”

“About women and their place in the world.”

Things the girls had said came back to me. “You mean that we’re meant to be ruled by men.”

Dee pointed an arthritic finger at me. “That’s Bible teaching. We are weaker vessels, and we’re to submit to our husbands.”

I was confused. “If you agree, where does the trouble come in?”

Dee sipped at her tea, shoving the bag she’d left floating in the cup off to one side. “First Colt said women shouldn’t get to vote on the church’s business. He and his bunch argued it’s fairer if one person—a man—represents each family.” She set her cup down with a clink. “I don’t have a man anymore, so I don’t get a vote. I didn’t like it, but I told myself I could still voice my opinions.”

“But that wasn’t enough for them.”

“Right.” Her lips pursed in anger. “Once it was decided that only the men could vote, Colt said women shouldn’t speak out in meetings, either. He found it in the Bible.”

“St. Paul, I believe,” I said grimly. “I’ve wanted to discuss that with the man myself.”

“If he’s in the Bible, God wants us to hear what he had to say.” Dee spoke forcefully, but it seemed like she was trying to convince herself as much as me. “Last month Colt said women shouldn’t hold leadership positions in the church. We shouldn’t even sit on committees, according to him.”

“Did he get his way?”

“Not yet, but he isn’t the kind to give up.”

“Is that why Ben left the church?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know why they stopped attending. It’s a shame for Rose and the girls, but at least Colt isn’t as mouthy without Ben to support him. Floyd tosses in an ‘Amen’ every time he speaks, but people know Floyd just wants someone to blame for everything that’s gone wrong in his life.” She sipped her tea again. “Going to services used to be a joyful hour of communion with the Lord and other loving hearts. Now Colt starts his lecturing and I have to fight down the urge to make trouble.”

“Don’t some of the men stand up for the women?”

She nodded. “They do, but to be honest, we can barely afford to pay the pastor and keep up the building. Being a big financial contributor, Colt usually gets his way in the end.” She raised her cup but forgot it halfway to her mouth. “He’s Joan’s husband.”

“Joan’s last name is Farrell?”

“Yes. She and Colt own an electronics store on 10th.”

“What does Joan think of his views?”

“She agrees a hundred percent.” Dee turned the teakettle on again. “Joan grew up living on welfare peanut butter and venison shot at midnight. Colt provides a good living, so she thinks the sun rises and sets on his say-so.”

I tried to recall the names of the men who were at the farm the night Ben died. “Is there anyone at your church named Sharky?”

She thought about it. “No.”

“Could it be a nickname for one of the men?”

“If it is, I don’t know it,” Dee said. “I call people by their proper names unless they ask me not to.”

I liked that. I have a perfectly good name, Margaretta, but my parents called me Retta from Day One. I learned to accept it, though Retta doesn’t have half the music Margaretta does. Since I’m not fond of my own nickname, I don’t usually use them.

“No one went out there when Ben stopped coming to church?”

Dee shrugged. “I guess we were all afraid he’d think we were sticking our noses into his business.” Putting a hand over her mouth as if to stop herself from saying more, she said it anyway. “Ben didn’t like people questioning what he said and did. If Rose objected to anything, he’d say God told him it had to be that way. She got tired of hearing that.”

“And you think they quarreled about it?”

“She tried not to argue in front of the girls. She didn’t want them scared.” Dee’s smile was sad. “She really does think men are supposed to lead the family, but I think she was afraid of the choices Ben might make for her girls.”

Like taking them out of school? I thought. Or giving one of them to his friend? That was especially creepy.

“I guess she’ll have other things to worry about when she gets back home,” Dee said. “Any idea when that will be?”

“No. I mean, I haven’t heard anything.” Thanking Dee for the tea and the information, I headed for my car, hoping she hadn’t seen the doubt in my eyes. Barbara was very likely right: Rose Isley was never coming home, and it broke my heart.

Many things went through my mind, but I forced myself to concentrate on just one. Though my fears for Rose were deep, there was nothing I could do for her at the moment. The girl-haters’ club at Ben’s church was irritating, but I didn’t see how it connected to the theft of a grenade-gun from the National Guard.

I wanted to contact the men Dee had mentioned, to see if they really were crazy enough to steal a weapon from the U.S. government and plot some terrible use for it. I wanted to know more about Colt Farrell’s views, but interviewing a man like him wasn’t something a woman could do effectively. Taking out my phone, I turned it on and located Gabe Wills in my contacts.

“You want me to buy electronics where?” Gabe said when I explained the job.

“Mr. A.I. It’s the name of a store in the Morton Plaza. What I really want is for you to engage the owner in conversation.”

“Engage?”

I sighed. “I want you to talk with him, Gabe. About religion.”

“Religion?”

Holding back a sigh, I answered a dozen questions from “What if the owner isn’t the one who waits on me?” to “What if he doesn’t believe in Jesus?” Finally I said, “Gabe, if I’m right about this guy, all you have to do is say you and your wife are looking for a church. That will get his interest.”

“Um, Mrs. Stilson…”

“Yes?”

“I can’t tell him my wife wants a church. I don’t have a wife.”

“Okay. Say it’s your girlfriend.”

He thought about that. “I guess that’s okay.”

It was apparently all right to lie about looking for a church but not about whether he was married. Gabe’s reasoning escaped me, but I was happy he agreed to do it. Barbara wouldn’t approve, but if Gabe got Farrell talking, we’d get an idea of his level of craziness. It might even shed light on what they were planning to do with the grenade-thingy.

By the time Gabe arrived twenty minutes later, I’d changed into my own clothes again. With specific instructions: “Look interested and don’t argue,” I sent him inside. Gabe isn’t capable of debating Biblical doctrine, but his look of constant confusion might generate a desire to instruct in a pompous sort like Farrell.

Twenty minutes later, Gabe left the store, arms laden with items I agreed to pay for in exchange for his help. I met him at his truck, but first he had to show me what he’d bought, like a kid at Christmas. Once we got that out of the way, I led him through his meeting with Colt Farrell.

“Well, he didn’t wait on me at first,” Gabe began. “He was on the phone in the back. When he finally came out, I mentioned about my girlfriend and me looking for a church home. That’s what they call it.” Gabe’s tone was instructive. “A church home. The guy was real excited to tell me about his church.”

“What did he say?”

Gabe’s grin was wide. “Let’s just say Ms. Evans would have him for lunch.”

“I understand he isn’t a fan of women leading in church.”

“Women leading anything, anyplace, anytime.” Gabe sniffed. “I got a big lecture on the downfall of the great U.S. of A. and how it all started when we gave women the vote.”

“Did it, now.”

He raised his hands in comic defense. “Don’t blame me! I’m just telling you what he said. According to Mr. Farrell, there’s indistutable proof that every state in the U.S. started falling apart the minute it let women vote.”

I didn’t correct Gabe’s mistaken version of indisputable, though Barbara certainly would have.

“He says it was a woman who put the information all together, so that proves it’s true.”

Sure it does. “Is he the type who might get violent on the subject?”

Gabe’s eyes widened. “Heck, yeah! He started out pretty tame, but the more he talked, the madder he got. He said it’s women’s fault we got a welfare state and Muslims taking over and illegal aliens sneaking across the borders by the millions.”

“How did we do that?”

“That wasn’t real clear.” Gabe scratched his chin. “He did say they got no right being in Congress or running anything.”

“Because our heads are stuffed with cotton, hay, and rags.”

“What?”

“Never mind. How did you get away from all that wisdom?”

“I was starting to get a little antsy about that.” Gabe pushed a lock of greasy-blond hair out of his eyes. “His phone rang. I already paid for my stuff, so I told him, ‘Go ahead and take the call.’ I wanted to get out of there before he started in again.”

I pressed an extra twenty into his hand. “I’m so glad you helped with this, Gabe.”

He stuffed the bill in his jeans pocket. “Is this a case the Smart Detectives are working on?”

“It didn’t begin that way,” I replied, “but I’m pretty sure it is now.”

CHAPTER FORTY

Faye

When Dale and I got home, Barb’s car was in the driveway and the Isley girls were in the back yard. Iris lay on the porch swing, her legs draped over one end as she read a book. Daisy rushed forward to hug me as we got out of the car. Seconds later she and Buddy were playing catch with a tennis ball.

Barb came onto the porch, shading her eyes from the bright sun. “Retta’s on some mission, so I’m kid-sitting. Pansy took Styx for a walk, which is a good thing.” She gestured at Buddy, joyfully chasing down the ball. “I’ll have her take him out to the workshop when they get back so he and Buddy don’t meet.”

“Good.”

Barb backed into the kitchen, her eyes moving from me to Dale and back. “So what’s going on?”

“Let’s sit down, and we’ll tell you all about it.”

“Okay.” She lifted one brow in wry amusement. “I just happen to have some newly-frosted sugar cookies, if you’re interested.”

Dale chose a purple-sprinkled cookie and left, guessing I was about to be scolded. When he closed the door, Barb gave me a little smile to show she wasn’t angry. She’d obviously been worried, but I was all right. Now she wanted to know why she’d been kept in the dark.

Once again I told the story of discovering the grenade launcher, getting locked in the bunker, and being rescued by my sons. “We all sat down in Sheriff Brill’s office and tried to figure it out,” I finished. “Afterward, Rory suggested Dale and I get away for a while, to kind of decompress.”

Barb shook her head, disgusted. “I called Rory last night. He didn’t lie to me, but he didn’t tell the whole truth.”

With a sigh I confessed, “I asked Rory—and ordered Retta—not to tell you anything. I didn’t want you to worry.”