The Last Clinic (9 page)

Higgenstone cleared his throat and brought the fingers on both hands together to make a steeple. “Well, I don’t mean to disagree with Brother Tommy, and we’d certainly be happy to receive any donation, but that kind of money, it’s usually presented in the form of a check for tax purposes. Our church members are always anxious to avail themselves of the deduction. We encourage the practice. What with all taxes our government imposes—The Obamanations, we call them.”

So much for the separation of church and state
, thought Darla.

“Reverend Aldridge, did he ever collect cash on behalf of the church?”

Higgenstone’s smile faded so that he appeared less like a car salesman and more like an accountant now. “That’s not the way we do things here, absolutely not. Reverend Jimmy didn’t participate in collecting the offering.”

Higgenstone shifted in his chair.

“Why not? Didn’t you trust him?”

He looked at Darla like a Sunday school teacher who was just asked a question about sex from one of the kids.

“I don’t usually go into detail on this sort of thing, but we had ourselves a little bit of a problem a few years back. Before Reverend Jimmy, I mean. Our previous minister he did some of the collecting himself. There were, well, some irregularities.”

“What kind of irregularities?

“One might say the young minister—this was his first flock—he began listening to the lower angles of his nature and decided to more or less take part of his heavenly reward a little early.”

“You’re saying he was stealing?”

“In a word. He developed an inappropriate relationship with the young lady who ran the Bible bookstore. They were both married to other members of the flock. The minister took to applying a couple of hundred here and there for their illicit assignations at a church-owned retreat in Destin. We caught on eventually. It took several months. They both were asked to leave the church. I believe he plays in a rock and roll band at present, over in Alabama. I’m not sure what became of her. Since their ousting, we’ve been quite vigilant about money handling. Now we accept only checks or credit card donations, except for the small amounts of cash received from the collection plate. Mostly, it’s money the parents give to the children to put in the plate. It teaches the younger members of our congregation the concept of charity. Plus, church members tend to be more generous when a young one is passing the basket. Naturally, Beloved Reverend Jimmy never did the actual collecting.

Now he’s
Beloved
Reverend Jimmy
, thought Darla.

“If he didn’t collect the money did Reverend Aldridge make deposits in the church accounts? Transport cash deposits to the bank?”

“Never. We’re very strict about that too. My assistant and I make all the deposits.”

“So I guess the three thousand dollars that we found is from Reverend Aldridge’s personal stash?”

Higgenstone cleared his throat.

“If you wish to put the matter that way. I don’t really know what to tell you. I never knew Beloved Reverend Jimmy to carry much cash around, not that I made note of that sort of thing—a man’s personal habits.”

“Of course not.”
He makes a note of everything
, she thought.

“But I can tell you this much, Reverend Jimmy was not one to live high off the hog. I hope you don’t think that. He was not one of those preachers. No jewelry, flashy cars, expensive clothes, jetting around here or there. We would have never tolerated such behavior. Anyway, what has any of this got to do with his murder?”

“Did Reverend Aldridge have any enemies that you knew about?”

“Other than that baby killer who masquerades as a doctor?” He somehow managed to widen the grin. “Detective Tommy shared his suspicions with me. Oh, goodness, maybe I shouldn’t have said that. But then, being as how you two are colleagues, I’m sure you are as aware of his theories as he is of yours.”

Higgenstone seemed to love getting little digs in.

“What I meant was, did Reverend Aldridge have any enemies in the church?”

“Of course not. Jimmy was most beloved by the entire congregation.”

There was that word
beloved
again.

 “What about ex-members? Somebody who’d maybe had a falling out with him?”

Higgenstone’s eyes turned up at the corner, as though he’d been waiting for the question.

“I know Kendall Goodhew wasn’t very happy with Reverend Jimmy when he disassociated her from the church following her adulterous behavior. I believe you know Miss Kendall quite well, don’t you?”

Northeast Jackson, affluent Jackson, was a small town. Higgenstone was doing what big shots in small towns loved doing—showing you how much they knew about everybody’s business, especially yours.

“She’s my roommate. Is there anybody else you can think of?”

“I’d suggest you talk to some of those leftist women’s groups, their members, or the lesbian groups and the gays. But I’m afraid you won’t find any of them among our flock.”

None that will admit to it
, thought Darla. It was widely known that in Jackson the only thing worse than being a Yankee was being openly gay.

 “Would it be possible for me to see Reverend Aldridge’s office?” Shelby advised her to do it this way—ask nicely first. She wasn’t to go flashing a search warrant if she didn’t have to. 

Higgenstone sat up in his chair, his back stiffening. “Perhaps you could tell me what you’re looking for, and I’ll see if I can find whatever it is.” The smile was gone at last.

“That’s the problem. I’m not exactly sure what I’m looking for.”

“I certainly hope you’re not implying Beloved Reverend Jimmy did anything wrong.”

“I’m not implying anything.”

“Now please, Detective, don’t take offense at what I’m about to say. Maybe I ought first to discuss the matter with your colleague, Detective Tommy. Or, better yet, Sheriff Mitchell…just to see if he is in accordance.”

“Call whomever you like, but first you should read this.

She removed the warrant from her purse and handed it to him.

“It’s standard procedure in all cases like this. Don’t worry. I won’t tear the place apart.”

He took his time reading the warrant and made a point of refolding it exactly as he had found it. He handed it back to her, glared at her, and picked up the phone.

“Cecil. Could y’all come on over to my office?” he said into the phone.

He continued, this time to Darla. “I’ll send the custodian to accompany you. Try not to take too long, Detective. We’re quite busy preparing for the memorial.”

“I understand.” Suddenly everybody was busy.

A minute later, a squat, stocky, middle-aged black man in a natty three-button suit appeared from around the corner, a large ring of keys dangling from his hip. He wore the same smile as Higgenstone.

“You’re Hugh’s wife?” His voice was raspy and full of energy.           

“I was, yes.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss. Terrible tragedy,” he said, sounding like a funeral director.

“Mr. Witherspoon here, he has the keys to the kingdom. Isn’t that right Cecil?”

He winked at Cecil, a white man’s wink to a black man, confident of his superior position in the world they shared.

Cecil didn’t look bothered by the condescension. Maybe, like a true Christian, he’d learned to turn the other cheek. Maybe.

“That’s me, the keeper of the kingdom.” He pointed to the ring of keys dangling from his hips.

“You want to escort the detective over to Reverend Jimmy’s office. Let her have a look-see.”

“Be my pleasure. Yes, it would. Yes, sir. Hugh Cavannah. That man could catch a football. Hugh the Glue.”

They walked down the hall and around the corner to Reverend Aldridge’s office, Darla listening to Cecil’s key chain jiggling in rhythm to his steps. She had the feeling he gloried in the sound.

“Have you been working here a long time?” she asked.

“Well, if you’d call twenty-three years a long time, then the answer would be yes. Twenty-three years in the service of the Lord.”

“So I guess you knew Reverend Aldridge pretty well?”

“About as well as anyone. He was a fine man. Yes, he was. Course, I’m just the custodian here, but that ain’t how he treated us, me and my Wanda. That’s my little girl. She works in the kitchen, helping with the lunch program. He made us feel like family. Had us over to his house on holidays. A wonderful man.”

“Beloved, as I understand?”

“Oh, yes indeed. Indeed, yes.”

It all sounded sweet. But was it saccharin or sugar? People in Mississippi always managed to sound nice, always using phrases like “bless his heart” when you knew they hated the person. Kendall once said, “You call anyone in the state anything you like, as long as you bless their heart afterwards. For instance I could say, ‘My ex-husband is a lying, cheating, morally bankrupt, no-good prick, bless his heart.’ That would be perfectly acceptable in polite society. You just have to bless their heart.”

A young black woman in her early twenties approached them as they reached Reverend Aldridge’s office.

“Daddy, I feel bad. I want to go home.” It was a child’s voice, small and needy, coming from a woman’s body.

“You go on back to the kitchen now. I’ll take you home soon as I can.”

Like Higgenstone, Cecil’s smile never faded. Darla thought she heard an edge in his voice. Paternal concern maybe. The young lady did not look well.

“Okay, Daddy.”

 “Look here, Wanda. This lady here is Darla Cavannah—wife of Hugh the Glue.”

The girl looked at Darla without understanding.

“Number 24, Honey. The football player.”

“The auto…” she said, groping for a way to complete the word and making a motion as though she was signing her name.

“The autograph,” he said, nodding and looking at her so she could see his mouth sound out the word. “That’s right, Honey. Autograph. He looked at Darla. “He signed a football for us at a summer camp once.” Then turning to Wanda, he said, “You go on back to the kitchen now. I’ll be along when I can.”

The woman looked at Darla, without an expression. “Bye,” she said, waving her hand and walking away.

Cecil kept his eye on her until she rounded the corner.

“She’s a special needs child. The good Lord gives some people special challenges. But she knows her job.”

“What does she do? What’s her job?”

“Oh, you know, this and that. Whatever Reverend Jimmy needed her to do. There for a while she cooked Reverend Jimmy his breakfast for him every morning. She’s a good cook. She can make some bad grits, my girl. You like grits?”

“Here or at his house?”

“Pardon?”

“Did she cook for Reverend Aldridge here at the church or at his house?”

“Here. In the church kitchen. We got us a fine kitchen. Just like them cooking shows you see on TV. One of the congregation donated all the appliances. I’ll show it to you if you want?”

 “What about yesterday morning?”

 “Oh, no. No, Ma’am. She ain’t been making Reverend Jimmy’s breakfast for a good long while now.” Then, after a beat, he added, “Oh, no. We were both home in bed sleeping that morning. Yesterday morning, I mean. We saw about it on TV and came right down here to see if we could help. Least we could do.”

They were at the door to Reverend Aldridge’s office. She watched as Cecil flipped through his keys, stopping at the correct one. He knew right where it was.

The office, maybe 20 ft. by 30 ft., was paneled in walnut, had wide plank pine floors covered with a Persian rug, a roll top desk that looked to be an antique, and a scattering of upholstered pieces. A tufted leather chair on casters sat behind the desk.

“Nice office,” she said.

 “A gift from one of our church members—a decorator, one of the doctor’s wives. Reverend Jimmy said how he felt was a little too fancy for a preacher, but she insisted.”

“Looks like your church members are a generous bunch.”

“You know, our state, Mississippi, leads the nation in charitable giving. That’s a fact. You can check on it.”

Also in illiteracy, obesity, heart disease, and teenage pregnancy
, thought Darla.

There was a variety of paintings on the walls. A large one of the church itself took up most of the left wall. The right wall had three paintings depicting the life of Jesus. They looked to have been painted by amateurs.

The rear wall, behind the desk, was reserved for photos. There were photos of the reverend with his family, the reverend with various political figures, including the last three governors, as well the reverend and a couple of country singers, and finally a photo of the reverend and Tommy. Darla noted that the reverend was in every photo.

She checked the desk drawers. Pens, pencils, paper clips, a couple of blank notepads—the usual stuff. She took about fifteen minutes to go through every drawer and file. There was nothing of note—more important, no personal files.

She found a computer—a laptop—in the closet and handed it to Cecil to carry. Maybe the computer guy Uther could find something of interest.

“Reverend Jimmy. He ain’t done nothing wrong has he?”

She looked at him. “We’ve all done something wrong. Isn’t that what the Bible teaches?”

“Yes. But God, see, he forgives us our sins, as long as we take the Lord Jesus as our personal savior and are truly repentant. All we got to do is ask. That’s what Reverend Jimmy told us. Said so on TV too.”

Darla remembered seeing him, Reverend Jimmy Aldridge, with that big preacher grin, like Higgenstone and Cecil, popping on to the screen immediately after the more sober mug of CBS’s Bob Schieffer. Reverend Aldridge’s program had been a signal for her to change the channel and look for another Sunday morning news show where the left and the right wing talking heads were always bitch slapping each other.

As they were leaving the office, Darla glanced up at the ceiling and caught sight of a very small hole at the top corner of the room. Size-wise it that could have been made by a mouse except that is was a little too perfect. She looked away, not wanting to share her discovery with Cecil. He stood holding the door for her. She hesitated. Her eyes swept the room one more time without looking up to the hole.