“And you had told him of this concern?” Wolfe asked, draining the beer in his glass and contemplating the remaining foam sourly.
The clergyman’s shoulders sagged. “Several times. And finally, about two weeks ago, we had a long meeting in my study. It got pretty tense. Roy just didn’t seem to understand why I was so upset about his methods. He told me that I coddle the rest of the staff too much. Now, maybe I do try awfully hard sometimes to avoid confrontation, but that’s my style.
“Mr. Wolfe, I’m a positive thinker, to lift the phrase from Norman Vincent Peale, and I don’t apologize for being one. We call our approach at Silver Spire ‘Inspirational Theology,’ which was also the name of a book I wrote a few years ago. Not a very exciting title, I admit, but it did sell pretty well, still does. Anyway, ‘IT,’ which is the abbreviation we like to use, calls among other things for everyone to place a high value on respect and support for one another. As a faith, we try to avoid confrontation and seek conciliation wherever possible. I loved Roy Meade, and I’ll miss him terribly, both as an individual and as a brother in the Lord. But on too many occasions, his conduct ran contrary to our principles. He was always quick to find fault with others on the staff and point it out — both to their faces and, worse, behind their backs. More than once he made critical remarks — really critical — about one or another co-worker in front of others, including secretaries and even volunteers from the congregation who happened to be within earshot. Criticism given in the proper spirit is not necessarily a bad thing, as you know. But often Roy’s criticisms were rough and, well... hurtful. And if the church leaders don’t themselves set an example, then what is the flock to think?” Bay turned his palms up in what seemed like a gesture he’d spent time perfecting.
Wolfe looked peevish. “How long had Mr. Meade been affiliated with the church?” he asked.
“Since just after I’d come to Staten Island from New Jersey — almost fourteen years. Before that, we were in the seminary together, although he was a couple years behind me.”
“What did he think of the notes?”
“He was even less concerned about them than I was,” Bay replied. “He argued with Lloyd about bringing in outside help, said they — the notes — were merely the work of some crackpot and weren’t something to worry about. We were in basic agreement on that.”
“Regarding that serious conversation you had with Mr. Meade two weeks ago, what was the upshot?”
Bay replaced the water glass on the table, leaned forward in the red leather chair, and rested his arms on his knees, looking intently at Wolfe. “I told him that I felt he must — absolutely must — ease up in his management style and control his temper. The flash point was an episode Roy had with Roger Gillis. There had been some kind of minor foul-up in the scheduling of a new track of adult-education classes. It was not a big deal, really, but Roy acted like it was; he chewed poor Roger out in front of the membership secretary. Said something like ‘We simply can’t keep having screwups like this, or you can bet there’ll be some changes made around here!’”
“Had Mr. Gillis been guilty of previous oversights?” Wolfe asked.
“Nothing major,” Bay drawled. “Oh, from time to time he’s been a little soft on details, but he more than makes up for it with his hard work and his good ideas. He’s tripled the number of adult classes we offer in the last four years or so. And he’s brought in a remarkable diversity of teachers — nationally known college professors, child psychologists, biblical scholars, and other theologians from the big schools in Manhattan. He even got the quarterback for the Giants to come over and talk on three straight Sunday nights about the role of faith in athletics. Of course, that really packed them in.”
Wolfe was unimpressed. “You said you told Mr. Meade that he had to rein in his temper. If he couldn’t?”
“We didn’t get to that point. As I told you a moment ago, I try to avoid confrontation. I did tell him that we would start meeting more often, one-on-one, with a single agenda: talk about and pray about his... problem. And he vowed to try to do better.”
“In the few days between that meeting and his death, had you seen an improvement in his behavior?”
“Honestly, no,” the minister answered sadly, passing a hand over his blond hair.
“Sir, as you are aware, Mr. Goodwin went to your church yesterday and was denied admission by Mr. Morgan. Now—”
“I know, and I’ve already told Mr. Goodwin I was sorry about my not being able to see him then. We’ve all been a little edgy since Roy’s death,” Bay said. “And Lloyd was just being protective of me and the rest of the staff.”
“I can appreciate that,” Wolfe said, “and I also realize that Mr. Goodwin arrived on your doorstep unannounced. Now, however, I wish to make an appointment for him to return and talk to each member of your staff.”
“That’s asking a good deal,” Bay said, sneaking a look at his watch. “I’ve already canceled two meetings and delayed another one to be here this morning. And my staff is upset and distracted enough as it is, what with the police and the reporters and TV people hovering around so much lately. And now you want to take even more of their time.”
“Your concern for your employees is admirable, sir. In a very real sense, Mr. Durkin is an employee of mine, or has been on numerous occasions that span a far longer period than the life of your tabernacle.”
Bay nodded and made a chapel with his long fingers. “And you remain convinced that Mr. Durkin is innocent — even though that innocence, if proven, would almost surely mean that someone at the Silver Spire is a murderer.”
“Just so,” Wolfe said. “But if you are convinced of Mr. Durkin’s guilt, there is nothing to fear from having them talk to Mr. Goodwin. And as to time, I assure you he will not draw out the interviews unnecessarily.”
“All right. I don’t like the idea very much,” Bay said, “but I’ll ask each of them to make themselves available for Mr. Goodwin. I can’t guarantee how forthcoming they’ll be, though.” He turned to me. “How soon would you want to see them?”
“Tomorrow,” Wolfe dictated. “Preferably in the morning.”
“That’s awfully short notice,” Bay complained. “I’m not sure they all will be in the building then.”
“I’m confident you can arrange it,” Wolfe said, rising. “If you will excuse me, I have a previous engagement.” He walked out, leaving me to say the good-byes to our guest, who watched Wolfe disappear with an expression somewhere between puzzlement and anger.
“He wasn’t being rude just then,” I reassured Bay. “He’s a genius, and when he has a lot on his mind, he tends to forgo some of the social niceties.” What I didn’t bother to tell him was that Wolfe’s previous engagement was a trip to the kitchen to supervise Fritz in his preparation of the stuffed veal breast we were having for lunch. As if Fritz needs supervision.
Eight
The next morning at ten, I was back at the Silver Spire tabernacle after another ferry ride and another uphill walk that made my calves grumble. “Hi, you were here yesterday, weren’t you?” my favorite red-haired and dimpled church receptionist bubbled with sunshine in her voice when I ambled into the lobby.
Pleading guilty, I asked for Bay. At the end of his visit to the brownstone, he had told me to see him before I started my round of interviews. “It’s better if I prepare everybody first,” he had said. “They’re all pretty rattled by what’s happened, which I’m sure you can understand. And when you come, I can tell you first what kind of reaction to expect.”