Cramer and Stebbins settled in at the far end of the table, and all eyes switched from them to Wolfe as though they were following a tennis match.
He waited several seconds, for effect. “As I started to say earlier, does anyone quarrel with the statement that Mr. Meade was the least-liked member of this church’s staff?”
That set them off again, like chained watchdogs baying at a burglar. When the noise died down, Elise Bay squared her shapely shoulders. “I think that’s a very cheap thing to say, Mr. Wolfe,” she responded quietly but firmly. Her husband reached over and patted her forearm as if to still her, but she pulled away, tossing him an irritated glance.
“I assure you it was not said in a spirit of either malice or caprice, madam. I simply stated what I know to be fact.”
“How could you possibly begin to know anything about what goes on at the Silver Spire?” Morgan huffed. “You’ve never even been here before tonight. And until just now, you’ve never laid eyes on any of us, except for Barney.”
“That is correct, but Mr. Goodwin functions competently as my eyes and ears. Through the years, I have found his observations to be keen and perceptive.”
“Huh! So now we’re being asked — or told — to validate the so-called findings of a private investigator,” Morgan said.
“Now, now — we are caviling,” Bay put in smoothly, laying a hand palm down on the tabletop. “Mr. Wolfe, I think it is fair to say that Roy Meade was somewhat abrasive at times in his pursuit of the Lord’s work, but after all, so was St. Paul. Roy could be overly zealous, I know, but he also had a vision and a determination that made him truly a warrior for Christ, as I have said often — including to you. Every one of us around this table is the richer for having known him.”
That was a spirited little speech, but I could tell Wolfe wasn’t bowled over by it. For that matter, it didn’t exactly light up the faces of the Circle of Faith members, none of whom was about to spring up and applaud.
“I will stipulate that Mr. Meade was devoted in his faith and diligent in the fulfillment of his duties,” Wolfe said dryly. “But was he popular with his co-workers? Hardly. Every member of this group had a reason to dislike him. The intensity of the animus varied, but it was palpable.”
There was muttering, but no outright contradiction. “Is that an indirect way of suggesting that someone here — one of us — killed Roy?” Bay asked.
“Through the ages church leaders have been among those violating the laws Moses brought down from the mountain, including the sixth.”
“What kind of answer is that?” Reese demanded.
“An honest one,” Wolfe countered.
“Let’s get on with it,” Cramer snapped from the far end of the table. “Have you got something, or not?”
“I do, sir, and I do not feel you will deem your time wasted.”
Gillis snorted. “Okay, since you’re explaining everything, tell us who you think killed Roy.”
“I prefer to first address the subject of the six Bible verses addressed to Mr. Bay, and why they were written. It was obvious to me that the missives were a subterfuge. Mr. Bay was never in any physical danger from the sender of those verses, but they served the purpose for which they were intended.”
“Which was?” Morgan asked with a snort.
“To bring in an outside element, specifically a private investigator. Mr. Meade realized his adversary was up to something, and he took a defensive step, which I will detail later.”
Elise Bay frowned. “What do you mean by adversary?”
Sighing, Wolfe made another futile attempt to get comfortable in his chair. “From the first, I was struck by this institution’s handling of money,” he said. “Thousands of dollars in currency are collected every week, and yet each of you has access to that money in its vault from about noon on Sunday until sometime Monday morning, when the counters arrive.”
Bay jerked upright and set his jaw. “This is the Circle of Faith!” he said gravely, slapping a palm on the table and looking in turn at his colleagues. “I would trust each of them with my life, let alone the modest treasure we take in from our services.”
“Money, particularly when readily and safely accessible, can be an overwhelming temptation,” Wolfe responded. “Ecclesiastes said money answers all things. One among you was tempted, taking amounts not likely to be noticed, at least in the short run. This individual was found out by Royal Meade, however, and I can only surmise the circumstances of that discovery. Having caught the thief, Mr. Meade said nothing to anyone and arrogantly gave that individual a deadline in which to confess.”
“If this is true — and I can’t believe that it is — why wouldn’t Roy have immediately told me about it?” Bay asked.
“Hubris. Mr. Meade thrived on the possession and exercise of power, as several of you here can testify. He wanted to control this unfortunate situation totally. However, he underestimated the resourcefulness and cunning of this adversary. He paid for that miscalculation with his life.”
“Your ‘adversary’ business is hogwash!” Marley Wilkenson barked. “You haven’t said one thing so far that points to anyone other than Durkin as the murderer.”
“I shall rectify that oversight,” Wolfe responded. “First, photocopies of the six threatening notes sent to Mr. Bay were found in a drawer of Mr. Meade’s desk.”
“You’re making that up!” Reese charged, angrily jabbing a finger in Wolfe’s direction.
“No, sir, I am not. Ask Mr. Cramer.”
“Well?” Reese said, as he and everyone else at the table turned to face the inspector and Purley Stebbins.
“He’s right,” Cramer muttered.
“Inspector, why didn’t you inform me of that discovery?” Bay asked evenly.
“I am not obligated to inform you — or anyone other than my superiors — of developments in the course of a homicide investigation,” Cramer growled.
“But Wolfe knows about them!” Morgan spat.
“I have been known to share information with him on occasion,” Cramer shot back. “I see no reason to justify that to you.”
Morgan bristled. “That’s a pretty arrogant attitude for a public servant to take with—”
“Now, now, please,” Bay said smoothly. “We are not here to fight with one another. I would like to ask one of you — Mr. Cramer, Mr. Wolfe, whoever cares to answer — what you think about those copies being in Roy’s desk.”
“One of my men found them. But ask Wolfe, it’s his show,” Cramer grumped, folding his arms across his chest.
Wolfe inhaled deeply, wishing he had beer. “Mr. Meade did not place those threatening Bible verses in the offering pouches. If he had, he surely would not have kept self-implicating copies. Those, of course, were planted in his desk drawer by the individual who stole the money from the vault, who created the original notes — and who later shot Mr. Meade.”
“Oh, come on,” Wilkenson groaned. “This gets sillier by the minute. If one adopts your theory, wacky as it is, then what was to be gained by putting the photocopies in Roy’s desk?”
“A valid question. The author of those notes wanted them to be found and tied to Mr. Meade.”
“Why?” Wilkenson asked.
“To discredit Mr. Meade before he was able to publicly accuse the thief. From the first, Mr. Meade knew who was writing the notes, although he probably was unaware that a duplicate set had been slipped into one of his own desk drawers. However, as self-confident as he was, he sensed he might be in some physical danger and countered one series of biblical passages with another. He realized that if anything were to happen to incapacitate him, others on the staff — including the thief — would surely go through his papers. He needed to veil his message, and then hope someone deciphered it. For a minister, what better way than in a listing of seemingly innocuous Bible verses? With Mr. Bay’s approval, Mr. Goodwin searched the dead man’s office. I had instructed him to be alert for biblical notations, and he discovered a sheet of paper listing seven verses, in what a member of the church staff confirmed was Mr. Meade’s handwriting. I read these verses in each of the Bibles in my library, seeking a pattern.