“He’s a fine boy,” she said.
He’s pushing fifty, I thought.
“He tell you I’m the reason he left Georgia?”
“He didn’t.”
“Broke my hip.” With her free hand, she patted the joint in question. “Zeb came to tend me. Never left.”
“I’m sure you enjoy having him close.”
“He’s all I’ve got. Just wish he’d find him a new wife. Last one wasn’t so hot.”
My eyes flicked to Ramsey. A blush was rising from his collar and mottling his cheeks.
Not noticing her nephew’s discomfort, perhaps not caring, Aunt Ruby yammered on.
“Now don’t be thinking I’m a delusional old fool. I know that whole marriage mess is the reason Zeb stayed. That and the snarl left by our moron sheriff. The dead one, I mean. The new one seems a bit brighter. Well, what the hooey.” Her hand flapped the air as though shooing a fly. “The turnover made for a job. So here he is.”
Ramsey rose, clearly embarrassed. I followed and went to gather my belongings. At checkout, Aunt Ruby was obstinate in refusing payment for my room.
I thanked her for her generosity. Then, while Ramsey went to bring the SUV around and, I suspected, run the plate on the vehicle belonging to the hikers, Ruby and I engaged in small talk.
“Seems a bit warmer today.” I figured weather was always safe.
“Spring’s a-coming. Always does.” Pause. “So where you off to?”
“Church.” Also safe.
The rheumy eyes narrowed behind the speckled glass. “Don’t reckon I’d count Zeb among the believers.”
“It’s business.”
“His or yours?”
“Both.”
“Which church?”
“Jesus Lord Holiness.”
Again, the derisive pooching of air through her lips. I waited.
“You’ve come all the way up here to go to Mass with crazies?”
“What do you mean?”
“Those folks are barmy. Nuts. Batty as loons.” The old gal didn’t mince words.
“Can you elaborate?”
“I knew one of them once. Nice person until that church bunch got hold of her. Made her crazy.”
“Define ‘crazy.’ ”
“Where do I start? They reject the pope and the president. Honest to God, probably penicillin and pizza.” An elevated tone suggested strong thoughts on the subject. “Parishioners are supposed to stay all hush-hush. But my friend, former friend, let on how they think.”
Three of her words linked up in my head.
“Wait. Are you saying the group is Catholic?”
“Not sure the Vatican would lay claim to that lot. But yes, they’re some sort of splinter faction. Charismatic or Pentecostal or whatever you call it. All into faith healing and prayer meetings and speaking in tongues.”
I was about to probe further when Ramsey pulled up in front. Aunt Ruby walked me to the door and held it wide with one scrawny arm. I again said thanks, then hurried outside.
“You two be careful out there,” she squawked at my back.
“What’s that all about?” Ramsey asked as I was buckling my seat belt.
I recapped the conversation I’d just had with his aunt.
Slowly shaking his head. “She does have some pit bull tendencies.”
The previous night, in the dark, Ruby’s place had been nothing but a long gravel drive ending at a yellow porch light. Curious, now that I could see it, I looked around.
The B&B was a two-story, green frame with lavender trim, an old farmhouse undoubtedly treated with less whimsy in its previous life. Wrapping its front and left side was a porch overlooking a lawn now brown and soggy with postwinter melt off.
A small sign identified the home’s current status as the Cedar Creek Inn. Overnight the clouds had passed, and the rising sun was now bronzing the Cedar Creek’s roof and windows.
The drive took fifteen minutes. I was glad I wasn’t making it solo. Our target lay deep in a hollow, many lefts and rights off the blacktop. The entire trip, I saw not a single sign. We encountered no other vehicles.
Ramsey knew the way. And timed our arrival well.
The Church of Jesus Lord Holiness sat with its back to a mountain. A tire swing hung from the branch of an enormous oak off to its left. Picnic tables sat in four rows of three by the tree’s trunk.
Roughly thirty cars and trucks waited in a paved parking area in front. Ramsey joined them and killed the engine. We both eyed the setup, assessing.
The main building was small, perhaps constructed specifically for worship, perhaps converted from some previous use. Its exterior was whitewashed, its windows plain—no fancy grillwork or stained glass.
Two steps led up to a stoop that looked as though it were scrubbed daily. A pair of double doors bore matching wrought-iron crosses. Above the doors, a simple wooden cross rose from the peak of the roof. No bells, no steeple.
An outbuilding sat twenty yards off the right rear corner of the church. Same double doors. Same whitewashed exterior. No cross. A gravel track forked from the entrance road toward its rear.
I lowered my window. From inside I could hear the muted sound of a piano being played with gusto. Warbly singing, the kind typical of small congregations.
I strained to listen. Caught a phrase or two. Latin. That tracked with Ruby’s account.
Ramsey started drumming a thumb on the wheel.
“It won’t be long.”
My comment drew a questioning glance.
“They’re singing the Agnus Dei.” Lamb of God. “The Mass will end soon.”
“You Catholic?”
I offered a noncommittal lift of one shoulder.
Six days a week. In my little green jumper, patrolled by Gestapo nuns. In my Sunday best, flanked by Mama and Daddy. Memories still slice through my dreams. The smoky sweet incense. The gloomy organ drone. The poorly padded wood under my bony kid knees.
Ten minutes of watching, then a priest and an altar boy emerged, both in full ecclesiastical garb. Together, robes billowing like clotheslined laundry, they pulled wide and secured the doors to shiny metal rings embedded in the stoop.
The boy disappeared back inside, then, one by one, two by two, and in family groupings of varying sizes, the worshippers trooped out. Every male over ten wore a suit and tie, every female a hat or veil.
The priest shook hands with the men, blessed the women and children with a pat on the shoulder or head. An hour of torturous restraint, yet all the kids stayed with their parents. Not one bolted for the tire swing, a game of tag, a cartwheel, a run with arms outstretched like a plane.
The exit parade was tapering off when Ramsey’s thumb went still.
The priest was speaking to a couple I guessed to be in their fifties. He was built along the lines of a bulldog. She was taller, more so with the headgear. Both were sporting black.
“Showtime,” Ramsey said softly.
I unbuckled my seat belt.
“Best let me do the talking,”
“Works for me,” I agreed.
Ramsey got out and began weaving through the back-pewers now arriving at their cars. Ignoring the distrustful looks and the chorus of wheep-wheeps around me, I hurried to keep up.
The priest was of average height and scarecrow thin. Black hair greased and combed back from his face, acne-scarred cheeks, indigo eyes. On spotting us, he abandoned the conversation to watch our approach. The Teagues turned to see what had robbed them of their pastor’s attention.
Recognizing Ramsey, or his uniform, John’s face went rigid. Unconsciously or not, he rolled his shoulders and spread his feet, a kid preparing for a double dare.
Still tracking us, the priest leaned in and said something I couldn’t hear. John nodded, but remained coiled.
“Sunday blessings, Deputy.” The voice was deep and rich as honey on toast. “What can I do for you this fine day?”
“Good morning, sir. We’d like a few words with Mr. and Mrs. Teague.” Neighborly grin, just a simple country sheriff doing his job. “Won’t take but a minute, then we’re on our way.”