The children all turned and looked at me laughing and clapping as if I were a part of their play. I thought about throwing my arms open wide and in my best theatrical voice announcing the purpose of my visit, but in the end I just smiled and told the young lady I was looking for Amy Frechette.
The woman threw both her hands to her breast, her eyes wide, and said, “See children, see, the stranger in our midst seeks out our fearless leader, even though he mispronounces her last name. Come, come, let us show him the way. The children all jumped up and followed the woman to the doorway. She winked at me and walked down the stairs, the children marching and clapping along with her and a few seconds later I followed them down. I did not march or laugh or jump or clap, but I probably should have. You only live once.
The woman and children led me to the main chapel area, down the aisle between the pews and up to the altar where another woman sat at the pipe organ, her back to us. When she heard the children she stopped playing and turned on the bench and faced the group and I saw her smile falter just a little when she looked at me. The daycare worker and the children kept right on marching past the alter and headed back upstairs to resume their fun.
Then something happened that left me momentarily unable to speak and caused a slew of questions to form in my mind at once, none of which I was prepared to ask let alone comprehend the answers. Amy Frechette walked over and extended her hand and said, “Hello. You’re the police officer, aren’t you? From the state? Murton’s told me all about you, but I’d recognize you any day from all the pictures he’s shown me. Do you know where Murton is?”
She stepped down off the altar and we sat together in the first pew. I had little if any preconceived notions of what a female pastor may look like, but if I had, I think Amy Frechette would fit the bill with perfection. I guessed her age a little younger than my own, perhaps thirty-five or so. She wore a matching plain brown skirt and blazer over a white turtle neck sweater. When I did not immediately say anything, I expected her to ask me about Murton again, but instead I followed her gaze to the brass organ pipes that lined the alter wall. Her eyes were down turned at the outer edges and marked with crows feet that crinkled with kindness when she spoke. “Our organ player moved on about a year ago. I’ve been filling in ever since. It’s a beast of an instrument to play.”
“I thought it sounded just fine,” I said.
She accepted my compliment with modesty then said, “I haven’t seen him in over a week. I don’t know what’s going on.” Her voice was strong but I could see the soft skin under her chin when it trembled. “You’re the best friend he’s got, Detective.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” I said.
Her unexpected smile caught me off guard, but the light in her eyes reminded me of the look I used to see on my parents faces when I was a child and they watched me discover something wonderful and joyous, like a rainbow, or the flight of a box kite for the very first time. But then I watched the light go out of her expression, replaced by something dark and defensive. “You’ve not been kind to him, Detective,” she said. “He thinks of you like a brother.”
“I’m here on another matter, Ms. Frechette. But if you don’t mind me asking, how do you know Murton, and by extension, his relationship with me?”
She shook her head and chuckled, then turned in the pew so she was facing me. “How do I know about your relationship? I guess Murton hasn’t been exaggerating when he speaks of your feelings for him. We’ve been living together for over a year, Detective. I guess I somehow thought you knew that.”
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t know that. In fact, I think there are a number of things I don’t know about Murton these days.”
“What in the world is that supposed to mean?” she said.
I ignored her question and asked one of my own. “What do you know about a man by the name of Franklin Dugan?”
“Who?”
“I am investigating a series of murders. One of the victims was a man named Franklin Dugan. He was the President of Sunrise Bank. Murt is either trying to insert himself into the investigation for reasons I can’t begin to understand, or he’s trying to extricate himself from it. I can’t tell which. Or maybe he’s guilty of something again, and he’s-”
“What? What do you mean guilty of something again?” she said, the anger in her voice evident.
“If you’ve lived with him for over a year, then I assume you know of his record. He spent some time at Westville for assault. He beat a man, almost to death.”
She pointed her finger at me. “Murton carries images around in his head from the war that leave him little room for peace. The man he beat was a drug dealer who tried to steal from him. I make no excuses for his past behavior, Detective, but I don’t delude myself into thinking it was something it was not. He’s paid his debt to society. Why not leave him be?”
I decided to try a different direction. “Tell me about Samuel Pate.”
“What about him?”
“You sold him your church. Why?”
She pinched her lips together and shook her head the way a grade school teacher might if she were addressing the slow student at the back of the classroom. “First of all, Detective, you don’t sell a church. No one does. You might sell a building that once housed a church, but the church is never for sale. As far as the sale you’re speaking of, it was more of a merger.”
“A merger?”
“That’s right. The Pate Ministry wants to branch out. They’ve brought me on board as one of their staff ministers. The building we’re sitting in is scheduled for demolition in a few months. In time, it will be replaced with a modern ministry center designed for and around the children of our community.”
“So you’re going to be an employee of Pate’s?”
“I already am,” she said.
“What about the money?”
“What money?” she said. What on earth are you talking about?”
“Franklin Dugan and Sunrise Bank handled the financing for your so called merger. Again, I’ve seen the paperwork. It was a multi-million dollar deal. Shortly after the paperwork was completed, Franklin Dugan was murdered at his home. He was shot to death, Ms. Frechette, and your boyfriend, Murton, has shown up out of nowhere and inserted himself into my investigation. He has a record for almost beating someone to death. By your own admission he’s a tormented war veteran. Do you see where I’m going with this?”
I watched her swallow then clench her hands together. It took her a few moments to speak, but when she did, I wasn’t all that surprised by what she said.
“He’s been working security for the Pates,” she said. “This deal has been in the works for over a year now. That’s how we met.”
When I got back out to the Safeway, I saw the manager of the store arguing with Donatti. He wanted to know when he was going to be allowed to open the store back up. Donatti walked away from him while he was still yelling and came over to me. “What’s going on?” I said.
“Man wants to open his store. We should probably let him. Body’s gone, Crime Scene is done, witnesses are gone.”
“So why don’t you let him open?”
Donatti popped a stick of gum into his mouth and tossed the wrapper on the ground. “Because he’s been a dick, or at the very least, sort of dickish, all fucking day.”
I picked up the wrapper and rolled it between my fingers. “Besides,” Donatti continued, “that would be what us underlings refer to as an executive decision.”
Sandy walked up. “He’s right, we’re not authorized to make those kind of decisions.”
I looked at Donatti. “Let him open.”
“You got it, boss.
I looked at Sandy. “Where’s Rosie?”
“He left a little while ago. He said something about some follow up questions for someone at the bank. Margery somebody or other.”