J. Jance: Until Proven Guilty

Brodie shook his head sadly. “Andrew slipped away from our flock of True Believers.”

“That’s why Suzanne divorced him?” I asked.

“Yes.” Again there was an almost imperceptible pause. “There can be no marriage with someone outside the Faith.”

“Do you have any idea where he is?”

“No, I don’t. When someone leaves us, we believe they have died and gone to perdition. No contact with any one of the True Believers is allowed.”

“Will anyone try to let him know about Angel? After all, he is her father. He would probably want to be here,” Peters suggested.

Brodie looked at Peters as though the detective was a little dense and hadn’t quite grasped the finer points of the conversation. “It would be very difficult for someone who is already dead to attend someone else’s Thanksgiving Service.”

“I see what you mean,” I said. Peters’ temper was on an upswing again. Maybe control comes with age. I fervently wished Peters could age ten years in about as many minutes.

“How’d you get the scratch on the back of your hand?” Peters asked.

Brodie looked at it. “We’ve been doing a lot of yard work around the church,” he said. “It happened the other day when we were pruning.”

A car pulled up just then. A man and three women got out. They walked past us, nodding to Brodie as they picked their way into the house. “We’re having a prayer session right now,” Brodie explained, backing away from Peters and me. “We’re praying for the murderer’s immortal soul. It’s our way of turning the other cheek.”

“Is the whole congregation coming?” Peters asked.

“The ones who aren’t working.”

“Speaking of working,” I said, “what about Benjamin Mason. Does he work?”

Brodie’s face went slightly brittle. “He does yard work.”

“You know where he is now?”

The pastor shook his head and I handed him a card. “You have him call me when you see him.” Brodie took the card without looking at it, then excused himself to go deal with his flock. The purpose of the prayer meeting stuck in my craw. I would have preferred the prayers be for Angel Barstogi or even Suzanne. I didn’t think the scumbag who murdered Angela deserved any prayers. I didn’t then, and I don’t now.

We were standing with the doors open, ready to climb into the car when a voice hailed us. “Yoo-hoo,” a woman called. “Over here.”

Gay Avenue looks as though it started out to be an alley for another set of streets. Everyone, except the builder of 4543, seemed to understand that. Suzanne Barstogi’s house was the only one that fronted on Gay Avenue. All the rest showed reasonably well-kept back doors and backyards. It was one of those backyards, across the street and down one house, to which we were summoned.

A five-foot cedar fence provided an incongruous foundation for a massive wild blackberry bramble. The bush and the fence were like two drunks holding one another up, the resulting wall totally impenetrable. “Over here.” It was a quavery, old woman’s voice. At the far corner of the fence, the bramble had been cut back enough to allow a wooden gate to open ever so slightly “You are the cops, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Yes ma’am,” Peters answered. The gate opened a little further, wide enough for us to ease into the opening, but not without picking up a couple of thorny jabs in the process.

Inside, we found ourselves in a weedy yard, facing a diminutive old lady with bright red hair and a spry way about her. She wore old-fashioned glasses with white harlequin frames and narrow lenses. She gave the heavy wooden gate a surprisingly swift shove and padlocked it in one easy motion. “Go on, go on,” she said impatiently, motioning us up an overgrown path toward her back door. Peters gave me a slight shrug, then led the way.

“You certainly took long enough over there,” she muttered accusingly as we climbed a flight of steps. “I didn’t enjoy a single one of my TV programs today because I was watching for you. I was afraid I’d miss you when you left.”

We entered through the kitchen. A large gray cat, standing in the sink lapping water from a leaky tap, eyed us speculatively. Our hostess made no effort to chase him out of the sink. “That’s Henry, Henry Aldrich. He doesn’t talk much but he’s good company.”

She directed us into a living room. On a blaring black-and-white television set an announcer was gearing up for another episode of “General Hospital.” So she had been willing to risk missing her soaps in order to catch us. I gave her credit for making a considerable personal sacrifice.

She settled into an ancient rocking chair, while we attempted to sit on an overstaffed and lumpy couch that had been built with no regard for human anatomy. “Since you’re not wearing uniforms, I suppose you young men must be detectives. I’m Sophia Czirski,” she announced, “but you can call me Sophie. What can I do for you?”

Peters looked at me helplessly. It was time for him to earn his keep. I shrugged and said nothing. Peters cleared his throat. “I don’t know, Mrs. Czirski…Sophie…. You invited us.”

“Oh, that’s right. How stupid of me.” She wore ill-fitting dentures that rattled and clicked when she spoke. I was afraid they might fall out altogether. Bright red hair gave the illusion that she was much younger than she was in actual fact. Upon close inspection I would have guessed she was pushing the upper end of her seventies. She was tough as old leather, though, and any lapses in thought were only temporary.

“Did you arrest her?”

“Arrest who?” Peters asked.

“Well, Suzanne Barstogi, of course. Her and that phony preacher friend of hers.”

“No ma’am,” Peters said carefully. “We haven’t arrested anyone. This is Detective Beaumont, and I’m Detective Peters.”

“Well,” she sniffed, “I’m glad you have enough good manners to introduce yourself. What about your friend — Beauchamp, did you say? Can’t he talk?”

Peters looked at me and grinned. “Beaumont,” he corrected. “No, he’s really shy around women. I usually have to do most of the talking.”

“You go ahead and ask me anything you like then, Detective Peters. Your friend there can take notes.” Obligingly I got out a notebook and a stub of a pencil. Somehow I knew I’d get even; I just didn’t know when.

Sophie Czirski didn’t require any prompting. “I saw that child outside in February. February, mind you! Without so much as a jacket or a pair of shoes! I could see her, you know.” She indicated the living room window, which, from her chair before the television set, offered an unobstructed view of Barstogi’s front yard. “I can see everything that goes on there, people coming and going all hours of the day and night. All that stuff about prayer meetings and fellowship. I don’t believe it, not for one minute.”

“Excuse me for interrupting,” said Peters, “but you asked if we had arrested Suzanne Barstogi. Is there some reason you feel she should be under suspicion?”

“Goodness, yes. People who would mistreat a child like they have wouldn’t hesitate to kill her. And all the time they pretend to be so holier-than-thou. But they don’t fool me, not for a minute.”

The gray cat meandered in from the kitchen. He favored us with an insolent look, then leaped to the back of the couch. Once there he stretched out, languidly settling himself directly between Peters and me. I wondered how much gray cat hair would be on my brown jacket and trousers when I stood up. Sophie focused on the cat for a moment, then jumped to her feet.

“Good gracious, talk about manners, now I’m forgetting mine. I haven’t even offered you coffee or tea.”