Joan Hess: Misery Loves Maggody

"I was not expecting a woman. The desecration of my church is a serious matter. Sheriff Dorfer should have come himself."

He did not add "or at least sent a man," but I could almost see the words hovering above his head. I had a feeling he and I were not going to be bosom buddies by the end of the interview.

I took a notebook and pencil out of my pocket. "And you are…?"

"The Reverend Edwin W. Hitebred. I'm the pastor of the Mount Zion Church, and nothing like this has ever happened in the fifty-seven years I've served the congregation. I really think I'd better call Sheriff Dorfer and insist that he deal with this in person."

"Go right ahead, Reverend, but you won't have much luck catching him. He's dealing with a drug-related shooting in a sleazy nightclub on Tuesday. One guy dead, two critically wounded, DEA agents camped in his office, reporters demanding updates every hour. That's why he asked me to talk to you."

Hitebred's bushy white eyebrows twitched as he studied me for a long moment. "Well then, Chief Hanks, it looks as though you are my cross to bear, although I will not do so gladly. Where do you want to begin?"

"I understand you believe that trespassers have entered the church on several occasions. Is there evidence of this?"

"I would hardly describe these satanists as mere trespassers," he said icily, "and of course I have evidence. Come this way."

He went through a doorway into a small room with a desk, several straight-backed chairs that were apt to be more uncomfortable than the one in my office, and stacks of journals and battered hymnals along the wall. I waited just inside the doorway while he opened a desk drawer, pulled out a manila envelope, and dumped its contents on his desk.

"Here's your evidence," he said.

I went over to the desk and examined the debris. "A paper clip, a cigarette butt, a pink barrette, three rubber bands, a button, and a piece of chalk. What exactly does this prove?"

"It proves that satanists broke into the church at least four times in the last month. They conducted abhorrent rituals and desecrated the sanctity of the church. I demand that you put a stop to this, Chief Hanks. I want the culprits caught and sent to jail to ponder the wickedness of their deviant beliefs."

I held up my hand. "Let's take this one step at a time, if you don't mind. Just why does this pile of trinkets prove anybody is breaking into the church? Isn't it more likely that members of your congregation dropped these during services?"

"Absolutely not?" he snapped, scraping everything back into the envelope. "I should have known you would fail to grasp the significance of this evidence. When will Sheriff Dorfer have this other business wrapped up?"

My teeth clenched, I moved newspapers off a chair and sat down. "Why don't you explain the significance, Reverend Hitebred? Speak slowly and perhaps I can follow you."

He returned the envelope to a desk drawer and sat down across from me. "My daughter cleans the sanctuary after each service. She sweeps the floors, straightens the chairs, and puts away hymnals. Anything accidentally left behind is placed in a box in the vestibule to be retrieved by the member before the next service. We find eyeglasses, pens, scarves, umbrellas, and Sunday school lessons. The evidence I showed you was not discovered after a service but beforehand, when I was making sure everything was in readiness to offer praise to the Almighty God. Do you attend church, Chief Hanks?"

"This is an official investigation, Reverend Hitebred, and personal remarks are inappropriate. Even if I accept your assertion that the objects were not dropped during or after a service, I still don't see why you think satanists are involved."

He began to drum his fingers on the desk in an uneven cadence. "It's obvious that unauthorized persons have been sneaking into the sanctuary at night. There's nothing worth stealing. I take the cash box and checkbook home with me after each service. Our hymnals are worn and dog-eared from decades of use."

"I still can't make the leap to satanists and rituals. Why not kids with nowhere else to meet?"

"My daughter sets the thermostat at fifty when she leaves. The folding chairs were selected for durability, not comfort. Furthermore, members of the congregation have driven by at odd hours during the night, and no one has noticed a light. A cold, dark building would hardly make a cozy clubhouse, would it?" His fingers quickened their beat. "If not satanists who find twisted satisfaction in defiling the sanctuary, then who?"

I felt as though his fingertips were pounding my temples. "These unauthorized entries could be taking place during the day. Maybe some unfortunate guy's holed up in a shack out in the woods and is taking advantage of your plumbing."

"Our plumbing consists of a sink and a toilet in a shed out back. We do not waste the contents of the collection plate on luxuries, but on doing God's work."

He may have been boasting about their contempt for worldly pleasures, but he had a point. It may not have been sharp enough to poke through a slice of bread, much less do damage to a hostile cyclops, but I could tell from his condescending smile that we both knew it. Despite the weather, I would have preferred to be at a roadblock with Harve's deputies, stopping vehicles to make sure sinister drug dealers weren't hunkered in the backseat, than to be sitting in the office of the Mount Zion Church in the company of the Reverend Edwin W. Hitebred.

"Okay," I said, "then what about locks? Surely the doors aren't left unlocked for the convenience of stray souls seeking asylum in the bosom of the Lord."

His smile vanished. "That smacks of sacrilege, Chief Hanks. Yes, both doors are kept locked, and my daughter and I have the only keys. If someone wishes to bring in flowers for a holiday service, one of us comes down to open a door. We live only a mile farther down the road, and since I'm retired, I'm always available." He paused, then added, "Unlike Sheriff Dorfer, or so it seems."

"There's nothing he can do," I said, standing up, "but feel free to call him if you find any hobgoblins under your bed."

I would have preferred to exit on a broomstick, but as it was, I just walked out the door.

Estelle poked Ruby Bee as the van started across the bride that spanned the Mississippi River. "Look," she said excitedly, "you can see the skyline over that way, and the Pyramid over there. Isn't this something?"

Ruby Bee rubbed her grainy eyes. "I suppose so. How much further to the motel?"

"You feeling bad?" asked Cherri Lucinda, reaching over the seat to pat Ruby Bee's knee. "I have some saltines in my purse if you want something to nibble on."

"I'm perfectly fine." Ruby Bee stared out the window at the wide stripe of milky brown water. Traffic down there was a sight less frantic, what with a few barges placidly pushed along by tugboats and a motorboat cutting circles for no apparent reason. In contrast, Baggins seemed to think he was going to win a prize if he got to the far side of the bridge before everybody else in the state of Arkansas. The only thing he deserved was a traffic ticket for speeding or reckless driving, she thought with a frown.

"I've got some antacid tablets," said Estelle.

Ruby Bee turned on her with a glower that could have melted an iceberg, or at least a good-sized ice cube. "How many times to I have to tell you to let me be? Would you feel better if I tap-danced in the aisle? I'm already getting fed up with you, Estelle Oppers, and we ain't even one-fourth of the way through this trip."

"Well, pardon me for being concerned. You can say whatever you want, but you were moaning while you were asleep and right now your face is pale as a sow's belly. Your eyes don't look so good, neither. Do you recall how Two Claude Buchanon's eyes turned all orange after he ate nothing but carrots for three months?"