C Corwin - The Cross Kisses Back

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Aubrey gave me a nudge and we started our retreat. She reconstructed Buddy Wing’s last service as we walked: “Sometime while he was in the make-up chair or praying with the elders, the killer slipped into his office to paint that poison cross on his Bible. We know from the police reports, and from your Mr. Marabout’s stories-”

I protested. “My Mr. Marabout?”

“You know what I mean. I know you haven’t slept with him for years.”

“And who said I ever slept with him?”

Aubrey scowled at me. “Will you get your mind back on the murder? Everybody knows you and Marabout used to do the nasty-”

She called it the nasty. I knew that was just a word people her age used. But it stung. It had not been nasty. It had been good, clean, wonderful fun between two people who genuinely cared for each other. “Who told you?” I demanded. “Doreen Poole?”

She ignored my question. “So we know-from more than one source-that it was the director’s job to take the Bible to the pulpit, along with Wing’s notes for his sermon, and make sure he had a pitcher of water for when the sweat started pouring. But the director-her name’s Elaine Albert, she’s been directing the broadcasts since they started in the early Seventies-told the police that when she went to get the Bible and sermon notes from his office, approximately fifteen minutes before the service was to start, they were both gone. She hurried to the stage and found them already on the pulpit. And the pitcher of water under it.”

“And she wasn’t a little curious?” I asked.

“She told police she didn’t have time to be curious. The service was starting in a few minutes.”

“It certainly piques my curiosity. Why wasn’t this Elaine Albert considered a suspect?”

“She was the first person they talked to. They gave her a lie detector test the next morning.”

“I gather she passed.”

Aubrey gave me one of those “Duhs” people her age employ to tell someone they’re making a fool out of themselves by stating the obvious.

“But wouldn’t a television director have to be a real cool cucumber-always in control?” I asked. “I’d think somebody like that could easily fake a lie detector.”

“I’d think so, too.”

“But the police wouldn’t think so?”

“The police stopped thinking when Sissy confessed.”

A slow, melancholy voice put an end to our snoopfest: “I thought it might be the two of you.”

It was the big-eared security guard and a minute later we were standing in the make-up room watching the woman with the painted-on eyebrows rub a natural tan into Guthrie Gates’ chalky face. He was struggling with every vein in his neck to remain Christian. “I’m guessing you didn’t come to worship with us.”

Aubrey was doing a much better job at staying calm than I was. “We wanted to see the crime scene-as it would have been the night Pastor Wing was poisoned.”

Gates lifted his chin so the eyebrow woman could squirt make-up on his neck. “Let me guess why you didn’t call for permission first-you were afraid I’d change things around?”

“I was afraid somebody might,” Aubrey admitted. “But not for malicious reasons. When people know the press is coming they tend to put their best foot forward, often subconsciously.”

Gates swatted away the make-up woman’s sticky fingers. “Like subconsciously bringing you doughnuts?”

I was flabbergasted. “You know about the doughnuts?”

Gates closed his eyes and motioned for the eyebrow woman to resume her rubbing. “Since Tim Bandicoot started that temple of his, it’s been like the U.S. and Red China between our congregations. Everything they do gets back to us. Everything we do gets back to them.” He sat silently until the eyebrow woman was finished, then checked himself in the mirror. He smiled with satisfaction. I watched his eyes shift in the mirror, to the knees peeking from the hem of Aubrey’s churchy dress. “Wasn’t I open and honest with you, Miss McGinty? Wasn’t I respectful and friendly?” He checked his watch and clicked on a small speaker box on the make-up table. The choir was already singing. “Time to go,” he said. He stood and pulled a plastic bottle of mineral water from the side pocket of his suit coat. He unscrewed the cap and took a small, quick sip. Then he smiled at us, calmly, neck veins back in place, and said, “You’re welcome to stay for the service, if you think it might do you some good. But you are not welcome to come back. Or call me. Or talk to any member of this congregation.” He gave us a quick “God be with you” and left. The security guard pointed to the door with his chin. As we left, I poked Aubrey in the arm and pointed back into the room. The eyebrow woman was sitting in the chair, nervously lighting a cigarette.

The security guard followed us to our car. Aubrey and I hardly said a word to each other until we reached Swann’s, Hannawa’s legendary drive-in restaurant where all the car hops are muscular college boys. The minute you pull into a slot and click your headlights they run to your car-not walk, but run like they were on a football field-and take your order. We both ordered double-cheeseburgers and fries. They have forty-seven different flavors of milkshakes. Aubrey got a large butterscotch-banana. I got a small strawberry.

I watched Aubrey watch the carhop trot inside with our orders. “So,” I asked her, “what did we learn today?”

“Well,” she said, “we learned that sad-sack security guard isn’t the rube we thought. He recognized us when we pulled in and followed us. What we don’t know is whether it was on his own initiative or whether he was under orders from Guthrie Gates.”

“What difference does that make?” I asked.

“Remember what he said, Maddy: ‘I thought it might be the two of you.’ He didn’t follow us because we were strangers trying to sneak in and poison somebody. He followed us because it was us.”

“That doesn’t mean Gates has something to hide,” I said. “There are lots of innocent people who hate the press.”

Aubrey liked that. She laughed. “The first time we went to the church, Gates was as nice as pie. This time he couldn’t control himself. He was really p-o’d. And what was that U.S. and Red China stuff?”

“It’s no secret those two churches don’t like each other,” I said.

“Aren’t you being a wee bit charitable? They’re at war. They spy on each other. Gates knew about the doughnuts.”

“Yes he did,” I said. “It gave me the willies when he said that.”

“He wants us to be afraid. He wants us to believe that both churches are full of crazies. He’s warning us to back off. What’s done is done. Let Buddy Wing rest in peace.”

The carhop was running toward us with our food. I rolled down my window for the tray. “And let the real killer rest in peace?”

Aubrey impatiently reached across me for her bag of fries. “But we’re not going to let the real killer rest in peace. At least I’m not.”

I handed her a cheeseburger. I had the willies again. She was telling me things were going to get dangerous. I could stop tagging along if I wanted.

Aubrey peeled back the bun and delicately removed the onions. She looked for a place to put them. “Did you notice he was carrying his own bottle of water? I don’t think he’s merely being trendy, Maddy.”

I let her put the onions in my hand and then dumped them on the window tray. “You think he’s afraid somebody will poison him next?”

Aubrey nodded while she took a bite. “Or maybe he just wants people to think he’s afraid somebody will poison him next.”

“So Guthrie Gates is still a suspect?”

“Everybody is still a suspect.”

“Including Sissy James?”

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