A Body in the Belfry: The First Ladies Club Mysteries, #2

By J.B. Hawker

Small town secrets can lead to big trouble.

When Reverend Merrillanne Bishop accepts leadership of the First Baptist church in the picturesque seaside community of Bannoch, Oregon, she doesn’t know what to expect. Not everybody is pleased with the idea of a female pastor, but Merrill is determined to prove to everybody—including herself—that she belongs in the pulpit. Merrill has a talent for seeing the good in even the worst situations and soon finds friends. When she meets Peter, a Seattle reporter offering her more than friendship, life seems sweet. But the bliss of romantic moonlit walks and seaside bonfires withers one stormy night when Merrill discovers a body in her church’s bell tower. As the frightening discoveries continue, Merrill struggles to comfort her flock, knowing full-well one of them could be a killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.B. Hawker
• Release date: Dec 1, 2015
• ISBN: 9781516386079

J.B. Hawker

Raised in the northern end of the Sacramento Valley in California, J.B.Hawker's early life was framed by mountain ranges. While her physical vistas were bounded on almost every side, her imagination was free to soar without limits. "I've made up stories my whole life," said Hawker when interviewed. "While other children might need a flashlight to read under the covers after bedtime, I simply made up my own stories, many of which lasted multiple nights, having intricate details and characters drawn both from my life and my imagination." After twenty years serving small churches from Alaska to South Dakota as a pastor's wife, she returned to her California roots to start over in mid-life as a single business woman and author. J.B. has published many articles on faith and ministry as well as programming materials for women's ministry. "Hollow" the first book in the Bunny Elder series and winner of the BRAG Medallion Award, was her first published fiction. J.B. has three grown sons. Her oldest, the father of her three beautiful granddaughters, lives in northern Italy, the setting of the second book in the series, "Vain Pursuits", featuring the on-going adventures of Bunny and Max. "Seadrift" takes Bunny to the Oregon coast where their story continues. "...and Something Blue" concludes this series with Bunny and her new husband sailing off to Australia and, as usual, drifting into a series of inadvertent adventures.  

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J. B. Hawker

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission of the author.

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This book is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 J.B Hawker

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1507696620

ISBN-10: 1507696620

Dedicated to

the blessed preaching women among my own family and friends.

Prologue

No one ever expects to meet their Maker wearing a designer outfit.

The woman peering through the arched window’s weather-beaten wooden louvres to admire the rugged coastline below felt confident in her smart taupe cashmere Donatella Versace pencil skirt set off with an emerald green Dior silk shirt.

She shivered in the fresh breeze and failed to notice her shabby companion kneeling to pick something from the cluttered platform.

When a rusty iron counterweight smashed against her stylish temple she emitted a stunned grunt and crumpled to the dusty floor, blood now mingling with her makeup and spoiling the lines of her expensive hairstyle.

Her assailant clung to the blood-stained weight for a moment, as though surprised at what this rough lump of metal had done, then shuddered and cast it into the shadows.

Who could have imagined a thoughtless, unkind comment, and a sudden, irresistible impulse would lead to this? Not the fashionable woman now lying motionless on the worn and splintery floorboards; a dark stain seeping into the wood beneath her head.

Spying a coil of rope in the shadows, the attacker snatched it up and hurled one end awkwardly toward a ceiling beam, but it fell short. Several frantic attempts later, the rope cleared the beam and was immediately hauled down and slip-knotted around the unconscious woman’s neck.

After several energetic pulls on the rope, its ends were secured, leaving trendy bronze metallic Manolo Blahnik shoes swaying inches above the floor.

A wooden crate was tipped onto its side beneath the twitching body, as though it might have been kicked over in a final, desperate act.

Scrawling the words, FORGIVE ME, in the dust, the killer disappeared down the stairs into the darkness.

Chapter 1

Alone in the unfamiliar pre-dawn darkness, with the sounds of wind and surf whispering in the distance, Indigo Merrillanne Bishop choked and gasped, I can’t breathe.

Her feverish sleep interrupted, she sat up, coughing, and flung off the smothering tangle of blankets.

She stumbled from the bed and shuffled through the surrounding chaos. Making her way through a narrow hall into an equally cramped bathroom, she began pawing through packing boxes in search of decongestants.

This was the pits.

Merrill arrived in Bannoch, Oregon only the day before, after driving for hours from California’s Bay Area in a rental van crammed with all her worldly goods.

Her brothers, Wolf and Sage Rose, had come from their homes in Seattle and Springfield to help unload the truck.

After the last cardboard box was safely off the truck, they’d set up her bed and driven away, leaving their sister alone in this strange, new environment.

Her brothers would have stayed, if they could, but Wolf ran the finance desk at a major Seattle newspaper and Sage ran his own contracting business, Rose Construction, and was in the middle of a big job.

As she stood in the doorway waving, Merrill had felt an ominous tickle in the back of her throat and erupted with a not very lady-like sneeze.

She’d tried to tell herself her sniffles and weepy eyes were from being sentimental about her brothers’ departure, but when the chills and fever set in during the night, she had to admit she was really sick.

In spite of congestion, aches, and pains, Merrill was determined to carry on. She had only one week to get settled before assuming her duties as the first female pastor of the struggling Bannoch First Baptist Church.

Fortunately for Merrill, her pragmatic, no-nonsense mother had never coddled her children when they were ill.

If the usually reliable regimen of two aspirins, plenty of weak tea and a coating of mentholated petroleum jelly didn’t bring about a swift recovery, her mother might resort to one of the few patent medicines Merrill could remember from her childhood.

She thought fondly of the delicious cherry-flavored cough syrup, absolutely loaded with codeine and a sure cure for a cough, which was guaranteed to provide an afternoon of blissful sleep.

For occasional tummy troubles, there was an off-white liquid tasting of bananas with extract of opium as its main ingredient. This nostrum stopped diarrhea in its tracks with a single dose.

Merrill supposed she and her brothers were lucky to have survived.

Today’s government regulations requiring warning labels to alert parents to the perils of every medication spared modern children from the threat of rare side effects or a potential life of drug abuse from dosing with opium byproducts.

Her parents hadn’t been too concerned about the drugs in those medicines. Their youthful flirtation with the hippy culture had resulted in nothing worse than Merrill’s and her brothers’ unusual given names. After dabbling in the alternative lifestyle, they’d transformed into solid members of the establishment.

Merrill glanced, now, into the spotty mirror above the chipped pedestal sink and wondered if she had escaped her childhood unscathed, after all.

Her middle-aged face, flushed and mottled with fever and framed by a tangle of shoulder-length faded blond hair didn’t exactly reflect blooming health.

Still, she and her brothers had survived their unusual upbringing to become strong characters who faced each new challenge with courage and faith.

Victoriously clutching a bottle of FDA-approved non-drowsy cold and flu medication, Merrill tottered down the steep, narrow stairs to the kitchen.

This parsonage apartment was built onto the back of her new church, an imposing nearly two-century old building boasting a single square Norman bell tower. The venerable structure stood on a high bluff overlooking the Coast Highway and the Pacific Ocean beyond.

Merrill stretched on tiptoe to look out the kitchen window and admire the view of sky and sea before turning back into the cluttered room. When she found an only slightly used paper coffee cup among the packing boxes, she rinsed it and filled it with tap water to wash down a dose of medicine.

She groaned when she spied her scrawled FRAGILE-GLASSWARE warning on a sagging carton containing her good dishes and drinking glasses. It sat at the bottom of a stack of heavy boxes labeled cookbooks and pots and pans.

She could only hope at least a few of her dishes remained intact under the heavy load.

With a rueful grimace at the disorder in her kitchen, she headed back up the stairs, intent on pulling herself together before facing the unpacking.

A steaming shower gave the cold medicine a boost and Merrill, dressed in jeans and an old shirt of her late husband’s, felt restored enough to return to the kitchen, root out her utensils and fix a light breakfast before digging into the stacks of boxes.

She cleared a spot on the cluttered island and perched on a stepstool to eat a slice of whole grain toast and a poached egg.

Merrill sipped her coffee slowly, trying to delay her unpacking chores a few more moments.

Her glance fell on her jacket lying on a stack of boxes and the bundle of envelopes sticking out of one pocket. She’d grabbed the unopened letters from her mailbox before climbing into the rental truck for the trip north.

A foreign stamp on the top envelope brought a smile to her face. She pulled out the letter, eager for news of her missionary brother-in-law in Nigeria.

Merrill was fond of her husband’s brother, Robert and his wife, Jeanie, the parents of Merrill’s favorite nephew, Ryan.

She scanned the three-page missionary newsletter, eager to reach the handwritten personal notes on the back of the last page.

A frown wrinkled her brow as she read of the latest attacks on the Christians in the region.

She’d written to urge the family to consider returning stateside more than once, without effect. Robert and Jeanie were committed to their flock and their calling. Merrill knew it would take something pretty drastic to bring them home.

She offered up a quick prayer before stuffing the pages back into the envelope, and plunged into the unpacking.

Much later, knee-deep in crumpled newspapers, with inky smudges on her red, stuffy nose, Merrill was putting the last of her spices away in the tiny pantry when a knock on the door interrupted her.

Who can that be? she grumbled.

Side-stepping empty boxes, she made her way across the kitchen to the door, wiping her hands on the seat of her jeans as she went.

I hope it’s not door-to-door proselytizers from some cult or other, she muttered before opening the door.

Yes? she rasped at the pair of women standing on the step before turning away to blow her nose.

Although taken aback by Merrill’s abrupt manner and her disheveled appearance, Elizabeth Gilbert and her friend, Judy Falls, managed tentative smiles.

We’ve come to welcome you to the community, she said.

Elizabeth was in her late fifties, wearing a neat navy skirt suit and with her gray hair in a tidy French twist.

Have we caught you at a bad time? her younger companion, in a crumpled dirndl skirt, asked. Moving is such a pain. Do you need any help? she added, gazing through her stringy dark blond bangs at the confusion inside.

Still wary, but ashamed of her unfriendly greeting, Merrill stepped back, gesturing for her visitors to come inside.

It’s a bit of a mess, I’m afraid. As you can see, I’m in the middle of unpacking. Would you like something to drink? I think there’s still coffee in the pot.

No, don’t bother. We won’t stay. We came to welcome you to the community and invite you to join our group, Elizabeth said, moving an empty packing carton from a kitchen chair and sitting down.

Shall I flatten this for you? she asked.

Thanks. I’m just about up to my ears in empty boxes and there’s not much storage here. What group do you represent? Merrill asked, with more than a little trepidation.

We call ourselves The First Ladies Club, Judy explained. We are a support group for pastors’ wives. We also do community service projects.

There hasn’t been a pastor at First Baptist for quite a while, so when we heard your husband was coming, we were all excited to have his wife join us, Elizabeth added.

Relieved, Merrill began, Oh, but I’m not married to the new pastor...

What! Oh, dear, I guess we’d better be going, then, Judy interrupted, hopping up. Our group includes lots of different theological interpretations and traditions, but I don’t think any of the ladies would be comfortable having a pastor’s, uh, well, uh, ‘domestic partner’ in the group.

Merrill laughed when she realized Judy thought she was ‘living in sin’ with the new pastor.

Baptists come in all shapes and sizes and range from conservative fundamentalists to liberal progressives, but there weren’t any denominations Merrill was aware of who would welcome a pastor with a live-in girlfriend.

No, you misunderstood me, she finally managed. I’m not the pastor’s wife, you see, because I am the pastor.

"You are the Reverend Doctor I. Merrill Bishop, like it says on the welcome sign on the message board in front of the church?" Judy asked.

That’s me, Merrill nodded.

Hallelujah! Elizabeth shouted, startling the others.

Dr. Bishop, until you arrived, I’ve been the only ordained woman in this community. My husband and I co-pastor the United Methodist Church downtown. You will be joining the Ministerial Association; I hope?

Of course, and please call me Merrill. Why do you ask?

When Gil and I came to Bannoch, many years ago, I accompanied him to the Ministerial meetings. I was treated very politely, of course; exactly as any pastor’s wife would have been, but after that I was completely ignored, unless they needed a hostess. I couldn’t fight it, so I stopped going. Those men couldn’t see me as an equal. I was Gil’s wife and nothing more. With you here, another ordained woman, I’m ready to take one more stab at breaking through the testosterone ceiling.

I understand, Merrill chuckled. My late husband was a minister. When I felt the call to seminary, I encountered the same attitudes you describe.

Well, hey, since you were once a pastor’s wife, couldn’t you still represent your church in our group? Judy said, and then added, You don’t have a pastor’s husband, now, do you?

No, Merrill said with a grin. Would that be so bad?

I guess not, but I’m not sure how a pastor’s male spouse would fit into the First Ladies Club, Judy explained.

Will you consider joining us, Merrill? You are going to need a support group outside of your congregation and we would love to have you, Elizabeth urged.

I don’t know if my schedule will allow me to attend on a regular basis, but I would love to come whenever I can. Thank you.

Good. That’s settled. We’ll let you know when and where the next meeting will be. Now, what can we do to help you get unpacked? Elizabeth said, hanging her jacket on the back of a chair and rolling back the cuffs of her white shirt.

Merrill was about to decline this generous offer, but was overcome by a coughing spasm.

When she was able to catch her breath, she gratefully gave her new friends directions for unpacking the boxes in the living room, and excused herself to take another dose of cold medicine.

Several hours later, the three tired women were sitting around an open pizza box nibbling on a few leftover crusts.

I cannot thank you enough for everything, Merrill said. I never could have gotten this done today by myself.

Certainly not, and you shouldn’t have to when you aren’t feeling well, Judy said. Besides, this has been fun. I always love looking at other people’s stuff.

Even ‘stuff’ as boring as mine? Merrill grinned.

Judy tried to brush powdered parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes off the front of her scoop-necked peasant blouse before speaking, but only managed to sweep most of it into her generous cleavage.

Oh, but it isn’t boring, she said. Every item has a past, and a use. And when its useful life is over, it can get a future by being re-purposed. For instance, that ratty old bathrobe hanging behind your bedroom door could make throw pillows or even a stuffed animal, when you finally get rid of it.

Ratty bathrobe, eh? Merrill asked, raising one eyebrow.

Omigosh! Did I say that? Judy cried.

Yes, dear, you certainly did. Merrill, you will have to forgive Judy. There doesn’t seem to be any filter between what she thinks and what she says, but her heart’s in the right place, Elizabeth teased.

It’s all right, Merrill said. I know that robe is pretty worn out, but I can’t get rid of it because it is so comfy. Also, it was a gift from my late husband. I wore it all through seminary, during those late night study sessions, and while writing and researching my doctoral thesis. It’s sort of my good luck charm.

Was it really hard getting your doctorate? I’d love to go back to school and finish my BA degree, but I don’t seem to be able to concentrate very well since the twins were born, Judy said.

The three women chatted about their families for another half-hour before Elizabeth glanced at her watch and got to her feet.

Come on, Judy. We’ve got to let Merrill get to bed.

Gosh, yes! Judy responded. You look awful, Merrill. Do you need help getting up the stairs and into bed?

No, thanks, Merrill replied. I don’t feel quite as bad as I must look. I can make it. Contemplating a nice long soak in that old claw-footed tub will carry me up the stairs. Thanks, again.

Merrill had her bath and her nightly devotions before climbing into her freshly made bed. She waited for the nighttime version of her cold medicine to kick in and just allowed her mind to drift.

She’d been in her new home exactly one full day and she had already found two new friends. Smiling, she lifted up a prayer of thanks and drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 2

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A low moan penetrated Merrill’s illness-and-antihistamine-befogged dreams, pulling her from a deep sleep. 

Squinting through sleep-glazed eyes at the unfamiliar room, she recalled where she was.

The bedroom walls of her new home seemed to be vibrating with the deep bellow of a foghorn.

When high-pitched whines and squeals followed the low rumble, she blinked and sat up in alarm.

Merrill walked into the hallway holding her hands over her ears. She tried to locate the source of the sounds now melding into a sort of agonizing harmony.

She moved farther from her bedroom and the noise became less painful.

In the bathroom with the door shut, she was finally able to discern the notes of a pipe organ and realized they were coming from the church sanctuary on the other side of the wall.

She showered and dressed, feeling all the time as if she were in the bowels of a monstrous calliope.

Making her way to the downstairs sitting room, she unlatched and opened the private connecting door to the church.

This doorway opened into a hallway which separated the sanctuary on one side from the choir room, restrooms and janitor’s closet on the other. At the far end, near the front of the church, the foyer and the Pastor’s Study were on opposite sides of the corridor.

A door on her left opened into the sanctuary.

Merrill stepped through this doorway and beheld a thin young man engrossed in playing a complicated classical organ composition. His eyes were closed and his longish blond hair swung across his face in time with the music, while his elegant fingers flew over the dual keyboards and his stocking-clad feet danced on the pedals.

The sound in the sanctuary was no longer overwhelming to Merrill’s ears and the beauty of the performance became overpowering in another way.

The young organist’s talent and passion were exceptional.

Merrill slipped onto a front pew and settled in to enjoy the music.

During a quiet passage she sneezed violently, shattering the mood, and the music ceased.

Who are you? the startled musician challenged, swinging around on the organ bench.

You can’t be in here, you know. This isn’t a homeless shelter, he said.

Merrill smiled ruefully, pulled a crumpled tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.

Dressed as she was, in sweatpants and an over-sized t-shirt, the young man’s mistake was understandable.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I’m just getting over a nasty cold, she explained.

Well, that’s too bad, but you can’t stay here. If you are ill, you should go to the clinic.

I came in because I heard you playing. You have a beautiful gift.

Thank you, but how did you get in here, anyway? I know I locked the front entrance.

I came in through my private door. I guess I should introduce myself, Merrill said, standing up and reaching out her hand.

I’m Doctor Merrill Bishop, the new pastor of this church. And you are...?

Oh, my goodness! the young man exclaimed as