Iniquity and Grace

By Thom Weekley

Gerald Richards and his son return to their hometown after the death of his wife. He gets a job working for a local newspaper. He becomes obsessed with a story about a church fire in 1942, and begins a journalistic investigation. During the process, he becomes acquainted with several local people who turn into major supporting characters throughout the book. As fate would have it, the fire is connected to a 1925 double murder involving a prominent Lakeview family. The plot becomes multigenerational murder when the family tries to cover up the sins of their ancestors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 15, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452092591

Thom Weekley

Thom Weekley was born in 1948 in Leesburg, Florida. After thirty-four years as a teacher, he retired and worked at a hardware store. He lives with Linda, his wife, and Bryndl, his cat, in the same house he grew up in. He is a Mason and a Shriner and enjoys photography.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The bell rang. The acolyte came out of the sacristy, bowed in front of the altar, and placed the crucifix in its accustomed place near the choir loft. The elderly priest slowly entered the sanctuary and stood behind the altar.

Rite One of the Book of Common Prayer begins on page 326. He said mechanically. The people, most of them elderly began to rustle the pages in their Prayer Book and clear their throats to begin the ritual worship service that they had known for most of their lives.

A flood of memories rushed through Gerald Richard’s mind as the service began. He had flashbacks of his days as a pimpled face acolyte sitting exactly where the teenager was fidgeting with his alb cincture. He remembered the day that he and his wife were married in this old Episcopal Church twenty five years earlier. He remembered the previous rector that had helped his father shake an addiction to alcohol only to preside over his funeral after a car accident when a train killed old Jimmy. He remembered his mother crying at the baptism of his only son nine years ago. He had been away a long time. Much had happened to him during this absence. He wondered what the future would hold.

Danny Richards wiggled in the seat next to his dad. He folded and refolded the order of service until it had created the perfect flying machine. He gazed upon it as if it were a multi-million dollar Air Force fighter. He could imagine the fire coming out of the rocket launcher and the crackle of gun fire from the machine guns. Finally, he elbowed his dad to show off his prize.

Gerald looked down at the folded up piece of paper and admired it. He had built many like it when he was a boy. Shhhhh! he whispered to his boy. Try to follow the service like Daddy. He watched Danny get the red Prayer Book out of the pew and begin to thumb through its worn pages. The little boy was not really sure what he was looking for.

Danny was all that he had left in the world. He had come home to try and put his life back together. Marilyn was dead. The crippling disease that took her life had taken a large chunk out of his. He was looking to this old church for spiritual comfort. He was hoping that he could start over.

The church service continued as mechanically as it had started. The old priest and the congregation repeated the comforting words that they had committed to memory many years ago. There was no hymn singing. There was no sermon. Just thirty-five minutes for the early morning communion service and the people were out the door. They cranked up their cars and peeled out ready to enjoy their Sunday.

Gerald stayed behind to pick up the order of services left on the pews. Danny ran up and down the aisles stomping on the air conditioning vents placed in the floor every ten feet. After the papers were put in a neat stack for the ushers at the 10:00 o clock service, Gerald left the church through the seldom used narthex.

The old priest struggled with the heavy wooden door of the sacristy which led out into the churchyard below. He turned and faced the grey concrete steps and said, ‘Jerry!, Jerry!". With his left hand tightly gripping the hand rail, he came down the stairs one step at a time as fast as his old frame would allow.

Gerald paused. He had not been called ‘Jerry’ in a long time. Since high school. He turned and watched the old priest shuffle up the walkway toward him.

Jerry, Jerry,’ the old man said panting. Oh it is so good to see you again. Are you going to be in town long? This must be your little boy. How old is he? I’m just so glad to see you. Where are you staying?"

I’m fine, Father Simmons. How are you?

Oh, I get around OK for an old man, I guess. I get up in the mornings and I hurt all over. I hurt in places I didn’t even know I had. I forget sometimes where I put my spectacles and if I took my medicine. Margaret passed five or six years ago. I can’t remember just when.

The service went well this morning, Father Simmons. Gerald said in a patronizing tone. I don’t think you ever missed a beat."

Oh, that was the old Rite One. I’ve been saying that mass so many years that it just comes out automatically.

Father Simmons put his hand on Danny’s shoulder and said, Son, I got so mad at your daddy one time that I wanted to cut one of those azalea bushes over there and take a switch to him. I was preaching a sermon at the 11:00 o clock service about the fires of hell when all of a sudden I heard a loud bang from behind the altar."

The old priest stopped a minute to catch his breath and continued, I was so startled that I dropped my notes. I stepped down from the pulpit and went right over to your daddy. Well, the congregation was chucking, I was so mad that my spectacles had fogged up, and the other acolytes bit their tongues in two trying not to bust out laughing. ‘Just what’s going on here?’ I asked. Your daddy looked up at me with innocent eyes and said, ‘I just killed a wasp.’ He opened up a Prayer Book and sure enough the flattened body of that poor varmint lay right on top of Psalm 100. By the time I straightened up and got back to my sermon the congregation was roaring with laughter. ‘If you want to know more about the fires of hell,’ I said, ‘Just ask that wasp. Right now he’s an expert on the wrath of God.’

Gerald and Danny laughed politely at the old priest’s story. He was not sure that it had really happened, but he was certain he was not that acolyte.

*  *  *  *

The old car skipped and moaned as Gerald turned the ignition key, but it finally sprung to some sort of life and he and Danny were on their way home. The thought of getting a new car seemed remote. The life insurance policy was just enough to pay for the funeral. There was little money left in the savings account, but at least he had a job. He drove down Ninth Street and remembered walking to school on those same sidewalks.

Step on a crack and break your mother’s back. He whispered.

Whadja say, Dad? Danny remarked with a puzzled look.

Gerald’s mind snapped back into reality just in time to stop for a red light at Dixie Avenue. As he sat there he could smell oil burning in the ancient Chevrolet.

Gerald finally turned into the drive way. The old house needed a paint job. A new roof. The screen on the porch needed to be replaced. He sighed. It would have to wait until he had a few pay days

Squirrels played in the high grass in the front yard. The bloom on the azalea bushes had started to wilt, but their pink hues were still vibrant. The old oak tree in the front yard shaded almost the whole house from the morning sun. The glimmer of the water in Lake Harris was visible through the city park across the street. This was not a bad place to live. This was not a bad place for Danny to spend the rest of his childhood. The future seemed like the noon day sun peaking through the leaves and branches of the majestic oak. Gerald felt encouraged.

The back door still stuck. It had been planed many times, but the humid Florida climate made adjustments necessary every two or three years. The sweet smell of fruit greeted Gerald as he entered the kitchen. Danny raced by. He bubbled with excitement as he changed into his play clothes and ran outside to get ‘Oldmas’ cane pole. The shell crackers were on the beds in the canals of Venetian Gardens.

As he pieced together ham sandwiches, Gerald could hear Danny digging furiously for worms in the azalea bed. He packed one of the sandwiches in a paper bag and filled Danny’s Cub Scout canteen with Kool Ade. He would send the young angler off to the lake and follow in about an hour. Fresh fried fish in corn meal would be good tonight.

Watch out for snakes, son. Ole Mister Cottonmouth can really mess up your day. Stay out of the water. You have to wear those shoes to school tomorrow.

I will, Dad. Danny stuck his sandwich inside his T shirt and put his canteen over his shoulder. He grabbed a can of freshly dug worms and strutted toward the lake with the cane pole sticking out of his arm pit like a medieval knight going off the a joust. The sorrows he had left in North Carolina were the furthest thoughts from his mind.

Gerald went into the living room, kicked off his shoes, picked up the newspaper and dropped down into one of the Lazyboys his mother had bought many years ago. His training as a journalist immediately fixed his eyes upon the name of the editor.

Fenton Broyles. He muttered. Broyles had been the editor of the same newspaper since Gerald was a teenager. He had a bad habit of printing unpopular opinions and was not well liked in the community. Jerry Richards had always referred to the newspaper as the Mullet Wrapper. And no good words were ever wasted by the elder Richards on the like of Fenton Broyles.

*  *  *  *

A pick up truck without a muffler roared by. Gerald jerked his head forward and tried to focus his eyes. He had dozed off while reading the paper. He looked at his watch. It was 1:30. Time to go down to the canals and check on Danny. He slid his feet into his penny loafers and left through the back door. An old habit.

The dark green St. Augustine grass felt lushly soft beneath his shoes. The city crews kept the park immaculate, the old folks in town insisted on it. Gerald crossed Lake Shore Drive and headed toward Venetian Gardens.

By this time the banks of the canals were filled with shell cracker fishermen, each with two or three cane pole laying down in front of them. Danny was the only white face in a long line of blacks, each periodically saluting this beautiful spring Sunday with one of their cane poles. Gerald meandered toward Danny and quietly stood behind the young boy.

Hi Dad! This is Mister Reuben. He teached me how to fish!

Reuben Harris was almost eighty years old. He had occupied this spot for almost all of those years when the fish were on the beds. His kinky white hair and toothless smile showed that those years had been hard.

I b’lieve I teached him too good. The old black man said. He done jus about caught up all de fish here!

Danny pulled up his rope stringer and proudly displayed the six fat shell crackers to his dad.

He done pulled dat stringer out of the water so many time that the fish done forgot how to swim. Reuben chuckled. His laughter was joined by a chorus of howls from all around the banks.

Some of dem fishes belongs to ole Carrie.

The sound of the voice was vaguely familiar. Gerald search the direction the voice had come from. His eyes instantly fixed upon an ancient black woman that was sitting on a five gallon bucket. She carefully adjusted each of the cane poles in front of her and looked up at Gerald. A tear ran down her face. Gerald’s eyes began to water.

It was Old Carrie. She had helped his mother with the washing and the house cleaning when he was a small child. She had fixed his lunch for school, nursed him through the mumps, and shook off some of the neighbourhood bullies with that boney black finger. She had practically raised Gerald while his mother and father tried to keep their clothing store open during tough times.

Carrie slowly rose to her feet and met Gerald with outstretched arms and tears. The throng of fishermen all slapped their knees and waved their arms in the air. Glory! Hallelujah! God’s name be praised! could be heard through out the Gardens.

All of a sudden red corks started jumping up and down in the canals. People were pulling in fish with both hands. Danny was struggling with a big fat bluegill. He was laughing and smiling so hard you could count every tooth in his mouth.

Old Reuben was half standing and half sitting with his hands full of fish. His other cane pole scooted across the canal pulled by a yearling bass. The moment was pure magic.

The rest of the afternoon was spent reminiscing with old Carrie. There was much to bring up to date. Reuben, it turned out, was Carrie’s baby brother.

CHAPTER TWO

The newsroom was cold. The air conditioning unit had been running all weekend. The news staff moved around the desks like zombies in a cheap movie. Monday mornings were usually like this. Finally, a portly woman in her forties eased up to Gerald and offered to get him a cup of coffee. I’m Clara Mae Marchant, but most of the staff just calls me ‘Mae’. Mister Broyles will see you in a minute. Would you like cream or sugar with your coffee?

Nothing, please, just black. Gerald watched as she waddled off to her desk in the corner of the large room. She poured a cup of coffee into a Styrofoam cup and brought it back. I wouldn’t complain about the coffee. She said with a smile. I get here early to make it and I’ve been known to take my revenge out on complainers the next day. She chuckled in such a way that Gerald knew she was joking. Just trying to break the ice.

My name is Gerald Richards.

I know. Your boss in Charlotte faxed down your resume last week. Getting used to a small time rag like this is going to take some effort after working in such a large town. I have a friend who works for the paper up there. Went to high school with her. You know Linda Craven?

Yes, very well. We worked on a story about the Hornets last year. Got us into some hot water, but she pulled us out by getting the D.A. to file charges against the two players involved. I don’t think I’ve ever been so close to going to jail.

"You won’t see that kind of excitement around here I’m afraid. The biggest story we had around here was when the new Wal-Mart opened. You sit right here and I’ll call you when Mister Broyles is ready."

The interchange made Gerald feel much more at ease. There was not much difference in the way newspapers operate. The change of pace would be nice. He would have more time to be a real part of Danny’s life. Cub Scouts, Little League, fishing. They had never really been close. He was always working. Marylyn did all those things so he only saw Danny at night after the little boy was fast asleep. ‘What would it be like to be a real father?’, he thought.

I want that story re written and on my desk in half an hour! A deep baritone voice roared from inside the small office. It was a simple accident, for Christ’s sake. You should want a Pulitzer for a Goddamn fender bender? The door to Mister Broyles office was now open. A young reporter in his middle twenties back peddled out, nervously repeating Yes sir. Until he backed right up to Ms. Mae who was pouring coffee into a cup with the word ‘BOSS’ written on it.

Easy there young fella. Don’t be rubbin’ up to me unless you mean business! The whole scene would have seemed comical to Gerald except he was the next lamb to be led into the lion’s den.

Mister Richards is here, Boss. Mae tiptoed into Broyles office and put the mug on the corner of his desk.

"Bring me that fax we got last week and tell him to come in. Also, tell Bobby I want to talk to him about that story he wrote on the Mt. Dora football team last Saturday.

Gerald rose from the chair as Mae glided past and mumbled, The Boss will see you now. The few steps it took to get to the editor’s office were frightening. He expected to see a three legged chair with straps on the arms and an electrode looming over the top. He was going to be fired before he even started.

Sit down. Snarled to obviously irritated editor. Broyles was a stocky man about five feet eleven inches tall. He was bald on the top of his head except for a few whisps of hair he folded over the crown of his head. He looked more like an ex prize fighter than an editor. He swung the chair behind his desk and sat down as if every bone in his body ached.

These little shits come out of college and think they are God’s gift to news reporting. Every piece of work they create is so full of journalistic crap that you could fertilize a small orange grove with a daily. I started with this rag as a paper boy in 1962. I delivered forty-five newspapers on my bicycle every damn day. I had to collect thirty-five cents every week from people who could hardly pay their rent. The last man I hired had two references: his high school and college papers.

Mae entered the office and handed a small manila file to the old man. He opened the file and unfolded the fax as he leaned back and placed his feet up on the desk. name’s Gerald Richards. Worked for Chuck Mitchell. He stretched out his arms and placed the papers on his desk. Chuck and I go back a long way. We studied journalism together at the University of Florida back in the early seventies. He called me last week. Told me about your wife. I told him that I didn’t have any positions available right now, but I would try to work you in. Chuck started calling in markers from thirty years ago. I hope you know that he really went to bat for you.

mister Richards and I were quite close toward the end. He helped me in so many ways that I could never really repay him. A flash back entered Gerald’s consciousness of a frail old man holding a small boy on his lap at the funeral of his late wife.

I understand that you grew up around here. Who was your daddy?

"My father owned a clothing store on Main Street across from the Palace Theatre.

Richards…Richards… the elder man muttered. You are old Jimmy Richards’ boy? I used to drink coffee with old Jimmy at the Crescent Drug Store. Boy, that was a long time ago. I always liked old Jimmy.

Considering what Gerald remembered about the way his father thought about Fenton Broyles, this came as a mild shock.

Jimmy and I joined the Lodge together. It was in 1975. I see you joined the Masonic Lodge up in Charlotte.

Yes sir. Mister Mitchell got me interested and later signed my petition.

Broyles leaned forward with a glaring look and said, I’m going to put you on at this paper young man. I expect you to hustle around here like every body else. There won’t be many of those high profile stories around this town, so you’ll have to make news out of cat shit. I’m going to start you off at our base salary. We’ll review your progress in six weeks. We don’t have an extra desk in the newsroom, so you’ll have to share with another reporter. Mae! Get Buddy Roberts in here. Buddy’s been with the paper for about a year. Came here from Orlando. He’s been working the tea party circuit.

Almost instantly Mae produced the same blond haired young man that had been getting his butt chewed just a few minutes ago.

You got that story rewritten, boy?

Almost, sir. The young man came into the office and backed into the corner.

This is Richards. You two will have to share a desk. He’s going to take over the tea party circuit and I’m putting your ass in city hall. Take his around and introduce him to the staff. Broyles picked up the manila folder and the fax and handed it to Mae. By the way, I think you only have ten minutes to get that story to me!

Yes sir! Mae and Buddy led Gerald out of the office into the news room which was bustling with activity by this time. People were pecking away at their word processors, jabbering into phones, and sipping cold coffee all at the same time. This was the newspaper business.

*  *  *  *

Nick’s café was astir with customers trying to fit a locally famous country fries steak luncheon special into the business day. This was one of the quaint little restaurants on Main Street where all the locals ate. There were fancier restaurants in town, and there was the country club, but they were for a multitude of tourists and snow birds that invaded rural Florida during the winter. The owner was a Greek named Aristotle Barbarosa. Most people in town just called him ‘Nick’.

Gerald and Buddy sat down at one of the booths that line the walls of the café. Dishes rattled, glasses tinkled and old Nick paraded up and down the aisles personally inspecting each plate that was served. About every third or fourth customer he would bum a cigarette. I no smoke now. Government no like old Nick to smoke in restaurant. He would then put the cigarette in his food stained apron and continue his rounds.

A raven haired elderly waitress with a wart on the side of her face sauntered up to the booth. She pulled out her pen and order pad, cocked her hip to one side and spoke out of the side of her mouth, What’ll you two boys have?

Ruby, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Buddy smiled and winked at Gerald.

"And you’re full of shit, Buddy Roberts. I’m old enough to be your grandmother.

They here for my country fried steak and biscuits. The old Greek waddled up to the booth and sat down. Buddy, who your friend? You gotta a cigarette?

Nick, you know I don’t smoke.

What kind of friend you are, no smoke. growled Nick.

In all the year you have been running this restaurant Nick, have you ever bought a cigarette?

I’ve been here thirty five year. Have a cigarette machine in the corner. Never buy a pack of cigarettes in whole thirty five year. Where that no good son of a bitch you work for?

He recommended this place to us, Nick.

You full of shit. He try to close my place down. Say health department shut up old Nick. My kitchen clean as Lancers across town. He just too good to eat here.

About this time Ruby popped out of the kitchen with the two luncheon plates balanced on one arm and two glasses of iced tea in the other hand. The steaks were breaded and fried to a golden brown and then cooked in gravy sauce. There were mashed potatoes and green beans cooked in pork on the side and a large sour dough biscuit in the center. Ruby then brought a small bowl of peach cobbler for dessert. This was a meal fit for a country king.

The two men dove into their luncheon plates as if they hadn’t eaten in a week. Between bites, Buddy introduced Gerald who was too busy working his fork to shake hands with the old Greek.

I knew a Richards. Owned a clothing store up the street. Used to eat with old Nick. Bring his wife in too.

"That was my dad. Said Gerald as he wiped a bit of gravy off the side of his mouth.

Nick looked stunned. You Jimmy’s boy? You dat little blonde hair boy used to eat here with your dad? Ruby! Come here!. Dis old Jimmy’s boy, the little blonde hair boy that used to eat here.

Ruby squinted and looked a little closer to Gerald. There was the look of recognition and then surprise. Well, glory be! I remember you now. You were that little boy that had such good manners. Always said ‘Yes ma’am, No Ma’am. Even to old Ruby. I haven’t seen you in years. Where have you been all this time.?

Charlotte.

Gerald’s going to be working for us at the paper. Buddy piped in.

You no going to try to shut old Nick down, are you? grumbled the old man.

No, right now I’m working all of the garden parties, weddings and debutant balls. Gerald chuckled.

Good. You come back see old Nick, bring him cigarette.

Nick walked back into the kitchen and Ruby walked toward the cash register smiling and shaking her head as if she had just seen a miracle. The two men finished their lunch and relaxed in the booth with their backs to the wall. They were momentarily trapped by that state of euphoria that overcomes one after a wonderfully satisfying meal.

What do you expect to find here, Gerald? inquired his junior colleague.

I don’t know, Buddy. I just want to get my feet on the ground again. I want to try to raise my son and find some peace in this world.

Well, if peace and quiet are what you want out of life, bud, you have come to the right berg. The only sound you hear at night is the crunch of the sidewalks when the city rolls them up.

Ruby brought them their bills. They left her the usual tip, got up and paid for their meals and hit the street. Buddy had an interview with the mayor. Gerald was going to a meeting of the local BPW where he would write a column about the installation of the new officers.

*  *  *  *

It was almost 3:00 o clock. Gerald was an hour ahead of his deadline. He had worked under such stress in Charlotte that his assignment seemed elementary. He had finished writing the story before the installation ceremony was half over. I didn’t take long to peck it out on the word processor. Broyles asked to see the copy when it was finished. He studied it carefully and grumbled something about having to print such crap in his newspaper. Gerald wasn’t disappointed. Far from it. He was sure that the old man would immediately show his anger at any story that didn’t meet the professional standards of Fenton Broyles.

Mister Richards, you have a phone call on line two. Mae pointed at the phone on her desk. I think it’s the school.

Gerald picked up the receiver and said, This is Gerald Richards."

The voice on the telephone replied, "Mr. Richards, this is Mrs. Tanner at Lake Elementary School. We met this morning when you enrolled Danny. Could you come by the school this afternoon and pick up Danny?

I think so. Is something wrong? he inquired.

I’d rather not talk about it over the phone. Could you come soon?

Gerald covered the receiver with his hand and turned to Mae. They need me at Danny’s school.

Go ahead. She uttered, I’ll cover for you.

Yes. I can come right away. Thank you Mrs. Tanner.

Gerald walked quickly to his car. The school was only a few blocks from the office. It was a large red brick building across from the Episcopal Church. Gerald had attended the same school when he was a child. He parked the car near the church and walked across the street to the glass doors of the administration building. He could see Danny on a bench inside the office. His face was red and swollen. He