Murder in the Chapel

By Mark Henry Miller

Randall Foster prefers to preach sermons, teach classes, raise funds, recruit members and make sure he visits church members before their surgery. Wants to be known for that, if anything a caring minister you can trust. Dreamer.

Alas, if anything can go wrongit does.

Not a short list of the wrong goingsexual misconduct chargesdivorce...congregational meeting to throw him outdouble-homicide indictment when a church member is found slumped dead in churchs front sanctuary pew. Didnt help the woman, four months pregnant, is his misconduct accuser and a noosed rope around her neck is from his pulpit robe.

He has to reach up to touch bottom.

Then the surprises begin.

Not everyone is against him. Some figure shadows are evidence of
light somewhere.

He is sinkingfast. But not all is lost. An irascible secretarya dont let them get you church membera new fishing guideand a salmon-stalking sea lion make for the most unpredictable sliver of hope. Hell take it.

Sinking? Yep. Drown? Not sure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491814192

Mark Henry Miller

Dr. Mark Henry Miller is a retired United Church of Christ local church pastor and Conference Minister. He and his wife, Diane, and their three faithful buddies, Faith [English Cocker Spaniel], Caleb [King Charles Cavalier] and Copper [Yellow Lab], live in Leander, Texas, where there is neither salmon nor winter steelhead fishing. Which means Mark knows how to always find the Austin Airport to get to Oregon or Washington for fishingreal fishing, he adds. The fishing comes naturally to Mark, having been born in Portland, Oregon. He found the libraries often enough at Stanford University, Yale University Divinity School and Eden Theological Seminary to earn various degrees leading to ordination. Truth Uncovered, not unlike his five previous novels includes life, ministry, fishing and murder, but rarely in that order. This novels venue is Tillamook, Oregon and The Columbia River at Buoy Ten, where river and ocean greet each other. The authors picture shows an almost 30 pound fall Chinook Salmon caught out of the Church Hole, part of the Buoy Ten Fishery. The salmon makes a cameo appearance in the novel as does the Church Hole. You can see the Astoria-Megler bridge in the background, another cameo player. The author is the one without the fins; hes not in the novel. If you are interested in the other Tricia Gleason novels, she appears in all five and is instrumental in helping solve homicides, they are available on www.authorhouse.com and www.amazon/kindle.com. Contact Mark if you wish a personal/signed copy at [e-mail]

Book preview

Murder

in the

Chapel

Mark Henry Miller

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2013 Mark Henry Miller. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 9/13/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1420-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1419-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013915598

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The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Acknowledgements

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

About the Author

Acknowledgements

My son, Andrew, had a college basketball coach who began…and then ended ever pre-game speech, Keep on Keeping on. Join that to my college baseball coach, who after ten or eleven losses, pre-speeched us with fellas, do your best and let the chips fall where they may. To that, one of our players who played less than any of us, gathered attention if not fame through humor, got up, took four steps, fell flat on his face, wiped his very clean uniform off, commented, Sure a lot of chips in this dugout.

Believe me. Writing a novel is more than giving my best and not waiting to count the chips. Much more.

Spelling gratitude more than presumption, my thanks to the following for making this novel more than my pounding computer keys.

Early seeds were planted to the birthing thought of Murder In The Chapel by my editor, Katherine Saideman. Given additional insight from Mary Robertson, James Thayer and Al Day, each of whom helped the verbs to work with the subjects and to be miserly when it comes to comma and exclamation point usage.

For the particulars, three of the most wonderful clergy who have shared the journey with me, each of whom refuses to establish mediocrity at a moral principle, Dani Loving Cartwright, Joanne Carlson Brown and Jo Hudson. You made sure the details did not meander off the trail of reality. You helped me not to get lost.

Clarification to the forensic and indictment details? No one better for counsel than Chase Stapp, Assistant Chief of Police, San Marcos, Texas, Police Department. And. Important that I remember both clearly and accurately the tight lines and pinging line when fishing, deep thanks to a wonderful friend and fishing guide [what a great combination, right?], Chris Vertopoulos; to me simply Zorba. Zorba, your padre got fighting those Tillamook Bay Fall Chinook salmon spot on.

Most of all what gets this book to and through the Epilogue is the caring and always helpful comments from Diane, who is wife, friend, encourager. Diane, you make my writing better than I can.

So, hopefully there aren’t a lot of chips on the floor, and the keeping on makes it a good read.

For any errata [I like that better than mistakes]…on me. It will be my version of mea culpa.

One

His week had been most unforgettable. Seminary had not trained him to deal with this. Nope. Randall Foster never imagined his vocation would be in such a precarious position. Some of his buddies at Union Seminary in New York City believed his middle name should be Cool-Calm. His precariousness hit with more than the force of a snowflake. Cool-Calm had left town.

Started with the congregational meeting last Sunday, the vote to determine his future. More than persuasive that 90% of the congregation wanted him to stay. The 10%? Good friends of his accuser, a new member of the church who asked him once why he hadn’t visited her on Sunday afternoons, at least the Sundays her husband traveled to Houston.

Elaine Goodman by name; evil by function. He thought, more than often, She’s misnamed, gives bad news a classic definition.

She had a subtlety bypass with her invitation, No reason a pastor shouldn’t visit a new parishioner. Is there? Time to get to know me. Hadley will be out of town doing business. I’ll be alone and that’s not right. And if I’m not inviting I would wager my swimming pool is. She smiled her effort to be seductive and handed him a calendar. The dates and times are there for you. I checked with your church calendar and you’ve got lots of availability. Would be a good learning time, don’t you think? Shame for you to miss acquainting moments.

He couldn’t trash the note soon enough, tore it up and discarded in two different waste baskets…couldn’t be safe enough from this perilous woman. Kept the invitation to himself; no need to do otherwise.

The accuser—he was sure she had a Personal Identity Disorder—worsened her charges to what his Conference Minister called flagrant by mailing a detailed letter of their sexual escapades to the four oldest members of the church and the Church Council members. The four older members thought their minister wasn’t better than great, but he measured up close to that in his caring for them. Her letter, if it had a nose would not stop growing, meant the beloved pastor had to make four visits, each time assuring the church members the accuser was not telling the truth.

The Church Council had investigated a month ago and found the charges ungrounded. Or, as one almost-always-sarcastic Council member offered, the charges were unbedded.

In defending himself to the Church Council he said that Elaine had come to his office and in the third person said that she had been to a therapist who urged her to confess to him about her fantasies. He explained, She said that ‘Elaine has not been a good person,’ and went on to detail how she imagined he had come to her house, then to her swimming pool and bed and the sex was ‘beyond ravishing.’ Explained that she provided a cover each time so pregnancy stayed away.

She said, I know it was not good for Elaine to think in that manner. Elaine wants to make it right. Can we become best friends? Hopefully you won’t hold Elaine’s fantasy life against her.

He explained that she was a new church member and that was that. He imagined that her charges got public and were put in the letters because….well he really didn’t know. But he knew it was her word against his. And he knew that evil more than lurked in Elaine Goodman.

He did know, because she had shared it, that she and her husband, Hadley, had a daughter, named Rebecca, who had died at the age of five from Cystic Fibrosis. That was tough, Randall knew, but she only mentioned her daughter’s death once and dismissed conversation about it, It’s history, best left to itself.

In one word, Elaine was scary.

The Council met with her and learned which days he had supposedly come to her house. As chance would have it, even though he and his wife, Jennifer, had divorced a year ago, Jennifer made it clear on each of the days Elaine mentioned, he was with her and their twin sons, for their adventures in retail therapy.

He knew that wasn’t true, so he asked Jennifer later why she lied. She smiled, etched a finger above her head, her way to keep score, I can lie better than she.

The Council sided with him and announced in a non-identifying way that complaints have been filed against our pastor. We have reviewed them, held interviews and have voted unanimously to support our pastor. The complaints are unfounded.

He figured the Council endorsing vote and notice to the congregation flipped Elaine’s switch, to become enraged. Even beyond. He thought, however, her wrath would lessen to the point of nothing. He really relished being pastor and not defender. Looked forward to that, trusting all would be fine.

He couldn’t keep the congregational meeting to terminate his contract from happening. Some supporters of Elaine, finding her claims to be accurate, submitted a petition to the Council. They had no choice in scheduling the meeting. The convincing vote of support heartened him. And, he thought, meant clear sailing. He was wrong.

It was now Saturday night, the rain beyond pouring. He pushed exhaustion, still not ready with his sermon. Even more. He sat with worry. Not about the rampant and very false charges, but fretted over the flooding of Onion Creek, just south of Austin. The why was because two of his favorite members, sisters Florence and Naomi Parsons, lived in their family ranch house, acres and acres of grass along Onion Creek.

He had driven to their place this Saturday afternoon; made sure they were okay. They gave him some blackberry cobbler, as Florence made it clear, You are wonderful. We’re SURE your middle name has something to do with helping.

With a twinkle in her eye she declared, paying no attention to the self-congratulatory tone, Besides, you’ll never get better blackberry cobbler. You know? Ours is better than what you get at the Salt Lick. If they were smart they’d have us make the cobbler for them.

They knew the Salt Lick was Randall’s favorite Bbq restaurant, so the connection was more indication the sisters, spinsters and loving it, never had a sense of humor by-pass.

The storm unrelenting, he called them, Gotta check on you two. Want me to drive down to help? Sure, I was there earlier today, but you two are more than worth a second visit in the same day. Besides, I’m pretty good at bailing water…and don’t forget a good preaching and fishing minister ALWAYS has chest waders.

They laughed, "Look at you, Mr. Reverend. There you go…caring again. Help has to be your middle name."

He smiled, actually preferred Help over Cool-Calm.

And then, as if it were rehearsed they chorused, We are good, but if that changes, know we can swim.

They laughed again, Ah, did we get you with that one?

Florence couldn’t resist, Say, good Reverend? Naomi and I do have a question…in case we need to do some building, know how long a cubit is? And, if you don’t, maybe you can text Noah.

He smiled and gave thanks for their humor, never gallowed and always welcomed.

He hadn’t had much to smile about the entire week. He thought that after the congregational meeting the furor would ebb and stop. He was wrong. Some of the church’s strongest supporters—read that the ones who gave the most money—wanted to see him next week, something about we wonder about the future of our church. That was filled with silence once the day and time were set. He felt it imprudent to ask any questions. Better to be cool and calm and…well, he could fake that very well. A mandating autograph of ministry. Avoid transparency at any cost. Was good at that. Most of the time. Nothing wrong at times, make sure what people saw on the outside was under control.

Thunder crackled, the lightning flashes bringing anything but good news.

He had one more task. Each night the church sanctuary was open for meditation. Many University of Texas students appreciated the church’s hospitality, a time and place where they could be quiet. Since they were right next to the main campus, on Guadalupe Street, it was convenient and very accessible. Such quiet was uncommon, especially in the Music City, one of Austin’s promo tags. It was one of the more popular ministries of the church, to have an open chapel for meditation. One of his clergy buddies once called the open chapel an oasis of goodness.

Pretty much the suggestion of no cell phones in the sanctuary was observed. His task was to close the chapel doors on Saturday at the strike of midnight. Everyone knew the time parameter. Never a problem. Church members handled the close-up chores most nights, but he wanted Saturday nights. Mainly because it was when he wrote his sermons. Since the parsonage was on church property, it was a no-brainer. He’d be the Saturday night closer.

Certainly he thought about Florence and Naomi as he ran to the sanctuary door, his Simms fishing jacket fending off the pelting rain. Surprisingly the door was wide open. What’s this all about? That had not happened before. He thought maybe someone was still meditating, so he walked as quietly as possible, the squish of his tennis shoes hard to hear. Or he supposed.

He then saw someone sitting in the front pew. Couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman. The head was a little off center. A rain jacket hood still on. Curious. Even more. Eerie. No movement.

He walked up and announced, Hello? I’m the pastor of the chapel and need to close the doors for the evening. Is there anything I can help you with?

He reached the front pew.

There she was. Elaine Goodman. His accuser. Sitting. Slump shouldered. He looked more closely; wished he hadn’t. Propped up on the pew, her eyes wide open, staring, glazed and empty. Her tongue pushing against her lips, puffed them outward. Her face was ashen white, all the blood drained. Her arms hung limp by her side.

He then saw the rope twisted around her neck, like a noose. He looked closer to see it was the green rope from his pulpit robe. A weapon of death. A murderous rope. His rope.

He looked up to the door next to the altar, could see the closet where he kept his robes. The closet door was open. His green robe, the one he wore these weeks, clumped on the floor, the hangar naked on the coat hook, not moving.

Randall got closer to her body and reached for the rope. As he loosened it, Elaine slumped on the pew. The rope came loose. Randall stood there, like a stone, in disbelief, holding the rope in his hands.

Closed his eyes, pushed his slicker hood back, clenched his fists, pounded them against each other and screamed to God and the whole earth, THIS CANNOT BE…IT CANNOT BE. GOD ALMIGHTY! PLEASE. WAKE HER UP! I DIDN’T DO IT…WILL ANYONE BELIEVE ME?

He reached for her neck. Didn’t know why, but he wanted to make sure. No pulse. No life. Pulled her back up to a sitting position.

Looked around. No one. He was alone. Was the only one breathing. His mind raced. Nothing Cool-Calm about him. He knew it was his pulpit rope that would send him to Maximum Security in Huntsville. He HAD to do something to declare his innocence. So he did, not aware reason had fled.

Took the rope, went to his office, picked up the robe, looped the rope over a hanger as he always had, and replaced it in the closet. Shut the door.

Heard a thump. He jumped, bit so strongly on his cheek he tasted blood. Looked and saw that Elaine had fallen on her side again.

Leaned her back up, head still drooped.

And, in that moment he knew, his world now shattered into a million pieces—he knew nothing was good. Bad closer to an unforgettable week.

Reached for his cellular, but suddenly the thoughts drowned him, as if Onion Creek hit him full force. And with that, the thoughts pushed hard. They all came together. Not good.

Two

Dead bodies. That’s all he could think about. All the dead bodies he had seen during his ministry. He didn’t know why but somehow over the years, almost two decades worth, death came to him…and he never flinched. Not that he was ice, but he was calm and connected with the bereaved. Some of his colleagues told him, more often to make it affirmation and not speculation, Randall? You are the consummate non-anxious presence. What a gift! Especially when everyone around you is falling apart.

He remembered the first baby he baptized was dead. Died of leukemia. The hospital could not reach the priest, so he was called. The mother, shocked beyond description, believed, as she had been taught, that if her baby wasn’t baptized the infant would not go to heaven. She didn’t know what purgatory meant but it didn’t sound welcoming to her. So he told the nurses and doctor what he needed to do, got a bowl of water and baptized the baby. The mother had left the ICU room. She asked, Is my baby baptized? He said with gentleness and truth, Yes, your baby is baptized.

He thought of that…the unwelcomed death but the assuring presence.

And then the 14 year old who hung from her garage beam. He arrived before the father and had to tell the father his only child had taken her life. He did that and was able to bring comfort to the mother and father.

Then when they disconnected the breathing machine from the 18 year old church member. He had crashed into another truck and was comatose. After the brain tests over a couple of days—no brain life—the family asked to let him go. He stood with the mother and father as the doctor removed life from their beautiful son.

Or standing with Natalie by the swollen creek as the firemen scuba divers brought her 2-year-old son’s lifeless body from under the bushes across the creek. Randall stood with Natalie as she held her son. He was focused even though he shook inside…his own twin sons, also two years old…he couldn’t help but be grateful they were alive. He went home and hugged them, a hug that squeezed. They didn’t know the why but they smiled.

Or the frantic call from Catherine, Pastor, a tragedy! Come over, please. I’ve called the police. Randall got there, went into the garage. Roger sat in the car, never to breathe again. Randall could take care of that.

The dead bodies. All around him. In that moment, not good memories. And in that moment, agitated and out of control. Not even in the same zip code as a non-anxious presence. Mr. Calm-Cool Foster.

Looked at Elaine and it was clear. She wasn’t a body. She was a corpse. Heard something.

Hello, this is 911. Is anyone there? Please answer. 911 wants to hear from you.

He looked at his cellular and all the dead bodies vanished. But the corpse didn’t.

His voice, rattled, spat out the words, Death. A body in our sanctuary, Mayflower Church on Guadalupe.

The 911 operator took the information, Sir, please identify yourself. I have your cellular number. Are you the minister?

Click.

He walked across the courtyard to his church parsonage, opened the door and went to his home office. Kept the lights off.

Kept shaking his head and began to weep. Big-time weep. He wasn’t in control. Life had suddenly crashed. Life? His? Emotions rushed in and over him. A tsunami. Onion Creek trickled in comparison.

Through the tears it came back to him, the ugliest replay possible. He remembered Elaine’s call, could recite it without a script. Had no idea, what if…what if I hadn’t refused to see her?

His mind stopped swirling, could hear her voice.

Shrill, panic in her voice, the caller blurted, Randall! Randall! This is Elaine. I’ve got to see you immediately. There’s something that you don’t know. It’s more than important. I cannot tell anyone else. No matter what happened in the meeting last Sunday, you’re the only one I can trust. You’ve got to listen to me. I need help. I’m coming over right now…even with the rain.

Randall squinted his eyes as if he could see through the phone, trying to imagine in his mind’s eye what this was about. Caught very off-guard, he squeezed, almost strangled the phone. With a calm but firm voice that betrayed his inner stress, he responded, Elaine, there’s no use coming…it’s raining too hard and some of the roads may be flooded south of town because of Onion Creek. I may need to go there any minute. I’m expecting one of our parishioners to call. I visited two of them this afternoon and the flooding conditions are getting more ominous. This is not a good time, not a good time at all. I need to be on alert for them. Now is not the time for you to come and visit. It is simply not a good time.

Tried to be firm and resolute. In truth he couldn’t have cared less about the rain. Truth is he would see every single soul on earth before he’d see Elaine, even Bin Laden.

Still choking the phone as if he wanted it to quit breathing, Randall closed his eyes and thought to himself, Dear God, help this woman. Take her off my hands. She’s lied through her teeth at every turn. This cannot be different. Take her from me! I cannot speak to her one more minute. Hasn’t there been enough from her? Enough? More than enough? Get her out of my life. She’s been nothing less than a month of Good Fridays…and then some. Everything she’s said…a friend is right, the only time Elaine Goodman speaks the truth is when her lips don’t move.

Elaine was nothing but trouble…a real alligator he would describe parishioners whose need to run over a minister is unrelenting. These parishioners give pariahs a good name, the kind of parishioner you’d like to trade or exile. Elaine Goodman, when her lips moved, made it clear: her need to complain was always greater than her willingness to understand.

Randall had no earthly idea what Elaine was thinking, or intended to share. As if she hadn’t shared enough in recent months, bringing such hell to Randall’s life he wished she were only a bad nightmare, or a foolish thought. In a word, she was a horrible, horrible person, one for whom Randall had no civil thought. Tolerance bid leave long past. He knew. Wasn’t pastoral. His excuse wasn’t unfounded, the concern with the flood and the great parishioners, Naomi and Florence. Elaine Goodman? Not. It wouldn’t hurt him one bit if she just left, for good, forever, or even if she quit breathing. He was that upset with her. She was malignant and no cure would ever help. None whatsoever.

Elaine wasn’t persuaded, "That won’t do, Randall. The rain isn’t a factor and you know it. I can think of other reasons to not see me, but I’ll have none of it. You have no choice. This is important. Yes, I know the congregational meeting was troublesome, probably overbearing and onerous. Ended up being victories; I’m the loser.

But now, hear me and stay with me on this, Randall. I cannot convey how serious this is, life-changing for me, but not something I can speak to you about over the phone. You are my only hope. I’m coming right now…I’ll meet you in the sanctuary. I know it will be open, especially on a night like this, and in my life, the torrential rains are nothing to how I feel. Randall. Be there, that’s the least you can do.

Randall couldn’t ignore the exchange. Oh if he could. What if I had agreed…to meet with her? I didn’t. Will have to live with that. Shit. What did she want? A little late to ask.

He heard the knock on the door, This is the police. Please open the door.

Blinked, tried to refocus. Another knock. Open the door? He didn’t want