Murder Takes the Fifth: The Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery Series, #5

By K.P. Gresham

When the nightclub bombings begin in downtown Austin, a dear friend of Pastor Matt Hayden is arrested for the murders. Matt is forced to put on his old cop's hat to find the real killers and soon learns that the culprits are on a vendetta to hurt those he loves most. Matt is forced to enter the dangerous world of religious radicalism, political blackmail, and two power-hungry tycoons who will kill anyone who gets in their way—including Matt.

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.P. Gresham
• Release date: Mar 21, 2024
• ISBN: 9781956394047

K.P. Gresham

K.P. Gresham is the award-winning author of the Pastor Matt Hayden Mystery Series as well as several stand-alone novels. Active in Sisters in Crime and the Writers League of Texas, she has won Best Novel awards from the Bay Area Writers League as well as the Mystery Writers of America. Where to Find K.P.Website: http://www.kpgresham.com/Email: [e-mail]: https://inkstainedwretches.home.blog/https://austinmysterywriters.com/Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/kpgresham

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Prologue

The Driskill Hotel stood in the heart of Austin, Texas. The Romanesque-style building, designed by cattleman Col. Jesse Driskill, opened its doors in 1886. With its elegant lobby, rustic leather couches, cattle-branded custom carpets, and original Remington brass sculptures, the hotel was the place to see and be seen.

This was exactly what the four people gathering in the private room off the bar didn’t want. The fact that they were all at the Driskill at the same place and time made total sense. The Texas Arts Foundation Charity Ball was a must-attend event for anyone who was anybody in the capital city. However, they didn’t want to be seen together going into a private room—people would assume something was up. Which it was. To that end, the four took care to arrive at different times from different directions.

The first to arrive was Hester Honeywell. The seventy-eight-year-old woman was exquisite. Her shoulder-length silver hair was pushed back behind her ears, emphasizing her aristocratic cheekbones and chin. Her face was a canvas of wrinkles, but her soft skin bespoke years of wisdom. Hester’s beauty was in her age.

She surveyed the intricately paneled room. A circular, carved mesquite table surrounded by five turquoise, crocodile-hide dining chairs took center stage. On the far wall stood a polished wood buffet with tooled leather panels on its drawers and door. Atop the buffet sat a silver tray holding five Baccarat crystal glasses, a bottle of Yamazaki twelve-year-old whiskey, a bottle of Luce red blend, a water carafe, and a bucket of ice.

Good, she thought. Everything was in place. No waiters with prying eyes or servers with curious ears would interrupt the business of the night––a man’s life was hanging in the balance.

And to save him, she was about to strike a deal with the devil.

The next to arrive was Kenny Wang, an older Asian man with a flat face and a black toupee that looked like a rat’s nest. The bar’s packed, he said in his deep Texas twang.

Maybe that’s good, replied Hester, her voice low and smoky. People’ll be too drunk to notice our absence. If noticed, we’ll just be another pretty face.

You, maybe. Kenny laughed, then headed for the bar. Whiskey?

She shook her head. I’ll have a glass of wine. For now.

The door opened again, and Jerry Lombardi walked in. Jerry was a good ol’ boy, the stuff of which Texas lore was written. In his late sixties, he bore the pounds of too much fried chicken, the sallow skin of too much drink, and the formidable conviction that no man was his match.

Which was all right with Hester. She wasn’t a man.

We all ready for this? Jerry asked, throwing a suit jacket over one of the chairs.

Hester ignored the question. How’d your hearing go?

He shrugged. Dog and pony show. That’s all those congressmen want. To get their ugly faces on TV. He looked over at Kenny. Two fingers, please.

Sheriff James W. Novak was the next to enter. James W., a round-chested man with a burr haircut heading to gray, was dressed in an ill-fitting tuxedo. His blue eyes took in the room’s gathering: Hester, the owner of Wranglers Communications, which published most of the small-town newspapers in Texas; Jerry Lombardi, the editor-in-chief of the Dallas Daily News; and Kenny Wang, the media mogul who owned more television and radio stations across the country than he could count.

James W. shook his head. What was a small fish like him doing in this room filled with sharks? But, of course, he knew the answer to that one. His son was the governor of the great state, and with James W.’s wife serving as First Lady for their bachelor son, James W. got dragged to all kinds of fancy do’s. But that applied to the gig upstairs. This meeting was all business. I guess we’re going to do this, then.

Yep, Hester said.

Yep, Kenny and Jerry echoed.

James W. looked at his watch. He should be here pretty quick. His press conference ended ten minutes ago.

Fine then. We’re set, Hester said.

Kenny handed over her glass of wine while James W. poured himself a whiskey. The four of them looked at each other, and then Hester held her glass high. For Pastor Matt Hayden, she said.

The men raised their glasses. For Pastor Matt Hayden.

There was a quiet tap on the door, and then it opened.

The broad-shouldered, square-jawed, and immaculately groomed U.S. Senator William Womack entered the room. The devil had arrived.

Chapter 1

Four Months Later

Although the explosion at the Land O’ Goshen nightclub had happened the night before, Matt Hayden didn’t learn of it until the next morning when he went down to breakfast.

Traversing the stairs without his cane was a new adventure, a task he still took one step at a time. It had been ten months since a bullet had taken off part of his skull and, with it, four years of slowly returning memory. His sandy brown hair had finally grown over the plate in his head. His once-athletic body had not enjoyed the same recovery. Some days, he felt like an old man in his thirty-seven-year-old body. Some days, he still couldn’t remember the days he’d spent at Wartburg Seminary in Dubuque, Iowa, making the transition from undercover cop Mike Hogan to Pastor Matt Hayden in the Fed’s Witness Protection Program.

Today was not one of those days, however. Matt entered the mansion’s kitchen, ready to enjoy breakfast and then head over to Brackenridge to lead Sunday services in the hospital’s small chapel.

Breakfast in Hester Honeywell’s home was a source of delight. Lyle, Hester’s cook, was a giant of a man who stood well over six feet tall. He had a stomach heading toward paunch and oil-slicked, ash-brown hair. His breakfasts ranged from crepes, both savory and sweet, to migas with eggs, sausage, and enough hot sauce to satisfy Hester’s Texan palate.

Hester was Matt’s landlord, or would be if she allowed him to pay rent. She had taken him into her Victorian Tudor located only a few blocks from the Governor’s Mansion in Austin, Texas, at the behest of the new governor, Jimmy Novak. She was a true mover and shaker in Texas politics and had adopted Matt into her pseudo family, which included Lyle, her domestic guy Friday, and his partner Connor Evans, who saw to the outside of the house and acted as Hester’s chauffeur.

So, on that fated Saturday morning, Matt walked down the grand staircase and into the kitchen only to find a very somber Connor, a short, bald man with biceps the size of melons, setting the breakfast nook table and a red-eyed Lyle flipping French toast on the eight-burner Viking stove.

Before Matt could figure out how to delicately ask what was wrong, Hester walked through the room’s double doors. Or should he say, glided. Hester defined elegance. Her silver hair was pushed back behind her ear, ala Lauren Bacall, her posture was ramrod straight, and her skin was still supple despite the fact she was well into her seventies. As usual, she headed straight for the coffee bar.

Good morning, gentlemen, she said, filling her cup. She turned and immediately took in the sullen mood of the room. What’s wrong?

Lyle sniffed audibly and turned away. Connor answered instead. A bomb went off last night at the Land O’ Goshen nightclub. Several of our friends— He stopped, swallowing hard. Two of our friends were killed.

Hester put her coffee down on the counter. I’m so sorry. Then, her elegant brows furrowed. A bomb?

Lyle cleared his throat. That’s what the news said this morning.

Matt had moved toward the breakfast nook, listening. At seminary—and before that at the Police Academy—he’d been taught to observe first, then act. He decided it was time to act. He went to Lyle and put his hand on the large man’s shoulder. He had to reach up to do so as Lyle was a good six inches taller than Matt’s five-foot-eleven. What can I do?

Lyle pulled a hanky from his back pocket and blew his nose. You being here makes a difference. He turned back to the stove just in time to scoop the French toast slices onto plates before they burned. He added scrambled eggs to each plate and took them to the table. Oh, dear, he said. I forgot to warm the syrup.

I think we can survive chilled syrup, Hester’s tone was firm. Everyone, let’s eat.

The three men obediently took their places, and Matt said a brief prayer that included petitions for those who had been hurt in the blast and comfort for those who mourned those who had died.

Connor passed a plate of bacon to Matt. We got the call last night from Frank and Billy. They were at Goshen when the bomb went off, but thankfully, they were outside on the sidewalk having a smoke.

Lyle nodded. We were supposed to be there too. With Frank and Billy. He closed his eyes as a tear slipped down his cheek. And Gerard and Joseph.

Connor reached over and took Lyle’s hand. It’s all right, man. Let it out.

Lyle nodded, then shoved away from the table. Excuse me, he said. I need to powder my nose. He headed in the direction of the hallway bathroom.

Long moments of silence passed as the remaining three ate their breakfast. Gerard and Joseph were good friends, I take it, Matt finally said.

Connor nodded. Our community is pretty tight. We have to be.

If there’s anything I can do— Matt let the words hang.

Thanks, Preacher, Connor said. But I don’t have any idea when we’ll know about arrangements or anything. They’re still not sure if they’ve found everyone in the rubble.

That’s simply awful, Hester said. Do you want me to put in a call to Chief Aguilar?

The Austin Police Chief was a frequent visitor to Hester’s home. For that matter, Matt had come to realize that anyone who was anybody in Texas was a frequent visitor to Hester’s home.

I appreciate the offer, Connor said. But not yet. It’s got to be a mess down there.

A bomb in downtown Austin, Matt thought. On a Saturday night, to boot.

Connor shook his head. The news this morning said at least seven were taken by ambulance to Brackenridge.

That’s my cue, then. Matt scooped up the last of his eggs and downed his coffee. I’d better go wash up. He glanced at his watch. We leave at 7:30?

The Sunday morning routine was always the same. Connor chauffeured Matt to Brackenridge, then Hester to St. Gregory Episcopal Cathedral, and then he and Lyle headed for their church in Hyde Park. The order was reversed by noon, and all were home in time for Sunday dinner.

Sure, Preacher. Lyle swirled his last bite of French toast in the syrup, stuffed it in his mouth, and got up from the table. Will you be coming home after church?

I’ll play it by ear, Matt replied, heading toward the stairs. After last night’s…explosion, folks might want to talk.

He was almost to the staircase when his cell phone pinged. He grabbed it from his back pocket. Hello. Pastor Hayden.

Hey, Matt.

The male voice, smooth with a Midwest accent, sounded familiar, but it took a moment for Matt to recognize it. Jerry? Jerry Schultz had been a fellow student at Wartburg Seminary. He and his family lived next door to Matt’s mother, Jewel, and his younger brother, Luke, up in Dubuque, Iowa.

Yeah, it’s me. I’ve got some bad news.

Immediately, Matt’s thoughts went to Luke. Five years ago, a gunman had mistakenly shot Luke in the neck, thinking it was Matt. That had been the final straw that put Matt and his family into the Fed’s Witness Protection program. Has Luke had a setback? Which didn’t make sense. Luke had been making good progress and could even feed himself now.

I’m afraid it’s your mom, came the answer. She’s had a heart attack.

Matt’s heart sank to his stomach. His mother had been the backbone of the family, or what was left of it, after her husband and middle son had been shot and killed by the same thugs that had put the bullet in Luke. Matt swiveled and sat down hard on the stairs. How bad?

If you want to see her, you’d better get up here pretty quick.

Chapter 2

What Do I Do Now?

Matt stood over his mother’s open casket, knowing this was the last time he would look upon her soft, sleeping face. He’d chosen her baby blue suit—the one she had worn at his parent’s fortieth wedding anniversary. It was the last time they had all been together: his father, Michael Hogan, Sr.; his mom, Jewel; his middle brother, Bryson and his youngest brother, Luke. Now, only five years later, all that was left of the family was Matt and Luke.

Matt turned when he heard the whir of Luke’s wheelchair. He stepped back so that his brother could have his final look.

They were in the vestibule of the church that Jewel and Luke had attended since moving to Dubuque, Iowa. It was built in the 1960s, with walls paneled in light brown ash, a ceiling open to the rafters, and floors covered in the original, brown-flecked linoleum tile. From inside the sanctuary, the organ played a melancholy selection of hymns while silent mourners sat staggered throughout the pews.

His mother had lived here for four short years, but she had touched many. That was her style. Love. Strength. Faith.

Forgiveness.

When Matt’s father had been shot dead on the docks of Miami, when Matt’s middle brother had been blown to bits as the bomb planted to kill him exploded, when Luke had been struck in the neck with a bullet intended to kill Matt, Jewel Hogan had been the lifeline that kept what was left of the family moving forward.

Love. Strength. Faith. She’d even forgiven the people who had decimated her family.

Matt wasn’t sure he had enough love, strength, or faith to do that. Because, right now, he felt anything but forgiveness. Truth be known, Matt felt angry. His mother had deserved a better life.

He became aware of a presence beside him. Angie, his beautiful, feisty, caring fiancée, had made the trip to Iowa with him. She wrapped her arm around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder. I’m so thankful we came up here over Easter, she said. I’m glad I got to meet her.

Matt put his cheek against her flowing red hair. She really liked you.

I really liked her, Angie whispered. Thank God you got in here in time to be with her. Even if it was only for a few hours.

Jerry Schultz, the friend who had called Matt four days ago, joined them. Since Matt had asked him to officiate at the funeral service, Jerry was wearing his flowing white chasuble over a black alb—the standard issue for pastors at this somber service. A black stole hung around his neck.

Jerry gestured toward the double-door opening to the sanctuary. It’s time, he said quietly.

Matt nodded, then looked at Luke. His brother’s eyes were filled with tears. Only then did Matt realize his, too, were blurred. Are you ready to go in? Matt managed to ask.

Luke’s face distorted as he tried to hold back a sob, but it burst out anyway. Matt put a hand on his brother’s shoulder. Luke took one last look at their mother, then toggled the control on his chair to head into the church.

Matt grit his teeth, trying to keep his own tears at bay.

Come on, darling, Angie said softly. We need to go in.

He nodded, unable to speak. He turned back to his mother, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. I love you, Mom. He brought his hand up to touch her cheek. Say hi to Dad for me.

He straightened, and Angie took his arm. With Luke guiding the way, the three of them entered the sanctuary. They were about ten feet down the aisle when Matt heard the cover on the casket close.

He would never see his mother again.

Finally, after the funeral and the graveyard interment, after the Women of the Church luncheon, after the small gathering of friends at the house afterward, Matt was able to sit down on Jerry’s front porch and watch the sun sink beneath a horizon silhouetted by cornstalks. The peach sky turned lavender, then dark. It was too early for stars but not too early to hear the chorus of frogs warming up in the nearby pond.

Matt leaned back into the wicker chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. Exhausted, he listened to Angie and Jerry’s wife, Stephanie, doing dishes in the kitchen. Luke and Brooke, Jerry’s ten-year-old daughter, were in the family’s front room watching Wheel of Fortune. Apparently, that was a sacred event the two shared every night.

The screen door opened, and Jerry walked out carrying two Budweisers. He handed one over, then sat on the porch swing across from Matt. Was it a nice sunset?

Matt nodded. Beautiful. He took a slug from the can. Thanks for the beer.

Red, white, and blue! came an insistent girl’s squeal from the front room.

Reh, whihe, and boo! echoed Luke.

Jerry chuckled. They do this every night. I guess they figure if they yell loud enough, the player will hear them.

Matt took another swallow of beer, not knowing how to respond. It was obvious that Luke and Brooke were very close. But Matt was responsible for Luke now. If he took Luke back to Texas with him, Luke would lose another person close to him. He’d be relocating to a town where he knew no one.

And, for that matter, where would Matt move him to? He couldn’t ask Hester to take in his paraplegic brother. Matt already felt like he was imposing on the woman for the roof over his own head. And Matt couldn’t move back to the parsonage in Wilks. After everything that had happened to the town, thanks to the bad guys who’d been after Matt—not to mention the fact he still didn’t have the stamina to pastor a church—the congregation were searching for another preacher. Poor ol’ retired Pastor Fred Osterburg had to be getting tired of making the two-hour drive from Houston to Wilks to shepherd his old flock.

What’s it like serving in Texas? Jerry asked.

Hot. Matt was surprised to hear himself chuckle.

I mean the Texas District. Who’s the bishop down there anyway?

Matt had to think for a moment. Since taking a church in the small Texas town of Wilks, he’d had very little contact with the Texas Lutheran Synodical Offices. Something about dodging bullets was a time-consuming effort. Bishop Hans Nelson, I believe.

A good man?

What an odd question, Matt thought. So far as I know. Why?

Just thinking.

Matt could see the truth in that. Jerry was a broad-shouldered, forty-something man who usually had a smile on his handsome face. Tonight, his brow was furrowed as he rolled his beer can back and forth in his hands.

What’s on your mind, Jer? Matt asked. A little wick of warmth entered him. It felt good to reach out to someone who was apparently troubled. It got him out of his funk for a moment.

Some bad stuff happening around here. In the Synod, I mean.

Matt sat a little straighter in his chair. The Synod?

A cover-up. At the church where I was the outreach minister. He took a gulp from his beer. Unbeknownst to me, the senior pastor was having a fling with a female parishioner. She and her husband had sought him out for marriage counseling.

Matt grimaced. That’s bad.

"It gets worse. Our beloved bishop shipped me off to another church before the you-know-what hit the fan. And, Jerry took another slug, he assigned that senior pastor to another church before the situation became common knowledge."

Matt’s eyes went wide. The guy having an affair is at another church?

Head pastor, no less. And get this: he divorced his wife, the woman with whom he had an affair divorced her husband, and now the two are married. And the congregation they left behind had no pastor to help them through this bombshell—the bishop had already transferred me out—and the congregation is left to deal with a lawsuit the size of the Grand Canyon from the woman’s ex-husband.

On what grounds?

That the church had presented the senior pastor as a marriage counselor, though he had no specific training in that area.

Did he get the money?

No decision yet. And I might add, the congregation has to pay for the legal fees to represent their interests in the lawsuit.

Matt tried to take it all in. That congregation has been…screwed.

Yep. And it’s all our bishop’s doing. Jerry crushed his finished can. And I’m thinking a lot about getting as far away from that man as possible.

The two sat in silence as the true dark of nighttime settled around them. In the distance, Matt heard a cow moo, reminding him again that they were on the outside rim of Dubuque, surrounded by farms.

Then he got it. Wilks was surrounded by farms, too. Are you considering moving out of this district? he asked slowly.

Jerry looked him straight in the eye. Yep.

Like to Texas?

Jerry leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his gaze intense. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, Matt. I do want to move to a different synod. And let’s face it. Your brother and my daughter are joined at the hip. They have a brother/sister bond that couldn’t be purer if they shared blood. And just for the record, we’ve kind of been taking care of your brother as your mother’s health has been failing. We take him to his physical therapy. He eats meals with us. Heck, Matt, the man is part of our family now.

I can’t ask you to⁠—

You’re not asking. I am. Is Texas a place where I want to raise my family?

Matt considered. It’s a different world down there, Jer. There’s a pride about the state that I’ve not experienced anywhere else. They have a sense of independence. In some ways, it’s intoxicating. But the adage also applies. ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’ You have to deal with that, too.

Jerry leaned back. Sighed. Stephanie and I are doing a lot of praying right now. I will admit, with your mom’s passing, our conversations about this have gone into overdrive.

One thing you should know, Jerry. Like everywhere, Lutheran pastors are in short supply. I think they’re going to make the position a traveling pastor. You might have responsibilities for two or three small congregations. All centered in the same area, of course. But in Texas, your next-door neighbor might be an hour’s drive away.

It’s that big?

Matt chuckled. Oh, yeah. Texas is the size of—I memorized the list cuz I couldn’t believe it—the size of Kentucky, Virginia, Indiana, Maine, South Carolina, West Virginia, Maryland, Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, New Jersey, Hawaii, Connecticut, Delaware, and Rhode Island put together.

Jerry let out a low whistle, then stood. "I need another beer on that one. Want one? Wheel of Fortune will go another ten minutes."

Sure, Matt said. He watched Jerry slap through the screen door, then leaned his head back against the chair. His breathing deepened as he felt a sense of calm flow through him. Was it possible? Could this path that Jerry was considering be an answer to his prayer?

Of course, it was.

Thank you, God, he whispered into the starlit sky. And he knew his mom and dad, finally back together, were smiling down at him, too.

Chapter 3

Run for Your Life!

Jumbo squinted at the Texas sun as it rose over the trees that lined the deep gulch. It was gonna be another scorcher, he reckoned. He brought