The Way of the Wicked (Hope Street Church Mysteries Book 2) (15 page)

“You should start your own cooking show.” Jake took an appreciative bite of croissant. “How many guys can come up with something this good made out of wheat?”

Savannah smiled as she tore off the end of her croissant with her elegant, paint-stained fingers. “Maybe Bryant can propose it to his network.”

Bryant mumbled something unintelligible and Nathan nudged his elbow. “Late night, Bryant?”

“Sometimes it’s hard to keep pace with Paige. I don’t know how she has so much energy after spending all day with her kids,” Bryant said groggily.

“A single mom has no choice. She has an entire family’s worth of responsibility on her shoulders.” Trish scrutinized Bryant over her coffee cup. “I know Paige is over thirty, but she sounds like she’s really got it together. Are you considering getting serious with her?”

Bryant shrugged and Savannah took advantage of the momentary silence to change the subject. “Let’s begin, shall we? Any prayer requests?”

Quinton asked for his friends to pray that his nephew’s broken toe would heal quickly and correctly. “He shut it in the car door, poor kid,” he explained. “Second time he’s done it, too.”

“I’d like to ask for discernment regarding a new client,” Nathan said. “He brought me his product to photograph for the website, and when I examined it, I started having doubts about what he’s selling.”

“Is this the guy with the muscle-building supplements?” Jake wanted to know.

“Yes,” Nathan said. “Tobey says his goal is to help little guys bulk up and gain confidence. I like the idea of his product, but I’m just not sure it is what he says it is. However, I have no experience with herbal medicines.”

“What if it’s actually a harmful steroid?” Trish asked, looking nervous.

Nathan held out his hands. “Everything appears to be aboveboard with his business. It’s just a feeling I have about this particular product. I don’t know anything about this type of item, so I have no right to assume that there’s something wrong with it, but I can’t seem to shake the possibility that my client and his goods aren’t all that they appear.”

Savannah nodded. “We’ll pray for you to be guided in this matter, Nathan. Anyone else?”

After a brief hesitation, Cooper spoke up. “I have a request on behalf of my sister, Ashley. She and her husband have been trying to start a family for about a year now. Things are getting tense between them. I just worry about her getting depressed because she’s not pregnant yet.”

Cooper’s friends uttered sympathetic murmurs and promised to add Ashley to their prayer lists.

“I have a request, too.” Jake sat forward in his chair and clasped his hands together over his closed workbook. “When I was reading about Joseph this weekend—remember the part when he gets thrown in the Egyptian slammer and he asks his cellmate, that cupbearer guy, to mention him to Pharaoh when he’s freed?”

Everyone nodded in unison.

“Well, the cupbearer forgets about Joseph. That burned me up! And right away, I started thinking about the people Door-2-Door helps. The folks who’ve been left alone for whatever reason. My prayer is that we won’t forget about them.” He glanced around the room, his eyes dark and determined. “I know we’re talking all this out after church, but I want those people to be on our minds as we head into the worship service.”

Bryant gave Jake a thumbs-up. “Well said.”

The Sunrise members joined hands and bowed their heads while Savannah led them in prayer. They spent the rest of the hour drinking coffee and sharing their views on Joseph as well as Egypt’s seven years of plenty and seven years of famine. Afterward, the group adjourned to the auditorium for worship service, with plans to reunite at Quinton’s town house by quarter of one.

Quinton’s Tudor-style town home on South Harrison Street was located beneath the shadow of Richmond’s venerable burial ground, Hollywood Cemetery. The cemetery rose in a steep hill overlooking the James River and several downtown neighborhoods. Quinton had told his friends many times that he loved living near the historic landmark and often took evening walks through the cemetery.

“When I’ve had a bad day because the stock market’s down or a client has left our brokerage firm for a competing firm, it only takes a stroll around that place to put things in perspective,” Quinton said. “And it’s very moving to read the epitaphs people have written for their loved ones.”

Cooper had never been inside Quinton’s home before, but she was impressed by the cleanliness of the walnut wood floors, glass-topped tables, and plush leather furniture. Quinton had decorated his apartment using a multitude of brown and cream tones punctuated by splashes of red and green, which appeared in the rugs, throw pillows, and in the lithographs grouped on his off-white walls.

“Quinton, I wish you’d come over and make my place look as cool as this.” Jake pivoted around, impressed by what he saw. “I still have my mama’s old flowered sofas and a coffee table that’s piled so high with magazines and tools and junk that its legs are starting to give.”

“I can’t take any credit for the decor. My sister’s an interior designer and I just gave her my Visa card and she took over.” He led his friends into his open kitchen. “I bought sandwich fixings for our meal.” Quinton began pulling lunchmeat out of his gigantic Sub-Zero fridge. “And fresh bread from Montana Gold.” He looked to Trish for help. “Would you arrange the food on this plate?” He handed her an oversized brass platter. “I had to save my energy for a special dessert.”

“Hard salami!” Jake grinned as he hovered behind Trish. “I liked you before, my man, but I love you now. This is my favorite.”

“I’ll stick to turkey and Muenster,” Bryant said, assembling his sandwich. “Do you have any pickles, Quinton?”

“Sure. And three kinds of potato chips.” He ripped open a bag of barbeque chips and dumped them into a wooden bowl. “And brownies.” He whipped the tin foil off a tray of brownie squares. “But these aren’t your run-of-the-mill Duncan Hines boxed stuff. For you, my dearest friends, I’ve made fudge brownies with peanut butter frosting.”

“Quinton, thank you so much for spoiling us today,” Savannah said as Jake helped her settle on one of the stools tucked beneath the kitchen island. Trish and Cooper also sat while the rest of the group leaned against the cabinets to eat.

They chewed in thoughtful silence for a few moments and Cooper wondered if they all felt as reluctant as she did to share their observances on their fellow Door-2-Door volunteers.

Nathan, who was standing near Quinton’s double sink, suddenly put down his ham and provolone sandwich and dusted crumbs from his hands. “I have to admit that I’m not looking forward to our discussion. The two people I talked to last night were delightful—just as they’ve been at the Door-2-Door headquarters the past few Saturdays. It’s how I imagine they are all the time. Totally great.”

“
Somebody’s
only pretending to be good,” Jake reminded Nathan. “This isn’t going to be a smooth road we’re treading, but we have to follow it if we want to seek justice for those who’ve been wronged.”

“Should we get started, then?” Savannah asked the group.

At that moment, Trish’s cell phone rang and strains of Pachelbel’s
Canon
echoed throughout the kitchen as she glanced at the Caller ID. “It’s Lali,” she said with surprise. Trish answered the phone and then her violet-tinted eyes grew round with shock. Her hand flew over her mouth and she murmured, “No!” She listened for another moment, her expression growing more and more dismayed, and then slowly lowered her phone.

“Lali wanted us to know . . .” Trish placed her right palm on the countertop to steady herself. “She wanted to tell us that Mr. Crosby is dead. At this point, it looks like he suffered from a fatal heart attack.” She looked up, her eyes meeting Cooper’s briefly before traveling around the room. “I’m afraid they found him sitting in his chair. Just like the others.”

10

Quinton’s brownie tray clattered to the counter. “Not again.”

“That makes three Door-2-Door clients who have been found dead.” Nathan’s voice sounded strangled. “Sitting in their chairs.”

Cooper stared at his stricken face, but her mind was miles away inside Frank Crosby’s small, disheveled house. She visualized his quivering hands—the loose and wrinkled skin, the blue-purple of the swollen veins, the speckles of brown from wrist to knuckle. She saw Frank clutching his borrowed newspaper, the wobbly letters scratched inside each crossword square with the nub of a pencil. The scent of urine and stale sweat permeated her memory, and she winced, hating to think of the old man sunk deep in that awful chair, releasing his last breaths into the musty air of his decaying room.

Cooper couldn’t stop her tears from falling.

She wasn’t alone. Savannah’s head was bowed and she cried silently, hiding her eyes behind her hands. Trish and Jake had their arms around one another—their expressions a mixture of sorrow and bright anger. Bryant and Quinton gazed dully at the floor while Nathan twisted a paper napkin around and around his thumb.

After a moment, he placed a hand on Cooper’s arm. “You just met Mr. Crosby the other day. This must be especially tough for you.”

Bryant’s head snapped up. “And I found Mrs. Davenport!” He turned to Trish, his eyes uncommonly hostile. “I hope Lali has informed the police. They’ll have to order an autopsy if they want to find out what this fiend is using to send these old folks to sleep. And don’t tell me that we’re not involved, because from where I’m standing,
we are definitely involved
!”

Startled by Bryant’s vehemence, Trish was speechless for a second, but she managed to recover. “Lali called the police. I don’t know what’s happening beyond what she just told me.”

“Let’s not assume the police will find answers right away,” Jake said. “Autopsies take time. I say we go ahead with our suspect lists. We’ve helped the cops before and you know these Door-2-Door folks are going to be more relaxed around us than with a bunch of armed cops.”

The group members looked to Savannah to gauge what she thought of Jake’s suggestion. Their leader closed her eyes and fell silent for a moment. When she opened them again, she nodded, as if she’d reached a decision. “Yes, I think we should continue to investigate as long as we don’t jeopardize the case in any way. Who wants to go first?”

“Lali told us that Mr. Manningham and Mrs. Davenport were both in their nineties.” Nathan frowned. “Do you think this person believes he’s releasing them from pain or the indignities of becoming old so they can find peace?”

“Like a mercy killing?” Jake shook his head. “The victims might have been old, but they didn’t have diseases. They weren’t ill. Maybe this guy thinks they’re poor and lonely and are better off being with their loved ones who have already gone on before them.”

Trish glared at Jake. “No one has the right to decide when it’s another person’s time to die.”

“He’s a merciful killer, because he kills gently, but I doubt he’s doing it out of pity. More like greed. Or fear.” Cooper drummed her fingers on the countertop. “I don’t think Mrs. Davenport was troubled by loneliness. Lali told us that her daughter visited regularly. They used to polish her jewelry and try it on, right?” She turned to Nathan. “And Mr. Crosby was in his late seventies. That’s not the kind of old where people start feeling like their bodies are failing while their minds are still sharp. He could have lived two more decades for all we know.”

“Maybe the murderer thought Mr. Crosby wasn’t living at all,” Nathan argued. “That he was miserable and longed to let go of life.”

“I agree with Cooper. These are not acts of kindness and we’re not going to figure out the
why
until we figure out the
who,
” Quinton said and served himself a large brownie square. “I know this looks callous, but I eat when I’m anxious.” He bit off half the brownie. “And I’m really anxious right now.”

Savannah smiled at him. “Let’s put aside our fears and focus on what we know. We can begin by sharing what we discovered at the party and then put together a list of which volunteers have the strongest motive to steal from the elderly.”

Bryant laid a briefcase on the counter and removed a legal pad and a ballpoint pen from inside. “Good idea. If any of us learned something important during last night’s party, we can shared it with the police.”

“I wonder if anything’s missing from Mr. Crosby’s house,” Jake mused aloud while each member retrieved the notes they’d taken on their fellow Door-2-Door volunteers. “Do you know if he has family nearby?” Jake asked Cooper.

“He has a son—” Cooper began.

“Then he’s sure to look into his father’s death,” Trish interrupted, smoothing a sheet of ivory card stock covered by florid writing. “Personally, I think a relative is better suited to help the police search for clues than we are.” Trish spoke quickly, as if to forestall all possible argument. “Mr. Crosby’s son can demand an autopsy and he’s certain to know if his father owned anything of value. We can hardly rummage through his house.”

Cooper opened her mouth to disagree, but before she could get a word out, Quinton said, “You’re making assumptions about Mr. Crosby’s son.” His hand inched toward the brownie pan. “He and his father may not even be close. Does the kid even live locally? If he’s in the picture, why did Mr. Crosby need Door-2-Door every single day? Why didn’t he visit—?”

“It’s
not
possible for him to visit,” Cooper jumped in. “Mr. Crosby’s son is in jail.”

Nathan’s eyes widened. “Why?”

Cooper tried to remember exactly what Brenda had said. “He tried to sell heroin to an undercover cop.”

The friends exchanged dejected looks. Quinton polished off a second brownie and then began to scoop coffee beans into an electric grinder. “We’re going to need a caffeine boost to get our minds churning. Cover your ears, everyone.” He pressed on the plastic lid of the grinder and the noise of the beans being pulverized prevented further conversation.

Cooper inhaled the pleasant homey odor of fresh coffee. It was comforting to watch Quinton move about his kitchen. His fingers were nimble as he poured filtered water into an expensive and complicated coffee machine. Afterward, he laid out several stainless steel ramekins and carefully poured both white and raw brown sugar into two of the small bowls. The third contained several brands of sugar substitutes. Next, Quinton produced a pair of porcelain creamers and filled one with half-and-half and the other with low-fat milk.