1 Picking Lemons (15 page)

Walter was still droning on up front. There would be counseling available. C.J. rolled her eyes. Like anyone would go to that. Walter would be accepting ideas for a fitting memorial for the next two weeks. C.J. laughed inwardly. Clearly, Walter had been badgered by the Dean or the Provost or even the President. No more trying to hide the murders under the proverbial rug. Obviously the Eaton Media Machine now wanted to turn this into a PR event to build unity.

C.J. googled the
The Pug Post
to see the latest coverage.

DAILY DOUBLE: TWO MURDERS FOR THE PRICE OF ONE!

What your parents didn’t know their tuition dollar would buy. As the economists at Eaton University continue to be picked off, questions should be asked. Is being exposed to this type of violent crime what Eatonians should expect?

I approached the Eaton University President with this question. Is murder now a weekly or daily expectation on the Eaton University campus? Should we expect other violent crime to increase?

The president was not willing to accept that crime was increasing. “The deaths of these two wonderful scholars were isolated incidents, and I hope the perpetrator will be brought to justice soon. In the meantime, I believe this is a time for the Eaton University community to come together to mourn our lost Eatonians, remember their contributions, and move forward as a school.”

The article continued, but C.J. stopped reading. Her email alerted her to a new message.

Jose? That was unexpected. C.J. hadn’t heard a word from him since yesterday when she had cornered him outside the department. She had begun to think she had been too forward with him. C.J. opened the email, quickly closed it and refocused her attention on Walter.

“Finally,” wound up Walter, “it turns out that Jefferson was a member of a church here in Elm Grove. Who knew?” asked Walter in a way that suggested that if Walter did not know, then no one would. “So this means that the funeral will not be at one of the churches on the Square. Rather there will be a memorial service tonight at five o’clock at,” Walter paused to look at his notes, “St. Andrews. In case you are unfamiliar with this church, St. Andrews is an Episcopal church. But, it is, um, well, it’s on the other side of Main Street.”

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air. Everyone knew what Walter was trying to say. This was not an Eaton University church. This was an Elm Grove church, where black people, poor people, and, God forbid, even homeless people would be in attendance. This was a church where women would be moved to cry out “Hallelujah” during the service, and men might mumble, “Praise the Lord.” And in such a church, the choirs would sing loudly and in tune and sound as if they really did believe in and love their Christ and Savior.

To the Walters of this world, such a place was very disconcerting and seemed quite uncalled for.

*****

The Episcopal church of St. Andrews was indeed, as Walter so delicately phrased it, on “the other side” of Main Street. It was located in the Elm Grove South neighborhood, an area famous for Jimmy’s Pizza (the best pizza in Elm Grove, unless you were a fan of the pepperoni at Sal’s Diner), an abundance of cannoli bakeries, and, somewhat out of character, a cherry blossom festival. Elm Grove South was also close to the Amtrak station and, consequently, was a favorite hang out for the homeless, the hungry and the high in Elm Grove.

Although the building of St. Andrews could be considered as beautiful as any church found on the Elm Grove Town Square, with its rising stone spire, stained glass windows and aged wood pews, that is where the similarity ended. St. Andrews prided itself on communicating with God through the fusion of Jazz and Soul. The ten commandments did not say anything about having to sing the Lord’s hymns out of tune and in a monotone that would convince the strongest believer that God was yesterday’s news. This church rocked, with its congregants clapping, and saxophones wailing. The Lord was indeed lifted up, often with a little impov along the way.

St. Andrews also had the disconcerting habit of opening its doors to everyone. The wealthy and the poor. Black and white. Gay and straight. Housed and homeless. Sober, high, recovering, teetotaler, relapsed and sponsor. All were welcome, indeed encouraged, to think of St. Andrews as home.

St. Andrews tried valiantly to cater to every aspect of community life. The Reverend Tayshon Jackson blessed the pets of the congregation once a month and kept his phobias to himself when the snakes and tarantulas were brought to the steps of the church.
After all
, he thought to himself as he breathed in deeply,
they are God’s creatures, too, and the serpent was just a metaphor.
The church held Loaves and Fishes every Saturday, offering food and clothing to those in need. Tayshon had always known he could rely on Jefferson Daniels to take the early morning shift, helping out, offering both food and company. Tayshon had so hoped Jefferson would find a nice girl from the church to marry. He encouraged Jefferson to come to Thursday Vespers, a relaxed evening of Jazz, scriptures, and, often, flirting. The congregants were, after all, human. But while Jefferson was charming to all the ladies, he didn’t seek anyone out.

Today St. Andrews was going to provide a place for the community to grieve. Reverend Jackson looked somberly around the church. He knew that the memorial service for Professor Daniels was going to pull a huge crowd. He couldn’t actually call it a funeral, as the body wasn’t going to be released by the State for quite awhile. But the parishioners wanted to celebrate Jefferson’s life now.

Extra seating had already been set up at the back of the church. The ladies of the parish had been stopping by with their best casseroles, home-baked breads, pies, and cakes all day for the celebration of life. The kitchen at the church was overloaded with crockpots, Pyrex and Tupperware. For Brother Daniels, no recipe was too difficult. No cream of mushroom soup, Velveeta cheese or Redi-whip was spared. Another, very select group of women had been arranging flowers. The flower committee was a coveted job and one Reverend Tayshon left to his wife to sort out. He did not understand why everyone couldn’t lend a hand in these things. When he said this, his wife just rolled her eyes. Scanning the church, Tayshon had to admit that however it was done, it worked. The sprays of lilies and whatever those little flowers with them were called looked very nice. Very nice indeed.

His flock had been expressing their sorrow and their prayers on the church’s Facebook page. Sometimes he wondered if anyone read the damn site. Was he just posting prayers to please God and the Archbishop, who liked to see that the church was keeping up with technology? The Archbishop himself tweeted his prayers (a practice that kept them, thankfully, short.) But when Tayshon had posted the announcement about Jefferson’s death, the website had gone into overload with prayers, memories and outreach to other parishioners. Making sure the ones in AA stayed sober. Keeping the ones prone to overdose company. All the things a church should do.

His less computer savvy congregants had been writing their prayers for Jefferson on the two prayer chalkboards that stood outside the church doors. Normally, the prayers ranged from “my sobriety” and “a job” to “peace on earth” and “my family” and, occasionally, “this wonderful church,” though Tayshon didn’t see the latter very often. He noticed that praying tended to be a self-focused activity. But now, the boards were covered with “For the Prof,” “The guy who gave food on Saturdays,” “Jefferson, one of our great Jazz singers,” “Our brother in Christ,” “With the Lord now,” “That I may show forgiveness to the person who took Jefferson from us,” and “To our brother.”

With a sigh, Reverend Jackson went to the front doors of the church and opened them wide. There were already small groups of people milling around on the street, dressed in their finest. It was his time to provide comfort and to show the Lord’s healing.

“Come,” he said. “Let us celebrate the life of Brother Daniels.”

*****

When C.J. and Betsy arrived at the church at four-thirty, the place was already rocking. The contrast to the funeral of Edmund DeBeyer could not help but be noticed. Now, instead of economists and administrators somberly in attendance, it appeared most of Elm Grove’s townsfolk were out in force. Men, women and children were standing in the pews singing and clapping, while a jazz band crooned the music up front. An African-American man, who appeared to be the leader of the church, interrupted occasionally, and asked for an “Amen” to celebrate the life of Brother Daniels. As one, the congregation swelled with a joyous and heartfelt “Amen,” full of love for Jefferson.

“Oh my,” said Betsy, surveying the scene.

“What are you waiting for?” asked C.J., dragging her friend by the hand. “Let’s celebrate Jefferson!”

*****

As the person who discovered the body, Mary Beth figured she would have a special role at the funeral. Perhaps the minister would mention her in his speech. Or people would want to take pictures of her next to the casket. Either way, a special outfit was clearly required.

Despite having only hours to prepare, Mary Beth managed eleven conversations with her best friend Annabelle, two shopping trips, and one bloated credit card.  She was ready to mourn.

Atop Mary Beth’s head was a black pillbox hat with a black netting veil. Sprouting out the top of the hat were three black ostrich feathers, dyed orange around the edges. Her body was encased, like an overstuffed sausage, in a short, skin-tight, black dress with orange panels down the sides. Unfortunately, also like a sausage, little bits of Mary Beth were bursting out at the seams. Mary Beth teetered on five-inch, orange, leopard-print pumps and she had carefully selected a manicure of black nails with orange tear drops. The outfit was completed with a bright orange, feather boa. Mary Beth was extremely pleased with the ensemble–– distinctive, sexy, and clearly grieving. To the rest of the world, the decision of black with orange accent colors, and the choice of clothes themselves, regrettably lent the outfit a Halloweenish feel.

Mary Beth arrived at the church at just before five o’clock. The perfect time to be photographed ascending the steps into the church. But, owing to a 22 car pile-up in a flash fog on I-95 that afternoon and a hurricane taking an unexpected turn towards the east coast, there was not a photographer or reporter in sight. The only people who cared about the life and death of Jefferson Daniels were already inside the church.

Mary Beth hung around outside for another ten minutes, but then gave up and went inside. The church was full of people! And not Eaton University people. Like, people people. And they were singing and stomping their feet and playing the saxophone. This was not like the funeral for Professor DeBeyer. Mary Beth spotted one woman who was sitting quietly and who looked sort of familiar. She went over and sat next to her.

“Hi! I’m Mary Beth. I discovered the body,” Mary Beth introduced herself.

The woman, who already looked quite pale, went a ghostly shade of white. “Oh. How...ghastly. I’m Lisa DeBeyer.”

“Oh right! Professor DeBeyer’s wife. Well, I guess widow now. We met at your husband’s funeral. Fancy, us meeting again. And at another funeral.”

“Yes. Fancy,” said the other woman, though she did not sound like she fancied it at all.

“Do you want me to tell you about the body?” chirped Mary Beth, trying to restart the conversation.

“God, no!” said Lisa, looking positively green at the thought.

Mary Beth looked crushed. She had such a pivotal role in a crime, and no one wanted to know about it. “What do you do, for, you know, a job?” asked Mary Beth, at one last attempt to make conversation.

“I’m run an art gallery, in New York,” replied Lisa.

“New York?” enthused Mary Beth. “Oh, that is so cool. I am, like, so jealous. I would love to live in New York. I, like, go there all the time.”

Lisa nodded, without much enthusiasm.

“Don’t you love New York?” asked Mary Beth.

“Well, I was thinking of moving, but now with all that has happened, I guess I’ll stay.” Lisa excused herself quietly, walked to the pew three rows back and sat down again.

*****

“What a great service,” sighed C.J. contentedly. “I’m a little sad I didn’t know Jeffie did so much for the community. He seems a little like a stranger now. Why is it that everyone has to have a secret in life?”

“I don’t have any secrets,” said Betsy, virtuously.

“None at all? Not a single one?”

Betsy thought for a moment, and remembered the new and rather expensive sewing machine she had bought last year without telling her husband. “Well, almost none.”

C.J., now curious, was about to press Betsy on her secret, when Walter stumbled towards them. “Dear God!” he exclaimed. “I am going home to immerse myself in a bath of disinfectant. I have been touched by at least four homeless people, and I swear one of them was trying to steal my wallet. And just now, some pasty lady who needed to go on a diet fifteen dress sizes ago tried to offer me a casserole. Do I look like the type of man who eats casseroles?”

“Oh! Are they serving the food now?” cried C.J., ignoring Walter’s complaints. “I am so darn excited. I don’t mean that I’m not sad about Jeffie. But I am as hungry as a pig at dawn, and I spied some good ole mac‘n’cheese and green beans‘n’fried onions and something with marshmallow fluff on top. Just like the potlucks back home. Y’all excuse me, I got to grab a plate before it’s all gone.”