Beneath a Buried House (Detective Elliot Mystery Book 2) (17 page)

Elliot made a few notes. “I’m curious as to the significance of the term
Unitarian Universalist
. Could you give me a quick rundown on that?”

“Certainly,” the reverend said. “Unitarianism began as a form of Christianity, identified by the belief in God as a singular entity, thereby rejecting the doctrine of the Trinity of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. The movement was rebuffed by orthodox Christianity as early as AD 325, but rather than fade away it continued to resurface throughout the years.

“Universalism, which also traces back to early Christianity, rejects the notion of eternal damnation and embraces the belief that God will redeem all souls. Both movements evolved from Christian and Jewish roots, but they were also characterized by a more liberal view of spiritual beliefs. It isn’t surprising that they eventually came together, which happened in 1961.”

The reverend paused then added, “Unitarian Universalism changes and grows as a living tradition, modifying to reflect changes in spiritual beliefs among its members. We gather in community to support individual spiritual journeys, regardless of what religious form that might entail. We value aspects of Christian and Jewish beliefs, but the incorporation of any certain spirituality is a matter of personal choice, in keeping with our creedless, non-dogmatic approach.”

Elliot sat back for a moment, thinking about what the reverend had said. “Do your members consider themselves to be Christian?”

Reverend Palmer shrugged. “Some do and some don’t. I admit to being old school, thinking of myself as Christian, but in holding to our open-minded approach I realize that not everyone follows the same path. Our varied membership includes humanists, agnostics, pantheists, and even natural theists, such as neo-pagans.”

“I see,” Elliot said. “And yet, even with this liberal, tolerant approach, you still couldn’t find room for Zachariah Holsted. Why is that, Reverend Palmer?”

“Even an association such as ours has its limits.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

The reverend frowned. “The belief closest to Mr. Holsted’s orientation would be pagan, but Holsted places earthly gratification, or triumph of the individual, over the sanctity of the spirit. While we are tolerant, recognizing there are many paths one can take, we believe the journey should ultimately lead to a spiritual destination. We believe that all life is sacred, all existence interconnected, but justice and compassion should be the foundation of our thoughts and deeds. Each of us has a responsibility to grow spiritually and act in a moral fashion.”

“Do you consider Mr. Holsted to be immoral?”

“I didn’t say that. It’s not for me to decide.”

“You’re talking in circles, Reverend Palmer.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“I need to know exactly why Zachariah Holsted was kicked out of your church.”

“Who said that he was? Perhaps he left of his own accord.”

“Did he?”

“That’s all I have to say, Detective Elliot.”

“All right. But if I find you’ve been withholding evidence, I can promise you the consequences won’t be pleasant.”

Elliot stood. This case went a lot deeper than the captain realized, while each new lead proved more elusive than the last. But the reverend wasn’t the only one who knew Zachariah Holsted. “I’ll let myself out.”

As he walked away he said, “We discovered some disturbing photographs of students from your school in Felicia Mullins’s home.”

He opened the door and walked out, leaving the reverend to decide whether he should make a moral judgment about it.

After leaving Reverend Palmer’s house, Elliot drove to Cymry’s to visit with his new friend Charles Miller, aka Snub the bartender. With the focus on Brighid last time, he hadn’t had much opportunity to ask him about Zachariah Holsted.

It was early afternoon, and the bar was empty except for Snub. He poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of Elliot. “What a surprise. I was just thinking about calling you.”

A slight odor of beer hung in the air. “Is that right? And why would you want to do that?”

Snub opened the register, then came back and laid a business card on the counter. “Something for your investigation.”

Elliot picked it up and examined it, reading the words: JIM LLEWELLYN—FREELANCE WRITER AND PHOTOGRAPHER—SAINT GEORGE ISLAND, FLORIDA. He looked up. “And the significance of this is?”

“Last night,” the bartender said, “I was counting the receipts, getting a deposit ready, when I found it. Brighid’s john gave it to me. I’d forgotten about it until I saw it lying in the bottom of the register.”

Elliot took a sip of coffee. If Snub had this right, it was indeed significant. It identified the John Doe. After setting it down, he asked, “The guy I was asking about, the pictures I showed you, this is his card?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is there a reason for this sudden fit of cooperativeness?”

Snub shrugged. “It’s the least I could do, after what happened to your car in the parking lot.”

Elliot studied the card. “I need to ask you something else.”

“All right.”

“What can you tell me about Zachariah Holsted?”

The bartender went to the sink and started rinsing glasses, talking while he worked. “Zack’s not a bad guy, really. He just takes a little getting used to.”

“He was having trouble with Brighid McAlister. Did you know about that?”

“Zack’s always got somebody riled. He likes to shoot his mouth off.”

“Did you ever observe him and Brighid fighting or arguing?”

The bartender shook his head. “If you’re going where I think you’re going with this, you’re wasting your time.”

“Why’s that?”

“Zack’s no killer.” He paused and pointed to the business card. “If anybody did it, it was probably your man there.”

“Interesting theory,” Elliot said, “considering the john was already dead when it happened.”

He shrugged. “She did have a lot of enemies.”

 “Including you?”

He shook his head. “I never had any problems with her.”

Elliot got up from the chair and walked to the middle of the floor. “I just had a little talk with one of Tulsa’s religious leaders. He told me Holsted had some unusual religious beliefs.” Gesturing toward the symbol painted onto the floor of the bar, Elliot asked, “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

Splotches of color formed on the bartender’s face. “Why would I?”

Elliot could tell he wasn’t going to get anything more out of Snub. He put on his coat and started for the door. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said, “and the card.”

Elliot walked out of the bar, wondering whether the bartender was being straight with him or the business card was a ploy.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Elliot sat at his desk, staring at the business card Charles Miller had given him. The only thing that number delivered was an answering machine. He’d left a message, though he didn’t see much point in it. He wondered if Jim Llewellyn had been connected with the occult.

What Doctor Meadows had told him about someone valuing earthly gratification over the sanctity of the spirit bothered him. Reverend Palmer had seconded the notion of someone like that being potentially dangerous.

Elliot put down the card and logged onto the Internet, typed
travel writer
into the search box, then clicked on a link for the Society of American Travel Writers. Scrolling down, he found a phone number and called it. He identified himself and explained what he wanted. Soon he was talking to a woman who’d known Llewellyn.

“What would a travel writer from Saint George Island, Florida be doing in Tulsa, Oklahoma?” Elliot asked.

The editor of the magazine laughed. “Tulsa’s a beautiful place,” she said, “but are you sure it was Mr. Llewellyn? He’s retired, has been for a couple years.”

“Could you describe him for me?”

“Fiftyish, around five foot eight, maybe one hundred seventy-five pounds, sharp dresser.”

Elliot turned Llewellyn’s business card over in his hand. The description fit. “I’m pretty sure it’s him.”

“What’s this all about, Detective? Is Jim in some sort of trouble?”

Elliot explained the situation.

After a brief silence, she said, “My God. I just talked with him a few weeks ago, tried to give him an assignment, but he turned it down, said he was enjoying retirement and was thinking about getting back into some of his hobbies.”

After a pause, she added, “He was an interesting fellow. Why does it always have to be the good ones?”

Elliot laid the card on his desk. “You wouldn’t happen to know what sort of hobbies he was into?”

“Sorry. I can’t help you there. In fact, I can’t recall him ever mentioning hobbies before.”

“Do you know if he had any ties with alternative religious groups?”

“Religion?” she asked. “I don’t think so. Come to think about it, though, he did have a fascination with the unusual, the unexplained, tabloid-type stuff. He mentioned writing for them.”

“He wrote for the tabloids?”

“Yeah, you know, Satan and his demons seen at the local grocery buying cabbage, that sort of thing.”

Elliot thought about Reverend Palmer’s reaction to, and Doctor Meadows’s explanation of Zachariah Holsted’s unusual religious beliefs. “Do know which publications he wrote for?”

“Sorry,” she said. “But there aren’t that many of them. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find out.”

“Thanks for you help,” Elliot said. But just as he put the phone back in its cradle, Sergeant Conley walked up and knocked on the filing cabinet at the entrance to his cubicle.

Elliot knew something was up. Conley had his hands in his pockets and he stared at his feet. “You got a minute?” he asked.

Elliot had a pretty good idea of what was on Conley’s mind. “Take a number,” he said, “and get in line.”

Conley didn’t even crack a smile. “This isn’t right and you know it. And it’s not like you.” Finally making eye contact, he added, “Hey it’s me, David Conley, the one who’s always telling you to get a life. But not like this. This ain’t the way, buddy. Hey, she’s a real looker. Ain’t nobody saying that’s not so. But come on, Kenny, she’s Cunningham’s girl.”

Elliot looked away momentarily in an effort to regroup, noticing that his hands were clenched. Why was he angry with Conley? He’d done nothing. He was only trying to ease the pressure between friends. But then Elliot thought of Cyndi, and how right it felt to be with her. He turned back, meaning to temper his response with reason. But after all, he had feelings too. “Why is everyone so damned concerned about Cunningham?”

Conley didn’t answer. He just shook his head and walked away, leaving Elliot to wonder where the bitter words had sprung from.

He sat for a moment, then shook his head to put Conley and Cunningham out of his mind for the moment. He had two days to find the piece of hard evidence that would prove his instincts were right. He logged onto the Internet and gathered some phone numbers. After that, he grabbed the phone and started calling rag magazines.

It turned out to be easier than he’d thought. A few minutes later, he’d contacted the correct tabloid and now had some information to go on. Six days ago, Jim Llewellyn had flown into Tulsa to work on a story. The editor hadn’t known the details, but he’d worked with Llewellyn before and trusted him to deliver. He was shocked to learn of Llewellyn’s death. He’d talked with him last Friday. The call had come from the Ambassador Hotel.

The ten-story brown brick building rose up out of the Tulsa soil at 14th and Main. General Patrick Hurley had created the Hotel Ambassador in 1929 to provide temporary upscale housing for oil barons who had brought their families to Tulsa, but had to wait for their mansions to be built. The place had been through some changes since then, but it was still the Hotel Ambassador.

Elliot entered on the south side of the building where a black cloth awning protruded over the sidewalk, offering protection to the patrons. Once inside, he walked to the front desk and showed his badge. “Search your records. I believe you’ll find that a gentleman by the name of Jim Llewellyn checked into your hotel on January second. My guess is, he never checked out.”

The clerk studied Elliot’s badge, then frowned and picked up the phone. “This is Allen. Could you come down for a moment?”

A few minutes later, the hotel manager appeared. Instead of facing Elliot, he walked behind the counter with the clerk. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Elliot explained again.

The manger typed something into his terminal keyboard. He ran his finger alongside his nose, then nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Mr. Llewellyn is one of our guests. He isn’t in right now. Would you like to leave a message for him?”

Elliot shook his head. “It’s too late for that. He won’t be coming back to his room. He’s been murdered.”

A sick look moved across the manager’s face, but he said nothing.

“I need to check his room,” Elliot said. “I can get a warrant, but I’d hoped that wouldn’t be necessary.”

The manager frowned, then grabbed a keycard and came around to the lobby side of the room. “Follow me,” he said.

They took the elevator up, then walked along the hallway. When they reached the room where Jim Llewellyn had stayed, the manager unlocked it and held the door. Elliot walked in. His thoughts kept wandering back to the look on David Conley’s face, and the things the sergeant had said, and he had to remind himself to focus on the job at hand.

Llewellyn’s clothes were still there, nice tailored suits, like the one he had been wearing, pressed and hanging in the closet. In contrast to the dirty apartment where he’d spent his last few hours, his room at the Hotel Ambassador more resembled the type of place where Jim Llewellyn would belong.

The manger shook his head. “I hope this won’t take long. I have other appointments.”

Elliot checked the closet and the bathroom, then came back into the room. The maids had done their job. The room was clean and Elliot saw nothing that might give him a clue as to why Jim Llewellyn had come to Tulsa. “I’ll do my best,” he said. He went to an area along the north wall where an arched niche had been cut and outfitted with shelves and a work surface. There were no drawers, and on the marble work surface among the various decorations, Elliot saw only a couple of pens, resting beside a vase of fresh flowers. He pushed the chair to the side and searched around the books and decorations that’d been placed upon the shelves. Finding nothing, he ran his hand under the work surface. Something was there.