Pane and Suffering (16 page)

“Sunday? Let me think.” Mrs. Lattimer furrowed her brow and then looked sideways at Savannah with a tiny smirk forming in her cheek. She leaned over and took Savannah's hand patting it softly. “Are you trying to find out about Frank's little conspiracy to buy Webb's?”

“What?” Savannah leaned forward. “What conspiracy?”

“Well, honey, Frank has been having a hard time lately, and although I don't think it is my place to tell you about his affairs, Frank and I disagree on this little scheme of his. He tells me everything. Well, he may not in the future, but I'll tell you. After all, you are John's little girl.”

“What's going on? I don't understand.”

At the strident tone of Savannah's voice, Amanda walked over to stand behind Savannah's chair.

Mrs. Lattimer noticed the movement, but continued to pat Savannah's hand. “His clever plan was to bribe the pub owner next door to Webb's. I think his name is Edward.” She rubbed her temple. “Yes, Edward.” She sat very still for a moment, “Where was I?”

“Clever plan?” prompted Savannah.

“Yes, dear. It is a bit underhanded, which is why I'm telling you.”

“But you haven't told me anything yet. What plan?” Savannah could hear the frustration in her voice and took a long breath.
Calm down. She'll tell you in her own time
.

“Yes, the plan was to have Edward get close to you, friendly, if you will. Then Edward was to convince you to sell Webb's to Frank rather than the real estate developer.”

“But—”

“He was offering to forgive a large loan that John had made to the pub in exchange for ensuring that you sold Webb's to Frank. It is a clever ploy, don't you think?”

“I'm stunned,” Savannah leaned back in the soft chair. “Stunned.”

She felt a small poke on her shoulder and Amanda whispered, “Sunday—where was Frank on Sunday.”

“Oh, yes,” Savannah leaned forward, “I really only wanted to know if Frank took you out on Sunday. I mean, since we're being so forward, was he in town?”

“Well, he didn't pick me up for lunch on Sunday. He said he had other plans, but wouldn't talk about them on Tuesday. You're such a lovely girl, I'm sure you can get him to talk about his weekend. Just give it a try, sweetie.”

 

 

Back at Webb's, Savannah and Amanda went into the office. Savannah sat in the squeaky chair and buried her face in her hands, “I can't believe that Edward would collude with Frank. I expect that sort of behavior from Frank,” she lowered her hands and looked at Amanda. “I expected better from Edward.”

“I'm sure that there's an excellent explanation for this.”

“He could have explained it all earlier.”

“Really?” Amanda lifted an eyebrow.

She pressed her lips thin. “Oh, right. I made him leave.”

Amanda shook her head. “Okay, what's next?”

“We need to try to nail down Smythe. He was very practiced at avoiding answering personal questions. Edward and I just wasted our breath.”

She booted up her dad's antiquated computer, and clicked on the Web browser. It was painfully slow—the operating system was out of date. It didn't even have a Wi-Fi feature—another thing that would have to change. Amanda stood beside her tsk-tsking and shaking her orange curls at John Webb's obvious aversion to modern electronics.

“Well, I know he was into advanced communications technology when he worked for the government, but in private life he wanted nothing to do with it,” Savannah said.

“He also didn't need much for running Webb's.”

“True. He sent orders by mail, received glass by UPS, and delivered projects personally. He didn't need the Internet. Ah, finally.” Savannah entered a string into the browser. G
REGORY
S
MYTHE
, then clicked on the SEARCH icon.

After waiting another eon, the first hit returned an article in the
Tampa Bay Times
about the proposed Big Value development project. There were more hits on social media sites of a Gregory Smythe on Facebook and Twitter. Skimming down the page, she stopped on an article describing the arrest of Gregory Smythe for breaking and entering into an abandoned warehouse in the Midtown section of town.

The bell over the door jangled as the rest of the class came back for the afternoon session.

“Okay, Okay. I'm hurrying.” Savannah scanned the search results. “Okay, Amanda, we finally found something. Smythe has a record. He was arrested—when?” She squinted and peered closer to the small screen. “Oh, it indicates that it was over a month ago. That was right when he began to research locations for the super store.”

“Then he's probably the one who broke in here and left you that note.”

“Worse than that. He's the one with the most to gain if Webb's is sold for the development project. It's also the tipping point for all the other merchants. If Webb's sells out, then the rest of the block will follow.”

Amanda jumped up and down. “This is the guy.”

“Hold on. All we've done is find an arrest record. That's a long cry from being a double murderer. We need a lot more proof.”

Amanda still smiled. “It's a good start. Wait until Edward hears about our adventures. He'll be jealous.”

“Edward? I'm not over the fact that he colluded with Frank,” Savannah replied testily. “He's got some serious explaining to do.”

Chapter 18

 

S
avannah parked and entered the church through the front doors just under the gorgeous stained glass panels of
The Last Supper
. It was always a shock to see the faces and hands disappear into the plain sienna-colored glass. The lustrous-painted elements showed up from the street after dark only when the panels were lit by the sanctuary lights.

The walk to Reverend Kline's office allowed her to look up and admire the stained glass panels. As she walked up the aisle to view the row of Russian icons, she noticed that they were again different from the ones she'd noticed on Wednesday night.
There must be quite a collection if they can be rotated every few days.

Reaching the office, she knocked on the open door.

“Welcome, Savannah,” said Reverend Kline as he stood behind his desk and signaled for her to sit in the guest chair. He sat back in his red leather tufted chair and steepled his fingers, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair. “Thank you for agreeing to this one-on-one meeting with me. I can't tell you how important I think it is for you to have professional support through this trying time. How are you feeling?”

Savannah adjusted her position in the wooden chair to something a little more comfortable. She wished for a cushion to support her. “I feel stressed and lonely.”

“What is the source of the stress? Is it the investigation into your father's death? I heard about the exhumation of his body from Eternal Gardens.”

“Yes, that's a big part of it. Just thinking about a formal police investigation is unnerving. The realization that the culprit could be someone I know is worrisome.”

“That is a troubling thought.” He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “How are the police coming along with their case?”

“That's another source of worry.” She shifted in the chair again. “The officer sent out to investigate is beyond incompetent. The police have finally assigned a more senior and sensible detective to head up the investigation into Dad and Hugh's deaths.”

“Have they any suspects?”

“Unfortunately, I don't know exactly. I've asked, but that's not the kind of information they're willing to share with me. They are keeping me apprised of any developments regarding Dad's autopsy.”

“Any news there?”

“No, it's too soon. Officer Boulli, that's the irritating one, said that if the deaths do turn out to be murder, Jacob would be the prime suspect.”

“Jacob?”

“Yes, Jacob. Isn't that ridiculous? Because of that, I've started to investigate on my own—with Amanda and Edward's help.”

Reverend Kline sat straight up in his chair. “Why would you do that?”

“Dad left me a coded message. I haven't figured it out yet, but I think I can get to the bottom of it.”

“That's a daring move, Savannah. Do you think such overt action seems wise?”

“It's what Dad wanted me to do. If not, he wouldn't have left the ciphers.”

“Of course, of course. He was a very intelligent and brave man.” The reverend paused so long Savannah thought the session was over and she started to rise.

“Sorry, sorry.” He motioned for her to sit. “I was just trying to take in your situation. So tell me a little more about any other areas of tension.”

“I'm tackling issues with what to do about Webb's. I had planned to sell it to Hugh—and he agreed with that—but now that's not possible. So that's a major headache. Frank Lattimer is pressing his case to buy the shop.”

“And the loneliness?”

“Continuing with the class has been amazing. When I was a kid helping Dad out with some of his classes, I saw teaching as an interruption to my projects. I didn't understand how good it feels to share with others what I've learned.”

“That's good.”

“But it's tough being at home. I keep expecting Dad to walk through the door any minute. I am getting along better with his dog, though.”

The reverend nodded. “Yes, I can see how that would be a comfort. Now, let me cover just a few basics for our first session and then we'll formulate an action plan to easily allow you to attend the group sessions. How does that sound to you?”

“Action plan? That sounds pretty formal.”

“It's counseling jargon for taking some small, intermediate steps so that you feel comfortable enough to attend our weekly group. It's not magic or rocket science, merely some common sense strategies that I'm going to work with you to create. Are you comfortable with that?”

Savannah nodded.

“Good. Let's go for the first step. I want you to know the stages of grief and try to identify which stage you think you're occupying. This is based on the 1969 book by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross,
On Death and Dying
. I find it clear and easy to relate to her descriptions of the stages of loss.” Leaning forward, he handed Savannah a well-used copy of the book.

“I can get my own,” she said.

“Not necessary. We have been using the same fifteen copies for a long time. When you feel ready to leave the group, and the group agrees, you give it back at your last meeting.”

“Okay. That's a nice ritual.”

“Now, for your first assignment, I want you to read through the book and choose which stage of grief fits you right now.”

“Aren't they in order?”

“People don't typically follow the stages in order, but they experience all the stages.”

“And the stages are . . . ?”

“They are listed as”—he ticked them off on his fingers one by one—“denial and isolation, anger, bargaining, depression, and”—he touched his little finger—“acceptance.” Leaning back to steeple his fingers again, he said, “All I want you to do this week is choose the stage that fits your feelings best right now.”

“That seems simple enough.”

“One step. That's all for this week and then we'll see how it goes next week.” He stood up. “Can you make it at the same time?”

“Yes, I think so.” She stood and put the book in her backpack.

“Let me walk you out.”

As they reached the back of the sanctuary, they automatically stopped to look up at the five-panel stained glass reproduction of the classic Leonardo da Vinci painting.

Reverend Kline broke the silence, “I'm here every day and I never tire of looking up to that image for inspiration.”

“The tiffany-style is so unusual for a church. Do you still offer tours?”

“Every Wednesday morning at ten. When the church was built in 1926, Payne Glassworks in Paterson, New Jersey, was commissioned to install ten windows. Three generations—all named George Payne—ran the studios over a hundred-year period, but they finally sold the business to Rohlf's Stained and Leaded Glass Studio in Mount Vernon, New York, quite awhile ago.”

“It is amazing.”

“We had the granddaughter of the glass artist here on a visit a few years ago. You may have seen the write-up in the
Tampa Bay Times
.”

“No, I'm afraid not.” She felt the burn of embarrassment flame in her cheeks. “I was too busy.” She looked up the aisle and pointed at the small display of Russian icons below the window. “When did the church start displaying these?”

Reverend Kline rubbed the back of his neck. “I think it's only been about eighteen months. You haven't been here since then, but the committee approved the purchase of these rare Russian icons that are coming out of abandoned rural churches.”

Stepping up the aisle to get closer, Savannah said, “I love the exquisite gold leaf accents. How do you find out about them?”

“From here and there.” He eyed the exit. “Have you seen my little garden?”

“I didn't know there was room here for a garden.”

“Well, there isn't really, but there's a four-by-four-foot plot back here that I'm using to teach some of our teens about gardening. It doesn't take much space to teach beginners the thrill of growing things.” They walked out the side door adjacent to the parking lot. “Jacob is one of my best students.”

“My Jacob?”

“Oh yes. He's very bright and follows directions right to the letter.”

“Oh, that is extremely small.” Savannah stooped to look at the variety of plants, from tiny to nearly full grown flowers, peppers. and tomato starts. “Why the different sizes?”

“That's my teaching method. We start them in the church basement from seed. I demonstrate the use of a small table with a grow light, then we transplant them up here to the garden. Finally, they take seeds home to plant in their own garden.”

Savannah stood up and pulled out her keys. “I'm very impressed. How many students do you have?”

“Only three at the moment.”

“That's a lot of work for only three students.”

“Oh, but I have always been a keen gardener—even as a youngster. I consider it a real success to instill a love of nature to teens in a stress-free, competition-free, no blue ribbon for this, supportive environment. Nature has its own rhythms and cycles, yet still manages to get everything done in good time.”