The Equalizer (22 page)

Chapter 29

DAY NINETEEN

I
picked up four cinnamon rolls
at the Sportsman Café Wednesday morning before work, and as I drove by the old tire shop Bob Brutlag bought, I noticed a candy-apple ’57 Chevy parked out front. I pulled up, parked, and knocked on a shop window. Bob grinned as he opened the door and I immediately smelled the strong odor of fresh paint and coffee sitting too long.

“Heard you bought this shop.”

“Yeah, it’s always had been my dream.”

“So, how does someone your age go about getting enough money together to buy a business?”

I watched for signs of nervousness, but he just cocked his head and gave me a crooked grin, “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. Takes a lot of money to start up a business.”

He nodded. “I got a good deal on the building because it had been foreclosed.”

“If I checked your bank records, what would it tell me?”

Now his eyes narrowed. “It’d tell you my old man set money aside for me from my mom’s life insurance payout and that he also kicked in a good amount as my partner. I also got me a small business loan—some government deal.”

Oh.

“Do you like the new paint color?” he asked.

“Depends on which is the new one?”

“It’s called adobe clay,” he said.

“Then yes. It’s better than the color of urine.”

He laughed. “I heard a rumor your girlfriend was terrorizing herself. Women, eh?”

“Who told you that?”

“Big Jack. Went to pay him a visit last night.”

“What else did Big Jack tell you?”

He smiled. “He said with her looks she could make a fool out pretty much out of any man she wanted to.”

“You’re probably right,” I said, as a few memories of how she used her feminine wiles on me passed through my brain.

I drove over to the department,
checked in, grabbed the bag of rolls from my truck, then took my assigned vehicle to St. Stephen’s. Bag in hand, I rang the doorbell at the backdoor of the rectory.

The portly Father John Moran answered the door. He was dressed in a blue-and-black plaid shirt and black slacks. He had a full head of black hair even though he was probably well into his sixties.

“Good morning, Father.”

“Good morning, Deputy . . . Sheehan, am I right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Do you have time for a few questions about Ted Kohler and Ronny Peterson?” I asked.

“Of course. Come in.” He led me through the small porch into a kitchen that smelling of old wood and coffee.

He sighed. “Such a tragedy. We pray every day at mass for Ronald and Theodore and their families. I was having my breakfast. Care to join me?”

I lifted the white bag. “I have cinnamon rolls from the Sportsman.”

“Oh, my. Well, the coffee’s made. Cream or sugar?”

I shook my head. He told me to sit at the small kitchen table where he had a bowl of what looked like bran cereal. He methodically placed another plastic placemat and a white paper napkin on the small round wood table and then poured a mug of coffee and set it before me. He got two small plates and poured another mug for himself.

“I’ll have to eat my bran before I indulge in one of those heavenly rolls.”

“Go right ahead.”

I opened the bag and took out a roll and placed it on my plate. Father Moran jumped up and took out a tub of margarine and a half-gallon of milk from the refrigerator. He pulled out two knives out of a drawer, and set one before me. He slowly poured milk over his cereal and took a few bites.

“I don’t love the taste of the stuff, but at my age, it’s necessary.”

“Now, you said you had questions?”

“I understand Ted Kohler was quite active in the church.”

“Oh, yes, very. He’s been on our Parish Financial Board for several years and did our audits for free. He was a model Catholic. Practiced what he preached, so to speak.”

“And what was it he preached?”

“He faithfully tithed and encouraged others to do the same.”

“How exactly did he encourage?”

“On our stewardship Sundays I always asked Ted to do the homily. The giving always increased after his talks.”

“What made him so convincing?”

Father smiled. “He had a sense of humor about him, but always gave a clear message: that you pay God before anyone, and that you should share your blessings.”

“Pay God—meaning St. Stephen’s?”

“Yes, and our charities.”

I nodded. “Did Ted Kohler ever step on any toes here at church?”

“Everyone loved Ted,” he said, grabbing for a cinnamon roll. “Oh, these taste just like the ones my mother used to make.”

I pulled out the original Bible verse we found in Kohler’s truck. “I know I asked someone from the parish about this before, but do you recognize this verse?”

“I believe he may have used this in his last homily.”

“Really?”

Father Moran nodded.

“I’ll leave the other two rolls for you. Thanks for your time.”

I left Father Moran, his mouth stuffed like a chipmunk. I found the parish office in the new building that joins the church and the school that closed years ago. The plump secretary at the desk gave me a pleasant smile. She ran her fingers through her short dark-gray hair and asked how she could help me.

“I’d like to speak to Helen Marcus.”

Helen was the parish bookkeeper. The secretary showed me to a small corner office off the lobby. Helen smiled when she saw me. I’d answered the call when her husband, attempting to sweep snow off his skylight, slipped off the roof. She was a large figure—almost six foot.

“Remember me? Cal Sheehan,” I said as I extended my hand.

“Of course I remember you,” she said, smiling.

“Your husband doing okay?”

“Oh, he’s a little stiff and will never walk long distances again, but that’s the way it is when you break as many bones as he did. We thank the Lord it wasn’t worse. I bet you didn’t come here to ask me about Jerry.”

“No, I want you to tell about me Ted Kohler.”

She sighed deeply. “Poor Eleanor and the children.”

“He was on the financial board, so I imagine you worked with him some?”

“Yes, I take notes for the board and Ted did our monthly audits.”

“What was the tone of these board meetings? Were there any disagreements over spending—the direction the parish was headed?”

“Oh, well, there’s always disagreements, but things always settle down.”

“Do you remember who he specifically may have gone round with?”

“Phillip Warner mostly, but the whole board argued about the land sale, and in the end they decided not to sell.”

I showed her the original verse. “Did Ted ever use this verse in his talks?”

“This is the one that was in the paper that was found in his truck?”

“Yes.”

“It was familiar to me. I think he used it in his last homily so he probably left it there himself.”

“Probably.” Maybe she was right, and the verse didn’t have a darn thing to do with his murder after all.

“You know something just came to me, but it’s probably not important.”

“What is it?”

“When Norm Taylor was diagnosed with cancer, I overheard Ted tell Father that he’d go over and speak to him. After the funeral I heard his son have quite a heated argument with Father. I asked Father later what it was about, and he said Gus wasn’t happy his dad had left the farmland to the church. I don’t think he knew it was going to happen. There were others, too. Maybe Ted told them to keep it a secret so the kids wouldn’t talk their folks into changing their minds again.”

“It’d be helpful if you could write down the names for me, Helen.”

“Don’t give him a single name,” Father Moran bellowed from the doorway.

I nodded and smiled at Helen, got up and walked passed Father Moran wishing him a good day.

I may not have names, but I had obituary records.

I called Warner’s office from my car. His secretary said if I hurried over I could probably catch him before he was due in court.

“Deputy,” Warner said as he shook my hand.

“Counselor. This is the only office I’ve seen that surpasses Hamilton Fairchild’s. Man, this is plush.”

He snickered. “Have a seat.”

I sat in a cushy black leather armchair, while he sat in a chair that looked like it did everything but fetch him coffee. He leaned back and rocked. “So, what’s so urgent?”

“Murder seems urgent to me. Tell me about St. Stephen’s finance board and Ted Kohler’s role in the church finances.”

He gave a half laugh. “You think the finance board has a murderer on it? Getting desperate, are we?”

I smiled, “Just looking under all the rugs for the dirt. Did Ted have a lot of power on the board?”

“He was a persuasive man, and I think he worked behind the scenes getting people on his side. He had an air of importance about him
.” That’s the pot calling the kettle black.
“People perceived him as the financial expert.”

“Did anyone ever disagree with him?”

“I did—all the time. I felt he had a hidden agenda.”

“An example?”

“He was pushing financing through his father-in-law’s bank for the remodel. I wanted to sell some off land holdings to pay for it.”

“And in your opinion, that was financially better for the church?”

He sat forward and gestured with his hands. “Of course. Ted and I never hid our differences of opinion, but we were friends and agreed to disagree. He was just more
persuasive
than I.”

“He must have been. I know people he convinced to change their beneficiary to the church. Is it common practice to solicit people to hand over their life savings instead of giving it to their families?”

He shrugged.

“How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t do wills. I have associates handle them. You know the client has the right to do whatever he or she wants with their wealth.”

“Any family members get particularly angry when they found out that their inheritance went to St. Stephen’s?”

He leaned back in his chair and grinned. “You know I’m not going to give out that kind of information.”

“Well, if you’re not going to help find your
friend’s
killer, I might as well be on my way.”

“Oh, low blow.” He shook my hand and said, “It was good to see you again. I was certainly surprised to see you at Adam and Adriana’s wedding.”

“No more than I.”

“I’d say we both lost out with Adriana.”

I grimaced. “Say, you don’t know where Victoria Lewis is, do you?”

“No, why would I?”

“You’re a friend of Adam’s.”

“I don’t keep track of his children. I must say she wrote quite the article in the paper.”

“Yes, and now she’s mysteriously vanished.”

“Do you suspect fowl play?”

“Just her own. Let me leave you with a thought. Whoever killed Kohler might be crazy enough to take revenge on the attorney that changed a will. Something to think about, right?”

“I think you’re making way too much of that connection.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“Well, good luck with that.”

“Sooner or later, I’m going to run into someone who’s willing to step up to the plate.”

“You go with that positive attitude.”

I saluted him and left to see Gus Taylor about a changed will.

Chapter 30

I
called Joyce Dexter at the
Parks Department and asked where I could find Gus Taylor. She told me he’d called in sick. I drove west to the Taylor farm. This time Spinner greeted me without a bark. I gave him a good ear scratch, and he followed me up to the front door. I knocked. No answer. I tried the knob. It turned and I entered his house still in disarray. I’d go crazy with the disorganization.

“Gus? Sheriff’s Department here,” I called. Nothing. I called out, louder a second time.

He poked his head around a corner looking like I just woke him—hair disheveled, eyes watery, face crinkled from sleep. “You scared the shit out of me!” he said loudly.

“Sorry. You didn’t answer your door. I heard you called in sick and I was worried about your well-being.”

“That’s a load of crap. So, why are you here?”

“I need to talk to you—about your dad’s will.”

He looked taken aback, then said, “What about it?”

“You tell me.”

He took out a red handkerchief and blew his already reddened nose. “You know my dad left the farm to the church?”

“Yes.”

“I’m contesting the will. Virgil Dodge is handling it for me.”

“So, I’m told you were angry when you found out.”

“Wouldn’t you be? I was betrayed. So, yeah, I was pretty pissed off.”

He started coughing. Yeesh. I can’t wait to get me some of that. When it subsided I asked him, “Whom do you blame?”

“The padre.”

“Father Moran?”

“Yeah, it was his big plan to shore up the church’s reserves. Man. I should have figured it out he and Kohler wasn’t just visiting my old man—he never had time for him before. No, they were here to coerce my father—on his deathbed, mind you—to hand his farm and
my inheritance
over to the church—they got everything but the buildings and the land they’re on.”

I nodded.

“Oh, wait—I see that look. I suppose you think I killed Kohler?”

”Sounds like a motive to me.”

“He was shot, right?”

“Right.”

“Well, I don’t even own a gun. Never did. Hell, search the place right here and now.”

So, I did. I searched the house and out buildings piled full of junk, but I knew there was nothing to find since he’d given his permission so freely.

I stopped back at the house and thanked Gus for letting me search. I said, “Just curious, Gus, why didn’t you farm with your dad?”

“Tried it for a while but me and Dad couldn’t get along, so I got the job with the Parks Department. A couple years ago when he hurt his back and sitting on a tractor even bothered him, I made the decision I would take over. But when I told him, he said it was too late, he’d already rented the land out.”

“Was he punishing you when he bequeathed the land to the church?”

“Damn right. Now, I’m trying to reverse it. I’m told I have a good chance.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Thanks.”

I went back to the office
and sat down at the computer and started researching funerals held at St. Stephens. I started with the most recent and worked backwards after Kohler and Peterson. September was Peter Fillmore’s. After a little checking, I found out his wife, Madeline, was a resident in the nursing home and their only child was a nun. I crossed off Fillmore.

In August, there were two funerals: one was a widow whose two sons were both deceased. I remember hearing about how one died in the Vietnam War and the other in a car accident. The other summer funeral was a child’s.

The other two funerals were Gus’s dad’s, who passed away in January a year ago, and Naomi’s mother’s in April. I went back into the previous year and made a list of names. The previous year, only one family had willed money to the Church, but the son said the mother had consulted them before making the change. I looked at Neva Hunt’s name. I’d been putting off questioning Naomi for more than one reason, but I knew it had to be done.