The Lord Is My Shepherd (5 page)

He had been up half the night investigating another murder at a park about three miles away. A man by the name of Miguel Jesus Olivera had been found dead on an ivory-colored donkey on Palm Avenue, one of the streets bordering the park.

“It's gotta be some kind of political statement,” Keenan, one of the other detectives, had surmised.

Mark knew better, though. The religious significance of a donkey on Palm Avenue the Sunday before Easter had not been lost on him. The discovery that the dead guy's middle name was Jesus had clinched it. That significance and a few well-chosen words had gotten the editor of the local paper to sit on the story for twenty-four hours. Now there was a second murder to deal with, this one actually inside a church. It smelled to him like a wacko with a big-time hatred for religious types. Either that or someone who hated Easter as much as he did. Either way, it wasn't good, and Easter was still a long way off.

C
INDY LEAPED UP FROM THE TABLE AND GRABBED THE PHONE TO DIAL 9-1-1 before she recognized the man staring in her window. Heart slamming against her ribcage, she put down the phone and opened up the front door.

“Oliver, you scared me!”

“Sorry, I heard you were home, but I knocked and nobody answered.” Oliver Johnson was a tall man in his mid-forties. He had been going to First Shepherd for the last couple of years and had been a Shepherd for the last six months. A terrible suspicion formed in her mind as she remembered the sight of the bloody Shepherd's Cross the detective had shown her.

She shook her head firmly. There was no way Oliver Johnson was a cold-blooded killer. Still, a shiver went up her spine, and she rubbed her arms to warm herself.

“What brings you here, Oliver?” she asked as he stepped inside.

“My job, unfortunately.”

She motioned him toward the couch, and he took a seat. “I don't understand.” Oliver was a reporter for the
Pine Springs Gazette
. He covered human interest and community affairs.

“Well, when the reports came in about the church this morning, my editor assigned me to the story.”

“But you don't cover crime,” she said.

“No, but the editor remembered that I'm a member at First Shepherd, and he wanted me to work with the crime reporter on this story.”

“So, this isn't a social call.” She sat down on the couch.

“I'm afraid not. I'm sorry. I know you probably just want to be alone right now. I know I would if I were in your shoes.”

“That's okay. You're just doing your job. I guess you heard that I was the one who found the body.”

“Yes, I was so sorry to hear that.” He moved closer, eyes fixed intently on her.

“It was terrible,” she confided.

“I can believe it. I realize talking about it is probably the last thing you want to do right now, but anything you could tell me would be helpful.”

Cindy didn't like being interviewed. She rarely knew what to say, and it always came out sounding so boring. She forced herself to take a deep breath. At least this wasn't a job interview. If she messed up, Oliver's story would just be less interesting. Cindy told Oliver how she had found the body and how Jeremiah had called the police. Oliver listened and scribbled furiously on his notepad. It went better than she had expected. She pretended that she was telling Oliver, the concerned parishioner, the story, rather than Oliver, the newspaper reporter. She even found that it was a relief to tell someone the story now that she was calmer and could do so in a more normal fashion.

“You're very brave,” he said softly.

“Not me. I was terrified. I was actually relieved when you showed up. Being here alone isn't really making me feel any better. I've been jumping at my own shadow.”

“You'll never know how sorry I am that this had to happen to someone as sweet as you.”

“Thanks,” she said.
Sweet. I hate it when people call me that. It's like “nice.” What do they mean? Sweet … nice. You might as well be describing a piece of chocolate or a sunny afternoon.

Oliver was speaking again, and she tuned back in. “Can I ask you just a couple more questions?”

“Sure.”

“Do they know yet who the man was?”

Cindy shook her head.
The dead man with the eyes. That's all he was.
“You'll probably have to ask the police. I'd never seen him before and neither had Pastor Roy.”

“Okay. Did the police say if they had any suspects?”

“I don't know. I'm sorry.”
Again, I'm the clueless loser. Nancy Drew would already have the entire case solved if she'd tripped on a dead body at church. But then Nancy also took so many risks, just like Lisa used to.

“That's fine. One more question. Did you see anything else out of the ordinary? Maybe the police found something strange?”

“Not that I know of,” she said. “I was pretty out of it, though. Hopefully, they can be more helpful. Hopefully, they've already found the guy who did this.”
And how many more times can I say “hopefully"? No wonder Kyle's the one with a television travel show, and I'm the one answering phones at a church.

“Yes, I hope they have someone behind bars right now so we can all put this behind us,” Oliver said fervently.

“Is there anything else?”

“No, I think that pretty much does it. I'll call you if I need anything more, if that's okay.”

“That's fine.”
Fine. Fine. I may as well have said “nice
,” she thought, completely disgusted.

He stood to go. “Keep your chin up. I'll be praying for you, especially tonight. Only happy dreams for you, I hope.”

“Thank you.”

“It's just a terrible start to Easter week, you know. First the guy in the park and now this.”

“What guy in the park?”

Oliver turned red and dropped his eyes. “Sorry. I'm not supposed to say anything.”

And that was exactly the wrong thing to say to get Cindy to back off. “Oliver, tell me, what do you know?” She put as much pleading into her voice as she could. If he knew something that would help her make sense of what had happened, then he wasn't leaving without telling her.

“A jogger found a guy on Palm Avenue, next to the park. He was dead and sitting on a donkey.”

“Dead on a donkey on Palm Sunday on Palm Avenue?” she asked.

“Yes. Police asked the editor to keep it quiet for a day while they try and figure it out.”

“A man was killed in mimicry of Jesus' entry into Jerusalem, and the police want to keep it quiet?”

“Wouldn't you if you were them? I mean, that's pretty crazy, right? They don't want people to get scared.”

“It's a little late for that,” she said grimly.

“Are you okay?”

“No, but I am a little better. Now I know that the guy in the church wasn't killed at random.” She opened the door for Oliver. “Good luck with the article.”

“Thanks,” he said, a bewildered look on his face as he left.

Cindy leaned against the door for a moment and breathed deeply. As relief flooded her, she had the sudden urge to leave the house but realized that her car was still sitting in the church parking lot.

She grabbed her purse and keys and locked the door behind her. The church was less than two miles away. The air was warm, and birds were singing. Spring had arrived in Pine Springs with all its promise of new life. Birds feathered their nests. New leaves had popped out on all the trees, and tulips bloomed in bright bouquets. With so much around her alive and green, it helped to drive away the images of death that plagued her mind.

By the time she was halfway to the church, she resolved to walk to work more often. The air and the exercise were good for her, and they definitely did a lot to brighten her mood. It was safer than driving too. Lots of people died in cars every day.

When the church came into view she saw the janitor, Ralph, and Drake, one of the church members, standing on the front lawn. Two of the three crosses the church had put up the Friday before to celebrate Easter were standing, but the third lay on the ground.

“What's going on?” Cindy asked as she walked up.

“Hey, Cindy.” Drake gave her a quick hug. “You okay?”

She nodded.

“One of the crosses fell over a couple of hours ago. A gust of wind caught it just right and over she went,” Ralph said. “Drake is helping me put it back up.”

“We need to anchor all three of them deeper in the ground and brace them,” Drake said. “By the time we're finished they should stand through a hurricane.”

“That's better than I can say for the buildings,” Ralph said with a short laugh.

“With you two on the job I'm sure they'll withstand anything,” Cindy said.

“Yeah, now just give me a hammer and some nails and let me reconstruct these buildings,” Drake said.

“Wait, here you go.” Ralph handed Drake a hammer and three nails.

Drake looked at them and then at one of the two standing crosses. “Hey, can you put me up for the night?” he wisecracked, waving the nails at the cross.

“Very funny, Drake. I think we've all heard that one a million times,” Cindy said.

“But never in such dramatic fashion.”

It felt good to joke around with Ralph and Drake. Maybe she should have stayed at work and not gone home earlier.

“You guys are nuts,” she said.

“You know what they say, you don't have to be crazy to work here, but it helps,” Ralph said.

“Tell me about it.” Geanie emerged from the office.

“Hey, Geanie, how are you doing?” Cindy looked at her quizzically.

Geanie was known for her particularly outlandish clothes. Today, though, she had dressed in a short, black-velvet skirt, a plain black tank top, and pink flats with no nylons. Her blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she wore no makeup.

“Better now that you're here. You just saved me from calling you with a gazillion more questions.” She grabbed Cindy's arm and pulled her back toward the buildings.

“I'm trying to understand your look today. I hate to admit it, but I don't get it.”

“I had a whole goth thing going on this morning. Got here and somehow it seemed way inappropriate. I ditched the black boots and fishnets. I had these pink shoes in my desk from a couple of months ago. I took off the overshirt I had on and scrubbed off all the makeup. I figured the last thing anyone needed was to see me walking around looking dead.”

“Probably a good choice.” Though Cindy had seen Geanie in a goth outfit before, and she had looked very much alive compared to the man who had been stabbed in the sanctuary.

Geanie was the church's graphic artist and all-around computer whiz. When she first started working for the church, she had revamped all of their publications, from Sunday bulletins to monthly newsletters and everything in between. If it could be printed, odds were it had her finger-prints on it. Perhaps because of her talent and her endearing quirkiness, she was given a lot of free rein.

“So, what did you need to ask me?”

“Roy still can't get me a schedule for the Maundy Thursday service.”

“Have you tried asking Gus?” Gus was the minister of drama and choir for the church. For Thursday night he had planned a big program with a play and a lot of singing to celebrate the Last Supper.

“Yes, and he gave me the order of service for the parts he's doing, but he has no idea what Roy has planned for the
rest of the evening. Is there going to be a sermon? Opening greeting? An invitation? Offering?”

“I see the problem,” Cindy said with a sigh.

“It would be a lot easier if Roy and Gus would just work this out together and then let the rest of us know what's going on.”

“Yeah, but that's not likely to happen.”

“Tell me about it. I'm surprised they can stand on the podium together Sunday mornings.”

It was no secret that the two men didn't get along, or at least it wasn't a secret to the staff. There did seem to be many in the congregation who were blissfully unaware of the tension between the two.

“When do you have to print the programs?”

“I wanted to print them this afternoon, but even if you could pry what I need to know out of Roy, I can't get it ready to print until sometime tomorrow now.”

“I know you like to get these things done early, but between you and me, when is your drop-dead day?”

“Wednesday afternoon. The team is coming in Thursday to print the newsletter.”

“I forgot it was newsletter week,” Cindy said.

“I wish I could.”

“If I have it all to you tomorrow at three o'clock can you make it work?”

Geanie nodded. “It's going to be tight, though.”

“But we'll make it.”

“As long as the copiers don't die on us like last Easter,” Geanie said glumly.

“We resurrected them, though.”

“Yeah, but you had to drive two hours to L.A. for that one part when they couldn't send a repairman. And then we all had to stay until nearly midnight printing and collating.”

“Don't remind me,” Cindy said. “Let's just pray extra hard for all the office equipment this week.”

“Printer, don't fail me now,” Geanie said, smiling for the first time.

“Amen.”

“So, what else can I do for you?”

“Harold is trying to schedule a meeting the Sunday after Easter for the Shepherds but none of the available rooms are big enough, and I'm not sure if any of the other groups can be moved.”

“Where did the Shepherds hold their last meeting?” Cindy tried to remember.

“He said they've had scheduling problems for the last couple of months so they've been meeting at his house. They met Saturday, but he wants to resolve the scheduling issues so they can just meet here after services.”

“I'll take a look and see who I can move to another room,” Cindy said. “Then I'll go talk to Roy about getting you a schedule for Thursday night.”

“That would be awesome.”

As it turned out, Pastor Roy's afternoon was booked solid with meetings. Cindy only managed to pop in for a minute and ask him to write out the order of service for her. He told her he would have it on her desk by the morning. Before she could ask him anything else or bring up the morning's events with him, his four o'clock appointment arrived.

For the next little while she worked on finding a room for the Shepherds to meet in, without much success. She was
starting to feel edgy and realized the police detective had probably been right about taking some time off. The work would all be waiting for her in the morning. She wasn't sure, though, that she was ready to face her empty house alone.