Travellin' Shoes Read online

  “This had better be good,” I pulled myself away.

  It was Harley. Someone had broken into Paris’ other salon, but were scared off by the burglar alarm. The conversation didn’t take long. I filled in the gaps that Paris hadn’t heard from Harley’s side of the conversation.

  “Nothing was taken, and best I can tell, there was no damage. The burglar was frightened off by your alarm system.”

  In her eyes, I saw the storm of anger rising. “They aren’t going to stop until they find whatever it is they think I have. I wish I knew what it was because I’d just give it to them.”

  She was tired and scared. She started to shake and I held her in my arms until the shaking stopped.

  After a long moment, she pulled herself together and looked at me expectantly.

  “I’ll find them. I promise.”

  * * *

  Death went out to the preacher’s house,

  Come and go with me

  The preacher cried out, I’m ready to go,

  I’ve got my travellin’ shoes

  Got my travellin’ Shoes, Got my travellin’ shoes

  Preacher cried out, I’m ready to go,

  I’ve got my travellin’ shoes

  * * *

  Chapter Thirteen

  I rarely make it to church two consecutive Sundays. I’m doing well if I go twice in the same month, so for me to not only make it to church two weeks in a row, but to make it to the early service two weeks in a row, was a miracle of God. A miracle, I might add, that didn’t go unnoticed. There were more than a few raised eyebrows as members of the congregation greeted me. I wouldn’t have gone to the early service, but Paris was singing, and I wanted to hear her.

  I knew she could sing well from the little bit I’d overheard in my living room a few nights ago, but with the Gospel Chorus backing her up, she was amazing.

  Each one of the choirs was good in their own way. The Senior Choir sang a lot of spirituals, hymns, and old-time gospel favorites. The Children’s Choir sang cute little songs that brought a smile. The Young Adult Choir consisted of the teenage set and sang the hip-hop-inspired and gospel-rap tunes. They were loud, energetic, and flashy. The Gospel Chorus was the twenty-to-forty-year-old bunch, and they typically stuck to contemporary gospel. All the members, as far as I could tell, were excellent singers, and were the most requested for special concerts and singing engagements.

  Paris was good, and I’m not saying that simply because I was falling for her. She had a deep, rich voice, but she also had a good range and could sing quite high when she wanted. The song had a blues/jazz feel to it, and Paris was remarkable. I, like most of the congregation, found myself standing and clapping before she finished her last note.

  The major differences between the early service and the other services were fewer songs, fewer people, and a shorter duration—only an hour and a half. So the early service kept to a pretty tight schedule. The later service often spilled over to a later time if the Spirit moved. Paris confessed that was one of the reasons she preferred the early service. The hardest part, of course, was getting up. But since my accident and the lack of sleep, I was up early anyway.

  Reverend Hamilton preached a message about forgiveness, and I wondered if it was directed at anyone in particular. He cited the text in the Gospel of John where the Pharisees attempt to discredit Jesus. In the story, the Pharisees bring a woman to Jesus who has been caught in the act of adultery. According to Mosaic Law, this act was punishable by stoning. When the Pharisees challenges Jesus to judge the woman, Jesus responds by saying, “He who is without sin among you, let him cast the first stone.” The people pressing him are so troubled by their own consciences, they leave. When Jesus finds himself alone with the woman, he asks who her accusers are. She replies, “No man, Lord.” Jesus then says, “Neither do I condemn thee: go and sin no more.”

  It’s possible the message wasn’t directed toward anyone in particular, but I still felt like those Pharisees and wanted to depart. I intended to stop by the rectory later, after Reverend Hamilton was done. I hoped I hadn’t been too forceful or judgmental last night when talking to him. For me, the law was clear. You steal, you go to jail. That was what the Oath of Honor I’d sworn to required. But I realized that Reverend Hamilton dealt in a lot of gray. The money was important, but it wasn’t his primary focus. He was concerned about the eternal soul.

  After the service, I made my way into the vestibule when what to my wondering eye should appear but a white Mercedes and Mrs. Tyrone Warren. I watched as Mrs. Warren parked in one of the handicapped spaces near the front door and hobbled up the stairs into the church.

  Now, I supposed she might still be looking for comfort that would help her recover from the death of her dear husband, but my cynical nature wondered if there wasn’t a bit more to it.

  I’d planned my Sunday differently. I’d intended to take Mama B and Paris out for brunch at Cesselly’s, but those plans would have to wait.

  I hurried out the door and found Mama B sitting on the church porch. Just as I arrived back on the steps, Paris came out with her choir robe in hand.

  “I’m sorry, but I have something I have to take care of,” I said. “Can you please take my car and drive Mama B home?”

  Surprised, Paris hesitated about a half second before replying, “Sure. No problem. Would you like us to wait for you for lunch? Or do you want me to come back and get you?”

  “There’s no need to come back for me. I can walk. I’m not sure how long I’ll be, though, so you might want to go on without me.”

  “That’s okay. We’ll wait a little while, but if we get hungry, we’ll go on.”

  With that, Paris helped Mama B down the stairs to the car, and I went back into the church to track down Mrs. Warren.

  I tried the sanctuary first but didn’t see her. Everyone was getting ready for the next service, so I went downstairs, where I saw Mrs. Warren sitting in the office with Reverend Hamilton. Now, this was tricky. They were obviously involved in a conversation. I couldn’t very well interrupt. Well, I could, but it might shut down the conversation, which was the only reason I was there. Just then, Reverend Hamilton looked up and noticed me. He smiled and waved for me to enter.

  “RJ, it’s so good to see you. I believe you know Mrs. Warren?”

  “How are you, Mrs. Warren? I’m surprised to see you here.”

  Mrs. Warren did not look pleased to see me, although she plastered a fake smile on her face and extended her hand.

  “Yes, Detective Franklin and I know each other. He’s investigating Tye’s death. I had the pleasure of speaking with him just the other day.”

  Reverend Hamilton, who was removing his clerical robe, motioned for me to sit. “Mrs. Warren was just sharing with me how difficult it has been to grieve for her husband without having his things.” Reverend Hamilton was masterfully filling me in on their conversation. Mrs. Warren didn’t seem pleased. In fact, she seemed downright angry.

  “I shared the same thing with Detective Franklin just the other day,” she said, “but he was not able to assist me. I was hoping you, Reverend Hamilton, a man of God and Tye’s spiritual confidant, would be able to help.”

  She was laying it on pretty thick. Thankfully Reverend Hamilton was intelligent enough to recognize her flattery for what it was.

  “I will certainly help you in any way I can.” This drew a smug smile from Mrs. Warren, which was quickly wiped away when Reverend Hamilton added, “I’m a certified grief counselor, and I will gladly spend time sharing words of comfort from the scripture to help you during this incredibly difficult period.”

  Mrs. Warren’s eyes got large. She had not seen that coming.

  Reverend Hamilton grabbed his calendar and flipped through it. “We’ll need a few hours for the initial consultation and perhaps additional time depending on how things go. How long will you be in town, Mrs. Warren?”

  “Well, I don’t know exactly. My plans are still very much up in the air. I had thou
ght I might return home tomorrow. I don’t think I can commit to counseling sessions.”

  Mrs. Warren stood and inched her way out of the room. If she weren’t still recovering from surgery, she might have run.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Warren,” Reverend Hamilton said. “I believe I can help you. The Word of God is a great comforter during times of grief. However, I understand if you must leave.” As she continued her retreat, he added in a louder voice, “I hope you’ll call me if you do feel you need counseling. I’m always here for those in need.”

  Mrs. Warren had made it out of the office and was almost at the point where she had to shout to make herself heard over the noise of children running around in the church basement. “Thank you, Reverend.”

  I have never seen anyone make such a hasty exit, and once we were sure Mrs. Warren was out of earshot, we gave in to the hilarity of the situation.

  Reverend Hamilton chuckled to himself. “That has to be a record for me. I don’t think I’ve ever cleared a room quite that fast before.”

  “What do you suppose she wanted?”

  “You’re the detective. She started asking about any items her husband might have left behind, keepsakes or mementos she could have to help in her grieving process. But that was just a lot of hooey. She’s looking for something.”

  “Any idea what she’s trying to find?”

  He shook his head. “No, but whatever it is, she must believe he left it here. And she’s scared.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  Reverend Hamilton stopped and turned to look me full in the face. “People think ministers are these sheltered creatures who don’t know much about life, but I’ve seen fear many a time. And that woman is scared.”

  I returned Reverend Hamilton’s stare. “Anyone who thinks you ‘don’t know much’ is a fool.”

  He let out a hearty laugh. Despite our disagreements, Reverend Hamilton knew I respected him.

  Now, to solve this murder, all I had to do was figure out what Thomas Warrendale had that everyone wanted badly enough to kill for.

  We shook hands, and I left him to prepare for the next service. I was tempted to stay and keep an eye on Mrs. Warren to see how she interacted with the other members of the congregation. FSB was a far cry from the conservative church she was accustomed to in Cleveland. Don’t get me wrong. The members of FSB were not rustic, uneducated backwoods folk. But the atmosphere at FSB was certainly a great deal homier than what I think Mrs. Warren would have preferred.

  A quick scan of the sanctuary showed no signs of her, and a glance in the parking lot confirmed the white Mercedes was missing. Mrs. Warren was gone. I was relieved I wouldn’t have to sit through the service a second time. Twice in one day might have sent me over the edge.

  Walking down the alley to Mama B’s house took less than ten minutes. When I arrived, both Mama B and Paris had changed into their Sunday afternoon attire and were relaxing on the front porch, drinking lemonade, and watching the morning basketball games at the rec center.

  I hurried up the steps to the porch. “You ladies seem relaxed. Just let me change real quick and we’re off for brunch.”

  “Sister Bethany is trying to bail on us,” Paris said. “Maybe you can talk some sense into her.”

  I stopped in my tracks. “What’s wrong? You feeling okay?”

  “I’m fine,” Mama B said. “And you can stop asking me every two seconds how I feel.”

  “Then why don’t you want to go? You ashamed to be seen in public with us?”

  “You hush, boy.” Mama B rocked. “You don’t need an old woman holding you down.”

  Paris smiled. “You may be right. RJ, do you know any old women?”

  Mama B had a big laugh over that. I loved watching her when she was really laughing. Her whole body shook.

  I ran inside to get out of my Sunday suit and pull on some casual linen slacks, a lightweight sweater, and loafers. Then, on my way down, I grabbed Mama B’s purse and sweater from the dresser in her bedroom and went outside, closing the door behind me. There was only one way to deal with Mama B when she was being stubborn, and that was to bulldoze her.

  After handing Mama B her purse, I held out my arm to help her out of her rocker. She rocked a little more, but then gave up and pushed herself out of her chair.

  “I was just getting comfortable here. You know you don’t want me tagging along.”

  “I have no idea what she’s talking about, do you, Paris?”

  “No, sir. Let’s go. I’m starving.”

  Paris climbed into the back of the car, and although Mama B made a feeble attempt at protest, it was easier for Paris to get in the back than Mama B. I got her settled in the passenger seat and we were off.

  On Sundays, Cesselly’s offered a jazz champagne brunch that was fantastic. There was everything from bacon and hash browns to shrimp and grits and prime rib. Mimosas were included and a jazz pianist played while we enjoyed good food, great music, and excellent conversation. I can say I thoroughly enjoyed the meal, and even Mama B, who can be extremely particular about food when eating out, enjoyed herself. Cesselly’s was relatively new but was gaining a lot of notice around the community. Once again, it was full but not packed. There was a steady stream of customers who seemed to know either me, Paris, Mama B, or some combination thereof. I think Mama B enjoyed the atmosphere and the socialization most of all. It wasn’t long before the two owners, who were filling in by taking coats, had pulled up chairs and were sharing funny stories from their time as touring jazz musicians. Time flew by, and three hours later, I noticed almost everyone had gone.

  We reluctantly got up to leave. The owners not only made Mama B promise to return, but gave her a card for a free meal.

  After brunch, we went to the same river-front park where Paris and I had gone last week. Mama B sat on a bench and fed the ducks and geese popcorn I purchased from a street vendor. Paris and I followed the same path as before along the river and across the bridge. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon.

  “I’m so glad we got to come today. I was afraid you were going to stand us up.”

  “Not likely. Mama B deserved a day out.”

  We walked in companionable silence for a few minutes before I asked, “How close were you to Warrendale?”

  I felt Paris stiffen and then she stopped and turned to face me.

  “What are you asking?”

  I could tell she was angry, but I needed to know the answer for several reasons, one of which had nothing to do with the investigation. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m just trying to find some answers.”

  She took a few minutes to think and then shrugged. “We weren’t close at all. I barely knew him. I knew he was a CPA and he did the books for the church. That’s about it.”

  I was curious as to why anyone would break into both of her salons and her home.

  “Did you meet him often? I mean did he come to your house or to the salon?”

  “We only met a few times outside of church. He was the choir director and I sing in the choir. But you know how big FBC is. The Gospel Chorus has over fifty members and not all of us sing at every service. I usually sing at the early service. Others only sing at the later services.”

  We continued to walk as we talked, but the mood had completely changed. I wished I had delayed this conversation, but now that we were in the middle of it, I had no choice but to continue.

  Paris went on, “We usually met at my house or one of the salons. He didn’t live far from me, so it was more convenient to just meet at home. Plus, that’s where most of the records were. I took almost everything I needed home so I could work on the books from there rather than staying late at the salons.”

  “Did he ever give you any boxes or papers or computer disks … anything?”

  She thought about it for a few minutes before shaking her head. “No. Nothing I can remember. It would help if I knew what you’re looking for though.”

  “If I knew wha
t we’re looking for, we would have this case solved. Did he ever talk to you about … his past?”

  She shook her head. “No. I had no idea he was married or anything. I don’t think any of the other choir members did either. I know he liked to flirt. Several of the women, especially the really young ones, had crushes on him. But that’s natural.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. It happens all the time. I’d bet not only the choir members but half the women in the congregation fantasized about him.”

  “Fantasies. Hmm … really?”

  “Why do you seem so surprised? He wasn’t ugly or deformed.” She looked at me.

  “I didn’t say he was.”

  Things were finally lightening up.

  After a long moment, she added, “I didn’t say I fantasized about him.”

  “You didn’t have to say it.” I laughed, and after an indignant look, she laughed too.

  “He wasn’t my type.”

  I stopped and stared at her. “And what is your type?”

  Paris blushed and looked away shyly. “Maybe I’ll tell you someday, but not today. Today I am enjoying a pleasant walk with a very nice police officer.”

  We finished our walk hand in hand.

  The next morning, Harley and I presented ourselves in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel. We showed our badges to the twenty-something clerk behind the desk, who decided perhaps he could override hotel policy and give us Mrs. Warren’s room number after all.

  Mrs. Warren was staying in the penthouse suite. We waited until the clerk was distracted and made for the elevator.

  Harley let out a low whistle as we stepped out of the elevator. The Hilton wasn’t a shabby hotel under any circumstances, but the penthouse suites were in a class all their own. The carpet was thicker, and the lighting was nicer. The pictures on the walls were all numbered editions and the atmosphere made you want to whisper.