“Well, you might have a sweet voice. I’ve never heard you sing.”
“Trust me, I can’t sing.”
“I thought as much. Your mother can’t sing either.”
That I knew. I don’t think my mother had ever taken a shower without mangling something or other from the Whitney Houston songbook. Grudgingly, I admitted to myself that spending a little time with Sue Langtree was probably a good idea. I mean, if we were really going to figure this out.
“Reverend Wilkie doesn’t like you.”
“Of course he likes me. It wouldn’t be Christian of him not to like me.”
“You don’t like him.”
“I’m not a reverend. I don’t have to like everybody.”
“Okay, so why don’t you like him?”
“He just isn’t… he isn’t inspiring. That’s all.” That sounded like code for something. Like she didn’t care for his politics, or she preferred a minister who’d threaten them with hell and damnation rather than pointing out that lying is a bad thing.
“Why don’t you just go to another church?”
“I’ve been attending Cheswick Community Church since I was a child. It’s always been my church. More so than his.”
“Do you think he killed Reverend Hessel to get his job back?”
“Henry, what a thing to say.” I could tell she thought she should be horrified but couldn’t quite pull it off. “That would be very extreme, don’t you think?”
I shrugged. “In L.A. you can end up dead for just cutting someone off on the 405. Killing for a job seems almost reasonable.”
We were passing by Benson’s Country Store, and I remembered there was a little sandwich shop in the same complex. I turned in and parked in front of Megan’s Nook and asked my grandmother what she wanted for lunch.
“We have sandwich fixings at home, don’t we?”
“This is better. What kind of sandwich do you want?”
“The kind I can make in my own kitchen.”
“Uh-huh. How about turkey?”
“Roast beef.”
“On whole wheat?”
“Sourdough.”
I was sure someone had said she should be watching her diet—i.e., avoiding red meat and white bread—but I decided to settle for getting her to eat at all. I got out of the SUV and walked into the little shop.
And by little, I mean miniscule. There were three tables, a counter where you could order, and behind that an itsy-bitsy kitchen where the sandwiches were made. Above the counter was a blackboard menu. Every item had a cutesy name. I struggled to figure it out.
The sandwich maker, a middle-aged woman with crinkled brown hair, stepped over and asked, “What’ll you have?”
“I’ll have the Turkey Trot.” A turkey, Swiss and cranberry sauce sandwich on dark wheat. “And… do you have just roast beef on sourdough?”
“That would be the Mad Cow.”
Well, that was an unfortunate name. I added a couple of red cream sodas, paid, and then waited for the crinkle-haired woman to make my sandwiches.
She decided to talk while she made them. “You’re coming from church, aren’t you?”
