I continued, “Think about it. The big money day is Sunday. The collection money probably goes into the bank on Monday. Was there some kind of event on that Wednesday? A reason someone might think there’d be money lying around?”
Apparently not, since no one said anything.
“Do we know anything else?” Nana Cole asked.
“The news reports have been very thin,” Bev said.
“People are talking about it,” Barbara said. “They’re just not saying much.”
“I heard he was beaten to a pulp,” Dorothy said.
“Emma doesn’t need to hear the gory details,” Bev admonished her.
“What kind of person beats a minister to death?”
“If he was severely beaten it implies anger,” I said. I’m sure the information came fromCSIor maybeDiagnosis Murderone or the other. “That doesn’t sound like a robbery.”
“Well, there wouldn’t seem to be any other explanation,” Barbara said.
“Did they break in?” I asked. “That’s one way to be sure it was a robbery.”
“The doors of the church arealwaysopen,” my grandmother said, pointedly.
“It’s terrifying to think whoever did this is still out there,” Dorothy said. “Our minister. None of us are safe.”
“Henry will go and have a talk with the sheriff,” Nana Cole volunteered.
“No I won’t.”
Ignoring me, she told her friends, “He has a good relationship with Sheriff Crocker after solving the Sammy Hart murder.”
Nothing could be further from the truth. Just the week before I’d picked up my reward, which had included a photo op, one that would likely show up in theEaglesoon. It hadn’t gone well. And…
Ugh! The reward money. Now there’s a disappointment—more about that in a minute. But before I left, the day I picked it up, Sheriff Crocker sidled up to me and said, “I hope you’re planning to take that money and leave town.”
Well, that had been exactly my plan, but he sounded like he was telling me to leave town. I wasn’t so great at being told what to do and then there’s the fact that—
Nana Cole was giving me the evil eye, so I said again, “No. I said, no.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
CHAPTER TWO
As soon as Sheriff Crocker handed me the reward check I glanced at it and was completely horrified. They’d taken taxes out. Who does that? That meant instead of fifteen thousand dollars, I received eight thousand, nine hundred and forty-two. Apparently, they decided to tax me as though I made fifteen thousand a week, which I most certainly did not.
Sure, I would get a lot of it back if and when I filed a tax return—except I wouldn’t be filing a return. My student loan was seriously in default, and I had it on good authority that the IRS would not send you a refund if that was the case. Sucks, right?
Not to mention, I hadn’t actually seen any of the money yet. It hadn’t made sense at all to open a bank account in Michigan since I did not intend to stay more than another few weeks. Months? Oh God, I was trying not to think about that.
Anyway, using a deposit slip from the back of my checkbook, I’d made out the deposit and mailed it off to Bank of America in California. It should get there any day now.
Of course, it’s still enough money to get a decent secondhand car but not much else. And that’s only if no one else gets to the money first.
And yes, it was a very real possibility the money might get taken from me. Two days after I was given the check, I’d gotten a phone call from Los Angeles General Hospital—yes, the same General Hospital shown every afternoon for those of you who enjoy soap operas. Someone named Robbie Hale. My first question was, “How did you get this number?”
“Your mother gave it to us,” Robbie said. “She’s your emergency contact.”
“This is not an emergency.”
