Page 59 of Fatal Fame
Her footsteps echoed on the stone floor as she made her way down a side corridor toward the church offices, passing religious artwork and memorial plaques that documented decades of parish life. The administrative wing felt more human in scale,with lower ceilings and warmer lighting that suggested practical business rather than spiritual transcendence.
She found the door marked "Pastor David Morrison" and knocked twice.
"Coming," a voice called from inside.
The door opened to reveal a man in his fifties with graying hair. He wore casual clothing—khakis and a polo shirt—rather than clerical collar.
"Mia Sutherland," he said with obvious recognition.
"You know me?"
"Your father drops by from time to time. He's a hard nut to crack, but I don't give up. The Lord doesn't either." Morrison's smile carried genuine warmth rather than evangelical pressure. "I keep telling him he should come out to a service, but he's not at that point yet."
"Yeah, he’s a little on the fence regarding the God thing."
"Come on in," Morrison said, gesturing toward a comfortable office. Bookshelves lined two walls, filled with theological texts, commentaries, and what looked like a substantial collection of mystery novels. A desk sat beneath a window that offered a view of the church's small garden, where late-season flowers provided splashes of color against the landscape.
"So, how can I help you?" Morrison asked, settling into his chair.
Mia pulled out her notebook, the pages already filled with information gathered from various interviews. "I was hoping you might shed some light on a few things. I'm continuing on from where Pierce left off with the Hale case."
Morrison's expression grew more serious. "Huh. You are? Does your father know about that?"
Mia sighed, recognizing the concern that seemed to follow her everywhere. "He does. Anyway, Pierce was supposed to speak with you, but then, well..." She gestured vaguely, notwanting to dwell on the circumstances of Pierce's death. "My questions are about Keith Dwyer's suicide note. He listed your wife among those who knew about Rebecca's murder. Why might that be?"
Morrison sat back in his chair, considering the question with careful thought. "Rebecca was a parishioner here. She would come in from time to time to discuss her concerns, her spiritual struggles. Sometimes she spoke with me, sometimes with my wife, Rita. Rita made some suggestions to her, mostly about her lifestyle choices."
"You mean dating multiple men?"
Morrison nodded. "Rebecca didn't take too kindly to Rita's opinions. She felt she was being judged rather than helped. But Rebecca shared things in confidence, and maybe that's what Keith was referring to. Rita knew things about Rebecca's personal life that most people didn't."
Mia made notes. "What about Carl Peterson? He's a church member here, right? He was also present at the potluck Rebecca attended the night she was murdered."
"Peterson is harmless," Morrison said with the tone of someone who'd dealt with difficult personalities for years. "Maybe a little annoying at times. Persistent, you could say, but harmless. He was an old friend of Rebecca's husband, who had passed away years earlier. After Rebecca became single, Carl had been a little too friendly with her. She never showed any interest in him romantically, and he took the rejection rather poorly."
"How poorly?"
"He spread some rumors about her. Used some choice words that I'd rather not repeat in the house of the Lord, but you can find them written in permanent marker in the men's bathroom. I've had a hard time removing them. Permanent marker has a way of staying."
"How do you know it was him who wrote them?"
"He confessed to it eventually. Like I said, he can be annoying and lose his temper from time to time, but he's harmless. Just hurt by being rejected, I guess."
Mia jotted down notes, building a picture of Rebecca's complicated social relationships. "On the night of the potluck, Rebecca received a phone call from someone and left in a hurry. Did she ever say who called her?"
Morrison glanced toward the window at the sound of children playing outside. A soccer ball bounced repeatedly against the exterior wall with a rhythm that suggested determined practice rather than casual play. He stood up and opened the window.
"Kids, take the ball elsewhere, please. Thank you."
The sound stopped, and Morrison closed the window before returning to his seat. "Sorry. The kids have gotten into the habit of using our wall as a makeshift goal. Where were we?"
"The phone call at the potluck. Rebecca left after receiving it."
"Right. She didn't say who it was from, but rumor has it the call came from Travis Rudd. Someone who had been giving her unwanted attention for some time."
Mia felt her pulse quicken. "Travis Rudd. Did you know he disappeared after the murders?"
"I do."
