Cry From The Grave
Chapter 46
The Trauermarsch, specially composed by Felix Mendelssohn for use at funerals, gently pulsed through the air of the sanctuary, past the open doors, and fell faintly upon the ears of four individuals huddled twenty yards from the entrance to Emmanuel Episcopal Church.
"I'd suggest we do it that way," said Stu Krieger. "Any objections?"
"It wouldn't tip our hand," nodded Tori, "so I'm all for it."
"I see the rector ambling about the lobby," Krieger noted.
"Narthex," Ballack corrected him.
Krieger rolled his eyes. "I'll have a quick word with him. Remember, don't come in until I've given you the signal."
Crabolli watched the commander walk toward the church. "Think it'll work, guys?"
Ballack stretched his neck, desperately trying to loosen a few tight spots. "Bowie won't even see us coming."
Isabel Andrews sat in the front pew, watching the choirmaster go over a few last-minute details with Beverly Overton about her solo. Returning her gaze to the Bible in her lap, the nursing director returned to her meditation of St. Paul's words that love never failed.
Her focus was so deep that she never heard the tall, imposing form come up behind her.
"Mrs. Andrews," came the voice of Stu Krieger. She turned around, looking square into an intimidating, withering glare. He continued, "I require that you come with me now."
Beverly Overton recognized Commander Krieger on sight, his stern likeness a constant specter at St. Matthew's Grove over the past several days. What she wasn't prepared for was the crestfallen look on Isabel Andrews' face as she rose and exited the sanctuary with trembling steps, the commander keeping pace with her. What did this mean? Her mind raced with the possibilities although she forced herself to come back to the moment, breathing deeply. No matter the surroundings, the song was what mattered.
She had mentally reviewed the third verse of the hymn when a young lady of about twelve years of age drew alongside her pew in the right transept. Irked at the interruption, Beverly masked her emotion and gently asked what she needed.
"It's your friend," the child said sweetly. "She needs you to get her purse in the vestry. She said her license is in there with her phone."
"What's the matter?" Beverly questioned her.
"She has to go with that tall man in the suit," the girl stammered. "They have to take her and ask some questions. She needs you to hurry." She waved goodbye and trotted away.
She sat there, the blood pumping, sad for her friend of many years. Certainly, Isabel would call her husband's lawyer about this. Checking her watch, Beverly ventured she had enough time to make it into the vestry and return so she could finalize her thoughts for her melody before the grieving masses.
Rising from the pew, she strode toward the door leading to the back hallway. The crowds would still be making their way from the chapel and the viewing of Dean Hibbler's body. There were a few individuals meandering around, but her route was relatively unencumbered. She reached the door, remembering that Isabel had left her purse behind the cushion on the sofa lest someone unlocked the door in the meantime.
Beverly took out the key Nick Fisher had given her and inserted it in the lock. Much to her surprise, the bolt was already free. Pushing the door open, she found the room as they left it, softly lit, with only one lamp in the corner left on. She shut the door quickly, but as she did so, she heard a voice come out of the gloaming, heralding a weary yet authoritative soul, one that pulled down an invisible iron gate around her.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Overton," came the voice of Detective Cameron Ballack.
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