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The owner of La Fiesta, whose daughter was on the girls’ team, invited them all to come for dinner one night. They agreed to call for a team appointment the next week. Greta, Emily and her husband, three teachers, and a several players’ parents retired to the La Fiesta for dinner and margaritas. The players themselves had better things to do than spend Saturday evening with adults.
Greta drank two large margaritas, ate more chips and salsa, enchiladas and rellenos, and beans and rice than was healthy, and she had one of the best evenings she’d had in months.
Another gathering was occurring twenty-seven miles away. The Elks organization was having a fundraiser dinner to purchase equipment for Tillamook Hospital. Tables held eight members of the Elks, city and county officials, chiefs of the Tillamook City fire and police departments, doctors and administrators from the hospital, and other civic leaders. Among the latter and sitting at a table in the center of the room were Tillamook sheriff Ralph Wallace and Reverend Josiah Balfour.
Their table had just been alerted that it was their turn to line up at the buffet.
“I think I’ll wait a minute or so for the line to get shorter, Ralph,” said Balfour.
“Not a bad idea, Josiah,” said Wallace, laughing. He picked up his whiskey and soda. “If we time it right, we can get in line before the next set of tables.”
Balfour lifted his wine glass, took a sip, and leaned closer to Wallace.
“I don’t want to intrude in your office’s business, Ralph, but a couple of my parishioners have asked me whether that Toompas murder case is going to be solved. Evidently, one of your deputies has been going house to house showing pictures of Toompas and asking questions.”
Wallace cursed under his breath. “It’s that deputy Havorsford.”
Wallace looked around to confirm no one else was within hearing. “Last week, when you stopped by the office, I mentioned that she’s obsessed with the Toompas case. I’ll tell you, Josiah, she’s a pain in the ass. Pardon the language. Don’t tell anyone else what I’m going to say.”
Wallace paused and looked at Balfour expectantly.
“No worry, Ralph. If you can’t trust a servant of God, who can you trust?”
“Well . . . it’s too bad, but I don’t think we’ll ever find out who killed Toompas. Too much time has passed, and there aren’t enough leads. It’s Havorsford. She won’t let it go, even though no one else thinks her ideas are going anywhere—sniffing around in every corner. She seems to think there’s a big new lead, but I certainly haven’t heard of anything new. I worry that she’ll make the citizens of Tillamook County think there’s a serial killer on the loose. As I said, it’s a shame we won’t solve this, but I think it’s better to just let the case go.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ll handle it professionally, as you always do, Ralph. You know you can always count on my support, along with the Church of God Arising.”
CHAPTER 23
Sunday morning Greta woke feeling energized. She couldn’t tell whether it was from the guilty pleasure of last night’s basketball game or accepting that the Toompas case was nearing an end without a resolution. Whatever the reason, the weather matched Greta’s mood. The sky was clear and the air brisk without being cold. Tomorrow they would return to normal duties and forget the Toompas case. Balfour was up to no good, but they had no connection tying him or anyone else to Toompas’s killing. For the nth time, she looked over her notes without getting any insights. She was tired of mulling over the case and needed something to keep busy. She closed the folder on the Toompas case and pushed it to one side.
There were always addition routine chores needing attention in any house. However, she wasn’t in the right mood for more housekeeping or exercise. She sat at the kitchen nook table for twenty minutes, thinking of what to do next but not deciding. Then, like the tune she couldn’t quite get out of her mind, her hand strayed back to the folder. She didn’t open it, just gently stroked the cover. A tickling feeling inside her head wouldn’t go away. Had she missed anything? She looked at the folder, tempted to go through it yet again because she couldn’t shake the nagging feeling.
She picked up her purse and went into the garage. From the sheriff’s utility vehicle, she took out binoculars, then got in her car and pulled out to the driveway.
Where to next? she asked herself.
Without making a conscious decision, she turned left and slowly cruised the neighborhood. It took less than a minute until her attention focused. She approached the Snyder and Muriel Pastorini houses and pulled to the curb a block away. Helen Snyder was connected to Balfour only by being a member of his congregation. It was a Sunday. After attending one Sunday service at the Church of God Arising, Greta knew that Sunday school started at 9:30 a.m., and the sermon started at 10:30 a.m. She checked the time. 8:30 a.m. Helen would have to leave soon to be on time for Sunday school. Greta had no other plans, so she waited. Later, she couldn’t decide whether this decision was a random event or an unconscious intuition.
At 8:37 a.m., the garage door opened, and Helen Snyder drove out alone. Greta followed her through Pacific City, out a
long Brooten Road to the junction with 101, and then north toward Tillamook City. As usual, early on Sunday morning, the little traffic was mainly headed for one church or another. She followed Helen’s car through Tillamook City, then right on Wilson River Loop to the Church of God Arising. She parked alongside the road just before the church car lot, while Helen parked among the dozen of cars already there. Helen was wearing her Sunday best: a coral woolen dress, moderate heels, and a trim hat with a hint of lace.
By 9:30, Greta estimated that the number of cars grew to around seventy. As 10:30 approached, more cars arrived, those coming only for the sermon and not attending Sunday school.
The people for both Sunday school and the sermon appeared to be a cross-section of the county: a beat-up older car with equally old clothing on a young couple with two small children, an older couple in a newer Lexus, a fortyish man in a pickup, a mother with four children in a van, couples, singles, families. Greta thought she recognized several people, although she couldn’t be certain from her distance, even with her county binoculars.
She heard singing. The last car pulled in at 10:35 a.m.—a woman and two daughters. As they entered the church, a suited middle-aged man standing by the open door went inside and closed the double doors. The song ended a minute later, and distant traffic and a neighbor’s dog were the only sounds Greta could hear.
She waited and pondered why she was sitting there for hours on a Sunday. The police had enough for a full-scale investigation of Balfour and his church, even if they didn’t have a connection to Toompas. So what good was it to sit there?
Despite grumbling to herself, she felt that sitting there thinking about the case was better than doing the same at home. Still, something ate at the edge of her consciousness. She had no idea why, but for some reason she knew she should be there.
At 11:36 a.m., the doors were opened by the same man, and people streamed out. Only a few had exited before Balfour appeared and positioned himself to say farewell to congregation members as they left. He shook hands, patted kids’ heads, and got a few hugs from women of all ages. An idyllic scene of the pastor and his flock; rather, a beloved pastor conning the sheep and socking away the money. Greta wondered whether one of these days he just figured he’d disappear, go off to live the high life and spend everything those trusting souls had given him. Once she reported what she’d uncovered about Balfour, she wondered whether someone else would take over going after him? The district attorney? State people? And then there was the Toompas case. They were still nowhere closer to proving who killed him. He might have been a low-life, but Greta hadn’t seen or heard anything to excuse the murder or prove that he got what he deserved. Yet James was right. It was time to move on.
So, what am I doing, sitting here on a Sunday? she wondered again.
The exiting and well-wishing continued for fifteen minutes or more. Finally, there were only two cars left in the lot: Helen Snyder’s Chevy compact and a black Ford Taurus. Mrs. Snyder appeared, and something about her piqued Greta’s attention. Using the binoculars again, she saw that the woman was agitated, as evidenced by her stiff, jerky body movements and hand gestures.
