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Balfour put a hand on her shoulder. He shook his head. Helen nodded.
What did it mean, and what were they saying? Greta wished she could lip read.
All right, people, she thought. You’re having a conversation about something, but let’s move it along. She knew she couldn’t leave until Helen Snyder did and the reverend went back inside.
Helen nodded again and took one of Balfour’s hands in both of hers. He stroked her cheek with his other hand.
Greta did a double-take. What . . . ?
Their bodies almost touched, the distance between them less than normal social distance, even for most close acquaintances. They said a few last words, and Helen walked out to her car, looking back at Balfour twice. He watched her drive away, then started to turn back toward the open door. He stopped abruptly, his head in Greta’s direction. Her heart skipped. As she watch him with the binoculars, he seemed to look straight through the lenses into her eyes. She jerked the binoculars down to see his back disappear into the church and the door close.
Did he see her? If he did, did he recognize her? Her heart raced.
She continued sitting there, even though a few minutes earlier she was chafing to move along.
That touch wasn’t a friendly “I’m your pastor, and you’re one of my flock” gesture.
Balfour and mousy little Helen? Greta thought. He’s banging her?
The image didn’t compute at first.
He must figure his charade will end one of these days, and he’ll have to take off, so why not partake of a lonely woman in an unhappy marriage? I’ll bet he’s got her convinced they’ll sail off into the sunset together one day.
Then a more relevant thought jolted her.
Holy shit! What if Balfour and Helen played patty cake when hubby was away, and somehow Balfour and Toompas came into contact? Means, motive, and opportunity!
Means would be any handy blunt object, and there were plenty of those around any house and garage. Opportunity would be if Toompas had picked the wrong night to be rooting around the Snyder house or garage and ran into Balfour. Motive was obvious: preserving his squeaky-clean image so he could keep his lucrative scam going.
She imagined a scenario where Toompas came upon Balfour and Helen doing their extra-curricular activities or saw Balfour leaving the house. Joe Snyder said his .357 and ammunition were stolen months ago. Toompas wasn’t the brightest criminal and might have seen something the first time at the Snyders’ and returned a second time. It was a tidy package with only one problem: there was no proof.
She needed to talk this over with Plummer. Greta pulled out, drove back into Tillamook City, and parked a couple of blocks into the town. She scrolled through her cell numbers until she hit James Plummer and pressed it. It rang three times before being answered by a man’s voice.
“Hello?”
“James, this is Greta. I’ve got some new developments. Are you free to meet?”
“What new developments?”
“I think we need to talk in person so I can give you the details.”
“Okay. Where are you?”
“I’m in Tillamook City, parked across from Shirley’s Hair Salon.”
“Just come on over to our house. It’s 209 Colonial Way. Take a left on 3rd Street. That’s the next intersection. Go about a mile and a half to Circle Drive, go right, and Colonial is the first right.”
“Sure it’s okay? I won’t be disturbing your family?”
“No problem. The kids are out playing around the neighborhood, and Judy’ll like to meet you since she’s been hearing about you for the last year.”
That was well before Plummer and Greta had started working on this case together. What would he have told his wife before that?
Five minutes later, she pulled in front of the Plummer house, a typical California ranch of around two thousand square feet, three to four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a lawn in front, and a fenced backyard. Plummer’s sheriff sedan and a blue Honda minivan sat in the driveway. A dozen children, boys and girls from maybe seven to eleven, played football on the street. The game paused, and players parted to let Greta drive past, then resumed behind her. Forest-covered hills visible a mile or two farther inland framed the house. The only flaws in the Americana setting were the power lines and towers running north/south less than a hundred yards east.
Plummer opened the door before she knocked. He motioned her inside, where a smiling, zaftig, mid-thirties brunette greeted her. Greta’s criminology degree and eighteen months as a deputy sheriff stood her in good stead, as she deduced this must be Mrs. Plummer.
“Hello, Greta. Jimmy has told me so much about you. I’m glad to finally meet you.”
