An Unholy Mission

  An Unholy Mission

  by

  Judith Campbell

  Mainly Murder Press, LLC

  PO Box 290586

  Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586

  www.mainlymurderpress.com

  Mainly Murder Press

  Copy Editor: Paula Knudson

  Executive Editor: Judith K. Ivie

  All rights reserved

  Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Copyright © 2012 by Judith Campbell

  Paperback ISBN 978-0-9836823-7-0

  Ebook ISBN 978-0-9846666-8-3

  Published in the United States of America

  Mainly Murder Press

  PO Box 290586

  Wethersfield, CT 06129-0586

  www.MainlyMurderPress.com

  Dedication and Acknowledgments

  In writing this book, perhaps more so than the others, I had to think hard about the daily work of ministry and the fragile balance between being a feet-on-the ground minister, wife, mother and grandmother and the powerful connection and interface with the Holy Other/Numinous/Blessed Spirit of Creation that is at the core of commitment to the religious life.

  So I have chosen to dedicate this book to my clergy-buddies of all denominations and persuasions: The Island Clergy Association of Martha’s Vineyard (all of you), my UU clergy-colleagues in the Ballou Channing District of Southeastern Massachusetts, my brother and sister UU clergy across the US and in the UK and Transylvania. You have supported me directly and indirectly in my ministry and have enriched me in ways I could never have envisioned for myself. You have helped me hold high the flame of my own faith when I felt it was sputtering. You read my books, offer advice, laugh and cry with me, and cheer me on as we walk this curious path, each in his or her own way. Thank you—all of you.

  Rev. Judy, AKA, Judith Campbell

  The (not very) Sinister Minister and grateful colleague

  The Olympia Brown Mysteries

  by Judith Campbell

  A Deadly Mission

  An Unspeakable Mission

  A Despicable Mission

  An Unholy Mission

  Praise for the Olympia Brown Mysteries

  “An Unspeakable Mission is an engaging and thought-provoking story of two dedicated and impassioned clerics struggling to find the truth when secrets and silence are the expected norms. And when 21st century religion gets involved with religious and cultural expectations of the past, the story doesn't always turn out as expected. I kept turning the pages to see what would happen next.”

  Rev. Keith Kron, Director of the Transitions Office for the Unitarian Universalist Association

  “Judith Campbell does a superb job in the follow-up to her suspense/thriller, A Deadly Mission, as Olympia Brown is once again tangled up in the personal life of one of her students, an ugly secret too horrible to speak of, and a death that looks suspiciously like murder!”

  Brenda Scott, Manchester Contemporary Literary Examiner, Examiner.com

  "Rev. Judith Campbell has done it again in An Unspeakable Mission, her second in the Olympia Brown mystery series. Using her experience as an ordained minister as well as a writer, Judith deftly weaves a compelling mystery about the death of an abusive alcoholic in a suspicious house fire, with the horrific subjects of incest and domestic violence. …a perfect balance between building suspense and giving voice to victims who can’t speak for themselves, proving in the process that what often seems obvious ... isn’t."

  Dawn Braash, avid reader and owner, Bunch of Grapes,

  "There's method to the Machiavellian madness in A Deadly Mission, a fast-moving story of religious cults, college bureaucracy, and yes, murder. Author Judith Campbell accomplished her intention of making specific points about tolerance, the verities of academic life, and most pointedly, about the dangers of religious cults."

  C.K. Wolfson, Martha’s Vineyard Times

  “Campbell feels strongly about the sanctity of the religious profession. … (A Deadly Mission) addresses the sensitive issues of religious hypocrisy, stereotypes and [religious] cults.”

  Caroline Hughes, Cape Code Times

  "Having given herself a playful literary nickname, ‘The Sinister Minister,’ Campbell considers the mysteries to be ‘part and parcel’ of her ministry. Her plots expose religious hypocrisy and explode cultural stereotypes. While writing may offer her a literary pulpit, Campbell’s stories are more than simple polemics. … fast paced, unpredictable, and suspense filled."

  Bonnie Jernigan, “Women in Transition,”

  South Shore Living

  Author’s Preface:

  My “Mission Mysteries,” My Mission

  Ordained religious ministry is both a calling and a profession. I consider writing the Olympia Brown “Mission Mysteries” to be a part of my community ministry. My computer screen is not a pulpit, and these stories are not sermons. My intention is to increase awareness in my readers of those well-meaning or deliberately mean-spirited people who twist religious practice, religious dogma and even theology in nefarious and unscrupulous ways.

  Knowledge is both strength and protection. Even the most intelligent and discerning of us can fall prey to a fast-talking, persuasive “snake oil salesman” if we are caught off guard or are in an emotionally fragile place in our lives.

  An Unholy Mission is a work of fiction. It does not take a stand, nor does it offer an opinion, advice or suggestions about the end-of-life discussion. Such conversations are best conducted with one’s family and medical and spiritual counselors. I invite you to read the book, and then if you want to make a comment or ask me a question, contact me through my website, www.judithcampbell-holymysteries .com or message me on Facebook. I really do respond to all (courteous) correspondence.

  --Judith Campbell

  Prologue

  The dying woman lay on the hospital bed. Her waxy skin was pale and moist—already growing cool to the touch as her final ragged gasps grew further and further apart.

  On that silent night, only days before Christmas, there were no family members keeping watch beside her bed, no flowers or cards on the windowsill to comfort and brighten her final days. Only a hospital chaplain stayed, long past the scheduled shift, holding the woman’s unresponsive hand and reading aloud from the Bible, easing the way with time-honored words of comfort and encouragement. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want …”

  Finally, when the patient’s work of dying was finished, the solitary chaplain gently smoothed the blanket on the bed and straightened the wires and tubes still connected to the lifeless body. When all was as it should be, the chaplain closed the woman’s vacant eyes and touched the wrinkled, lifeless cheek one last time. The ritual was complete. The chaplain smiled and started out of the dimly lighted room to call the nurse. This truly was the work and will of God … wasn’t it?

  One

  November 3, 1861

  It is already November and this most eventful year is almost to its end. The days are short and the nights are dark and cold…and I am taking a bold step forward…but more of that anon.

  My little Jonathan is pulling himself up to standing now. Once he is upright he turns and looks at me and then collapses to the floor in a fit of giggles only to do it all over again. He is a sturdy little fellow, but slight of
build, not unlike his father—but I must not think of him – now or ever. Here my private thoughts and words are safe.

  When I have filled these pages I shall wrap this book in a square of good fine linen and hide it away—as I have the others. One day, it might be that someone I will never know will read these words and know me, not as a sinner, but as a woman who would not be shamed nor give in to despair.

  When I think that he is old enough to understand, I will tell my son the truth of who he is and how he came to be. I cannot predict what he will think of me with that disclosure. This is a curious and most unfair world. I can only pray that my son will not be stained with his mother’s fall from grace. This would not be so were I born a man.

  Alas, I’ve let myself become too serious, and that will never do. We all have our secrets. I made my choices, and I am living with them. Jonathan is a very precious gift. He will know that, as well. I count my blessings that he is fit and healthy. There are far too many headstones in the church graveyard of those poor dear little ones who did not survive that first most perilous year. In truth, I have much to be thankful for.

  More anon, LFW

  Olympia Brown closed the worn leather diary she’d discovered in a secret cupboard when she bought the house. Page by handwritten page, she was working her way through it and learning about the life and times of the last direct descendant of the man who built her home. She was waiting for a very important letter—a letter that would determine what she would or would not be doing for the next four months. It was due to arrive that day, and from where she sat she could see and hear the mail truck squealing to a stop at the end of her driveway.

  Office of Chaplaincy and Pastoral Care

  Mercy Hospital

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Dear Rev. Dr. Brown,

  I am pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into our Extended Unit, Winter Chaplaincy Practicum, beginning on November 1 of this year and continuing until February 28. This unit of study requires twenty-five hours a week of combined practical and clinical work for a total of seventeen weeks, which, when completed successfully, will qualify as a credentialed unit of CPE totaling four hundred hours of supervised Clinical Pastoral Education.

  You are one of a highly select group of six chaplains chosen from over fifty qualified applicants. Mercy Hospital has one of the most highly rated CPE programs in the country with a tradition of excellence which you and your five colleagues will be expected to meet, if not exceed.

  Please report to the Kessler Conference Room on Monday, November 1, promptly at 9:00 a.m. At that time you will be issued your hospital identification badge and will take an introductory tour of the hospital. At 11:30 a.m. we will have a period of centering prayer in the interdenominational chapel, followed by lunch in the hospital cafeteria. We will begin our clinical discussions at 1:30 p.m. back here in the Conference Room and continue until 4:00.

  I look forward to working with you and ask that on our first day together you be dressed appropriately, have writing materials with you, and arrive on time.

  In faith and mercy,

  Sr. Patrick Alphonsus, OP

  When Olympia Brown finished reading though the letter a second time, she handed it to Frederick Watkins, her live-in significant other, and began fanning herself with the empty envelope.

  “That’s terrific, Olympia. I know what this means to you, and I think it’s a good idea that you waited to be in the extended program. You must be thrilled. Think of it, you start in less than three weeks.”

  Olympia smiled and looked at the man who had come to mean so much to her. “The timing is perfect. I really wanted to have a little time when my daughter’s baby was born. It was so long that I couldn’t be present for her. I’ve missed out on so much. So when she asked me to be there for the birth of her own baby, there was no way I was going to let anything get in the way of it. But now that Laura, little Erica and all the grandparents are doing well, I can get on with my own life.

  “She really is a little beauty. I’d forgotten how small they are. I suppose this makes me a sort of grandparent as well,” said Frederick.

  “No, my dear, watching you holding her in the hospital, I think you qualify for the real thing.”

  Olympia changed the subject and pointed to the letter in his hand.

  “That is one no-nonsense letter, Frederick. I know the CPE program at Mercy is rated as one of the best in the country, but this reads like an order to show up at boot camp—and what the hell is appropriate dress?”

  “I guess that means dressing smartly.”

  “Does that imply I dress stupidly?”

  “Not at all, my darling. My mother used to say, ‘neat but not gaudy.’ In England smart clothing is what you might wear in an office but not quite so impersonal. You are simply not a gray pinstripe and school tie sort of woman.”

  Olympia put down the envelope and frowned. “This could present a problem. Nobody cared what we wore at the college, and I’ve hardly been a follower of fashion. I’m built for comfort, not for speed, and my summer on Martha’s Vineyard, the casual capital of the western world, did nothing at all to improve on that. I’m more shabby chic than haute couture.”

  “Few women are, and unless you are a policewoman or a British Airways flight attendant, neckties are not womanly attire. A pretty scarf, maybe, but not a tie. Look, why don’t you just call the good nun who wrote the letter and ask her?”

  “The good nun who wrote that letter sounds like a drill sergeant. She’s the last person I want to look stupid in front of.”

  “Olympia, something simple in a subdued color, freshly ironed and devoid of cat hair, in which you feel comfortable should do it. Wear what you wear when you preach.”

  “I wear my clerical robe,” wailed Olympia. “It covers everything.”

  “A bit bulky, I think,” said Frederick.

  Two

  Three weeks later an anxious, but appropriately dressed, Olympia Brown accepted the cup of coffee Frederick held out to her as she bolted past him in the direction of the living room. She was scrambling around the house trying to locate her notebook and umbrella in preparation for day one of chaplaincy in downtown Boston. Outside the relentless rain poured down, and inside the kitchen clock ticked away the vanishing minutes. At that point it seemed to Olympia that everything that could possibly go wrong was doing so.

  The weather was vile. Rain and high winds were predicted to last most of the day. Her ancient VW van was acting its age, and the one business suit she owned that still fit felt like someone else was wearing it. Frederick offered her the use of his beloved canary yellow pickup, but Olympia told him as gently as she could that it was not the image she wished to present on her first day at the hospital. She would cross her fingers for luck and take the van.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Frederick stood back, leaning on the kitchen sink and well out of her flight pattern.

  “Other than stopping the rain, turning back the clock and getting me a new car, I don’t think so, but thanks for asking, love. I still have time, but it’s going to be close. I hate rushing like this, and I absolutely can’t be late on day one. It’s mostly first day jitters, I know that. I’ll be a much nicer person when I get home.” Olympia shook her head and smiled apologetically.

  “I’ll feed the cats and chill the wine. Any idea when you’ll be back?”

  “If this weather keeps up, God only knows. I’ll give you a ring when I’m leaving. Oh, and will you call Jim Sawicki at the rectory and tell him I said yes to the first question, and I’ll need at least a week of lead time before he does.” With that she was off, head bowed against a blast of weather that belonged in a 1920s black and white horror film. Frederick, dear heart that he was, stood in the open doorway, waving and getting drenched, until she turned out of the leaf-strewn driveway and sputtered off down the rain-soaked street.

  The Reverend Doctor, no longer Professor, Olympia Brown was at a turning point in both her pers
onal and professional lives, and it was not surprising she felt tense and unsettled. Last May, after no end of internal debate, she had made the decision to cut her ties with the college where she’d worked for the last twenty-five-plus years and pursue full-time ministry. In that same time frame she’d invited Frederick Watkins, her English gentleman, to move into her antique farmhouse. The house, which had a curious history of its own, was in constant need of repair and restoration and thus offered not only shelter but an ongoing salvage project the two could share in the months (and perhaps years) to come.

  Two major life changes in almost as many months and a third, if she counted the delicate white gold diamond ring Frederick had held out to her while kneeling on a bathroom floor on Martha’s Vineyard. Even now, in the rainy gloom with almost nothing for it to reflect, the tiny flicker of light on her left hand reminded her of one more unanswered question: Frederick. She held on to the steering wheel with both hands and lurched along in first and second gears through the storm-stalled traffic on the Southeast Expressway. There was no way in hell she was going to make it on time.

  Olympia took pride in her own punctuality and could be less than patient with habitual late-comers. So when the combined elements of bad weather and rush hour traffic prevented her timely arrival on that first day, she was not at her professional best as she galloped toward the Kessler conference room.

  “You must be one of the chaplains?”

  Startled, Olympia caught her breath and turned to see a man carrying a black leather briefcase hurrying to catch up with her. He was dressed in a dark suit and was wearing an imposing hammered silver cross on a chain around his neck. She had not heard him approaching.