A Deadly Mission (The Olympia Brown Mysteries) Read online

  A Deadly Mission

  by

  Judith Campbell

  Mainly Murder Press, LLC

  PO Box 290586

  Wethersfield, CT 06109-0586

  www.mainlymurderpress.com

  Copy Editor: Jenna Sprankle

  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.

  Mainly Murder Press

  www.mainlymurderpress.com

  Copyright © 2010 by Judith Campbell

  ISBN 978-0-9825899-5-3

  Published in the United States of America

  2010

  Mainly Murder Press

  PO Box 290586

  Wethersfield, CT 06109-0586

  Digital book(s) (epub and mobi) produced by: Kimberly A. Hitchens, [email protected]

  Dedication

  Creativity is a gift of grace. At the same time, I cannot create without the loving support (and forbearance) of my husband Chris; the love, chiding, and encouragement of my two sons and their wives; and the unmitigated joy given to us by our five grandchildren.

  It is to you all that I dedicate this book.

  Table of Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  MEET AUTHOR JUDITH CAMPBELL

  Acknowledgments

  There's a verse in an old camp meeting spiritual that says, “If you get to heaven before I do, just dig a hole and pull me through.”

  No one achieves much of anything worthwhile in this life without a little help from their friends—or in my case, a lot of help, encouragement, and professional advice. The creative journey can be a lonely one, but I am thankful that mine was not. I want to thank and acknowledge all of you who have held out your hand in support of this project.

  Thank you to Cynthia Riggs, mystery writer extraordinaire, and one of the most generous and supportive women I have ever encountered; to the core members of my Oak Bluffs Library Writing Group, Philisse Barrows, Charles Blank, Debbie Dean, Laurel Chapman, Joyce Lockhart, Kay Mayhew, Peggy McGrath, Stephanie Michalczyk, and Barbara Peckham; to master storyteller, Susan Klein, and Jennifer Caven who read and edited a number of drafts in varying stages of disrepair; to friends, Melody and Frimma, who have stayed on the rollercoaster with me from the beginning; and to my beloved husband, Chris Stokes, best friend, and editor extraordinaire, (even if he does speak English, and I write in American).

  Finally, although we've not met, I want to acknowledge mystery writers, P.D. James, Elizabeth George, Anne Perry and Faye Kellerman, as mistresses of their craft and writers who have carried genre writing to the level of fine art. I am humbly proud to follow in your footsteps. I am grateful to you all,

  Rev. Dr. Judith Campbell, the irreverent reverend

  One

  The trash collectors knew better than to touch the body of the young woman they found sprawled in the alleyway behind the flower shop. While the younger of the two ran off to get help, the older man stayed, trying not to stare at the emaciated figure lying at his feet. The thick, sweet scent of rotting leaves and broken flowers spilling out of the trash container beside them smelled like death, like his mother's funeral.

  From where he was standing, the man with a teenage daughter of his own could see a white plastic band around the dead girl's wrist and the glint of something shiny in her hand. Her only article of clothing was a hospital johnny tied in a ragged bow at the back of her neck.

  Later that day, the Medical Examiner for the City of Cambridge would pry a silver cross engraved with the words Jesus loves you out of her cold, stiff fingers.

  Two

  Brother David was pacing, circling the room like a wolf stalking its prey. Despite the early summer heat, the windows in the upstairs room were closed, and only a small fan, grinding away in the corner, did anything to move the humid air around the people at the table.

  David was an intense, restless man with the thin, muscular body of a distance runner.

  “The answer to your question, Brother Aaron, and any other question you might have, is always going to be here.”

  He held up an open Bible and began reading aloud, stabbing at the page with his index finger and punctuating the words with the squeak of his sandals on the polished oak floor.

  “For this cause a man shall leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave to his wife; and they shall become one flesh. And the man and his wife were both naked and were not ashamed.”

  He paused and looked at the four people seated around the table. Spittle was collecting at the corners of his mouth.

  “Everything we know and live by is in this book. We are called to leave the material world and enter into this fellowship of believers so we may follow in the footsteps of Jeshua ben Josephus and like him, do the work of His Abba, Yahweh. The Bible tells us that when the time comes for a man to have a wife, a wife will be made available to him.”

  “And it came to pass, when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all which they chose. Genesis six, verses one and two,” said Aaron looking up at the wiry man who was now standing over him. Aaron cleared his throat.

  “But if some of us, uh, feel we might be ready to have wives, shouldn't we be able to say something?” The seated man looked down and began picking at one of his fingernails.

  “For us, this means …” said David, ignoring the question and glancing briefly at the woman sitting away from the others near the end of the table. “This m
eans that when the time is right for a man to have a wife, the Abba of this Christian Fellowship will provide one.”

  Aaron nodded but said nothing. It was best to go along with David when he got like this. Sister Miriam and Brother Joshua, sitting opposite Aaron, exchanged a quick look but remained silent.

  “Our Abba is wise, Brother Aaron. You need to trust him.” David moved nearer the window, his voice returning to a more conversational level. “There's one more thing. Before we adjourn, we need to set a time to review our new member policies.” He hesitated and cleared his throat. “As you know, earlier this year, we had an aspirant who became too zealous in her preparation. Her death was an accident, of course, but such things could reflect badly on us.”

  David closed the Bible and began walking toward the woman who had seated herself a little apart from the others.

  “Meanwhile, Sister Sarah, have you made all the arrangements for the summer Praise and Glory Concerts on Boston Common? Permits? Newspaper advertising? Campus posters?” He paused. “Anything I might not have thought of?” He emphasized the personal pronoun.

  Like the other woman in the room, Sister Sarah was dressed in loose-fitting, modest attire. As David approached, she tucked a dark wisp of hair under her headscarf.

  “You've covered everything, Brother David.” She turned and looked at the man now standing next to her. “Am I right in assuming we won't be doing the Bible study groups until the fall, unless, of course, you want to try running them in the summer? They've been effective.”

  “Thank you, Sister. We've found the concerts work best for the summer population. The other is more labor intensive and better suited to the traditional academic cycle, but you're always thinking, aren't you?”

  Sarah shifted in her chair, edging away from the electric heat of the man. She began tracing a long, thin scratch on the surface of the table with her fingertips.

  “Thank you, Brother David, but may I be excused? I think the heat is getting to me.”

  Three

  Professor of Religion Olympia Brown and her long time friend, Father Jim Sawicki, had just returned from their end-of-semester lunch date. She had been rattling on about her expanding plans for the tumbledown antique farmhouse she'd recently purchased, while he, the ever-prudent Jim, suggested she consider doing some of the more necessary repairs before actually taking up residence. Olympia was explaining how she couldn't afford to maintain two houses when she saw the white envelope taped to her office door.

  After unlocking the door and offering Jim a seat, she heaved open a resistant window to let in some air.

  “So we both know what I'll be doing this summer,” she said, settling into her own chair and ripping open the envelope. “I'll be digging through two hundred years of accumulated … Jesus, Jim, listen to this.”

  Her hands began shaking as she read the contents of the letter aloud.

  To members of the Meriwether College Community,

  We regret to inform you that on May twenty-seventh of this year, first-year student Sonya Wilson died as the result of a tragic accident. At the request of her family, funeral services were private. The college plans to honor her memory at this year‘s commencement ceremony. Donations may be sent to the Sonya Wilson Memorial Scholarship Fund, established by her parents and the College Board of Overseers.

  “This is such a goddamned whitewash,” said the Reverend Doctor Brown, mashing the letter into a crumpled wad and flinging it across the room.

  “Really, Professor!” Jim leaned back and arched a well-groomed eyebrow.

  “Oh, shut up, Jim.” Olympia started to raise her hands but then dropped them back on her lap. “I'm sorry, but it's not funny. This is the official word on that freshman they found dead last week, Sonya Wilson. I told you about it.”

  Jim nodded.

  Olympia ran her hand through her short, salt-and-pepper hair. Anything further about the possibilities and eccentricities of her new old house would have to wait until another time.

  “The whole thing started last January. Sonya started hanging out with a religious group called The Boston Christian Common Fellowship. By February break she was losing weight, a lot of weight. I tried talking to her, but all she would say was that it was Jesus’ will, and The Fellowship was watching over her.”

  Jim started to say something, but Olympia ignored him and kept on with her story.

  “I called the Dean, but he said students go on crash diets all the time, and unless it was a life-threatening situation, confidentiality policies forbade his contacting a student's family.”

  Olympia blew out a long breath in exasperation and pushed at the perennial clutter of papers on the desk in front of her.

  “When I approached him a second time, he actually called me into his office and told me that my job was teaching and providing spiritual support for the students and nothing more. He said that if I went ahead on my own and contacted her parents, there could be, as he put it, consequences. He's got a power thing with me, Jim, but that's another story.”

  Jim listened. His time would come.

  “I had no idea it was so bad. I should have done more to try and help her.”

  “I'm not so sure you could have,” said Jim. “Religious fanatics are just that, fanatic, without reason, unreachable. So are anorexics, for that matter, if she was, in fact, anorexic.”

  Olympia tried to steady her voice. “The day before she died, she got so weak she passed out and landed in the hospital, but she managed to sneak out during the night. The next morning, her body was found behind a flower shop outside Harvard Square.”

  Olympia took off her oversized glasses, held them up to the light, made a face, and began polishing them with the edge of her blouse.

  “I never told the Dean, but I actually went down to Cambridge Police Headquarters myself and asked to see the report.” She shook her head. “The official cause of death is listed as complications due to anorexia nervosa.”

  Olympia shook her head and looked at her friend. “But that's not the whole story, and the administration isn't talking. Nobody wants to deal with what led up to it and ask how such a thing could have happened at lily-white, upper-middle-class Meriwether College.”

  Olympia was pouring out a semester's worth of anger and helpless frustration to the one man in the world she trusted, an intensely private, drop-dead handsome, gay Catholic priest.

  The two met years earlier at Harvard Divinity School a few blocks away from where they were sitting. He was the student chaplain at nearby Allston College, and she was a professor of humanities and chaplain at Meriwether, a small women's college located in a pricey residential section of Cambridge, Massachusetts.

  What began as casual conversations about their respective jobs slowly evolved into a deep and trusting friendship. Two late-career clerics with widely divergent theologies discovered they shared a profound commitment to making a difference in the lives of the people they served despite the consequences. They also shared a penchant for challenging the religious and academic establishment.

  She was a mid-life and round-in-the-middle remnant of the sixties whose casual dress and easy manner belied a sharp intelligence and a ready wit. By contrast, he was much taller, more conservative in both personality and style of dress, and inclined to periods of quiet introspection.

  The priest looked at his friend, knowing what was coming next, but courtesy and habit decreed that he ask.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Olympia straightened up in her chair. “I'm convinced her weight loss and death are related to that Fellowship group. I want to know what it was these people said or did that killed her.”

  “Would you believe their residence is literally right down the street from Allston College?” Jim leaned back and crossed his legs at the ankles.

  “You're kidding.”

  “I'm not, but that doesn't mean I know anything about them. I see them all the time walking around in their old-fashioned clothing. They supposedly hav
e a street ministry to the homeless. At least that's what they say when anyone asks.”

  He was absentmindedly straightening the papers on the table next to him.

  “Too bad you missed the College Chaplain meeting last week. That very group was the subject of the conversation. A cult expert from Harvard Divinity School came to speak to us.”

  “Really?” Olympia looked surprised.

  “She said that despite the folksy appearance, it's a very slick and private operation, and once people really get hooked into it, they don't often come back out. From what anyone can find out, which isn't much, they're much more controlling and reclusive than the Moonies.” He shook his head and continued. “She even hinted that your Sonya Wilson may not have been the first.”

  Olympia snapped to full attention. “You're saying there might be other kids who have died?”

  Jim threw out his hands in frustration. “Trouble is, there's been no way to prove anything. Accidents happen, and dead students don't talk. The Coalition of College Chaplains is trying to find a way to prevent them from recruiting on college property.”

  “So we have the summer to find out all we can before they start up again in the fall. Am I right?”

  Jim peered over his glasses. He'd seen that look before. “What good do you think that's going to do?”

  Olympia started counting off on her fingers. “Maybe save the life of another student. Maybe prove that Sonya Wilson's death was the direct result of her involvement with this group.” Her cheeks were flushed, and her voice was rising. “And find out for myself the real reason why Meriwether College is so determined to keep me from asking questions nobody will answer. A memorial fund in Sonya's name isn't enough, Jim. That's a goddamned smokescreen. Something's going on, and I want to know what it is.”

  Olympia shook a finger in mock warning. “Can't have any negative publicity, can we? Can't have anything that could affect the bottom line, which I'll tell you right now is not the students. It's the law of the profit. I don't care what the damned dean says.”