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The Rector -- A Christian Murder Mystery

By Michael Hicks Thompson

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Chapter 1 -- The First Rector

Here’s what the coroner told me.

“It’s true, Martha. He died of a massive heart attack. My assistant was here during the autopsy. The little twit must’ve run out and told everybody in town.”

Word spreads fast in Solo, Mississippi.

Our rector, Pastor David Baddour, was found slumped over his plate at Charlie’s Place in Greenlee, thirty miles north.

Mighty young to die of heart failure.

* * *

“Yeah, he’d been in here before,” Charlie Parker told the police. “Always sat right there at the counter. The man loved my barbeque ribs. Didn’t know he was some sort of priest, though. Never wore one of those white collars, you know?”

None of the locals knew him, or had any idea what he was doing in Greenlee.

I had an idea why he was in Greenlee, and I knew him well.

Goodness, the man was only thirty-two, healthy as a mule—one reason why his death didn’t sit right with me. I had my own reasons to believe he was murdered, and my suspicions of who did it. Just not how it was done.

I was in my newspaper office the next morning, ready to write Pastor Baddour’s obituary when Oneeda Mae Harpole strolled in. She was my friend and Solo’s busiest gossip.

She plopped down in my creaky guest chair and proceeded to stare at me—her usual way of letting me know she wanted to talk. I paused to learn what gossip or opinion she’d brought. She leaned so close I could smell her Juicy Fruit gum.

“Martha, I hope you’re not writing some puff-pastry story about the preacher. You should tell the truth. Father Baddour was seeing a married woman.”

“What? We don’t have any facts, Oneeda. Only rumors.”

“Remember? Betty told us in Bible study. She saw him go into that Alamo Motel with some woman,” Oneeda reminded me.

“And you trust everything Betty says? People see what they want to see. Besides, I’m not writing some story about Father Baddour’s death. It’s his obituary.”

Oneeda brushed make-believe lint from her skirt and stood to leave. “Well, I believe he was seeing some woman.”

I watched Oneeda walk out, knowing she was right. Betty Crain had told me privately, after one of our Bible studies, she happened to be in Greenlee one Saturday and saw Pastor Baddour drive into the Alamo Motel with a woman—a woman who looked like Mary Grater, one of our Bible study regulars married to the wealthy Capp Grater.

“It was Mary, I’m telling you, Martha, it was her,” Betty had told me.

Me? I prayed it wasn’t Mary. And I couldn’t tell Oneeda any of this. The phone line would be jammed for days.

Returning to his obituary, I hit a snag. What title should I give the man? Preacher, pastor, rector, priest, father?

As old-school Southern Episcopalians, we called him “Father” when talking with him. But when talking about him, we used “pastor,” or “preacher.”

I decided to go with “Rector David Baddour.” More appropriate for an obituary.

Close to ten o’clock, not yet finished, I locked the Gazette’s doors and walked home to change into something black for the funeral.

I was on the roadside when a car sped past, leaving a cloud of dust and cotton lint hanging thick in my face, smelling like harvest season. It made me think of life in Solo. Center of the Delta, nothing but cotton and cornfields for miles and miles in every direction.

Only 310 souls called Solo home. We did have one claim to fame. Solo was the closest town to notorious Parchman Farm Penitentiary, ten miles south. For our entire lives Parchman remained a mystery. We’d all heard unsettling stories about the prison’s hardened criminals. And their publicized escapes.

Growing up in Solo, I remember the older boys taunting, “Those bad men are gonna break out and come straight for you, Martha!”

Believe me, a young girl can have nightmares from such teasing.

* * *

The diocesan bishop usually officiated a rector’s funeral, accompanied by a cadre of priests in tow to pay their respects. But I didn’t see any flowing vestments at Rector Baddour’s funeral.

Finding Oneeda, I asked her about it.

“They’re all in Hawaii for the national convention,” she said.

I knew she would know.

Still, plenty of locals attended the graveside service. We had all circled around the casket for the final rites when Capp Grater, our church warden, stepped through the crowd, placed a hand on the wooden casket and announced, “We gather today to put to rest Father David Baddour, a man who loved this congregation so much he wanted to be buried here, in Solo, next to his beloved Calvary Episcopal Church. Father Baddour came from the world of big city life, yet he visited our sick, our hurting, and yes… our lonely.”
Capp Grater paused, looked to the sky as if speaking with the Creator Himself, then turned a noticeable scowl toward his wife, Mary.

I peeked. Mary’s gaze never left the orange and yellow fall leaves beneath her feet.

Poor Mary.

Me? I’d rather die a widow than be married to Capp Grater, wealthy or not. And he was. ‘Course he was never interested in me anyway. Mary was a looker. She had a figure. I had hips for the two of us. Add lipstick and makeup and she could look like a million bucks, while I couldn’t care less about cosmetics.
My gift was writing. I studied English at Ole Miss for two years, but dropped out to marry Shorty McRae, my high school sweetheart. That’s when I began writing newspaper articles for our Gazette—weddings, social goings-on, obituaries, those sorts of stories—while Shorty sold ads and handled the printing for our Bethel County weekly newspaper.

Neither of us knew he was born with a heart defect. Shorty passed four years ago. We had a good twenty-one years together (never could have babies), then he was gone. I was a devastated thirty-eight-year-old widow.

My Bible study friends pulled me out of a long, two-year self-pity party.

Life goes on.

* * *

Thank goodness Shorty left me with some insurance money. And there was the newspaper, and our two-story brick home, which I turned into a boarding house for extra income. Most of my renters were come-and-go Mississippi officials visiting Parchman prison for one reason or another.

Having Rector Baddour as a full-time boarder was a Godsend. Not one for chitchatting, it was still nice to him around the house. Then he was gone, too.

I couldn’t listen to Capp Grater groan on about Pastor Baddour without wondering if Capp had something to do with the preacher’s death.

That little scowl he gave Mary was a tell-tell. It made me think about Mary and how she’d met Capp up north in Phillipsburg on one of his lumber mill business trips. When they married, none of us in Solo were invited—even though we’d been dear friends of his first wife, June. She died of cancer several years back.
While Mary Magden Grater wasn’t a true Southerner, she learned to conquer cornbread as well as any skillet cooker in Bethel County. Except that’s not what bowled us over about her. It was her church attendance. If Calvary’s doors were open Mary was there; and Capp, too, if he wasn’t hunting some mammal or fowl in season.

* * *

Looking up as Capp concluded Pastor Baddour’s homily, I said a silent prayer for Mary, praying Betty was wrong about seeing our Bible study friend and our preacher walk into that motel room together. And I prayed for Pastor Baddour’s family—whomever, and wherever they were. He’d never mentioned any kin.
When the service concluded, Capp announced we were all invited to his house for the “after” lunch.

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