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Authors: Charlotte Hinger
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out of that room. It was in full view of the entire congregation until the end of the service. There’s simply no way someone could have taken something out after she died either, because everyone left except me and Bishop Talesbury, and I’m the only one with a key to that room. It was unlocked during the service and after she ran there she locked it from the inside. She died without a soul going near her.”
“Then she had to die of a natural cause. They simply haven’t found it yet.”
“They’d better.”
“Face it, Lottie. There are really only two other possibilities. Suicide or homicide.”
“If it were suicide or a homicide, there had to be a method, a means. We’ve got nothing.”
“Don’t want to piss you off, sweetheart, but is there any chance at all that someone came in after you left?”
“Oh, don’t worry about upsetting me. The only thing that’s bothering me right now is figuring out how this woman died. Believe me, if you or anyone else has a bright idea, I want to hear about it.”
He rose and walked over and kissed my cheek and squeezed my shoulder before he picked up our coffee cups and carried them to the sink. “Well, one thing’s for damn sure, Mary Farnsworth didn’t just suddenly materialize out of thin air. There has to be some record of who hired her and when.”
***
Sam looked up from his desk when I came through the door.
“Anything?”
“No, I’m tracking down the state agency that would have hired someone—what? Nineteen years ago?”
I shrugged. “Don’t ask me. She’s been here ever since I moved to the county and you’ve been here forever.” Sam was one of those perpetual sheriffs that are simply reelected every four years in Kansas. Long hours and low pay doesn’t attract very many candidates.
“Can’t remember when she came,” Sam said. “I’ll tackle the government and why don’t you start on when and how she became an Episcopal priest.”
“OK. Couldn’t have been before the mid-eighties because there was a lot of division over the whole question of admitting women to the priesthood. It was a flaming mess. Worse by far than the knock down drag-out over gays right now.”
“And you were in diapers and remember all that?”
I smiled. “Not that young.” Josie and I will be thirty-nine this fall. “Research, Sam. Last winter I finished an article for
Kansas History
tracing the introduction of liturgical religions on the plains.”
He reached for his pipe, tamped it, added tobacco, and eventually coaxed it back to life. “Learn anything at all that might have some bearing on this case?”
“Not that I can see. But some things are really peculiar. Bishop Talesbury is a dead ringer for a Catholic bishop in the 1880s.”
“Who wouldn’t have had any off-spring.”
“Right. Theoretically. But the resemblance is creepy. Just plain eerie.”
“Can’t see where that would have any bearing on this investigation.”
“It doesn’t,” I said, slapping my knees. I rose and started toward my little cubicle of an office. “It should be possible to trace Mary through Diocesan records. The Episcopal Church in America has one of the most stringent vetting processes in the world for ordaining clergy. They look at everything from intention to psychological soundness. So there have to be detailed records at the Diocesan office, even if she was a Canon Nine priest.”
“Which is?” Sam drummed his fingers on his desk, as he thoughtfully pulled on his pipe.
“One who is not seminary trained and only administers the sacraments. That Canon was eliminated in 2003, but priests ordained before that time retained their status. They have to earn a living another way and are sometimes sent to places where congregations are struggling and only have enough money to keep the lights on.”
“A tentmaker priest then,” Sam said.
He surprised me sometimes. “Exactly.”
Sam had finally developed respect for my historical methods. I was tempted to
“Then she had to die of a natural cause. They simply haven’t found it yet.”
“They’d better.”
“Face it, Lottie. There are really only two other possibilities. Suicide or homicide.”
“If it were suicide or a homicide, there had to be a method, a means. We’ve got nothing.”
“Don’t want to piss you off, sweetheart, but is there any chance at all that someone came in after you left?”
“Oh, don’t worry about upsetting me. The only thing that’s bothering me right now is figuring out how this woman died. Believe me, if you or anyone else has a bright idea, I want to hear about it.”
He rose and walked over and kissed my cheek and squeezed my shoulder before he picked up our coffee cups and carried them to the sink. “Well, one thing’s for damn sure, Mary Farnsworth didn’t just suddenly materialize out of thin air. There has to be some record of who hired her and when.”
***
Sam looked up from his desk when I came through the door.
“Anything?”
“No, I’m tracking down the state agency that would have hired someone—what? Nineteen years ago?”
I shrugged. “Don’t ask me. She’s been here ever since I moved to the county and you’ve been here forever.” Sam was one of those perpetual sheriffs that are simply reelected every four years in Kansas. Long hours and low pay doesn’t attract very many candidates.
“Can’t remember when she came,” Sam said. “I’ll tackle the government and why don’t you start on when and how she became an Episcopal priest.”
“OK. Couldn’t have been before the mid-eighties because there was a lot of division over the whole question of admitting women to the priesthood. It was a flaming mess. Worse by far than the knock down drag-out over gays right now.”
“And you were in diapers and remember all that?”
I smiled. “Not that young.” Josie and I will be thirty-nine this fall. “Research, Sam. Last winter I finished an article for
Kansas History
tracing the introduction of liturgical religions on the plains.”
He reached for his pipe, tamped it, added tobacco, and eventually coaxed it back to life. “Learn anything at all that might have some bearing on this case?”
“Not that I can see. But some things are really peculiar. Bishop Talesbury is a dead ringer for a Catholic bishop in the 1880s.”
“Who wouldn’t have had any off-spring.”
“Right. Theoretically. But the resemblance is creepy. Just plain eerie.”
“Can’t see where that would have any bearing on this investigation.”
“It doesn’t,” I said, slapping my knees. I rose and started toward my little cubicle of an office. “It should be possible to trace Mary through Diocesan records. The Episcopal Church in America has one of the most stringent vetting processes in the world for ordaining clergy. They look at everything from intention to psychological soundness. So there have to be detailed records at the Diocesan office, even if she was a Canon Nine priest.”
“Which is?” Sam drummed his fingers on his desk, as he thoughtfully pulled on his pipe.
“One who is not seminary trained and only administers the sacraments. That Canon was eliminated in 2003, but priests ordained before that time retained their status. They have to earn a living another way and are sometimes sent to places where congregations are struggling and only have enough money to keep the lights on.”
“A tentmaker priest then,” Sam said.
He surprised me sometimes. “Exactly.”
Sam had finally developed respect for my historical methods. I was tempted to
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