Read Online Lethal Lineage by Charlotte Hinger - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte Hinger
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Homestead Act opened up free lands were from the Midwest, it was the New Englanders who most often stayed. Proud stubborn S.O.Bs. Or Volga Germans like my husband’s ancestors who rejoiced in hardship and proving how tough they were.
I would like to have a nickel for every time I’ve heard someone say “God helps them that helps themselves” out here.
***
Bishop Rice was a tall thin man with a regal air and a reputation for having a wicked sense of humor. There wasn’t a trace of that present when he came to the reception room after the secretary announced my arrival.
“Bishop Rice,” I murmured, my mouth dry.
“Miss Albright, come in. I’m sorry we’re not meeting under different circumstances. I’ve read several of your publications with a great deal of interest.”
“Frankly, I’m surprised. Sometimes I think journal articles are the dullest reading material in the world.”
“Well, yours aren’t,” he said kindly.
I looked at the wide range of titles in his ceiling to floor bookcases. The usual predicable tomes by theologians. Plenty of philosophy and classical fiction and much to my surprise, a large number of contemporary mysteries. Some were hard-boiled police procedurals. I smiled at the shelf of old-time westerns. He was not a squeamish man and certainly not a snob.
His lips lifted in an amused smile as he followed my gaze. “Well, do you approve?”
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be that obvious. I’m always interested in what people read.”
There was a quick flash in his unwavering green eyes. He’d caught me in a lie. I was sizing him up and he knew it. But through his reaction, he’d cleared up my first question. I could trust this man. He wouldn’t tolerate the slightest bit of dishonesty.
“I hardly know where to start,” I said.
“That makes two of us.” He gestured toward a chair opposite his desk, and sat in the large wine leather one behind it. He templed his fingers under his chin and prepared to listen. “Why don’t you begin by telling me all the steps that led up to this tragedy, then your involvement both as an Episcopalian and as a law enforcement officer.”
“All right.” It took a while and he interrupted me often and took notes on a legal pad. I included the account of Josie’s and my night in the jail, and ended with the information that Mary had not died of a heart attack.
When I finished, he swiveled his chair toward the window and looked at a squirrel leaping along the branches of a greening elm. Then he turned back toward me.
“Needless to say, I’ve simply never come across anything like this before. But you should understand that as far as the Diocese is concerned, there’s no Mary Farnsworth, your niece has not been confirmed, your church has not been consecrated, and furthermore, I’ve never heard of the Right Reverend Ignatius P. Talesbury.”
I swallowed and tried to take it all in.
“So let’s start with what we do know, if anything. Your little group of four counties had approval to build St. Helena. And you obviously understood that permission depended on every last bit of it being donated. That was one of the conditions.” He looked at me closely to see if I acknowledged the importance of not depending on the Diocese to fund anything in this economy.
“Yes. And it was on donated land with donated materials. The inside is nothing to brag about, but we’ll take care of that in no time with silent auctions. Bake sales, the usual.”
“Here’s the second condition. Before I can consecrate a church I must make sure the land on which it is erected has been secured for ownership. That was the reason for delay. I wasn’t fully satisfied about land ownership.”
“Well…those forty acres were a problem, but the alleged owners…”
“Alleged, Miss Albright?”
“It was the best we could do, sir.”
“Being satisfied with paperwork is part of my job description.”
“Sir, I’ll give you all the abstract information.
I would like to have a nickel for every time I’ve heard someone say “God helps them that helps themselves” out here.
***
Bishop Rice was a tall thin man with a regal air and a reputation for having a wicked sense of humor. There wasn’t a trace of that present when he came to the reception room after the secretary announced my arrival.
“Bishop Rice,” I murmured, my mouth dry.
“Miss Albright, come in. I’m sorry we’re not meeting under different circumstances. I’ve read several of your publications with a great deal of interest.”
“Frankly, I’m surprised. Sometimes I think journal articles are the dullest reading material in the world.”
“Well, yours aren’t,” he said kindly.
I looked at the wide range of titles in his ceiling to floor bookcases. The usual predicable tomes by theologians. Plenty of philosophy and classical fiction and much to my surprise, a large number of contemporary mysteries. Some were hard-boiled police procedurals. I smiled at the shelf of old-time westerns. He was not a squeamish man and certainly not a snob.
His lips lifted in an amused smile as he followed my gaze. “Well, do you approve?”
“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be that obvious. I’m always interested in what people read.”
There was a quick flash in his unwavering green eyes. He’d caught me in a lie. I was sizing him up and he knew it. But through his reaction, he’d cleared up my first question. I could trust this man. He wouldn’t tolerate the slightest bit of dishonesty.
“I hardly know where to start,” I said.
“That makes two of us.” He gestured toward a chair opposite his desk, and sat in the large wine leather one behind it. He templed his fingers under his chin and prepared to listen. “Why don’t you begin by telling me all the steps that led up to this tragedy, then your involvement both as an Episcopalian and as a law enforcement officer.”
“All right.” It took a while and he interrupted me often and took notes on a legal pad. I included the account of Josie’s and my night in the jail, and ended with the information that Mary had not died of a heart attack.
When I finished, he swiveled his chair toward the window and looked at a squirrel leaping along the branches of a greening elm. Then he turned back toward me.
“Needless to say, I’ve simply never come across anything like this before. But you should understand that as far as the Diocese is concerned, there’s no Mary Farnsworth, your niece has not been confirmed, your church has not been consecrated, and furthermore, I’ve never heard of the Right Reverend Ignatius P. Talesbury.”
I swallowed and tried to take it all in.
“So let’s start with what we do know, if anything. Your little group of four counties had approval to build St. Helena. And you obviously understood that permission depended on every last bit of it being donated. That was one of the conditions.” He looked at me closely to see if I acknowledged the importance of not depending on the Diocese to fund anything in this economy.
“Yes. And it was on donated land with donated materials. The inside is nothing to brag about, but we’ll take care of that in no time with silent auctions. Bake sales, the usual.”
“Here’s the second condition. Before I can consecrate a church I must make sure the land on which it is erected has been secured for ownership. That was the reason for delay. I wasn’t fully satisfied about land ownership.”
“Well…those forty acres were a problem, but the alleged owners…”
“Alleged, Miss Albright?”
“It was the best we could do, sir.”
“Being satisfied with paperwork is part of my job description.”
“Sir, I’ll give you all the abstract information.
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