Free Dead Run by Erica Spindler Page B

When I came on, I found the church office in chaos. A similar situation existed in the parsonage. Soyou see why I agree with the police department’s belief that she suffered a mental breakdown?”
    Liz struggled to keep from revealing how much his words upset her. She tried to speak but found she couldn’t.
    â€œI feel for her family,” he said softly. “I can only imagine how they must be suffering.”
    A prickle of apprehension moved up her spine. Did he know? she wondered. Had he figured out who she really was?
    And if he had, could she trust anything he had just said to her?
    But how could he have figured it out?
    And if he somehow had, why not confront her? He didn’t seem the kind of man who would practice that kind of duplicity.
    Uncertain what to do, she decided to play this out as she had begun it. She stood. “I’m sure they are.” She held out her hand. “I’ve taken enough of your time, Pastor. Thank you for seeing me.”
    He followed her to her feet and took her hand. “You’re welcome. I will definitely speak to the teenager’s parents. I suspect you’ll hear from them. They’re good people, Liz. I hope you can help them.”
    â€œMe, too.” She thanked him again, then walked to the door. There, she looked back at him. “How long does that tour last?”
    He glanced at his watch. “You should be able to catch the tail end. They’ll be in the walled garden.”
    He gave her directions and, sure enough, she found the group in the garden and joined them. The church, parsonage and grounds, she discovered, occupied two full blocks of valuable Key West land. The Catholic archdiocese had sold the church property after the devastating hurricane of 1935 destroyed Henry Flagler’s railroad, and the city of Key West, once the wealthiest city in America, went bankrupt. No doubt they were kicking themselves now.
    Liz moved her gaze over the lush garden, awed, a feeling of peace settling over her. Although the church structures had been destroyed twice, the garden had been spared. The ancient banyan trees, with their vertical roots that grew from the branches to the ground, created a kind of organic jail. Liz felt as if she had fallen through the rabbit hole and landed in a surreal fantasy land of bars, flowers and foliage.
    The teenage guide discussed various pieces of statuary, one of the Blessed Virgin that dated back to the original days of the church and another of St. Francis. She pointed out the church parsonage, located at the back left of the church grounds and the small cemetery at the right. The burial ground, with its stacked tombs, Liz learned, housed the remains of a number of Key West’s early, influential citizens and religious leaders.
    At the conclusion of the tour, the guide showed the group out, using the entrance that faced Duval Street. As Liz exited, she spied Bikinis & Things across the street and started toward it. She had wanted to stop in and thank the woman again for coming to her aid.
    Liz stepped into the shop, realizing quickly that it was one of those trendy little boutiques, the kind that carried the latest and most fashionable. She saw immediately that the store catered to young people and wealthy tourists: the bathing suits were skimpy, the prices outrageous. Other than beachwear, the shop carried the work of Key West artists and artisans, including some beautiful silver and stone jewelry.
    The shop was empty save for several teenagers flipping through the Just Arrived rack and exclaiming at what they saw.
    â€œHi, can I help you?”
    Liz turned. Her Good Samaritan stood behind her, mouth curved into a warm smile. Liz returned the smile. “Heather, right?”
    â€œHeather Ferguson. How can I—”
    â€œI’m the woman from the church bench. You brought me a bottle of water.”
    Recognition crossed her features. “Of course. How are you