Free The Best Paranormal Crime Stories Ever Told by Martin H. Greenberg Page B

room. Prison or death, those are your choices. Sure, you hear stories of someone making good and escaping. Never seems any of us down here knew them when; and they damned sure don’t know any of us now.
    Reverend Martha Raines could have made it out, but she stayed by choice. She was kind of the “after” picture of Amanda Preakness doing a chocolate diet for a decade or two; but her brown eyes had never narrowed in anger. Not that she couldn’t be passionate. She could, and often held forth at City Council meetings or prayer services. She kept her white hair long and wore it in a braid that she tied off with little beaded cords the children in her mission made for her.
    She smiled broadly as I stepped through the door and I couldn’t help but mirror it. Even before we could speak, she caught me in a hug and held on tight, even when I was ready to let go. She whispered, “You need this, Patrick.”
    Maybe I did.
    Finally she stepped back. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
    “No loss.”
    She gave me a sidelong glance. “I seem to remember things a little bit differently.”
    “You always think the best of everyone.”
    “It’s a skill you could acquire.”
    “I don’t like being disappointed.”
    She slipped an arm around my waist and guided me into the mission. The Fellowship has built out through several warehouses and manufacturing buildings which, save for Martha’s fiery oratory, would have long since been converted into lofts. The city wanted this end of town gentrified and envisioned galleries and bistros. Martha thought buildings should house people and proved convincing when she addressed the City Council.
    Things had changed a lot since I’d done my time in the mission. The first hall still served as church and dining facility, but the stacks of mattresses that used to be piled in the corner had moved deeper into the complex. The far wall had been decorated with a huge mural that looked like a detail piece of da Vinci’s Last Supper . Thirteen plates, each with a piece of bread on it; but one was already moldy. The style wasn’t quite right for da Vinci—some of that stuff my mother had forced into my head was creeping back.
    Martha smiled. “Our artist is very talented.”
    I raised an eyebrow. “Talented? Or talented ?”
    “She’s a lot like you, Patrick.” Martha just smiled. “You’ll like her.”
    “I need to ask you some questions.”
    “About Bob Anderson?”
    “About all of them.”
    She studied my face for a moment, then led me over to a table and pulled out two chairs. She sat facing me and took my hands in hers. “They were all lovely people, every one of them. I know many people said bad things about them; but they had seen the work we do here. They wanted to help. They did things for us. Projects. Fund-raisers. What they gave wasn’t much for them, but it was everything for us.”
    I nodded. “When they died, they left the mission money.”
    Martha drew back. “What are you suggesting?”
    “There are idiots down here who figure that if you start making money, they want a piece. Criminals aren’t bright; and you’re a soft touch.”
    “True on both counts.” She smiled. “But your stepfather and Sean Hogan were not stupid. Bequests go into a trust with a board of trustees who vote on capital expenses. I can’t really touch that money. More to the point, no one has tried to extort money.”
    “No rivalries? No animosity on the committee?”
    Martha smiled. “The meetings were all very pleasant.”
    That didn’t surprise me. Martha had talent , though I wasn’t sure she knew it. Somehow her positive nature was infectious. When she gave a sermon, people listened and her words got inside them. She always exhorted folks to be their best selves. It was like a round of applause accompanied by a boot in the ass that left you wanting more of each.
    It was her inclination to think the best of folks that had her believing Anderson’s death was a loss. She remembered