Lacie. “Come on with me. Chad’s in the back.”
We followed Lacie into the front door, straight through the house and out the back. There, in the hedged garden, lying face down on Chad’s newly painted labyrinth, was a woman. All five of us walked up to the edge of the concrete slab. Chad was sitting about four feet from the body, cross-legged, and staring at it as though in a trance. He didn’t seem to hear us approach, or, if he did, he didn’t acknowledge our presence until Lacie called out to him.
“ Chad? Honey?”
Chad looked over at us a moment later, then shrugged himself out of his seated position and stood. Nancy and I stepped onto the slab and walked over to the body.
“ You didn’t touch anything, did you?” asked Nancy, snapping on a pair of Latex gloves.
“ No.”
I bent over the lifeless form as Nancy took her shoulder and rolled her over.
“ She’s stiff,” said Nancy, “but not in full rigor. I’d say maybe last night sometime. The EMTs are on the way. Kent can probably give us a time of death if they hustle her down there.”
“ Who is it?” asked Meg. “Someone we know?”
“ Thelma Wingler,” I said. Thelma was one of those many women of a certain age whose actual chronology was made almost impossible to approximate by black hair dye, face powder, rouge, lipstick and a couple of face lifts. She might have been born anytime from the beginning of Theodore Roosevelt’s term to the end of Harry Truman’s. I knew her as a long-time parishioner of St. Barnabas and the owner of Watauga County’s only crematorium.
“ Oh, my Lord,” said Meg. “Thelma? Mother just had lunch with her on Saturday.”
Thelma was wearing a housedress, a light blue floral print, with a cardigan sweater on top. She had on her sensible no-nonsense support hose and a pair of black Nurse Ratchet shoes. Her eyes were closed but there was no peaceful expression on her face. Hers was a countenance of considerable fear; lips drawn back, brow furrowed and hands clenched, claw-like, with fists full of sweater.
I stood up and turned to Chad. “You found her?”
“ Yes,” he answered softly.
“ Is she a client?”
“ Yes.”
“ Want to give us a little more information?” growled Nancy, standing up beside me.
Chad sighed. “We’ve been gone since Sunday evening, but on Sunday afternoon, we had a guided meditation in the labyrinth for a few folks. There were five of us including myself and Lacie.”
“ We’ll need their names,” said Nancy.
Chad nodded and continued. “We were here for about an hour. It was a great session. Everyone really got in touch with their spiritual path.”
“ Thelma was one of them?” I asked. “Just to be clear?”
“ She was.”
I nodded and watched Nancy jotting notes, suddenly trying to remember where I’d left my pad and pen. Chad continued.
“ We finished around four o’clock. This woman,” Chad gestured toward Thelma’s body, “and the two other ladies asked if they could come back and try the labyrinth themselves. I didn’t see the harm, so I gave them a key to the back gate.”
I looked around the garden. It was as secluded a spot as you could find and still be in town. The privet hedge was at least eight feet tall and probably planted when the house was built. It had been well cared for over the years and there were no gaping holes in the dark mossy wall. At the back of the garden was an iron gate—the same one I had seen hanging by one hinge. Now it was fixed, closed securely, and offering a view of the back of St. Barnabas’ garden.
“ We left on Sunday night,” said Chad. “And we didn’t get back into town until about eleven this morning. I didn’t even look in the garden until right before we called.”
“ You have people who can verify your whereabouts since Sunday?” asked Nancy, still writing.
“ Of course we do!” said Lacie. “What are you implying?”
“ We’re not implying anything,” I said. “Just
We followed Lacie into the front door, straight through the house and out the back. There, in the hedged garden, lying face down on Chad’s newly painted labyrinth, was a woman. All five of us walked up to the edge of the concrete slab. Chad was sitting about four feet from the body, cross-legged, and staring at it as though in a trance. He didn’t seem to hear us approach, or, if he did, he didn’t acknowledge our presence until Lacie called out to him.
“ Chad? Honey?”
Chad looked over at us a moment later, then shrugged himself out of his seated position and stood. Nancy and I stepped onto the slab and walked over to the body.
“ You didn’t touch anything, did you?” asked Nancy, snapping on a pair of Latex gloves.
“ No.”
I bent over the lifeless form as Nancy took her shoulder and rolled her over.
“ She’s stiff,” said Nancy, “but not in full rigor. I’d say maybe last night sometime. The EMTs are on the way. Kent can probably give us a time of death if they hustle her down there.”
“ Who is it?” asked Meg. “Someone we know?”
“ Thelma Wingler,” I said. Thelma was one of those many women of a certain age whose actual chronology was made almost impossible to approximate by black hair dye, face powder, rouge, lipstick and a couple of face lifts. She might have been born anytime from the beginning of Theodore Roosevelt’s term to the end of Harry Truman’s. I knew her as a long-time parishioner of St. Barnabas and the owner of Watauga County’s only crematorium.
“ Oh, my Lord,” said Meg. “Thelma? Mother just had lunch with her on Saturday.”
Thelma was wearing a housedress, a light blue floral print, with a cardigan sweater on top. She had on her sensible no-nonsense support hose and a pair of black Nurse Ratchet shoes. Her eyes were closed but there was no peaceful expression on her face. Hers was a countenance of considerable fear; lips drawn back, brow furrowed and hands clenched, claw-like, with fists full of sweater.
I stood up and turned to Chad. “You found her?”
“ Yes,” he answered softly.
“ Is she a client?”
“ Yes.”
“ Want to give us a little more information?” growled Nancy, standing up beside me.
Chad sighed. “We’ve been gone since Sunday evening, but on Sunday afternoon, we had a guided meditation in the labyrinth for a few folks. There were five of us including myself and Lacie.”
“ We’ll need their names,” said Nancy.
Chad nodded and continued. “We were here for about an hour. It was a great session. Everyone really got in touch with their spiritual path.”
“ Thelma was one of them?” I asked. “Just to be clear?”
“ She was.”
I nodded and watched Nancy jotting notes, suddenly trying to remember where I’d left my pad and pen. Chad continued.
“ We finished around four o’clock. This woman,” Chad gestured toward Thelma’s body, “and the two other ladies asked if they could come back and try the labyrinth themselves. I didn’t see the harm, so I gave them a key to the back gate.”
I looked around the garden. It was as secluded a spot as you could find and still be in town. The privet hedge was at least eight feet tall and probably planted when the house was built. It had been well cared for over the years and there were no gaping holes in the dark mossy wall. At the back of the garden was an iron gate—the same one I had seen hanging by one hinge. Now it was fixed, closed securely, and offering a view of the back of St. Barnabas’ garden.
“ We left on Sunday night,” said Chad. “And we didn’t get back into town until about eleven this morning. I didn’t even look in the garden until right before we called.”
“ You have people who can verify your whereabouts since Sunday?” asked Nancy, still writing.
“ Of course we do!” said Lacie. “What are you implying?”
“ We’re not implying anything,” I said. “Just
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