For God and Country: Leona Foxx Suspense Thriller #1 Read online

  “My son also died in Afghanistan,” Carter interjected. “We held his funeral here at the church too. Do you come from a military family, Mrs. Tinnen?”

  “I guess you could say that. My father was killed in the first Iraq war. My husband died in the second. They were both Marines. Now my son the Seal has followed his dad. Would you call that a military family?”

  A hush palled the room.

  Next came Anders Martinsen, a tall thirty-year-old blond. Any voice at this moment would have sounded like an interruption of the sacred quiet. Anders proceeded to tell the group he was a divinity student working on a doctorate at the University of Chicago. He turned his head to his left to address Orpah, “I’m sorry to hear of your grief, your triple grief.” Her glistening eyes thanked him.

  Another quiet moment followed. The stranger’s turn arrived. Finally, Leona thought, I get to find out who this guy is.

  The tall, well-built African American man coughed slightly into his fisted hand and addressed the group. Leona was intrigued with the way he had put himself together: a camel hair sport coat, a crisp chocolate brown shirt accompanied by a print tie with tiny flecks of deep teal. No box bulge in his shirt pocket. Not a smoker. No shine in his eyes; no contacts. So, either he sees twenty-twenty or he’s nearsighted with glasses in one of his inner pockets.

  “My name is Graham Washington. I come here representing the bishop. The bishop’s office has grafted on a new branch to its work. It’s called ‘Parish Listening’. I’m planning to spend a month or six weeks here with you at Trinity, listening, so to speak. I want to understand better your ministry both within the congregation and in your rapidly changing neighborhood.”

  “Welcome!” Bud greeted him. “And please extend our warm greetings to our good bishop when you communicate with him.”

  “Hold on!” snapped Leona with a scowl on her face. She turned her eyes toward the newcomer. “Why are you here without prior notice? Why was I not contacted about this in advance? I am the pastor here, after all.”

  “My apologies,” said Graham, looking with total composure at Leona. “I tried getting hold of you by phone this morning; and I left a voice message on both your office and cell. No answer. No response. So, I called Mr. Stevens, who graciously invited me to tonight’s council meeting.”

  “This morning?! Why not a month ago? Why not two months ago?”

  “Well, all I can say is that I’m sorry for the short notice. I do look forward very much to getting to know you. Your help will be invaluable to me.”

  Washington is just too suspiciously suave, Leona thought to herself. She offered a simple nodding smile and turned her official attention to the chair. The group’s eyes also turned toward Bud, and then Leona surreptitiously pulled out her cell phone. When she could get away without being noticed, she glanced down at the screen on her lap. Had someone been watching Leona, they would have noted frequent frowns on the face studying the cell phone screen.

  Bud took over. “Trinity Church was established by Norwegian immigrants at the beginning of the twentieth century. I’m saying this for Mr. Washington’s benefit, although Mrs. Williams and Mrs. Tinnen might find this interesting too. English did not become our official congregational language until 1927. If you look closely around our neighborhood, you’ll see some remnants of Scandinavian history. One block north of us is a red brick church. It has on it a hand painted sign, ‘Labor of Love Apostolic Church.’ But if you look at the concrete front door arch, you’ll also read, ‘Svenska E. Kyrkon.’ That’s Swedish for Swedish Evangelical Church. It was founded in 1906, right Thora?”

  “Yah, sure, you betcha,” she added jokingly as if she were a character in Fargo.

  Bud grinned, rolled his eyes, shook his head sideways. He was hearing an old joke, too often repeated. Bud continued, “So, a century ago this was a neighborhood where lefse and limpa were on our Christmas dinner tables.”

  Mrs. Bolstad laughed audibly. The newcomers had no clue why.

  “But our neighborhood is in rapid transition now,” said Bud to the group. “The steel company is closed. White families with children have moved to the suburbs. New people are moving here from Woodlawn to our north. Gang influence is growing. Businesses are moving out. We’ve got our challenges. This is only Pastor Lee's first year with us, but she is leading us bravely so that we can make a stable Christian witness in the middle of this social turbulence.” He nodded appreciatingly at Leona.

  “I applaud your courage,” said Graham Washington. “I want to learn much more about you. I’ll be listening.”

  A church council meeting is like a Ferris wheel. Some topics just go around and around. Momentary high points provide expanded vision. But such moments are followed by drops back into the minutiae. The meeting ended with the group reciting the Lord’s Prayer and Pastor Lee’s benediction. Immediately, Graham hastened to greet Leona. “Can we talk?” he said with a tone of urgency, not authority.

  5 Monday, Chicago, 9:30 pm

  During the dispersal of the council meeting in the church basement, Harriet walked up to Leona and Graham. Graham stepped back in deference to allow a conversation between the two women.

  “We heard gun shots on 79th again last night, Pastor Lee,” said Harriet. “I’m worried. Lars has found a nice neighborhood out in Naperville. We’re…”

  “We need you here!” interrupted Leona. “We need you to stay in the neighborhood. This is our chance to stabilize South Shore, to make it into a model of a racially peaceful community. It’s a matter of faith. I’ll try to drop by and see you later this week to talk about this.”

  Harriet stood motionless. A full second passed before she whispered, “Thanks, Pastor.”

  After the goodbyes, Leona toured the church building, switching off lights and checking to see that all the doors were locked. She and Graham exited the front door and descended the steps into the asphalt parking lot. Graham stopped to study the church marquee. “Trinity Lutheran Church. Rev. Lee Foxx, Pastor. Sunday School 9:00 am. Sunday Worship 10:30 am. Saturday Morning Club Begins September 19 at 9:00 am. All Are Welcome!”

  “Why do you call yourself ‘Lee’?” asked Graham. “Isn’t your name ‘Leona?’ By calling yourself ‘Lee’ one cannot tell whether you’re a man or a woman.”

  “This is no accident,” responded Leona. “I like the ambiguity. One day shortly after I arrived at Trinity, the office phone rang. I answered it. The man calling heard my female voice and assumed I was the secretary. He asked if he could speak directly to the pastor.” Leona lifted her right hand with the thumb pointing to the ear and the pinky toward her mouth. “‘Is anyone there besides you?’ he asked. I looked around. ‘No. I’m the only one here,’ I said. ‘Oh nuts!’ he muttered. ‘I wanted to talk to the pastor.’ So I heard myself saying, ‘Is there any way I can help you?’ From then on I told everybody I would be ‘Lee,’ not ‘Leona.’”

  They both laughed. “Okay, Lee!” Graham enunciated.

  “Actually, my long-time friends have called me ‘Lee’ as well.”

  “Then, I’ll immediately become your long-time friend, Lee. Now that we’re friends, let’s talk like friends. If you could offer me a cup of coffee, I would like to discuss some matters with you.”

  “My parsonage is right back here,” Leona said pointing. “Ordinarily I would not invite a strange man into my home for coffee. And, I might add, I do believe you’re a stranger, and not yet a friend. During the council meeting I went to the Illinois Synod website. Nowhere on that website does your name appear. There is no desk for Parish Listening. Now, I’m not afraid of you, because I’m not afraid of anyone. But…”

  Graham held up his right fist, thumb held high. Up and down went the thumb. “Not Illinois Synod Bishop Gerald Botwright. Higher.”

  “Do you mean Churchwide headquarters? You mean Hurley?”

  “That’s right: Presiding Bishop Justin Hurley himself. Want to check that website?”

  “I’m on that website almost dai
ly. I’ve never…Let’s go in the house.” The two walked toward the rear of the parking area. They climbed up the porch stairs and entered the parsonage living room. “The lavatory is upstairs, if you need it” she said waving in that direction.

  “Yes. Thanks.” Graham climbed the stairs.

  Leona’s voice followed him up. “I’m going to check Mother ELCA’s website while you’re doing your business. This’ll determine whether you get coffee or the boot outa here.”

  Graham grinned confidently. As soon as the visitor was out of sight, she grabbed her wrinkled Cubs jacket and straightened the couch pillows. Then she turned toward her downstairs computer desk.

  Leona discovered why Graham was so confident once she had accessed the home page of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, initialed ELCA. Intermittently a variety of pictures would float up on the screen. One pictured Martin Luther sitting before a computer keyboard. The next showed the baptism of an African child. A third showed Bishop Justin Hurley all decked out in his bright red Eucharistic robe, complete with an oversized cross—could it be a five pounder?—hanging on a gold chain. Then, a new announcement: “Parish Listening Post Established by Presiding Bishop.” The announcement included the photo and name of Graham Washington. “He was right,” Leona muttered aloud.

  When Graham reached the bottom of the stairs, Leona turned. “You passed the recognition test. Now, which do you want: coffee, chardonnay or cabernet?”

  “I know you Norwegians like your coffee. But I prefer wine. Cab will be fine.”

  “I’m not Norwegian. I drink only two cups in the morning. Evenings are for a different libation,” said Leona, disappearing into the kitchen.

  Graham surveyed Leona’s living room and adjacent dining room, admiring the simple but tasteful décor. He knew about how much she must make in salary as a pastor, so he especially appreciated how she had cleverly transformed simple into tasteful.

  The downstairs rooms were a soft off-white, with accents of burgundy, gold, and a deep forest green. The mantel over the fireplace and the brick surrounding it were the same shade of white, and served as a central focus for the living room. Graham walked over to the mantel to gain a closer look at the framed photos: the pastor’s seminary graduation; her ordination with a man who was probably her bishop; Leona smiling, arm-in-arm with a blonde-haired woman about the same age; a photo of Leona with an attractive older woman; and Leona in liturgical garb holding an infant. Stories there, Graham thought.

  The couch was black leather, a bit worn, indicating it was probably a gift from a caring parishioner. Graham noticed a Cubs jacket casually draped across the arm of a burgundy corduroy La-Z-Boy that was angled in the corner of the living room, a floor lamp for reading snuggled close by. The large LED screen, positioned on the wall above and to the left of the La-Z-Boy, was best viewed when sitting on the couch. Two additional living room chairs were wood—Windsor style with wicker seats. Toss pillows on the sofa pulled the color scheme together.

  The hardwood floors throughout the first floor had been freshly sanded and varnished, a welcoming sign from a congregation that was eager for a young, energetic pastor. An area rug in the middle of the living room was modern, probably an Andy Warhol, with dramatic sweeps of black, burgundy, and gold. The coffee table resting on top of the rug was an obvious hand-me-down from the 70’s made of faded oak, with a shelf under the glass top filled with magazines on religion, science, and the wines of California and France. On top was a neat stack of books: Peter Jennings’ America, Garrison Keillor’s Lake Wobegon Days, and Dietrich Bonhoeffers’ Letters and Papers from Prison. A slightly wilting philodendron poked out of a white porcelain pot. Two half-burned green candles were stationed at one corner.

  Leona returned with two partially filled glasses of red wine. “This is a Chateau Gilette,” she said apologetically. “Here in Chicago the only wines you can get at a reasonable price are imported French wines. At least this is a Bordeaux. Dry. Twenty years old. Kinda thin and tasteless, don’t you think?” Leona sat down on the front edge of her La-Z-Boy and crossed her legs. Graham could not help but stare momentarily, gawking at the shapely calf on the top leg.

  By this time Graham had seated himself on the leather sofa with the picture window behind him. Leona noticed how erect he sat. He’s got the posture my mother tried to make me have. Graham swirled the ruby-colored liquid. He buried his nose in the glass and sniffed audibly. He tipped the goblet to allow a small amount to drop into his mouth and sloshed the fluid from cheek to cheek. Then he drew the liquid to the back of his tongue. He swallowed. “Not that bad.” He paused. “Actually, it’s great. Robust. Complex. I think I don’t believe you, Lee. Thin? Tasteless? Hell no. This wine is over the top.” He paused again. “I suppose you prefer the more full bodied Cal cabs, eh?”

  “If I ever get a rich boyfriend,” she said, nodding, “I’ll ask him to buy me a case of Silver Oak.”

  “No parish pastor should ever be able to afford Silver Oak,” Graham responded with a grin. “That violates the vow of poverty. It would spoil the image of the sincere and hard-working shepherd tending our flocks. To even have taste buds cultured for cabernet sauvignon is a sign of degeneracy.”

  “Should we toast the degenerate?” Leona raised her glass. Graham raised his glass. Both tipped, sipped, and issued the universal “Ahh!” of satisfaction. Graham held his wine glass in his right hand. His left arm leaned loosely on a couch pillow faced with a needlepoint design. In the center was a vivid crimson heart, and this was in turn centered with a black Latin cross. The heart with the emblazoned cross was surrounded by the petals of a white rose.

  “Is this Rosicrucian?” he asked.

  “No. For the sake of Athens, it’s the Luther Seal. Haven’t you seen it before?”

  “Guess not. Oh, actually I have, come to think of it.”

  "What has Athens got to do with it?" asked Graham.

  "Nothing. I just say the names of cities now and then. It's a habit. A tick." Leona’s brows furled. She cocked her head slightly. “So, just what are you going to listen to?”

  “I’ve got two questions. The first one is this: what happened to you shortly before showing up at council this evening?”

  “And the second?”

  “What happened to you in Tehran?”

  Leona was stunned. After having allowed herself a few minutes of relaxation with the suspicious representative of her presiding bishop, Leona’s mind underwent a lightning transformation. Her face froze. Her friendly countenance disappeared. She took tight control of every feeling. She cloaked herself with a long-practiced façade of composure. With a business-like expression and deliberate cadence, she said, “May I ask again: who are you?”

  “Will you answer my two questions?”

  “I hear only one question. The first one. I have nothing to say about the second one, either now or at any time in the future. Must I repeat: Who are you and why are you here?”

  “Let’s deal with the first question first. Then, you have a right to have me explain.”

  Leona paused. “Okay,” her voice dropping mid-syllable. She paused again. She proceeded to construct a narrative of the trip to Chicago’s Loop and her return via the Metra train. Her account seemed to Graham as detailed as it was emotionless. She was uncanny in her objectivity as she recounted for both herself and Graham every moment of the platform attack.

  “As far as you know there were three and only three: two on the platform and one driving the van. Is this correct?” interrogated Graham.

  “Yes, correct.”

  “Was the van private or commercial?”

  “Commercial.”

  “By any chance did you catch the name of the business?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “Why do you want to know all these details? You’re not trying to grant me sympathy, are you?”

  “Might the van logo have included the words, ‘Evanston Cleaners?’”

  Without ackno
wledging what had just been said, Leona pressed, “I think it’s time for you to tell me who you are. Are you ready to explain?”

  “We’re not done with your story. Please confirm, ‘Evanston Cleaners’ or not?”

  “Yes. So what?”

  “Here’s my thought. This might not have been a random purse snatching at all.”

  “What then?”

  “I think it was a botched kidnapping.”

  6 Monday, Chicago, 10:01 pm

  After pouring a second glass of wine for each of them, Leona resumed her cross-legged position on the La-Z-Boy. She invited Graham to remove his camel hair jacket and make himself more comfortable.

  “Who are you?” she asked in a presumptuous tone.

  “I earned a Masters of Divinity at PTS,” he began.

  “You mean Princeton Theological Seminary or Pittsburgh Theological Seminary or some other PTS? I’ll bet you didn’t attend Presbyterian Theological Seminary in Seoul.”

  “You got it the first time. Princeton. But I did not seek ordination.”

  “When looking for you on the web I noticed that you’re not on our church’s clergy roster. Nor do you recognize Luther’s Seal. So, for the sake of Akron, who are you and what's this all about?”

  “I’m not on any clergy roster,” Graham responded. “Oh, I’m a believer all right. Biblical criticism didn’t undo my faith. Although, I must say, it came close. And I just don’t recall having bumped into Luther’s Seal. Now, I hope these facts don’t make you suspicious.”

  Leona glared.

  Graham ignored her glare, taking a sip of wine with some fanfare. Then he continued. “What I decided was that I could serve God by serving our country. I went into government work. The widows’ mites in our collection plates do not pay my salary. I’m paid by Uncle Sam.”