Olympia Brown is the summer minister on the picture book island of Martha’s Vineyard when she suspects that an elderly parishioner might be the target of a nasty confidence operation. Much to the consternation of colleague, Father Jim, and Frederick, her English gentleman, Olympia puts her own life in danger when she intervenes.  Sparks fly, tempers flare, and Olympia ends up on the wrong side of a loaded gun. “Mission Mystery” fans will love Olympia Brown’s latest adventure.

 

Within days of her arrival she discovers that a confidence scam targeting the elderly is suspected to be operating in her own congregation.  Much to the consternation of colleague and best friend, Father Jim, and Frederick, her English gentleman, Olympia puts her own life in grave danger when she tries to intervene on behalf of one of her beloved parishioners.  

Sparks fly, tempers flare, andOlympia finds herself on the wrong side of a loaded gun.  Mission Mystery fans will not be dissappointed in Olympia's latest unholy entanglements.

 

Chapter One

 

Mary Elgin Parker; suddenly at home.

Arrangements are incomplete at this time.

A full obituary will appear in next week’s issue

of The Martha’s Vineyard Times.

 

 

 “Two never goes without three.” Julia Scott-Norton refolded the newspaper and placed it on the wood plank table between them. She and one of her ‘bridge ladies’, Sharon McGrath, were enjoying a gossipy girl’s lunch at the Black Dog Tavern. Sharon was carefully dissecting a lobster roll, taking out the celery and lining up the bits along the edge of her plate.   

“What do you mean,” she asked?

Julia settled into her story. “I mean that Mary Parker is the second elderly person to die alone at home in as many weeks. Maybe I’m being superstitious, but from my experience bad news always comes in threes. Mary Parker and, the other one, Doug Bourke, were both getting on in years and determined to stay in houses far too big for them.” Julia paused for effect. “And both of them died as the result of a fall. Doug slipped getting into the bathtub and Mary fell down the cellar stairs.”

Sharon rested her chin on the palm of her hand and nodded sympathetically. “I know we’re all going to die, but think about it; alone and crumpled in a heap on a cement floor.  Poor thing; it must have been awful. I know it sounds gruesome, but was it instant or did she lie there and suffer.”

            Julia frowned and shook her head. “Either nobody knows or nobody’s talking. I do know it was a while before somebody found her. I hear they’ll be doing an autopsy. I guess it’s mandatory with an unattended death. And that means the funeral won’t be for a while yet.”

Julia paused and smiled. “I remember how she loved wearing those big blowsy hats and going out to lunch? That woman could eat like a horse and run up a flight of stairs like a squirrel. I could never keep up with her. It’s hard to believe someone as spry as that could die in a fall. She was full of energy but at the same time she was always careful where she put her feet. That’s what’s so odd about it. It’s not like her.”

            “Is that that summer minister of yours going to do the funeral? Nothing like total immersion starting on day one,” Sharon chuckled at her own somewhat obscure baptismal joke.

            Julia nodded and tucked a paper napkin into the top buttonhole of her flowered blouse. “I called her and told her about it. Her name’s Olympia Brown. She’s never been on Martha’s Vineyard before and the first thing we hit her with is a funeral for an island icon with a whole lot of questions surrounding the death.”

            “Did I hear something about the title to the house being in question as well? My husband Timmy works town hall. He said he heard some vague mutterings about it.”

            “Didn’t take long for that to get around, did it?” said Julia.

            “It’s a small island,” said her bridge partner spearing a juicy pink chunk of lobster.

            “Too small sometimes—and that’s only one of the questions.”

            Sharon raised an eyebrow, lowered her voice and peered over her glasses. “What are you saying?”

            Julia pushed aside her plate, leaned across the table, and lowered her voice. “I’m saying that some people think it’s possible that Mary Parker’s death might not have been an accident.”

             “What about Doug Bourke?” asked Sharon? “He lived alone and died in an accidental fall—in the bathtub.”

             “He really did drown. At least what my sister said. She was at the hospital when they brought him in.”

            “It’s tough to get old,” said Sharon.

“We don’t have much choice,” said Julia holding up an expository index finger. “But from my perspective, it certainly beats the alternative!”

                       

 

Chapter Two

 

 

The Rev. Olympia Brown was lying flat on the floor trying to pry a glowering cat out from under the bed with a broom. She’d already secured Thunderfoot, the larger and dumber of the two felines. But Whitefoot, the wily older one, vanished the minute she saw the cat carrier. And now, with departure immanent, Olympia was resorting to desperate measures.  If all else failed, she’d get out the vacuum cleaner.  As luck would have it, the broom, a few dark threats, and a hand full of kitty treats persuaded the wary flat-eared tortoise-shell into the open and ultimately into the travel cage.

            Earlier that year, she’d accepted the offer of an eight week position as a summer minister in an historic chapel on the island of Martha’s Vineyard. It was going to be a chance to try her hand at parish ministry, which in her current thinking, could be the next chapter of her professional life. She knew all about Martha’s Vineyard, at least she thought she did, but never, until this minute, had she envisioned herself as part of that community.  Now it was being handed to her on a silver platter and the ungrateful animals had the audacity to complain. But standing beside the untidy pile by the door she asked herself; do I really need to take all of this? It was not as if Martha’s Vineyard was a third world country.  They do have electricity and indoor plumbing…but you never know until you get there what might happen and what you might need.

            The plan was that Frederick Watkins, her recently established live-in English gentleman, would accompany her to the ferry and then come down and join her on weekends when he could. And Father Jim Sawicki, her best friend and clergy colleague, had promised to come down and visit for a couple of days as well. She looked at her watch as Frederick crashed through the kitchen door and skidded to a stop at her side. He was sweaty and dirt-streaked from a morning in the garden and sweet as he was, at that precise moment he was not a thing of beauty.

            “Ready, Madame?  Your carriage waits. I just need a quick wash.”

            “The carriage isn’t loaded yet, Frederick. If you take the suitcases, I’ll get the box of food. Once those are in, if you’ll get the cats, I’ll take my clerical robe and lay it on top of everything so it won’t wrinkle.”

            “How in the world are you going to get all of this on the boat, Olympia? Well, actually, I’m going to help with that, am I not?”  Frederick had answered his own question. He did that.

            “I’m worried about how I’m going to get it all back off. The woman who is my contact, Julia Scott-Norton, said she’d be there to meet me. So I guess I’ll let her figure it out.”

            When Olympia’s ancient and honorable VW van was loaded, she dashed back for one final check and grabbed the canvas carry-all she’d left beside her favorite chair. Earlier in the day, she’d packed the leather bound diary written by her resident house-ghost, Miss Leanna Faith Winslow, the last descendent of the family to live in the house that was now Olympia’s home. She’d been reading that diary in bits ever since she found it the previous Thanksgiving. It was her personal window on the history of the house and the woman whose grandfather built it and whose direct ancestor before him, came over on the Mayflower. Miss Winslow, as Olympia most often referred to her, was a very real and in-your-face ghost. In a moment of absurd reality that only Jim Sawicki and Frederick would understand, she realized she was going to miss, as in think wistfully about, Miss Winslow’s nosy intrusions into her daily life. And with that thought, she picked up the antique curved top wooden clock from its accustomed place on the mantel over the woodstove, blew the dust off it, and stuffed it into the carry-all. Now she could leave.

            “I’m ready,” she said as she pulled herself up into the driver’s seat.

            “I take it I’m driving back?” said Frederick?

            “Is there any another option, my dear?”

             Frederick took her right hand in his and held it to his lips. “I’m going to miss you, Olympia. It seems like I only just got here. There’s so much I want…”

            Olympia retrieved her hand and made a great show of starting the engine and backing out of the driveway. “Frederick, you’ll be joining me in less than a week. I’ll have nothing to do there but preach, visit the sick and have tea with elegant Martha’s Vineyard ladies. When you do come down we’ll have loads of time alone. And we all know that absence makes the heart grow fonder.” 

            “And abstinence makes Freddy a grumpy dull boy.”

            “Tighten your seat-belt, Frederick, and think of England!”

            “What was that? Did I hear a bell or something?

            “Must be Miss Winslow’s clock,” said Olympia. I probably disturbed the mechanism when I stashed it in the back.”

            “Hmmph,” said Frederick. “There it goes again.”

            Inside Olympia’s antique farmhouse the answering machine was recording a message. “This is a message for Reverend Olympia Brown. This is Laura Wilstrom, your daughter. I’ve decided that I would like to meet you. My cell phone number is 781- 221-7329.”

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

“Life is what happens while you are making other plans.”

Olympia first saw those words on a bumper sticker in the Meriwether College faculty parking lot. She had just resigned from her position as Professor of Humanities and Religion and college chaplain and found herself thinking about them as the ferry churned through the whitecaps out of Woods Hole. The woman who called her about the job said that the duties were pretty straightforward; preach on Sundays, cover pastoral emergencies and be a ministerial presence in the community. How easy is that? Olympia’s original plan had been to continue the restoration of her antique farmhouse, get to know Frederick on a considerably more intimate basis—and  think about what she wanted to do with the rest of her life. Now, feeling queasy from the rocking of the boat, and guilty listening to the cats mounting wails, Olympia hoped that she’d made the right decision.

             When she turned in her last set of grades and said farewell to her professorial colleagues at her farewell luncheon, the island job offer seemed like a gift from heaven. That very same night Julia Scott-Norton, chair of the governing board of the chapel called her and painted an idyllic scene of crayon colored gingerbread cottages, Wednesday night hymn-sings in the camp ground, and sun-swept beaches. The chapel, she said, was a historic treasure, almost two hundred years old and still had its original unpainted wooden doors and pews.

It certainly sounded like the opportunity of a lifetime; eight weeks serving a congregation of forty or fifty people in on the fabled Island of Martha’s Vineyard. She could do it with one hand tied behind her back. And in the abundance of free time they had promised her; she would have enough time to read some more of that diary and to think through a considerable number of personal options. 

First and foremost on that list was her estranged daughter, Laura. She had given birth to Laura thirty five years ago and under pressure from her mother, given her up for adoption. Only recently, Laura had contacted her through the Department of Records saying she was pregnant and asking if there was anything in her medical history that might be of concern to her or the unborn child. Olympia wrote back saying that there was nothing that she was aware of and telling her daughter how very much she would like to see her. To that she added that she loved her and not a day passed that she didn’t think about her. She included her Brookfield address and phone number, saying that more than anything in the world, she wanted to re-connect with her in whatever way would be most appropriate for them both. That was in April and she’d heard nothing since. The waiting was agony. 

            Also in the line of succession of mid-life options was the little detail of her professional career. This summer would tell her if parish ministry was going to be a serious consideration or not. And then there was Frederick. She’d met him the previous summer and in that time, their growing relationship had taken several favorable turns. He was a wonderful man and she was pretty sure she might be thinking about, considering possibly, falling in love with him…maybe.

There was no doubt that he had marriage in mind, but she wasn’t even about to let him mention the word.  Not now, anyway. He wasn’t exactly on the back burner. More like a really good soup, fine wines, and single malt whiskeys, all of which took a long time to mature; Frederick was on slow simmer and coming along nicely.

 “Life is what happens while you are making other plans.”

On the top deck of the ferry, not fifty feet away from where Olympia was making soothing noises to the cats, two people, looking for all the world like tourists on a day trip, were standing in the lee of the rumbling smoke stack deep in a conversation that was completely and conveniently inaudible to anyone who might pass by. Alden Francis was shading his eyes against the brilliant mid-day sun as he talked to Marybeth Lessing, the sandal-shod woman standing next to him.

 “What about the paperwork, MB? How does it look to you?”

Marybeth held up a canvas tote bag with Martha’s Vineyard blazoned in pink and green across the front and made a circle with her thumb and forefinger.

 “It’s perfect. Nobody will question it. And not a minute too soon, either, looks like we’re ready to roll on this one.”

Al Francis rubbed his chin. He needed a shave. “I still think we’re pushing our luck with this one. It’s too close to the other one—too many parallels someone could pick up on.”

“Ordinarily I’d agree with you,”’ said Marybeth, “but Bateson assures me that this one’s dead ripe and ready to fall. Said she’s eating out of his hand. Just a matter of signing these papers I’ve got in here and we’re off on the next ferry.”

“I hope you’re right. But no matter how you see it, I think we’re cutting it a little too close.”

“You worry too much. Bateson knows what he’s doing.  So do you. We’ll disappear and lay low after this one until we decide where to uh…relocate.  We’re in the business, remember? This is what we do.”

“Until our luck runs out.”

MB shook her head. “That’s where I disagree with you. I’m the “X” factor that no one’s looking for. No one expects a woman to be involved in anything like this. Remember I’m the elder affairs lawyer. At least I play one on television. I give lectures on how to manage finances in your golden years. I wear the white hat, come in at the end and solve everyone’s problems.”

“And then get the hell out of there before dawn breaks over old Marblehead.”

“Something like that.”

“It’s just that the last one didn’t go exactly according to plan.”
“It damn sure didn’t but it wasn’t my fault. She wasn’t supposed to break her neck. That really was an accident.”

The two swayed with the motion of the ferry as it made the final turn into the harbor towards the slip. MB shaded her eyes and looked towards the shore. “I’m going to miss this place. It’s really pretty here.”

“Tough place to find a drink though,” said Al.