Smiling Madonna - Chapter Twelve

the event
of this
morning is
tied directly to the killing

“Do you think we can get one more session in, before we go?” asked George. “Without trying to be too much of a nag, or mother hen, can I suggest if we pack up our things and load everything but the food for lunch, we could still have a good two more hours on top of a brief worship. What do you think?”
Looking around, George saw nods around, and both Stephen and Tim got up from their empty breakfast bowls saying “Yes. Sure.” George who had packed before his long walk, was washing his dishes and talking with Jack when Tim came up from the carport.
“You’re never going to believe this. The tires on one side of the van are completely flat.”
“What?!” said both George and Jack, sounding surprised or dismayed. “How? When?”
“Oh my gosh, when we got home it was fine. How could that have happened?” said George.
“George, I am afraid I have another idea: someone did it on purpose,” said Jack.
“No way,” Tim answered.
“Yup,” chimed in Stephen.
“You’re kidding,” said George.
“No. How else could it have happened so evenly?” said Jack.
“Tires don’t deflate all by themselves so quickly without a bit of help,” added Stephen.
“That’s crazy,” said Tim.
“Whatever, but I have to say that we need to call the sheriff to get a police report on the incident,” said Jack
“Well, there goes the lovely productive morning. I am sorry Jack,” said Stephen.
“It’s really okay. Apparently this is a bigger deal than we thought,” said Jack.
“So we’re sure this is related to the murder of our friend?” asked Tim.
“It appears that way doesn’t it? Otherwise we are victims of a random event, in a far away place. Which I suppose is possible, but not likely,” said Jack.
“Oh, come on. Listen to yourself. Just a moment ago, you were very willing to allow that our life in Seattle was totally separate from this space, and now you’re saying the event of this morning is tied directly to the killing of a friend - at a distance of about two hours driving, and a month ago in time. Talk about far fetched…” said Tim.
“Well, I suppose I’m the one to call James right away,” said George, with only a tiny trace of petulance. “Do you really think calling the Sherriff is necessary? In Seattle, they probably would chalk it up to strange coincidence. I bet we’ll only get a visit if there is a chance that it was done by a local tire deflating gang,” George said this last smiling a little. The comment broke the peanut brittle tension – not too bad for you, just a little sticky to work through.
James came out and pumped the tires, after a deputy came by and looked at the scene, because, he said, “tourism is a major income for the area.” He gave the area what looked like a cursory glance, but said there were no surfaces from which he could get any prints, not with the equipment that their department had anyway. From the deputy, they actually got a police report number, for any claims that the rental company might later want to file.
The four were much subdued, though more rested, as they piled into the newly evened out van.
George thought, “At least we were away from all the things we have yet to do around our place.”
The ride home passed uneventfully down the hill and then down I-5 to their Green Lake home.
They were greeted by a light flashing inside the house. The answering machine was trying to alert the four to several messages which they found later were about; how Sunday morning went, a couple questions about music that needed being answered, plus two hang-up messages.
Re-entry from retreats was always hard, remembered George, even when it is a weird retreat, perhaps more so. There was a strange dream that seemed to come back to George. It was something about meeting a truly nasty person. No, there was another word… peculiar, disastrous… Sometimes a dream was like that, hard to fully find release from unless there was something else to fulfill its place…

The rest of Sunday was a flurry of everything about to need getting done that coming week. Stephen was working with Jack on a presentation. Tim had a meeting to remind students of, so he spent the rest of the afternoon and into the evening on the phone calling and “checking in” with them. George called Travis. Everything was fine in the congregation, a couple people went into the hospital, one for the second time in a month. Travis mentioned that he did not need to be the one who followed up with that family, since George had recently performed the second marriage of one of the daughters. (This was one point of negotiation in taking on pastoral responsibility which would likely end in a funeral in the not too distant future.)
George said he understood and thanked Travis for all his work, covering the whole congregation in George’s absence.
“You really helped us out, Travis,” said George.
“Was it a good retreat?”
Before responding, George found himself back in the place he was in as the four left to get some space from being the target of a murder. That was where he noticed his “junior” colleague was ministering to him and he had accepted it, allowed it to support his decisions and actions.
“Ahh. It was okay, I guess.”
“That sounds awfully vague, or uncommitted,” said Travis, trying a lighthearted approach to talk with his colleague.

Smiling Madonna - Chapter Eleven

I read the gospels
to say that Jesus
was especially gifted @ showing how many
ways people’s actions
reveal who ought to point fingers at themselves

“How could you let this happen?”
“I’m sorry, but it’s a problem with the construction of the whole house – the plumbing is just a little off. I told you the downstairs bathroom was going to cause problems when the water table gets too high.”
Iliana Morrisons’s niece was not at all pleased about the real estate management role into which she had been pushed. Only the promise of a significant return on her investment kept her attentive to the details of her plan – that and her husbands near Anguish about he had been overlooked. He had been sideswiped after all.

Plumbing did not, in the end, dominate the evening. The basement toilet’s sewage extraction pump was fixed. Apparently it wasn’t actually broken, only needing an adjustment of a particular hose or cable, or that’s what the plumber related as he finally left.

After Stephen’s spotted the bakery just 10 minutes after wandering around a couple historic markers and the museum at Avenue A, the four were on their way back to the ranch.

Just before leaving Stephen said, “Hey, Tim, tell Jack to come over here.”
When Jack and George arrived to see the marker describing the origin of the name of the town, Stephen said, “That’s funny! Jack you could be from here, you’re always pointing a finger at someone.”
Jack answered, “What is amazing is how today, branding has made us think that the only names we can use are ones are memorable because they are new. Stephen, I would be slightly offended except that I read the gospels to say that Jesus was especially gifted at showing how many ways people’s actions reveal that they are the ones who ought to point “index” fingers at themselves.”
“Uh, you got me. Point taken. Touché, I give already,” said Stephen.
“Yes, I would think so, since I have Jesus in my corner.”
“Ouch!” said George.
“Yeah, wow! That was a ‘shut out’ on a triple play,” said Tim.
After that, the conversations got much lighter, rambling on to old stories of getting shut down; ranging from seminary to high school, with a similar variety of topics from dating to keen but aging parents. This all continued as the four returned to their vehicle and drove up the dark road.
Small white lights, in distant, seemingly random locations lit the shiny black pavement, the few businesses, and the receding houses. It seemed the houses had been built further and further from the street as they left town, entering a deeper cold night toward the ranch house.

Parking again under the carport, Stephen grabbed his find and carried it up the stairs to the royal blue tiled kitchen. On the way up the stairs, the four saw a note taped to the door of the downstairs bath. It read: “Fixed, adjusted a cable, ought to work fine now- and for the rest of the weekend! –James.”

Supper, like their other meals, was around a large redwood table, sanded smooth and finished only with what smelled like lemon oil wax. Soup was good and went very well with the local rough bread. After eating it would be slightly more difficult to focus on Jack’s presentation, but Jack was prepared to make it work, using a slide show.
Jack continued, “You see in this slide, a diagram of the ‘Ascent’ drawn in St. John’s own hand…” It was a good presentation, but after forty five minutes, Jack could tell it was becoming difficult to hold his brothers’ attention.
During a moment’s pause in the presentation, George recognized the process Jack was going through: assessing his audience’ ability, and gauging how long he could go on, or if he ought to quit.
“Jack, can I be the one to say I want to hear more, but I am losing you, because I am ready to crash right now,” said George.
“You know, I was just starting to feel my mind losing focus. Maybe stopping here, is a good idea,” answered Jack.
There weren’t quite palpable sighs, but the clearish eyes of the two other men soon seemed to fog over, so that they even bumped the railing as they made their way to their rooms. It wasn’t long before four men were asleep inside the Horse Ranch.
This made the job of the man waiting outside, much easier, diminished as it was from the plan in effect before the plumbing difficulty. Still, no one heard as he shut the door to the house and left an hour later.

After an excellent morning, beginning with a beautiful cold and quiet prayer walk, George was amazed how full it seemed he could fill his lungs. Every breath was filled with air slathered in smooth and spicy forever-green trees and full and heavy grass until recently marinating in fields all around him. Hundred foot tall evergreens, snowy mountains just over ‘there,’ frosty farms, and the silence of trees, broken only by the Skykomish River less than a mile away. He had a lovely walk, just out the driveway and down the country road, over some small rises until he reached the end at a big gravel road with a thick dark chain. It looked like it could stop all but the trucks it was intended to remind to take it down, those allowed to carry logs from the mountain.
George turned around and walked back, timing his return just right for avoiding a visit from James to, ‘see how they were doing,’ and to remind them of the time of check out.
“He seems anxious to get us out of here,” said Tim.
“Yeah, I can see how this place could be a really nice one, if you’re not really worried about not being interrupted. For our purposes though…” Stephen’s voice trailed off, concluding with a dismissive shrug.
“I guess I may be the one most disappointed, since I have wanted to share the information about St. John of the Cross with you for a couple weeks now.”
“I am sorry, Jack,” said George. “Maybe we should have just gone ahead with the scheduled presentation the other week, but I didn’t think it was a good idea at the time.”
“Thanks for saying that, George. It means a lot. I understand why we all agreed that it was a good choice. I am afraid it probably was. It’s just disappointing to me on this topic.”

Smiling Madonna - Chapter Ten

He opened the
door and the sound got louder
red light spilledinto and across

The four had gone down into the basement sitting, or ‘games’ room just for a change of scenery and so as not to have to heat the entire large, high ceilinged ‘great’ room. Jack was getting into the second presentation on St John of the Cross.
“As I began this morning, the two poems, the Spiritual Canticle and Dark Night of the Soul, provide a place to just begin a whole realm of prayerful study, not to mention study of Spanish poetry. The Ascent of Mount Carmel, though, is even more useful for us as we continue to figure out individually, and for the life of our community, what it means to pray. It could even be helpful to use the Ascent of Mount Carmel as a way to talk to people who are thinking about becoming part of this community, not the visitors, but serious inquirers and postulants.”
“A discussion of what St. John vehemently points out as being against the God-ward life, is like the premarital counseling conversation we ask a couple to have based on the questionnaire of things-you-might-talk-about-now-so-as-to-get-it-out-in-the-open. In our situation, how a person views their body, their bad choices, and God’s involvement in the world…”

A half an hour into the discussion, Stephen left for a minute and came back. A moment later there was a loud and annoying buzzing sound which began and did not stop. Stephen got up again, this time Jack paused and the others all looked down the hall to where Stephen was standing. He opened the door and the sound got louder, a red light spilled into and across the hall.
Jack, whose experience of working in a shelter meant that he had many different skills in making stuff work a little longer, or get fixed without making investment decisions, came over to look.
“I have no idea what it’s for, but it looks like there is a pump that is not working.”
“Is that what that noise is?”
“Apparently it’s an alarm, to tell someone that the pump isn’t working.”
“Can we-“ Tim asked, as George leaned over and pressed first one and then the other buttons. The second button stopped the noise, but the red light kept shining.
“There,” George said redundantly.
“We need to call Sally?” asked Jack.
“Actually there is a local number for problems. Let me go call now. Why don’t you finish up what you were saying, Jack, and then we can take a coffee break a little early,” said George.
“That’s sounds good. I’ll make an amendment, though, that we’ll go do an exercise when we ‘finish’ the coffee break, so we don’t have to come back together until 3:45.”

“Hello, is this James? Hello, my name is George Anderson and I’m over at the Horse Ranch this weekend.”
“Hello. Yes. I heard from Sally Ames that you’d be there. What can I do for you?”
“Well, it seems there is a pump just off the basement bathroom that isn’t working.”
“Oh damn that thing. I knew it would act up again, as soon as I got it fixed,” said James.
George was amused to hear the man swear. He probably didn’t know what group was in the house. Most people who didn’t know a professional religious person believed that they never swore, or that it even hurt their ears to hear it. Why else were there apologies nearly every time that useful four letter words were breathed?
“You know what? I’m going to call the plumber and have him come over and fix it and stop messing around myself. The Morrisons will just have to deal with it. I’m going to call John over at Foothill Plumbing. He ought to be able to come over in the next little while.”
“Is there any way you can supervise him? We really need this time that we came to do some work here.”
“Yes. Yes. I will tell him to call me when he’s coming over and I will look over what happening. Can you meet upstairs. Sally said something about you were a smaller group, right?” said James.
“Yes. We can do that. There isn’t going to be too much noise is there?” George asked.
"No, no, shouldn’t be much, if any. I don’t think you will even be able to hear it upstairs.”

The frustration continued in that the noise was loud enough to hear, and James did not do a good job supervising the man, he kept going in and out of the big house. Needing tools is not an unexpected thing, but each time he went out, a wind ran around the house like a bunch of ghostly four year olds spilling chill all over the rooms. Finally, the exercise completed early, the brothers tried to gather in the great room… and then the drilling began.
It was decided to suspend the rest of the afternoon’s work. Maybe the community would take it up again that night.
For now they would go up to town for a visit to the local grocery store and prepare their supper of appetizers and soup. There was enough of everything except bread. Perhaps they were spoiled, but it was a way to connect with people, to go into town and find out what kind of breads were available.
Of course the name of the next nearest town was more interesting, so they had to go to Index, Washington. Now, if the plummer would be done by the time they got back, past the logging trucks at the end of their day…

Smiling Madonna - Chapter Nine

about the murder
being meant for me or somebody
else in our community?

Travis caught George as he was leaving the Community House.
“Hey, George, is it true?” he asked.
“About the murder possibly being meant for me, or someone in our community?” George returned. “Apparently it is one possibility.”
“Are you okay?”
George was surprised to find himself standing next to his pastoral colleague as someone like him, his peer. He had always thought of Travis as a pastor who didn’t quite ‘get it’ in some ways. George’s voice caught when he said, “Yup. I, uh, I ‘m okay,” but the sound of the words was like spilled crackers, tossed across a large floor, broken and empty.
“So where is this retreat place, you’re all going to?”
“It’s up Highway 2, you know, on the Stephen’s Pass Highway. It’s near a place called Grotto, around the intersection of the old Cascade Highway and the South Fork of the Skykomish River. There’s an exit there and then we’ll go right through Miller River for about a quarter mile. The Horse Ranch is right up there on the left.”
“You’ve never been there?” George asked.
“No, I didn’t even know Barbara had friends out that way,” replied Travis.
“Huh, well the Horse Ranch sounds like an amazing place.”
“I hope it is peaceful for you,” Travis offered.
“Yeah, for all of us.”
“So, Travis, you have the confirmation class and the adult forum on Sunday right?” asked George.
“Of course, George.” Normally Travis might have been taken George to mean that he couldn’t handle him going away, but right now Travis was easily able to chalk George’s questions up to George’s own unease and anxiety. “Of course, I’ve got them covered! No go so you can miss the traffic!”
The four had rented a large van to get to the retreat site. Stephen drove. George sat up front owing to a tendency towards motion sickness. Jack and Timothy sat in the middle bucket seats, while food and bags took up almost all the space behind them. Rear line of sight vision was not quite compromised.
“George, what do we have to do when we get there? Do you have the keys already, or is someone going to meet us?” asked Tim.
“Actually, I have the keys already. The letter that came with them said we’ll need to turn up the heat, but the outside lights and heating inside is automatic. We just need to remember to turn it down before we leave again on Sunday.”
“I’m glad we don’t have to come up any later than this,” Jack said as he nodded out the window to the darkening sky, darker still by the cloud cover, promising rain soon. You know how I get turned around,”he added.
Smiling Tim went on, “We said we’d get there, settle in our rooms, then meet for evening prayer and officially begin the retreat, right?”
“Right, Yes,” was the multiple response.
“And Stephen you got tonight’s meal all ready, right?”
Jack nodded, saying, “I helped.”
“And it’s meatloaf?”
Again the nod.
“So what would we like to listen to for the audio portion of our supper? I brought along ‘Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,’ a little Earl Klugh, ‘Rattle and Hum,’ and the Joan Chitister audio book we wanted to finish.”
Jack did his best Alistair Cooke impression and said, “Right. Actually, I think I think the Nachtmusik selection would go best with the meatloaf. That Rattle and Hum thing might upset my digestion.”
George was about to offer that they might relax and allow themselves to talk over dinner, but Stephen jumped in; “I’d like to hear the end of the Joan Chitister book, but I think we ought to wait on that and just sit and talk this evening, especially with everything that’s been going on for each of us this fall – other than Henry’s murder. That is one of the reasons we all agreed this retreat was a good idea this past summer.”
There was positive agreement followed by a minute of silence as each man tried to put his concerns and anxieties, commitments and work, and relationships outside of the community in their most appropriate places for this ‘break’ in the usual program and routine.
The car drove on, took the highway 2 exit and moved into the foothills of Stephen’s Pass.

The Horse Ranch looked like what it probably was, foundations of an old mountain hotel, built into an enormous house with three floors, plus a loft. When the brothers entered the front door through the covered carport they were amazed to find the large main room empty except for three large chairs, two lounge chairs, three end tables and two matching torchiers. The stone floor looked like it could not have gotten much warmer ever, and it was cold now. There was quick agreement that the rooms were slightly better, perhaps best was the loft room, since all the heat would rise. The kitchen and appliances all looked unused, but shiny new.
“This is really weird,” said Tim.
“Yeah. It’s not quite what I’d pictured, when Sally was talking about it,” said Jack.
It was a strange place. Jack, prone to conspiracy theories, thought that the home’s purchase must have been used to launder some money, or been made with drug money. Whatever, the others agreed, it was hardly a home, or homey rental. Still, the price had been good for pretty short notice. Sally Ames, had pulled a string or two for them to get in earlier than planned. It helped that they’d sent in the whole fee already.
Mainly the evening was spent in good conversation. George saw Stephen telling Jack about the student groups he had sent to the shelter, and what their experience had been like. Timothy played a new piece of music he had been working on in the background and Stephen and George applauded, just having brought out the evening tea tray.
The rooms were better than the main room, so when the four retired to their separate rooms, it was a slight relief from the austerity. The wall to wall rugs were warm and a warm breeze blew from radiators on the floor. Each room had at least a full size bed, George and Jack, being the creakiest members of the group got the more firm queen size beds. In the morning everyone reported feeling like it could be a really good day, and it was. From morning prayer in the main (cold) room, to breakfast and the first presentation from Jack about St. John of the Cross, it was a good day.
Frustrations only began after a nice noon meal.

Smiling Madonna - Chapter Eight

It is my job to
come over and
talk, especially in
painful situations

Author's note: As more details of locations and people emerge, let me say that none of these churches, monks, pastors, members of congregations, nor this police branch actually exist in reality.

“Sargeant Keith Chang beginning the interview in room three, Greenlake precinct, on October 17^th, 1988. Please state your name and occupation for the record.”

“My name is George Anderson. I am one of the pastors at Green Lake Lutheran Church.”

“Pastor Anderson, what did you see the morning of the fifth of October?”

“When I arrived at the Simpson home—“

“Excuse me, you mean the home of Sheila Simpson, correct?”

“Yes. When I arrived at Sheila Simpson’s home, I walked up the sidewalk and turned into the driveway, like I always do. Immediately, an officer called out to me and asked me what I was doing.”

“For the record, I, Keith Chang was the officer. Go on, please”

“Then you asked me some more questions and I told you that I usually walk this way to Sheila, er, Mrs. Simpson’s home, especially when I come to walk her dogs.

“I then told you and the other officer that it is my job to come over and speak with Mrs. Simpson and other parishioners, when they ask for me. Especially in stressful or painful situations.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I walked through the garden and around the front to the door, went in and spoke with Mrs. Simpson.”

“Were you at the house earlier in the day?”

“I was not. I had been called to visit someone in the hospital and switched dog walking duties with Henry.”

“Henry Isaacson is the name of the man who was killed.”

“That’s right.”

“Do you know why anyone would want to hurt Henry?”

“No. I can’t imagine. He was a great member of the congregation. He was involved in community activities, including reading at the library with kids. I can’t think of any area of Henry’s life that was not a wonderful witness.”

“Can you think of any reason someone would want to kill you?”

“What?! No!... Are you saying that you think that Henry’s death was meant for me?”

“We have been examining all the information and this is one avenue we need to follow up on. So, if you would: Can you think of any reason someone would want to hurt or kill you?”

Some few moments passed.

“I can imagine that it is possible someone from one of my past congregations has a grudge against me, but they are far away and it’s an old thing. Not enough to want to track me down and try to hurt me.”

“What was the source of this grudge?”

“I chose to go one way with a decision and they didn’t like it.”

“What does that mean?”

“There was a vote in the congregation about using the endowment funds in the struggle to stay relevant and meaningful and I campaigned and enlisted the help of long time members to overthrow the ‘old guard’ control. I then led the charge to use the funds to spend on ministry that the congregation had been saying it had wanted to do for twenty years.”

“You think that there are some people who would actually want to hurt you for doing this?”

“You must not have be as active a church-goer as I initially took you for.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Of course they were upset enough to hurt me. It might be slightly astonishing to think that anyone would still be that angry now, but I can come up with a scenario, based on what I know of that congregation’s history that might support a few people I can name for you who would choose to, even plan to be violent to me.”

“Damn. Maybe I am glad I’m Catholic.”

“Yeah. That would explain it.”

“Okay, You’re free to go.”

George finished up the interview and stood. As he did he realized that this was a revealing interview. Not only did the Sergeant learn a lot about church politics and the emotions connected with those, George himself learned how seriously he was involved in the investigation of Henry’s murder. And that little thing about himself being the intended target…

Stephen, Jack and Tim all listened as George recounted the interview around the dinner table. Wednesday night was “open” night. This meant sometimes they agreed to be silent, sometimes the brothers listened to an audio book and tonight, as on a couple dozen Wednesdays a year, they talked.

“How did the police get the idea that you were the real target of the attack again?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t exactly feel it was the time for me to ask questions,” said George.

“What was it that the sergeant said, after you described how you couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to kill Henry? Something about hurting you?”

“Yes… Actually, he asked if I could think of anyone who would want to kill me… I was surprised, obviously, then he clarified that they were looking into all the reasons why this thing happened.”

“But the officer asked again, why anyone would want to kill you. Right?”

Reluctantly, George answered, “Yes…”

“I think the police department is concerned, because they can’t figure out why Henry would have been killed. And you were the one who might have been the intended victim, since you were the one who initially was scheduled to be there that morning.” Jack paused, then asked the three others, “Does that make sense?”

Tim spoke next, “Yes, I’m afraid it does. But what does that mean? Did the police say anything about their investigation going on from there?”

“And who could be so mad and crazy to want to kill you, George? You haven’t done anything like in San Jose here. And I heard from you as well as other places in the synod that the parish in Bellevue was sad about you leaving! Is there anything else you can think of?”

“I can’t imagine. I haven’t done anything except…

“No way, then any of us might be a target.”

“You’re kidding! You guys aren’t thinking that George is a target because of this community!”

“When do we get to go away for a few days, again?” asked Tim.

“In two days,” said Stephen, “two days, until we retreat.”