a parsonage.
The interior of the sanctuary reminded me of a barren medieval church. I’m not a regular visitor of churches, but the ones I have encountered usually have some of the amenities like heat, carpeting, reasonably comfortable pews, that sort of thing. Walking into Faith Tabernacle, the first sensation was one of bone-numbing chill. There was no heat, and the barren concrete floor retained the damp cold from the previous late-spring night. Two banks of rickety benches formed the seating arrangements, with a center aisle between them leading to a raised altar. The benches had no backs on them. If Angel Barstogi had fallen asleep during church, where had Suzanne put her, on a bench or on the cold, bare floor?
At first we thought we were alone, but then a woman emerged from behind a makeshift pulpit. Armed with a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water, she crawled across the cold surface on hands and knees, diligently scrubbing every inch of the altar, like a buck private preparing for a major inspection.
Peters approached the woman and asked her where we might find Brodie. She motioned with her hand, indicating that she was unable to talk but that we should go through the door on the right of the altar. It led us through a darkened, closetlike room. In the dim light from the doorway behind us we could see a wooden kneeling frame with an open Bible on a stand before it. Other than those two items, the room was empty.
Another door barred the way. I knocked. Beneath my knuckles I found the deep sound of a solid wooden door, not the hollow laminate of the church’s front doors. Pastor Michael himself answered my knock. If he was startled to see us, he certainly covered it well. “Come in,” he said, stepping back and holding the door. “I was just preparing for this afternoon’s service,” he said.
I doubt Peters was surprised by what we found there. I wasn’t. The room could hardly have been called sumptuous, but it was a long way from the grim, unadorned rooms through which we had entered. The contrast was striking. The place was immaculate. There was none of the dirty clutter of Suzanne Barstogi’s house. A well-padded deep brown carpet covered the floor. The two walls that weren’t covered with bookshelves were papered in a tasteful grass cloth. A stately mahogany desk with a brass study lamp dominated the room. An open Bible lay in a halo of light the lamp cast on gleaming wood. Pastor Michael snapped the Bible shut as I approached the desk.
“Won’t you sit down?” he offered.
We sat. I looked at Peters, grim faced and tense. I wondered how this office compared with the Cadillac-driving swami of Broken Springs, Oregon. Peters was holding himself in check, but just barely. “We wanted to see your church,” I said before Peters had a chance to open his mouth. “We thought seeing it might give us some ideas about Angel’s death.”
Brodie’s defenses came up instantly. “Surely you don’t think someone in the church had anything to do with it.”
“We haven’t ruled out anyone so far,” Peters commented stiffly, glancing at Brodie’s hand. Brodie covered the scratched hand with the other one in a pious and, I thought, highly suspicious, manner. Peters noticed it too.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
There was the pause—slight, but enough to be noticeable. “Oh, a little over six months, I guess. Before that we met in private homes.”
“I see,” I said.
“Would you like to see the rest of it?” he asked, rising suddenly. “We have a fellowship hall and a kitchen in addition to my little apartment.”
“What’s the room we just came through,” Peters put in, “the one with the Bible stand in it?”
There was another pause, as if Brodie wanted to consider his words carefully before answering. “That’s our Penitent’s Room. It’s where people can spend time in prayer when they have
The interior of the sanctuary reminded me of a barren medieval church. I’m not a regular visitor of churches, but the ones I have encountered usually have some of the amenities like heat, carpeting, reasonably comfortable pews, that sort of thing. Walking into Faith Tabernacle, the first sensation was one of bone-numbing chill. There was no heat, and the barren concrete floor retained the damp cold from the previous late-spring night. Two banks of rickety benches formed the seating arrangements, with a center aisle between them leading to a raised altar. The benches had no backs on them. If Angel Barstogi had fallen asleep during church, where had Suzanne put her, on a bench or on the cold, bare floor?
At first we thought we were alone, but then a woman emerged from behind a makeshift pulpit. Armed with a scrub brush and a bucket of soapy water, she crawled across the cold surface on hands and knees, diligently scrubbing every inch of the altar, like a buck private preparing for a major inspection.
Peters approached the woman and asked her where we might find Brodie. She motioned with her hand, indicating that she was unable to talk but that we should go through the door on the right of the altar. It led us through a darkened, closetlike room. In the dim light from the doorway behind us we could see a wooden kneeling frame with an open Bible on a stand before it. Other than those two items, the room was empty.
Another door barred the way. I knocked. Beneath my knuckles I found the deep sound of a solid wooden door, not the hollow laminate of the church’s front doors. Pastor Michael himself answered my knock. If he was startled to see us, he certainly covered it well. “Come in,” he said, stepping back and holding the door. “I was just preparing for this afternoon’s service,” he said.
I doubt Peters was surprised by what we found there. I wasn’t. The room could hardly have been called sumptuous, but it was a long way from the grim, unadorned rooms through which we had entered. The contrast was striking. The place was immaculate. There was none of the dirty clutter of Suzanne Barstogi’s house. A well-padded deep brown carpet covered the floor. The two walls that weren’t covered with bookshelves were papered in a tasteful grass cloth. A stately mahogany desk with a brass study lamp dominated the room. An open Bible lay in a halo of light the lamp cast on gleaming wood. Pastor Michael snapped the Bible shut as I approached the desk.
“Won’t you sit down?” he offered.
We sat. I looked at Peters, grim faced and tense. I wondered how this office compared with the Cadillac-driving swami of Broken Springs, Oregon. Peters was holding himself in check, but just barely. “We wanted to see your church,” I said before Peters had a chance to open his mouth. “We thought seeing it might give us some ideas about Angel’s death.”
Brodie’s defenses came up instantly. “Surely you don’t think someone in the church had anything to do with it.”
“We haven’t ruled out anyone so far,” Peters commented stiffly, glancing at Brodie’s hand. Brodie covered the scratched hand with the other one in a pious and, I thought, highly suspicious, manner. Peters noticed it too.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
There was the pause—slight, but enough to be noticeable. “Oh, a little over six months, I guess. Before that we met in private homes.”
“I see,” I said.
“Would you like to see the rest of it?” he asked, rising suddenly. “We have a fellowship hall and a kitchen in addition to my little apartment.”
“What’s the room we just came through,” Peters put in, “the one with the Bible stand in it?”
There was another pause, as if Brodie wanted to consider his words carefully before answering. “That’s our Penitent’s Room. It’s where people can spend time in prayer when they have
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