Page 20 of Hidden Hero

“Oh yes,” Donna exuded. “We have an outreach program where we visit their homes and check on them if they like.”

“What about Helen McCarthy or Fred Rudolph? Were they two who needed assistance?”

Donna scrunched her face as she thought. “Helen? No, she never came to me. From what I could tell, she was very independent. She didn’t join in much—mostly just came to service on Sunday mornings. Now, Fred, he was a sweetie. He would ask for help if he needed it. Our ladies provided him with a hot meal each Sunday after church, and one would usually check on him weekly. He also came to our Wednesday night mission group.”

“And Helen never came to those?”

Donna’s expression fell as though she were delivering sad news. “No, I’m afraid not. Some members just like the music and preaching on Sunday mornings but don’t feel the calling to participate more.” She shrugged as her gaze moved between Jeremy and Pete. “Buford says we must try to meet everyone’s needs, so I would keep inviting her even though I think Helen got a little perturbed with me.”

Jeremy studied her closely. Donna’s demeanor was polite but guarded, and her answers were careful. He wondered if her personality leaned more toward passivity or if she was simply conditioned to avoid stepping on toes. “Did anyone ever take Fred to appointments or help him with errands?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly. “Not that I know. I guess it’s possible, but not that I was ever made aware.” Her expression brightened. “But our members are such good people. Someone could have helped him on their own. God likes it if we do good deeds without trying to get glory by telling others. That’s how it should be, you know.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Jeremy nodded, offering a smile that he hoped continued to make her feel at ease. “So if we go by that indication, then Helen could also have received some assistance from someone who wasn’t letting anyone know.”

Donna blinked, confusion filling her face. “Um… well, I guess so. I hadn’t thought of that.”

Jeremy wondered if her husband was the one who told her what to think and what to do. Before he could consider his uncharitable thought, the outer door opened. A portly man stepped inside, his face flushed and glistening with sweat. His gaze took in their imposing uniforms, and he wiped his brow with a handkerchief as he rushed forward.

“Gentlemen, I apologize for keeping you waiting,” he said, his voice booming with practiced authority. He cast a brief, pointed glance at Donna. “I’m Buford Grissley. I trust my wife offered you something to drink?”

“They didn’t want anything,” Donna said in a rush, her hands twisting together.

Buford glared her way, but Jeremy jumped in. “Mrs. Grissley was the perfect hostess as we waited.”

Buford jerked his gaze toward Jeremy but smiled widely and nodded. “Thank you. She’s a good minister’s wife.”

“Yes, I’d have to agree,” Pete added, his tone smooth. Donna blushed faintly before excusing herself, slipping from the room as though eager to escape.

Buford turned back to the detectives, his chest still heaving slightly. “Now then, how may I be of service?”

“We have some questions about a few members of your congregation who have died recently.”

“Certainly, certainly,” Buford said, waving his hand toward the door. “I don’t have much seating here. Let’s go into the worship room to sit comfortably.”

“Thank you, Pastor Grissley.” Jeremy and Pete followed Buford into the multipurpose room that could be made into a worship center or a fellowship hall, depending on the needs. The folding chairs were lined in rows, with a podium and microphone on a small stage in the front. An old piano sat to the side, and a table in front of the rostrum held a bouquet.

“We won’t take up much of your time, Pastor Grissley,” Jeremy began, his tone measured and professional. “But we wanted to ask about the older members of your congregation. Are there any activities they all seem to participate in regularly?”

Buford leaned back in his chair, his portly frame settling onto the metal chair as his brows drew together. His jowls quivered slightly as he shook his head. “Other than Sunday service, I’d have to say no. Some of our older folks can’t make it to services anymore. My wife, one of our elders, and I try to visit them during the week. We also run a van service for those who can’t drive themselves, and a handful of them join our Wednesday evening mission group.”

Jeremy exchanged a glance with Pete before steering the conversation. “We’re particularly interested in Helen McCarthy and Fred Rudolph.”

Buford’s expression softened. “Ah, my dear Fred,” he said, clasping his hands together. “He recently passed, as I’m sure you know. That’s who I was meeting with earlier at the funeral home. His son, Christopher, is in town, making arrangements for the service.”

“Yes, we’re aware,” Jeremy replied carefully. “Although ‘passed away’ isn’t quite accurate. He was killed in an automobile accident.”

Buford’s expression remained serene, but his tone took on a rehearsed righteousness. “Yes, but the Lord takes us when He’s ready.”

Jeremy’s jaw tightened, but Pete stepped in with a sharp edge. “And was the Lord ready for the other victim, Mrs. Adams?”

Buford blinked, his composure wavering for a moment. “I’m sorry?”

Jeremy cut Pete a warning glance before refocusing on Buford, his voice calm. “Never mind. We’re just looking for connections between Helen and Fred or any patterns among the deaths we’re investigating. Since they both attended this church, we thought you might have some insight.”

Buford’s brow furrowed deeply. “Connections? Between Fred and Helen?” He chuckled, the sound low and skeptical. “I never even saw them sit in the same row on Sundays. Are you suggesting there was something between them?”

“No, not at all,” Jeremy reassured him quickly. “We’re simply following up on all possible ties.”

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