Bright & Beautiful

  Copyright © 2020

  All rights reserved

  Chapter One

  THIS TIME, THE WHOLE tangled mess started in my office at St. Giles’ Episcopal Church, or at least my part in it did. That’s me, the Rev. Alma Lee—vicar, amateur sleuth, occasional impulsive—staring at the handset of my desk phone. Out of it, seconds earlier, my bishop had announced there’d been a murder at Grace Cathedral.

  From twelve inches away, his tinny voice asked, “Alma? Alma! Are you there?”

  I put the phone to my ear again and crossed my fingers. “Yes, sir. I’m here. How can I help?” Please, please ask me to help. Give me an urgent and impossible project that will consume my next few days. Anything to get me out of attending the grand opening of the new cocktail bar across the street from where I lived and worked, from having to see Naomi Cohen with the sexy pillow lips and principled determination not to date her charmingly hot interfaith colleague, AKA me. Yep, she set me aside so she could meet a nice Jewish girl.

  In the aftermath, I learned it’s possible to respect and resent a decision at the same time—who knew?

  “I’m about to fly off to a meeting of the College of Bishops in Iowa,” continued the Right Reverend Ronaldo Vasquez, “And the police are crawling all over the cathedral. Damien knew the victim, and he will need some help. My staff are...”

  A bunch of raging church geeks and warm, fuzzy coffee hour schmoozers who know every word of the Prayer Book by heart and demonstrate a dearth of real-world skills? Not that I don’t love them.

  “They have less experience with these sorts of things than you do,” finished the more politic bishop. “Can you come right away? Take a taxi.”

  I’m a public transportation girl and imagined the meter making a ka-ching! sound as it totaled out at thirty-five bucks, enough to buy one of my homeless neighbors a week’s worth of groceries.

  Then the bishop added. “The diocese will pay for it.”

  “On my way, sir.”

  “Good. I've booked a car to the airport in an hour and a half. It’s imperative that I see you first.”

  I shrugged on my vegan leather jacket and turned to find my parish administrator and task master Kayla staring at me, one brow raised nearly to her hairline. How did she do that? And, more importantly, could I learn?

  “The bishop needs my help with a murder at the cathedral.” Although, admittedly, I didn't know what sort of help. Did he want me to mop up the blood or run interference with the police, a few of whom I knew well thanks to my ex-boyfriend Cesar?

  Kayla’s second brow lifted to join the first.

  I pinched the corner of the invitation to the Naomi’s Place grand opening, with the hand-written notes on it. David Cohen, who I’d helped exonerate in my last—okay, my only—murder investigation, had penned, Would love to see you. We're so grateful, please come to our opening night. Beneath his message was a single word scrawled by the woman who’d rejected me. Please! -N.

  Letting the card dangle, I handed it to Kayla. “Can you please recycle that?”

  She plucked it from my fingers and dropped it into the blue bin that happened to stand between us at our feet. So, sue me, I have a flair for dramatics.

  Then she raised her hands to heaven and said, “Praise the Lord that I am on vacation next week.” In case you’ve never met an Episcopalian, dear reader, we aren’t the brand of Christians who lift our arms and exclaim God’s praises. We’re more understated and intellectual in our piety. Let's just say, Kayla can match my dramatic gestures one-for-one.

  “Bon Voyage!” I blew her a kiss, wishing she was traveling somewhere more remote than Seattle so she couldn’t nag me via email.

  Three taxis ignored me before I caught one heading north on Valencia Street, my stomach churning with a nauseating mix of excitement and dread. Someone had been murdered, and the bishop called me! Although, if the charmed and charming Very Reverend Damien Gough hadn’t known the victim, he’d be Vasquez’s choice. The Dean of the Cathedral was the golden boy of the diocese.

  My moral compass spun, reminding me I shouldn’t thrill over a death or how Damien’s entanglement made room for my involvement. It hadn’t been thrilling when I’d found my old friend dead on the church steps, and surely others cared for this victim in the same way. But moments during that investigation had been intoxicating—I was useful, I was pursuing justice, and I had a perfect excuse to avoid the boring work on my desk. Could I feel all those feels again, this time minus the grief and guilt?

  The taxi mounted Nob Hill in nineteen minutes, but black and white vehicles swarmed the streets and the grouchy driver couldn’t get me within a block of the towering cathedral. He was even less pleased when I asked for a receipt.

  I approached a length of caution tape where two uniformed officers stood guard and ducked underneath it.

  “Whoa there. Where do you think you’re going?” asked the middle-aged male officer.

  When I stood, both their eyes zeroed in on my clerical collar. In my three years ordained as a priest, the thing had only gotten me admission to ICU wards, never anywhere fun. Would it land me a ticket into a crime scene at the cathedral?

  “I’m Alma Lee. The bishop asked me to come.”

  The female officer’s brows furrowed, then lifted. “Alma Lee who solved the murder at the Carlos Club?”

  I grinned, noting her trim, athletic build and spiky haircut. It was possible I’d seen her at the dyke bar before David Cohen had transformed it into the swanky Naomi’s Place artisan cocktail lounge. I extended my hand. “The very one.”

  She chuckled, shaking her head and my hand at the same time. “I hear you’re a real piece of work.”

  “True, but in the best possible way.” I winked.

  “Alma! Thank God!” From the top of the many stairs leading to the cathedral, Bishop Vasquez bellowed. I gave the officers a semicircular wave and ascended toward the paunchy man in the purple shirt. He embraced me although before we’d been on handshake-with-occasional-fist-bump terms.

  I patted his back firmly. The guy seemed shook up. Who’d died? Had the victim been someone from the diocesan offices that shared the block with the looming gothic sanctuary, or from the boys’ elementary school attached to the cathedral? Or perhaps the victim was a visitor to the landmark.

  “Come this way.” He dragged me several steps, then stopped abruptly, holding out his arm like he’d slammed on the brakes and I was in the shotgun seat. “Oh, but wait—are you up for seeing the body?”

  Sweet baby Jesus, was there a right answer to that question? “You better tell me who died before I decide.”

  “Yes, yes. Of course.” A cold wind blew tufts of fluffy white fog overhead and Vasquez’s steel-gray hair every which way. Flustered, he smacked his palm atop his head to flatten it. “It’s Dara Chey-Walker, the poet.”

  “Shit.” I heard myself say the four-letter word before I could recall my ‘abstain from profanity around the bishop’ rule. He pursed his lips. Dara Chey-Walker, daughter of a Cambodian human rights activist, later adopted by her stepfather, philanthropist Barret Walker, was a socialite, renowned beauty, and the current poet laureate of California. Her work was so damn good it could make you weep. “What a loss.”

  “Indeed. Ah, here’s Damien.”

  The Dean of the Cathedral sat on a low wall, elbows on his thighs, forehead in his hand, his mane of magnificent golden curls falling over his face. Cathedral deans get the honorific very in their title, so while I am the Reverend Alma Lee, he is the Very Reverend Damien Gough.

  “There, there, my boy. Alma’s here now. You’re not alone.”

  Damien looked up, green eyes peeking through thick brown lashes. He was too ridiculously beautiful for words, but th
at was only part of the reason I’d never liked Damien Gough.

  “Alma. Ronaldo said you were...” He made to stand but teetered back on his heels. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Did you know her?” I tilted my head to the left, where the police surrounded an area of the vast courtyard. Her body must be there, on the circular prayer labyrinth where people walked in meditation or did Tai Chi. Such a public place. My mind raced with questions and possibilities.

  Damien tried to stand again and managed it the second time. “Later today, she would have become my sister-in-law. She is—was—engaged to my brother Brent.”

  Damn. No wonder he was having trouble standing. Compassion for him surged inside me. My petty dislikes had no place at the scene of a murder of someone he cared about. I gave his arm a squeeze, which he acknowledged with a tight smile.

  “Now, you stay here, Damien. I'll introduce Alma to Detective Sokolov.” Once we moved a few yards away from the dean, the bishop muttered under his breath, “brace yourself.”

  But what should I brace for—blood and gore? Smashed skull and broken limbs? I looked up. If she’d fallen from the heights of the cathedral, could she have landed so far away? I’d aced high school physics, and I was pretty sure that was a no.

  We rounded a low wall where a crowd of police stood. There she lay, splayed out in the center of the labyrinth, a vast ivory gown spread wide. Her nut-brown skin—similar to mine in color but pampered and without freckles—had a gray pallor.

  “How did she die?” I whispered to the bishop.

  A sleek middle-aged woman in a charcoal pantsuit stepped toward me. There was something about her attire, the way she moved, the way her gray eyes sharpened on me, that reminded me of my first and on-again-off-again love, Cesar Garza, which had to make her the detective.

  The wind blew again, and I caught the whiff of chemicals.

  “Is that smell coming from her?”

  “Yeah. It’s bleach.”

  I ran my gaze from Dara Chey-Walker’s head to the hem of her gown and back to her head. Her dark hair was slicked back from her forehead and resting limply on the black-and-white marble of the labyrinth, as if it had dried in place. Her dress, in contrast, showed no signs of having been wet. It was rumpled and smudged in spots, but it had definitely remained dry. Also, her lips were blue.

  A scent memory slammed into me, of swimming with friends at the Mission Pool, shivering when we climbed out of the water into freezing air, and I placed the scent. “Maybe she drowned in a pool somewhere nearby, and the smell is chlorine?”

  Detective Sokolov’s brows shot up as though impressed by my deduction. “Possibly. It’s something we’re looking into.”

  I scanned the surroundings—luxury hotels and high-rises. “There are probably dozens of pools in these buildings.”

  “Yes.” The detective extended her hand. “I’m Dina Sokolov.”

  “Alma Lee.” I returned her shake.

  “Cesar’s girl, right?”

  I shrugged, as non-committal as I’d been when he’d asked me to give us a second chance after Naomi Cohen had unceremoniously dumped me.

  A uniformed officer came to Sokolov’s side. “M.E. says best guess at time-of-death is between three and five a.m.”

  Car tires squealed on the road below. Two people emerged from the Uber. The older one bellowed, “Damien? Where is she? Where the hell is Dara?”

  “Oh dear.” The bishop wrung his hands. “There’s the groom.”

  Chapter Two

  BISHOP RONALDO VASQUEZ took my elbow and steered me back toward Damien, who stood waiting for his tuxedoed brother doing a Rocky Balboa up the steps to the cathedral.

  “I told him not to call Brent,” the bishop said. “He shouldn't see his bride like this. But Damien insisted.” I couldn’t tell if my superior’s tone was frustrated or exhausted.

  Brent Gough had a thick sweep of hair like his brother’s, but darker, with gray glints. Behind him another person ascended, also in a tux, almost as tall as Brent but lither, with Damien’s blond curls worn chin-length. A Gough son or younger brother, maybe?

  A glance at my watch told me the bishop’s car would arrive in a matter of minutes. A little bubble of pride filled my belly. He’d called me, not one of his many Canons with decades more church experience! Not that I knew what he expected me to do.

  Ronaldo, who I now presumed to call by his first name—mentally at least, because Damien had—stopped at the Dean’s side as the pair reached us. I glanced at the very rev. His suit was rumpled, one tail of his clerical shirt untucked, his perfect features twisted in grief.

  “I’m so sorry, Brent.” He raised his arms to embrace his brother, who collapsed into him, forehead on shoulder, and sobbed. Damien bowed his head, too, drawing Brent closer.

  Seeing the dean grieving and vulnerable instead of slick, I felt ashamed for the petty reasons I hadn’t liked him—too charming, too polished, his career progressing too easily. I should have celebrated when the cathedral called their first gay dean instead of grumbling that they’d hired yet another white man, and one from a wealthy old San Francisco family to boot.

  “How could this happen?” Brent spoke into his brother’s shoulder, his words muffled. “Who would hurt Dara?”

  I pictured the beautiful poet’s corpse splayed artfully on the labyrinth. This wasn’t a random attack, no mere robbery or assault, not even the crime of passion that had gotten my friend Cindy’s head bashed in with a whiskey bottle. Dara Chey-Walker’s death was a statement, a symbol of some sort.

  And, as Cesar always reminded me, nine times out of ten, it’s the boyfriend/husband, or in this case—the groom. I turned my attention to Brent Gough. An inch or two taller than his brother and bulkier too, with a barrel chest and athletic build.

  A shuffling motion behind the pair of brothers drew my gaze. On second look, the one I’d assumed to be a third brother was far younger than I’d first guessed and presented a more complex picture. A nose ring and multiple hoop piercings in both ears, coral lipstick (always a mistake), a bit of acne, and pink, sparkly nail polish. As a bisexual woman with lots of trans friends, I knew better than to call a person’s features “feminine,” but the adolescent’s face was decidedly pretty, atop a frame nearly as big and strong as the elder Gough brother.

  Instantly, I liked this kid who defied categorization the way I always aspired to. I’d have to do some sleuthing to discover the preferred pronoun for the child. I stepped forward and around the embracing men, extending my hand. “Hi, I’m Alma Lee. I’m a priest like Damien.”

  Though not a Very one, I thought, still not quite over my petty resentment of the man. Let it go, I told my inner axe, itching to grind. Sometimes your power analysis is just self-serving bullshit.

  “I’m Katherine Gough. People call me Kat.” The teen took my hand in a huge, puppy-like paw and shook firmly.

  “Or Kit-Kat.” Damien broke away from his brother, a small, fond smile on his lips. “Alma, darling, this lovely girl is my fabulous niece. Kit-Kat, Alma is one of the hippest, most talented priests in the diocese. All the cool kids go to her church in the Mission.”

  My face burned with pleasure from the compliment. It was true and nice that he’d noticed. Also, he’d answered my pronoun question.

  “Brent, I’m Ronaldo Vasquez,” the Bishop said. “We’ve met before, ages ago.” The men shook hands. “Can I take you over to meet the detective on the case?”

  The elder Gough allowed the bishop to shepherd him, and Damien followed.

  Since I still didn’t know exactly why the bishop called me to this crime scene, I indulged my pastoral curiosity, which Cesar dubbed nosiness, and which meant I’d solved Cindy’s murder before him.

  I shuffled an inch closer to Kat. “I’m sorry about your... uh... almost stepmom?”

  “Yeah.” She scuffed the pavement with the toe of her wingtip.

  “When was the wedding supposed to start?”

  She looked at her wat
ch. “Eleven a.m. We were going to meet here for photos first, so we were getting dressed when Damien called. Dad was...” She sought him out with her gaze and shook her head. “Wrecked.”

  Kat herself did not appear especially upset, but that meant nothing. Some kids could contain their emotions better than the most stoic adults. My grandfather was murdered in his Chinese grocery on Mission Street when I was fifteen, and I held the grief and anger in as long as possible, afraid if I let it out, it would swallow me forever. It almost did, until I could channel it into activism, leading rallies to end racial tension in my neighborhood. Let’s just say I’m not great at sitting still and breathing through painful feelings.

  “Were you going to be in the wedding?” I asked.

  She tugged on her lapel. “Yeah. I was Dad’s ‘best girl.’” She made air quotes. “Because Damien was officiating for the wedding, and Dara said Dad needed me to stand up with him. But I’m pretty sure she just thought I looked hideous in her bridesmaid dress.” She exhaled through her nose, a wry little snort.

  Yeah. I liked this kid.

  “Too bad, too. The dress actually looked good. She just thought I didn’t match her other, size-two bridesmaid.”

  Huh. That didn’t jibe with my image of the gentle and enlightened poet I’d formed from reading her books and hearing her interviewed on NPR. But what teenage girl liked a new stepmom?

  “Did you get along with her?”

  She shrugged again. “I tried, because it was important to Dad. And she tried, too, but she always messed it up. She thought I’d like wearing this tux because I wear athletic clothes most of the time. She called me a tomboy and was always giving me permission to be ‘gender non-conforming.’” Kat made air quotes. “She’d say stuff like, ‘You know your father will love you just as much if you’re a lesbian. He adores Uncle Damien.’ I mean, no shit my dad’s not a homophobe. And being tall and kick ass at field hockey doesn’t make me gay.”

  “I’m short and I suck at field hockey, so that’s definitely not what made me gay.”