"The Deacon's Demise"

(Mrs.) Crystal D. Reynolds

348 Sycamore Ave.

Scotch Plains, NJ 07076 USA

Tele: 908-4l8-3026 (cell)

Email: [email protected]

Word Length: 1,987

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to any persons (living or dead) are strictly coincidental.

In loving honor of my wonderful husband, Deacon Victor D. Reynolds

“The Deacon’s Demise”

Crystal D. Reynolds

Some people wake up on the wrong side of the bed-EVERY DAY.

(Deacon) Agrippa Pope was one of those people. In fact, he was the prototype, a man who could mentor the devil with a migraine-and a root canal-after a rattlesnake bite.

His employees tolerated him because he signed their paychecks. His wife loved, but feared him, too. Fellow Deacons dreaded his presence. He made everyone’s life miserable.

The saddest part was: Deacon Pope didn’t know it, and probably wouldn’t care if he did.

You see, nobody liked the Deacon because somehow, someway, he’d always manage to rub them-the wrong way. If he wasn’t bragging about his business, undermining fellow Deacons to the Pastor (over the least little thing), or berating his wife, he was strutting around, minding everyone else’s business.

The few who tolerated Deacon Pope realized he couldn’t help himself. Abandoned as an infant and raised by a distant cousin, he excelled academically, graduating as class Valedictorian. His cousin couldn’t afford college, so Deacon Pope worked while enrolled in Vocational School. Upon graduation, the gas station owner hired him as a mechanic. Two years later the owner died, bequeathing the station to “Mr. Agrippa Pope and his heirs.” Agrippa Pope mortgaged the station and opened his first auto repair shop, then another, then one more.

He met his sweet wife “Flo” at a church social. Agrippa gave her a lift home, and then "asked" her to dinner that Friday. “You are dining with ME, Friday, 7:00.” One year later, they married. The following year, Agrippa, Jr. was born, right on schedule. Agrippa, Sr. was elated.

However, when Xavier Maxwell became a Deacon, Agrippa, Sr. was livid. Xavier wasn’t from Hempstead County, and formerly worked for Agrippa but resigned to attend night school. Pastor Talmadge also didn’t get Agrippa’s prior approval. “Such disrespect,” Agrippa huffed.

At the next Deacon’s meeting, Deacon Agrippa Pope arose from his seat. “Fellow Deacons, I have something to say” he said sighing.

“You needn’t stand, Deacon Pope; we see you,” said George Ellis, Chairman of the Deacon Fellowship.

“I understand that Xavier Maxwell is our newest Deacon, but I have some... concerns,” replied Deacon Pope.

George Ellis leaned forward in his chair, careful not to change his expression. He knew what the elder statesman meant when he said “concerns,” especially regarding the Deacon’s Fellowship. “State your concerns, Agrippa” he moaned.

“Well, as some of you know, I’ve known Xavier for many years; he used to work for me." Agrippa pranced around the room, turning down the heat, then turning off Chairman Ellis’ cell phone. “I don’t see how Xavier Maxwell’s really going to, shall we say, effectively ‘fit into’ this prestigious position,” commented Agrippa, finally sitting back down.

Before Chairman Ellis could speak his Vice Chairman, Charles Monroe chimed in. “I’ve got this George,” Charles said through his teeth. “Deacon Pope,” he said calmly, “We recognize your seniority. However, experience only comes through trial and error.”

“You missed it,” the Chairman quipped. “No, George; first things first,” his Vice Chair replied. “Second, as you SHOULD know from that experience Agrippa, being a Deacon is a thankless, not ‘prestigious’ position. We sacrifice family time and must attend Pastor’s training classes. It’s really not prestigious.”

“What do you know about familial sacrifice Charles? You’re single. Besides, I’ve been a Deacon over twenty years, and already read the Bible three times” stressed Deacon Pope (holding up three fingers while clutching a little black book).

“My father was a Deacon at this church, remember?” stated Charles Monroe, now getting angry, “and we all know how many times you’ve read the Bible, Deacon Pope.”

"Look, if you’re so ‘concerned,’ speak with Pastor Talmadge,” stressed Chairman Ellis, ready to close the topic and meeting. “I’m sure HE isn’t aware you feel so strongly about this.”

“Oh yes, he is” snapped the elder Deacon. “I spoke to both Xavier and Pastor Talmadge. After all, everyone knows Xavier stole cars, ending up in Juvenile Hall and eventually marrying a ‘tainted woman.’”

“If by, ‘tainted’ you mean ‘a former tavern waitress,’ we know that. Which reminds me: weren’t you raised by Mrs. Sophie McGowan, who made-and sold-bathtub gin?” asked Charles slyly.

“That was different. Her husband worked on the railroad, and sometimes his paychecks didn’t make it home,” huffed Deacon Pope, straightening his shoulders.

“Yeah, especially when Mr. McGowan didn’t make it home,” flipped Charles. “That’s enough,” interrupted Chairman Ellis. “The matter is settled. Xavier is our newest Deacon, and we’re all going to work with him. Is that clear?”

The other six men nodded affirmatively. Agrippa Pope grimaced. “If you…insist,” he murmured.

The meeting finally adjourned after Deacon Pope’s “reflections” on several topics. He even offered to lock up the parish. “I have $20,000 in my suit jacket,” Deacon Pope whispered to the Chairman. “I gotta deposit it tonight, but I have time.” Chairman Ellis accepted. He had to get home to his wife Simone and call Pastor Talmadge. Deacon Pope was a troublemaker, and Pastor Talmadge was new to the flock. However, the fellowships had worked with Deacon Pope for years; somebody had to warn Rev. Talmadge, and fast.

Once home, Chairman Ellis realized his company ID was missing. “Simone,” he called out, “I forgot my ID at the church.”

Simone descended the steps of their new home very carefully. At nine months pregnant and due any day, she had no choice. George’s lovely wife, the mother of his twin boys and now an unborn baby girl threw her arms around his neck. “Welcome home! How’s the name ‘Florence Anne?’” she asked sweetly.

“Don’t do that to me, Darling.” He kissed her forehead. “That’s Mrs. Pope’s name.”

“True, and she’s been my best friend ever since I moved here,” Simone responded. “And for the record, Florence Pope’s middle name is ‘Lorraine.’ ’Anne’ is my middle name, remember?”

George didn’t want to upset her. “I like ‘Anne,’” he said, rubbing her back. “Never thought of ‘Florence;’ thought we’d settled on ‘Faith Marie?’”

Simone rubbed his face, smiling. “We did dear, until today’s sonogram revealed two baby girls.”

Her husband fainted.

With ninety minutes, George Ellis ate his supper, kissed Simone, and returned to Blue Ridge Nondenominational Church for his company ID. Fall nights in Hempstead County, Virginia were completely dark, but Deacon Ellis knew the church’s layout well. He opened the door, ascended the steps, fell, and hit his head.

Upon arising, he tripped over something. Drakkar cologne wreaked through George Ellis’ nostrils. To his right, he saw a blood trail.

The Chairman grabbed his cell phone. “Rev. Talmadge, please get to Blue Ridge,” he yelled, dizzily standing up. “Deacon Agrippa Pope’s laying in the narthex. He’s dead.”

Hempstead County’s ten constables all raced to the crime scene, supervising crowd control during the initial investigations. Agrippa Pope would’ve loved the attention, even if dead.

At 10:19 p.m., Garrett Walters, MD officially pronounced Agrippa Pope deceased due to “blunt force trauma to the head.” His colleague, Chief Louis Stephens inquired, “How much time has passed, Garrett?” he asked.

Dr. Walters stopped writing and decided to answer reticently. “I’d say, no more than two hours. Body’s still warm, and there’s little blood coagulation.”

The Chief asked, “Why isn’t it saturated?”

“That’s your area of expertise Louis,” answered the doctor, “I only know it hardly clotted, probably because the narthex thermostat reads ‘75 degrees.’” He resumed writing.

The Chief continued. “My point exactly; if someone murdered Deacon Pope here over two hours ago, this rug should be saturated. But it’s 75 degrees in here and the blood’s not coagulated which tells me he was killed elsewhere then relocated here. This scene is staged-but why?”

The Coroner stopped writing again and stared at the stained-glass windows. “I don’t know why,” he lamented. “But Deacon Pope was murdered here in this edifice; there’s no evidence of dirt, leaves, twigs, etc. on his body.”

Deacon Agrippa Pope had a LAVISH funeral, outdoing Mary Lou Hines, the “One Hit Wonder” country singer. Flowers covered the sanctuary. The Mayor and City Councilman made long speeches, but couldn’t upstage the President of the Deacon’s Association or Regional Director of the Auto Workers’ Union. The service ended three hours later-once the funeral director woke up.

Agrippa Pope’s fellow Deacons served as pallbearers. Mrs. Florence Pope, draped in black (including full mourning veil) leaned onto their oldest child, Agrippa Jr. Daughters Caroline and Esther dutifully followed their mother. Dressed in matching outfits, they accepted numerous sympathy cards. Deacon Pope’s reputation was well known; no one dared to give an empty card.

Pastor Talmadge tried to keep graveside remarks brief. “We know that Deacon Pope is now with Our Lord. We will never forget this unique man, and how he touched us all. Now, go in peace.” The minister walked back towards the hearse.

He was stopped by Chief Stephens. “Sorry to bother you Reverend, but I must ask: were any other meetings at the church t0he night of the murder?”

“Never,” replied Pastor Talmadge. “Deacons often discuss private, ‘sensitive’ issues involving the congregation. Therefore, personnel is limited at their meetings. Now Chief, I’m hungry, and the church ladies made baked chicken for the repast.” The minister stressed, “Pat said Simone’s having twin girls, so Pat’s off shopping to buy more baby clothes. That leaves chicken or pizza. Chicken wins out.”

Chief Stephens smiled and took out his keys. “My wife’s joining them. Reverend, who knows about the extra key to the church?”

“Just a minute,” said Pastor Talmadge, lowering his voice. “What key are you referring to?”

Chief Stephens pulled out an envelope from his coat pocket. “Chairman Ellis told me about an extra key in the church’s rock garden.”

“OK, but you must promise to keep quiet. We have an extra key, marked with my wife Pat’s light pink nail polish.”

The ladies spent the next several days purchasing “baby girl supplies,” for the surprise twin. They stopped for cake and coffee at Field’s Bakery after each trip. “Call it cravings, but I can’t resist Field’s crumb cake,” remarked Simone Ellis.

Antoinette Stephens laughed saying, “I’d need a windfall to appease Louis if I became pregnant again.”

The mother-to-be asked , “Wouldn’t you like another baby, Antoinette?”

“Not anymore, Simone. Remember: our son Louis, Jr. drowned at three years old. The Chief blamed himself, until we had Katie. She’s our miracle.”

Someone tapped Antoinette Stephens’ shoulder. “So, there you are!” Antoinette exclaimed.

“Sorry ladies,” Pat Talmadge lamented. “I was unavoidably detained. It appears Louis confirmed Xavier Maxwell’s alibi yesterday but Antoinette, Louis asked if he could examine my polishes. She sat down, biting into Simone’s crumb cake. “I agreed, acting innocuous.”

“Calm down-I'm not surprised,” her friend answered. “We needed a duplicate, in case I couldn’t trip the lights and get that little black book away from Deacon Pope. Thank goodness I remembered the $20,000 in his suit jacket, too. Pat finally remembered the right shade.” She opened a peppermint. “Do you two realize we almost went to prison?” Antoinette asked. “Deacon Pope was about to reveal how we embezzled $750,000 from that Chicago brokerage firm 15 years ago, mailed it to his wife for safe-keeping, then skipped town, changing our names. Our stash is worth $2,000,000 now with interest but that black book contained all the serial numbers of that original $750,000. If Deacon Pope had turned that little black book over to 'the Feds,' we’d be sunk. Florence Pope owes us; we carried out her plan and my cousin Garrett signed off on the autopsy report. Flo received her $250,000 beneficiary check from the insurance company yesterday. My cousin Garrett said he’ll take $250,000 “hush money” and once he and Flo are married, he’ll be all set, thanks to us.” She tapped her purse and continued matter-of-factly. “Pat, you always had expensive taste. Too bad we opened the new polish; now we can’t get a refund.”

Crystal D. (Price) Reynolds is the youngest of five children of (the late) Rev. & Mrs. Calvin D. (Gertrude L.) Price. She graduated with a B.A. (after completing a double major in English and Political Science) from Rutgers College, Rutgers University. A former Assistant Contract Analyst and Contract Consultant for two major insurance carriers and railroad enthusiast, Crystal is now a free-lance writer, singer, songwriter, and (two-time) breast cancer survivor. Now permanently disabled, she makes her home in Central New Jersey with her husband, Victor Reynolds, their son Carrington, and finicky feline “Shadow.”