You cannot successfully determine beforehand which side of the bread to butter (Mrs. Murphy’s Corollary)

The morning after their sortie to the Camel Creek mid-week service, Bradford and Rourke decided that they should try to interview Robert P. Warner “his own self,” as Bradford put it. They asked around and got the address and contact info, and also discovered the existence of Mystic Union, a person mentioned in the newspaper article, albeit obliquely. Rourke hung up the phone after talking with one of the newspaper reporters.

“She told me Mystic Union is a real piece of work. Try to imagine Miss Boulder, Colorado on steroids. And we will have to go through her if we want to talk with ol’ Robert.”

Bradford nodded, and looked down at the piece of paper Rourke handed him. “1515 Asbury. I know where that is. Just on the genteel side of seedy. Safe but not savory.”

Rourke snorted. “You used to work as a tour guide that side of town?”

“I am not saying I did or I didn’t. But if I did, would that be so bad? Suppose a college student needed pizza money, say.”

The two detectives stood up, stretched, and headed out to their car.

Pastor Mitchell was driving into town from the other direction, listening to the car radio more carefully than usual. He almost never listened to KING because “it got him out of fellowship,” as he put it, but he was doing so this morning to see if there would be any references to the scandal at all. He had decided that morning, somewhat abruptly, that he needed to contact Mrs. Winmore, a.k.a Mystic Union, before his lunch appointment with Brian. His pastoral antennae were buzzing and sparking, and it seemed to him that he was inevitably going to be dragged into this swamp of charges and countercharges. And, if so, he preferred going in headfirst, and not grabbed at the heels by the swamp monster of circumstances in order to be dragged helplessly into these stagnant ponds of punk water. He was going to be talking to Cherie regardless, he had a lunch appointment tomorrow with Brian, and he had kind of an historical connection to Mrs. Winmore. So on the drive into town he was trying to think of some plausible way he could phrase the question he did have for her, but the real reason for going was simply to make face to face contact with her again. Just in case.And Charles Peaborne had been up all night, getting his web site ready to launch—a web site that displayed at least some measure of historical literacy by its domain name of savonarola.com. Up until yesterday, Peaborne had been a deputy assistant to Miguel Smith, the roving Caribbean pirate of Camel Creek, and had been serenely unconscious of all the goings-on around him for many years. This was not unlike a first mate to Blackbeard believing himself to actually have been an assistant of Florence Nightingale, but Peaborne was the kind of man who was entirely up to this kind of challenge. He was a classic paper clip counter, correct department code numbers for the copying machine maintainer, and one who generally focused on pennies, policies, and those blank “spirit of the law” spaces in between the lines of all written procedures—but only so long as “spirit of the law” was interpreted and applied by a committee of first-century Talmudic scholars, all of whom who had the disposition of a caged cinnamon bear with a sore head. At a department meeting just the previous week, Peaborne had pitched a fit over the use of a particularly expensive grade of paper in the annual reports, and had warned ominously that continued prodigality like this would be sure to bring down the wrath of heaven on all the ministries of Camel Creek. And of course, when the scandal erupted, he considered himself to have been fully vindicated in every way, not only on the question of the grade of paper for the annual reports, but also on the very similar warnings he had issued over the years concerning other matters of extravagance, not to mention the matters where people had the temerity to disagree with him.

He had turned in his letter of resignation to Miguel with a stiff and censorious formality, a posture well-practiced, and had then gone home to create a web page that would tear the lid off Camel Creek and all its nefarious doings. In short, he was a very sore and fanatically gnat-strangling ex-employee, and he had three months of unemployment coming in which he might be able to settle at least a few scores. All his scruples were wound tight around his axle, and the more he gunned the engine, the more things were starting to smoke deep inside his head. He had that rare ability, non-existent in the physical world, to read the teeny bottom line at the bottom of the optometrist’s eye chart at fifty yards, but could not make out that big E thing at the top while standing next to it. He was the same man who had signed all the checks payable to former occupants of Chad Lester’s rotating seraglio, a datum arranged with foresighted glee on Miguel’s part, and one that would come back to render Charles more or less speechless later.

His new web site catalogued the many evil decisions of Camel Creek staff over the years, the first of which was the toner cartridge debacle, and in a moment of inspiration at the last minute he had decided to put some links off to the side—“What Others Are Saying About Camel Creek”—and he thought that perhaps he could get Robert P. Warner to provide him with a zingy quotation or two. So before getting some much needed sleep, he decided to drive downtown in search of Robert P. also. He got the address off Robert P. Warner’s blog, and discovered in the process that Robert, in addition to his prowess in allegations of wrong-doing when it came to inappropriate touching by pastors, was also a true pasty blogger poet with greasy brown hair hanging in the eyes just right, and a sleepy look that suggested profundity more than bewilderment. Which just goes to show. Robert P. was something of a prophet also, with themes of High Apocalypse, shrill leftism, a goodish bit of principled narcissism, and some touches of Mormon theology in there somewhere.

And so thus it was that Bradford and Rourke came around one corner at exactly the same moment that Pastor Mitchell came around the other corner, and Charles Peaborne was walking across the street. They were all walking toward the front doors of The Health Temple, which meant also that they were all walking toward a satellite news truck with News Babe standing on the sidewalk in front. The Health Temple used to be a hardware store, and was spacious and wide across the front—it was built back in the thirties when linear dirt along the street was cheap. It was a brick building in good repair, and the white paint on the brick had just been applied the summer before last. A small tattoo parlor was off to the right side, just next door, and two doors down on the left was a barbeque chicken joint that was the real reason for Bradford’s knowledge of the area. “They make it just like this place in Memphis that I used to go to all the time,” is what Bradford would have said had he been asked, but he wasn’t.

Charles Peaborne was closest, but since he was coming from behind the satellite truck, News Babe didn’t see him at all. She had turned to face Pastor Mitchell, and Peaborne scooted right behind her and in through the front door. Bradford and Rourke got safely past also, but paused sympathetically with their hands on the door handles, waiting to see how Pastor Mitchell, whom they did not know at all, but empathized with as a fellow human being, would fare. What they saw encouraged them both greatly, and later proved to be the beginning of the basis for a long-standing friendship with the stalwart man of God.

Microphone brandished at the appropriate angle, News Babe stepped forward and asked, “Are you a customer of The Health Temple?”

“No, ma’am.”

News Babe was not really doing customer interviews anyhow, and was really checking her recording levels more than anything, although she (from force of habit) was also conducting something of a fishing expedition in the questions she chose.

“Are you the co-owner, Robert P. Warner?”

“No, ma’am.”

Pastor Mitchell was looking at News Babe through narrow slits, mostly because the morning sun was right in his eyes, but also because he thought it was the only appropriate way to talk with this woman. He had used to see her regularly on television, but about a year ago had finally made a principled decision to watch the news anywhere else because her manner irritated him beyond measure. “I am an easy-going man,” he once told Cindi. “I take things in stride. I try to exhibit the fruit of the Spirit. I don’t fluster really. So why does this woman make me want to jump up and down on the hassock here, yelling and waving the remote?”

Cindi had been unsympathetic to his dilemma. “Because you watch the news on Channel 4? Instead of switching it?”

News Babe was suddenly back in front of him, and the sympathetic image of an unsympathetic Cindi faded. “Are you acquainted with the details of the scandal at Camel Creek?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. “Not really.”

“May we tell the public what your business might be here?”

“As soon as the public has a right to know.”

Pastor Mitchell was at his shrewd best, and was thinking in a straight and narrow line. Why are you asking me questions is my own little private thought here. For all you know, I am just here to pick up my joojoo beans cancer treatment. For all you know I am the electrician come to repair the short in the twenty-first century muscle relaxer and mind reader, the one with blinking lights. I am on to your sexy ways and tricks, you . . . you . . . woman with perfect teeth and gossip truck. Hah! For all you know I am a Reformed Baptist pastor with credible inside connections to the monkeyshines at Camel Creek and, you know, I think I will be making my way inside.

Which he did, and News Babe turned back to her engineer. “Those levels okay?” A few days later, Pastor Mitchell found out that he had been on the news that evening, with his cryptic comment on the public’s apparent lack of a right to know being introduced by News Babe saying that “well-placed observers” are being tight-lipped about this whole situation. She ran with that clip because Mystic Union had declined to be interviewed on camera, and would hold out for two additional days.

Mystic Union held out because she, the former Mrs. Winmore, had a set of unique and murky perspectives on the care and treatment of virtually every ailment, not to mention almost total confusion with regard to the appropriate laws of inference, almost to the point of thinking that wet streets cause rain, but this did not obscure her clear-sighted view of the main chance, and her clear knowledge that she currently had a shot at the main chance. She was dedicated to the proposition that Robert P. Warner had a winning lottery ticket in his clammy little hand, and she was resolved to hold the other hand encouragingly. And to occasionally pat it, while giving sound strategic advice.

The doors closed silently behind Pastor Mitchell, and he stood still for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness inside. The two policemen were standing in the foyer entrance, and both greeted him warmly. They shook his hand, and congratulated him on his courageous and public-spirited performance outside, and introduced themselves. He did the same, and after a few minutes exchanging small talk they all began to look around. They were in a combination foyer/book store/magazine stand, near the back of which was a doorway filled with hippie beads hanging down just like they did in the seventies.

Suddenly Charles Peaborne burst through the hippie beads and walked briskly past them, headed back for the front door. He had not managed to see Robert P. Warner—who was still asleep, exhausted as he was from a late night of blogging about the loneliness of urban angst as recorded by French film-makers, subtitling their angst like crazy, although the existential anguish was redeemed and ameliorated somewhat by plenty of French frontal nudity, which he felt translated well without the subtitles, at least for him—but Peaborne had obtained a brief audience with Mystic Union. She had allowed that to provide him with some quotations might be in their mutual interest, and had obtained his email address. Charles was elated, and regarded his contact with these new allies as a profound vindication of his stand in the invoice filing dispute of three years prior. When he had gotten some sleep, he could resume killing ants with his baseball bat. Out the door he went, trailing clouds of glory.

The pastor and two policemen made their way through the clickety beads, and were greeted by two servant girls in white robes, wearing a couple of silver Halloween princess tiaras. The girls bowed down before them, and then, rising, turned and escorted them toward the back wall. They both walked with the stately air that they imagined ancient servants might have used when escorting the Queen of Sheba to see Solomon, although the effect on an educated observer was not quite what they imagined. To their right and left were various alcoves, cubicles and cubbies, in which crystals were waved, herbs were ingested, and hoobah dust was sprinkled, as the circumstances demanded and required. From one of the alcoves in the back right, they could all hear a low groaning. But Mystic Union was seated there against the back wall, holding court, and waiting to receive her second wave of visitors. Bradford noticed in passing that one of the servant girls had an Oakland Raiders tattoo on her right ankle, which caused him to think that this joint might not be all bad.

Mystic Union held up her right hand in greeting, and in such a way as to forestall unnecessary preliminary chatter. “I am willing to see you briefly,” she said. “But one of my many callings is that of midwife, and I have a client I have to see almost immediately.” And so it was that the low groaning was explained.

“You are a midwife too?” said Bradford.

“Why are you surprised? Modern medical conventions have virtually turned childbirth into a disease. But it is nothing of the kind. Did you know that there are places in the world where women can just drop the child in the field, and go on with the harvest? What does that suggest to you?”

“Third world? Grinding poverty? Gross infant mortality rates?” Bradford guessed.

“No. It means that childbirth is natural, and not an event that has to be conducted in a hospital. I am here to help women understand how natural this is. But I will have to go in just a moment. How may I help you?”

Rourke had delivered at least three babies in the back seats of cars and taxi cabs, and thought he was qualified to assert that there was nothing whatever that was natural about it. It was the craziest thing in the world. Women were the kind of people that people came out of, for crying out loud, and he thought it was the kind of thing best monitored by world class doctors and sophisticated electronic gear, maintained closely by teams of nurses with graduate degrees in astrophysics. But that was just his opinion.

The detectives nodded first at Pastor Mitchell, who had finally figured out while parking his car the way he was going to ask his question. When he finally spoke, Mystic Union looked at him directly for the first time and started, and then flushed very slightly. He briefly nodded to her, and introduced himself again. “Good morning,” he said. “I don’t know if you remember me . . . I am Pastor Mitchell at Grace Reformed.”

But by the time he was done with his sentence, Mystic Union had recovered completely and said, “Yes, yes, of course. We all come to the mountain by various paths. But we all ascend the mountain. How may I help you?”

Pastor Mitchell caught himself being distracted by the fortune cookie profundities, but then concluded that he ought to refrain from saying anything about it. So he stayed on message and said something else instead. “Several months ago, my elders asked me to try to find out how best to dispense with the books left behind at the church by your ex-husband. They are boxed up in our church basement, and some of them are quite valuable. We do not really feel at liberty to dispose of them on our own authority. Do you know who would be in a position to make a decision?”

Mystic Union shook her head. “My husband’s family members are all deceased and there is no one on my side who would want them. The books were very, um, narrow. They were even narrow by your Christian standards, and that’s saying something. But the terms of the divorce settlement—given his, um, condition—left such things up to my discretion. You may dispose of them as seems best to you. Is that all?”

Pastor Mitchell nodded. “That is what I wanted to ask you. But if your new circumstance with Camel Creek leaves you in a position where you need to talk to someone from your old life, I would be happy to do so.” He then looked at the detectives.

“Morning, ma’am,” Rourke said. “What we would like to do is arrange an interview with Robert P. Warner. We understand that you . . . um, manage his schedule.”

Mystic Union nodded, pleased. “Yes, that is what I do. Robert has been so terribly wounded by these events—by this betrayal of pastoral trust—that I have to be very careful about how much public exposure he gets. He is very frail.”

“There is not a criminal case opened on this situation yet, and so please understand we are not at all insisting. But we would appreciate it if you would allow us to visit with Robert. Here is my card.” Rourke phrased it the way he did because he knew that the DA was as much interested in the main chance as Mystic Union was, and he, Rourke, was not really interested in that kind of political showboating. So he was therefore interested in touching all the bases he had to touch without actually pushing hard. If a case were opened, then all the normal rules would apply, and he would be more at ease then. Until then he was going to do what he had to do without really going the second mile.

Mystic Union took the card, nodded, and stood up. “I have to go,” she said. “I will consider it.”