Boilerman, A Deweyville Church Secretary Novel

A DEWEYVILLE

CHURCH SECRETARY NOVEL

BOILERMAN

BY FRANKIE CARROLL

AND JOHNNIE MCDONALD

Smashwords Edition

Copyright (c) by Frankie Carroll

and Johnnie McDonald

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

READ THIS.

IT’S GOOD FOR YOU.

The reason we call this a novel is because it’s fiction. Perhaps you know a weird person or two where you attend church. Maybe your preacher absconded with the missionary funds. Your neighbor or your sister-in-law might be a Bohemian Jackie type with a blue car, a gay friend, and a nose for trouble. Your small town may brag about a bearded Rusty, an ex-military he-man who drives a Dodge Ram. But the people you know are not the people in this book. The characters, towns, and happenings described in the Boilerman are fabrications, derived from the harebrained psyches of the not-fictional Frankie and Johnnie.

FOR BUD CARROLL

We can still feel his presence. After all these years, our hearts and minds are filled with the essence of our father.

With his work boots planted on the space heater, sulfur hanging in the air from a freshly struck match, he rests in the small living room after a bone weary day. His wife sets the table for a meal the entire family will attend. Politics are debated, race and poverty discussed, promising futures planned. After dinner, his daughters await the arrival of sockless boys with long hair and smelling of English Leather, and his blue eyes twinkle with laughter.

Such domestic scenes were hard to come by for this rough and poorly educated man with an impoverished past. His nature was gruff, a jokester, occasionally off the rails, but he was tender hearted, attempting to understand the world of females. Above all, he was encouraging, wanting more for the ones he loved.

Thank you, Daddy, for instilling in us your sense of humor. We remember you always.

BONUS LAUGHS

EXCERPTS FROM NAVY BOILERMAN JOB DESCRIPTION

DUTIES

Repairs and tests boilerroom equipment...Checks seams, rivets, welds. Fits pipe…Maintains proper steam pressure in boilers by controlling feed valves of oil burners, safety valves, and blow-off cocks. Operates equipment such as feed pump ejectors, condensers, pumps, super-heaters, evaporators, and draft system. Removes scale and sludge from interior of boiler, and cleans valves, tubes, and other equipment. Has expert knowledge of safety precautions of the Fireroom.

EXCERPTS FROM HVAC JOB DESCRIPTION

DUTIES

Installs, troubleshoots and repairs heating, air conditioning and refrigeration units, including chillers, boilers and heat pumps. Performs scheduled maintenance inspections, and adjusts, cleans and calibrates various systems to assure proper system operations.

Cleans refrigerant systems from hermetic burnouts, evacuates, and charges systems…Checks distribution systems for proper velocity, volume, temperature, pressure, etc.

Responds to emergency service requests.

To perform this job successfully, an individual must be able to perform each essential duty satisfactorily.

REASONING ABILITY

Ability to carry out instructions furnished in written, oral, or diagram form. Excellent communication skills are necessary to deal with irritated or stressed customers.

PHYSICAL DEMANDS

Regularly required to talk or hear…and stand. Frequently required to walk, sit, and use hands to finger, handle, or feel, and reach with hands and arms. Must be able to exert up to 100 pounds of force occasionally, and/or up to 50 pounds of force frequently. Specific vision abilities required include ability to adjust focus and differentiate between colors and shades of color.

WORK ENVIRONMENT

Must be able to work anywhere heating and cooling units are contained—homes, offices—indoors and outdoors. Workers are often required to operate in cramped or uncomfortable conditions and can be exposed to such hazards as muscle strain. The noise level in the work environment is usually moderate, but may occasionally reach higher decibels.

PROLOGUE

Does the fear of death, destruction, dementia, and cellulite nag at you throughout the day or rouse you from a deep slumber? Do you feel compelled to horde canned beans, build a hole in the ground, or move to Alaska and shoot bears with Sarah Palin before the end of days? Are you starting to believe the homeless man on the corner with his The End is Nigh sign?

As if we don’t have enough to worry about, such as a boat barricade of Ralph Lauren designer wear from China, Twinkies disappearing off the grocery shelf, or leggings going out of style, we’ve got the fringe elements constantly warning us someone is out to get us. NRA members claim the United States government is planning a coupe. The Tea Party predicts we’re going over the fiscal cliff. The doomsday preppers have websites where you can learn how to equip your underground bunker, including candy and cigarettes, in case a missile is launched from Iran. And here’s one that’s way out there: a mysterious planet named Nibiru is hiding behind the sun ready to hurl itself toward the earth.

Sure, I worry about an occasional tornado or an ice storm hitting my part of the country, a place where cattle graze, wheat grows, oil flows, and churches spring up overnight. But ancient Mayan predictions, Kamikaze asteroids, Arabs in Akaru head gear landing in one of our corn fields, or zombies walking in my back door aren’t the issues keeping me awake. In the middle of a sleepless night, when I’m trolling Ebay, worry prevents me from buying gold plated jewelry from Italy instead of paying the water bill.

There’s a line I like from Matthew 6:34: So don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring its own worries. Today’s trouble is enough for today.

The biggest worry of all: Is there life after death? This eternal life question is the reason there are so many religions, each with its own set of roadmaps to help the faithful reach the hereafter, and faith leaders, and thanks to the feminist movement—leaderettes—to help guide the way. As secretary for the First United Methodist Church of Deweyville, I oft times find myself in the mini clergy role, an explainer and interpreter of the doctrine initiated by the United Methodist Council. Most of the time I am a traffic cop, standing in the middle of the intersection, blowing my whistle, and offering directions for the righteous path to salvation. I don’t make the redemption road rules; I merely attempt to keep road rage at bay by instructing my eccentric congregation not to drive the wrong way on a one way street. Occasionally, I plant a detour sign when the road gets bumpy or slow moving travelers create a bottle neck. As the beat cop, the first one in the line of defense before our stressed-out members reach the ordained spiritual guru, I am the one to whom they confess, the one on whose shoulders they lay their worries, the one they look to for a get out of jail free card. For the nervous caught in life’s headlights: I am the Deweyville Church Secretary.

CHAPTER ONE

What’s happening at ground level, Sean? I inquired from my perch in the balcony.

Uh…hold on, Mom. Over the walkie-talkie I heard yelling in Spanish, shuffling of feet, slamming of doors. Mom, it’s okay now. The groom was tryin’ to bail, but the best man stopped him. Berto looks like he’s gonna hurl though.

We better speed this up. Push the groom and his buddies into the sanctuary and give Gerié the signal to start the wedding march in two minutes.

I used my walkie-talkie to buzz Officer Ellie Knight who was bride-sitting the bride as well as the bride’s sister and the bride’s mother. Knight, is the mother of the bride ready? The wedding march starts in two minutes.

Jackie, Julie is ready, but her mother says she’s not making a public appearance. I do believe she’s stoned.

I don’t care if we have to carry Madge down the aisle on a stretcher. She wanted this wedding and she’ll have to muddle through. Get her on her feet, shove her out the door, and hand her over to Mr. Cunningham.

My job was to film the wedding. I had also been paid to plan it and orchestrate it because no wedding planner in town would take the job. But I was not going down to ground zero if I could keep from it. Diva drama was lurking in the aisles.

The bride, pregnant Julie Cunningham, ex-high school cheerleader with a locker room reputation, was about to marry Alberto Reynaldo Domingas, aka Berto the pool boy aka Berto the pizza delivery boy. Julie’s family is one of the more well-to-do in the community with ties to the Byrons and the Deweys, the founders of Deweyville. The condition of the bride, eight months and I lost track is the reason so few people were filling up the Cunningham side of the pews. Of course, I overheard Madge say something about the invitations getting misplaced. The left side of the aisle, the Hispanic side, was full to the brim. Every relative, friend, acquaintance, interested party, legal and illegal, were on hand to witness one of their own acquire son-in-law status in a rich American family and acquire a green card all in one day.

No one was more excited about the outcome of a little pool house dalliance with the pool boy than Julie who proudly bore the swollen weight of soon-to-be-mother. Madge Cunningham, on the other hand, wanted her daughter to have a husband, but she preferred the football quarterback—the paternity tests had not gone in his favor. Madge was forced to cancel her trip to Figi, build a nursery in the pool house, purchase RosettaStone for Spanish, plan a shot-gun wedding, and obtain a prescription for valium to calm her nerves. I know all this because I am the church secretary, the one to whom everyone in our congregation confesses their innermost secrets. In Julie’s case, nothing is a secret. Even Buzz the reporter for the Deweyville Daily was on hand to recount the scandalous wedding taking place in a prominent family.

Gerié, the organist for the First United Methodist Church of Deweyville and my best friend, started playing the wedding march. Ellie Knight booted Madge Cunningham out of the sacristy, and Mr. Cunningham practically dragged his tipsy wife up the aisle to her pew at the front of the church where she collapsed against her Great Aunt Georgette Dewey. Mr. C. then trotted back down the aisle where his two daughters waited. Julie’s sister Maddie, also known as Mrs. Morris K. Byron IV, the one who scaled the societal ladder up rather than down, preceded her up the aisle. Julie and Mr. Cunningham began the slow march toward the altar where a grim faced Berto was being held prisoner by his two frilly shirted buddies from the Pizza Pup.

The wedding was hyped as an interfaith, dueling ministerial event, with clergy representing the protestant perspective and a priest representing Catholic tradition. Incense hovered above the pews, and huge, plastic Madonnas were situated protectively on both sides of the altar along with arrangements of Julie’s favorite sunflowers whose big yellow and brown heads were already drooping. My impression of the protection by the Virgin Marys: a little too late.

Father Francisco Delgado of Immaculate Conception (Iglesia de Inmaculada Concepción) and our own Rev. Jake Brannigan stood at the ready with Bibles in hand and dubious expressions on their faces. All guests in attendance rose from their seats as the bride, dressed in an ivory bilious gown with flowing train and diaphanous veil, passed them by.

It’s not a great leap of the imagination to speculate what happened next. Halfway up the aisle, Julie stopped marching. Frozen to the spot, straddle legged on the red carpet, her face was contorted into confusion. She raised her wedding dress and stared at her feet. The carpet beneath her peau de soie pumps appeared saturated.

This moment of hesitancy I witnessed through the viewfinder of my video camera located in my balcony station. Not only would Julie have a video of her wedding but of her water breaking—multitasking is one of my abundant skills. I punched 911 on my cell phone, ordered an ambulance, and waited for the next event.

Knight’s walkie-talkie squawked at me. Jackie, I got twenty says the deal is off. The girl is gonna wimp out and Berto is gonna make for the exit.

I’ll take that bet. My twenty says she’ll go for it.

Julie remained statue still for a full seventy-five seconds. She was not a bright girl, but a calculating one. At one point she had tried to pin the pregnancy on our young choir director Mark Carpentar. Little did she know he was both gay and ethical.

No one stirred on either side of the aisles as Julie assessed her situation. The warning signal that brought her back to reality must have been the first jolt of labor pain because she gagged and doubled over. Madge Cunningham sunk lower in the pew while a crowd from the Hispanic side rushed to the bride. The mother of the groom, the grandmother of the groom, the sister of the groom, and a few other assorted aunts and cousins surrounded Julie. Through the audio I heard Spanish words of what I assumed were encouragement and advice. The grandmother put her wrinkled hand on Julie’s belly and nodded up and down. The women began to pantomime panting in unison, and Julie imitated their rapid breathing technique.

When the pain subsided, Julie took a cleansing breath, lifted her damp skirts, and scampered up the aisle leaving her flabbergasted father behind. She was still panting when she reached the sunflowers and the plastic virgins.

Berto, in the meantime, had inched his way toward the rear door behind the pulpit, away from his buddies who were staring slack jawed at the galloping bride. Valiant Gerié jumped up from the organ, caught Berto by the collar of his rented tux and hauled him to the altar.

Simultaneously and with considerable speed, Rev. Brannigan recited the English portion of the vows and Father Francisco chanted them in Latin. The priest made the sign of the cross over the couple and the reverend said, You may kiss the bride, whereupon Julie threw up on the groom’s rented shoes.

Good ole Alvarro Soto, head of our maintenance department, was way ahead of me in the planning department. He walked through the chancel door pushing a wheelchair. Alvarro handed the chair off to Berto, whereupon the moaning bride collapsed in the portable chair still grasping her small bouquet of sunflowers. Gerié, always a quick study, began to play the wedding recessional when a befuddled Berto gripped the handles of the wheelchair. Berto tried to push, but the wheels must have been locked. The wheelchair balked and toppled over pitching Julie on top of one of the virgin Marys. Julie and Mary rolled around the floor for awhile until Rev. Brannigan and Father Francisco successfully righted Julie into the wheelchair and Mary onto the altar. Berto unlocked the wheels and began scooting Julie down the aisle. Once he found momentum, Berto began a trot, then a sprint, and Gerié picked up the tempo of the recessional and Julie picked up the tempo of her labor pain wailing.

The front doors of the church flew open before Berto reached them, and two hunky paramedics entered with a gurney just as Julie vocalized an unholy yowl. Within five minutes, Julie had become Mrs. Alberto Reynaldo Domingas and was on her way to the hospital to become the mother of baby Domingas. The Cunninghams, along with Berto, volunteered to accompany Julie in the ambulance with sirens blaring—the faster they departed the scene of wedding mockery the better.

Stingy Knight handed over a measly ten bucks, commenting that Berto had actually attempted to bail and therefore I won only half the bet. As Knight was making her way to the sacristy, I spotted a suited Alvarro walking to the administrative offices behind the dais. Al was obviously in Berto’s circle of friends and family. "Al, wait up. Cómo está?"

"Cómo está, Señorita Jackie? Wedding she is fun, si?"

"Si, fun, right. Listen, Al, I thought Berto was fine with getting married. Why did he try to make a run for it today?" Curiosity is my other best friend.

"In first time he happy, pero no happy with Señora Madge to get him. He say she is madre de diablo. He say he like go back Mexico."

Well, I wouldn’t argue with him there.

I go adjust thermostat. I think he heat up here.

I think he heat up in here, too. Thanks, Al.

It was noon and another wedding was scheduled for two o’clock. I grabbed a sandwich, threw a towel over the soaked carpet, changed out the flowers on the altar, removed the bad virgin Mary and the good virgin Mary, and chatted up our new preacher Jake Brannigan. I changed into my turquoise matron of honor dress in the bathroom, tugging it down over my full hips, and proceeded to perform a little damage control.

There comes a time in a woman’s life when she is shocked by her reflected self—a two wedding Saturday was one of those times. The mirror told me I looked harried, definitely older than I felt, and I chocked it up to fluorescent lighting. My highlighted hair needed fluffing, the circles under my eyes needed concealing, my lips needed glossing, and my karma needed revitalizing. I slipped on high heels I rarely wear, heels that made me look almost five-feet-four, and pronounced myself done. After ordering everyone to their places, I clunked up to the balcony to prepare a second video.

At a quarter to two, I checked on the readiness. Everything good down there, Sean?

Yep, groom is good.

I radioed Gordy who was serving as my link to the bridal party and asked him the same question.

Gordy responded, Bride is ready. Rent-a-father is ready. Just need you down here to begin the processional.

Because I was serving as the videographer, the wedding planner, wedding overseer, as well as matron of honor, I was in overdrive, practically sprinting rather than my usual gliding down the stairs of the balcony where my video equipment was set for automatic show and tell. Breathless, the Kleenex rammed between my boobs soaked, I reached the bottom step and headed for the sacristy where the bride was waiting. Waiting patiently is not what brides do and this one was no exception, not because of the usual jitters, but because she didn’t want a church wedding in the first place. Keeping her from bolting out the front door was why Gordy, a man with buffed arms, was solicited to bride-sit. Gordy’s joke about the rent-a-father was a stretch; the one doing the honors wasn’t rented but borrowed. In fact, everyone in the wedding party was doing double duty.

Weddings and funerals are my crosses to bear. Catastrophe strikes at almost every event, and I never sleep the night before, worried about the outcome: will someone die while playing the organ, will someone drive a Honda through the front doors of the church, will the mother of the bride and the father of the groom enjoy conjugal relations in the choir room? I can now add: will the bride’s water break while strutting up the aisle?

Just stay calm, Jackie. What can happen with the chief of police, numerous cops, two preachers, and a Navy SEAL present in the blessed halls of the FUMC?

With the chief of police on my heels, we walked past Gordy standing guard at the door, and I opened the door to the sacristy. I witnessed Officer Ellie Knight, her leg up on a chair, stuffing something black into her leather boot. She eyeballed me and dropped her dress.

Knight and I have a brief but illustrious history where she has performed the roles of: the other woman, my bodyguard, and my cohort in a sting operation at the local casino. Are you packing, Knight?

Damn right, ma’am.

Are you going to start with the ma’am thing again?

Maybe. I don’t like you very much today. Talking me into a formal wedding was above and beyond the call.

Grant Howard, the chief of police, laughed, Knight, I agree with Jackie. The gun is overkill. Are you gonna shoot the groom if he bails?

Knight blushed, something I’ve never known her to do. Nah, that won’t happen, sir. The groom is more into this wedding stuff than I am. Here, take the gun until after the wedding. Knight handed her police issued revolver to the chief, her boss and borrowed father of the bride.

Yeah, Police Officer Ellie Knight was the blushing bride. Coaxing her into a floor length wedding dress was a challenge until she realized she could wear long, leather boots underneath. Wearing boots so she could carry a concealed weapon was something we had not discussed.

The size six white dress was simple with a lace bodice and lace sleeves and an A-line skirt. I quote Knight, I’m not wearing a big dress with a silly hoop, no frumpy train, and no girlie veil. And don’t go putting my hair in one of them up do-das. She did allow us to apply make-up and curl her medium length dark hair—a definite change from the ubiquitous pony tail. A seeded pearl headband and tiny pearl earrings transformed her into an honest to goodness bride.

I radioed Gerié and instructed him to begin the wedding march. Gordy, you can go sit with Rusty. Grant, I’ll walk out in front of you, and then you and Ellie will follow. And Ellie, walk slowly. You don’t have to rush the altar like Julie did. Okay, there’s our cue.

We marched out of the sacristy, up the aisle past pews filled with members of the Deweyville police department, Knight’s comrades. Also attending were members of the Religion Within Reach church where the groom, Robert James, better known around town as Gospel Bob, is pastor. On the left side were men and women in parade dress uniforms and on the right were a mix of purple suits, leopard print dresses, red hats with ostrich feathers, and teenage Bob followers in their Sunday-go-to-meeting Dockers and button downs.

From the time Knight made it known to me she was a Gospel Bob groupie to the moment she told me he had proposed, only one season passed. More opposites attract than a match made in heaven, the pairing of the no-nonsense white cop and the robust Black preacherman was a bit of a shocker to some in his congregation. Had they paid closer attention to his sermons on diversity and loving they neighbor, they shouldn’t have been surprised. Bob didn’t see color—he saw souls. Knight’s soul, and possibly her passion, must have been more spiritual than I previously surmised.

We reached the altar where Bob and his brother were waiting. The smile on Bob’s face couldn’t have grown wider when he got a gander of his bride in something other than a blue uniform with clinking hardware.

Gerié ceased playing the wedding march. Rev. Jonas Goddard from the Mount Olive Baptist Church, a friend of Bob’s, cleared his throat and asked, Who gives this woman in holy matrimony?

The chief responded, I do, and backed away to join his own wife, a wife I have often pretended didn’t exist when I was having nocturnal fantasies about the best looking man in the county.

The bride hissed in my ear, I’m grabbing Bob and making a run for it if this takes more than three minutes…ma’am, as she passed me her bouquet of wildflowers. I was hoping the attitude was softened when she turned to face her husband to be. Bob took her hands in his and her body relaxed.

Rev. Goddard announced, If there be any among you who object to this couple entering into holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace….

The front doors of the church flew open and new guests arrived—they were not on the guest list. A half-dozen scary military types swarmed the aisles with their bodies crouching, their heads pivoting on thick necks, their arms jerking back and forth.

Ah Shecum, I griped. Shock rendered my thought process off kilter. Potential horror movie titles revolved in my head: Revenge of the Bride’s Uninvited Relatives or Two Weddings and a Possible Funeral Part Deux or Jungle Snipers Beg for Sanctuary or Aryan Brothers Obstruct Bi-Racial Marriage.

Get a grip Jackie. This is real. My eyes roamed the crowd searching for Rusty. I found him, and his dark eyes locked onto mine warning, Don’t do anything of a Jackie nature.

The surprise party of six stomped their heavy combat boots down on the red carpet as they inched forward in well-rehearsed precision. Wearing helmets with clear face guards, Kevlar vests over black uniforms, and carrying semiautomatic weapons, they waved their guns over the crowd as if someone in a purple suit and red hat with an ostrich feather might jump up and shoot at them. A woman in a purple suit and red hat with an ostrich feather cried out, Oh, my Lord, and fainted. The team crouched farther.

Other than the fainting woman, the invited guests on Gospel Bob’s side were frozen to their spots, too frightened to move. The policeman on the right side of the aisle shifted their feet and darted their eyes to the chief for a signal. The chief hurried into the aisle and demanded to know, What’s going on here?

Another uninvited guest barreled through the door and tramped up the red carpet, strutted through the middle of the team, and bellowed, We’re federal agents. Who are you? Federal agents or not, they were acting like storm troopers from Star Wars.

I’m Chief of Police Grant Howard and I demand to know why you’ve interrupted official proceedings without my previous knowledge. Show me identification and a warrant.

You have no jurisdiction, Chief Howard, but I’ll comply with your request. I’m Special Agent Lloyd Rucker with the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms Administration He flashed a badge and a piece of paper. I’m here for Robert Elijah James.

Knight gasped and raised her dress, dug in her boot for her gun—it wasn’t there and that was a good thing. The closest storm trooper aimed his gun straight at her pearl headband. She froze. Bob placed a loving hand on Knight’s shoulder and whispered what I assumed were calming words.

I pulled my inhaler out of my floral bouquet and was lifting it to my mouth for a prophylactic hit of faux air, when the storm trooper switched his aim from Knight’s head to mine. A gun aimed at my head heightened my need for the hit of Albuterol. I displayed my purple thingy to him, and he nodded in the affirmative. I plopped down on the altar, tugged up the slipped bodice of my turquoise chiffon matron of honor dress, and blasted myself with two hits to ward off an attack of stress-induced asthma.

The organ blared to life. Guests’ heads and the storm trooper’s gun switched aim to Gerié whose balding head and erect back were to the crowd and shaking elbows were resting on the keys. The organ continued to play nothing recognizable.

You, get away from the organ, Rucker demanded.

With his hands hoisted in the air, Gerié rose from his bench and sashayed away from his beloved organ. While the attention was on Gerié with his pink scarf and pink socks, Gucci driving shoes, and sequined Elton John glasses, clicking and pecking commenced in the audience. Sean was one of the kids clicking pictures and pecking texts on his smart phone. The storm trooper switched his aim from Gerié’s head to Sean’s, and I failed to not do anything of a Jackie nature. I jumped off the steps of the altar, ran to the storm trooper, swatted him on the big yellow ATF lettered on his back, and ordered, Quit that. That’s my son, you idiot. The storm trooper switched his aim to my head again. The eyes inside his plastic shield were wide with amazement. I snarled in my protective mother bear voice, You do that again, and I’ll knock the holy Shecum out of you.

The woman in the purple suit and red hat with the ostrich feather must have revived because she whimpered, Lord have mercy, and fainted again.

Lloyd Rucker shouted, Men, at ease. Everyone, just calm down.

Bob lumbered down from the altar and announced, I’m Robert James. What’s this about?

Rucker whipped out handcuffs and declared, Robert James, you’re under arrest for suspicion of trafficking illegal substances.

What in God’s name are you talking about? Gospel Bob’s booming voice boomed.

And Chief Howard demanded to know why The ATF rather than the DEA was issuing a warrant for narcotics trafficking to which Special Agent Rucker responded brusquely and with innuendo, We have the power to investigate the smuggling of firearms and narcotics as well as human trafficking independently of the DEA. Rucker proceeded to read Bob his Miranda Rights while people in the church pews gawked in silent outrage.

Knight stepped down from the altar when Bob turned to her. Tears streaked her face, shock and bewilderment registered when their eyes made contact. Bob smiled, shook his head in the negative, and turned to Rucker with his hands outstretched and ready for the handcuffs Rucker was holding. Rucker, with Gospel Bob in tow, stomped out the front door. The six storm troopers backed out of the church, their guns still aimed at a bunch of innocent people out for a formal wedding with champagne reception and line dancing to follow.

A bride has a lot of irrational worries including the one where her spindly shoe heel breaks on the march up the aisle which causes her feet to get caught in the satin train which causes her body to twist and the lace veil to wind itself around her neck and then she falls backward causing the dangerously low front of her dress to malfunction and while she’s trying to conceal her boobs she accidentally pitches the bouquet to the wrong bridesmaid. Okay, that’s just one worry. Even in a brides’ worst nightmare, aliens do not invade the wedding and abscond with the groom. The video Knight intended was not the one I filmed—rather, it was a nightmare never imagined.

CHAPTER TWO

Two months have elapsed since a new headline-making story about Jackie McGrath or the First United Methodist Church has hit the Deweyville Daily. Buzz Bussard, cub reporter, has garnered more by-lines than a Pulitzer Prize winner in the past year, and most of them have referenced yours truly in the lead. Articles about the upcoming trials of Deweyville’s own Ivey Corben and Ed Marcus continue to update the local citizenry, and gratefully, I am mentioned only casually in the last couple of paragraphs. The legal proceedings for these former members of the country club set and elite of Deweyville society were moved to St. Louis where a more fair and unbiased jury pool could be selected. If you aren’t in the loop, let me avail you of the charges: Ivey was charged with murdering one of her country club friends, Shirley Delaney, by drowning her in the local reservoir. Shirley, the wife of a successful dentist, discovered that Ivey was laundering money through her tax exempt Women’s Shelter while operating her own mini-drug cartel. Ed Marcus, former businessman of the year and insurance salesman to most of D’ville’s