Ashes to Ashley: A Novel

By Robert E. Shaw

Interim Pastor Ashley Greeley arrives as the ashes from the Trinity Church fire settle believing he need only help them grieve losing their former pastor. Slowly he learns that several members were ready to fire his predecessor and that Pastor Brogan may have earned his fate; divine punishment abetted by a disgruntled church member. Detective Joan Campbell uses her investigation of the fire to develop a close working relationship with Ashley; a relationship which both enjoy despite Pastor Greeley's recognition of the potential conflict of interest. Greeley's continuing ministry with prostitutes fans the fires of discord prompting new threats, this time with Ashley atop the pyre.

Pastor Greeley narrates this mystery while introducing changes to prepare for the next “permanent” pastor at the Trinity Church. He brings emotional baggage from his earlier ministries, and despite his hopes that certain characters will fade with the passing of time, he collects more baggage.

Pastor Greeley adds a Protestant perspective to a genre began by Rabbi Small (Harry Kemelman) and expanded by Father Dowling (Ralph McInerny). Like his fictional mentors, Pastor Greeley helps his parishioners recognize grace in their lives. But he has much to learn about forgiving connections between details that form a fuse touching the arsonist's match.

The author provides discussion questions those interested in further exploration of the issues raised by this narrative.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert E. Shaw
• Release date: Apr 29, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476102603

Robert E. Shaw

After growing up in New Jersey and graduating from college in eastern Pennsylvania, the US Navy sent Robert Shaw to live in Rhode Island, Florida, upstate New York, Connecticut, and Washington State. As a Sonar Systems Engineer he returned to upstate New York and later furthered that career in Indiana. In his third career with a non-profit organization he lived in Kentucky, western Pennsylvania, Indiana, and Florida. The characters in his novels reflect the diverse people he met in these diverse careers and diverse locations.In retirement he travels full-time in a Recreational Vehicle visiting different states while writing this story.He has numerous technical publications to his credit including technical proposals, system specifications, operator’s manuals, engineering reports, and presentations. Nearly all of them were classified at various levels. None of which he kept at other than in a secured facility. He likens proposals writing to good fiction: each must stack up enough solid evidence for a reader to easily climb before stepping out onto ethereal words to believe truths revealed aloft.

Book preview

Ashes to Ashley: A Novel

Cover image: Pastor Greeley and Detective Campbell consider the old Clarington Church and the fire.

By Robert E. Shaw

Chapter 1: Ashley’s Interview

An ungodly stench drifted up from the ruins of the fire, reaching my nose even before I opened my car door. I had anticipated my stomach knotting on seeing the charred and partially collapsed granite walls where the church had once stood and where my colleague, the Reverend Dave Brogan, had last been seen, but I was not prepared for the bile rising in my throat from the scent of the brown haze that drifted from the ruins.

Nearly three weeks had elapsed since Trinity Presbyterian Church had burned nearly to the ground. More than sufficient time, I had thought, for the fire to be fully extinguished and for the fumes to have cleared. Instead, decaying debris added its acrid odors to three thin gray spirals rising from the jumbles of stone blocks.

I had arrived in Clarington hours before my interview, hoping to see the small town as a typical visitor might see it, before people ignored me for my title. I had navigated my car to Main Street and into the first open parking space, which happened to be directly in front of the ruins of the old church.

Would you be the Reverend Ashley Greeley? a large, gray-haired man said, squinting at me as I shut the car door behind me.

Yes, but how did you know? I blinked, immediately glancing down my jacket for a name tag lingering from some meeting. As he stepped toward me I scanned his face and saw the sun-toughened skin of a man who had not spent his career behind a desk.

I’ve been looking at your file all afternoon, preparing to grill you over dinner tonight. So when I saw that your car’s from the same place as this, - he shook several sheets of paper in his hand - "I put two and two together.

I suppose you wanted to see what’s left of our old church. Hardly a day goes by that someone don’t stop and stare at it. He swept his free hand toward the ruins, rolling his head from side to side.

I am very sorry about your tragic loss, I said, frowning and nodding thoughtfully. A glance at the rear of my car revealed the hole in my camouflage, a bumper sticker proclaiming: Follow me to Mountain View Church.

Used to be a grand church standing here, the man was saying, spreading his arms out over the ruins. Atop this hill, you could see it from nearly anywhere in the county. But now it’s mostly ashes. He hung his head, inhaled deeply, and sighed.

I swallowed hard to avoid throwing up. How he could manage a deep breath with this stench was beyond my imagination.

Three stairs led from the street toward two fire-blackened columns, which now framed blue sky instead of wooden doors. Guided by old photographs, which the search committee had sent to me, my imagination cleaned and rebuilt the sooty, partially collapsed wall before me, restoring it to sparkling granite, and the columns to glistening white limestone. The blackened blobs on the limestone windowsills became the lead between the pieces of stained glass, decorating each of the windows.

Then, looking between the blackened limestone columns that no longer supported carefully lacquered oak doors, I peered into the bowels of the church. Once rows of lovingly polished wooden pews had flanked a long aisle; now ashes swirled in the wind below where the floor should have been. Once glistening granite had soared high above the street to a peaked roof and tower; now blackened walls staggered to remain erect. Once there had been a social hall and classrooms down a flight of stairs from the front foyer; now the back third of the building had been thoroughly demolished and scraped flush with a parking lot down the hill and behind the ruins.

A demolition crew steadily lifted blackened stone blocks from the remaining walls and sorted the rubble into various piles, stacking the smoke-stained granite neatly. A small bulldozer plowed and heaped ashes and debris into a dump truck that waited patiently to haul the remains away for burial.

Seeking a better view, I risked soiling my gray slacks and blue blazer and leaned against the yellow tape surrounding the ruins. I longed to loosen my tie as the sun quickly warmed what had started as a cool June day. But as this excursion had now become part of my job interview, I decided maintaining my professional image was more important than momentary comfort and merely unbuttoned my blazer.

The man standing alongside me folded his sheaf of papers and stuffed it into a rear pocket of his dungarees. His sensible tan short-sleeve knit shirt was embroidered in green letters with Norman’s Hardware Store and the name Bill.

They’re working in what used to be the basement, Bill said, outlining with his finger where the walls of the old church had once stood. After the fire, everything ended up in the basement. It was an awful hot fire. It even destroyed the cement between the granite blocks, causing our bell tower to collapse. His hands rose as if molding the tower, then dropping it into the pit. The fire really embarrassed the town. People are laughing at our police department because its station is almost next door.

I flinched backward as his finger shot past me, beyond the hardware store, down the street, toward a dull brick building bearing the title: City of Clarington.

The whole downtown would have gone up if Harry Rawls hadn’t sounded the alarm.

My eyes followed Bill’s arm as it swung out over the ruins toward a barn on a distant hillside surrounded by fields green with new crops.

When he went out to milk his cows, flames were shooting out our bell tower like sparks from a roman candle. And worse, the firehouse is just three blocks away, Bill said – his fingers counting the blocks to the fire station, pausing briefly first at the stop sign just beyond the town hall, then twice at stop signs I could not see as his finger drove left. But we had to wait for an engine from Fulton, – his outstretched arm arced upward, then south drawing my eyes beyond the next hill – ’cause we didn’t have a man sober enough to even run a hose up the street. The town picnic had been the day before and the fire company was pouring beer ’til long after I went home at midnight. He patted his belly and smiled. And once Fulton’s engine got here, they mostly sprayed water at my place and them buildings across the street. He waggled his fingers at each of the buildings like water spraying from a loose hose. Our old church was nearly burnt out before it got any water. He shook his head and frowned. It was a rough way for it to end, but insurance will pay us most of what we would’ve sold it for.

What about Pastor Brogan? I asked.

He was last seen up in his study around midnight. With his finger, Bill pointed to where the tower had once extended upward into the blue sky. About four hours before Harry sounded the alarm was the last anyone had seen him. Haven’t found him in the ruins neither. Don’t much matter to me. Either he’s standing before his Maker or he ran away. Either way we need us a new preacher. Some of us decided we needed a new preacher before the fire. But that don’t matter much now do it?

Bill smiled, jutting his jaw at me. His tight-lipped grin drove a chill up my spine.

Immediately, he turned away and jerked his head for me to follow him down what had once been an alley between the hardware store and the church.

The bile in my stomach churned as a fresh dose of the malodorous fumes filled my nose.

We stopped where the church wall had collapsed, giving us a good view inside the ruins.

Does the buyer still want the property? I asked, thinking the stench alone would cause a sane person to reconsider.

Nope. He’s got some land now a few miles north of town where he’s going to build from scratch. Bill pointed up the road far beyond the town hall. But he’s buying our charred granite and bricks. Wants them for decoration I hear. Bill shook his head. I wish the insurance company would have just pushed the walls in and covered everything with dirt, his arms flailed in the air simulating the work of an imaginary bulldozer, rather than that – that pimp getting our blocks. Excuse me, pastor. There just ain’t no good words for the likes of Tim Draven!

I stiffened reflexively on seeing his fist clench and face redden, as anger swelled in his voice. Although I figured Bill was over three decades of wear and tear beyond my thirty-three years, he looked fit enough to defend himself against many men half his age. Furthermore, Bill stood a few inches taller and a few inches broader than my slender frame. Although his belly lapped over his belt, I suspected he could lift his fair share and then some.

Is this Draven a local person? I asked, hoping he was not a member of the Trinity Church.

Thank God, no! He runs a smutty club over in Springfield and one or two other joints around about. And now he’s going to build one north of town. At least it ain’t going to be here in our town and especially not in our old church. Someone ought to stop him from getting our granite blocks. I’d do it myself, but I’ve done enough already to drive him out of town.

With Bill’s face still flushed with anger, I decided not to ask how he had contributed to driving Draven out of town.

Amid the men of the demolition crew in their gray-and black-stained coveralls, a woman stood wearing crisply ironed dark blue overalls. Both sides of her white hard hat bore the word Police. The officer’s broad shoulders and firm chest suggested a man, but the shape of her hips and the tip of a blond pony tail escaping from under her hard hat told otherwise, hinting that an armored vest veiled her figure.

Bill and I watched her direct the equipment operators as they removed large pieces of debris before she ran a small rake through the freshly exposed ashes. Once, we saw her scoop up an item and drop it into a plastic bag.

Bill pointed at the police officer and said, That’s Joan Campbell. She’s a member of our church. She only comes now and then. I know she’s busy an occasional Sunday or two each month being our detective, but don’t expect to see her except for Christmas and Easter. I suppose it’s her generation. My son George, our police chief, isn’t much better. Do you have any ideas how we can get 'em to come more often?

Some, I said, hoping he would not press me for details before I knew more about this congregation.

The police officer turned toward us.

Joan! Bill called, gesturing for her to come closer.

Although she tipped her head up toward us, her hard hat hid her face, except for a narrow chin and a pleasant smile. I rubbed the third finger of my left hand with my thumb, a habit I had developed while I had briefly worn a ring there, and wondered when I might start dating again.

When she came near, Bill said, Let me introduce you to Reverend Ashley Greeley. He’s going to be our pastor until we can find someone permanent.

Let's not jump the gun, I said, raising my hand gesturing for Bill to slow down. Even if the rest of the search committee agrees, the elders on your Board, and the elders and ministers at Presbytery still get to vote. And just because I came to an interview does not mean I will accept an offer, if your Board chooses to make one. Given Bill’s earlier remarks about Brogan, I said nothing about the search committee only being authorized by the Presbytery to find someone to provide support the congregation until Brogan is found.

He’s just being modest, Joan. You should see this résumé! Bill said, pulling the folded sheaf of papers from his back pocket and waiving it in the air. I'm sure everyone else will agree to hire him. And who would not leap at being the first pastor in our new church? We’ll finally dedicate it the same Sunday he starts.

I rolled my eyes heavenward and sighed. I looked at Detective Campbell and said: Is there anything I should know? About the fire I mean.

Bill interrupted, saying, You won’t have to worry about a fire in our new church. We’ve got sprinklers in every room; and, after the fire, the building committee installed a state-of-the-art fire and security system to boot. You can’t so much as light a candle any place except in the sanctuary or the social hall. And I’d bet if you lit more than two in either of those rooms, the alarm would go off!

The detective nodded.

It’s taken weeks to carefully move the granite blocks that covered the site after the walls collapsed, she said. We’re working slowly, so we won’t disturb any evidence. Plus, taking down the remaining walls, so no one gets hurt, slows us even more. So we’re only just now getting to where I think the fire started; – the corner where Brogan was last seen praying. I've been here at least a couple of hours every day since the fire looking for clues of arson or faulty wiring. … And for human remains.

I could see her chin nod slowly, as if thinking deep thoughts.

After a long silence, she said with a deep frown: We found his keys this morning. Then with a half frown she said: But he often misplaced his keys.

Detective! Over here! A workman yelled.

Bill and I remained behind the yellow police tape while Detective Campbell strode hastily across the floor toward what had once been the front of the church. The workers had a chunk of mangled rusty metal hanging by a chain from the bucket of their tractor.

Bill shook his head and said, I warned Brogan about burning candles in our church more than once. He was a fire waiting to happen. Soon after he came here, he was waving his arms over the communion table when his robe caught fire from a candle. Bill waved his arms, simulating what I recognized as breaking the bread and pouring the wine for communion. Cost us a pretty penny to replace it.

I nodded pensively.

And once, during a wedding rehearsal, he knocked over a candle stand, – I jumped to avoid his arms – igniting a silk flower arrangement that had been in our church for nearly fifty years. My money’s on him starting the fire by knocking over one of those candles people had lit or by dropping his oil lamp. And with no one around to put out the fire, he went up with it. He started to point upwards, then pointing among the ashes said, Some of us suspect he’s down there.

Do you have any idea why Detective Campbell could not rule out Pastor Brogan escaping the fire? I asked.

Bill sighed, then said, It’s because no one wants to admit he died in a building everyone knew was a firetrap and because some want to believe he started the fire and because no one wants to think about the enemies he made. Well let’s just say a few people hoped Brogan shared their hatred of Draven getting our building. And then he ran away rather than face arson charges. They think we might even find a few of his things, like his keys, so people will think he’s dead. Then if everyone thinks he’s dead, his widow gets his insurance money, but if he’s in jail, she’d get stuck with his legal fees. Well that’s the reasoning behind saying he’d run away. But I know Brogan. He didn’t care a whit about who we sold the building to as long as they had big bucks. And I doubt he understood the consequences of burning the building and running away. And a few of us thought he was in cahoots with Draven. And some of his enemies … Well, it’s like this. People in these parts aren’t known for their patience with hypocrites.

I gave Bill a quizzical look and he said, Let’s say he ‘accidentally’ – he made quotation marks in the air with his fingers – started the fire, assuming he wanted to keep our building from Draven. If he had lived to tell about it, he would have blabbed to anyone who would listen to him. We’ve lost a bunch of long-standing members because he blabbed something he wasn’t supposed to. And him trying to stay awake all night, by himself, with them prayer candles and that oil lamp of his burning in that small room … – he pointed across the ruins and upward toward where the church tower had once stood but only sky remained. Well, he was an accident waiting to happen.

He frowned and looked at his shoes with his arms hanging loosely by his sides. After a long silence, he said, I'm just sorry for his wife and kid.

Perhaps it was the stench of the fire that made me uncomfortable, and not Bill. Nonetheless, I allowed him as much time as he wanted to reflect silently about Dave Brogan’s death.

He lifted his head, looked me hard in the eye, and said, I don’t want you leaving here thinking everyone wanted Brogan dead. He did some good. In the seven years he's been here, church attendance has more than doubled. I don’t like a lot of the people he picked to lead committees and such – too many women who’ll do whatever he wanted – but we’re raising a ton of money and doing a lot of good for this town. A lot of traditional churches around here can barely pay the minimum. Them independent churches don’t even pay that much. But thanks to Brogan, we can afford to give our pastor about what school teachers make.

I nodded. I had seen their financial statements. Beginning school teachers would earn about what Dave had received. I continued nodding as I reminded myself of intangible benefits beyond salary that came with the advanced degrees expected of pastors.

Several long minutes later, Detective Campbell plodded back to us as the workers left the site.

She said: When they lifted the old bell out of the ashes, they found a shoe with pieces of bone protruding. The bell probably fell early in the fire, when the tower roof blew out. I’m guessing that when the bell fell it must have trapped and protected his foot.

I frowned, rocking my head from side to side, then said, At least we will have something to bury. As gruesome as this is, it will eventually bring closure. Would you like to pray with me?

Pray for us, Pastor, Bill said. And pray for his widow and for his daughter. But Brogan got what he deserved.

Detective Campbell pressed her lips into a thin horizontal line and nodded her chin more in agreement with Bill than in reverence.

In that moment, I sensed I would be their pastor, despite the knot in my belly that told me I should run away.

Chapter 2: Mountain View Church

After my interview, I took a circuitous route back to my residence in Mountain View. I stopped in Springfield and met a clergy friend. We strolled through a museum, took in an opera, and savored a first-class dinner.

My friend laughed at the idea of me serving a country church. Surely God had other plans for you, she said, "and for Clarington’s search committee. They will never understand your sermon illustrations from La Bohème. I am certain Clarington’s bucolic setting would be wonderful for cows, but for you?"

Yes, I agreed, moving from the suburbs out to a pasture would be the wrong direction. I can wait for the right church. And they will have to wait for the right pastor. I still have at least a few months at the Mountain View while their committee continues searching for a long-term pastor. Even when they do find a candidate to present to the congregation, I should have at least a month and more likely two to find another church seeking an interim pastor. God has something special planned for me. I know it.

But a few days later, when I returned to Mountain View and I drove past the storefront where Jimmy Chimera and his supporters were starting a church, I shuddered recalling the evil spirit that had split the Mountain View congregation following Chimera’s termination as youth leader. The strife they and I had suffered made dealing with Dave’s death look like the country vacation that I had earned and needed.

The stack of mail awaiting me at the manse included a hand-addressed note. Although it lacked a return address, I knew the sender by her serpentine script. I considered tossing it unopened into the trash. But curiosity got the better of me and I opened it. The letter was short and unfortunately sweet.

I tore and crumpled the letter and buried it and its envelope among the kitchen garbage. The only thing good about it was that it lacked a return address, so I could continue deluding myself that I could not possibly respond to Candice’s letters. I wandered from room to room looking for something to take my mind off of her before I smashed something, but every place I looked reminded me of events leading to our divorce. I hoped there would indeed be a day when I could forgive her, but it had not yet come. Not even close.

Within two hours of my arriving home, two reminders of my time in Mountain View had undone a week of relaxation. When the chair of the Mountain View Church’s search committee called me the next morning to tell me they had selected a candidate to present to their congregation and become their next pastor, I started packing my bags to leave. I called everyone I knew and asked about possible interim ministry positions in cities and suburbs. I even called the community college in Springfield about teaching Greek, even part-time. No one actually said no, but the manager of a restaurant where I once had waited tables told me to keep my options open.

Two days later, when the clerk of the Trinity Church Board called to ask if I would serve as their interim pastor, I accepted without a moment’s hesitation. Compared to the conflict that two years earlier had ripped the Mountain View Church apart, helping this small country church deal with the grief of losing Dave Brogan looked like a walk in the park. I believed everyone who had told me that the Clarington fire had been an accident. According to the mission study Brogan had written for them, Trinity Church appeared to know where it had been, who it was, and where it was going. The committee that had interviewed me had mentioned members who had returned since the fire. Some had left due to disagreements related to moving to the new building and others due to disagreements with Dave Brogan.

Ending my job search offered an extra enticement: Quickly leaving painful reminders of Candice behind.

A year of rest would be good for me as well. Then I would be ready to tackle whatever special task God is planning for me at some larger, city church.

Chapter 3: Clarington

Six weeks after my interview at Clarington, on the morning of the first day in August, a Monday, with the help of several members of the Mountain View Church, I loaded my furniture and boxes into a rented truck and drove six noisy hours to Clarington. I was greeted there by a few members of Trinity Church who helped me move into the quaint house with the white clapboard siding. The manse was nestled into the hill below where their old church had stood only two months before.

While not-so-subtly inspecting