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“Reverend Gimble?” Lucy asked of the dignified looking man who answered the door.

“Yes, that’s me,” he replied. “Please, come in. It’s cold out there today.”

Lucy and Melissa entered the modest rectory being used as the minister’s home. They showed him their credentials. While following the minister into the living room, Melissa looked around. There were a dozen photos of Gimble with a woman and three children.

“Is Mrs. Gimble here?” Melissa asked.

“I’m afraid my wife passed away three years ago, cancer,” he answered.

“Oh, I’m sorry for your loss,” Melissa sincerely said. It was then she noticed the Reverend Gimble was dressed in jeans, a white T shirt, a pullover burgundy V-neck sweater, socks and slippers. Gimble, noticed the curious look on Melissa’s face, smiled and said, “Yes, we don’t always wear the collar.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” Melissa replied.

“Please, have a seat,” he said.

They did so, then Lucy got right to the point. “The message we received was something about the Priscilla Powell murder. You may have something?”

“Well, yes, maybe,” Gimble replied. “I’ve been mulling this over since her funeral. I was the one who presided over the service.”

“Okay,” Lucy said.

“I’ve decided to let you decide if it means anything or not. After the service at the gravesite, my goodness, where are my manners.

“Would you like some coffee? It’s cold out there,” Gimble said.

Sensing Melissa was about to say yes. Lucy quickly said, “No, thank you, Reverend. We’re fine.”

“At the gravesite…” Melissa said .

“Oh, yes. After the service at the gravesite, while everyone was leaving, I overheard Priscilla’s husband and…” he hesitated here knowing Robbie was born male. “Priscilla’s, um…”

“Trans daughter,” Lucy said.

“Yes, I suppose. Anyway, I overheard them talking. Apparently, her husband, Blake is going to come into several million dollars of insurance money. Which, of course is none of my business and normally I would think nothing of it.”

Come on, pal, get on with it, Lucy thought.

“Then I heard the trans daughter Robbie say, and I’ll try to remember verbatim, ‘You’re gonna be rich, Dad. Maybe we should have killed her years ago.’ I was only a few feet away talking to a few attendees when I heard this. I looked at Blake, he was looking at me, then he took Robbie’s arm and well, hustled themselves off.

“Now, to be honest, I thought about it and I don’t really believe they murdered Priscilla. I think Robbie was making a joke.”

“You’re probably right but we still have to look into it. Allow me a question. Is there anything in the priest-parishioner privilege that would prevent you from testifying about this?” Lucy asked.

“I’ve thought about that, too. No, I don’t believe so. I was not acting in my capacity of a minister. But then, I’m not a lawyer,” Gimble answered.

“Insurance policies? Did they say how much?” Melissa asked.

“There’s a key man policy where Priscilla was employed. I’m not sure about others. There may have been something they had themselves. I did not hear the exact amount,” Gimble replied.

“Is there anything else you would like to tell us?” Melissa asked.

“No, no, that’s all. I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

“We’ll check it out, Reverend. You’re probably right. Robbie was probably joking. Here’s my card…”

“And mine,” Lucy said. “If you think of anything else, please call. ”

“Nosy old bastard. I’m surprised he didn’t ask if there would be a reward,” Melissa said as they drove away.

Lucy, who was driving, laughed, looked at her partner and said, “That’s a pretty cynical thing to say. Although probably true.”

“What do you think?” Melissa asked.

“I think we should make a stop at Crystal Cosmetics and find out about this key man insurance policy,” Lucy said.

“Agreed.”

Crystal Cosmetics was a medium sized company located in Crystal, Minnesota, a suburb west of Minneapolis, housed in a newly built two-story building. Fifteen years old, it had grown as the result of a unique fragrance developed by a chemist who had since died. His widow, now a fifty-four-year-old rich cougar was having the envious time of her life, using and discarding younger men that kept her on the society pages.

Once inside, the two detectives were immediately impressed with the lobby. Granite, marble and plant life. All it needed were a few lions, tigers and bears roaming around or swimming in the waterfall filled pool.

There was the stereotypical hot chick receptionist behind a five by ten foot granite wall to greet them.

“Hi,” Melissa politely said to her, “We’re here to see Ray Davies.”

Davies was the CEO. Melissa had found him on her phone while en route.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

Melissa and Lucy looked at each other. Melissa asked, “Why do we always forget that?”

They both looked at the Minnesota blonde, held up their badges while Lucy said, “Because we are homicide detectives, we don’t make appointments.”

“I’ll see if he’s in,” she quickly replied.

“Thank you,” Lucy said.

“You know what?” Melissa said to Lucy. “I really like doing that.”

“Me too,” Lucy replied and wiggled her eyebrows .

“I’ll tell them,” the receptionist said into her headset.

“Someone will be right out,” she told the detectives.

“And it always works,” Lucy said.

“Tell me something, Susan,” Melissa said after seeing her name plate. “What was it, the word detective or homicide?”

“Both together. This must be about Priscilla?” Susan asked.

“Just between us girls, what was she like?” Melissa asked.

Susan looked around to make sure no one could overhear her then said, “Just between us? She had a reserved parking spot for her jet-powered broom.”

“Ouch,” Melissa said.

To their right they saw a well-dressed, middle-aged woman coming down the stairs.

“That’s Beth, Ray’s executive assistant. She’s very nice and good at her job.”

“Thank you,” Lucy told Beth when she opened Davies’ office door for them.

“Have a seat, what can I do for you?” Davies stood, pointed at the chairs and asked.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Melissa said. “We’re here to find out about your key man life insurance on Priscilla Powell.”

“We’re investigating her death,” Lucy told him.

“Ah, well, I’m not sure what I can legally tell you. Do you have a subpoena or court order? I suppose I could call our lawyer,” Davies said.

“I tell you what, no, we don’t have a subpoena. We could get one if that becomes necessary and if we need a copy of it. Can you explain how they work, these policies without getting into specifics of Priscilla’s?”

“Sure, yeah, I can do that. They’re for high ranking management personnel,” Davies said.

“Priscilla was an executive vice president,” Melissa said.

“And she owned a piece of the company. We insured her life primarily to give us money to search for a replacement. But, in Priscilla’s case, the money will be paid to the business and we will pay off the family, Priscilla’s heirs, to redeem her stock. Buy back her shares. ”

“So, this will become part of her estate,” Melissa said.

“Exactly. To be distributed through her Will,” Davies said.

“Did she have a Will?” Lucy asked.

Davies hesitated and looked around deciding whether or not to answer that question.

“Yes,” he finally decided, “We made sure she did. I don’t know what’s in it and we do not have a copy. But she assured us she had one.”

“What happens if the family, or whoever her heirs are, decide the life insurance amount is not enough? That they believe her shares are worth more?” Melissa asked.

“Then we have a problem. Our stock is not publicly traded so there is no market value. We could end up in court. I have been told by our CPA firm; the amount is reasonable and will be accepted. But, you’re right, the heirs could dispute it.”

“Do you know who has a copy of her Will?” Lucy asked.

“Even if I did, I couldn’t tell you. That would probably be covered by attorney-client privilege.”

“Anything else,” Lucy asked Melissa.

“No, for now. Thank you for seeing us. You’ve been helpful,” Melissa said.

Davies stood to escort them out. On the way to the door he asked, “So, you think she was murdered.”

“Yes, without giving anything away, we’re certain of it,” Lucy replied.

“Any suspects you want to tell us about?” Melissa asked.

“No, none that I know of,”

With the door closed and Davies back at his desk, he thought, you could look at the company directory. It’s full of suspects.

Once back in their car, Melissa asked, “Now what?”

“I think our suspects are the same two we had from the beginning,” Lucy answered.

“Who’s to gain? It always comes down to, who’s to gain?” Melissa said .

Dr. Walter Miller was late. He had a meeting, a semi-monthly meeting, with his financial advisor. Miller, being bigoted toward all types of people, had used Seymour Chesnick, a devout Jew, for his personal advisor. Relying on his bigotry, Miller had always insisted on a Jew money manager. Seymour knew it too. Being the better man, Seymour simply shrugged it off.

Dr. Miller was half an hour late. His third trans surgery, a female to male teenage girl, had been more complicated than normal. No matter, he would bill the parents’ insurance for at least another ten grand.

He was leaving the university hospital and driving to downtown Minneapolis. On his way to meet with Seymour, all he thought about was how lucrative his surgical skills had become. The transgender affirmation explosion, legitimate or not, was making him rich. Miller was scheduling as many as ten per week. They were coming from all over America and even some from Britain and Europe. How was it his problem if the Brits and Europeans were scaling back on the procedure? Miller was a surgeon, not an ethicist.

The good doctor parked his new Jaguar PACE P-450 in the underground garage. At this time of the night there were only a few cars scattered about. Miller found an open spot ten feet from the elevator. Having called to let Seymour know he was running late; Seymour would be waiting.

Forty minutes later, having finished the meeting, Miller rode the elevator alone into the garage. His mind, and accompanying smile, were on one thing. Last year Seymour had earned a net of twelve-point three percent for his money. This year, even though it was barely February, it was shaping up to be even better. The best part was Seymour’s aggressiveness at tax avoidance. Miller was delighted not to pay his fair share of taxes, whatever that was.

The elevator door opened, Miller, his mind totally preoccupied, turned left toward the shiny, black Jaguar. When he stepped off the elevator, a dark figure wearing a black, rain poncho and soft, rubber-soled shoes, went after him. Having removed the bulb from the light above Miller’s car, they were in the dark, almost invisible.

“Owen,” the caller who got Owen Jefferson out of bed before six said. “It’s Reggie. We got another one.”

“Shit,” Jefferson muttered.

“What?” his wife rolled over, looked at her husband and asked.

Jefferson held up an index finger to indicate he wanted a minute to listen.

“We’re at the Fremont Building, in the underground garage. Dr. Forner is here and says it looks like the claw hammer again. I figured you’d want to know.”

“Yeah, I do. I’ll be along,” Jefferson said then ended the call.

“What?” he heard her ask again.

“We got another one,” Jefferson said. “Go back to sleep.”

“Get in the shower,” she replied. “I’ll get some breakfast going for you. You’re in for a long day.”