Chapter 11: The Church Hall

The grandmother called the church hall full by six that evening.

She did it with a phone tree, a Facebook post and a pan of lemon bars, and nobody had needed an invitation.

There were two hundred people on folding chairs.

There were more standing along the wall by the coffee urn, under a banner from the youth group.

I had seen most of those faces over folding tables for three years.

I stood at the front, in my navy dress, with my father in the second row holding Junie.

I had not brought notes.

The morning show was still playing on every phone in the room.

A woman near the back said it out loud, before I could start.

"Is it true you're not well, honey?"

"No," I said. "I'm well. I'm angry, and I haven't slept, and it's not the same thing."

A few people laughed, and it let some air into the room.

"I'm going to tell you something," I said. "I'm going to say it plainly, because every one of you earned that."

The room went still.

"The Pavilion fund was robbed."

Nobody breathed.

"Over two years, ten million dollars went out of it in ten transfers."

I made myself keep going.

"Our treasurer, Dean Gadsden, took it. I found his own books on his boat."

A man in the third row stood up.

"Our money?" he said. "The shrimp boil money?"

"Yes, sir. Yours."

"Where is it now?"

"It's back."

I let that sit for a breath.

"Every dollar of it is back in the account, and the wing is paid for."

"Who put it back?" someone called.

"Not me. I didn't know it was gone until this week."

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