Sex. Murder. Mystery(8)

Mike refused. He insisted whatever problems they had could be resolved.

“You can’t leave me. It will destroy our lives. We’ll find a way to work it out.”

Sharon, she would later assert, knew better.

At 12:30 A.M., June 1, 1969, Rochelle Fuller was born. A day later, Sharon and her beautiful dark-haired baby were settled at home alone—Mike was off at a Seventh-Day Adventist camp pitching tents for a revival. Stranded without a car,

Sharon called her lover to come over to hold his baby. She was playing by her own rules.

By mid-August, heat and the stress of new motherhood had stretched Sharon’s emotions to the snapping point once more. The fact that Rochelle was colicky only exacerbated the tensions in the household. There was no nursery in the duplex, so the baby’s bassinet was kept in Mike’s study. Though there was no other place for his daughter’s little bed, Mike was annoyed by the inconvenience. He complained whenever his wife set stacks of clean diapers on the corner of his oak-and-Formica desk. He had sermons to write, church business to conduct. She was not helping matters.

Sharon’s blood began to boil and she started to rant.

“You don’t want me. You don’t want the baby! All you want is somebody that can be a minister’s wife. I wanted you to get me an apartment. I wanted out!”

Her husband sat calmly. His unflagging composure inflamed the situation.

So Sharon stabbed him with words. It was all she could do.

“You don’t have to worry,” she yelled. “I’m going to find a way to get out of your life! Rochelle is not yours anyway!”

Mike was outraged as any man would be. Even so, he betrayed little emotion. He sat on the edge of the bed. He just wanted the facts. He told Sharon, that the only way they’d be able to salvage their marriage was for her to come completely clean.

“You have an hour to tell me who this is or I’ll throw you out of the house and you’ll never see your baby again.” His words were flat, cold. “She doesn’t need a slut for a mother.”

As the clock ticked away the hour of the ultimatum, Sharon finally gave up her lover’s name.

“Where does he live?” Mike asked, his voice still calm.

“All you said I had to do was give you a name! You find out where he lives!”

The preacher made a beeline for the telephone book to retrieve the man’s address. Inside of two minutes, he was gone on his way to do battle with the man his wife claimed was the father of his firstborn daughter.

Sharon frantically dialed the number of a mutual friend and begged the man to stop her husband from instigating a dangerous confrontation. A fight would cause a scandal that would taint the ministry. Mike might do something foolish; something dangerous. The friend, a man from the church who knew her secret, agreed. When he arrived at Sharon’s lover’s address, he talked the irate pastor into leaving without incident.

For the good of everyone involved.

As if her bitterness had not been lessened by the years, Sharon seethed with defiance in her recollection of that terrible night in Ohio. She was trying to liberate herself from the oppression of a husband and a religion. Moreover, she was attempting to free herself from her own guilt. Her own lies. Mike Fuller was a perfect target.

“It was basically… like all right, I’ve had enough of you. You have given me enough digs. You have put me down long enough. This is going to be the ultimate blow, buddy. She’s not even yours.”





Chapter 3

ONE LOOK AND IT WAS SELF-EVIDENT. SHARON Lynn Fuller was more a bouquet of long-stemmed roses than a shrinking violet. She was one of those women who left an unforgettable impression wherever she turned up. At the grocery, the filling station and especially at the church office, she was a lady who could not easily be ignored. Certainly none of the Coloradans who met her could say she wasn’t friendly. None could say she was introverted or too shy for the role of minister’s wife. Far from it. She was helpful and polite, warm and eager to please. Nonetheless she didn’t quite fit in. Most figured her sense of style was some kind of a big-city look from back east. And while they tried not to judge her for how she looked, it wasn’t always easy.

Sharon’s dresses were often skintight. Her figure was striking and every bit of it showed. Her tops were fitted in such a way that the shape and size of her breasts were not left to anyone’s imagination. Often the movement beneath the fabric and the pencil poke points of her nipples revealed the absence of a bra. In a religion that did not condone adornment, makeup, jewelry or overt sexuality, Sharon managed to push her wardrobe to the very edge of propriety. This particular minister’s wife broke the mold with a sledgehammer.