Pat nodded but didn't say anything.
"That's me. The ten stands for ten thousand dollars, and the next ten means I paid back every cent. I don't know where he got it. I never asked. But I swear he saved my life that day." Picking up the keychain, she asked, "Do you mind ... could I have this? To remind me of Joe?"
"Of course," Pat agreed. "That was some story. Thanks for sharing it with me. Do you mind if I share it with Joe's sisters? I'm sure they'd love to hear it."
"No, of course not," Sarah said, rising.
"Before you go," Pat said, putting out a hand to stop her, "would you look at the list again? What do you think the other numbers mean?"
Sarah quickly glanced one more time at the torn paper. "Well, if this one is me, then I suppose the other numbers might be people who owed him money, too. Looks like they still owe him, doesn't it?"
Later that day, Pat was surprised by an insistent ringing of her doorbell. She opened the door and greeted Deb with a hug. "Good to see you," she said sincerely. "Come on in and tell me what's on your mind. You've got that determined set to your chin."
Deb grinned at her friend as she plopped on the couch, coming right to the point. "I'm starting to worry, Pat."
"Not having second thoughts about your marriage, I hope?" bantered Pat, trying to take the frown lines out of Deb's forehead. Married twenty-three years, Deb would never think of living without Marc.
"It's nothing to do with home." Deb shook her head impatiently. "It's this case."
Pat sat down by her friend, her smile fading. "I'm sorry. I was only teasing. Are you having trouble with the Russians?"
Deb shook her head once more and appealed to Pat. "It's not that. Of course, it will take a while to sort all the money stuff out, but I'll get it done. It's ... frankly, Pat, until now, this has seemed like a game to me, and I'm a bit ashamed to admit it, but it's been fun. Now, all of a sudden, it seems real. This is a real murder. Not some fantasy we cooked up. I'm uneasy about it all. Maybe we should just help the sisters as best we can and drop the whole thing."
Pat opened her eyes wide. "Why, for goodness sake?"
"Don't look at me that way. It's not because I'm afraid or anything, but we know the people in this town—every one of them. And in the time you've been here, you've gotten to know them too. They aren't suspects, for God's sake; they're people we've had coffee with, invited to our homes. Father Luke even did a blessing on your new home!" she wailed. "This isn't fun anymore."
Pat put her arm around her friend. "I see. You wish it was the CIA who was responsible, or the army, or just about anyone who didn't live in Ashland."
Deb shook her head. "I know it's wrong and that whoever killed poor Joe should be punished, but I can't help feeling that it would be better if ... if we had never known it wasn't an accident or a health problem—if it just hadn't ever been discovered that it was murder. And we're part of the reason they found out. And now everyone is suspicious of each other."
Leaning over and touching her head to Deb's, Pat said, "Oh, you're not the only one who seems to wish that. Your feelings are shared. You can be pretty sure that from Detective LeSeur all the way down our list of suspects that there are others who are feeling the squeeze. Even his poor sisters probably wish it would all go away. They all must be feeling a bit nervous, although Bill Montgomery didn't seem that nervous about it. I'd say he was one who was more interested in the gossip. Remember? He stopped over the other afternoon."
Deb gave a startled look. "He did? Did he say anything? Did he have any theories or ideas who might .?"
Pat slowly shook her head. "No, just like everyone else we've talked to, he hadn't a clue."
"No, I suppose it would be too much to expect," sighed Deb. "I just ran into Sarah again on the street. She's another one who's upset. I can't explain it, except it was in her voice. Worried—even scared."
"Well, what do you expect?" Pat asked. "She has a money connection that is bound to come out."
"What" Deb looked at her friend wide eyed. "What money?"
Pat proceeded to tell her what she had learned from
Sarah.
After listening, Deb continued. "But why would she be so upset? I've got to tell you, Pat—she's scared. Do you think she knows something?"
"Well, I suppose that could be."
"But she's my neighbor? Has been for twelve years. And I can't look at her without thinking that she might be the one," wailed
Deb despairingly. "I just wish it would all go away."
"And if it never would be solved—if it would just 'go away,' as you say—do you think we'd all just live happily ever after?"
"Yes," Deb insisted. "I do."
"Pish-posh!" Pat said, walking her friend to the door. "Not for an instant. You'll be at the rectory for a meeting and wonder at the odd taste of the cake. Or you'd be alone with Sarah and see her putting sugar in your tea, and you'll hesitate to take the cup. And you know what? Everyone else would be thinking it, too. All of them. At least, all the innocent ones. It will never be the same again. No, we've come too far. It's all the way now, my girl, whether you like it or not. We're in for the long haul." Patting her on the shoulder, Pat closed the door on her friend, sighed, and said softly, "And it's just beginning, my friend."
Mike Williamson stepped into the dimly lit hallway. Seated on the bench, chatting companionably, were Sarah Martin and Father Luke Grayson. Mike shot them a look of relief mixed with apprehension. He had been irritated to get a call from Detective LeSeur during the busy morning business hours, when he was completely booked to meet with clients, but he had to respond— Detective LeSeur had made it clear that a visit to the station was not optional.
"Just a few questions," LeSeur had said firmly. "This is important, and it can't wait. The sooner you come in, the sooner we can clear this up."
Mike had been stunned that he was a potential suspect in the Abramov murder case—the first murder that anyone could remember having occurred in this town.
"We have information that you had a special relationship with the deceased, Joe Abramov," Det. LeSeur had begun. "That your bank benefited greatly over the years from Joe's benevolence. When was the last time you saw Joe?"
Mike flinched and his eyes flashed. "If you are asking me to make a voluntary statement, without my attorney present, you're out of your mind. I know my rights and I'm not talking to you about this. I'm calling my attorney first." With a vigorous nod for emphasis, he was gone, leaving the detective pondering his next move.
In the hallway, Sarah and Father Luke were commiserating about the waste of time it was to be left waiting.
"It's almost Christmas, for heaven's sake," Father Luke complained. "I have sermons to write and a tree to put up and greenery to hang and people to see."
"And God only knows how many more people won't speak to me if they don't get their decorating done before the holidays," Sarah said with a sigh. "Why do you think you were called in, Father? Did you get money from Joe, too?"
Father Luke averted her perceptive and piercing gaze. "I'm afraid to admit it, but the church can't afford to be selective on from whom it receives offerings. It's not like a political campaign, you know." He gazed compassionately at the harried decorator as he recognized by her demeanor that she, too, had been on Joe's payroll.
"I don't need this," Sarah lamented. "I have things to do, people to see, and places to go!"
"Next!" Det. LeSeur called out, as he opened his door and gestured for Sarah to come in.
"Hi, Deb. I was hoping it was you," Pat said, answering her cell phone awkwardly with her left hand as she tried to keep the car straight with her right. "Damn," she muttered as she swerved into the Wal-Mart parking lot, just missing an old pink Caddie driven by a gray-haired lady who could barely be seen over her steering wheel. Pat pulled into an open parking spot and put her car in park, but left the engine on so she could talk while running the heater. "So what's up?" she asked, staring out her frosted window at a man ringing a
bell by familiar red kettle. He seemed exceptionally happy in spite of the cold. She watched as many shoppers stopped to drop coins into his kettle.
"Pat, are you listening?" Deb asked.
Abruptly, Pat came back to the voice in her ear. "Oh, sorry," she said. "I got distracted. Say, Deb, have you ever thought of ringing the bell for the Salvation Army?"
"Great minds think alike," Deb responded, "or at least our minds think alike. I signed us up for Thursday night."
"Sounds great," Pat said. "We'll sing." Feeling more in the spirit of the season than she had in a long time, Pat tossed her phone into her purse. Then she turned off the engine, pulled her cap down over her ears, and stepped out of the car.
Funny, she thought, the Christmas spirit seems to sneak up on me every year. For whatever reason, there is magic in the air.
Her new winter boots plowed through the slushy piles of snow as she reached into her pocket for a few coins as she approached the man by the red kettle. "This is going to be a wonderful Christmas," she said aloud to no one in particular.
It was an unusual occurrence to have to wait for a table at the Deepwater. Ashland was a town where one didn't need to make restaurant reservations, even on a weekend.
"I'm surprised by this line," said Peter Thomas to the man next in line.
Bill Montgomery smiled at him. "It's Friday night, and it's winter. I guess everyone has the same idea of getting out. Cabin fever is a real disease here, you know."
"Yeah, right. Next they'll call it CF disease and have a prescription drug for it."
"Oh, they already have a drug designed just for it," Bill answered seriously.
"Really? I was just kidding."
"Oh, yes," Bill retorted. "It's called margaritas. Of course, you have to take the prescription regularly, throughout the season."
Peter smiled, hoping he looked amused by Bill's words. Then asked, "Have we met before? I know it sounds trite but—"
"I'm one of the regulars at the Black Cat," Bill explained. "Even if you don't know me, I know who you are. You're investigating Joe Abramov's death, aren't you?"
Peter nodded, "Yes, I am assisting on it," he admitted. "So that's where I must have seen you, at the coffeehouse. Still—"
"You're next," Bill broke in. "Enjoy your dinner."
Turning, Peter saw the waitress waiting for him. "Thanks. And good meeting you." Deep in his own thoughts as he followed the waitress to his table, Peter didn't notice that Bill continued to watch him.
Chapter Sixteen
Back in their small room at the Harbor View Motel, the two agents glared at each other across a table.
"You do realize what you did, don't you?" Peter asked angrily.
"Of course I do. I warned the old biddies off," replied Andy.
"Warned them off? You young fool. You waved a red cape in front of a couple of bulls. And don't ever forget it. Those two, however they look, are not stupid. And they could be dangerous."
"Oh, pl ease, what do you mean by that?" Andy snorted derisively. "They can't possibly figure out what is going on. Hell, even we can't figure out Abramov's murder. And what do you mean 'dangerous'? I have never seen two less dangerous people. My mother is more dangerous than they are. What are you afraid they'll do? Start breaking laws by jay-walking and then run amok?"
Sighing heavily, Peter measured his response. "Yes, they are potentially dangerous—they are old enough, smart enough, and bored enough with their lives to find the danger of a murder investigation exciting. They also know everyone in this town. People talk to them. And you, in front of all the townies at the Black Cat, challenged them to solve Abramov's murder—and yes, in case you didn't notice, you confirmed for them that it was murder."
Looking slightly embarrassed, Andy muttered, "Well, I just can't stand here doing nothing anymore." He stood up and began pacing back and forth. "I need to do something. There doesn't seem to be any motive for the murder. Maybe it was just a random killing. It happens."
"Sure and his apartment building burning down was random, too, right?" Peter taunted. "All right, since you're restless, go check with the brother once more, and then find out if Joe left anything with any friends. While you're doing that, I'll get the court order to go into his safe deposit box—that may be our only hope. And try not to challenge anyone else to solve this while you're out, okay?"
Andy left, slamming the door and muttering, "What am I supposed to do? Look in the Yellow Pages under army, covert?"
Pat decided to take a nice long walk—the afternoon was sunny and still, so she made her way to Gabriele's German Cookies & Chocolates. By the time she'd walked the five blocks to the store, however, she was shivering, in spite of wearing three layers of clothing. She was already dreading the walk home as she entered the shop, but the smell of fresh-baked cookies and warm chocolate made her feel the walk would almost be worth it.
Although a bell tinkled over the door as she came in, Pat still called out "Hello!" to get the attention of the two German women who worked in the shop. Pat had just helped herself to a sample from the counter as Gabriele came out of the back kitchen.
"Hello. May I help you?" she said, wiping a bit of flour from her cheek.
"Oh, yes," Pat said. "I'd like to buy several dozen cookies, but I walked here, and I was wondering if I could leave my purchases and come by later today in my car."
"Of course. I'll just put them in a box over there," Gabriele said, pointing to a corner behind the counter. "And if I'm not here when you come back, you'll know where to find them."
"Thanks," Pat replied, "and thanks for the sample. These truffles are heavenly." She took another bite and continued to nibble as she thought about which cookies to buy, looking. Then she addressed Gabriele casually. "I was just wondering ... do you remember if Joe Abramov ever came in here?"
"Joe? Oh, yes, he used to tease my sister, Heike. What a character. He would pinch her cheek and say, 'Heike, if you were only Russian, I wouldn't have to send home for a wife.'" Shaking her head, she smiled. "A little crazy, you know, but a good kind. It was like the war had taken a bite out of him—like a bite from a cookie. There just was something missing. But he was kind to us. He used to pick up the broom and sweep our front steps and sidewalk. Of course, I did always give him a truffle or two. It's sad, isn't it? And now I miss a person who I never thought about much when he was alive."
The wind had come up while Pat was in the shop, and she shivered now as she made her way down Main Street and turned on Chapple Avenue. It still amazed her how many people Joe had known and touched in this small town. Then again, she thought suspiciously, Joe probably knew enough about the people that someone here might have done away with him. Chiding herself for being ridiculous, she picked up the pace, trying to keep her fingers and toes from going numb. The old Catholic church was just ahead, its warm interior beckoning her. If she could just slip inside, Pat decided, she could warm up a bit before walking the rest of the way home. Pulling hard on the huge door, she opened it enough to get inside and then closed it quickly against the cold.
Pat slipped into a back pew, taking a moment to appreciate the lovely old place—it had the feel of sacred that many of the new churches didn't seem to have. The stained-glass windows let the afternoon light in, giving a glow to the space around her. She sighed deeply, relaxing in the quiet and warmth. Will I ever decide to preach in a place like this again? she wondered.
Although she wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, even her best friend, she missed the rush of Sunday mornings: the children, the laughter, the prayers, and the music. But she still felt itchy every time she started to think about going another round with a church. Listen to me, she thought, shaking her head, I make it sound like a boxing match.
"Hello." Pat nearly jumped out of the pew at the sound of the voice that came quietly from behind her. She turned to see a tall, lanky, kindly appearing man approach.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you. I'm the pastor here; I've
seen you with Deb Linberg in the Black Cat. You're Pat, aren't you? I'm Father Luke."
"Hello, Father. I'm afraid you've caught me," Pat replied politely. "I came in to warm up. You have a lovely church here."
Father Luke smiled his acknowledgment. "Would you like to take a tour and have a cup of coffee while you warm up?" he asked hospitably.
"Thank you, I'd like that very much." Pat followed him down the stairs to the kitchen, where he poured her a steaming cup of coffee. Pat wrapped her hands around the cup, warming her fingers. As they walked companionably, the pastor giving her a quick tour of the church building, Pat said, "Father, I'll bet you know just about everyone in town."
"Yes, indeed," Father Luke said, nodding. I've been here twelve years now, and there aren't many I can't say hi to as I pass them on the street."
"You must have known Joe Abramov, then?" Pat asked boldly. "I met him at the Black Cat. It was such a shame, wasn't it, that he died? He knew a lot of people in town too."
Father Luke glanced over at her. "Yes, of course. He wasn't a member here. I don't think Joe belonged to any church, but he would stop in from time to time. He was a troubled man. Yes, indeed."
"Did he ... talk to you?" Pat asked. "About his troubles, I mean?" When he didn't respond, she went on quickly. "I'm a pastor, too, you know. So I know that sometimes people talk to us when they can't talk to their own families. If it isn't breaking the confessional, I just wondered ..."
Father Luke motioned to a pew. "Here, sit down. First of all, you should know that I would never tell anyone anything from the confessional," he said, looking down his nose at her. Pat tried not to squirm like a third grader in the principal's office. "But I have heard that you and your friend are trying to help the Abramov sisters with this. As Joe is dead, I can give you this: he did come to me many times. He spoke of his past and some of the terrible things he had to do in Vietnam and even afterward. I pray that it gave him comfort to talk it out." He hesitated, as if unsure that he should go on, but then nodded his head, almost imperceptibly. "But when he heard that the parish was having financial problems, so much so that they couldn't pay my whole salary, Joe started putting money in an envelope—a hundred dollars or so each time he came to visit, and he wasn't even a member. He would slip it quietly under the door to my office. One day, the janitor spotted him doing it. But when I asked him about it, he just shrugged. He'd say, 'You helped me a lot, Father, and it's money I won. What better way is there for me to use it?' The truth is, the church is small and getting smaller, and the people are getting older, and we needed the money." Adjusting his plastic collar as if it suddenly had become a little too tight, he got up.
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