The Undoing of Saint Silvanus

by Beth Moore

  Fear shot through Jillian’s body like a bolt of lightning. She scrambled behind the car.

  “Jillian!” Stella yelled. “Get in here and out of the rain. Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “Who is that?” His face was blurred by the sheets of rain between the car and the storage unit but Jillian could see that he had on a thick canvas olive-green jacket and a brown knit cap pulled down to his eyebrows.

  “A guy I’ve been helping out. What’s wrong with you? Come here! Do you want to see the stuff I have to show you or not?”

  “I changed my mind. I want to go to the motel.”

  “We came all this way. One box will be enough for you to see.”

  Jillian circled around the car and tried to open the door. “Stella, unlock the car!”

  “Why are you freaking out?”

  “I’m not coming in there with anybody else but you.” Jillian was drenched and trembling all over. Stella turned to the man and said something that was indecipherable to Jillian. He was a head taller than Stella but the way he nodded as she spoke to him was almost childlike.

  The man handed Stella the flashlight and unexpectedly exited the storage unit, jogged around the corner, and disappeared.

  “He’s gone. You satisfied? Ten minutes and we’ll leave.” Stella turned her back to her and pushed several tattered cardboard boxes away from the splattering rain.

  Reluctantly, Jillian stepped into the unit, spying the blankets on the concrete floor. “He’s been sleeping here?”

  “Just for a few days. Down on his luck. I offered it to him for a night or two because it was better than nothing.”

  Barely, Jillian thought. Except for the small floor space that had obviously been cleared for the man to stretch out, the unit bulged with copious water-stained cardboard boxes, several lamps with no shades, plastic crates, and trash bags. Most out of place was a large leather desk chair. Its oxblood surface was weathered and brittle, but at one time, it could have seated an executive.

  “Give me a minute,” Stella said, “and let me get my hands on the right boxes.”

  A gust of wind caught the umbrella Jillian had left open at the entrance to the unit. Jillian lunged toward it as it tumbled down the concrete driveway.

  “Leave it. We’ll get it when we go.” Stella’s voice was dry and cold. “Here,” she said, pulling an old short-legged stool from behind a stack of boxes. “Sit on this and I’ll give you some things to look through.”

  Jillian sat down and waited, her teeth chattering from the cold. Stella’s clothes were soaked and her long hair in strings, but she seemed completely oblivious to the elements. Jillian watched Stella shift boxes around and set several on the floor in order to reach the one at the bottom. As she dragged it out of the corner, roaches scattered toward Jillian. She jumped to her feet and hopped in a single bound on the seat cushion of the desk chair. The brittle leather gave way under her shoe and the seat ripped. Stella couldn’t have heard it amid the sound effects of the storm but she looked at Jillian disapprovingly nonetheless.

  She pulled the heavy box by one cardboard flap over to the stool rather than the chair and said, “You can start with this one.”

  Jillian didn’t want to leave the chair, but she’d come all this way to see what missing pieces were hidden in this storage unit. She squinted and searched the dimly lit floor for anything creepy or crawling before reluctantly returning to the stool. The contents in the box appeared to belong to a man, though Jillian was having a hard time fitting them into the life she’d pictured Rafe living. They were professional items like a silver business card holder, a slender leather box with an assortment of expensive-looking pens, a leather six-ring notebook with a calendar inside. Appointment times, names, and phone numbers were handwritten in various squares.

  “These are Rafe’s?” Jillian asked.

  “Keep looking.” Stella raised the flashlight the man had left behind and shone it on the contents.

  Growing more agitated by the minute, Jillian dug further into the box and pulled out a wooden plaque with a picture of a Little League baseball team under glass. It was an award thanking Nolan Property Group, Inc., of New Orleans for its generous support that season. Jillian looked up at Stella and tried to project her voice over the pounding rain. “I’m confused. What does this have to do with Rafe? Did he work here?” Stella stared at her without answering. “Look, I’m soaking wet and freezing to death in here. I’m not playing games with you. Get to what you brought me here to see.”

  “Some of it’s in there,” Stella responded with an odd look of disdain.

  Jillian pulled out the top half of the contents and set them on the smudged concrete floor. Flipping through the remains, she came upon two separate newspaper articles, both laminated for preservation. One was an obituary for a Steadman A. Nolan and the other was an article titled “Local Businessman Found Dead in Apparent Suicide.” “I still don’t get it, Stella. What’s this about?”

  “Read them.”

  “I don’t want to read them. I don’t even know who this guy is. Tell me what this has to do with Rafe!” Fury rose up in Jillian. She shouldn’t have gotten in the car with Stella. She had no idea where she was and no way back to the side of town she recognized except in the passenger seat of that old car. She was stuck and she was scared. She’d known Stella was peculiar from the start but the woman standing in front of her didn’t just seem strange. She seemed half crazed.

  Stella shone the flashlight on her own face, catching the whites of her eyes, and slowly mouthed the words Read them. She stepped closer to Jillian and focused the beam on the articles.

  Jillian looked first at the article about the suicide. She was too rattled to read every sentence, so she scanned for key words that might link Rafe to the article. She got no further than the third paragraph when the name Fontaine jumped out at her. She instantly recognized the name of Rafe’s father. The context was a very public, drawn-out lawsuit that had unexpectedly landed in Fontaine’s favor in an odd twist of events, awarding him every asset belonging to real estate magnate Steadman Nolan. The next morning a housekeeper discovered Nolan’s body hanging from a belt.

  Turning her attention immediately to the obituary, she found the typical biographical information including the dates of the man’s birth and death and references to his schooling and his contributions to the community. The obit made no mention of the trial or cause of death, of course. It was the usual depressing stuff. Why Stella couldn’t have told her this story back at the apartment was puzzling and maddening, and she still couldn’t piece together a direct link between the newspaper features and Stella’s relationship with Rafe. She skipped several paragraphs and moved straight to the end.

  Mr. Nolan was preceded in death by his wife, Marilyn Reeves Nolan, and is survived by his daughter, Stella Nolan. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to Steadman A. Nolan Memorial Fund.

  Jillian’s body was shaking violently, her mind awhirl. She tried to control her voice but fear and anxiety broke up every syllable until her words sounded to her like static. Finally, clearly enough for Stella to understand, Jillian said, “This was your dad?”

  “They gave five hundred dollars.” Stella’s tone was ice.

  “Who?” Jillian couldn’t follow her.

  “The donations. They amounted to five hundred dollars. It didn’t even cover cremation. That’s what I got. Five hundred dollars.”

  “That’s awful, Stella. Terrible. But what does this have to do with Rafe?” Jillian began to rock back and forth on the stool, trying to rub the cold off her arms and the foreboding off her bones.

  “Can you believe he thought he was too good for me? A drunk? He’d been coming in and out of my place for several months, sobering up or sleeping it off. He’d work some, then crash again. I’d fed the fool. Harbored him. Stored his stuff. And all while biding my time. Finally I decided I’d waited long enough. I said to him, ‘You know what we ought to do? We ought to get married.’ Would you
like to know what he did?”

  Jillian froze. She wanted to say no but she couldn’t form a single word on her tongue. She shook her head weakly.

  “I said,” Stella persisted, taking another step closer, “would you like to know what he did?”

  “What?” Jillian managed.

  “He laughed. In my face. Said I sure was funny. It was everything I could do not to strangle him that night in his stupor. The next time he showed up, I brought up the idea of meeting his mom. One guess what he said to that.”

  Jillian shook her head again, trying to stop the tirade and wishing she’d never opened that closet door in Stella’s apartment.

  Stella wouldn’t shut up. “He said, ‘I don’t want to put her through that.’” She began laughing maniacally. “Imagine! He didn’t want to put her through that! After everything those—those crooks had put me through!” She raised the flashlight and brought it down hard on the plaque, shattering both the glass over the team picture and the lens of the flashlight.

  Jillian covered her head, terrified that Stella would hit her next.

  “Crawley!” Stella shouted. “Now!”

  Jillian heard a man’s voice booming behind her. “Don’t want to!”

  “Crawley, do it! If you don’t, I’ll turn you in to the cops so fast, you won’t see the light of day for a decade!”

  Lightning split the sky and Jillian whirled around to see the big man who had been sleeping in the storage unit towering over her with a crowbar in his left hand, sopping wet, shaking his head and murmuring, “Crawley don’t want to.”

  She scrambled to her feet and lurched into the pouring rain, running as fast as her shoes would slosh through six inches of water. She’d almost made it to the corner when a shock of pain shot through her skull.

  CHAPTER 38

  ADELLA WAS INCONSOLABLE. Nearly twenty-four hours had passed since Jillian stormed out of the house feeling all accused. She’d thrown some hissy fits since that day Adella met her in baggage claim, but something felt different about this one. Jillian had lost face in front of someone she’d taken a liking to.

  Throughout the day as they waited for news, Adella had whispered over and over, “Jesus, help her.”

  According to Bully, Jillian’s boss at the café reported seeing her the evening before but only for a few minutes. She had been sick, so the night manager had sent her home. She’d failed to show up for her shift today, and no, she hadn’t called in.

  The situation hadn’t warranted anything official. Bully’s involvement was personal. Everybody knew he had a soft spot in his heart for Jillian. He’d also become a presence at Saint Sans. Something about him made a person feel like the world wasn’t as awful a place as it threatened to be. He was proof that not everything big was bad.

  Officer Sanchez had repeatedly beaten on the door at Stella’s apartment and gotten no answer. It was the most logical place for Jillian to go, and it was within walking distance of the café. The officer said she’d pressed her ear to the paneling but the thunder had made it impossible to hear any activity or conversation coming from inside. Bully told them Officer Sanchez had left her card in the crack between the door and the casing with a note for Stella to call her ASAP. They’d not heard a peep from her yet.

  Adella had tried calling Jillian right after it happened last evening, but her heart sank when she heard the cell phone ringing in Rafe’s old room. Then she had tried to run after her. After all, Jillian had said, “Nobody better follow me. . . . I mean it!” and that was like waving a red flag at a bull. But in this case, the bull was wearing her Sunday spiked heels, not because it was Sunday but because the navy-blue slingbacks had gone perfectly with her outfit. All to say, the spikes kept punching holes in the grass in the front yard and Adella’s feet kept coming out, probably on account of the baby powder she’d sprinkled in them that morning thinking her feet might swell by early afternoon. She’d finally pulled the shoes off entirely and slung them clear to the neighbor’s live oak but the young woman had vanished before she could make it barefooted to the corner. The officers were still in the house at that point, having no idea what had just hit them.

  Adella had a terrible time trying to explain Jillian’s outburst without spilling the beans about that money in San Francisco. She didn’t outright lie. She just took a mighty long way to the truth. She hem-hawed and loose-jawed in so many circles that the whole lot of them got as dizzy as kids coming off a carnival ride. She’d stopped short of feigning a seizure, thinking that might come in handier at another time. Luckily, Olivia had done just what Adella hoped. She’d finally gotten exasperated and said, “That’ll be enough, Adella. Thank you.”

  She’d hung around and tried to busy herself answering business e-mails for the next couple of hours, but Olivia finally talked her into going home. Now that Adella had learned that Jillian never showed up at work today, she was determined not to budge an inch from Saint Sans until they knew where she was. The roads were too flooded anyway. Emmett had offered to come get her in his pickup, but she told him the biggest favor he could do her was to look after the boys. She wouldn’t have had to ask.

  Olivia was characteristically tense and tight-lipped except to reassure Mrs. Winsee that Jillian was just fine. The old woman wasn’t herself yet but she was more lucid than she’d been the first few days after the Halloween fiasco and had begun communicating with one-word responses or questions. She’d stood at a window in the great room for over an hour today watching the downpour despite the thunder vibrating the glass. She’d occasionally turned toward Olivia and stammered with a pained look on her face. The only word they could make out came in the form of a question. “Jilly?”

  Olivia had finally coaxed her into taking a nap, but she moaned something fierce every time Olivia tried to close her door. Mrs. Winsee’s protests won out and Olivia ended up leaving it wide open. When David came home from school and learned there was still no news, he too refused to get out of earshot. He was sitting at the kitchen bar trying not to get on his landlord’s nerves while grading geography exams for a fellow teacher with a new grandbaby.

  Olivia’s phone rang loud enough to scare the fur off a cat, and obviously recognizing the number, she answered, “Officer?” Seconds later, “Hmmmm,” then, after another moment or two, “I see.”

  When she turned her back to the dining table for a little privacy, Adella popped out of her chair, circled around in front of Olivia, and mouthed with excessive emphasis, “Did they find her?”

  Olivia motioned like she was swatting a cloud of killer bees. Adella thought it would have been considerably less trouble to respond with a simple yes or no.

  “I’m assuming you’ve checked to see what flights have departed.”

  David looked up from his papers and locked eyes with Adella as they each attempted to piece together the information from Olivia’s side of the conversation.

  She suddenly became refreshingly wordy. “My question, Officer Sanchez, is how she would have paid for a cab to get to the airport and then purchased an astronomical same-day ticket.” Both David and Adella nodded with approval. Olivia paused for a moment. “I am absolutely certain, Officer. My granddaughter is not a thief.” Their eyes nearly popped out of their heads. The phone call ended with Olivia firmly stating that she’d expect to hear from them soon. After exhausting all those extra words, she saved her breath on “Bye.” Adella had long since suspected that Olivia got away with the cheapest cell phone plan in the free world.

  When Olivia turned around, she came within an inch of stepping right on Adella’s foot and David might as well have been pinned on Adella’s shirtsleeve. “The two of you look like an ice cream cone with two scoops. One chocolate and the other the whitest vanilla I have ever seen in my life. David, you could use some sun. I can only assume that you’re vitamin D deficient.”

  David glanced at his hands. He’d talked about getting some of that sunless tanner over the summer, but one of his students was bound to call him out
if he showed up six shades darker in the middle of winter.

  Adella was in no mood to play games. “Well? Out with it!”

  Olivia set the phone facedown on the table, put her hands on her hips, and said, “Could you two step back far enough for me to get a little air?”

  “Are you trying to kill me, Olivia, or just punish me?”

  “Officer Sanchez finally heard from the woman Jillian has stayed with before, the one she left her card for, with a note insisting that the resident call her right away.”

  “Stella, right?” David was holding his own competing with Adella for answers.

  “Yes, I believe that’s the name the officer used.”

  “What did she say?” Adella blurted out, elbowing her way right in front of David.

  “I’m getting to that, if you two will let me. The woman said Jillian had stopped by yesterday evening but only to say good-bye. She told her she was leaving New Orleans and flying back to San Francisco. According to whoever this woman is, Jillian had called her mom—on whose phone, I do not know—and the two of them agreed it was time for her to move home. She’d assured her she’d pick her up at the airport.”

  “Jillian’s mother?” Adella was incredulous.

  David shook his head. “How would Jillian get a flight out in this weather?”

  “The officer suggested she might have had time last night to get as far as Houston before this weather blew in. They’re making phone calls. But Jillian’s an adult, however irresponsible, and since there’s no reason to suspect foul play, the options for retrieving personal information from a flight roster are limited. They’re going to call me when they learn something.”

  Olivia sat back down at the dining table, turned her phone faceup, and tapped the screen with her fingernail. Adella sat down across from her and had half a mind to do the same thing but decided to tap her foot instead. David sat back down at the kitchen bar and tapped his red grading pen on the counter. Had Mrs. Winsee been back to herself, she’d have come alive and danced a little jig.