Ronnie shrugged. “Actually, I haven’t seen any forensics reports, so who knows what was found, and I only guessed about you disposing the shovel. I don’t really know if there’s a phone in the shed, either. I just figured Paul called you somehow when he saw something was wrong. I didn’t think you’d slip so quickly, though.” She ignored Chet’s labored sigh.
“What gets me is why you would want to steal Lorena’s body in the first place.” She pounded a fist against her chest. “My ancestor! Somebody neither you nor I ever knew. Why her? It could not have been for ransom, since you don’t seem to need any more money. Were you going to chop her into bits and sell them on the Internet?”
“Lorena would have been returned in due time, intact,” Chet said coldly. “I had everything planned to the letter. Your grandmother would have received a phone call alerting her to Lorena’s location once everything was finished.”
“Once what was finished? Your senior prom? A show-and-tell convention for necrophiliacs? What?” Another attempt at lifting the phone failed. Shaking off one of her sandals, she tried to tap the dial button with her big toe.
“As long as I can remember, Professor Lord, I wanted to be a journalist,” Chet said quietly. “I practiced my interviewing skills on my cats, and even marked up my own dummy sheets. The Hoskins Times was quite the bestseller in my neighborhood.”
“Uh-huh, and this is related to stealing the body of a dead girl how?”
“How could you not see the connection?” Chet demanded hotly. “Two months ago I was writing obits and wedding announcements and watching helplessly as the managing editor shot down idea after idea I had for articles. A friend of my mother’s who attends your parish suggested a story about the committee’s campaign for Lorena’s sainthood, which the managing editor promptly shot down as well. Apparently, as slow as the cogs of canonization turn, such a story was not yet timely for him.
“So, I thought to myself, if a story about the canonization is not yet newsworthy, maybe a story about Lorena’s disappearance would get some attention,” he added.
Ronnie nodded. “A murder makes for good copy, too, doesn’t it? Funny, too, that when the crime was first discovered you were the first reporter on the scene.”
“That’s right.” Chet touched a finger to his nose. “The editor did a complete turnaround when he saw I’d scooped The Florida Times-Union, so he kept me on the Lorena beat and on the front page. Now the Associated Press is using my articles for the national wire, and I’ve got other newspapers interested in hiring me. I may even get a true crime book deal out of this.”
“You’re allowed to have a typewriter in prison, Chet?” Was that a shadow falling across the hallway? Did Chet bring friends?
Chet laughed. “Oh, right. Like I’m going to give myself up just as my career is taking off. I don’t think so.” Fire erupted in the man’s eyes as he hovered over Ronnie’s desk. “Like I said before, there’s no real proof you can find against me, and I’ll be damned if you’re going to live to give me away.”
Ronnie sipped from her coffee mug. “Okay, so how have you planned my death? Is there a shovel in your pocket?”
Chet smirked. “Funny. Enjoying your last cup of coffee?”
Ronnie took a long gulp for effect and licked her lips.
“Good.” Chet nodded toward the canister of powdered creamer on Ronnie’s desk. “You ought to know that bug isn’t the only thing I planted in this office.”
Ronnie’s tongue paused at the corner of her mouth and disappeared. Her heart raced as her gaze lowered to see the tan swirl spinning on the surface of her coffee. Chet’s laughter pounded in her ears.
“You must be high,” she spat. “You put poison in my creamer that first day you were here?”
“No, I did it earlier this morning. I admit I got suspicious while listening in to your date last night, the way you suddenly clammed up while looking through your purse,” Chet said. “You were right when you told the sheriff that you suspected I’d be rifling through your drawers. That’s where I found your spare key. You know, you shouldn’t leave stuff like that hanging around.”
He stood and hovered menacingly over her. “Now, if you fixed yourself a cup of coffee like you did when we first met, you should start feeling a bit woozy pretty soon. Of course,” he added as he unscrewed the container lid, “you understand that if you didn’t use enough of this stuff, I need for the poison to speed up a bit. I can’t have you leaving this office alive.” With that he shook a generous amount of white powder into the half-empty mug.
Ronnie reached for her desk phone, but Chet deftly swatted it away so that it landed with a loud ring on the floor beside him. “Smooth move,” he tut-tutted. “Well, great, looks like we have a nice coffee paste here. We’ll have to dilute this a bit.” He reached for her arm.
“How about a refill?”
Ronnie looked over Chet’s shoulder to see Gloria Hathaway wielding the office coffeepot, which she swung directly upside the man’s head. Hot coffee and bits of broken glass exploded and showered the rug. Ronnie ducked quickly under her desk to avoid contact with both.
Chet, however, was not so lucky. Yelping from the pain brought on by the combination of heat and glass, he backed against the wall-length bookshelf where last semester’s textbooks fell from the top onto his head. He sank to the floor, unconsciousness.
“Ronnie?” Gloria set down the detached plastic pot handle and rushed to the desk. “Are you okay, sweetie?”
“Huh?” Ronnie rubbed her throbbing head. She had hit the corner of the desk and now fingered her skull for signs of bleeding. “Oh, I’m fine now. What are you doing here?”
Gloria glanced toward the open door. “I borrowed one of your books without asking again and came back to return it. I’m really sorry about that...”
“Gloria,” Ronnie waved the apology away. “You just saved my life. You’re forgiven.”
“Oh.” Gloria tittered. “Well, anyway, I didn’t think you’d be here, but I heard you talking to Chet and after what he said I called the police.” She gingerly touched the tender spot on Ronnie’s head. “Can I get you something?”
Ronnie winced and clutched her stomach. “A stomach pump would be nice.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Three months later
“Hold it still. Okay, Ian, raise your end just an inch further. Not too high!”
Ian rolled his eyes and sighed. He complied with his mother’s wishes and raised with sore arms the banner that advertised the Lucky Duck booth. Once Gina was satisfied that both ends were level with each other, Ian pinned the vinyl corner to the wooden frame with a thumbtack and gratefully slid down the ladder.
Ronnie, hanging on the other end, was not so agile. She took the ladder one rung at a time and arched her back. The early August sun beat mercilessly down on the parish volunteers as they set up for the annual Blessed Lorena Alger festival. As with past festivals, the atmosphere was light-hearted despite the lack of a cool breeze. Today the undercurrent was more jubilant than usual; word was going around that the Vatican would soon be making a decision with regards to Lorena’s canonization, which seemed likely now more than ever. One international Catholic newswire had even reported of the Pope’s delight upon hearing of Lorena’s safe return to Ash Lake. Indeed, she had fans everywhere.
“So, when are Father Joel and Nana flying to Rome again?” Ronnie wiped a streak of sweat from her forehead and looked around for the orange cooler of lemonade that was being carted around to all the workers. For good measure she also scanned the skies and wondered if Ethan Fontaine would hold fast to his promise to Nana not to litter the sky above them with his tracts. Since their confrontation in Ethan’s home, Ronnie also noticed the volume of e-mail from his numerous accounts had dropped considerably. She did not expect a conversion anytime soon, but she was thankful at least for this change.
Gina sent her son for two cups and fanned Ronnie with a folded newspaper. “They’re leaving Monday morning. Wish I could go, t
oo,” she grumbled.
“We will, for the canonization.” Ronnie winked. “When do you suppose they’ll schedule it?”
“I imagine it would take place exactly one year from now. I mean, we celebrate the festival on Lorena’s birthday, which is also her feast day. If not, maybe they’ll canonize her on the anniversary of her martyrdom,” Gina said. “Of course, the ceremony might not be held in Rome. The Pope has a habit of canonizing saints in their native countries. He could be planning to come to Florida next year, you know.”
Ronnie gladly took the dewy cup of lemonade from Ian when he returned. “Cool,” she said, crunching on an ice cube. “We’ll take him down to the Wild Rooster. Buy him a beer.”
The two sisters ducked through the skeleton of an adjacent ring toss booth and found a cool spot on the concrete steps leading to the entrance of the new church. They watched friends and parishioners drape booths with colorful poster board signs and crepe streamers, while in the distance Father Joel and some members of the Holy Name Society set up a stage for the scheduled musical acts. Ronnie prayed a silent plea for good weather for the weekend, and that no colors would run in an unexpected gush of rain.
“Hey, let me see that.” She snatched the newspaper from Gina and opened the front page to a blurred mug shot of Chet Hoskins. She read aloud excerpts of the accompanying article, which detailed the former reporter’s upcoming sentencing hearing. Against his family’s and his lawyer’s advice, Chet had pled guilty to second-degree murder and one count of theft and attempted extortion. Landon and Lorne Dennis, the articles reiterated, had pled down to a short jail sentence and several years of probation in exchange for their testimony.
Gina poked at the paper. “I can’t believe those guys got off so easily. They should have at least been given more time for what they did. They tried to ransom Lorena themselves, too. They put her on a tour bus, for crying out loud!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t get too riled up about them,” Ronnie said. “Arthur probably should have received a severe sentence, too, but he didn’t. Who are we to judge how the wheels of justice turn?”
“Right,” Gina sighed. Due largely to impassioned pleas from Father Joel and Nana, Arthur received a house arrest sentence followed by probation. The only true downside occurred soon after his involvement in the crime was made public—he was let go from his job and currently having difficulty finding work. “You heard anything new?”
“There aren’t many opportunities to work from home, none that are legitimate anyway.” Ronnie shook her head. “Nana mentioned something about him taking some distance education classes in order to get some computer certificates. I just hope any future employers will be forgiving and blessed with a sense of humor.”
Ronnie craned her head back toward the church, where Blessed Lorena Alger lay in repose underneath the altar. Reunited with the severed finger, her body had been transferred to a steel coffin and the marble crypt in which she was encased was decorated with a mural depicting the Last Supper. An earlier consideration to display Lorena in thick transparent glass was ultimately rejected, much to Ronnie’s relief. Miraculous as the incorrupt corpse and the accompanying “odor of sanctity” were, she knew she would not feel comfortable sitting through Mass with the dead girl’s body in plain view.
“I’m thinking if Arthur moves out when his sentence is up I’ll move into Nana’s house. It’s time I got out of your basement and into a bedroom above ground.”
Gina nodded. “Take your time. You know you can stay as long as you need to.”
“I know Bill would rather have his game room back,” Ronnie retorted dryly.
“True,” Gina laughed. Then, more wistfully, “Does this mean you’ll be moving forward in other things as well?” She nodded toward an approaching police cruiser driven by Deputy Anderson.
“One day at a time, sis.” Following the aborted concert date, Ronnie and Lew had gone out twice more for dinner. The idea of pursuing a relationship was not entirely out of the question, especially considering recent events. Paul Dix, though in his sixties when he died, he could easily have had at least ten more years with his wife, maybe more if her lupus went into remission. Life was always too short, regardless of age, and Ronnie recognized that now. She knew she could not let her grief for Jim bury her before her time.
She looked down at the whitened band of skin on her ring finger. No, she thought, she would not let that happen. Jim would not want that.
“Well, you’ve got plenty of time,” Gina said. “My kids seem to think that way during summer vacation.” Gina waved to Bill’s pickup as it curled into a giant space. Elliott hopped out of the passenger side door with a small brown package.
“Oh, dear.” Ronnie frowned. “Was Lorena missing any toes, too?”
Elliott was breathless with excitement as he landed at his mother’s feet. “Look what I got from Mr. and Mrs. Sanders, Mom!” he cried, waving a small glass jar of dirt. “They sent it, just like they promised.”
“Sent what? Is that dirt? Is that dirt that could end up all over my nice clean carpets?” Gina studied the half-full jar of soil, her jaw dropping as she read the label. Wordlessly she handed the jar to Ronnie.
“Diana, Princess of Wales: Spencer Estate, Alsop, England,” Ronnie read aloud the masking tape label marked with bold black letters. “Oh, Elliott, you don’t know this really came from Di’s grave. For all we know Arlen Sanders dug up his backyard.”
Elliott then handed his aunt a plain white envelope. Inside Ronnie found a magazine clipping with a picture of Earl Spencer standing on his sister’s grave and a glossy photograph of Arlen Sanders standing on the exact same spot. The photo showed Arlen scooping a clump of dirt into a jar with a triumphant smile stretching his face.
“I don’t believe it,” Gina gasped. “How in the hell did those two get access to Di’s grave?”
Ronnie fanned herself with the photograph. “Another miracle, I suppose. They don’t seem so uncommon anymore.”
Pray For Us Sinners: a Ronnie Lord Mystery
Book Two in the Ronnie Lord Mysteries
Also available as an individual eBook, trade paperback, and audiobook
This book is dedicated to the memory of Gary Izzo, a great writer and a great guy.
Ad majoram dei gloriam!
Author’s Note
With regards to a number of things mentioned in this novel: Worman’s Deli was an actual Jacksonville, Florida establishment. To my memory there have been two locations, neither of which are located on the North side of town, as portrayed here – Worman’s has since closed. The Alhambra Dinner Theater is also a real place. Willson’s Chocolates is fictional, but based upon a noted Jacksonville establishment that makes the best chocolate truffle ice cream in the world. If you’re local, you know the place.
The e-mail address used in Chapter Nine is my own creation, and at this writing no such Internet domain exists.
Also, liberties were taken regarding the Rush concert mentioned late in the book. To my knowledge, Rush’s Vapor Trails tour did not occur around the time implied (which is about a year before the actual tour took place), and according to sources consulted on the Internet the tour did not come to Jacksonville, Florida. My apologies to Dirk, Lerxst, and Pratt for this misrepresentation made for the sake of creative license.
Special thanks to my friend Marni for her help with some of the Jewish customs mentioned in this book.
Prologue
Ave Maria, gratia plena…
He sat quietly with his eyes closed, lulled into a feeling of contentment brought on by a combination of prayer and the surrounding white noise. He chose Latin for this particular Rosary, as he found the language relaxing to recite on long trips. As he pronounced each word in his head he became more endeared to the prayer, fascinated with each word, almost hearing a Gregorian echo.
Dominus tecum, benedicta tu in mulieribus…
He was unaware of the presence looming overhead until a clammy, soft hand touched down on his
shoulder and tapped for his attention.
Instantly he was roused from the third Glorious Mystery as his olive wood rosary slid from his fingers and fell into his lap. Sighing, his retrieved the attached, gilded crucifix and turned it in his palm, hoping whatever distraction about to befall him would not be so complicated as to prevent him from taking up where he had been disturbed.
His secretary’s smile was benign and lined with pale, pink lips. Mona Lisa would have wished to look just as diffident. “The pilot informs me that we will be landing within the half hour, Your Holiness,” the man towering overhead said, his voice barely a whisper over the humming airplane engine just outside the pontiff’s window.
The pontiff nodded crookedly and adjusted the white satin miter that covered the majority of his remaining gray hairs. A surreptitious glance out the window confirmed that a change in the flight pattern was indeed about to happen. He watched the flaps on the wing open and close to accommodate the slight altitude decrease, then tightened the belt strapped across his hips.
Mystery Bundle (Saints Preserve Us, Pray For Us Sinners, Murder Most Trivial) Page 19