Aisle of the Dead

by Joseph E. Wright

  He raised the picture so she could get a better look at it. “First of all, see the name of that bar in the background? Crews. It’s a well-known gay bar in Asbury Park, New Jersey. And if you look closer, you’ll see that that guy we don’t know in the background is wearing a T-shirt. I recognize that shirt. It was for the gay/lesbian picnic that’s held each year in Asbury Park in North Jersey. And that means….”

  “That means that the two guys in this picture with Father Mowbray are most likely also gay. Maybe that’ll help us find them? At least it will shrink the haystack somewhat.”

  “I’d be especially interested in finding out who the one is who is standing next to Father Mowbray. Lover?”

  “Care to bet,” she asked, “that when we find that young man we’ll also find out some rather interesting things about Father Mowbray?”

  “That’s a bet I wouldn’t touch for anything.” He turned the photograph over. He smiled. “Someone’s attempt at poetic humor,” he said. Aloud, he read the inscription on the reverse side:

  A priest I met at picnic trés gay

  Made me a-flutter and love-sick one day.

  So thanks to this cleric,

  I’m pathetically poetic,

  And write limericks non-risqué.

  Pat took the photograph with them as they headed towards the door.

  “Put out the lights. Remember what Father Sieger said about wasting electricity.”

  She went back into the bedroom and turned off the lamp.

  Pat flicked the wall switch as they left the room and closed the door after them. They crossed the hall and stopped for a moment outside their bedroom doors.

  “You look like something’s bothering you,” she said.

  “What’s bothering me is that we’re both a couple of rotten detectives.”

  “Why? What did we do wrong now?”

  “It’s not what we did.” He threw himself against the wall, his arms folded in front of him. “It’s what we didn’t do. We were both in Father Mowbray’s rooms, and in his bedroom there was something we didn’t check. Because the window was standing open, we jumped to a conclusion, the very thing no good detective should ever do. Conclusions are only good after you’ve checked everything and you have all your facts.”

  “And what was it we didn’t check?” She moved and stood facing him, her hands on her hips.

  “What is it that virtually every bedroom in the world has?”

  She let out a groan and she, too, now leaned against the wall. “Oh, no!”

  “Yes, we should both moan.”

  “Then I’m going back in there.”

  “There’s no point.”

  “You’re probably right,” she agreed. “I suppose if there was anyone hiding in that clothes closet, we can be damn sure he is long out of it and out of this building by now.”

  “Or she. It could have been a woman,” Pat said.

  “I hope not. It would be bad enough for a man to have been wearing that awful cologne we smelled in there. I’d hate to think a woman was using it.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  The first light of day was coming through the window at the rear of the rectory. Phillis began to stir. She opened her eyes and it was another moment before she remembered where she was. She could hear water running in the next room. A shower sounded like a great idea right now.

  “Did you sleep well?” Phillis asked twenty minutes later after knocking on Pat’s door and entering.

  “Not very.” He was dressed and sitting in a chair in a corner of the room.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything.”

  “Everything? That’s quite a lot to be wrong, isn’t it?”

  He nodded. “You could say that. So far, I don’t seem to make any sense out of any of this. I know it’s awfully soon, but just how would you categorize this situation, the story Father Sieger told us, the killing of Father Mowbray?”

  “That’s just it, it is too soon. We have no way of knowing how much of what Father Sieger told us is true, that it really did happen. And, of course, we can’t have any way of knowing why Father Mowbray was killed. We haven’t a single thing to go on, have we?”

  “Haven’t we? Let’s think. First of all, we’re dealing with two priests here. That we know. One of them claims there have been things going on in this rectory that don’t seem right. That we also know. Not necessarily that they did happen, but that he said they happened. Father Mowbray was shot at close range by someone, presumably during or right after hearing that person’s confession. That we know. Or, at least we can be fairly certain that’s true. Someone was in Father Mowbray’s room during the small hours of this morning. We heard that. And now I have to ask myself, ‘What the hell are we doing here in this rectory? What do we expect to accomplish? Are we making fools of ourselves?‘”

  “If we are, it won’t be the last time.” Phillis was sitting on the edge of the bed. “As time goes by, I seem to get better at making a fool of myself. But one thing I do know: we won’t accomplish anything if we don’t get out of here and begin doing some snooping in earnest.”

  They came downstairs to the first floor, turned left, and went into the dining room. The aroma of fresh coffee blended with the smell of old, finely patinated furniture. Father Sieger was seated at the table. A radio was playing classical music.

  “Was wondering if I should call you two,” the rector said as they walked into the room. “Breakfast is there.” He pointed to the oak sideboard, on which were chafing dishes with scrambled eggs, breakfast meats, and potatoes. They filled their dishes.

  “I rise everyday at five-thirty,” Father Sieger said as he poured coffee for his guests and himself. “I decided against calling you because I know you didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “You heard us last night?” Pat asked.

  “I was talking to Tom Benson this morning. He sleeps in rooms over the parish house, on the third floor. The first floor is used for meetings, coffee hour after services on Sunday, and the like. The second floor has our fine library and a room where the choir rehearses. The third floor is partly devoted to storage and to additional office space. The rest of that floor is Tom’s. He told me this morning that he wasn’t able to sleep very well last night and that he got up and saw a light in Father Paul’s rooms. Said it was around three-thirty. I asked him why he didn’t report it, either to me or to the police, in light of Father Paul’s death, and he told me he was about to when he saw it was you two.”

  “We were awakened at precisely three-thirty by the sound of someone in Father Mowbray’s rooms,” Pat told him. “We went to investigate. We presume whoever it was obviously got out through the bedroom window and made it down the fire escape. The window was open when we got there.”

  “Oh, dear me.” Father Sieger looked wistful. “It is all very disconcerting. Who would have ever thought… this rectory, always so peaceful, like a safe haven, now to have this… these terrible things happen. The noises, someone trying to strangle me in the middle of the night, poor Paul’s death, and now someone breaking in during the night. I feel so unsafe anymore.”

  “Father, how many people have keys to this rectory?” Phillis asked.

  The priest looked puzzled for a moment, then said, “Oh, please don’t go thinking anyone here could be responsible for any of the things which have been taking place. No, no, indeed.”

  “We would like to know, just the same,” Pat insisted. “If we’re to help, we should know who can come and go here.”

  “Very well.” Father Sieger began counting off on his fingers: “Well, of course there was Paul. And there’s Grace Everett. She’s my administrative assistant. But I think I told you that. And Tom Benson, I just mentioned, our sexton. And Kelsey Quentin. He is responsible for our library, a very important function in a Center City church. And… let me see, there should be someone else. Oh, yes, of course, there’s my nephew, Leslie. Leslie Victoire. I think that’s about everyone that I can think of. Oh, y
es, and Nelson Paquette. He’s on the vestry. Head of the building committee and responsible for the general well-being of the parish buildings. I hope I haven’t left anyone out.”

  Phillis and Pat both mentally agreed that they hoped he hadn’t left anyone out, too.

  “We may want to speak to these people,” Pat said.

  “I really must insist that you do not disturb them. They are all completely trustworthy, I can assure you, and not one of them would do anything wrong, least of all murder.”

  “Many murders are committed by nice people,” Phillis pointed out. “That’s what makes it so sad, when nice people do something so wrong as murder. Usually, they don’t mean to; they’re not evil by nature, but something or someone drives them to despair so that in their minds murder becomes the only way out of a situation. And more often than not, there are other solutions, if only they would search for them.”

  “Unless, of course,” Pat said, “there are motives like greed. Did anyone profit from Father Mowbray’s death? Did he have any money? Insurance?”

  “Paul came from an exceptionally poor family. He could have made a church mouse look wealthy. As for insurance, I haven’t the vaguest notion. He could have, for all I know, but who the beneficiary might be, I would have no idea.”

  “As we told you last evening,” Pat said, “we are on this case unofficially. We would like to find out what the police have uncovered so far. Is there any way that you could get us an intro to the detective who is in charge of this investigation? While we’re at it, what kind of person is he?”

  “I think his name’s Worton, or something like that. He’s tough, very tough. But, then I don’t suppose he’d have gotten where he is today being otherwise. Homicide investigation must be very difficult. I imagine those men witness much of life’s seamier side. But, I think I could get him to talk to you. He was very…”

  The doorbell rang.

  “If you will excuse me,” Father Sieger said as he put down his napkin and stood up from the table.

  “If we don’t get anything from the police,” Phillis asked as soon as the priest left the room, “what do you think is the best approach for us to take?”

  “For starters, we’ll talk to those people who have keys to this place, whether Father Sieger likes it or not. They must have something they could tell us. It wouldn’t surprise me to find them very talkative.”

  Father Sieger returned. “It’s Detective Worton. I told him about you and how you are friends of mine and how you want to help. He’s willing to talk to you. He’s in my study. Says he has some information about Father Mowbray’s death. Come in when you’re finished with breakfast.”

  “We’re finished now,” Phillis said as they both got up from the table and followed the priest to the front of the rectory.

  CHAPTER IX

  Pat and Phillis entered the study behind Father Sieger. There was a man in a dark gray suit standing at the far end of the room, looking at the rows of books which lined the wall. He turned when they entered and came towards them.

  The Rector performed the introductions.

  “Father Sieger says you have some news about Father Mowbray’s death.” Pat decided to lose no time.

  The detective remained standing as the others took seats. He was a man of about forty, with thinning sandy hair and wire-rimmed glasses, neither handsome nor plain, neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin, neither impressive nor repulsive. In a word, the perfect non-person, capable of blending into walls and furniture, able to mingle amongst others without being noticed himself, capable of overhearing while being overlooked. He was a latter-day Shadow, able to make himself invisible. At the moment, however, he seemed very much capable of making himself both seen and heard.

  “For the time being, we are conducting this investigation based on the theory that Reverend Paul Mowbray did not take his own life,” Detective Worton began as he walked around the chair in which Father Sieger was seated. He leaned, his hands in his pockets, against the desk. “The distance of the gun, the angle at which the bullet entered the body, would seem to make it less likely for death to be self-inflicted. For the same reasons, it is doubtful death could have occurred by accidental means. That leaves homicide.”

  “Type of gun?” Phillis asked.

  The detective referred to his small black book. “It was a thirty-eight Special, fired a maximum of six feet from the victim, most likely closer.”

  “You have the gun?” Pat asked next.

  “No.” Worton addressed his next words to the rector. “That explains, Father, why we had to search these premises from top to bottom. It’s imperative that we find the weapon.”

  “No gun found would definitely eliminate suicide,” Phillis added.

  “Not necessarily, Miss… er… Toner. If we come up with a good reason or reasons why Father Mowbray might have taken his own life, then we would pursue the possibility someone may have removed the gun from the scene.”

  “But why would someone…?” Phillis’ voice faded as the first answer to her question dawned on her. Someone might have had a very good reason not to want it look as though a priest had taken his own life, especially in his church, and the primary candidate for that role was, she also realized, Father Sieger.

  “And fingerprints?” Pat asked.

  The detective stared at him for a moment. “Er… no, nothing that has been traced at this time. In the immediate area of the scene, in the middle of this church, with all those pews, with people coming and going every week, you can imagine how many prints there are. Mostly smudges.”

  “You have the capability, of course, of lifting prints from fabric,” Pat said. “Did you by any chance find any prints on the stole Father Mowbray was wearing?”

  “That was suppose to be privileged information, Father,” Detective Worton said harshly to the rector.

  “I know. I am sorry. But Pat and Phillis can be trusted, I assure you.”

  “I hope you’re right. Keep that to yourselves, you two!”

  Both Pat and Phillis nodded in acquiescence.

  “None that were clean,” the detective told them.

  “Not even Father Mowbray’s?”

  “None. We do know a little bit more today than we did yesterday about Father Mowbray.” Once more Detective Worton referred to his small black notebook. “According to the Medical Examiner’s office, death occurred sometime between the hours of noon and four o’clock Wednesday afternoon, probably nearer to between two and three, judging from the temperature of the body in relationship to the temperature of the church floor around the body, as well as the contents of the stomach. We knew the deceased had a checking account with less than a hundred dollars in it. We checked with his bank today. He had a savings account with less than a thousand dollars in it. There is a small life insurance policy naming his mother as his beneficiary. The afternoon of his death, he was visited by a young man who came to this rectory according to a witness….”

  “Beatrice,” Father Sieger mumbled under his breath. Pat heard him.

  “…who saw and can identify the young man,” Detective Worton went on. “I thought you would like to know, Father Sieger, that we expect to make an arrest before the day is over. It’s quite obvious, based upon the time this witness saw him arrive here, that the young man was the one who killed Father Mowbray. It’s an obvious open and--”

  “Detective Worton, I presume your witness is Beatrice Mulrooney.” Father Sieger stood up to his full five-foot-six height. “If that is correct, then I would not be too hasty in making an arrest. Beatrice is a dear soul, but she is sometimes given to flights of fiction. Beatrice and the truth were not both born of the same mother. I personally would exercise extreme discretion before acting upon information from that source.”

  “Who is this Beatrice?” Pat asked.

  “You’ll meet her before long, unless I miss my guess,” Father Sieger told him.

  “Have you uncovered anything that would indicate someone might profi
t in some other way from Father Mowbray’s death?” Phillis asked Detective Worton. “Not necessarily money, but would be better off with him out of the way?”

  “Nothing so far. But when we find that young man, who knows what we’ll uncover.”

  The telephone rang. Father Sieger answered it. He handed it to the policeman.

  “I’ll be right there.” Worton replaced the receiver and a look of satisfaction spread across his face. “We’ll soon be through with this case. The young punk who was here in this rectory and who murdered Father Mowbray has just been brought into headquarters. I suspect we’ll have a confession before lunchtime.” On that cheerful note, he bid them all a good day and headed for the door of the study.

  Pat hurried over to him. “Detective Worton, if I may? One more question?”

  Worton stopped with his hand on the doorknob of the outside door of the foyer. He seemed annoyed that Pat had stopped him. “Well?”

  “I was wondering: what is the name of this young man you think killed Father Mowbray?”

  Worton took out his faithful little black book. He flipped several pages. “Sherrill Rothe.” He opened the door.

  “And one other thing,” Pat went on as he followed him out into the garden.

  The detective stopped and stared, not disguising his annoyance.

  Pat deliberately ignored the other’s impatience. “Father Sieger hasn’t been able to give us many details, other than what he’s heard or read in the paper, so I hope you won’t mind if I ask you something. From what I gather, Father Mowbray was shot in or near the confessional and managed to make it halfway down the aisle. Why? Why didn’t he head for a telephone, or to the front door where he might have summoned help?”

  “Mr. Montgomary, just what is your relationship and your sister’s to Father Sieger?”

  “We’re friends of his and hope to be able to help him. Right now, he’s alone and has no one to help him.”