Broken Places

by Tracy Clark

  I rang the rectory bell, then rang it again before the peel of the first ring even had a chance to fade away. Cesar had a girl not from his neighborhood, a black girl in a St. Brendan’s hat. Cesar connected to the girl, the girl connected to the church, and the church meant Pop. Who was she? Where was she now? What tied Pop to the two of them? I rang the bell again, but still no one answered.

  Pop noted everything of importance in a small datebook he always carried in his breast pocket. That book was almost his second Bible. He wrote down birthdays he didn’t want to forget, appointments, Mass schedules, his grocery lists, goofy doodles, hospital visits to the sick and dying, our chess sessions. He’d start a new datebook every January first and when the year was done, he’d file it away and buy another just like it. The book he was working on at the time of his death was missing from his personal things gathered at the morgue, so it had to be in his room at the rectory. I wanted that book. I wanted it bad. If the girl was here somewhere, if Cesar had been, Pop would have made note of it. The rectory door opened just as I was about to ring again.

  Thea stood there, startled, drying her hands on a dish towel. “What on earth?”

  I stepped inside without being asked. I didn’t have time for niceties. “Pop’s office. I need five minutes.” I rushed though the foyer and opened his office door, stopping cold at the sight of his empty desk and boxes stacked against a wall.

  Thea followed me in. “Father Pascoe decided to work in here,” she explained almost apologetically. “It’s bigger.”

  I swallowed a lump. Already he’d taken over, pushed Pop aside. Couldn’t he have waited just a little while longer before boxing up his things? Had he craved Pop’s job so much that he couldn’t at least pretend to mourn his passing? It felt disrespectful and unfeeling not only toward Pop, but also toward the people who loved him, like me. A slap in the face is what it felt like, and I didn’t much care for the sting of it.

  I began pulling open desk drawers. “I’m looking for his datebook. The last one.” The first two drawers were completely empty. The third held Father Pascoe’s stuff. He’d begun to move in everything he needed. “He didn’t have it that night. I didn’t come across it when I checked last time, but I could have overlooked it. It has to be here.”

  I checked every drawer, but it wasn’t there. I eyed the boxes. Father Pascoe had packed Pop’s things, but hadn’t yet taped up the boxes. I began picking through them one by one, as Thea watched. I could feel her sympathetic gaze on my back. It wasn’t her fault, any of it. Her job was to take care of Father Pascoe and the rectory, and that’s what she was doing.

  “I want his umbrella,” I said, clearing the first box, but finding only old office papers in it. It was interesting how much clutter one could accumulate in a lifetime. We held on to paper and bits of nonsense that in the end didn’t mean a thing. “It won’t mean half as much to Pascoe.” I didn’t much like the man, and I doubted he held any great affection for me. He was a little too rigid, a little too standoffish, and always two steps off the pace. He and Pop were polar opposites. Pascoe, a company man who followed the rules, Pop, a man who didn’t give a fig about them and had no qualms about bending a few when they offered no real-world application. The two were constantly at loggerheads.

  The last box held framed photographs of Pop’s kids—kids he mentored, kids from the school’s sports teams, kids from his outreach program. Pop stood with them, smiling, his arms around them—their protector, their mentor, their light through dark times. They wouldn’t find the same light in Father James Pascoe, that was for sure. I turned to Thea. One of the photos was of Pop taken just this past Christmas. We’d done ugly sweaters and could barely keep it together long enough for someone to take it. “And these photos.”

  “I’ll make sure you get them.”

  I heard the front door open and close. Father Pascoe appeared in the doorway, lean, vulture-like, his mouth twisted into a disapproving scowl. He was twenty years Pop’s junior, but double his age in outlook, a poor substitute all the way around.

  “What’s going on in here? What are you doing?” He met me at the boxes, seemingly surprised by my forwardness. I turned to face him. Thea had disappeared from the doorway. Pascoe’s eyes scanned over the boxes, over more than twenty years of Pop’s life, as though they were nothing. “This area is off limits,” he warned.

  I ignored the posturing. “Father Heaton’s datebook. Do you know where it is?”

  Father Pascoe slid by me and took a seat behind the desk in Pop’s chair, steepling his long, thin fingers, his bony elbows propped up on the desktop. “Detective Farraday warned me that you might try to bulldoze your way in here. I hoped you wouldn’t. You’ve disappointed me.”

  I stepped away from the boxes, faced the desk, and leaned down on it. “You know the one I mean. He carried it everywhere. It wasn’t found with him. There may be useful information in it.”

  He leaned forward, his thin neck swimming inside his clerical collar, every vein and cord in his neck pronounced. He smiled, but there was little warmth in it. It was irrational to want to dump him out of the chair, but I wanted to do it all the same.

  “You and he were close, I understand that. Perhaps not the wisest decision on his part, or yours, but he was not a man who accepted sane counsel. He chose instead to make his own rules as he went along, however much that may or may not have contributed to his tragic passing.”

  “Look, I didn’t come here for a cage match. I need the book. It’s not in the boxes. Is it in his room? Can I check there?”

  Pascoe shot up. “Absolutely not. This is a rectory, not a crime scene, and you are not with the police. I’m the pastor now. The business of the parish must move forward. If the book is found, I’ll pass it along to the proper authorities. I think it best if they handle the investigation. I’ll address the issue of the boxes and his other possessions once I’ve had time to go over his written instructions for their distribution.” He sighed, an angelic smile on his face, which didn’t seem to fit with what I knew of the man. “We needn’t be adversaries. We’ve all suffered a great loss. We should part ways amicably, don’t you think?”

  I smiled back, but it was just a mask. “You’re absolutely right. He would want me to be respectful of your new position.” I pulled the photograph of the girl out of my pocket. “So, respectfully, do you recognize this girl?”

  Pascoe’s lips pursed, but he looked at the photo. “I don’t.”

  “She’s somehow connected to the boy who was killed here. She’s likely too old to be a student, but she may be a member of the parish.”

  Pascoe frowned. “If so, it’s a police matter.”

  I took a step back. “Where were you the night Father Heaton was killed?”

  Pascoe’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious?”

  I was serious. Where had he been? Why did Thea have to break the news to him over the phone, and why had it taken him until midmorning the next day to make it back?

  “I’m sure the police asked about your whereabouts,” I said, watching him.

  He straightened. “As a matter of fact, they did not. Not many people would accuse a priest of murder, even fewer would do so to his face. But I understand that you’re grieving, as we all are. I harbor no ill feelings. In fact, I’d like to invite you to a memorial that we’re planning for Father Heaton. This Sunday, one o’clock. We’d love for you to join us. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have pressing business to attend to.”

  “He had some trouble with a parishioner,” I said, ignoring his attempt to dismiss me. “George Cummings. What do you know about that? Did he tell you what was going on?”

  Father Pascoe straightened his jacket. “Good day, Ms. Raines.” He smiled. “Sunday. One o’clock, if you wish to pay your respects.”

  I turned and stormed out, eyeing the stairs to the second floor on my way out. Pop’s book had to be in his room. I could take the stairs against Father Pascoe’s refusal to let me look, but they’d have me
for trespassing, and I could kiss my license, freedom and livelihood good-bye. I glanced back at the office. No, I wouldn’t give Father Pascoe the satisfaction of seeing me hauled off in cuffs. Farraday would just love that. I sighed and slowly stepped out onto the front stoop. If I wanted that datebook, I was going to have to break in and take it. Surprisingly, I had no problem with that at all.

  * * *

  Nancy was sitting at her desk when I walked into the school office. Her inbox was full, her out-box empty.

  “Back again?” She looked better than the last time I saw her—no red eyes, no crying—but there were bags under her eyes, and as she rose, she moved as if every step was an effort, every facial expression a chore.

  “I won’t keep you. I’ve got a photo of a girl. Would you mind taking a look and telling me if you’ve seen her before?”

  Nancy reached down and grabbed for the eyeglasses that dangled from a chain around her neck. “Sure. Does this have to do with Father Ray?” I nodded. She took the photo, studied it. While she did, I listened to the lively chatter of children as they changed from one classroom to another, and wondered where Anton Bolek was at that moment. “She looks kind of familiar, but I can’t place her. There are so many children, new ones every year. Down here in the office we usually get just the troublemakers.” Nancy’s brows knit together. “She looks at least fifteen, sixteen. She’s too old to be a student here.”

  I took the photo back. “Someone saw her wearing a St. Brendan’s hat, but no one I’ve asked so far seems to know her.”

  Nancy eased her glasses off, let them dangle from the chain again. “Is she important?”

  “She may be.”

  Nancy smiled. “I was just about to get a bit of fresh air. Want to tag along?”

  We walked out onto the front steps, surveying the quiet street. At the curb, I watched as Anton Bolek jacked himself up into a beaten-up Chevy S10 truck. Once in, he shot me the monster of all stink eyes. I returned it.

  “Where’s he off to?” I asked.

  Nancy’s eyes narrowed. “He said he had an appointment.”

  He started up the truck and chugged up the street, spewing muffler exhaust in his wake, and I bid him a silent good riddance, watching as the truck turned the corner and disappeared. I wondered how he’d get along with Father Pascoe now that Pop was gone. Knowing the both of them, I had a feeling they’d get along just fine. Pop’s death had certainly been fortuitous for the both of them.

  “What do you think of Bolek?” I asked.

  “Not much,” Nancy said, and the look of contempt on her face told me all I needed to know.

  “There was something going on between him and Father Heaton. Do you know what that was?”

  In my experience, office managers and administrative assistants everywhere knew where all the bones were buried. I didn’t think Nancy would be the exception. She shook her head. “I knew there was something, but Father Ray kept pretty tightlipped about it. I could tell he was worried, though. It seemed to come to a head right before he died. I heard them arguing in the inner office, muffled voices only, nothing specific. After that, he asked for Anton’s personnel file. That’s the first step toward termination. It looked like Anton had run out of chances with him, and I think he knew it.”

  “And now?”

  Nancy shrugged. “Nothing. Father Pascoe hasn’t mentioned Anton, the file’s back where I had it, and he’s still here.”

  Pop was gone. The exhaust was gone. The truck was gone. I stared after it. “And Anton’s still here.”

  * * *

  I ran the last half block to Deek’s Diner, dodging a light rain that for no good reason suddenly gave way to an angry downpour. I made the door just as a clap of thunder rattled the plate glass, sliding inside on slippery soles to shake the wet off my slicker.

  I’d asked Whip to meet me for breakfast. Retrieving Pop’s datebook was now priority number one. I hadn’t yet come up with a plan for getting past Father Pascoe, but maybe Whip, given his illegal past, might have a few ideas I didn’t. Besides, he’d want to know about the memorial.

  I wasn’t in my usual back booth more than five minutes when Whip ducked in the door, soggy from the rain. When he slid in opposite me and shimmied out of his jacket, I told him about my run-in with Father Pascoe.

  “Who gets asked out of a rectory?”

  “I do, apparently.” The thought of it did little to lighten my load.

  “Hell, you want me to go get it?”

  “No!”

  “Then you’re going to need a good second-story man. I know one.” He repositioned his bulky body in the tight booth. “His name’s Wendell. I did a stint in Joliet with him.”

  “Don’t you know any people who haven’t been locked up?”

  He smiled mischievously. “Yeah, you. So what are you going to do? And where do I fit in?”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m still thinking it through.” I told him about Anton, and the vibe I got off the creepy little man.

  “He’s rotten. Take it from me. He’s got something going on in that church nobody knows about.”

  The sinking feeling in my stomach plummeted to new depths. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”

  Whip cracked his knuckles loudly, which set my teeth on edge. “You’re going to have to break him. No low-life scum’s going to walk up to a cop and say, ‘Excuse me, officer, I’m running a meth lab in the church basement, would you mind taking me in?’ ”

  I reveled in the fantasy for just one moment. It was a beautiful dream. “That would make the job so much easier, though, wouldn’t it?”

  “Dream on. So, how’re you going to come at him? Because I got guys I can call who’ll scare him so bad he’ll roll over on his own mother.”

  “Let me think about it. And while I’m thinking, I’ll think about finding you some new friends.”

  Whip grinned. “No thanks. The one’s I got are just fine by me.” He read through the laminated menu deliberately. He was a cook, after all, and seemed to analyze it like a wine connoisseur would a rare wine list. Finally, he slid the menu across the table to me. I didn’t need it. It hadn’t changed since the diner opened. Everything on it was grease and carbohydrates.

  “Kinda shitty Pascoe not telling you about the memorial till now. What did he think you’d do? Show up dressed in a bear costume?”

  “He’s afraid I’ll ask too many questions. Pascoe’s all about the official, so he’s firmly on Farraday’s side. I’m unofficial. Add to that, Farraday’s got them all cowed. The archdiocese, no doubt, wants this to disappear fast, under the radar. A priest committing suicide, or so they think, no, they don’t want to even think about that. As far as Father Pascoe’s concerned, things are working out just peachy for him. He’s got a new job, a new office. He doesn’t want me rocking the boat.”

  Whip unfolded his napkin and spread it across his lap. “Then we’re just going to have to disappoint him. I’m going to be at that memorial, whether he likes it or not.”

  I smiled. “Everyone will be there, which means no one will be in the rectory.”

  Whip shook his head, smiled. “You may have been a cop, but you’ve got the mind of a criminal.”

  I shrugged. “You gotta know ’em to catch ’em.”

  “Cass, what’re you having?” Muna’s booming voice came from across the room. Warily, I turned, smiled, and watched as she snaked her ample frame around the closely placed tables; she headed straight for me. “Your usual?” she asked when she reached me, her Southern drawl conjuring up images of slow-rocking porch swings, tall glasses of sweet tea, and the smell of talcum. She eyed Whip with a mixture of lust and circumspection. “And who’s this strong, dark, mysterious man?”

  Whip extricated himself from the booth to shake Muna’s hand. “The name’s Charles Mayo, ma’am. Friends call me Whip.” He glanced at the nameplate on her chest. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Muna.”

  It looked as though Muna might faint dead away. The two stood th
ere staring at each other way too long to suit me. I cleared my throat loudly, hoping to break the spell. I’d been thwarted by a career-climbing priest already today, and Muna’s love life was low on my list of concerns. I wanted buttered toast. Whip squeezed back into the booth, looking very pleased with himself. I rolled my eyes.

  “Well, well,” Muna managed. “A gentleman. What can I get for you, Mr. Mayo?”

  Whip scanned the menu again and placed his order, a full breakfast fit for a fairytale giant.

  “And I’ll have toast,” I said, though Muna hadn’t yet gotten around to me. “And a cup of tea.” I was too keyed up to eat much; besides, if I planned to squeeze through Pascoe’s windows on Sunday, I needed to keep it wiry.

  Muna drew back as if I’d slapped her. “Toast and tea?” She slowly smoothed the creases out of her white apron. “No, ma’am. You need some meat on you, and I’m not walking all the way out to that kitchen and all the way back over here with just no toast and tea. When you see old Muna Lee Steele again, darlin’, I’ll be carting back bacon, eggs, and some hash browns with that toast, and you’ll drink a glass of whole milk with it.” I started to protest, but her hand went up to keep me quiet. “Hush! And you better eat every bite of it, too.” She smiled and winked at Whip, then turned on her heels, scowling at me over her shoulder, though there was no heat in the look. “Come in here looking like a stick woman. No, ma’am.” She yelled into the kitchen. “T.J.? Work up a full plate for Cassie. And express it. Toast and tea,” she grumbled. “Don’t that just beat all to Hell and back?” She disappeared into the kitchen. I massaged my forehead and daydreamed of faraway places.

  “I like her,” Whip said, smoothing his napkin. “Sturdy. Sassy. That’s my type.”

  I glared at him.

  He stared at me innocently. “What?”

  “Find your own sandbox,” I said.

  “Still territorial, I see. Never did want to share your marbles.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him.

  “And it wouldn’t hurt for you to dip your toe back into the sandbox. Seems a shame to waste all that good-looking on the guy who delivers your paper in the morning.”