Cecilian Vespers

by Anne Emery

  “Hold on a moment while I call Mrs. Kelly,” I said. Brennan raised his left eyebrow in an unspoken question. “We’re just good friends,” I assured him.

  She answered on the first ring. “Mrs. Kelly, this is Monty Collins. Could you give me the phone number for Luigi Petrucci again?” I waited for her to retrieve the number and I wrote it down. “Thanks.”

  “You haven’t seen Father Burke, have you, Mr. Collins?”

  “Father Burke? Is he among the missing, Mrs. Kelly?”

  “His Grace was here. And not a priest in the house to greet him!”

  “Oh? Did they know the bishop was coming by?”

  “Well, no. He dropped in unannounced!”

  “Look at it this way: it’s a good thing he didn’t drop in and find Monsignor O’Flaherty and Father Burke loafing around the rectory doing nothing. I’m sure they’re out doing good works, and the bishop will be pleased.”

  “Well, I suppose it’s possible,” the housekeeper allowed, “though His Grace made a little joke.”

  “Oh?”

  “He said: ‘Where’s yer man? Out at the Midtown Tavern?’”

  “The Midtown! The bishop said that?” Burke’s eyes bored into me from across the desk. “About Monsignor O’Flaherty? Good heavens!” Burke gave a bark of laughter.

  “No, no,” Mrs. Kelly hastened to explain, “he wasn’t talking about Monsignor!”

  “Oh, not Monsignor. Right. I’m sorry. Anyway, I’ll let you go. Thanks, Mrs. Kelly.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Ever the defence lawyer,” Brennan remarked after I had hung up. After he departed, I dialled the number of the apartment where Lou Petrucci was staying. A young man answered and said he was expecting his uncle home in half an hour or so.

  I was waiting outside the Park Vic, a big apartment block on South Park Street, when a black American sedan with Jersey plates pulled up in front. The man who emerged was compact and middle-aged; he wore black-framed glasses and had thick dark hair brushed back from his forehead. Luigi Petrucci. I hailed him, walked over to his car, explained who I was. He greeted me in a heavy New Jersey accent.

  “Lou, perhaps you know why I’m here.”

  He gave me a wary look. “You’re asking everybody where they were when the priest was killed?”

  “There’s that, of course. So tell me: where were you that Friday afternoon?”

  “I was having lunch with Georgie. My nephew, Giorgio.”

  “Where?”

  “The Lighthouse Tavern.”

  “What time did you get there?”

  “Maybe twelve-thirty, one.”

  “And how long did you stay?”

  His eyes on mine were wide, unblinking. “I can’t remember exactly. We were there for a couple hours, a few hours, something like that.”

  “You had some trouble in the past, Lou.”

  No reply.

  “We’ve had to do some background checks on the people here. You understand, I’m sure.”

  “The fire.”

  “Right.”

  “I was crazy.”

  “But you did time in prison, didn’t you? You were found guilty.”

  “Yeah, what happened was, it made me crazy what they did to that church.”

  “Which was what?”

  “You know who built that church? Three generations of Petruccis, that’s who. It took nearly twenty years to complete the project, from the 1890s to 1912. My great-great-grandfather started on the stonework the same week he arrived on American soil from Italy, my great-grandfather finished it. My grandfather was called whenever the walls needed repairs. My family built Santa Chiara’s! That was our parish, and our lives revolved around it. You should have seen that building as it was then. A knockout. Bowl you right over when you walked by it. House of God? Oh, yeah, big time. And inside, Madonn’. Gorgeous high altar. You know, the altar and the elaborate kind of structure built up behind it, all white spires and pinnacles and things. Reaching up to heaven. It’s called a reredos. They took a jackhammer to it, those pricks! Tore it right out of there. Goodbye, Charlie.”

  Petrucci’s voice had risen, and so had the colour in his face.

  “The church had columns and a big high ceiling, not arched but rounded. You may have seen Italian churches with ceilings like that. And it was decorated with frescoes. Fuck ’em. Gone. Well, I rescued the statue of Santa Chiara. Saint Clare. Beautiful statue — I’ll bet she was a babe in real life. Anyway, know what they did to the church? Lowered the fucking ceiling, put in a new one made of acoustic tiles. About ten feet up. You may be wondering what they put up in front, once they hustled the altar out of there. One of those cheapo wooden tables was shoved out into the congregation, and behind that the so-called sanctuary is all covered over with cheap wood panelling. Looks like some guy’s rec room. You expect to see a bunch of bowling trophies. But they didn’t stop there. They yanked the pews and the kneelers out and replaced them with folding chairs, all at angles facing the chintzy table where the Mass is celebrated. Yeah, big celebration. You know when it starts ’cause that’s when you hear the guitars and the tambourines, and the liturgical dancers start swivellin’ their hips up at the front. Oh, and you see the plus sign coming in. You can’t say it’s a crucifix because Jesus isn’t on it, and you can’t recognize it as a Catholic cross because the sides are all the same length. A plus sign. They bundle it out of there after Mass, so, as far as I can tell, there’s nothing in the interior of that building that looks like a church.

  “And that’s the way they want it!” Petrucci pointed a trembling finger in my face. “I did some reading after the desecration of that church and I found out the whole plan was to renovate or build these places that wouldn’t look like churches! Places that could be used for all kinds of other meetings and stuff. That’s why the cheap, moveable seating. You had these guys who weren’t even Catholic, and who didn’t like Catholic art or architecture, making up theories about what new Catholic worship spaces — I kid you not, worship spaces — should look like. And what they shouldn’t look like was the house of God. I’m not imagining this stuff. You can look it up! That’s why I fucking torched it!”

  “And you’d do it again.”

  “No, I wouldn’t do it again! If I did it again, I’d do more jail time. My wife would pack up and leave me. And those committees would just put it all back together the way they had it. No sweat, it’s just cheap materials after all. Not like replacing the Sistine Chapel. I never want to see Santa Chiara’s again. We go to a different church now, a great old Gothic place. They’re threatening to close it. Over my dead body!”

  “When did all these renovation theories come into play?”

  “When do you think? The sixties and seventies. And it’s still going on.”

  “So it started after Vatican II.”

  “What? You think I’m the guy that whacked Father Schellenberg because he was Vatican II?”

  “It doesn’t look good for you, setting fire to a church because you didn’t agree with the new policies.”

  “The new policies were shit. They were more nails in the coffin for the church after the Vatican Council. People can’t even worship properly in these places. They aren’t kneeling there in adoration of God, they’re sitting around having a meeting with each other. Hunkering in under that low ceiling. And Santa Chiara’s isn’t even the worst of them. There are churches out there that look like clamshells. I saw a picture of one that looks like a golf ball. I think it’s up here in Canada. But guess what? It’s not the Vatican’s fault. Look at the papers from the Council. Nowhere did they call for all this trashing of the churches. They said the opposite. Churches and sacred art were to be preserved, not thrown on the garbage heap. So I don’t blame Vatican II for any of that.”

  “Do you blame Reinhold Schellenberg?”

  “Schellenberg wasn’t the man in charge; the buck didn’t stop with him. Now, are you finished? You’ve got me steamed and I need a drink.”
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  “So,” I told Burke on the phone, “things won’t look good for Lou if his alibi doesn’t hold up or if the police find anything tying him to Father Schellenberg. He’ll need a good lawyer.”

  “Someone other than you. Bit of a conflict of interest there. Speaking of lawyers, you’ll be interested to hear that Andrew Avellino, the saint favoured by Enrico Sferrazza-Melchiorre, was a lawyer.”

  “Another one! Like Saint Charles Borromeo.”

  “As a matter of fact, he was a friend of Borromeo.”

  “You’re making this up!”

  “No.”

  “These guys all knew each other?” “These two did. And there’s more. I did some quick research. Like Charles Borromeo, Andrew was attacked by people who were pissed off by his efforts at reform. He survived.”

  “Who was being reformed this time?”

  “You’ll love this, Monty. There was, in Naples, a convent that was something of a hoor house.”

  “A brothel run by the nuns! I’m going to write the screenplay!”

  “I’ll do the soundtrack. Anyway, Andrew succeeded in restoring celibate discipline to this convent of ill repute, and was beaten by a crowd of men who had been thrown out.”

  “If all these scandalous events made it into the Sunday sermons, the churches would be full.”

  “No doubt. This Andrew was apparently a handsome lad and was beset by female admirers, so he shaved his head. Or, to be more correct, he took the ecclesiastical tonsure. This was before he became a lawyer, and then a priest. He was Sicilian.”

  “Enrico is part Sicilian. Which may account for his affinity with the saint.”

  “Break time,” I remarked to Brennan the next day, as we enjoyed a lunch of lobster sandwiches at the Bluenose Restaurant. It was Friday, December 13, the last day of classes at the Schola Cantorum Sancta Bernadetta until January. “Do you think your students can get their home choirs in shape in time for Christmas?”

  “With what they’ve learned at my school, they’ll sound like the heavenly host.”

  “So. What do we do now?”

  “Now we act as if the murder is solved, the case closed. I think we should announce to the group that Gadkin-Falkes has confessed. It’s Christmas. I intend to leave them all with the impression that they have nothing more to fear. Let the innocent sleep soundly in their beds, and the guilty believe he is off the hook. With the pressure off, new information may float to the surface.”

  “It will be interesting to see who returns for session two after Christmas. Or, should I say, who doesn’t come back.”

  “Yes. As I’ve said before, I find it curious that the killer didn’t slip out of the country immediately after the murder.”

  “We have no idea how that individual’s mind works, whoever he is.”

  “Interestingly enough, all of the students have told me they’re coming back. Including those without alibis. But then, with one exception, those without alibis are innocent! A couple of them aren’t even leaving for Christmas. Billy Logan is staying on. He didn’t say as much, but I got the impression he and his wife have nowhere else to go right now. They may even have lost their house in the States; it’s not clear. But they have free rent here for two more months. And Kurt Bleier is staying in the province. Apparently, he has family in Lunenburg and will be spending the holiday there. Petrucci is coming back whether he wants to or not; he’s already committed himself to bringing his wife and his sister — she being the mother of the Saint Mary’s football player — to Halifax for January and part of February. So, we’ll see what the rest of our suspects do: Enrico, Jan Ford, and Fred Mills. If Freddy surfaces in Argentina, we’ll know we’ve got it solved.”

  “Of course, if one of these people is the killer —”

  “What do you mean, Monty, if?”

  “Well, there’s always the possibility that the murder was committed by someone who’s not at the schola.”

  “Who, for instance? Someone from the Saint Cecilia Concert Series? Or is it a random hit you have in mind, a lowlife who just happened upon Schellenberg in the church, fell upon him in a rage, and inadvertently recreated a saint’s death scene?”

  “All right, all right, Father, I hear you. As I started to say, assuming one of the schola suspects is guilty, wouldn’t we all be better off if he disappeared forever?”

  “If he doesn’t come back, we’ll never solve it.”

  “If he doesn’t come back, he won’t kill anyone else here.”

  “You and I both know Reinhold Schellenberg was a unique target.

  I’m betting the killer won’t go after anyone else.”

  “That’s my thinking as well. Let’s hope we’re right. But, Brennan, don’t get yourself too excited about solving the murder. The killer’s hatred of Reinhold Schellenberg didn’t take root here in Nova Scotia; the motivation comes from another time and another place.”

  The next morning, Saturday, I picked up Normie for breakfast. I had promised to take her to Jimmy’s Homestead Restaurant for pancakes. Really, she was angling for one of Jimmy’s prescription-strength chocolate milkshakes. When we headed out in the car, she reminded me that I wasn’t the only one who had promised her something. Father Burke had told her he had a collection of holy cards — cards featuring prayers and pictures of saints, angels, and other upholders of the faith — that he would be happy to give her. Just drop in anytime. Anytime could mean right now, couldn’t it? I was powerless to resist the imploring eyes of my little girl. We pulled up outside the rectory, and I knocked on the door. Mrs. Kelly appeared.

  “Is Father Burke in, Mrs. Kelly?”

  “Well …” She looked uncertain. “I think he’s still up there.”

  “He may be sleeping in. He doesn’t have Mass till noon, I know. We can come back later, right Normie?”

  Disappointment was written all over her face. “Aw!” She leaned towards the housekeeper and lowered her voice: “I have Father Burke under investigation.”

  The housekeeper’s jaw dropped. “For what?” Her eyes swivelled to me in alarm.

  “To see if he’s an angel,” Normie confided.

  “An angel? Father Burke?”

  “Why ever not, Mrs. Kelly?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  “I … I don’t …”

  “It’s a surprise,” my daughter said urgently. “He doesn’t know, so please don’t tell him. He promised to give me some old-fashioned holy cards with angels on them. I pretended — I didn’t lie — um, he doesn’t know I want to study them as part of my research. Right, Daddy?”

  “Sure, sweetheart.”

  Mrs. Kelly looked lost in a world not of her own making. Then her body jerked spasmodically. “Oh! Father!”

  The angel of the Lord had appeared amongst us, groggy, barefoot, and unshaven, wearing old black jeans and an ancient grey T-shirt that barely stretched across his muscular frame. “Mrs. Kelly.”

  “Yes, Father?”

  “Is there something wrong with the water here today? It was cold when I took my shower, and I had to go back under the bedclothes to recover.”

  That’s not all he’s recovering from, I said to myself. He saw us then. “Normie! Are you here to see me?”

  “Kinda. And Daddy wants to see you too. To, uh, invite you to breakfast.”

  “Father,” Mrs. Kelly began, “about the water. There are workmen in the basement, so maybe they turned off the water heater. I don’t know …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Ah. Now Normie, why don’t you give me about five minutes to get dressed.”

  “And wear something warm. Bring your gloves,” commanded Normie, motherly instincts finely honed already. “There’s a chance of flurries, and wind gusts up to forty kilometres an hour!”

  “Right. And wasn’t I supposed to be finding something for you?”

  “Holy cards. No particular reason. I just like them.”

  “That’s it. I know exactly where to find them. I’ll bring them down. Breakfast, Montague?”


  “Yes. You look a bit peckish.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Twenty minutes later we were sitting in Jimmy’s Homestead having breakfast. Normie had guzzled her milkshake; her pancakes sat untouched on the plate. The holy cards, about four by two inches in size, with white borders, were spread out in front of her. She eyed Burke surreptitiously as she studied the images. One, with a pale pink background, showed the figure of a woman in a voluminous cream-coloured robe, cinched at the waist; there were white feathered wings on her back; she had long brown hair and she gazed lovingly at a boy and girl playing at her feet. Another card depicted an androgynous figure with long, wavy blond hair and translucent green-white wings suspended in a blue sky with fluffy clouds around him or her. I did not see anything that resembled the black-haired, black-eyed, unshaven, unambiguously masculine figure across the table from me. He lit up a smoke; was his hand a bit shaky?

  “A little too much of the water of life last night, Brennan?”

  “Daddy, you’re bad. You’re saying Father Burke was drinking too much booze! You know that’s not true.”

  “Of course not, sweetheart.”

  “But,” she said, examining Burke, “you do look a little, well, like a tough guy today, Father.”

  “Don’t you be worrying now, Normie, I’ll be all tidied up by the time of the noon Mass.” He turned to me. “Speaking, though, of priests gone bad, I came upon another interesting fact about Enrico’s favourite saint, Andrew Avellino. I told you that, in addition to being a priest, he was a lawyer.”

  “Right.”

  “But he gave up the law after he committed perjury in court.”

  “Didn’t any of these saints just sit around being holy? Have we got any perjurers in our own case yet?”

  “The closest thing to perjury is Brother Robin’s probably false confession to the police.”

  “You say ‘probably.’”

  “I haven’t written him off entirely, Monty. There’s something there, I don’t know what.”