“Yeah, I did. You can’t be chaplain for the Police Department, the Fire Department, AAs, Knights of Malta, and the Port of San Francisco for as long as I’ve been without having a few connections.”
He pulled on the corner of his scruffy beard. “But I’m telling you, Sister, I sure didn’t want to. I think if those young guys want to champion a cause, we owe it to them to let them do it and take the consequences of what they choose.”
From the vehemence in his usually jovial voice, Mary Helen knew that Andy Carr deeply felt what he was saying. “Why didn’t you?” she asked.
His hazel eyes softened. “I’ve been a priest for so long,” he said, almost as if he was just realizing the reason, “that when your bishop, himself, asks you to do something, if you can, you do it. You know what I mean, Sister? I guess it’s an old-fashioned kind of obedience.”
Mary Helen smiled sympathetically. She did know what he meant. They were both members of a vanishing breed.
“Besides,” he added with a chuckle, “when the archbishop called me he sounded so upset, I was afraid that if I didn’t do something, he’d go into cardiac arrest. And the Norm you know,” he said sheepishly, “to put it quite brutally, Sister, is better than the Norm you don’t!”
Mary Helen was tempted to cross Carr off her list right then, but she wanted to make absolutely certain. “You sound angry that Greg Johnson put you in an awkward position,” she said flatly.
“And you sound like a Perry Mason rerun.” For the first time, Andy Carr’s chuckle had a hollow ring.
Mary Helen felt her face flush. “I guess I do,” she admitted. “I’m just inquisitive.”
“No, Sister, not just inquisitive.” His eyes bored into hers. “If I remember correctly, you have an extraordinary talent not only for discovering dead bodies, but for stumbling on perps who did them in.”
Mary Helen wondered how to respond and was relieved when there was no need.
“But I tell you, Sister, in my case you are barking up the wrong cleric. You’re absolutely right that I was mad, hopping mad, at that kid for putting me in a very awkward position. But he’s not the first person, nor will he be the last, unfortunately, who’s done that.”
Mary Helen thought with abhorrence of all the stories that had surfaced recently in the Chronicle about priests. One had to work hard to discover God’s presence in the midst of all the scandal. Her dismay must have shown in her face.
“Fortunately, Sister, the guys I’ve pulled out of the fire are small potatoes compared to the ones you’re thinking about. Thank God!” He cleared his throat. “It’s hard to reconcile, isn’t it? Until you remember that there are no perfect people. Priest or no, we’re all sinful human beings. What is it that good old St. Paul says? That God chose what is foolish and what is weak in this world to confound the strong?
“And, while we’re on the subject, I don’t kill my fellow priests, or anybody else for that matter, because they are weak or sinful or because they get themselves into situations which I neither understand nor condone.
“Actually, I try my best to deal with each one of them with compassion. I hope with the same compassion that Christ showed in dealing with the publicans and the sinners of his day. I hope with the same compassion that Christ will one day show to me.”
Mary Helen caught the flash of innate benevolence in his intelligent eyes and knew that no one could doubt his innocence.
“Most of the guys are penitent and grateful,” he continued. “No, I take it back. All of them are penitent and grateful. Some of them are more vocal about it than others. But this Johnson kid? This guy was a whole different kettle of fish. He wouldn’t even admit that what he did might possibly have been imprudent. If anything, he acted as if my pulling strings somehow tainted his integrity, which in a way, I guess, it did. If it was up to me, I’d have let him have a taste of jail. It would put some teeth into his commitment, if you know what I mean.”
Carr gave a grudging chuckle. “He told the archbishop in front of me that it was his right to go to jail ‘for justice’s sake.’ Which is easy to say when there’s no chance of your staying there. I thought Norm was going to come unglued.” Carr shook his head.
“No, Sister, I wouldn’t kill anyone for his imprudence or even for his sinfulness. If I had killed that kid, which by the way I didn’t, it would have had nothing to do with the causes he supported or even for the sins he committed. If you’ll excuse my language, Sister, it would have been because the pompous little bastard was nothing more than a gosh darn grandstander! Half the people he met probably wanted to wring his neck.”
Father Carr gave an embarrassed little grin. “In answer to your original question, however, I did not kill Greg Johnson and I can’t imagine who did! Anything else you want to know?”
His question hung on the silent air waiting for Mary Helen to answer. For once, she was relieved to see Beverly and her cart slam through the swinging door with the makings of a cold buffet lunch.
“How about a picnic?” Mary Helen asked, thrusting a hastily made bologna sandwich toward Sister Eileen.
Eileen wrinkled her short nose. Her face was flushed and she was still puffing from her walk around the property. “I never eat bologna without potato chips,” she said.
“Well then, hurry up!” Mary Helen whispered although no one was in sight. “I want to get away before the rest arrive.”
“Get away from what?”
“Meet me at the picnic table next to the sycamore grove.”
“Is it in the shade?” Eileen asked, but Mary Helen pretended not to hear. This partial-deafness business was really quite handy.
“Now, what or who is it that we want to avoid?” Eileen straddled the attached bench. “Back there you were beginning to sound suspiciously like a James Bond movie.”
She set down chips, napkins, paper plates, and two cans of diet cola that she’d somehow managed to juggle all the way from the dining room. “I’m a regular Houdini,” she said, surveying her cache.
“I want to avoid them all.” Mary Helen watched Eileen pile chips on her bologna, add the top slice of bread, and then push. Although she had witnessed the ritual hundreds of times before, it always fascinated her.
“Delicious,” Eileen said, taking a crunchy bite.
“That walk surely did relax you,” Mary Helen snapped. “It’s as if you’ve completely forgotten our list.”
“Of course I haven’t.” Eileen broke off a crust for the blue jay perched at the end of the table, eyeing them. “Tell me what more you’ve found out.”
With a noisy flutter of wings, the bird scooped up the bread as if he were afraid that Eileen would change her mind. They watched him dart away.
“We agree that Laura is innocent, right?”
“Right. If she really did kill Greg, she’d have made up a much better alibi. Besides, under all that drama I think she is genuinely heartbroken by his death,” Mary Helen said.
“And Felicita?”
“No apparent motive. Besides, she’s too high-strung.”
“The mother?”
“I’ll have to call Kate and ask what she found out.” Mary Helen checked her wristwatch. “I’ll do it this evening when she gets home from work.”
“What about young Father Mike? Did you have a chance to talk with him?”
Mary Helen was relieved. Obviously the list was on Eileen’s mind. In fact she had it down pat. “No love lost between Greg and him, but he’s not mean enough,” she said, wasting no time on explanation.
Surely soon someone would spot the two of them on the secluded bench and join them. If not for their company, then for the fresh air and shade.
“Andy Carr?” Eileen was doctoring the second half of her bologna sandwich.
“He hasn’t the heart for murder,” Mary Helen said. “And no real motive.”
“Who’s left, then?” Eileen’s gray eyes were worried. “The monsignor, Ed Moreno, and Tom Harrington. I can’t imagine any of them killing tha
t young man.”
“I can’t either.” Mary Helen hated to admit it, but absolutely nothing was becoming clearer.
“Could it be someone we’ve yet to meet?” Eileen offered hopefully. “An acquaintance? Someone from school or work? Someone from his protesting past?”
“Laura said Greg never gave out their phone number, remember?” Mary Helen felt like the proverbial wet blanket.
“How long do you think the Sheriff’s Department can keep us sequestered at St. Colette’s? Three or four more days?”
The prospect of more days at the retreat center gave Mary Helen renewed impetus. “What about Beverly?” she said.
“Good choice,” Eileen agreed, “except that she wasn’t here when it happened.”
“Just because she went home that night, doesn’t mean she didn’t come back.”
Eileen frowned. “As far as we know, she hardly knew Greg Johnson. What would be her motive?”
“What is anyone’s motive?” Mary Helen snapped, then instantly regretted it. She felt frustrated, but Eileen must too. It wasn’t fair to be short with her.
“Sorry,” said sheepishly.
“Forgiven, old dear.” Eileen fed the jay another crust of bread. “You’ve heard of cabin fever, I know.”
Mary Helen nodded, wondering where this was going.
“I think we’re getting its cousin, mountaintop pyrexia.” Eileen popped a stray potato chip into her mouth. “Even poor Felicita. You haven’t forgotten her outburst in the dining room this morning?”
Mary Helen hadn’t forgotten it. Neither, she suspected, had Ed Moreno. It was extraordinary for the outgoing priest to be silenced at all by anyone, let alone by meek, accommodating Felicita.
“Beware the fury of the patient man. In this case, woman,” Mary Helen corrected herself. “Although I think she felt more frustration than fury.”
“My point, exactly! Mountaintop pyrexia! And the only way out is to discover the murderer, the quicker the better!”
“Maybe we are being a bit foolhardy,” Mary Helen said, more for form than from actual reluctance. Eileen winked. “When in the name of all that’s good and holy has that ever stopped either one of us?” She began to gather up the empty cans and plates. “How shall we approach the remainder of the list? Each take a priest? Then whoever’s finished first tackle the final one?”
“Let’s not overlook Beverly.”
Eileen’s gray eyebrows shot up. “I think Beverly is a two-woman job.”
Without further discussion they decided to question the cook together.
“Which priest do you want?” Eileen asked.
“Good afternoon, Sisters.” A deep, sonorous voice floated out from the sycamore grove, cutting off Mary Helen’s answer. “Monsignor! Good afternoon to you.” She hoped she didn’t sound as caught as she felt.
“Dibs,” Eileen said under her breath.
The old man smiled down benignly. “Ah, both a bench and shade. May I join you?”
Eileen slid over to make room.
“I’ll just take these things to the trash can.” Mary Helen gathered up Eileen’s neat pile. “Bees and bugs, you know.” She swatted at an imaginary insect.
The monsignor made a halfhearted but gentleman-like stab at helping, which Mary Helen deftly declined. “I’m sure you and Sister Eileen will find plenty to talk about until I get back,” she said.
“Yes indeed.” Eileen smiled her cat-in-the-cream smile.
The monsignor lowered his tall, stately frame onto the wooden bench, looking a little bewildered, but pleasant enough.
Poor devil, Mary Helen thought, wishing she were a bird on the bench. He has no idea what he’s in for. But neither do I, she reflected, wondering about whom she’d bump into first, Father Moreno or Father Harrington.
She was picking her way across the lawn when an unsuspecting Ed Moreno climbed out of the swimming pool and stood, dripping wet, in her path.
Searching through the piles of junk in St. Colette’s sheds and storage areas for anything that might provide a clue was a much bigger job than Bob Little had anticipated. Straightening up, he checked his watch. Soon it would be time for his meeting with Loody.
Unfortunately, Kemp and he had uncovered nothing more than rusty tools, broken boards, stacks of torn window screens, and at least one hundred varieties of bugs. Nothing that could in any way point to the murderer. A couple more days and the case would be cold.
Anyone seeing Kemp would guess that he’d been crawling through caves. Dirt encrusted his flaxen hair, and his face and shirt were smeared with sweat and who knew what else.
Little imagined that he looked about the same. His stomach growled. Great! Not only was he hot, tired, and dirty, but now he was hungry too! He kicked at a stack of clay flowerpots partially covered with an old black plastic bag. They clattered to the ground.
“Find something?” Kemp asked hopefully.
“Not a damn thing. Only more junk!” Little surveyed the reddish-brown shards. “Hell, you wouldn’t need that many pots if you were replanting the Garden of Eden!”
He rubbed his forearm over his sweaty brow. He could feel the grime. “God,” he said, “I need a vacation.”
“How about a lunch break?” Kemp asked, obviously trying to sound upbeat.
Little dusted off his filthy hands. “Sounds good. I’ll wash up and call the office.”
Kemp looked puzzled.
“I need Crime Scene to examine Beverly Benton’s trunk. I’ll meet you in the dining room after I talk to them.”
When Little arrived, Kemp, too, had made an attempt to clean up. Only one or two cobwebs still clung to the back of his shirt. He was seated next to Loody, whose tan and green uniform was fresh and crisp. For some reason the contrast between the two men infuriated Little.
“Hi, Bob.” Loody glanced up from a mountainous turkey sandwich. “Find anything the other guys didn’t?”
The smirk on his sunburned face stoked Little’s rage. “No luck,” he said, fighting down the urge to punch Loody in the nose.
“Don’t forget we need to talk.” Loody bit into his sandwich.
Was Little reading it wrong or was Eric Loody gloating? What the hell had he uncovered?
At one-thirty sharp Bob Little stood outside St. Jude’s dining room. His hastily eaten sandwich formed a cold lump in his stomach.
“What do you have, Eric?” he asked when finally Loody appeared. He hoped he sounded open and receptive. Why was it so easy to forget that they were on the same side?
Deliberately, Loody pulled himself up to his full height so that he topped Little by three or four inches. The narrow agate eyes shone with a foxlike sharpness that made Little think of Red Riding Hood.
What is this all about? he wondered, moving back.
“I’ve been talking to Beverly. The cook,” Loody added unnecessarily. “She’s been telling me some very interesting things. Apparently you don’t remember her.”
He waited while Little scoured his memory. Beverly, actually her bulk, was familiar, but to save his life he couldn’t remember where he had seen her before. Was it a murder case? He’d investigated so many over the years that sometimes witnesses tended to blur.
The smirk on Loody’s face made his memory search more frantic. What does he know that I should know? Little wondered uncomfortably.
“I can’t remember where I’ve seen her,” Little admitted finally. “What did she tell you?”
Eric Loody eyed him maliciously. “I bet you’d remember if you tried,” he taunted.
Unexpectedly, Little felt the anger swell until his head throbbed with it. “God damn it, Eric! I’m telling you, I don’t remember the woman and I haven’t got time for guessing games. Now, what the hell did she tell you? If you have anything, let me hear it!”
Loody’s face darkened and his lips grew pale and tight. For a split second, Little thought that he might stomp away. But obviously the disclosure gave him too much pleasure. “She told me she is sure that
little Miss Laura is the one that stabbed Greg Johnson.”
Could Beverly be right? Little wondered. In his mind he had ruled out Laura Purcell. Was he so far off? “Motive?” he managed to ask. “What was her motive?”
“Jealousy—according to Beverly. She claims that Laura went ballistic if Greg even looked at another girl and he did, or so says Beverly. She can cite chapter and verse.” He gave a hard, cruel bark.
“Has she any proof? Hell, she’s only known Laura a few weeks. And did she know Greg at all?”
“Once you talk to her you’ll discover she’s a very keen observer of human nature.” Loody gave a knowing smile.
Little studied him skeptically. “I did talk to her,” he said. He had been with the woman for almost an hour. Usually people opened up to him, even those who had things to hide. Why not Beverly? Why hadn’t she told him about her suspicions?
“You’ve got to win her confidence.” Loody’s obnoxious grin was back in place. “Yes, sir, Bob, she sees plenty. Told me a lot of interesting things.”
Bob Little could feel Loody’s hard eyes on him. “Yes sirree, Bob, the lady knows puh-lenty.”
Little’s mind raced. What was Loody hinting at? Where had he seen Beverly?
A quick, sharp laugh rang out from the dining room. Something about it was familiar. He heard a door open. Turning, he locked eyes with Beverly. All at once it returned to him like a heavyweight punch in the stomach. The air left him. He steadied himself against the building. His ears were ringing.
“You know what I mean?” Loody’s words sounded far, far away.
He did know what Eric Loody meant. Sure! He knew Beverly Benton. He also knew who had killed Greg Johnson. And with absolute certainty he knew exactly what he must do about it.
Father Ed Moreno stood on the lawn beside the swimming pool facing Sister Mary Helen. Without warning, he shook himself like a dog after a bath.
If he thinks a few drops of water will put me off, he’s got another think coming. She sniffed and gave him her friendliest smile. “How-do?” she called.
Death Goes on Retreat Page 17