Bad Samaritan

by Aimée Thurlo

  Since the Garcias didn’t seem to do anything halfway, Sister Agatha was sure that the life insurance Victoria had mentioned was substantial. “Living next to them, did you get the impression that Robert Jr. and his dad were close?” Sister Agatha asked Kathy.

  “That’s a tough one to answer,” Kathy said after a pause. “I think RJ was a little intimidated by his father, but he was proud of him, too. At least that’s the impression I got at the games.”

  “What games?”

  “You know, the church league. Robert plays—played—on the church’s softball team. I’d go to watch my son-in-law, who’s one heck of a second baseman, and I can tell you that RJ and Victoria would cheer louder than anyone else there whenever Robert got a hit.”

  Sister Agatha smiled. “That part of their lives sounds normal, at least.”

  Kathy glanced at her watch. “You’ll have to excuse me, Sister, I have to get ready to leave. I need to be at the community center in a half hour. I teach knitting classes two days a week.”

  Noting the time and aware that she was supposed to meet Frank at the Java Shack soon, Sister Agatha thanked Kathy and headed to town. Forced to choose a parking spot three buildings away in order to provide tree shade for Pax, she left him by the bike and ordered him to wait. With that command, Pax was free to move about as long as he remained in close proximity to the Harley.

  As she went through the doors, the scent of coffee and fresh rolls, and other wonderful smells, like cinnamon, filled the air. Spotting movement out of the corner of her eye, she turned and saw Frank wave from one of the round parquet-topped wooden tables. He stood as she joined him.

  “I’m sorry I’m a few minutes late,” she said.

  “Not a problem. It gave me a chance to enjoy my coffee and think.”

  “I’m surprised to see you here. You were always a no-frills type of guy.”

  “Guess I’ve been spoiled by twenty-first-century innovations. I grew up drinking wimpy coffee boiled over a campfire. Now the beans are roasted and pressurized by thousand-dollar stainless-steel monster machines, and I feel cheated unless I get coffee that’ll keep me awake for three full days,” he said, pointing to the steaming cup.

  “Boiled coffee eats up the walls of your stomach,” she said, then, with a smile, added, “I guess we all have our vices.”

  “Even you?” Seeing her nod, he said, “A nun with vices? ’Fess up. What’s yours?”

  “Chocolate. White chocolate in particular. It’s my weakness.”

  “Hold that thought.” He went to the counter and ordered a white chocolate iced mocha java with extra whipped cream. Moments later, he placed it in front of her, complete with straw. “Give that a try.”

  After thanking him, she sipped the cool drink. “I’ve died and gone to heaven,” she sighed with a happy smile.

  Marquez laughed. “Okay, Sister, now that you’ve been properly bribed, it’s time for some straight talk. I read the report you called in about the hit-and-run attempt on a transient known as Scout. I understand you pulled him out of the flood canal, but that’s the only official news I’ve received dealing with your investigation. I want to know what else you’ve got.”

  She gave him details of what she suspected Scout might have seen and why she thought the killer had targeted him. She concluded with a quick overview of her other inquiries, including her suspicion that Victoria had scored big with Robert’s life insurance policy. “I’d really love to know how much that payoff’s going to be,” she finished.

  “Toward the high end of seven figures,” he responded.

  “That’s a lot of motive,” she said, then, after a beat, added, “but considering what her housekeeper told me about her dislike for guns, maybe I should be looking elsewhere.”

  “It’s too soon to discount her as a suspect. Victoria Garcia doesn’t have a secure alibi for the time of death—and the housekeeper might be lying on her behalf.”

  “Good points,” she said. “Next on my agenda is taking a closer look at Al Russo.”

  “You think he’s a serious player?”

  “I don’t know, but his name sure comes up a lot. He also seems pretty close to the family for an outsider.”

  “I know he worked the picnic crowd, campaigning, on the Fourth. He also shared some hot dogs with a few of the teens from a local youth program, Second Chance. I understand he sponsors several boys—all one-time offenders who were given community service as probation. That program seems to be doing a good job keeping the kids out of trouble, too,” he said.

  “So he can account for his time?” Sister Agatha asked.

  “Not for every single minute, no, but under the circumstances I would have been far more concerned if he could. That’s the kind of thing a suspect does if he has something to hide.”

  “There’s something else I wanted you to know,” she said, then told him about the monastery’s closing. “So I’m going to be pushing myself hard to find answers quickly, Frank. I don’t have a choice.”

  “Just be careful not to jump to conclusions. Speed is the enemy in a police investigation. That’s what I’ve told the Garcias, too. They want instant answers, and that’s not the way things work.”

  “Speaking of the Garcias, I’m glad you’re not afraid to be seen with me,” she said and went on to tell him about the pressure she’d heard the family was exerting on community members.

  “They’re not happy with me, either. My supervisor in Santa Fe got a call from Mayor Garcia. Somebody apparently told him that Tom and I spent two weeks at Quantico last year taking a special law enforcement seminar. JD claimed that was a clear conflict of interest and I should be taken off the case.”

  “But you’re still in charge?”

  “You bet. My chief knows that I’ve always played it straight with him and that I would have said something if there had been a conflict of any kind.” He finished his coffee. “Thanks for the info on this Scout character, Daniel Perea. I’ll approach him carefully if we cross paths.” He stood. “I better get going, Sister.”

  “Me, too,” she said, finishing the last drop of coffee, then using her finger to wipe a smattering of leftover whipped cream from the side of the paper cup. “Thanks again for the treat.”

  They reached the door together, and Marquez held it open, then followed her out. “Let’s do this again soon, Sister. Exchanging information doesn’t have to be an unpleasant process.”

  Seeing her as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, Pax, still half a block away, stood and barked, his tail wagging. Sister Agatha smiled. “Come, boy.”

  As Pax joined her, she watched Marquez walk toward his police car. Frank had just stepped off the sidewalk when another vehicle suddenly pulled in right behind his unit, blocking him. Mayor Garcia got out, then stepped between Marquez and the driver’s side door, preventing him from getting in.

  Sister Agatha stood frozen to the spot, watching, her hand on the dog’s collar.

  “Are you goldbricking with the village snoop, or just scraping the bottom of the barrel looking for help? I thought you could do this job on your own, Marquez,” JD said, challenging him.

  Marquez’s gaze locked with JD’s. “Guess they had it right in Santa Fe, Mr. Mayor. You are as stupid as you look. If I were you I’d be careful about interfering with a police investigation. It’s bad politics,” Frank said in a deadly monotone.

  “It’s you who better start doing your job. Close this case!”

  “Move back,” Marquez ordered.

  “A word of warning. Unless you’re looking forward to a change in careers, don’t screw with me,” JD growled, then stepped back.

  “Don’t ever threaten me,” Marquez said, his voice barely a whisper.

  “Look at it as helpful advice.”

  As Frank turned sideways and reached for the door handle, JD shoved him in the back.

  In the blink of an eye, Frank regained his balance and whirled around. Grabbing JD’s forearm and wrist, he slammed him backward into t
he car door. He then applied pressure to a spot on the back of the mayor’s hand until JD groaned in pain and sagged to his knees.

  “Oops. I see tears in your eyes, Mr. Mayor. Allergies?” Marquez whispered and stepped back, letting go of the man’s hand.

  JD straightened up quickly. “Allergies, yeah,” he said in a voice loud enough to carry. Stepping away hastily, he hurried into the café without looking back.

  “See you soon, Sister,” Frank said pleasantly, then climbed into his car.

  As Frank drove away, Sister Agatha kept her hand on Pax, whose body had tensed considerably. “Relax, Pax. The mayor could use a bite or two, but you’re not a police dog anymore. Live up to your name, my friend.”

  She continued to speak softly to him, and the dog relaxed by the time they reached the motorcycle. She was just fastening the strap on her helmet when Jay Jaramillo pulled up next to her in his plumber’s van and waved.

  Sister Agatha greeted him with a quick hello. She knew Jay well, having seen him often at the church’s rectory doing work for Father Mahoney.

  “Ya going to the game tonight, Sister?” he called out. “We’re playing the Presbyterians. Those suckers are tough, and we need a cheering section full of people who know how to pray big-time.”

  Remembering that Robert had played in the church’s league, she smiled and nodded. When people were having fun, they lowered their guard. Tonight’s game might be the perfect time to do some more snooping.

  “I’ll be there,” she said. “Count on it!”

  12

  IT WAS ALMOST SEVEN THIRTY IN THE EVENING WHEN SISTER Agatha pulled up to the baseball field adjacent to the high school. At least two dozen vehicles were parked against the fence. About a hundred fans were in the three sets of bleachers, one behind each dugout and one back of home plate.

  Teams from the different churches in town had formed a slow-pitch softball league and played each other at least twice during the summer. From what she’d heard, there was a longstanding rivalry between First Presbyterian and St. Augustine. Yet even when these two teams were competing, the games remained good-natured fun—most of the time.

  She walked along the fence with Pax toward the bleachers on the first base side, where the St. Augustine dugout was located tonight. Sister Agatha soon spotted Father Mahoney standing with a bat in his hand. The teams didn’t have complete uniforms, only matching caps and short-sleeved T-shirts with the name of their church on the front and a number on the back. Father Rick, a big, muscular former professional wrestler, was talking to Smitty, who was the Presbyterian team’s pitcher. The rest of the Presbyterian team was out on the field, their coach warming up the infield, hitting ground balls for them to catch and throw to first.

  Smitty walked to the pitcher’s mound as Sister Agatha and Pax took a seat in the bottom row of bleachers next to Frances Williams, Father Mahoney’s housekeeper. The view was perfect, with the top of the fence even with the roof of the dugout below them.

  “Hey, Sister!” Frances greeted. In her late sixties, Frances was endowed with boundless energy.

  As Father Mahoney went up to bat, both of them cheered. “Yell louder,” Frances told her. “Father Rick’s a great infielder—when the ball’s hit within reach—but he can’t run worth a hoot, and when he’s at the plate, he doesn’t have a prayer beating the throw unless he hits it well out of the infield. Maybe if he hears us cheering, he’ll connect and send one over the fence. With those arms and shoulders, he’s got more power than anyone else on the team.”

  They both cheered as enthusiastically as possible, and Father Mahoney hit the ball hard. Unfortunately, it popped almost straight up. The ball went so high it was hard to follow, but that didn’t seem to bother the defense. Smitty made the catch about halfway between the mound and home plate. Frances sat back and sighed as Father Rick jogged back to the dugout.

  “He really does try,” Frances said. “He had one of the high school kids helping him with his base running and getting the jump on the ball. It’s a good thing they’re playing slow pitch. He’s so slow.”

  The woman on the other side of Frances chuckled. “My husband is the one with the potbelly in center field. I love him, but, frankly, none of them are very good. If they win more than two games a season, it’s a good year. Of course, they just play for fun,” she said. “Well, mostly,” she corrected. “A few of the players are hard-core competitive, and they can get a little carried away at times.”

  The woman smiled as Sister Agatha introduced herself. “I already knew who you are. You and that dog are practically famous around here, Sister,” she said, then, extending her hand, added, “I’m Brenda Hayes.”

  As the softball game continued, Sister Agatha noticed how many people in the bleachers, and not just above the St. Augustine dugout, were wearing red ball caps with the Garcia slogan—TFC, Time for Change. Even Brenda was wearing one.

  “I noticed your Garcia campaign cap,” Sister Agatha commented with a pleasant smile.

  “It’s Monty Allen’s campaign now,” she said somberly. “Keeping the caps and the slogan was a great way to honor Robert, don’t you think? He was a really good Catholic, Sister,” she added. “He never missed Mass.”

  There was a loud crack and a cheer, and Sister Agatha turned back to watch. One of the Catholic players had hit the ball deep into right center field, and the crowd was on its feet. The right fielder raced over, leaped, and made a spectacular grab up against the fence—the third out, which ended the inning.

  Cheers went up from the Presbyterian fans, and the spectators around her, including Frances, groaned.

  Brenda glanced over at Sister Agatha, her attention diverted during the break as the Catholic team once again took the field. “The worst thing I think anyone could have said about Robert is that he was a poor sport at times. His problem was that he loved beer and softball, and he didn’t usually wait until the game was over to have a drink. Whenever we were losing—which was most of the time—he’d have one beer right after the other. Then came the arguing and shoving, just like in professional baseball. His teammates would back him up—loyalty and all that—but it sure got ugly a few times. He was ejected from the game twice this year already, and I heard the team got a warning about his behavior from the league directors.”

  “All that at church league games?” Sister Agatha asked, finding it hard to believe what she was hearing.

  “You bet, Sister. Calvary Baptist won’t even play us anymore. They don’t drink at all, you know?”

  As Sister Agatha made a mental note to ask Smitty about Robert’s history on the softball diamond, the team on the field began warming up, throwing the ball around. While the Presbyterian coach spoke to the umpire about something, Sister Agatha stood and looked around. She needed to find someone else to question before the next batter came up to the plate.

  Sister Agatha was moving along the bleachers when someone behind her yelled, “Look out!”

  The ball hit her on the shoulder, pushing her sideways. She fell onto the bleachers, ripping her sleeve as she slammed her elbows and knees on the wooden bench.

  Cries of concern erupted from all around her, even from across the diamond and the other bleachers. Untwisting her habit, she sat up slowly, rubbing the sore spot, and concern quickly turned to cheers and applause.

  “Sister Agatha, are you okay?” Frances asked, hurrying over.

  “I’m fine—but where did that ball come from?” she muttered, still trying to make sense out of what had happened. “Nobody was at bat, were they?”

  Mike Herrera, who’d been playing second base, was now standing in front of the dugout, looking up. “Sorry, Sister. I was making a warm-up throw to first, and the ball just took off on me.” He gave her a little smile, but the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. “Good thing I missed your head. You need to keep your eye on the game, or it can get downright dangerous out here.”

  As Sister Agatha looked at him, she knew she’d just been given a warning. In t
he thick of the fight, anyone could get hurt.

  Feeling someone touch her arm, Sister Agatha jumped.

  “It’s okay, Sister. It’s just me,” Frances said. “Your habit tore loose at the seam, but it shouldn’t be too hard to repair. Let’s you and I go back to the rectory, and I can help you with that and maybe put some ice on that shoulder of yours. In the meantime, we can pin it up,” she said, reaching into her purse for some safety pins. “There you go. Not pretty, but it’ll do. Good thing I always carry safety pins around. They’ve come in handy many times, I’ll tell you.”

  Less than ten minutes later, after a short motorcycle ride, Sister Agatha and Pax entered the rectory. Frances, who’d made all the traffic lights, handed her an ice pack made from a freezer bag as they went through the kitchen door.

  Although the ache had already subsided, Sister Agatha placed the ice bag on the sore spot.

  Frances motioned them into the study. At the table was a needle and a spool of thread. “You can undress in Father’s office and fix that torn seam yourself in private, or you can keep that ice on your shoulder and I’ll do my best to sew it up,” she said. “I’m not a very good seamstress, mind you, but I can make it stay in place.”

  “It’s okay. I’ll fix it. That softball just winged me anyway. I’d rather you look after Pax and give him some water. Though the sun’s almost down, it’s still hot outside.”

  “Here in the desert the temperature can drop forty degrees or more at night, but today it seems to be taking its time.”

  Sister Agatha undressed in Father’s office, first taking off her belt, the cincture. Its three knots symbolized their vows—poverty, chastity, and obedience. She then slipped out of her cross-form serge habit, remaining in her long cotton slip. The bruise on her shoulder was visible but only a little tender now, so she ignored the injury and mended her sleeve. As she worked on the repair, she gave some more thought to everything she’d learned. If nothing else, it had been a very interesting day.