Kicking the Habit

by Kari Lee Townsend

  New Hope was a small town. Most of the details of the senator’s death were being kept private because the investigation was ongoing, but the fact that Cece had been in the confessional at the time of his confession had leaked out after she’d chased him outside. The entire town knew Sloan’s widow blamed Cece for his death, but Cece didn’t take offense. She agreed with the senator’s wife. Her husband wouldn’t be lying in a coffin ready to be shipped off to D.C. and lowered into the cold, hard ground if it hadn’t been for Cece. She never should have gone into the priest’s side of the confessional. Or at the very least, she should have spoken up before the senator confessed.

  Cece leaned to the side and whispered in Father Flannigan’s ear, “The senator will never rest in peace until this case is solved and his murderer is behind bars. It’s time I did something about it.”

  “Glad to hear you’ve decided to cooperate, Sister,” a deep baritone voice said from behind her, causing Cece to jump.

  A warm rush of heat surged through her from her toes to her forehead. The man had an uncanny knack for putting her right on edge. She stared up at Father with pleading eyes, dreading having to turn around and face the detective. She needed to appear capable and independent, or Ace would never back off.

  The priest looked at both of them and shrugged. “Well, then, I’ll leave you two alone to talk while I go speak to the janitor about a couple of church matters.”

  Just peachy. Cece risked a glance up at Ace and was surprised to see he looked a bit uncomfortable himself. She highly doubted she intimidated him, so what on earth could he be flustered about?

  “I’ll catch up with you in a minute,” she squeaked to the priest’s back. Knowing her face was still flushed, she looked at Detective Jackson and added, “Allergies,” by way of explanation. “I’m allergic to—” her eyes darted around as she finished with a desperate tone in her voice “—you,” and then she fanned her cheeks at Mach speed.

  Ace’s green eyes never wavered from her face, his wide forehead creasing. “You’re allergic to me?”

  “Your cologne, maybe?” One eye twitched in her effort to remain in control.

  He frowned. “Not wearing any.”

  Hmmm, that was odd. She could have sworn he wore cologne because he smelled so good. “Then your hair products. You must use a ton of goop to keep that flattop so—well—” Her hands fluttered about, gesturing toward his head. “Flat,” she finished weakly. Okay, she sounded ridiculous and had no clue why she was acting this way, other than because she felt inadequate. Just because she was small did not mean she couldn’t take care of herself or be competent.

  “Nope, no hair goop, either. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Never better.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

  “You cooperating, remember?”

  “Alistair Jackson. You wouldn’t be here to cause any trouble, would you?” Sister Mary Ethel said, shuffling over beside him and poking him with a crooked, arthritic finger.

  The ninety-year-old nun was a five-foot-ten Amazon among women and as crotchety as they came. She wouldn’t care if the Pope himself were standing before her; she’d still speak her mind. She felt she had the right because she’d been around for so long. In fact, some parishioners teased her, calling her the waitress at the Last Supper. Old or not, her noggin was still sharp as ever. Not too much got by her.

  Ace’s face turned the color of ashes, and if Cece didn’t know better, she could have sworn he cowered a bit. “No, ma’am.” He shook his head. “No trouble.”

  Sister Mary Ethel leaned in close, until the detective squirmed, and, two inches from his face, she said, “Good! Keep it that way, you hear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He nodded. “Will do.” He snapped his shoulders back, all but saluting her, then threw in another, “Ma’am.”

  The old nun shuffled off to talk to the senator’s wife, chuckling all the way as though she knew something Cece didn’t.

  “Are you okay?” Cece asked the detective.

  “I’m fine,” he muttered, shoving his hands deep into his jeans’ pockets and mumbling, “Just allergic to her.”

  Chapter 4

  Cece had a strong feeling the detective’s hang-ups about church went way back and involved a certain head nun, but that was another topic. Right now, she intended to focus on the senator’s murder. She turned to the detective. “Just so you know, Alistair, my cooperating doesn’t involve telling you what the senator said in the confessional.”

  He stopped fidgeting and his gaze locked on hers. “The name’s Ace. Detective Jackson to you.” He narrowed his eyes to slits. “Just so you know I filed that court order.”

  A twinge of alarm skittered along the length of Cece’s spine, but she tamped it down and plastered on her confident, calm, I-can-handle-anything smile. She looked up at him. If only she had a step stool. She’d love to be on equal footing with him just once. “And?” she asked.

  “And I know the DA very well. It’s only a matter of time before a judge rules in my favor.”

  Aha. Gotcha, smarty pants. “I happen to know the DA is out of town this week, but nice try.”

  Ace mumbled and scrubbed his blond hair, then pointed his finger. “Just because some low-level newbie attorney bought that your conversation with Sloan was privileged doesn’t mean the DA won’t hear me out once he gets back.”

  She brushed his finger aside as though shooing away a bothersome gnat. “That’s just a technicality. I can stall, and believe me, I will.” She’d seen how many people had shown up at the senator’s wake, how respected he’d been. Whatever he was involved in was obviously illegal, but that didn’t mean his reputation should die with him. Her guilt for playing a role in his death weighed on her conscience.

  She’d find his killer, one way or another.

  Ace clamped his jaw and spoke through his teeth. “Doing something about it had better not mean you playing detective.”

  That part meant walking a fine line, and she knew it. The detective would only put up with so much before he took action. “I wouldn’t dream of ‘playing’ anything. Murder is a serious business.” She hadn’t lied. She wasn’t playing, after all.

  She was quite serious about solving this case.

  “Good. So long as we’re both on the same page.” He dropped his hands to his hips and the edges of his sports coat gaped open, revealing his badge and gun clipped to his belt.

  “Ahhh.” So he wanted to play hardball. Well, she could play too. In fact, she’d been pretty good at center field in high school gym class. Verbal sports shouldn’t be much harder. “Apparently, the Feds are also on the same page.” She scanned the packed room. “What were their names again?”

  Ace peered over the top of her head and searched the room until he found the two men dressed in their usual black. He grimaced. “Wallace and Rogers.”

  “That’s right, Wallace and Rogers. Hmmm. They seemed surprised to see me alone earlier. Something about nun-sitting?” She lifted her hands, palms up, and shrugged.

  Ace scowled. “I’m sure they were.”

  “Well, I’m not a nun, and you’re not sitting.” She patted his arm. “But don’t you worry. I’m sure your day will pick up. Speaking of the Feds, they’re right over there, talking to Mrs. Sloan.” She waggled her fingers at them and smiled wide.

  Ace stared at her like he could read her perfectly, like he didn’t buy her innocent act one bit. This “fitting in” thing might be harder than she thought. She squirmed.

  At last he turned away and took a long moment to scan the room. “I don’t think I’ve seen this many politicians in one place since the last election, and half of them were slinging mud at Sloan just a couple weeks ago. Goddamn hypocrites.”

  She cleared her throat, determined to break him of at least some of his less than virtuous habits by the end of this case.

  “Oh, sorry,” he uttered, half distracted, still looking about the room.
<
br />   “The senator was well liked by many, despite the craziness an election year brings out,” Cece said.

  “Well, darlin’, the mayor sure as shit didn’t like him,” said a man with sin in his eyes and a swagger racier than Elvis’s as he hip-gyrated over to join Cece and Ace. “Yo, Jackson. Introduce me to this fine young thing.”

  How was she supposed to break the detective of his bad habits with a devil like this around? Cece pursed her lips.

  Ace leveled the guy with a hard look and smacked him on the shoulder. “Sister Mary Cecelia, this is my speak-first-before-I-think partner Detective Antonelli.”

  Ah, well that explained a few things, Cece thought, as she smiled pleasantly at the man.

  Antonelli’s eyes sprang wide, his dark brows hitting the pomade in his hair. “You’re the nun? Get the fu—”

  “I wouldn’t go there.” Detective Jackson held up a hand.

  What was it with nobody recognizing her without her habit? She wondered with a frown.

  “Call me Rocco, Sister.” Don Juan’s smile oozed across his face. “Or is it Ms. Monroe?” He lifted her fingers and kissed the back of her hand, lingering longer than necessary.

  Cece tugged her hand free and stiffened her smile until it felt like her lips had morphed into petrified wood. “Sister will be fine, thank you.”

  Rocco blinked, Ace broke into a huge grin, and Cece just rolled her eyes. Men!

  ***

  As the detectives began speculating about the case, she scanned the room and noticed Mayor Evans talking to the senator’s wife. If the senator and the mayor didn’t get along, why was the senator’s wife even speaking to him?

  “I thought Mayor Evans was supporting the senator’s opponent?” Cece heard Ace ask Rocco.

  Looks like they were on the same page after all, Cece mused, feeling smug and deciding she didn’t make a half-bad investigator, no matter what Ace thought. At least she had the “observant” part down.

  “He is,” Rocco said, in total cop mode now. Don Juan had all but vanished as Rocco crossed his arms and tilted his head to the side, studying the mayor. “Apparently Mrs. Sloan doesn’t share her husband’s dislike of the mayor. Maybe her husband wasn’t the only one with a few secrets to hide.”

  “Yeah, I’m beginning to wonder if this murder is connected to a political issue.” Ace wrote something in his notebook.

  Cece smiled at someone across the room, pretending to be disinterested in the conversation. Add being a good listener to her skills. She mentally grinned. Her years of counseling had given her a jump-start in that department.

  Letting the two men talk on and on with their backs to her, she inched over to the mayor and Mrs. Sloan. If she wanted to find out who killed the senator, she had to start asking her own questions.

  The cops thought the murder had resulted from a crime of passion. Thought someone had found out about Sloan’s affair and hired a hit man to kill him or was knowledgeable enough to pull the job off himself. Apparently, Detective Jackson now suspected someone with a political agenda was involved. Only Cece knew the senator had been involved in something illegal.

  That someone had betrayed him.

  She doubted the senator’s wife or Eleanor Meriwether had the means or the capability to be involved in something illegal. Betraying him and committing a crime of passion—most definitely. But breaking the law? Not so much.

  However, Mumfry Walker—ex-military guy who had served time for illegal possession of drugs—was a different story. He and the senator didn’t get along either. Mumfry would have the connections and the know-how to fire a gun like the gunman had used, and he’d already been involved in illegal matters in the past. Even the mayor was not above suspicion. What could the senator have been involved in that was so bad it would ruin him, like he’d said in the confessional?

  Only one way to find out.

  She glanced behind her. Ace and Rocco were still deep in conversation, and the room hadn’t emptied much. People from all over occupied every square inch of space, paying their respects. For the time being, they would do as cover.

  A group of politicians huddled together, blocking Cece’s way from hearing the mayor and Mrs. Sloan. For the first time, being short had an advantage. She slouched down and leaned in closer to peer between their arms but still couldn’t hear very well. Although what these men were saying was quite interesting.

  “What could have gone wrong?” one politician asked.

  “I don’t know, but a lot of guys were counting on the senator to show,” a second politician said.

  “I never wanted him to organize the secret meeting in the first place, but he was the one with the connections and the location,” a third politician said.

  Father Flannigan joined their group. “Gentlemen, so glad you came. I know you all were close with the senator. This must be very hard on you.” He pasted on his I’m-here-for-you smile, which Cece had pretty much perfected herself. “I just feel terrible about what happened to the senator,” he continued. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want him dead. You all worked closely with him for years. Did he have any enemies?”

  The first politician shook his head. “The man’s biggest downfall was he couldn’t keep it in his pants. I wouldn’t be surprised if half the county wanted him dead. No offense.”

  Cece leaned in further. This was getting good.

  “None taken,” Father said. “You were saying?”

  She bit back a smile. Father Flannigan had taught her well. Don’t talk more than necessary. People liked to talk, and if you let them, they usually told you more than they planned. She only hoped they would hurry up. It was a matter of time before Sherlock Jackson and his sidekick Watson discovered what she was up to.

  “It’s just frustrating. The man had a loving wife and great kids,” the second politician added. “But it never seemed to be enough for him. His death was such a waste.”

  “Losing an old friend is never easy.” The priest smiled, kindness and compassion filling his eyes.

  “Stupid fool.” The third politician stared down at the ground, mumbling to himself as though he’d forgotten the priest was there. “If he smelled there was trouble, he should have come to us first?”

  “Trouble? How so?”

  The man flinched, his eyes whipping up to the priest’s, and then the other two politicians. “I—I—”

  “You can talk to me in confidence, son. I won’t tell. You should know that by now.” Father reached out and touched the man’s arm, smiling in a way that had never failed to coax Our Lady of Glory parishioners into talking. “I only want to help.”

  The man looked like he was dying to get something off his chest. Cece leaned in even further, but then someone bumped her hard from behind. Lurching forward, she grabbed onto the politician’s waist to keep from falling. He glanced over his shoulder, looking startled, and then frowned down at her until she straightened.

  Fixing a goofy smile on her face, she said, “Um … hi?” then waggled her fingers.

  The man ignored her as he looked above her head. His face took on a blank mask, and he squared his shoulders in a statement that said clearly: conversation over.

  “Gentlemen, I’m Detective Jackson, and this is my partner Detective Antonelli. He’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind, while I have a word with Sister Mary Cecelia.”

  Uh-oh, Cece thought.

  Without waiting for a response, Ace wrapped his big fingers around her arm and led her over to the far corner by a massive picture of the senator’s face perched on an easel.

  Those politicians had been so close to telling Father Flannigan something important—she could feel it. Like what that secret meeting was all about and what connections the senator had that the others didn’t. And if the senator really did smell trouble—whatever that smells like—why would he go to them instead of the police or his priest? She knew somehow the answer to that question would guide her in the right direction.

  “Just
what do you think you’re doing?” Ace hissed.

  “Nothing now,” she grumbled.

  “It better stay that way. You’re not, under any circumstances, to question anyone. Do I make myself clear?”

  She stood as tall as she could but didn’t even come to the pigheaded detective’s collarbone. Again she wished for a step stool. Short people had rights too. Like not having to put up with macho big guys acting like bullies. Maybe platform shoes were the answer, but knowing her, she’d break an ankle chasing some bad guy. She groaned and rubbed her neck. It already ached from looking up so much.

  “I was simply having a conversation with some grieving men.” If you could call, “Um … hi?” a conversation, but she had to say something to hide her eavesdropping.

  “Well, don’t. You’re not a detective, and you’re putting yourself at risk if anyone even suspects you’re playing detective. Do you have a death wish?”

  “The only wish I have is that you’d come to church with me and let me help you down from that high horse you’re on. You obviously have a few issues of your own, Alistair.”

  Ace smirked. “Cute, but we’re not talking about me.”

  “Maybe we should.” She tried Father’s “look” on Ace.

  He frowned. “Something in your eye?”

  She sighed. “No.” Guess she hadn’t perfected the look as much as she thought. Yet another thing she hadn’t gotten right as a nun.

  “I still think you should leave.” He glanced at the mayor, who was now talking to those same politicians, and then back to her. “It’s not safe. Why don’t you let me take you home?”

  She had a clue, she had a plan, and that was a start. “Whatever you say.”

  Blond brows formed a deep vee. “I say, you agreeing so easily worries the hell out of me. What exactly are you up to, Cece?”

  A little zing zipped through her at the sound of her name on his lips. She pushed the feeling aside, determined not to lose focus. “Not a thing, Detective.” Not a thing she would voice out loud, anyway.