MURDER RITES: THE JOHNNY SUNDANCE MYSTERY SERIES (JOHNNY SUNDANCE MYSTERIES Book 1)

by Ronald Yarosh

  MURDER RITES

  A Johnny Sundance Mystery

  Ronald J. Yarosh

  Contents

  Foreword

  Prologue

  MURDER RITES

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Also by Ronald J. Yarosh

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Foreword

  FREE GIFT!

  Who is Johnny Sundance?

  After reading this, the first novel in the series, you may want to learn more about the star, Johnny Sundance. My FREE GIFT will reveal the inside details on Johnny and his life, in an entertaining and enjoyable fashion. Information on how to obtain YOUR FREE PERSONAL COPY of a special publication, can be found after the conclusion of this novel…

  To my wonderful wife Judy, the love of my life.

  Prologue

  Shortly before his horrific murder, Father Brian Watson, Pastor of St. Francis de Sales Catholic Parish, entered the Reconciliation Room as he did every Saturday afternoon to hear confessions.

  That fateful day in July, Father Watson had no idea it would be his last day on Earth. In a few short moments, the blood of the Minister of God would flow out of his weakening body, as the sins of his flock flowed out to him each week./

  MURDER RITES

  1

  The horrific murder of a priest was big news in the town of Eden Palms, Florida and the surrounding area. The story even made the national news circuit. Bill O’Reilly of Fox News did an opening segment on the brutal assassination. The Eden Palms PD was swamped with reporters after a herd of them and television crews migrated to the area to set up shop for the duration. The church grounds were trampled by the horde. Two years later, when I got the urgent call for help, the throng had moved on to the next shiny object which caught their eyes.

  It was 11:30 that morning. Dark October clouds were spitting cold rain. I don't like dark clouds. They usually bring trouble. I was on my way to a local Mexican restaurant when my smartphone whispered, "Hey baby, someone wants you." My friend Jonathan’s daughter, Karen, author of several romance novels had programmed it for me without my knowledge using her sexiest voice. It was something I didn't necessarily want a client to hear. I tried everything to change the announcement, but I couldn’t find the sub-menu of the sub-menus where the control was located to change it. It would have to stay that way until I saw her, or a willing eight year old, who could change it for me.

  "This is Johnny Sundance."

  "Good morning, Mr. Sundance. This is Sister Maria Anna. I'm Bishop Brennan’s secretary." Her voice sounded solemn and professional.

  "Yes, Sister. What can I do for you?"

  "Bishop Brennan would like to see you sometime today. He said it’s rather pressing. When can you stop by?"

  "I can see him immediately if it’s that important."

  "Well, he does have a meeting and a luncheon date with the Episcopal Bishop until 1 o'clock. Why don’t I put you down for 1:30, if that’s all right with you?”

  "Fine. Tell him I’ll see him then." We disconnected.

  The most powerful church leader in the area was summoning me. I hadn’t seen Bishop Brennan since he presided at the Funeral Mass for Eden Palms Police Detective Emily Palmer two years earlier. The Bishop was a great help to me during my depression and grieving process. Losing a partner, especially while on duty, is never an easy thing to cope with. It's why I left the police force.

  In my youth, Bishop Brennan wasn’t called, "Your Excellency". He was just Father Brennan. He had been an Associate Pastor at Sacred Heart Parish where my family and I were members. He had come to the states from Ireland. He was a great speaker and as charismatic as they come. He could talk a car salesman into giving him a car. I heard that he actually talked a politician into doing something honest.

  Later, the good father was promoted to Monsignor. Shortly after that, he became our Bishop. Many were surprised to see his meteoric rise in the church’s hierarchy. Some people thought he was some kind of whiz kid. Others thought he was a saint. I often wondered if he just charmed his way into the position. In any case, the two of us always got along well.

  I wondered what he wanted of me. I was a Private Detective. My formal law enforcement days were over. Was he in trouble? Was someone he knew in trouble? Was money missing? Was someone blackmailing him? Perhaps it was a case of fraud to contend with? Or, was it something worse? In about two hours I would have the answer. But, it was time for lunch.

  When I got out my car at Manny’s, the rain was still thumping the roof. There was just enough time to have one drink and my standard luncheon fare. The aroma of fresh Mexican food teased my nostrils as I hurried across the crowded parking lot. It made my mouth water. Familiar Mariachi music blared from two loudspeakers hanging from the ceiling of the porch. The song was, "Jarave Tapatio", also known as the, "Mexican Hat Dance". I hummed along with the song as I walked toward the door.

  Manny’s, also known as Manuel’s Mexican Mayhem, was a stand-alone restaurant on State Road 434 in Longwood. Manuel Ramos owned it, but he preferred to be called Manny. It was a popular place for locals and dignitaries. Manny had told me he included "Mayhem" in the name because he liked the word. He said he first heard it while watching The Muppets band, "Doctor Teeth and The Electric Mayhem" on TV.

  The building was painted a bright yellow with four red pillars holding up the roof of its porch. There were strings of red artificial chili peppers hanging on either side of the blue entrance door. Murals of Mexican pottery, sombreros, and a burro pulling wagon adorned the walls between the front windows.

  The interior was a wild shade of yellow, accented with predominantly blue Mexican tiles, pottery jugs, and fake cactus plants. A full bar occupied the rear. Manny's really rocked each Wednesday night when a Mariachi band lit up the place.

  When I entered, Manny was standing nearby talking to some customers. He bowed to them and came over to me.

  "Buenos dias, señor."

  "Buenos dias, mi amigo."

  He escorted me to my usual booth near the window so I could keep an eye on my Lincoln-MKZ, which was normally parked in the shade of an old oak tree in a corner of the lot where no idiot could bang into my silver baby thereby damaging the finish. The last person to dent my car is still recovering from his injuries. That’s not true. He never survived his injuries. But, that’s another story.

  "Shall we prepare your favorite lunch, señor?" Manny said.

  "Si, señor."

  "Three beef enchiladas with rice and beans, and extra sour cream coming right up."

  As he walked toward the kitchen, a waiter named Paco brought me a bowl of taco chips accompanied by a dish of Manny’s savory salsa.

  As I munched on the chips and dip, Manny's wife Maria came to my table holding my favorite margarita concoction. I like mine with Tres-Quatro-Cinco tequila, Grand-Marnier, and a splash of fresh squeezed orange juice. I always have my margarita on the rocks with salt.

 
"Gracias, Maria."

  "De nada, señor."

  "Salud, amor, y dinero Maria," I said. It means "Health, love and money". I took a lick of the salt and sipped the drink. It was marvelous as usual.

  "Y tiempo para gozarlos, señor," Maria said. That means, "And time to enjoy them".

  I finished my lunch and drink. The meal was marvelous as usual. The margarita added the perfect touch. Just as I was about to leave, two plain-clothes detectives from Eden Palms PD entered the building. One was Lieutenant Amanda Sands, the other was Sergeant Fred Horowitz. Amanda was a 5-foot-10, husky built woman with short brown hair, green eyes and a ruddy face. She was on the cusp of her thirty-eighth birthday. She was dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt, black pants and black Puma Athletic shoes. A pair of mirrored sunglasses straddled her nose. Her gold Lieutenant’s badge was hooked to her belt a few inches in front of the holster, which held her 9 mm weapon.

  Horowitz was a wiry, thirty-seven year old 6-footer. He was a former long distance runner and swimmer who was evaluated by the US Olympic Committee, but was not chosen for either team. He had brown eyes and a shaved, bald head. He was dressed in a black polo shirt, which displayed the gold, EPPD logo on it. His slacks and leather shoes were black. His chiseled nose supported a pair of Oakley sunglasses. A gold Sergeant’s badge hung from a chain around his neck. His weapon was also on display. They approached my booth.

  "We thought we’d find you here, Captain," Horowitz said. "Nice to see you again." He had a voice any aspiring radio announcer would kill for.

  "How is the margarita?" Sands said, in her usual raspy tone.

  "The margarita is superb. What’s up?"

  "Mind if we sit down?" Horowitz said.

  "Be my guest. Are you here for lunch or just to chat? I really don't have too much time to sit around and talk."

  "We’re here for a little of both," Amanda said, as they took seats.

  "So, what’s good to eat here?" Fred said.

  "Everything on the menu," I said.

  Manny came to our table. I introduced him to the detectives. Sands gave a forced smile and a nod. Horowitz gave a toothy grin. The conversation ended at that. Manny bowed, smiled and then departed. A few seconds later, Paco came over with another bowl of taco chips and salsa. He dropped off two menus.

  "So, what’s going on?" I said. "You two look like a couple of kids who just dropped their ice cream cones on the sidewalk. Trouble at the workplace?"

  "You could say that," Fred said. He dipped a chip into salsa and shoved it into his mouth. He then examined the menu.

  "What kind of trouble? And, how does it involve me? I haven’t been around the department in months."

  "Rumors are flying everywhere," Amanda said. She followed Fred’s lead. She scooped up some salsa then quickly devoured it. "This stuff’s really good. No wonder you come here all the time."

  "Rumors are flying?" I said. "Has anyone notified the FAA?" I grinned.

  "It’s not funny," Fred said, as he chewed on another salsa-topped chip.

  "Okay, so it’s not funny. What’s got your panties all in a knot?"

  "We heard someone is going to look into the Watson murder case," Amanda said.

  "Is that right? What does that have to do with me? You guys worked that case two years ago."

  "We worked it." Fred said. "You reviewed it. It was put in the cold case files a few months ago because we had no leads and there was a backlog of active cases. But now, some high-level big wig from Tallahassee has decided the case should be scrutinized."

  "So, someone will review the case. Big deal. Do you think they’ll find something you missed?" I decided to dip a chip as well.

  "I don’t know," Amanda said. "I guess it depends on who reviews it. According to the grapevine, that person is you."

  "The grapevine? It’s always the grapevine. It seems like there’s never any grapes on the grapevine, just rumors and office gossip. You need a new grapevine."

  "Very funny," Amanda said as she scooped another pile of salsa.

  "We figured maybe you’d be able to clear it up for us," Fred said.

  "Me? I’m not with the department. What makes you think I’d be involved in examining the case? I’m a PI now."

  "Your name keeps popping up." Fred said. "And, it’s not just because you were Chief of Detectives back then."

  "Well, you two bloodhounds are barking up the wrong tree. I don’t know where you’re getting your information, but as of this moment, no one has approached me to look into the Watson case, or any other case. Maybe someone from Tallahassee will harass you about it, but not yours truly. Here comes the waiter. Why don’t you two just relax and have a nice lunch?”

  Amanda knitted her brow. "Relax? Have a nice lunch? How can we do either with the Watson case hanging over our heads?"

  "I don’t know. Why don’t you try Yoga, or Zen, or one of those other relaxation techniques? I've got to go. I have an appointment. I don't want to be late."

  Amanda and Fred gave Paco their lunch orders.

  It was 1 o’clock. I got up from the booth. They both displayed frowns as I shook their hands. We said our goodbyes. There was just enough time to get to the Bishop’s office in downtown Eden Palms.

  I walked out of the place into complete sunshine, and high humidity. The temperature had creeped its way into the mid-80s, which was quite warm for that time of year. Some weather expert had pontificated that the warm air had something to do with the El Nino phenomenon.

  When I left Manny’s parking lot, I noticed a snarl of traffic on Highway 17-92, so I cut through some side streets to get around the congestion. A half a mile later, when I approached the highway, I noticed the problem I had avoided. A fender bender was holding up traffic in both lanes going south. I made a right hand turn and continued on down the road. At 1:22, I was a block and a half from the Catholic Diocese of Eden Palms.

  2

  The Diocese of Eden Palms was located on Central and Main Streets. The Diocesan complex takes up a whole city block, plus other buildings in the surrounding area. The Cathedral itself is the tallest structure on the grounds. It was built in the 1940s of imported Italian stone. It has two bell towers, one on either side of the building. There was a large, round stained glass window over the middle entrance of the building. An enormous, stainless steel cross stood atop the center section. The grounds were full of flowering plants and bushes among the giant live oaks.

  Bishop Brennan’s office was on the bottom floor of a three story administrative building. I parked in a "Priests Only" parking space next to a black stretch limo. A gentle rain from a lone cloud blessed me as I walked from my car to the entrance of the building.

  I entered the reception area. The room had the aroma of incense, like the kind I remembered smelling during Mass from time to time. There were two, large floor vases full of fresh flowers on either side of the entrance door. The wall to my right was adorned with large, religious oil paintings. The left-hand wall displayed an oil painting of Bishop Brennan.

  Sister Maria Anna, a middle-aged nun, was at her desk when I entered Brennan's outer office. She was on the phone. She motioned to me to sit down. She nodded her head as she spoke.

  She was a Poor Clares Nun assigned to the diocese as an assistant to the Bishop. She was dressed in a brown tunic, a white bib and a white headpiece, with an attached black veil, which fell to her shoulders. A white cord with three knots was tied around her waist.

  "Now Mr. Winthrop, Bishop Brennan only has one fund drive a year. That money goes to help the local poor and the people of our Sister Diocese of San Lucas in the Dominican Republic." She looked at me and rolled her eyes. "Yes, sir. Maybe you should write a letter and tell His Excellency how you feel about it. I have to go now, Mr. Winthrop. I have a visitor in the office. Goodbye, Mr. Winthrop." She hung up the phone and sighed.

  "Another day on the job," I said.

  She slid her modestly framed glasses up her nose. "Ugh. Ever since the Annual Bishop’s Appeal
began, people have been complaining about ‘having to give the church money all the time’."

  "Well, Sister, that’s why you get the big bucks." I smiled.

  "Big bucks? I took a vow of poverty. I don’t get any bucks."

  "How can I help you, young man?"

  "My name is Johnny Sundance. The Bishop is expecting me."

  "Oh yes, Mr. Sundance. I should have recognized your marvelous deep voice. I’ll tell the Bishop you’re here." She picked up the receiver then pushed a button on the phone. "He’s here Your Excellency. I’ll send him right in." She looked at me and gave me a closed lip smile. "He’s waiting for you."

  "Thank you, Sister." I smiled back the same way.

  I walked into his office. It looked like a small executive suite. Near the back wall was a large sized, mahogany desk accompanied by a red, comfortable looking leather chair. In the front center of the desk was a brass desk lamp with a green shade. There was an unopened box of Corona Gorda Cuban cigars sitting to the right of the lamp.

  The Bishop was standing behind the desk. He gave me his best smile. He was a robust man who stood about 6-foot-2. Both his hair and his eyes were steel gray. His smooth skin belied his age. He was seventy-three.

  I was just a few feet inside the room when I heard a cell phone ring. He held up one finger signaling me hold on while he took the call. His thick Irish brogue rang familiar to me as he spoke to the person on the other end.