"She’s a wonderful girl, but even if I were interested, it’s too early to think of such things. I’m not sure I am ready for three young boys, three cats, two dogs, a mortgage and a business. Besides, I’m allergic to cats, and business bores me. Hey, I gotta go. See you soon. Say hello to Alma for me. And, thanks, you’ve been a big help."
"No probelmo. I expect you’ll be around from time to time."
"Most likely."
"Great. I’ll probably be stuck in the records room. Take care. Nice wheels."
"Thanks." I got in my car and left.
6
The next morning, I drove to St. Francis de Sales Parish. The sky was a traffic jam of gray clouds pregnant with rain. It wasn’t long before I was reaching for the windshield wiper control. I found it just as the deluge began. If the highways weren’t bad enough on sunny days, rain slowed down drivers even more. The first few minutes of precipitation usually brought a few accidents as the precipitation floated the oils on the roads. Floridians call it, "Black ice". Whatever it’s called, problems resulted. Fender benders became the accident du jour.
The church was eighteen miles away. It took me forty-five minutes to make the trek. The rain began to taper off. Patches of blue sky brightened the otherwise dull sky as I pulled into the parking lot near the main office.
Saint Francis de Sales was one of the larger parishes in the diocese with about 3,000 registered members. The large, single story building was made of natural coquina rock, which had been used as a building material in Florida for many years. The Castillo de San Marcos, an old Spanish Fort in St. Augustine, is made of the same basic material. There were numerous stained glass windows embedded in the church walls. A tall, metal cross, stood atop the Terra Cotta tiled roof at the church entrance. There were numerous flowering plants, bushes, and trees throughout the area. Various religious statues were located about the grounds.
A nearby two-story office building was more modern. It was located about one hundred feet back and to the left of the church as one sees it from the front. There was a walkway that wrapped around the church. It skirted several doors to the building. Another larger building was constructed to the left of the administration offices. It was used for church activities including education and social functions.
I entered the office. It was painted in subdued colors. A large oil painting of St. Francis de Sales hung behind the reception desk. The office lighting was low. I was greeted with a warm, "Hello" by Ms. Barbara Butterfield, the church secretary. She appeared to be in her mid-sixties, with short gray hair, green eyes and a fair complexion. She wore a modest, flowered print dress. She also wore large, pink-framed eyeglasses. The third finger of her left hand held a brilliant diamond ring. I estimated the woman came in at 350 pounds or more. I introduced myself.
"Oh yes, Mr. Sundance. Sister Maria Anna called. She said you might visiting sometime. One moment, I’ll get Father Lange." She pushed a button on the phone and announced me to the Pastor.
A moment later, an elderly man came out of an office to my right. He walked with a limp. He wore black slacks and a white, short-sleeved shirt, which held a white, cleric’s collar. He was of slight built. He stood about 5-foot-5 in his black sandals. He was somewhat hunched over, perhaps from scoliosis. His crew cut hair was thin and gray. We shook hands. His grip was robust for someone with small hands. He flashed a friendly smile.
"Hello, Mr. Sundance. I’m Father Edgar Lange. I’m happy to meet you. Why don’t you come into my office? Would you like some coffee or tea? We also have bottled water." He talked with a voice that might have been affected by a stroke.
I smiled. "Water would be fine, Father Lange."
"Please. Call me Ed, or Father Ed if you’d prefer. Barbara, please bring us a couple bottles of our finest water.” He turned to me. “Mr. Sundance would you believe our water comes right from Lourdes?"
"Really? That’s amazing."
He winked at me. "No, not really. Just kidding. It’s not from Lourdes. I think it comes from someplace called Zephyrhills. It’s just a little Catholic joke I like to tell."
I laughed. "That was a good one Father. Being a Catholic, it made more of an impact on me."
I followed him into his office. He sat behind a large teakwood desk, which made him look even more diminutive. His leather chair seemed to swallow him up. The room was light beige. A crucifix was affixed to the wall behind his desk. A large print of the Devine Mercy image of Jesus was affixed to another wall. I sat in one of the leather chairs across from him.
"I’m always happy to meet new people, Mr. Sundance. Tell me, what is your ancestry? From my observation, you look to be of Native-American descent. Is that right?"
"You can call me Johnny if you’d like. You’re right. I’m of Seminole Indian decent. My great-great-grandfather was a Creek from The Muscogee Nation of Florida."
"Florida has a wonderful and colorful history. It’s a privilege to meet someone who is part of it."
"Just remotely, I’m afraid."
"In any case, you should be proud of your heritage."
"I am."
Well, I’m sure you’re too busy to be listening to the ramblings of an old man, so let’s get down to business. I’m told you’re a private detective."
"Yes."
"That must be a pretty interesting occupation."
"It’s very interesting. I love it."
"My father was a policeman in Scranton, Pennsylvania. He wanted me to be a policeman, but as you can see, I had another calling. However, mine wasn’t on a police radio." He chuckled. Ms. Butterfield delivered two bottles of water. She left the room.
I smiled. "I’m sure you’d have made a great policeman, Father Ed."
"Thank you." He cleared his throat, and then raised his bottle in a toast. "May God bless us all." He opened the bottle and took a swig.
"Here, here," I said. I took a drink as well.
He looked at the bottle, and then at me. "In my day, folks would call you crazy if you told them people would someday sell water by the bottle."
"Well Father, if there’s a way to make a buck, someone will do it."
He nodded. "The church should’ve thought of bottled water. They’d be rolling in money now. No more Bishops Appeals to preach about. No more Sunday collections. Of course, we wouldn’t need Bingo at all. It would certainly make my life a lot easier. But, that’s another story for another day. So, you want to talk to us about the death of poor Brian Watson. I didn’t know him. He died before I arrived. Come to think of it, I’m the one who eventually took his place. Someone told me his murder investigation was closed."
"It wasn’t really closed. It was categorized as a cold case, but there’s been some recent interest in the matter, so here I am."
"It must be some pretty high level interest to have Sean Brennan involved. However, my staff and I will be happy to help you in any way we can. Although, I doubt you’ll find anything useful at this late date. You may need some real water from Lourdes to solve your case." He laughed. His eyes twinkled.
I laughed. "You never know. We’ll see. If I need some help, I’ll come to you. And, thanks for your cooperation."
"You’re entirely welcome. Where do you want to start?"
"Well, I’d like to talk with Father Small and Father Preston if they are about. Both were here at the time of the murder."
"Of course. I know Father Small is here. I’m not sure about Father Preston. He lives at San Sebastian Monastery. I’ll have Barbara call Father Small. I think he’s at the rectory right now. Barton is an OSB. That is the designation for, The Order of Saint Benedict. He’s on loan to us due to the shortage of Diocesan Priests." He called Barbara into his office. He asked her to contact Fathers Small and Preston.
"Father Small is here Father Lange. Father Preston won’t be here until 11:30 to meet with the Mr. Adams, the Scout Master. I’ll call Father Small." She left the room.
"Barbara is a godsend." He smiled. "The Rectory isn’t far from h
ere. Bart should arrive in a few minutes."
Father Ed and I chit chatted as we waited for Father Small to arrive. It wasn’t a long wait.
7
Father Barton Small produced a hearty knock on Father Lange’s door. He immediately entered with a smile on his chiseled face. He was 6-foot-tall, lean and muscular. He had green eyes and a crop of thick red hair. His freckled filled face made him look youthful, although I believed him to be around my age. "What can I do for you, Ed?" He spoke with a British accent.
"Bart, this is Mr. Sundance. He’s a private detective who’s working with the police on Brian Watson’s murder. He’s also a Seminole Indian. He’d like to talk with you about the murder." Father Lange looked at me and winked. "Be careful, Johnny. Bart is a Benedictine. They’re a sly bunch."
Small burst out laughing. "He never fails to give me a jab about being a Benedictine."
"That’s because the Benedictines turned me down when I tried to get into their order. I’ve forgiven them, but I can’t forget their mistake, especially with you around all the time." He chuckled.
Small turned to me. He approached, and then gave me a firm handshake.
Father Ed got up from his desk and began to usher us out of his office. "I’ve got work to do, my friends. Why don’t you two youngsters go somewhere else and chat? But, no talking about me."
Father Bart and I both laughed. I followed Bart out of the room and into his office, which was down the hall. His accommodations were noticeably smaller, but housed the same kind of decor. As he sat down, he motioned for me to take a chair in front of his desk.
"Okay, Mr. Sunshine, how can I be of help to you?"
"That’s Sundance. Please, call me Johnny."
"Terribly sorry, Johnny. How foolish of me."
"Don’t let it worry you."
"Thank you. I take it then, you’re one of the few, and I might add, real Native Floridians." He smiled as he took a stylish brown pipe from a glass ashtray into his well-manicured hand. He filled the pipe with tobacco from a brown leather pouch. He tapped the mixture down.
"Yes, I am Native-American. By the way, you sound like you might be British."
"Good ear. Yes. I am a Brit as you Americans say. Do you mind if I smoke?"
"No. Go right ahead. I like the smell of pipe tobacco. It reminds me of my grandfather."
He lit his pipe using a wooden match from a small, silver box on his desk. After a quick toke, a cloud of gray smoke erupted from his mouth. It had a pleasant cherry aroma. He shook the match out and then placed it in an ashtray. "I was born and grew up in Manchester, England. My parents and I moved to the states in the mid-seventies. I joined the Benedictine Order in 1990. I was ordained a few years later. I subsequently had the privilege of studying at The College of Saint Anselm in Rome."
"Interesting. Why did you choose the Benedictines?"
"I was fascinated by their history. They originated in about the third century A.D. They were headquartered at Monte Cassino, which was destroyed by the Lombards in about 577, and of course the place came under fire during World War II. As you may know, the Benedictines were quite prominent in England. So, it all seemed to tie together for me. How about you?"
"I was born in Eden Palms. Both my parents were Seminole. I’m an only child. My grandfather told me he met a missionary many years ago. He was taken by his stories of Jesus. Eventually, he became a Catholic, and it was passed down to me. I attended UF on a football scholarship and got my B.S. in Criminology. I later earned a PhD in Psychology from Duke University. I spent some time with the F.B.I. Then, I returned to Florida and worked for the Eden Palms Police Department. There’s more, but why bore you."
"It’s not boring by any means. However, I have to be somewhere in an hour. I’m going to make my weekly visit to a local nursing home. I try to call on the residents once a week.”
"You’re a good priest, Bart, even if you are a Benedictine." I laughed. He nodded his head and smiled. He drew on his pipe.
"So, you’re here about Brian Watson’s murder. That was quite a while ago. I was under the impression the matter was closed."
"It was never really closed. It’s been classified as a cold case."
"Oh, yes, a cold case. I’ve heard of those. I do have a habit of watching the telly. I mean television, now and then. It gives me great ideas for homilies."
“Please, tell me about the day of the murder. I read the case file, but I like to hear eye witness accounts whenever possible."
"I understand. Let me see …As memory serves me, I was in the East Reconciliation Room that afternoon. Father Watson was in the West room. I was getting ready to hear my first confession. Just after 4 o’clock, I heard some horrible screaming coming from the church proper. I rushed out to see what had happened. People were gathered at the door of the West Reconciliation Room. A number of them were crying and carrying on. "
"Then what happened?"
"I made my way through the open door. I was stunned. It was dreadful. Mrs. Perez, our housekeeper was sobbing and screaming in Spanish over the body of Brian. There was blood everywhere. Then, Deacon Sidwell flew into the room. He checked Brian for signs of life. He was of course gone by then. Massive blood loss. Absolutely ghastly. I got the spectators away from the door. I then closed it. I couldn’t get Mrs. Perez away from the body. A policeman arrived shortly thereafter. He finally got Lupe off the body. He had Deacon Sidwell take her back inside the church to wait for detectives to arrive. He told me to leave as well.”
"Did you see Father Watson’s stole in the room?"
"I really didn’t notice."
"Did Mrs. Perez say anything about Father Watson not wearing a stole?"
"Brian wasn’t wearing a stole? That’s rather odd. There’s always a purple stole hanging from a hook on the wooden part of the anonymity screen. Maybe he forgot to put it on, but I rather doubt that. How do you know he wasn’t wearing a stole?"
"I didn’t see one in any of the crime scene photos. And, there was no stole among the evidence collected."
"I didn’t pick it up. I’m sure Mrs. Perez didn’t. If she did, she never said anything to me about it. You know of course, she died about a month after the murder. I presided at her Funeral Mass. She was cremated."
"Oh, I wasn’t aware of that." I was somewhat taken aback. "She was one of the key persons in the whole investigation."
"Did I mention that she was the housekeeper at the Rectory for over twenty-five years?"
"Twenty-five years? That’s a career."
"From what I understand, the only time she was ever absent was a week or two after Brian was murdered."
"Did she ever tell you the Virgin Mary talked to her about the death of Father Watson?"
"No. She never said anything to me directly about that. But, one morning at breakfast, after the murder, Lupe did say, ‘Mother Mary knows what happened to Brian.' Father Preston also happened be there that morning. We both asked her what she meant by that statement. She didn’t explain. She just turned and walked out of the kitchen. Father Preston and I both left Rectory shortly thereafter."
"What did you think about her statement?"
"I thought it was a rather strange comment. But, being a priest we hear lots of supposed apparition accounts. We usually brush them off. I don’t really think the Virgin Mary had talked to her at all. Sometimes I equate statements like that with those from individuals who proclaim they saw a flying saucer and aliens from outer space. It is very unlikely."
"What did Father Preston have to say about it?"
"After Lupe left the room he laughed. He shook his head in apparent disbelief. He wondered if she was going senile or having hallucinations. We didn’t talk about it afterwards."
"Did Mrs. Perez say anything more about it later?"
"No. Not that I recall."
"Do you know how Mrs. Perez died?"
"It’s my understanding she had a stroke one morning whilst working in the Rectory. Father Preston found her. I enter
ed the kitchen shortly after it happened. She died about a week later. Her daughter Ann was with her night and day whilst she was hospitalized. Ann’s husband is a doctor. He’s on the Board of Directors at Florida Central. The hospital arranged for a private room for Perez and her family. Ann told me she never left her mother’s side prior to her death. She, her husband and her brother Joseph, were present when Lupe died. I had given Lupe the Last Rights of the Church the day before she passed. Her illness and death were a great surprise to us all. We thought she was in great health. She never complained about being sick. However, as I understand it, a stroke can happen at any time, even to people as gentle and quiet as she. She was sixty-five at the time. Of course, the trauma of Brian’s death must have affected her as well. We miss her so."
"What can you tell me about Father Preston?"
"Jimmy? He’s a Franciscan from San Sebastian Monastery. He helps out here in various ways now and then. He was a great help to us around the time of the murder. I was new here then. Preston seemed to be a regular around here. He kind of took over de Sales until I got my feet on the ground. Then Ed arrived, and he became Pastor. Come to think of it, I believe Preston was going to do the homily at Mass the day of the murder."
"So, getting back to the homicide, was Mrs. Perez alone when you entered the room?"
"I must admit, I was in shock. But, to answer your question, I distinctly recall there wasn’t another soul in the room."
"Where was Father Preston prior to the murder?"
"The last I saw of him, he was in the Rectory."
"What time was that?"
He pursed his lips. "Let’s see. I believe it was around 3 o’clock. That’s about the time I left the Rectory to go to the church. Whilst I was there, I prepared the sacred vessels, the hosts, and the wine for the Mass. I talked to a couple of alter servers for a few minutes. I then went to the media room. I turned on the computer and sound systems. I made sure everything was ready to go. We had a few technical glitches with the computer system at that time and I wanted to make sure it was working properly. I also checked the wireless microphones to ensure they were working. I had to replace a couple of batteries. I spoke with a few parishioners. One of them asked me to bless a rosary. Then, I went to the East Reconciliation Room to prepare for confessions."
MURDER RITES: THE JOHNNY SUNDANCE MYSTERY SERIES (JOHNNY SUNDANCE MYSTERIES Book 1) Page 5