An Unspeakable Mission (Olympia Brown Mysteries)

by Judith Campbell

  Sister Myra snapped her short gray street veil into place. She taped a note to the inside of the front door saying she had some business to attend to and would be back in a few hours and to let the answering machine pick up any phone calls. Then she tucked a package into an oversized leather shoulder bag and was on her way. An hour later she was sitting beside Bridget's bed in deep conversation.

  “Bridget, your mother told me that you would likely be released today or tomorrow. Have they told you when or what plans they have for follow-up care?”

  Bridget turned a blank face toward Sister Myra. “I'm supposed to have another session with the hospital psychiatrist. I guess they'll make a decision about what do with me after that. I don't want to talk to anybody else. I just want to get out of here.”

  Sister Myra pulled her chair closer to the bed. “OK if I sit here? I have something I want you to think about. Obviously, I'm a nun, but I'm also a licensed psychiatric social worker. I have years of experience working with battered and abused women, and I run a residence for people like you and your mother. I've dedicated my life to rebuilding and empowering shattered lives. Father Jim brought your mother to us when she left your father. I'm wondering if you might like to come and stay with us for a while after you leave the hospital. I think it would be good for you and especially helpful for your mother.”

  Bridget looked at the woman sitting next to her, trying to comprehend the enormity of what had just been offered to her. She had been alone in her shame for so long. Now, in the space of less than a month, two very different, very wonderful women, had offered to help her and take her into their homes.

  “I don't have any clothes,” she said.

  Sister Myra reached down and brought up the satchel that was on the floor by her feet. “I thought that might be the case, so I made a closet raid before I left and brought some things with me. A lot of the clothing that is donated to us is brand new. Take a look and see what I have here. I think they might fit.”

  A flicker of interest registered on Bridget's face as Sister Myra brought out a pair of brand new jeans, a pale blue turtleneck, and some flowered underwear that might appeal to a young woman. To these she added a pair of blue ankle socks with butterflies on them, two pairs of sneakers, and a heather-toned Irish sweater.

  “I'm sort of out of touch with what you young people are wearing these days, but I watch TV. I may have guessed a little big on the jeans, but it doesn't really matter because you're only going from here to the car. The shoes were trickier. They can either pinch you or trip you. That's why I brought two sizes. One's sure to be close enough. I thought the light blue jersey would match your eyes and look nice against your dark hair.”

  Bridget was smiling shyly now, fingering the clothing, looking at the labels and the tags.

  “Gosh, Sister, I don't know what to say.”

  “Before you say anything, let's see if they fit. I don't know about you, but I think that hospital johnnies are about the most unfeminine garment ever devised. I'll step out of the room, if you'd like, or I can just turn my back.”

  “You don't have to leave, Sister, just turn your back. Half a year living in a college dormitory and I still can't undress in front of anyone.”

  “Old habits, Bridget, and old injuries.” The nun got up and stood by the window. “It's a lovely day out there, but still chilly. That's why I brought the sweater along.”

  Bridget traced her fingers lightly over the intricate pattern of cables and trellises. “It's beautiful. I used to have one, but it probably got burned.”

  “I knitted this one myself. I have to keep my hands busy, you know. It's yours to keep, if you like it.”

  “You can turn around now.” Bridget stood by the bed, holding onto the guardrail. “You did pretty good for someone who's only seen me lying in bed.”

  “Like I said, I've had years of practice sizing people up and down. Nuns aren't cloistered anymore, Bridget, and we're a lot more street-savvy than most people think. Tell me, did they say when the psychiatrist was coming?”

  “They only said later this morning. Nobody gave me an exact time.”

  “You were pretty groggy last time I was in here, so I don't know if you remember my saying that you're of age, so you can sign yourself out any time you want. I do think you should meet with the psychiatrist and see what he or she has to say. After that, with your permission, I'd like to have a three-way conversation. Then I can take you back to the shelter in Charlestown, and you can stay with your Mam. But first, tell me how you're feeling physically.”

  “Pretty shaky.”

  “Not surprising, considering what you've been through. After all that vomiting, your insides are probably still pretty bruised and tender.”

  Bridget nodded.

  “What do you think? Would you like to come stay with us?

  Bridget nodded again, this time with the barest hint of a smile.

  “Let me go and talk to the charge-nurse and see what I can find out. If the doctor is coming pretty soon, I'll just wait here and see if they'll release you today.”

  “Thank you, Sister.”

  Three hours later, when Sister Myra and Bridget walked through the door at Martha House, Margaret O’Mara said she didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so she did a little of each. Bridget was weak, but between the fresh spring air and being up on her own two feet, there was already a hint of color in her hollow cheeks.

  Sister Myra simply explained that Bridget would be staying with them until things were sorted out. The specific length of time was not mentioned. Then the nun discreetly left mother and daughter to themselves and went off to check phone messages, but she was back within minutes.

  “Bad news by the look of you, Sister,” said Margaret.

  “I just talked to Father Jim. The preliminary fire and autopsy reports are in. They've asked that Margaret and Bridget come down to the station tomorrow morning.”

  “What for, Sister? Do we have to sign something so they can release his body or something?”

  “Margaret, do you remember Father Jim saying that because the fire was of suspicious origin, and because there was a fatality, that family members are always the first to be questioned?”

  Margaret instinctively stepped between the nun and her daughter. “Brigie's too weak. She's been through too much. I'll go, let her stay here.”

  Sister Myra shook her head. “If she doesn't go, they could issue a warrant for her arrest. Right now all they have are the preliminary reports, and we have no idea what's in them.”

  “What do you think they're going to ask us?” Mama Bear was standing with her feet apart and her arms folded.

  “It's new territory for me, too, Margaret. Tell them exactly what you've told me and the professor. Don't let them put words in your mouth or ideas into your head.”

  “Will you be there, Sister?”

  “If you want me, of course I'll go. But that's tomorrow. For now, why don't you take Bridget upstairs and let her see her room. She'll be in the one right next to you. She might be ready to lie down for a while.”

  “You'll love your room, Bridget. It's so cheery, and it gets the morning sun.” Margaret was doing her best to sound positive.

  Bridget walked through the doorway and over to the dresser, where she picked up the chipped statuette of the Blessed Mother. She turned the figure over in her hands and touched the spot she had painted with her mother's nail polish.

  “I'm glad you got her out before the fire. When I went back I looked and looked, but I couldn't find her.”

  Olympia arrived at the police station ahead of the others and elected to wait in the reception area. The high-ceilinged room was functional, impersonal, and totally devoid of human comforts. A few framed citations and photographs of local sports teams hung on the mud-colored walls. Although smoking was no longer allowed in public buildings, the place still smelled of generations of smokers who had waited, sitting in these very same chairs. Her mood matched her surroundings. No matter
which way she considered the evidence, the picture was grim. But there was no way she could believe that either Margaret or Bridget would go so far as to commit murder. They were both too loving and intelligent for that.

  But sometimes even intelligent and loving people snap. And what about Eileen? Nobody's asking about her?

  Olympia heard Jim's voice before she saw them coming through the door. “Right through here, ladies. Turn left and then down the hall. It's the third door on the right.”

  The little band of women came into the reception area ahead of him, walking in close formation. Sister Myra, grim faced and wearing her street veil, walked between Bridget and Margaret, simultaneously herding and protecting them. Olympia and Jim followed behind. Eileen was not with them.

  When they arrived at the door, it was Jim who announced them. Detective Sergeant Jerrold O’Brien opened the door and looked surprised to see so many people standing there.

  “Detective O’Brien, this is Margaret and Bridget O’Mara, widow and daughter of the deceased. And this is my friend and colleague, the Reverend Olympia Brown. She's the Chaplain at Meriwether College, where Bridget is a student. And this is Sister Myra; she is the director of the residence where Bridget and her mother are living. Sister Myra is also a psychiatric social worker. I asked her to come because she can provide another level of insight into all of this that we might find helpful.”

  By the look of him the detective was not entirely happy with so many in attendance. “This is a little irregular, Father. We usually conduct these interviews in private.”

  “But Detective, the O’Mara women have no legal representation, and surely two women of the cloth and a priest in the roles of concerned advocates can only help all concerned.”

  Father James Sawicki played his trump card, and Jerry O’Brien, Jim's childhood buddy, knew when he had been beaten. Jim knew damned well Jerry would never say no to a nun, and even more so to a priest and a nun in tandem. Both men were products of a strict Catholic education and as such carried a life-long respect for, as well as a deep fear of, nuns.

  Jerry O’Brien inclined his head in respectful acquiescence and stepped back into his office. “Please come in, everybody. Jim, will you go into the room next door and get a couple more chairs? Are we expecting anyone else?”

  “Mrs. O’Mara's other daughter, Eileen, is on the way,” said Sister Myra.

  When everyone was inside the room and seated, Jerry explained what was about to happen. This was an informal session intended to gather evidence in the case, but if at any point in the discussion anyone present felt pressured, compromised or in need of legal representation, then the questioning would be suspended until such time as a court-appointed lawyer could be summoned.

  Margaret and Bridget looked at each other and then at Sister Myra and Jim. Jerry O’Brien pointed to a tray holding a pitcher of water and some glasses. “Would anyone like a drink before we get started?”

  Olympia took a seat just inside the door and looked around the circle of anxious faces. The office was a comforting change from the dismal sterility of the reception area. There were framed pictures of a woman and three children on the desk and a couple of healthy looking plants on a shelf in the window. Something green makes such a difference in a room, she thought, then slipped off her jacket and cast a protective glance at Margaret and Bridget.

  When everyone appeared to be ready, Jerry cleared his throat and began to speak. “First, let me offer my condolences on the loss of your husband, Mrs. O’Mara, and your father, Bridget. This is a terrible thing to happen to any family.”

  The O’Mara women sat in silence. Margaret acknowledged the offer of sympathy with a slight nod of her head, but Bridget remained virtually motionless, staring past the Detective Sergeant with her hands folded in her lap.

  “The added tragedy to all of this is that the deceased, Terrence O’Mara, died in a fire that has partially destroyed your home.” Jerry cleared his throat a second time and straightened the single paper on the desk in front of him.

  “Mrs. O’Mara, Bridget, this is difficult for me to say, but there are indications that while it would appear that your husband's death was directly or indirectly a result of that fire, there are also indications that someone might have tried to set up a situation so that, uh, under the right circumstances, a fire could get started.”

  Margaret leaned forward, looking as if she was about to say something, but settled back into her chair. Sister Myra looked at Margaret and then tucked a short gray curl under her veil.

  “This may be difficult for the family to hear, Sister, but these are the facts as we have them to date.”

  Margaret coughed behind her hand. Olympia started to reach out to her, but Margaret waved her off.

  “The deceased was found sitting in his chair with an empty whiskey bottle and a broken glass on the floor beside him and a burned-out cigarette between his fingers. The fire itself had just reached the living room when firefighters arrived. They were able to get him outside and start CPR, but unfortunately, it was too late. He was pronounced dead at the scene.”

  Bridget gasped and lifted her fingers to her lips, but like her mother, she remained silent.

  “According to the initial report, Mr. O’Mara died of a massive heart attack or smoke inhalation, or possibly one brought on by the other.

  Father Jim leaned forward in his chair. “How can that be? Doesn't it have to be one or the other?”

  Jerry raised his hand. “I'm getting to that. The autopsy indicates that Mr. O’Mara suffered from advanced cirrhosis of the liver. His lungs were hard and blackened by a lifetime of heavy smoking. When he died, his blood alcohol level was off the chart. He must have consumed most of the bottle of whiskey at one sitting.”

  “He could do that,” said Margaret. Sister Myra shot a lethal glare across the space between them.

  “Here's where it gets complicated,” said Jerry. “The time of death is estimated to be sometime in the early afternoon on Easter Sunday, but the fire that caused the smoke started in the downstairs apartment well before that time.”

  At this new disclosure, mother and daughter turned to each other in apparent disbelief.

  Jerry plowed on. “It seems there was an old electric space heater that someone must have left on. The wiring was shot and shorted out, starting a fire in the walls which must have been smoldering for hours. Finally, the fire itself began to expand up through the walls and the hot air registers. By the time the flames were actually visible in your apartment, and the smoke was spotted by a passerby, Mr. O’Mara was likely already dead.”

  Sister Myra spoke. “I don't understand, Detective. If that's the case, how could anyone here possibly have started it? Margaret was at the shelter with me Saturday afternoon and evening, and Bridget was in the hospital.”

  Margaret looked first at the nun and then turned and looked at her daughter. Despite a cautionary look from the good sister, she spoke. “Detective?”

  “Yes, Mrs. O’Mara?”

  “In addition to everything else he was or wasn't, my husband was a frugal man. We were having some work done on the first floor apartment, you know, wiring and plastering and such. Terry refused to heat the whole apartment for the workmen. He insisted they use an old space heater and move it from room to room. One of them must have left it running.”

  “Or he did,” said Bridget. “He used to go down there by himself a lot.” Bridget looked over to Sister Myra.

  “We may never know,” said the detective. “The point of interest for the arson squad and the police is that upstairs in your apartment near the chair where Terry was found, the investigating team found several empty lighter fluid cans. Now, unless Terry was in the habit of stashing them there himself, which is doubtful, sometime before he died, someone placed a number of uncapped lighter fluid cans underneath the chair where he habitually sat. If you think about it, it's conceivable that whoever did it figured that eventually he'd drop a spark in the right place and do himself in,
and it would look like an accident.”

  “But,” said Margaret.

  Jerry shook his head and held up his hand. “However, the lighter fluid was not the cause of the fire. As I said before, Terry died either of a massive heart attack or smoke inhalation or of both simultaneously, but the smoke that actually killed him came from a fire that started in the apartment below.”

  Jerry stopped and poured himself a glass of water before continuing. “The evidence suggests that someone who knew his habits and had access to the apartment may have tried to set the stage for Terry to burn himself to death. And that, whether or not the plan was successful, is attempted murder.”

  The officer was choosing and using his words carefully and deliberately. “Mrs. O’Mara, you told me yourself, when we met yesterday morning, that you went back to the house the Friday before the fire, and you went back alone. Did you go into the downstairs apartment for any reason?”

  “That would have been impossible, Detective,” said Margaret. “I haven't been down there since the last tenants moved out. Terry had the locks changed and kept the key. He said I had no business down there.”

  The priest glanced at the detective but said nothing.

  “And that didn't seem a little strange to you, Mrs. O’Mara?” asked Jerry.

  “Detective, not wanting to speak ill of the dead, but the truth is my husband was a violent man. It got so I never questioned anything he said or did. I just tried to stay out of his way and not upset him.”

  “I'd like to say something.”

  All eyes and faces turned toward Bridget. “Yes, Miss O’Mara?”

  Bridget faced Sister Myra. “Sister, I want to tell them what I told you yesterday when we were driving back from the hospital.”

  “Are you sure, Bridget?” asked the nun.

  Bridget nodded and then slowly looked at the people sitting around her. “I don't have any choice, and I've never been so sure of anything in my life. Could I have a glass of water first, please? My mouth still gets wicked dry.”

  Olympia got up and poured a glass of water for Bridget and handed it to her, grateful for the chance to stretch her legs. “Anybody else while I'm up?”