by Alan Chaput
The bishop made the list and handed it to Father John. There were five names.
“What can you tell me about these people?”
“Trey Falcon, the first person on the list, is her son-in-law. Henrietta moved here from Virginia relatively late in life. Trey and Henrietta seemed to have a cordial relationship until recently when she acquired the notion Trey was after her local property. I can’t fathom how she ever came to that conclusion.”
“Do you know this Trey Falcon?”
“Oh yes. His family has been members of this parish since our founding. He’s a fine, upstanding man.”
“Capable of murder?”
The bishop massaged his forehead with his fingertips and mumbled, “Most certainly.”
“Is he likely to have murdered Mrs. Snyder?”
“Not at all.” He folded his hands once again.
Father John rearranged himself in the office chair. “Beau Simpson, the second name. Why is he on the list?”
“Beau is ... was Henrietta’s cardiologist. They argued frequently over her medications.”
“Why didn’t she change physicians?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Is he a murderer?”
The bishop took in a breath and released it slowly. “Some of his patients have died.”
“That’s not murder.”
“Under the right conditions, it might be.”
“Were the circumstances surrounding Henrietta’s death the right conditions?”
“I’m not a doctor, but from Dr. Simpson’s perspective they could have been.”
“His perspective being?”
“She had money. He didn’t.”
“He’s a cardiologist.”
“And an unsuccessful investor.”
“What kind of failed investments?”
“Land.”
“That he bought from Mrs. Snyder?”
“Precisely.”
Father John looked down at the next name on the list. “Willie Maye?”
“He’s an investigative reporter for the Savannah Post. He wrote a scandalous article some time ago that sullied Henrietta’s reputation. Though she claimed the information was false, the newspaper never printed a retraction.”
Father John nodded. There was at least one sharp investigative reporter in every major city. After a few years, they had few friends.
“A parishioner?”
“Yes. Knights of Columbus.”
“Tell me about Preston Somerset.”
The bishop shook his head. “A lawyer without scruples.”
“A murderer?”
“Potentially.”
“Any motive to kill Henrietta?
“Are money and power motives?”
Father John nodded and then tapped his finger on the last name on the list. “And Vladimir Olneki?”
The bishop stood.
Father John stood as the bishop rounded the desk.
“I’m not certain about the last name, but Henrietta was quite concerned about him.”
“Why?”
“He was insistent about buying her port property, but she didn’t want to sell. He implied repercussions if she didn’t change her mind.”
“What kind of repercussions?”
“Vague enough to avoid legal proceedings, but serious.” The bishop’s eyelids drooped; he was the picture of fatigue.
“I’m sure it’s been a long day for you. Just one more question. Is this Vladimir fellow a member of your parish?”
“No.”
“Have you ever met him?”
Bishop Reilly shook his head and extended his hand. Father John knelt, kissed his ring and left. It had been an exceptionally productive meeting.
* * *
Father John stood, cane in hand, outside a seafood restaurant on River Street waiting for Willie Maye, the reporter. Willie said he’d be wearing a tan seersucker suit. John spotted him half a block away. Ginger hair, a bit too long. A thin cigar. Darker pigmentation than healthy. White buck shoes. Shorter than Father John’s six foot two, and stouter.
Willie tossed his unlit Tiparillo in the cigarette depository, opened the door, and ushered Father John straight to the bar.
“Faster service,” he explained.
They ordered draft beer and fried shrimp platters.
Once the beer arrived and the obligatory small talk subsided, Father John asked, “I understand you wrote a controversial article on Henrietta Snyder a couple of years ago.”
Willie waggled his hand. “Controversial, yes. About Mrs. Snyder, not really. She was a secondary player in the scheme.”
“Scheme?” Father John had already read the article.
“Real estate fraud.”
“Local?”
Willie nodded.
“You built a file on Mrs. Snyder?”
“Is this about her death?” Willie sipped his beer.
“I’ll need to see Mrs. Snyder’s file.”
“Why?”
“A church matter of the greatest importance.”
Willie raised his bushy eyebrows. “A church matter, huh?”
When Father John didn’t answer, Willie’s shoulders slumped. “The file is big.”
“I want everything you have.”
“Okay. Stop by my office around four. I’ll have it copied by then.”
Father John nodded his approval as their shrimp platters arrived.
“You know,” Willie gestured with a shrimp, “I could be of big help to you. I know this city and its secrets like the back of my hand.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Willie took a bite of shrimp, obviously pleased with his meal if not with the outcome of his lame proposal.
* * *
When the driver opened the limo door, Trey took Patricia’s arm and guided her to the familiar entrance. Honeysuckle-scented, air-conditioned air enveloped her as she stepped into her favorite restaurant. Though the main dining room was full, the hushed atmosphere invited relaxation.
The maître d’ led them to a secluded corner, their table, and took their wine order. Seated with Trey, she felt safe, optimistic, and eager. Pleasant memories of special occasions celebrated at this table swelled her heart.
Trey smiled from across the table. Care. Consideration. Love. It was all here. An exceptional life with an exceptional man. She was so fortunate. How great it was to have Trey to lean on during this difficult time.
“Did you know Judy had lunch with your mother the day she died?” Trey asked.
“They had lunch after tennis every week.”
The sommelier poured Trey a taste of the Pommard wine. On Trey’s approval, the wine steward completed the service.
“Do you know if Judy noticed anything unusual that day?”
Patricia thought back to her conversation with Judy. “She said Mama was completely on her game.”
Trey swirled his glass, studied the wine, and then looked up. “Chief Patrick thinks that if Mama’s accountant isn’t dead, he’s still in town. Sonny’s car is in his garage and they found his passport in his safety deposit box.”
“That doesn’t add up to much.”
Trey nodded. “There’s been no activity on his credit cards or cell phone since the morning of Mama’s death, and from security video they can tell Sonny saw three Russian organized crime figures in the week before he disappeared.”
Her pulse sped. She leaned back in her chair. “Do you think they embezzled Mama’s money and killed Sonny?”
“It’s possible.” Trey took a sip of wine. “Too bad Henrietta requested cremation. Not knowing the exact cause of her death complicates the investigation.”
Patricia removed a small paper bag from her purse and handed the crinkled sack to Trey.
“What’s this?”
“Mama’s hairbrush.”
He blew her an air kiss. “Good thinking.”
Chapter 15
Seated at the bar, Willie touched the digital recorder in
his pocket, certain he’d captured every word of his just completed conversation with Father John. His instinct told him there was a story there, a big one. Pulitzer Prize big. But where? He took a long sip of beer. Father John had made it clear he represented the Pope. Why would the Vatican be interested in Henrietta Snyder after her death, in particular his article and his full file about the alleged fraud?
Henrietta had tons of money. Was she a big contributor? She owned prime land. Could the Catholic Church be involved in Henrietta’s land schemes?
Why was the Holy See interested? Willie rubbed his chin. Why?
He’d heard rumors about the church’s tentacles in Savannah. They probably had unrivaled resources for investigating anything in the city.
But destiny had brought this dark, intriguing person named Father John to him, turning his day upside down. Running his fingers through his tangled ginger hair, Willie stewed over how to play the opportunity. A time-sensitive story like this required decisive action. Indecision could kill a reporter’s career. Should he follow the enigmatic Father John or jump right into further researching Henrietta’s death?
Like a spider on a web, Willie wondered which path was best. If Henrietta Snyder had been murdered, someone knew the secret of her death. The motive. The means. Right now, Father John knew more than Willie. The priest seemed extremely focused. He didn’t seem like he’d waste time. Each step he took would be measured and relevant. Who the cleric visited mattered. Research could wait.
Willie downed the last of his beer and left. The red brick sidewalk stretched out before him. He glanced right and left down cobbled-stoned street, finally spotting the black-robed cleric two blocks away. He hastened after him, maintaining a good distance.
Dodging the tourists, he savored the thought of another front-page story. A juicy murder mystery. Sensationalism. That’s what drove him to investigate and write. That’s what paid the bills and provided whatever success he’d had since graduation from Ohio University’s School of Journalism.
The hobbling cleric was surprisingly fast. Then the priest slowed, weaseled into a tangle of pedestrians exiting a tour bus, and ... disappeared.
Damn.
Willie stopped, wiped sweat from his forehead, and jammed a fresh Tiparillo into his mouth. He never smoked them. He just liked the hard image he projected with one hanging out of his mouth. He crossed his arms. The pounding in his chest ebbed.
“Why?” he asked, drawing out the word. “Why would the church be so interested in Henrietta Snyder?”
* * *
Patricia’s throat clenched as she read the headline. Savannah Port Official Murdered. After reading the first paragraph, her suspicions were confirmed. She knew the man. Her mother had done business with him
A bizarre thought made her shudder and blink. What if this man’s death was somehow related to her mother’s? She leaned back in the kitchen chair and said a silent prayer for the man. Then she dug her fingernails into her palms and continued reading. The poor man was found dead in his car after being shot once in the head. Mob style. There was no mob in Savannah. The Cotton Coalition had made sure of that. What the heck was going on? Still, two deaths so close?
Sure, she was grasping at straws. What else could she do? They hadn’t been able to come up with a logical hypothesis for Mama’s death and her missing money. Patricia’s stomach knotted.
A mob connection wasn’t entirely farfetched. That nasty land scheme Mama was accused of by the Post was said to have involved the Mafia. Mama’s money and property provided a motive.
Patricia poured a fresh cup of coffee. Could Mama have been able to identify the thief? Fingering a criminal would be reason enough to kill her. And if she could identify the thief, she would have had contact with the crook. Thank God the team was working on sorting out whom Mama had seen or spoken with in her final days.
* * *
A chilled six-pack of beer in hand, Willie climbed the rickety wooden steps of the old Craftsman home, rapped on the wooden door, and stepped back. When no one answered, he pounded on the door with the heel of his fist. Eventually the deadbolt clicked and the door cracked open to reveal Burt Goodwin’s scowling, craggy face. His broken nose supported wire-rimmed glasses. Salt and pepper hair framed his face.
“What do you want, Willie?”
For as long as Willie had known Burt, a retired police sergeant, he’d greeted everyone the same gruff way. Willie elevated the six-pack. “Would you believe I was in the neighborhood and decided to visit an old friend?”
Burt shook his head. “You got no legitimate business in this neighborhood. And watch out who you be callin’ a friend.”
The door swung open and the two men embraced. Despite his age, Burt had kept himself fit, and his vigorous hug took the breath from Willie.
Willie followed Burt to the tidy kitchen and plopped down at the rustic maple table. Though old, the table was spotless. Not a surprise. Burt obviously did more dusting than most home plate umpires.
Burt pulled two beers from the six-pack, sat across from Willie, and shoved a bottle to the center of the table.
“Thank you kindly,” Willie said.
“How you been?” Burt asked, then chugged half his beer.
Willie took a long pull on his brew, then said, “Been fine. You?”
“Can’t complain. You still at the paper? Haven’t seen your name on a story for a coon’s age.”
“Still there. Working on a story.” Willie dug at the wet label on the bottle. “I need some help.”
Burt leaned forward and squinted. “What kinda help?”
“Same as always.”
Burt smiled. “Who’s the lucky duck this time?”
“Don’t rightly know yet.” Willie stroked his chin. “I was hoping you might help me sort it out.”
Burt finished off his bottle and went to the fridge. “Another beer?”
“One’s plenty. I’m driving.”
Burt returned to the table with a fresh brew cradled in his massive hand. “So, what do you be needin’ from me?”
“You ever hear of Henrietta Snyder?”
Burt’s eyes widened. “That ole society broad that died a few days ago?”
“That’s the one.” Willie lifted his bottle and drained the rest of it. “If your buddies downtown happen to be looking into her death, I could use whatever they dig up.”
Burt nodded. “No problem, man.”
“I knew I could count on you. How’s your daughter doin’? She finish college yet?”
“She graduated with honors last May. Workin’ at the coroner’s office.”
“At the coroner’s office?” Willie scooted forward on his chair. “Ah, you think she might know something about Mrs. Snyder’s passing?”
Burt flexed his shoulders in the middle of a swig.
“Mind asking her?” Willie asked.
Burt nodded through a belch.
“I knew your daughter would do well.” Willie stood. “As much as I enjoy spending time with you, I gotta go. Tell your daughter I said hello.”
“Sure ‘nuf, Willie.” Burt walked Willie to the door. “Don’t worry none, man. I’ll get that information right quick.”
“I ‘preciate that.”
* * *
Willie’s next stop was his office. He still had to copy Henrietta’s full file for Father John.
Twenty minutes later, Willie took the worn granite steps of the Savannah Post building two at a time. He didn’t want to give Father John the research file on Henrietta Snyder, but the priest had been clear that cooperation was required.
Willie smiled at the familiar guard, bounded through the security arch in the black marble lobby, and dashed for the open elevator. After a quick ride to the third floor, he exited the elevator and went to the central records department, where he asked the clerk to retrieve the file.
Back at his desk, one of many shoved together in the center of the reporter’s pool, he took off his jacket, jammed a fresh Tiparillo in hi
s mouth and pawed through the thick file, removing some sensitive documents. He had no idea what the penalty was for failing to give the priest everything, but information was his only power.
After making some quick notes for his own research, he dropped the file off at the reproduction room, getting a snarl from the clerk when he asked for the job to be completed immediately. Willie knew everyone asked for the same priority and took no offense at the snarl. He also knew the copies would be done promptly, well before the four o’clock deadline.
On returning to his desk, Willie keyed in Henrietta’s original surname, Duff, to the news network search engine. Her obit came up as the most recent item. He printed that off. He also printed out a slew of articles about her father, Richard Duff, who was reported to have CIA connections. He’d unravel Richard’s story later.
What intrigued Willie most was a short article about Henrietta joining the Peace Corps right out of college and being sent to a remote village in Italy, the birthplace of the present pope. Could that be the connection?
A bit later, Willie found an article about Richard Duff contributing a substantial sum to a parish orphanage in Italy. Shockingly, the priest overseeing the orphanage was the man who was now the pope. The link was established. But why would the pope be interested in Henrietta’s death? There had to be more than money.
The copies of Henrietta’s file were delivered shortly before Willie received a call that Father John had arrived. Clamping down on his anxiety, Willie went to the first-floor lobby.
Father John gave him a firm handshake. Too firm. With Willie’s hand still in Father John’s vise-like grip, the priest said, “Mister Maye, you made a big mistake following me earlier. You do not want to provoke me. When I leave you this time, don’t even think about following me. Capisce?”
Willie looked into Father John’s eyes. Willie had seen piercing eyes like that only once before. He shivered. Fear tightened his throat. Willie reached for his Tums and nodded.
Father John released his grip. “Where are my copies?”
“Upstairs.”
Willie, heart racing, led the priest to the third floor and into a small conference room. “Coffee?” he asked, trying to sound relaxed.