Twist of Faith

by Ellen J Green

  “Well, we kinda are now,” Joanne responded. “We called you.”

  He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. “I mean the Philadelphia police. The police who might have investigated it to begin with?” He was straining to control his voice. “And you didn’t even bring the photograph with you? So I could see it?”

  “Sorry. I swore it was in my bag . . .” Which was a lie. I didn’t bring it, because I needed to know he’d help me look into this, keep it to himself, and not just snatch it from me and leave.

  “Her mother just died a coupla months ago.” Joanne thumbed in my direction. “And on top of that, she finds all this out. She doesn’t know if or how her family might be involved. Give us a break.”

  Us. I suppressed a small smile. Just then a waitress appeared and set our sodas down on the table. “Are you ordering or just drinking?” she asked.

  “No, just the drinks,” Russell answered for all of us. He wasn’t sitting here any longer than necessary.

  The waitress shrugged and wandered off.

  Russell began to wiggle the straw around inside his glass as we talked, until it was moving so fast some drops flew out and landed on the linoleum tabletop. He pressed the drops with his fingertip. “Okay, I’ll look into it. A little. See if I know anyone in Philadelphia. Not draw too much attention to it—”

  “How about this? We’ll all meet at Ava’s house the day after tomorrow to get a game plan together; maybe you’ll have found something by then?” Joanne stood and picked up her large purse.

  “That’s a Saturday. I have plans. How about you give me at least a week.”

  Joanne’s face was a picture of disappointment. She’d hoped that Russell would be so intrigued and excited that he would drop everything, including Saturday plans, for this. I just knew she was wondering what kind of plans he had. She was always repeating the stories she’d heard about his girlfriend. Despite never having met her, Joanne had already decided she didn’t like her, even though no one had ever said anything bad about her. She was a surgical resident at Cooper Hospital, and that seemed to irk Joanne even more.

  “Big deal. So she’s some doctor. It doesn’t impress me one bit. I just have to figure out how to get her out of the picture for good. Maybe there’s some asshole doctor over there that would love to take her out,” she’d say. “What do you think . . .”

  She never missed an opportunity to play matchmaker. Once she’d caught Russell looking at me when I was talking to one of the public defenders. She couldn’t wait to tell me all about it.

  “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Joanne had asked him.

  Judge Powell had wandered by, and Russell nodded and smiled at her in greeting, then turned back to Joanne. “I think she was probably really something in her day.”

  Joanne said she’d smacked him and told him she was talking about me. And took the opportunity to offer my selling points. “Ava’s not really stuck up, you know, though she seems like it. She’s not. She’s shy.”

  With glee and a laugh she’d reported his response: “I never thought she was.”

  Now here was a situation that would put us together for a reason. It was interesting and mysterious, with a hint of danger. And she wasn’t going to let some supposed relationship he was having get in the way.

  She looked hard at Russell. “Wednesday night, Ava’s house. I’ll leave you two alone. I’m sure she’ll give you directions. You guys can finish your drinks.”

  We watched her leave the diner and then started laughing.

  “I’m sorry about all this, Russell. She means well.”

  He rested his chin in his hand. “I’m a little more concerned about this whole thing than I let on. I’m not going to call the police, because you asked me not to, but . . .”

  “What?”

  “People kill in different ways, and it indicates something different about the person doing the killing. And their relationship to the victim. Shooting someone is a whole lot less intimate, for instance, than strangling them. Touching someone makes it much more personal. The more intimate and personal, really, the more anger is involved. To take a hammer and hit someone repeatedly means that someone was very angry. Most likely these people didn’t die with the first blow.” He hesitated. “Ava, please let me make a few official calls to Philly.”

  “No, please don’t.” My eyes were welling up. “I have this awful feeling that Claire”—I hesitated—“my mother has something to do with this, and I’ve been through enough.” I wiped at my eye with my finger. “I can’t handle the police crawling all over my family, my personal life. Please?”

  There was silence and I was afraid to look at him. Afraid he was going to ignore my pleas and start talking about police procedure, so I studied the melting ice at the bottom of my glass.

  “Okay. I’ll see what information I can get about the murders without raising any eyebrows over there,” he said. “Once I look it over, I want us to take a little ride back to Chestnut Hill and that house.”

  “Okay.”

  “What if your mother was involved in this? Can you handle it?”

  “Let’s just take one day at a time, Russell.” I smiled. “Or five days at a time. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

  “Before then if I find out anything.”

  “Thank you. Merci, gracias, danke, arigato, hvala, and any other language I can think of. Really.”

  “Yeah, what language was that last one?”

  “Croatian. Bosnian. Slovenian too. They all use the same word.”

  “You speak Croatian?”

  “It’s a hobby.”

  We stood up from the table. “You call that a hobby? How about fly fishing or collecting stamps?” He laughed. “Go.” He put his hand on my back and propelled me out of the restaurant.

  CHAPTER 8

  The news was on. I heard the low murmurs in the background. A male anchor—a rumble—punctuated by higher-pitched female voices. I’d fallen asleep in my bedroom, on top of the pale-blue coverlet. I must have turned the TV on before passing out, but I didn’t remember doing so. When I opened my eyes, I realized I’d been crying. It happened sometimes. Emotions seeping out when I couldn’t keep them contained.

  The picture was at eye level, so when I rolled over, I couldn’t help taking it in. Me, at seven years old. I was dressed in denim shorts and a white smock top, smiling, holding a small fish. Claire was next to me, leaning into the shot, her blue hat and sunglasses obscuring her face. I remembered that day so clearly, each detail vivid. The sun had been searing, the boat small and blue. Only one other couple aboard. We had left Long Beach Island on a two-hour fishing trip, but I was the only one who caught anything.

  Claire had been in a good mood, laughing, helping me reel my little bass in. She wasn’t nervous or angry like she usually was, and those two hours that we were away from the shore were a real vacation. She sat down, had coffee, chatted with the other passengers, smiled. But after we got back, disembarked, snapped the photo, it was like Boom, fun time over. Not even ten minutes later she’d pulled one of my ponytails hard enough that my scalp swelled. But those two hours on board were what I’d held on to. It was what my life could have been with a different family. My real family. And so I asked to have the picture framed. Some nights I’d stare at it and pretend the woman next to me wasn’t Claire at all. She was my mother. My birth mother. And that every day was just like this.

  I looked over at the clock. The green neon numbers were glowing—it was nearly five o’clock. The days were beginning to disappear from my grasp. No routine, no structure. I’d come in earlier to lie down, the last bottle of wine from the living-room cabinet in hand, and now the sun was setting. I was pulling the blanket over my head when my cell phone started rattling on the nightstand. I pushed the button to answer, but before I could say anything—

  “Ava. Are you busy?”

  “Russell?”

  “Yeah. Listen, I’d like to stop by for a few minutes, if that’s okay?”

&n
bsp; That was maybe the last thing I felt like. “You mean now?”

  “I’m near Haddonfield and found a few things you might be interested in.”

  My pulse rose slightly. “Sure. Give me ten minutes.”

  I went into the bathroom, confused, not even sure what day it was. Sunday. We weren’t supposed to meet until the middle of the week. What could he have found? I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My hair was smashed to my head and tangled. I’d been sleeping in just a tank top and boxer shorts. Russell couldn’t come through the door with me looking like this.

  I brushed my hair and pulled jeans on over my shorts. No time for much else. I ran a toothbrush across my teeth and was swishing some Listerine to cover any traces of booze when the deep sound of Beethoven’s fifth began to play overhead. Claire had installed the doorbell shortly after we moved in. Those four notes were charming when you first heard them—but grating after a while.

  I opened the door. “What’s going on?”

  Russell came in and locked the door behind him. It was then that I saw the gun tucked into a holster at his side.

  “Work on a Sunday?” I motioned to it.

  “Work doesn’t end on weekdays at five p.m. Do you mind if we sit down?”

  I pushed some clothes off the sofa and made a spot for him to sit. He was polite, but not so much that I didn’t see his nose curl at the mess.

  “I read the report on the murders, Ava. I went through four people to get it so it’d be harder to link back to me. Gruesome. I don’t know how much of that was leaked to the general population, but whoever killed those people was probably in the house already and caught them by surprise when they came home. The woman was in the kitchen, near the front door; her keys weren’t too far from her body. Theory is, she was attacked as soon as she came in through the garage.”

  I was silent; a dull ache twisted my stomach.

  “He was in the living room. Multiple wounds to his head and face, and investigators thought he was the real target. The investigation went on for months, but the leads were sketchy. No one saw anything. No evidence of a forced break-in. The weapon was left behind. A run-of-the-mill claw hammer found near the bodies, apparently belonging to Owens. The only prints found matched family.”

  “So was this a robbery gone wrong or something else?”

  “If someone were robbing the house and were caught in the act, and then things escalated to murder, it would stand to reason that something would have been stolen. But the house wasn’t ransacked. The woman still had her rings on. The man had his wallet full of credit cards and cash. And then the killer just walked out of the front door and left it open.”

  He ticked off options on his fingers. “So either the killer was very eager to get out, not paying attention, arrogant and sure they wouldn’t get caught, or familiar with the environment and not afraid. I’d guess the latter.” He got up and paced a bit.

  “Why?”

  “Because they felt comfortable enough to stop and take the picture, that’s why. And that’s why I don’t think it was a robbery gone wrong.”

  “Unless someone else took the photo? Someone who saw the killer but couldn’t snap a photo in time, but still wanted proof or—”

  “The bigger question here is, how did your mother get it and how is she connected to all of this? Did she write the words on the photo?”

  I reached out and put my hand on his arm to keep him from moving; he was making me nauseous. “It doesn’t look like her writing, but I can’t be a hundred percent sure.”

  “When did you go to Chestnut Hill?”

  The staccato sound of his voice made me pull my hand back. “Umm, a week ago Tuesday.”

  “Something is just not right about this, Ava. I’m not sure what, but it’s in my gut.” He stopped talking, concentrating. “Let me see that photograph.”

  “What?”

  “The photograph that started this whole thing. The one that you didn’t bring to our meeting the other day.”

  I stood up and grabbed my purse. Rummaging through it, then dumping the contents onto the coffee table. Russell peered at me. I felt his judgment at the empty vodka bottle that rolled onto the floor. He picked it up and set it on the table. The photograph wasn’t there. I stood up, scanned the living room. I hadn’t cleaned it since the morning Joanne was there. Papers, clothes were scattered everywhere.

  “You lost it?” He was irritated.

  “No.” I turned to him. “No. It’s here. Just give me a minute.” But it wasn’t there. Not that I could find.

  Hands on hips, he turned in a circle, looking at the room. “Maybe you just imagined this whole thing? The photograph? Is that possible? You saw something about the murders on TV and then twisted it into this story?”

  “No. Stay here. Don’t go anywhere.” I ran up the steps into my room and pulled it apart in a frenzy. I came down empty-handed.

  “When is the last time you saw it?”

  “The other day. I was looking at it down here. I was lying on the couch.”

  His eyes went to the couch—piled with clothes and a blanket. He sighed. “All right. Think about the day you went to the house. Does anything stand out?”

  I tried to think—I had to come up with something. Russell was beginning to assume I was an idiot. “Okay. A man stopped and asked directions when I was talking to a neighbor. She was looking at the picture. He was weird. Staring.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Sixties. Graying. Balding, maybe. Fat face. Car was a dark color. He was only there for a minute.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you believe me now?” I said. He had no reason to. I was a disaster. “The other day I came back from church, this place was a mess. My purse was dumped on the floor. I’d forgotten to lock the doors. Do you think someone came in here? And took the photograph?”

  “You mean more of a mess than it is now? Was anything else out of order, different?” I could tell his cop wheels were turning. Ramping up. “This is the first it occurred to you that someone might have broken in, gone through your stuff?”

  “Yes. Well, no, I wondered.” I was starting to panic. “I saw my purse tipped over and the cushions pulled out.” I motioned to the couch. “But I didn’t notice anything missing and I couldn’t be sure—”

  “I want a coupla things. One”—he ticked his finger—“I want you back at work. Your bereavement leave is done. Two—”

  “Wait, why do I have to go back to work?”

  “You’ll be safe there. I’ll tell the sheriffs to tighten things up a little. Be on the lookout. You go into the courthouse and don’t leave for anything until the end of the day. I’d rather have you there than sitting here alone all day drinking. Or out and about.”

  “And two?”

  “Two, you can’t stay here alone. Either you get a hotel room or you move in with someone.”

  “Someone who?”

  “You choose. Joanne, your aunt. Someone else. Three, from this moment forward you say nothing, and I mean nothing, about any of this to anyone. Not even family. Not that aunt you mentioned. If she brings it up, act like you were wrong. Act like it’s over, no big deal. I don’t even want you telling Joanne what we talked about tonight. Give her fluff, no details, and if she presses, just make up something. Understood? The less people know, the better.”

  “Russell. What if I just leave the country? I need to see my grandmother anyway. Let me just go to France. I’ll stay there until you tell me to come back. Really, I will.”

  He shook his head. “No. Who knows where this goes—”

  “You think Grand-Mère Anais might kill me?”

  He looked up and his eyes softened a bit. “She wouldn’t kill you . . . probably. But I wouldn’t be able to keep tabs on you. And four. Take a shower and wash your clothes.” He gestured at me. “Get yourself together and give up the booze. I need you with a clear head.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. If you find that pict
ure, call me. And make sure this house is locked up tight, windows and doors, all the time. When you’re home and when you leave. Are we clear?”

  “Russell. You have no idea how sorry I am I got you involved in this.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched into a little smirk. “It’s okay. I weighed it out: investigate a five-year-old double murder for you or meet some buddies this afternoon for beer and football. Who needs football anyway?”

  Just then Beethoven’s fifth symphony sounded overhead.

  CHAPTER 9

  He sat at his desk, staring intently at the two Polaroid images in front of him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph he’d found on Ava’s floor, placing it between the others. Three Polaroids, each of a different house, probably all taken with the same camera. The front door visible and open in all of them. This middle photograph completed a set. Claire must have gotten it from her father, Ross. Had he told her what it meant, or had she simply found it after he died?

  Two murders within two years, then one more last year. The killer had made them all wait, holding their collective breaths to see who would be next. Bill had been the first of the three. His throat had closed, leaving him unable to breathe. Apparently caused by a tree-nut allergy. He was found by the front door, trying to get help. Nobody thought it was anything other than a tragedy until Loyal received the photograph in the mail—the front door of the rectory, the door ajar. The date of Bill’s death had been printed underneath. The words The church does not exonerate all Sins written beside it.

  Before Bill’s death, the four men hadn’t seen each other in over eighteen years. What happened that night ended in a brawl. Bill broke it up and Ross left, running almost, to get away from them. Each feeling apprehensive, angry, and betrayed by the others. Bill had become a priest, a man of the cloth. He’d disappeared into the church, shutting the door on the past. So why kill him?

  He remembered Loyal calling him, panicked, the night that picture arrived in the mail. Over a few drinks they’d dragged it all out again, studied the implications. Who knew about their pact and what they’d done to fulfill it? How could anyone? They had no answers. Loyal gave him the Polaroid that night to be rid of it. Neither of them went to Bill’s funeral. Neither said another word about his death. But hiding their heads in the sand didn’t stop whatever they’d set in motion. Loyal had been next.