by Ruby Spinell
He had ample time to look the scene over as six buses rocked and rolled away from the curb spilling exhaust in great clouds on the waiting cars. A series of twelve broad stone steps set the church up and back away from the activity and a string of shops faced them. On the right, flanking Hilary’s, a grey granite rectory, on the left a three-storey school, also grey granite. Modest brick homes took on from there.
A sign between the church and school with an arrow pointing back along the corridor read, Parking. As soon as the crossing guard had removed herself and her sign to the curb he flicked the Sentra’s directionals right and pulled in.
Drawing into a space on the macadam behind Hilary’s curved high altar, he could see part of the rectory’s back door. A square, no-nonsense sort of building, it looked like it had fallen squat from the side bell tower. It seemed all grey and dumpy, except the gate posts.
At the right rear corner of the rectory a dark pair of squared six by sixes, five feet high, faced the macadam with its array of cars, gate posts without a gate. And—if it was the entrance to a garden—without a garden.
But there may have been one sometime before. He eyed the macadam and was about to pass on along the walkway when one of the posts caught his eye. He peered at it, then ran his hand down the smooth old wood, his hand flashing great blue herons to his brain, his fingers telling the great long-toed track of the blue. He laughed to himself … his eyes telling him he had his hand on the tiger root.
The calligraphy had been burned deep into the wood some years before, edges of the letters were no longer sharp; they were charcoal-coated with soot and grime. Still, the two-inch high characters were decipherable. A convocation in mirror image, it called home the soul of one who had died away from home.
With his hand resting on the Oriental letters, his eyes took in the efficient lines of the church. What a strange place to find twin tigers! The tinkle of the wind chimes wafted across from the enclosed back porch of the rectory. He hesitated, feeling for something he could not name, then continued along the path to the front door and rang the bell.
A tall man with a pronounced stoop answered, wearing a checkered shirt and jeans. He broke immediately into an explanation: Mrs. Berens had gone to the store, something she needed for dinner … and then stopped abruptly. He recognizes me, Eli thought. There was a moment of unsteadiness on the priest’s part, then a rapid shift of frames and he was the simple prelate caught with his sleeves up in the middle of a job, opening his door to a stranger.
“I’m Father Elias, can I help you?” He was almost as tall as Janah, six feet probably, but the stoop shortened. He straightened his shoulders as he held out his hand, answering an invisible order to stand tall, shoulders back, then quickly slumped again.
“Father Elias, I’m Detective Janah, might we have a few words? Is this a bad time?”
“No, no, not at all.” The words were almost boisterous. “Come in, detective.” He held out his hand. Eli thought the hand could have belonged to a musician, the fingers were so fine and tapering.
Having taken it, the detective appeared disinclined to part with it, and Father Stephen Elias kept himself from pulling it back. So this was the man assigned to the case, in charge really; Danley had pointed him out the other day. He looked to be about fifty, slender and fit, no paunch. The firm grasp loosened. He crossed the threshold and didn’t stumble on Mary Berens’ pride. Everyone fell on that throw rug and yet Elias hadn’t the nerve to get rid of it for fear of hurting her feelings. Some of his friends had lost their cooks over less.
“Come on out to the back, Detective Janah, I’ve been mounting a cabinet while watching a stew. Both are at crucial moments.”
They passed a somber front room. A crucifix hung on a beige wall above a desk. Four moderately uncomfortable chairs stood about. A crowded bookcase. Catechism exegesis, Eli thought; he dubbed it the convert’s room.
The second room they passed was an improvement. It held a big couch, two soft armchairs, and a television. A fireplace held up one wall.
It got better. The room farthest removed from the public eye was a large old farm-type kitchen, chopping block dead center, large double oven, the kind of stove the good cooks like and all around the circumference in their proper niches … juicer … toaster/grill … microwave. Father Elias watched Eli scan the kitchen, his eyes missing nothing, “Parishioners, you know, Christmas gifts from different groups.”
An angle, a level, pliers, a set of screwdrivers, a hammer, three wood chisels, and a drill lay on the floor beside a cabinet resting on its side. Eli could count half a dozen drill holes in the wall over the microwave.
Father Elias pulled a wooden rocker forward to the chop block which was empty except for a neat pile of wood screws. “Please sit down,” he reached out behind him for another chair from the table foursome, “How can I help?” Eli, always listening to the meaning behind the words heard, ‘Well, I guess we have to get on with it.’
“Father, I understand you say Mass for the sisters at the Monastery of the Annunciation. I’m investigating the all too human hands and feet that were left at the monastery recently. The sisters,” he did not identify Damian by name, but it was she who had told him, “tell me you are their chaplain. Could you tell me what your duties are and how often they take you over?
“I took over the chaplaincy when Monsignor O’Reilly died. That was seven years ago. I say daily Mass at seven a.m. On Fridays I hear confessions starting after Mass. Occasionally, I finish as the Angelus rings at noon, but usually to hear the community takes until two or three p.m. I give Benediction every Sunday at three … oh yes, and also on the first Thursday of the month.” He stopped and was silent. Eli, who was writing all this down, finished, looked it over and made no move to fill the silence.
Finally, without looking up, Eli said “And were you at the monastery, Father, on the afternoon in question?” At this point, all the papers had published something on the donation that had been made to the Sisters of Prompt Succor. He doubted there was a single person in the United States who did not know the exact date and time of arrival of those hands and feet.
The priest, however, said, “That would be Tuesday past?” The detective looked up then, nodding. “I had no call to go back. I left at eight-thirty after Mass. Walked to St. Hilary’s, need the exercise, you know how it is.” He patted his belt conspiratorially.
“How is that?” Eli did not know what spark of annoyance made him say that.
“Elias looked nonplussed.” “Well, you know, everything slides to the middle.” He flashed two palms as if he were about to go into an Al Jolson number or call a truce.
Eli made his next question softer. “It looks like a big parish, Father, how do you manage? From what I have here,” he glanced down at the notebook, “you give quite a large block of time to the monastery. I, of course, am an outsider … but how …?”
“Not enough hours in the day huh, Detective? I know what you mean. I find time. That group of nuns is really amazing, the work they do …” he stopped as if he couldn’t find the words to describe the work or the extent of it. “O’Reilly, up until the end, carried most of the monastery. He insisted, it was his baby. I took it on thinking it would be temporary.” His shoulders straightened. “But I found the commitment more important than I had imagined.”
He looked directly at Eli. “Father Allen and Father Strisbel take an extra portion of the parish obligations. Jeff Allen takes over the monastery when I’m out of town.”
Eli had been assessing the man as he talked. Competent. Sensitive hands, strong chin. As the priest leaned forward and clasped his hands over his knees, Eli watched a nerve jump at the angle where the mandible joins the bony socket; under strain.
“Holy Mother of God the stew!” Elias leapt for the pot where the contents were making little spitting and hissing sounds. He grabbed the pot off the burner without a holder and slapped his hand hard on his thigh, reaching quickly for a large spoon with the other. Making diggin
g motions into the stew he tried to stir it. “Almost … but not quite.” Suddenly, he picked up the kettle and poured a huge splash of water into the goulash. He slowly, laboriously stirred, peering at it all the time. “I don’t see … any … real charred evidence … she’ll never know, where’s the Worcestershire? … With his left hand he swung the cabinet door open … finger pointing along a double row of condiments until the found the Lea and Perrins. Resting the spoon a moment he unscrewed the cap, upended it and shook it well half a dozen times. Tasting this, he hesitated, then strode to the refrigerator where he found the ketchup in the door. Only then did he seem to remember Eli sitting by the chop block quietly watching. “Great disguise” he waved the bottle, “they burn it you know.” Six strong dollops hit the stew and quickly disappeared with a few swipes of the spoon. Tasting again, he seemed satisfied and rested against the stove.
The noise behind them made both men turn. A woman was bending over a package she had just propped against the porch screen door. After rearranging her pocketbook strap on her shoulder she marched determinedly in the direction of the parking lot.
“Oh, God.” This time Father Elias did not call on the mother, no one but the top dog for a situation like this. Galvanized into action, he reinserted the Worcestershire in the cabinet, slamming the door even as he was across the floor with the ketchup.
Evidence aside, he quickly ran the tap over the brown glop adhering to the stirring spoon, rubbed it with a finger, replaced it by the pot, and dropped—flashing Eli the look of a chagrined child—into the chair just in time to rise again. Eli smothered a smile. The father was now ushering a tiny woman through the door, using his back as a stop, holding two grocery bags, one in each arm, while apologizing for not having heard her.
“Mrs. Berens, may I introduce Detective Janah. He is the senior investigator on the case … the business at the monastery you know …” he ended lamely to the back of her head. The small woman with the face of a bulldog barely glanced at Eli as she sniffed the air, removed her coat, and hurried past them all in one motion. They might have been the cliffs of Tyron and the Palisades and she a barge determined to reach the Verrazano Bridge before five.
“Father, did you neglect my stew? Father, I asked you specifically …” the voice was deep and querulous. Any moment Eli expected her to bark. Sure enough, she gave an exasperated cough that qualified.
“The stew is fine, Mrs. Berens, just fine,” Elias was saying in soothing tones.
At that point Eli had had enough of the stew. “I really must be going, Father, when would it be convenient to talk again? I think you could be of help, I’ve some questions about the sisters’ work.”
Father Elias, looking at the woman stirring the stew, then facing Eli, was the picture of a man caught between two undesirables. He managed a smile. “Any time, Detective … Well, Sunday afternoons are free until three and after four.” The man’s eyes flickered left and right, and Eli decided to leave him to the tyrant of the cooking pot.
“Why don’t we say Sunday at four; I’ll meet you at the monastery.”
“That would be fine, I’ll look for you after Benediction.”
Eli could not interpret the look the little bulldog was directing toward the father. “Mrs. Berens, I would like to talk to you, too, what would be a convenient time?” The woman was definitely ugly. The look she fastened on him was also ugly; she made no effort to soften it.
“I’m very busy, Detective, I don’t know nothing about what happened at the monastery.”
“Routine, Mrs. Berens. I’m afraid I must talk to a lot of people in the hope that what they don’t know may help us.” He was aware of Father Elias’ eyes on him, but he kept his fastened on the housekeeper. Patiently, insistently, he waited.
“Well … Tuesday’s my day off. Afternoons I visit my sister. Mornings I’m free.”
“Here?”
“Where else?” The little close eyes looked at him suspiciously. “My room’s here. Kinda tiny it is but I don’t complain.”
“Tuesday morning around ten. Father, I’ll see you at four on Sunday. All right if I go out this door?” As he opened the door to the porched-in area, the chimes made their discreet, tinkling sound. “By the way, how long has the parking lot been behind St. Hilary’s?” Father Elias looked puzzled. “I gather you had a garden at one time.”
“Yes.” The priest hesitated, “but how did you know? There was a garden when I was sent here. Because of the parking crush on Sundays, we blacktopped it.” He seemed to be thinking. “I guess we covered it over the year Monsignor died.”
“Gateposts?” Eli pointed out the side window to the dark pillars.
The priest squared his shoulders, “It didn’t seem necessary to uproot them too.”
“Until Sunday then.”
Fitting his keys into the ignition of his car, he wondered what a man had to do to keep a cook. The good father had known very well who he was; he had not introduced himself as senior detective. The source of that information was probably Bishop Danley. He wondered what else the bishop had said to the two prelates. And he wondered where the link was.
Chapter Six
“John, find out what you can about Father Stephen Elias of St. Hilary’s.” Fay, perched atop a desk, wrote something in a black spiral notebook. “And while you’re at it check out Fathers Allen and Strisbel.”
“The three blackbirds in the pie huh?” Fay chuckled softly at his own joke and wrote again.
“And Bath,” Eli swung to his right, “you check out Danley, that’s Bishop Danley.”
“Yo,” Bath signaled.
“And a ten-year-old named Del Martin who attends the next parish over. Been told he runs errands for the Monsignor there, gets his breads here.” Bath and Fay watched him with mock round eyes. Sheepishly, Eli explained, “That’s a kinda catch-all for the altar hosts. The sisters bake them and sell to the parishes …” His voice trailed off. “Come off it you two, I’m Jewish … even if I don’t practice.”
“I’ll take the kid,” Fay said and threw a folded paper at Bath when he came back with “same age.”
“Walt, you may as well take the cleric who came along with the bishop to the exorcism of the Annunciation last Wednesday. John,” Eli motioned to Fay, “last, for now. A Mrs. Henry. She cleans the extern quarters of the monastery for the sisters. We have a witness who thinks either the kid, the housekeeper, or Father Elias made the delivery; she saw all three go in there between noon and two p.m. last Tuesday.” Fay gave a low whistle toward the ceiling.
“Nefarious is not always the right adjective. By definition, occult can mean anything hidden from normal understanding. We consider occult and metaphysics interchangeable today.” She smiled. “Did you know that until the eighteenth century occult belief systems were accepted at all societal levels?”
Marion Rasille, tiny, dark, vivacious, probably early forties, was very attractive. She rested her chin on her clasped hands, elbows squarely on the table. “I would have said yes to dinner you know.” He was so startled he didn’t answer.
She picked up the chain again as easily as she dropped the stitch. “Ritual magic orders are secretive. Rosicrucianism, Spiritualism, Theosophy, Anthroposophy … In each of these you have to earn the magic knowledge through specific training. Your consciousness has to be awakened first.”
Eli watched and listened with a curiously rising heat in his groin. She had chosen the restaurant. The tables were ridiculously intimate. No way he could eat the quiche feeling the heat of her with his knees.
And so he fumbled and finally eased them out in time to trip up a waiter hurrying by with a bottle and two wine glasses on a small tray. Only his speed—one hand before the waiter’s waist, one on his spine—kept the man on his feet. The glasses jiggled. The bottle wove a curious pattern and settled.
Before a class of law enforcement people he had heard she was Ms. Cool personified. He was being offered something as hot as Giordo’s chicken wings. It surprised him t
o know he wanted that hot meal very much.
The laughing, brown eyes with the slight Asiatic narrowing at the outer canthus did not swerve from his face.
“There is a current revival?” he asked.
“Definitely, Taking part of the body of a person is the commonest way of working white or black magic on them.” She toyed with the teaspoon. “This doesn’t seem to have the earmarks of cult though.”
Her eyes watched his hands, as they had when he tore the hot, long loaves of fresh bread apart, her absorption telling him quite clearly what she imagined those hands doing to her.
“Would you like coffee?” Eli asked. She shook her head. “You’ve helped clear some misinformation I’ve acquired,” he told her. She shrugged her shapely shoulders in apparent nonchalance, the soft, pink material tucking itself provocatively in the marked cleft between her breasts for long endearing moments.
The shoulders, when they finally squared, seemed to blow the round breasts halfway across the table; hard nipples poked at him through the fuzzy cloth. She couldn’t be wearing a bra. If she was, it wasn’t much.
Papa, you want hutzpah? This is hutzpah. No one is shlomei emunah—whole hearted in their faith—before this! No one!
“As I said, it doesn’t have the earmarks of cult.” Her brows flew down like graceful wings. “Cult killers don’t publicize. Not like this.” She was thoughtful for a few moments. “Although humans make rituals like they make love … in an infinite number of variations …
“Have there been warnings? Festering angers? Have the good sisters made enemies? You say none of the repatriot families have been threatened or harmed?” Her mouth pursed like a soft bud, the thought of crushing it against his own was stronger than most of the simmering hatreds he had encountered in his long career.