“Don’t mind Patches, dear. She just loves company.”
Company is allergic to Patches, Leigh thought sourly, but resigned herself. The cat kneaded her thigh painfully. She gritted her teeth and continued. “You’ve been a member of the church since before the arrival of Father Brian?”
“Yes. I was baptized at Saint Patrick’s in nineteen twenty-five. Father Brian didn’t arrive for about another fifty or sixty years.” Mrs. Kent smiled with pride, her oversized glasses magnifying her watery blue eyes, making them appear disproportionately large in her wizened face.
“I’m hoping you’ll be able to help me, then.” Leigh passed a picture of Moira Simpson across to Mrs. Kent, the cat in her lap digging in further as she shifted. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Mrs. Kent squinted at the photo for several seconds, the wrinkles in her papery skin crinkling even deeper with concentration. Then she tapped the photo with a knobby trembling finger. “I remember her. She was much younger then, of course, but that’s Moira Simpson.”
Leigh froze. Here’s the connection we needed.
The old woman was still staring at the photo. “Is she dead?” Her shrewd eyes studied Leigh’s face. “You’re from the police. She’s either dead or missing, or else you’d be talking to her.”
“She was killed in a fire earlier this week. How did you know Mrs. Simpson?”
“She was a member of the church . . . let me think.” Her eyes took on the unfocused gleam of memory. “It must have been twenty-five or thirty years ago that she joined us. A young mother, a widow. With that sweet little boy.”
“Her son, Flynn.”
Mrs. Kent slapped her knee enthusiastically. “Of course. Flynn. Sweet child. He was always sickly though.”
“That must have been hard on Mrs. Simpson.”
“She was lucky to have Father Brian.”
Awareness pricked like icy thorns over Leigh’s skin. Mrs. Kent’s words were innocuous enough, but there was a thread in the tone behind it that hinted at . . . what? Envy? Scorn? “She knew Father Brian, then.”
“She was a favorite of Father Brian. All the . . . let’s say . . . generous contributors were.”
“She gave freely to the church?”
“Oh yes. There’d been some sort of settlement when her husband was killed and Moira was very generous to the church. And Father Brian was always very . . . appreciative.”
“You say that like he was only appreciative of those who gave to the church?”
Anger flashed in the older woman’s eyes. “Are we all not children of God? Do we not all give what we are able? Doesn’t Mark say, ‘And calling his disciples together, he sayeth to them: Amen I say to you, this poor widow hath cast in more than all they who have cast into the treasury. For all they did cast in of their abundance; but she of her want cast in all she had, even her whole living’?”
“Did Father Brian give preferential treatment to those who were especially generous?”
The older woman’s eyes seemed to sink even deeper into her face as she studied Leigh. “Back then, yes.”
“But not later?”
“He went on a spiritual retreat one summer, digging wells and building a school in Africa. That trip changed him. Made him the man he is today.” She jerked slightly as she belatedly caught her own words. “Or was, if the rumors are correct. Even an old woman, mostly shut away, hears murmurs. Was Father Brian the victim found in Saint Pat’s fire?”
“Yes. So, Mrs. Simpson was a particular favorite of Father Brian’s when she was with the church. When did she leave?”
“It was after Father Brian’s trip to Africa. When he came back, he no longer paid her the same attention and deference as before. I think she felt slighted.” She sat back in her chair and picked up her teacup, a sly smile curving her lips. “She didn’t stay long after that.” Her nose wrinkled. “Which is something he likely regretted later when this business with church finances became a problem. He could have used her money then.”
“I’ve heard a little about the church’s financial problems from Father Thomas. How did you and the other parishioners feel about Father Brian?”
Mrs. Kent’s lips pursed and she shifted in her chair. “You must understand that we all loved Father Brian. He was a man of God and was most devoted to us.”
“But he put your parish at risk trying to save another. Surely there must have been some bad feelings about that,” Leigh said.
“There were.” Mrs. Kent reached down to pet a Siamese cat that rubbed against her thick ankles. “For a while, things were quite tense at Saint Patrick’s. But then Father Brian preached a few sermons on the Catholic Church’s mission and caring for your fellow man, and most of the parishioners realized that even if it hadn’t worked out well, he had the very best of intentions at heart when he tried to save the other parish.”
“Most?”
“Well, there were some that left the parish, angered over the situation. But they were gone six or eight months ago. I can’t imagine them coming back after all this time to murder Father Brian. Or Moira Simpson.” She said her final words with just the tiniest trace of a sneer.
“I get the impression that you weren’t overly fond of Mrs. Simpson.”
The delicate bone china cup froze almost to the older woman’s lips and her eyes went sharp. “Am I in trouble? Do I need a lawyer? I watch crime shows, you know. I know how things work on Law and Order.”
Leigh quickly schooled her features, keeping her face solemn when her lips threatened to twitch. The idea of this frail old woman hamstringing a man thirty years her junior was simply ludicrous. A strong wind would knock her down. “No, ma’am, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m simply trying to understand her connection to the pastor. And how that might have been viewed by the congregation.”
“We saw her as an attention-seeker. She used that poor child to garner sympathy for herself. And since, at the time, Father Brian was willing to pay more attention to those that generously supported the parish, he was constantly at her beck and call. As the little boy grew, that need only seemed to grow along with him. He had some sort of rare disease, I believe.”
“He has a bone disorder.” Leigh felt a heavy weight against her lower legs. She looked down in time to see a huge cat with a drooping belly collapse over her shoes to lounge against her shins. She was doomed. In about twenty minutes, she was going to be sneezing up a storm.
“I probably knew that at the time, but some things just don’t stay with me anymore.” Mrs. Kent gave an airy wave of her hand. “I do remember he was a clumsy child though. Always falling over this or banging into that. And he was often in the church. There were many days when I’d come in to light a candle for my dear mother, and there they’d be in the pews, praying for the little boy’s health. For hours at a stretch sometimes.”
Leigh’s body went rigid and she covered for it by reaching again for her cup and trying to make her voice casual. “So Flynn Simpson wasn’t housebound?”
“No, not at all.”
“And he used to spend a lot of time at Saint Patrick’s?”
Mrs. Kent stared at her as if she was slightly dense. “Didn’t I just say that, dear?”
“I was just confirming.” Leigh’s mind was whirling and she took a long, slow sip of tea to buy herself a few extra seconds. If Simpson was willing to lie about Saint Patrick’s to cover for his partner, then he could have lied about Father Brian. Leigh set down her cup. “What was Flynn’s relationship with Father Brian? Were they friendly?”
Mrs. Kent’s eyes took on an unfocused look and she was silent for several seconds. “Nothing stands out in my memory. Father Brian was very considerate of both Flynn and his mother.”
“You never saw him lay hands on the boy? Perhaps even just to grasp his arm?”
Mrs. Kent stared at her in shock. “Are you implying that Father Brian mistreated him?”
“I’m not implying that at all. I’m just trying to establish their rel
ationship.”
The older woman made a tsking noise. “I know some priests have reputations for . . .” She paused, clearly searching for the most diplomatic way to express herself. “Interacting with some of the young boys. But Father Brian was never like that. He was always perfectly appropriate.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kent. You understand that I have to ask these questions as part of the investigation. It’s important that I do whatever is necessary to find Father Brian’s killer.”
“Of course.” Mrs. Kent regally bowed her head in either forgiveness or understanding, Leigh wasn’t sure which.
“Moira Simpson must have been a very devout Catholic, seeing as she spent so much time in church,” Leigh said.
“She seemed very devout until things didn’t go her way. Then she dropped out of the parish fairly quickly. But . . .” Mrs. Kent paused and made show of fiddling with the small silver cross she wore on a slender chain around her neck. “Well . . . I don’t like to speak ill of the dead.”
Leigh simply waited. The eager gleam in the older woman’s eyes clearly said that she was quite willing to speak ill of the dead.
Mrs. Kent gave a gusty sigh of resignation. “Since this is for a police investigation. Moira was more about showiness than actual faith.”
Elanthia’s voice rang in Leigh’s head—It became clear almost immediately that Moira was all about the symbols, rather than the substance of our Craft. “What do you mean by that?”
“She always dressed impeccably for Mass and gave beautiful gifts to the church. She even paid for the repair of one of the sanctuary windows after someone threw a rock through it. She made the donation in memory of her husband. And the rosary she carried. It was very beautiful—hand-tooled silver with gemstone and pearl beads.”
“Let me guess . . . custom made?”
Mrs. Kent pulled back in surprise, her tea cup rattling in her saucer. “Yes. How did you know?”
“I’m seeing a general trend. Mrs. Simpson had expensive taste and the money to support it.”
“Let’s just say she wasn’t too modest to show off what she could afford. She had a very expensive silver crucifix she wore everywhere as well that matched her rosary. I always assumed she had it made by the same silversmith. But there was something in her that didn’t seem genuine to me. I’m not sure I could even put my finger on what that was. But it wasn’t a surprise when she suddenly stopped coming to Mass.”
“Once Mrs. Simpson left the church, did you ever see her again?”
Mrs. Kent shook her head. “Never in the church. Maybe occasionally around Salem, but that was all. I never saw the boy again, although by the time they left, he was likely in his mid-teens. Poor twisted soul.”
Leigh had been studying the cat in her lap with a jaundiced eye, but her gaze shot back to Mrs. Kent. “What do you mean by that?”
Mrs. Kent pressed a hand to her breast. “Oh no, dear, not that. I didn’t mean he had a twisted mind. I literally meant that his body was twisted. Whatever that disease did to him, by the time he left the church, the effects were clear. He hunched on one side and his back was twisted and stiff. I believe he also didn’t have full control of his left arm. He was a lovely boy, very polite and quiet spoken. And his mother was very attentive to him. They were practically inseparable.”
“Thank you for clarifying. How long was Mrs. Simpson with the church?”
The thin lips pursed. “I would guess about seven or eight years.”
Leigh made some quick calculations in her head. “She left in the mid-nineties?”
“Yes, that would be about right.”
“To your knowledge did she have any contact with Father Brian after that?”
“Not that I know of. You might ask Father Thomas about that though.”
Leigh took a final sip of tea and drained her cup to set it gently down on the wobbly table. “I’ve spoken to Father Thomas. He was the one who gave me your name. He’d never seen Ms. Simpson before.” Ignoring the protesting yowl, Leigh lifted the cat from her lap, tugging until the claws finally released. She set the cat on the floor and then stood before it could hope to reclaim her lap. Gently coaxing the other cat from her feet, she stepped free of the furry mass. She could feel her eyes starting to water and a sneeze starting to build behind her nose. Too late.
She turned to Mrs. King. “Thank you for your time. You’ve been very helpful.” She extended a card and the older woman took it with shaking fingers. “If you think of anything else, please let me know.” When Mrs. King started to try to push herself out of her chair, Leigh waved her back down. “I can see myself out. Thank you for the tea.”
Then, with one last look at the passel of cats, she fled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: K-12 SAW
* * *
K-12 Saw: a circular saw that can be fitted with different blades to cut through wood, metal or concrete. It’s an all-around tool that can take the place of an ax, chain saw, or the “Jaws of Life.”
Tuesday, 4:14 p.m.
Boston University, School of Medicine
Boston, Massachusetts
Working alone at his desk, Matt looked up at the sound of the door opening. When he realized it was Leigh backing through the door with her arms nearly overflowing with files, he sprang to his feet to relieve her of half the load. “What’s all this?”
“Flynn Simpson’s medical files. You asked for them, you got them. In spades.” They eased everything onto the cold stainless steel of an open gurney. “You need to look these over carefully. Very carefully.”
Something in Leigh’s tone had the hair on the back of Matt’s neck standing up. “What’s going on?”
“I think we’re getting close.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Remember I had that interview this morning with Mrs. Kent? She recognized Moira Simpson right away. Said that she was a dedicated member of the parish until about fifteen years ago.” She paused and met his eyes. “She remembers Flynn Simpson, remembers him in church often with his mother.”
Matt whistled. “That son of a bitch. He lied. He wasn’t housebound and even if he’d been young, he’d remember something that was such a major component in his life.”
“Exactly. We’re assuming he lied to cover the lover’s tracks, but so far we have no proof and no obvious motive. We need to find both.”
Matt tapped the files with an index finger. “If the motive is here, we’ll find it.” He glanced at his watch. “Kiko, Paul and Juka should be back from the charnel house any time now. There’s a lot of material here, but they can give us a hand.” He paused when her brows drew together. “What?”
Leigh held out a placating hand. “I know they’re good, but I really want your eyes on this. They might miss something and—”
“I’ll read it all, don’t worry. But they might help find something a little faster.” His gaze skimmed over the towering piles of paperwork. “This is a lot of information. Where did it all come from?”
“I started at the hospital. It seemed the reasonable place to begin since we knew from Simpson himself that they did surgery on him for cancer, only to find out it was FOP. I got all the records from his orthopedic surgeon, who then referred me to the family doctor, so I got those too. And it looks like there are copies of files from other specialists as well. On top of all that, I received the last of the chemical company reports so I need to go through those while you’re going through this. Since there was nothing obvious that we found in the reports we went over last night, I’m hoping something pops for us here.”
“Speaking of last night . . .” Matt stepped into her, feeling something lighten in his chest when she slipped her arms around his waist. It wasn’t exactly uncertainty, but he felt like he was trying to find his footing in the transition from being lovers last night to colleagues this afternoon. “How are you today?”
She flashed him a cocky smile. “Fantastic. I thought I might be tired due to someone not letting me sleep very much last nigh
t, but strangely enough, I’m not. How about you?”
“Never better. I didn’t even get a lecture when I got home this morning.”
Leigh laughed. “You thought your father would lecture you? A grown man?”
“You never know with Dad. But he seemed remarkably chipper this morning.”
“He’s probably just happy to see you with someone. I bet—” She stopped suddenly, her head cocked slightly to one side.
Then Matt heard it too. Familiar voices, coming from down the hallway.
When Kiko, Paul and Juka entered the lab, they found Matt and Leigh standing on opposite sides of the gurney, leafing through stacks of paper.
“Good, you’re back,” Matt greeted them. “Flynn Simpson’s medical records are here as well as a stack of reports from chemical companies.” His gaze flicked to Leigh. “How about Paul helps you with the chemical reports, and Kiko and Juka help me with the medical records?”
“That works.”
It didn’t take long for Matt to find exactly what they were looking for. “Got something already.”
Leigh looked up from the thick report she was reading. “That was fast.”
“Well, I started with the orthopedic surgeon because the big issues will mostly be in here.” He pulled an X-ray from the folder and took it to a light box on the wall. Flipping on the light source, he slid the film into place. “Ouch.”
Leigh came to stand beside him. “What are we looking at?”
“This X-ray was taken of eight-year-old Flynn, after he’d fallen off his bike.” He pointed to the narrow, double-curved collarbone with a clearly misaligned fracture near the shoulder joint. “That’s a type-three distal fracture. And that’s his left side.”
A Flame in the Wind of Death Page 23