by Mark Stone
I had been to Fort Myers more than a handful of times in my youth. It was only fifty or so miles from Naples and, though we grew up in a city where you could get anything from bait on your hook to caviar on your cracker, there had always been something a bit exhilarating for Boomer and me about the idea of sneaking off to spend the day (and sometimes a big chunk of the night) in a place as different as Fort Myers.
Emma hadn't been wrong when she'd said this place, while close, wasn't anything like the place we called home. Both were beach towns, there was no doubt about that. The economy in both places (for the working class anyway) was completely dependent on the tourism the glorious Gulf coast and the getaway seekers it drew to it like moths to a relaxing flame.
The moths in question though were of completely different models.
"Young crowd up here," I said, glancing over at Emma for an instant. She was looking out at the beach too; white sands filled with college kids soaking in their first taste of freedom every bit as greedily as they were soaking in the sun.
Fort Myers Beach was no Vanderbilt though. Where our beach at home had a more laid back and even upscale attitude and feel, this beach was unapologetically youthful. Pop up bars and beachy burger joints lined the strip sitting off the sand. Where Naples would have populated with snooty tie and jacket restaurants and designer boutiques, this place held less refined faire, oyster shacks, rib joints, and souvenir shops boasting “$3.99 Sales”.
Suddenly, I remembered why I so wanted to sneak up here as a randy teenager. Naples was gorgeous. It was pristine. It was perfect. It was home. This place though, it pulsated with the raw energy of youth and good times. It sang of decadence and even sin if you went to the right places. And that could be tempting for a young guy. Hell, it could be tempting for anyone.
"You jealous?" Emma asked, looking over at me with a smile on her lips and in her eyes.
"Of kids?" I balked. "Hardly. Those weren't the best days for me."
"Don't sell yourself short, Dillon," she answered. "I might have been off in college by the time you came of age, but I've heard enough stories from Boomer to know that you two weren't shrinking violets by any stretch of the imagination." She nodded. "And to hear Charlotte tell it, you were really something back then. At least in her opinion."
I stifled a grin.
"Good friends, good times, and a good woman; you could have done worse," she finished.
"That's true," I answered, suddenly feeling a little guilty as I realized that Emma had misunderstood what I'd meant. "It wasn't them. They were fantastic. Boomer and Charlotte; they were the only reason I made it, aside from my mom and grandfather. It's just, I didn’t know who I was then. I had this name, my father's name, and it felt like it was going to choke me to death. It was like if I didn't get away, if I didn't find my own identity outside of this town and the way the people in it thought of me, I'd never be anything else. I'd always be the Storm bastard, or the poor orphan kid, or—”
"The good Storm," Emma cut me off. "Isn't that what you said your brother called you?"
"It is," I answered. "He even christened the houseboat he bought for us with that name."
"It's fitting," Emma said. "And, if you'd have asked me back then, I'd have said the same thing." She took a deep breath. "When I was a kid, I wanted to be a ballerina. I used to practice every night and all weekend, trying to perfect my stances and studying the greats. My father was really supportive. He let me know that it was a hard business and that, even if I was good, there was a chance I'd never get to do what I wanted to professionally. Still, he told me so long as I followed my dream, I'd be a success. When I got to be eleven or twelve though, something changed in me. I went to classes on the south side of town and it wasn't what I thought it would be. I was the worst student in the class by far. There were people there who had been doing it since they were three, and they looked at me and saw something ridiculous. So, I stopped. I realized my limitations and turned my attention to something I was good at. And now I bring peace to mourning families every day. I love what I do but, for years, I thought of myself as a failure."
"That's ridiculous," I said instinctively.
"Of course, it is," she answered, smiling at me. "I'm doing what I love and I'm doing it well. The point is, sometimes we ascribe the things we think about ourselves in the deepest parts of our minds to other people to give it validity. I looked at some photos of that class the other day, and do you know what I saw?"
"What?" I asked, making a left and heading toward our destination.
"Nothing," she said. "Absolutely nothing. They were just kids. I couldn't find a piece of the contempt I would have sworn was dripping off those girls in any of the pictures. I had put it there myself. I had taken what I thought about myself and attributed it to them." She shook her head. "What I'm trying to say is, you might have thought of yourself as a bastard and an orphan. You might have thought that people looked at you as someone who didn't matter and hell, maybe some people did. That's not for me to say. I will say that not everyone did though. I, for one, thought of you as the sweet kid who smiled anytime I let him eat chocolate ice cream for dinner and who pretended not to be scared of horror movies because he wanted to look brave. I thought of you as a good kid," she said. Shrugging, she added, "A good kid who had a massive crush on me, but a good kid nonetheless."
"You knew about that?" I asked, doing everything but blushing.
"You weren't exactly subtle about it, Dillon," she answered, chuckling. "I mean, baked me a cake for Valentine's Day with candy hearts on the top that spelled out my name."
"It wasn't a good cake, was it?" I asked, looking over at her and thinking of that memory for the first time in perhaps ten years.
"It was not," she admitted. "And you put three 'M's in Emma, but it was sweet anyhow."
"I'm glad you came with me," I said, grinning at the woman as I made another left.
"I am too," she said. "Especially since you're about to pass the church."
"Oh dammit," I muttered, spying the rounded brick church on my right and skidding as I made a sharp turn into the parking lot. "I knew I should have used the navigation."
"Or you could have just listened to me," Emma answered.
The Church of the Resurrection had been through a lot recently. Their priest had just died and, while Emma and I both knew his death was no suicide, the parishioners likely didn't. The papers and newscasts had spoken of the incident as a suicide. They had said Father Fred Aldridge took his own life, but he hadn't. Like Father Jameson, he had been murdered, hung from the ceiling until dead.
I'd gotten the address of the church he'd left behind not only to try and gather some clues about what actually happened, but also to warn the new priest that he might be a target of whatever was going on here.
When I called the rectory to speak to him on my way up, his office manager informed me the priest was currently giving one of his visiting relatives a tour of the church. With no time to lose, Emma and I decided it was in our best interest to get to him while he was in the church. It also afforded us another boon.
"I can't believe this is where it happened," Emma said, looking at the gorgeous building as she stepped out of my truck. "Can you imagine what he must have been thinking?" she asked, looking over at me as I stepped out as well. "Murdered in his own church, in the house of God."
The fact that Father Aldridge was killed inside the church was no small point. A generous man, the Fort Myers priest had been known to give his spare room to the less fortunate around town. The room was occupied the night he died, which of course would have meant there would have been a witness to hear what actually happened to him. The church was empty though and, aside from the local police (who quickly and openly called the incident a suicide), no one else had ever looked around the scene.
It had been a while since the death, but I wouldn't mind a chance at looking around. Evidence gets left behind all the time. If it was there, I was going to find it.
&nbs
p; Emma and I walked up the stone steps to the double doors leading into the church.
"Remember," I said, looking over at her. "We're just a couple friends on our way to the beach. We wanted to look at a beautiful church. That's all. I'll move the conversation where it needs to be when talking to the priest, but I don't want there to be any reason for the local police to start looking at this as a cross county investigation."
"I get it," she said, nodding at me as I opened the door.
The church was as beautiful on the inside as it was on the outside. Unfinished stone walls were broken only by beautiful stained glass windows bordering huge columns, pews, and an old school altar rose a few steps above the rest of the floor.
Candles were at the far end toward the left. A single woman was inside the church, standing with her back toward me in front of the candles, lighting one.
I walked toward her. The red-haired woman must have been deep in thought or prayer, because she didn't move as I neared.
Reaching her, I placed a hand on her shoulder and said, "Ma'am, I'm looking for the new pr—”
The woman turned to me and, with a start, I realized I knew her. That red hair had been a part of my life for years. Those green eyes had stared into my very soul on more than one occasion. Those lips had pressed against mine so frequently and passionately that I would have sworn there would never come a day when she wouldn't be mine.
That day had come though.
Charlotte stared back at me, as stunned as I was to see her here.
"Dilly?" she asked. "What are you doing here?"
"I—” I swallowed hard. "I'm working. What are you doing here, Charlotte?"
"After we talked, I called my Uncle Oscar," she said. "I told him what you said about the earrings, about where you found them. He explained everything, and he told me what had been going on with him. I was so wrong. I can't believe how wrong I was. He invited me up here. He wanted me to see."
"To see?" I asked. "This church? Why on earth would Oscar want to take you to church in Fort Myers?"
"Because," a voice I hadn't heard in years echoed from behind me. I turned to find Oscar standing there. His hair was thinner than I remembered and his face was thin to the point of almost being gaunt. I couldn't focus on any of that though, because the man I grew up knowing as drug dealer and addict was now decked out all in black with a white collar around his neck. Charlotte's uncle was now a priest, and he was serving at the center of this madness.
He smiled at me. "A lot has changed, Dillon."
Chapter 23
"Oscar?" I asked, looking at the man with a spinning mind and a dry mouth. As I was growing up, I looked to the church for guidance. It was what I had been taught by both my mother and my grandfather. When I was lost or down, I could always find help within those hallowed halls and a shoulder to cry on in the form of Father Jameson. I came to both respect and adore the place, the man, and what they stood for. Seeing someone like Oscar, someone I knew to have been less than savory in his life, wear the collar reserved for people who dedicated their lives to that place, was as backward to me as the idea of seeing a wave in a bottle of water. It didn't belong, and I couldn't make it belong, regardless of how much I looked at it. "You're a priest?" I choked out.
"And you're a detective if Charlotte is to be believed," he answered. "I told you, things have changed." He looked past me to what I could only assume was an equally stunned Emma. Though still younger, she was closer in age to Oscar. So, it would only make sense that she'd have known more about him during his pre-prison prime. "Emma. You sure are a sight for sore eyes. I hear you got married. When are you going to start popping out babies?"
"We're not here for small talk," Emma said, her face a mask of irritation.
"What are you here for?" Charlotte asked, looking up at me with curious green eyes.
I looked from Oscar to her, realizing I wasn't sure what I was going to say. Emma and I were supposed to be undercover, more or less. We were going to pretend to be sightseeing, interested in shooting the breeze with a priest who needed to be warned about his life possibly being in danger. We couldn't do that now that Charlotte was here, now that the priest in question was someone who'd known me since I was a little kid.
I would have to come clean, at least partially. "It's about the investigation, Charlotte," I said. "About what happened to Father Jameson, about what went down at the hospital."
"I was afraid of that," Oscar said, walking toward me with his hands stuffed into his pockets.
My body tensed as he neared me. This man had always put me on edge, always set my flashers off. Looks like a priest collar didn't change that.
"Were you?" I asked, hearing Emma walk toward me. "And why would that be the case?"
"Because of the earrings," he answered, grinning at me like he was innocent in all of this. "Because of what I did."
"And what's that, Oscar?" I asked, staring at him as he settled beside us. "What did you do?"
"Nothing I'm proud of," he said, looking at the floor. "You see, when I was in jail, I had an epiphany. I realized that the life I was living wasn't a good one. I was lacking something real, something true. I had no fulfillment and, as strange as it sounds, it took being locked away from the world to understand what was truly worthwhile about it."
'Oscar," I started. "Just tell me about the—”
"I started reading the good word," he cut me off, practically beaming. "Day and night, night and day. It was like a tonic, an elixir that gave my life new meaning. I decided I wanted to devote my life to it and, one night, I realized what form I wanted that to take." He shook his head. "I wanted to be a priest. So, I studied hard. I spent my years the right way and, when I got out, I had intentions of taking my Holy Orders." He sighed. "It wasn't that simple though."
"I bet," Emma said. I sensed the same apprehension in her voice that I was feeling.
"I wasn't as strong as I needed to be. I'll admit that right here and now," Oscar said. "I underestimated the world I'd left behind and the pull it would have on me." He looked over at Charlotte. "My sweet niece was willing to let me live with her and how did I repay that kindness? I let her down. I went back to my old ways and then, when she rightfully put me out to protect her son, I hit my bottom. I was angry. So, I did something to hurt her. I took something I knew she valued, something I knew she'd never be able to replace."
"The earrings," I surmised, looking over to Charlotte, my heartstrings pulling just a little. If he was right, then those earrings meant something to her and the fact that they did meant something to me.
"Right," he answered. "I stole them with the intention of pawning them. I thought they were real, but I soon learned they were only valuable to her. So, I did something worse than selling them. I threw them away, just dropped them into a trashcan."
"Meaning you have no idea how they got into that abandoned house," I said, my jaw tightening. "That's convenient."
"It's a miracle is what it is," he answered. "I threw them away and they found their way back to her."
"Because they're involved in a series of murders!" I answered.
"The Lord works in mysterious ways," Oscar answered. "Stealing those earrings was the thing that made me realize how far I'd fallen from the man I wanted to be. So, I took my leave from Naples. I went back to the church. I took my vows and, as it turned out, they needed me here." He shrugged. "It all fell into place as though it had been set up." He grinned. "Maybe it was divine intervention."
I balked.
"If you'll excuse me," Oscar said, nodding at me. "I need to make a phone call very quickly. I'll be in the cry room. Perhaps you can keep Charlotte company until I return."
"Right," I muttered, glaring at him as he walked away.
"You can't be serious," I said, looking over at Charlotte as soon as Oscar was out of earshot.
"What?" my ex-girlfriend asked, pursing her lips at me.
"Tell me you don't believe that pile of garbage," I said, huffing loudly.
"Of course, I believe him, Dilly," she said. "He's here, isn't he? He is the pastor of this church. I've been to his offices. I've seen him interact with parishioners."
"Just because he's the priest now doesn’t mean he's telling the truth," I said.
"Doesn't it?" she asked.
"Emma," I said, turning to the other woman. "Will you please talk some sense into her?"
"I don't know, Dillon," she said, shaking her head at me. "How could he fake this? How could he literally pull the wool over an entire parish? It doesn’t make any sense."
"He's Oscar!" I said, splaying my hands out in front of me. "He's always been a master manipulator. I have no reason to believe he's not doing that right now."
"You have no reason to believe he is!" Charlotte answered. "Look, I know I said some horrible things about him, and I don't regret that. They were all true, but they might not still be. He says he's changed, and the church seems to agree with him. Doesn't he deserve a second chance, Dilly? Doesn't he deserve the benefit of the doubt? Isn't that what all of this religion stuff is about anyway?"
It wasn't all that”this religion stuff” was about, but Charlotte definitely had a point. Still, I couldn't shake the coincidence. A pair of earrings that could be traced back to Oscar was found at a house that had something to do with all of this and now here he was, at the heart of where this stuff seemed to have started.
"Why are you really here, Dilly?" Charlotte asked, narrowing her eyes at me.
"He's here because someone died, Charlotte," Oscar said, walking back into the chapel. "Because a man died in this very room and he thinks it's connected to what's going on back home and, who knows, maybe it is. Maybe you're right, Dillon. Maybe all of this is one big web of lies, but it doesn't have anything to do with me." He nodded. "And I'll prove it to you."