"Hmm,” Sister Carla murmured. “We are likely talking about different people, aren't we? Hit men don't usually steal, do they?"
"I'm not up on their habits. But we've got two gunmen. The bullet that killed Herald was a different caliber than the bullets that pierced the walls of the church."
Sheriff Delensa bent to examine the lock. “Doesn't look tampered with. Who has a key to this door?"
"Only myself and Father Kelski."
Sheriff Delensa stared at Sister Carla for a moment, then at Father Kelski. “Well, someone may have opened this door, walked in and walked out. Probably somebody who knows the church well."
Sister Carla felt that she or Father Kelski might be in need of a good lawyer.
* * * *
SATURDAY
Sister Carla spent Saturday grading her students’ history papers. She tried to discipline her mind to concentrate but could not. She felt guilty. Had she remembered that back door, had she checked it herself, had she told the sheriff about it, it would have been locked. The icon would still be in the church. No, it wouldn't, she reminded herself. The door had been locked. The thief must've had a key.
She sighed, picked up a paper on spies in the Revolutionary War, and began reading. The paper was superficial. She looked at the bibliography. Only two sources and not very good ones. From the Internet. Not reliable. It was hard these days to get students to settle down in a library to use good records and sources.
Her head swung up. Sources, she thought. Records. Such as parish records. “Holy Saint Christopher,” she mumbled aloud. She was as bad as her students. She should have thought of the records sooner. Well, she could get to Saint Casimir's on Monday, as the school retreat days meant no lessons until Tuesday. She'd go directly after morning prayers, if the convent car were available. “Holy Saint Christopher,” she said again. She did always have a tendency to swear. But, she figured, using Christopher was okay. He'd been desainted years ago, if that were the proper word.
* * * *
MONDAY
Sister Carla pulled the convent car behind the rectory of Saint Casimir's where it could not be seen from the road. Inside the rectory, the sun shone brightly through the window of the parish office. She did not need to turn on a light. She locked the doors behind herself and placed the convent cell phone on the desk. She could call the sheriff in a hurry if need be.
She began with the first record book she found in the top drawer of the first file cabinet. The book listed births, deaths, baptisms, first holy communions, confirmations. The second and third books listed parishioners who'd given larger than usual sums of money to the church. The Fletcher name was prominent in this book. She recognized other names of families from Jenkinsville, including her own. Her father had given a reasonably large sum one Christmas, no doubt the year he'd sold the house his brother had left him. A few other families were there, including the Rosczaks, who'd given substantial donations around the years their daughter was hospitalized. Bribes to God, Sister Carla thought sacrilegiously, but she sympathized. It must have taken all their savings.
She searched through the top three drawers of an additional file cabinet before she found what she wanted. For twenty years, Father Kelski, his mind better than it was now, had kept records of the organists, caretakers, altar boys, and other parishioners who had worked in the church. He had noted to whom he'd given keys, making Xs or checks by each name, including her own and Walter Rosczak's, once caretaker for the church.
Sister Carla thought about Mrs. Rosczak in the cemetery the day the engineer had been murdered. She'd clutched her purse to herself, as if she had a gun in there. But what earthly reason could she have for killing a mine engineer? Besides, it was hardly likely that she could fire a gun with any accuracy.
Sister Carla checked the names again. She had two checks by her name. But by her name were also two empty spaces. There were four checks in the spaces by Walter Rosczak's name. She ran her finger down the list. Chester Zamback. A check and an X by his name and two empty spaces. This looked more promising. An unreturned key perhaps.
Sister Carla looked again at Father Kelski's notations. Some other names had four checks.
She pulled the church keys from her pocket and fingered them. Two keys. Two checks. Two empty spaces with no checks.
She whistled long and low. Chester Zamback, the carpenter at Saint Casimir's school and church, had an X by his name. Sister Carla hit her forehead, then straightened her veil. What if X did not mean unreturned keys? Empty spaces meant that. What if X meant key to the icon box? Chester Zamback, the carpenter for the school and the church, had undoubtedly made the oak box by the cemetery shrine and the oak frame box and base that secured the icon of Saint Casimir, the frame that had been opened by the thief. Not a thief who had to smash the glass box, but a thief who had unlocked the frame, lifted the glass, taken the icon, and then smashed the glass.
Sister Carla dislodged her veil again. Of course, that's what had bothered her about the glass, what she had not understood. A thief who had no key would have had to smash the thick glass and reach in for the icon. Pieces of glass would have remained in the groove of the oak frame. There had been none. Chester Zamback had lifted out the glass and smashed it on the floor to simulate the breaking of glass as a thief without a key would have had to do. It was time to visit the sheriff again.
* * * *
"Not again,” Delensa said when she walked into his office.
"I'm used to greetings like ‘hello,’ or ‘The Lord be with you,'” Sister Carla said. “I suppose the bearers of bad news have been maligned since ancient times, but this time, I don't bring bad news. At least, it's bad for only one person."
She explained what she'd found in the records.
"Of course,” the sheriff said. “Chester Zamback did all the church's carpentry work.” He shook his head. “Hard to believe he'd murder, though, even for the icon."
"Who says he did?"
"I do. I haven't been just sitting on my duff while you've been checking the parish records, you know. I've been checking the gun stores within fifty miles. Found the right one in Wilkes-Barre. The owner sold a pistol to Chester Zamback."
"All the saints in Heaven,” Sister Carla sighed. “Have you arrested Chester?"
"No. He's now gone missing, like Rosczak. Possible they're in this together."
"Rosczak too? But why him? What motive?"
"One of the oldest, I suspect. Money. The icon. I'm betting they planned to steal it and got caught in the act by the mine engineer. One of them shot Herald. They fled, came back the next day to finish the theft."
Sister Carla folded her hands in her lap and sat back. “No,” she said finally. “Too many loose ends. Too many holes in your theory."
"Like?"
"Like several shots. Why?"
"I explained that a while ago."
"What about the black Lexus?"
"Okay. That's a loose end. But we've no proof that the car is anything other than some tourists. Or maybe some kids with a stolen car. Or maybe..."
"Not convincing."
"Well, it'll have to do until I find out more. In the meantime, keep in mind that finding the murderer is my job, not yours."
Sister Carla shrugged. The sheriff was right, of course, but she had to admit to enjoying, just a bit, her detective work. She wondered if that were a sin. She decided it was perhaps rather ghoulish, but not a transgression of any of the Ten Commandments.
She drove back to the convent, hitting the gas pedal hard in frustration. Maybe Rosczak and Zamback had been at the church. Maybe they had shot the engineer. She knew the depth of frustration and anger in those remaining in Jenkinsville. But she couldn't believe that they would have stolen the icon. And why would Mr. Rosczak leave his wife alone in Jenkinsville? She thought about Mrs. Rosczak clutching her purse, frightened. What did Mrs. Rosczak know?
Sister Carla parked the car and went to Mother Superior. She wanted to keep the convent car a bit longer.
&nb
sp; * * * *
TUESDAY
She parked the Honda CRV to the side of the Rosczaks’ white clapboard house, standing by itself like a lone icicle resisting the heat of the sun when all others had long since melted away. On either side of the house stretched sidewalks and paths that led to nowhere. The lawn was still green, kept warm even in the autumn chill, and on each side of the house rose narrow rectangles of brick, like so many chimneys for a house luxurious with fireplaces. Only they were not chimneys. They were shorings, holding the house up, keeping the wooden frame from expanding and contracting too much with the cold of the air and the heat of the fire beneath. The shorings would eventually fail to do their job, but by the time of the death of their house and Jenkinsville itself, the Rosczaks would be dead too.
Sister Carla fingered her rosary.
She stepped out of the car, reminding herself that it was not the devil at work here, but human emotions and faults: greed, exploitation, and, if she were right, fear. It was not just sulfur and burning earth one smelled. It was fear. It had exuded from Mrs. Rosczak that day in the cemetery. The pale skin drawn tight. The clutched purse.
Sister Carla knocked on the door and waited for an answer.
A car drove by, its motor humming as it drove over the scorched earth.
Sister Carla knocked louder.
A curtain in the window to the left moved. A moment later, Mrs. Rosczak opened the door halfway. “Sister,” she said.
The smell of fear intensified.
"Mrs. Rosczak, I need to ask you something."
Mrs. Rosczak shook her head. “I am not well. Please go away."
"You must talk to someone. If not me, it will be the sheriff again. You must let me help."
Mrs. Rosczak opened the door fully.
Sister Carla stepped inside. Behind her, she heard the hum of the motor. She could taste the fear rising in her own throat.
Mrs. Rosczak stood paralyzed.
Sister Carla looked around. “Lock the door and come in here,” she said. She took Mrs. Rosczak's arm and pulled her into the parlor. They sat on a pale blue sofa, flanked by tables that held pictures of a brown-haired young woman with large eyes.
Sister Carla wasted no time. There was little to waste. “Where is Mr. Rosczak?"
Mrs. Rosczak shook her head.
"You don't know, or you won't tell me?"
Mrs. Rosczak sat still.
"He was there, was he not? At the church when the engineer was shot?"
Mrs. Rosczak swallowed.
"He had the keys to the church, I know. But his keys were duplicates, weren't they? Only the front door is new. So he had to enter by the back door, the same door through which he left the church."
"Yes, but he killed no one."
"Mrs. Rosczak, what was in the church? Your husband had duplicate keys made for some purpose. Had he always planned to steal the icon?"
Mrs. Rosczak gasped. “He did not steal the icon. He did not. He ... he had to get something from the church. But he did not steal the icon."
Sister Carla remembered. “The marble holy water font. It was moved. Why?"
Mrs. Rosczak nodded. Her body shook. “He hid the papers in the font's hollow column years ago and left them there. Maps of the mines. But he killed no one. He wanted to give the maps to the mine engineer."
"What do the maps show?” Sister Carla could have guessed, but she wanted to keep Mrs. Rosczak talking.
"The mine fire. The maps show that the Fletcher Company used the pit on the outskirts of the town as a landfill. The pit had holes in the walls and floor from the mining. My husband said that state law required that the holes be filled with incombustible materials. They were not."
"So the maps will show that the Fletcher Company was responsible for the mine fire, and therefore, is liable.” Sister Carla nodded. “Yes, and just when Fletcher is campaigning for reelection.” She flared with anger. “But why did your husband keep the maps? Why didn't he reveal what he knew years ago?"
Mrs. Rosczak put her face into her hands. When she looked up, her eyes were almost shut. “We used the maps. The Fletchers paid for my daughter's medical expenses and my husband's silence. You must understand. She would have died otherwise. She had asthma and the sulfur fumes and gases that had seeped into the house were killing her."
"And when you finished paying the bills, you donated money to the church."
Mrs. Rosczak's hands shook. “I know what we did was wrong. Maybe everyone in Jenkinsville may have received some money if we told, but it would not have been enough for us to save Donna."
"But Mr. Rosczak never returned the maps to the Fletchers?"
Mrs. Rosczak shook her head. “No. He told the Fletchers that he'd destroyed them. My husband said they knew he didn't, but they knew we would keep silent as long as our daughter was alive. Now...” Mrs. Rosczak lifted her hands, a gesture of futility.
"Mrs. Rosczak, so you have the papers now?"
"Yes. They came to the church looking for the maps."
Sister Carla nodded. “They shot the engineer."
Tears seeped down Mrs. Rosczak's cheeks and dropped onto the white collar of her dress. “Chester did. He did not mean to shoot him. He went to the church with my husband to get the icon.” She shook her head, the only vigorous movement she made. “But not to steal. He was afraid it would be returned to the Fletchers. They had donated the icon, and always spoke of it as theirs. Chester thought they would reclaim it. He panicked when he heard him.” Mrs. Rosczak's words tumbled out in a fury. “He thought the engineer was someone sent by Fletcher. Chester came out of the chapel and saw the engineer. He thought the engineer was reaching for a gun. He shot him, then ran. There were two other men there. They fired, but my husband ran. He knew the men the Fletchers hired would look for him. So he hid the maps. Behind the pot of flowers on our daughter's grave.” Mrs. Rosczak subsided. She seemed to shrivel.
Sister Carla felt as if she'd taken a blow. Delensa had been right, at least in part. Mr. Zamback, if not Mr. Rosczak, had gone to the church to remove the icon, and he'd shot the engineer. Then, he'd returned to get the icon. No wonder Chester Zamback had said it was all his fault. She looked at Mrs. Rosczak, then rose. There were still the two gunmen. And if she were right this time, they were still after the Rosczaks. “I see,” she said to Mrs. Rosczak. “So your husband sent you to get the maps. I saw you put something into your purse. I thought it was a small shovel or some other tool to tend the grave. Mrs. Rosczak, where is your husband now?"
Mrs. Rosczak said nothing.
"He is hiding? But you must see that he is in danger. Both of you. He cannot come out of hiding until the papers are public. Fletcher's men won't let up until they get the papers. You do see that. And he will be blamed for the murder too."
Mrs. Rosczak nodded.
Sister Carla thought. “Now,” she said. “Now. We have to get the papers to the sheriff.” She thought about the car that had driven up and down the highway, the black Lexus she had seen the day of the engineer's murder. It was, no doubt, lurking outside right now, waiting for Mr. Rosczak's return or waiting for Mrs. Rosczak to go to him. Or waiting to enter the house. “Does your back yard connect to the driveway?"
"Yes."
"Get the maps and your coat."
Mrs. Rosczak sat for a moment, then stood. “I know you are right,” she whispered.
Sister Carla went to the front window and peeked out from behind the curtain. She saw no black car.
She turned and stared for a moment at the purse Mrs. Rosczak clutched to herself. “We must move fast,” she said. “And let me do the talking to the sheriff. Just listen to what I say. Don't talk until I finish."
Leaving the light in the parlor on, they left by the back door and slid along the wall to the convent car.
Sister Carla released the emergency brake, started the car, and backed out of the driveway, with her foot pressing on the gas pedal. The car shot back, then shot forward with a squeal and a jerk.
She heard a second squeal and saw in the rearview mirror the black car pull onto the highway from the remains of a side street. She sped up, hurling down the mountain road.
In the rearview mirror, she watched the black car gaining on them. She calculated the time it would take to reach the sheriff's office: fifteen minutes. Not enough time.
Sister Carla said a speedy prayer, then decided. Beside her, Mrs. Rosczak sat immobile, the purse still clutched to herself.
Burned out trees and reddish earth swept by in a blur.
Ahead, Sister Carla saw the sign warning of the danger of driving onto the burnt earth.
"Brace yourself,” she told Mrs. Rosczak.
She reached the dirt road that led into the heart of the burning area. She swung the car onto the road and bounced over it with bone-rattling force.
The black car followed in a cloud of coal dust and cinders.
Sister Carla leaned forward. The car climbed the slope. She knew what lay beyond and knew that she had one chance to get out alive.
She neared the top of the slope.
"Brace yourself,” she yelled again to Mrs. Rosczak. She swung the Honda to the right, then hard to the left across the dirt road.
The black car braked, sending up another cloud of black dust and dirt, then sped up and followed, looming in the rear window.
Sister Carla jerked the steering wheel again, and the Honda swung to the left, just skirting a pit. The car screeched, circled, rocked, tilted, then bounced back onto the dirt road.
In the rearview mirror, Sister Carla saw the black car go over the top of the pit.
Mrs. Rosczak screamed at the sound of the explosion.
* * * *
Sheriff Delensa rose and stared at Sister Carla and Mrs. Rosczak. “Now what the hell?"
Sister Carla helped Mrs. Rosczak into a chair and stood, her arm round the old woman's shoulders.
Delensa listened intently. He glanced now and then at Mrs. Rosczak but did not interrupt Sister Carla's tale.
When she finished, the sheriff sat silently for a few moments. “Chester Zamback is dead,” he said finally. “I found him this morning. In his bedroom. Suicide. With a pistol."
AHMM, June 2007 Page 13