A Priestly Affair (Jesse Thorpe Mysteries Book 2)

by Carl Schmidt

  “A new client hired us this morning,” I said. “His story was remarkably similar to yours. I’m not at liberty to give you any of the details, but suffice it to say that unless his narrative is a complete fabrication, there is little doubt that Nicole was the woman who was murdered in the Rutland Arms Hotel on Saturday evening.”

  “Have you gone to the police with this information?” he asked.

  “No, we haven’t, and for the time being we have no plan to do so. We may provide them with an anonymous tip, but we can’t come forward publicly. That would betray our client’s trust. His privacy is protected in the same way yours is. If he instructs us to contact the authorities, of course we will. But without his permission, we’ll have to proceed on our own.”

  “I see,” he said.

  After a brief silence, I added, “I need to ask a favor. I hope you won’t find it to be indelicate.”

  He looked at me kindly and said, “Oh. I see. You’d like me to go to the police and identify the body.”

  “Father! I hadn’t even thought of that.”

  His suggestion took me by surprise, but I realized immediately how valuable it would be.

  “But…yes,” I added. “That would be very helpful, both to the police and to our own investigation.”

  As Father O’Reilly considered the prospect of this unpleasant task, I wondered how on earth that idea had escaped Holly, Angele and me earlier in the morning. We had brainstormed for nearly fifteen minutes after Xavier had left, and it had not occurred to any one of us. “How strange,” I thought, “to miss something so obvious.”

  “I’ll do it,” he said resolutely. “In fact, I had considered going down to the station last night as I lay awake in bed. I had such a strong feeling it was Nicole.”

  After a few moments, he added, “I’ll tell them I know her as ‘Nicole Shepard.’ I imagine that is her real name. There will be no need to say any more. She was a troubled woman who came to mass from time to time. The police are familiar with the privacy of the confessional. It should be no trouble to just offer her name and be done with it.”

  “They’ll try to extract as much information as possible,” I cautioned.

  “I respect your own private needs, Jesse, more than the public ones. You have nothing to worry about. Other than her name and the fact that she attended mass, silence will be golden in this case.”

  “Thank you, Father,” I said.

  He added, “I’ll call you as soon as I’m back from the morgue.”

  The “morgue,” I thought—a place where heaven and earth collide, but it seemed such a cold, secular word for a man of the cloth.

  “So, what was the favor you mentioned earlier?” he asked.

  “Oh. Yes,” I said as I reassembled my earthly concerns. “We have a hair sample of a child relating to our client. It would be helpful if we had Nicole’s DNA profile. When you told me that you and Nicole were tested, you didn’t actually say if you kept the report.”

  “Yes. I have it right here,” he replied.

  He walked over to the bookshelf and picked up the same Bible that held Evelyn’s picture. Folded in the back were three pieces of paper stapled together. He handed them to me.

  “They’re here—all three of them. Nicole’s and mine are accurate. God only knows about Evelyn’s.”

  “Thank you again, Father,” I said.

  We both sat in silence. It would have been insensitive to ask Father O’Reilly any more personal questions, but I wanted him to feel free to contact us if he recalled anything that could be useful. Knowing he was intuitive, I decided to wait and see if something else occurred to him. It did.

  “Jesse, there’s one thing I didn’t discuss with you last week that might be important for you to know. I kept it to myself because it was revealed to me in the confessional. It wasn’t really part of a confession, per se, but it seemed a little too private for me to mention at the time. Now that Nicole has passed on, I feel it is appropriate to tell you about it. It may or may not be helpful. I really don’t know. In any event, I don’t feel that my telling you will betray her trust.”

  “If it will help with our investigation, I’m sure that Nicole would want you to tell us,” I offered.

  “You’re right,” he said.

  He took a deep breath and let out a long, but quiet, sigh before continuing.

  “Nicole was involved with an older man. I don’t believe they were connected romantically, but she spoke about him a couple of times as if they were in business together, or perhaps they shared some common interest. She seemed to be afraid of him—not terrified, mind you, but anxious about their relationship. When I asked her to tell me about him, she clammed up. I think she even regretted mentioning his name.”

  “She told you his name?” I asked, trying to conceal my excitement.

  “Well, only his first name. She called him ‘Tony.’”

  “Did she say anything about him…where he lived, what he looked like, anything like that?”

  “No, she didn’t offer any details. Priests provide counsel and comfort, but in the confessional we don’t pry. When someone is ready to talk, we are ready to listen. Sometimes we suggest solutions to personal problems, but it’s usually better when those in our care receive answers on their own. We save our resolute sermons for Sunday mass.”

  Monsignor O’Reilly was an impressive man. He most definitely had earned his title. If I’m not mistaken, somewhere in the Gospel of Matthew a man is described as the “salt of the earth.” Francis O’Reilly fit that description perfectly. I regretted having to leave the rectory that afternoon, but I regretted even more that I had to be there in the first place.

  “Thank you, Father, for your help, and thank you for your counsel. Please call me after you’ve identified the body. I’d like to know how that goes.”

  “I will,” he replied.

  “I am so sorry to be the bearer of such sad news. I’ll stay in contact with you as things develop. I certainly hope we are able to determine what happened to Nicole so we can bring about some measure of justice.”

  “Justice always prevails, my dear friend. Sometimes it’s not apparent in the affairs of men, but nothing escapes the eyes of God. I don’t believe in the vengeful God portrayed in some parts of the Old Testament. There’s a passage in Deuteronomy that is often quoted. ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’ Forget that, Jesse, and replace ‘vengeance’ with ‘love and understanding.’ I hope you will keep that in mind when you find the killer—and you surely will.”

  “I’ll give it my best, Father. That’s a promise.”

  23

  Devils Watch

  It was a ten-minute drive to Paternal Affairs—maybe fifteen on icy roads. I was almost there when my cell rang. Driving was treacherous enough with my full attention and both hands on the steering wheel, so I pulled over to take the call.

  “Hi, this is Jesse,” I said.

  “Jesse, this is Holly. I just had a thought. Are you at Father O’Reilly’s home?”

  “No. I left there five minutes ago.”

  “It occurred to me that he might be willing to identify Nicole’s body. The latest news report indicates that the police have not yet determined her name.”

  “That occurred to Father O’Reilly as we were speaking together. He’s probably on his way there right now.”

  “Good. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that earlier,” she confessed.

  “I guess we were starstruck,” I offered.

  “Maybe,” she said. “There’s something else.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Frank Richards called.”

  “Really?” I said. “What did he want?”

  “He wanted to talk to you, and you alone.”

  “Did he leave a number?”

  “No. His number is blocked, and he didn’t want to leave a message. I gave him your cell number, but I told him you were busy on a case. He said he’d call back here at four o’clock, our time.”


  “That will work,” I replied. “Anything else?”

  “That’s it for now. I have a little more to do on the Allied Shipping account. I should have that wrapped up in an hour or so.”

  “Good. Is Angele there?”

  “Yes. I’ll put her on.”

  “Jesse, how is it going?” Angele asked.

  “Things are shaping up. I’ll tell you everything when I see you. I’ve made an appointment at Sammy D’s for new rims and tires at two-thirty. I’m on my way to Paternal Affairs right now. I should be finished in about fifteen minutes. If you haven’t eaten yet, why don’t we meet somewhere near Sammy’s for a late lunch?”

  “I know just the place, Jesse. The Green House. It’s about two blocks from there.”

  “I know where it is. I can be there in, say, twenty minutes?”

  “I’ll slide on over,” she said.

  “Don’t hit anything on the way. You know, Angele, there is one good thing about driving the roads of Maine in winter.”

  “I hadn’t noticed, Jesse. What’s that?”

  “The potholes are filled with snow.”

  Angele let out a muffled groan.

  “That’s encouraging,” she replied. “I feel a whole lot safer now.”

  “Just drive slowly and don’t slam on your brakes.”

  “Sure thing, Dad.”

  “Do I sound like him?” I asked.

  “Only when you preach,” she replied.

  “Sorry, doll. I just want to keep you in one piece.”

  “Then you’d better can the jokes, Jesse.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “They’re breaking me up,” she replied.

  It was my turn to groan.

  “See you in twenty minutes,” I said.

  • • •

  The woman at the receiving desk at Paternal Affairs directed me down the hall to the first door on the left. A young man greeted me as I entered the room and invited me to sit down.

  “My name is Lawrence Holbrook,” he said. “I assume you are here for a paternity test.”

  “Yes. I have two samples for you. I have a hair sample from a three-year old child and a saliva sample from a man to be known as ‘X.’ I also have a DNA profile that your company prepared three years ago for a woman whose name is Nicole Levesque. Unfortunately, the hair sample does not include any roots, so, as I understand it, the only possible test will be for mitochondrial DNA.”

  “That is correct,” he replied, “and we can’t guarantee that we’ll be able to extract any of it from the hair shaft. Quite frankly, the chances are rather slim.”

  “Let’s give it a try, anyway. If you manage it, I would like to know if Nicole is the mother of the child. As for the saliva from the man, please provide us with a full report of his DNA profile. And, if you happen to pick up any nuclear DNA from the hair sample, please determine if the man is the father.”

  “We’ll do what we can,” he said. “We’ll need payment in full before you leave.”

  He took the samples and Nicole’s profile and typed an invoice from his desktop. When he was done, he said, “Please return to the front desk. Miss Sutton will have your bill.”

  I paid for the work, left the building and drove straight to The Green House. Angele was waiting for me inside. It was a little after one-thirty. We had enough time to eat a leisurely lunch and be at Sammy’s by two-thirty.

  We ordered big salads and hot tea before discussing the day’s events. I gave her the full rundown of what I’d been through, and then it was her turn.

  “I tried the Vanity Fair ploy at the Hilton, but unfortunately, the guy at the front desk recognized my name. I’d never met him before, but he said he followed the Lavoilette murder case very closely. We’d better have Billy make some new IDs for me with an alias.”

  “Right you are,” I replied. “So what happened? Did you get any information about Xavier’s stay in Portland?”

  “As it happened, Xavier came down to check out as I was standing there. So it’s just as well that I wasn’t representing myself as a photographer for a magazine. I saw him before he saw me, and I stuffed the camera in my purse. It just fit.”

  “Did you talk?”

  “Yes, but I had to think fast on my feet,” she said.

  “I see what you mean. How’d that work out?”

  “I told him we had an important client flying in from Boston. I was supposed to meet him in the lobby and drive him to our office.”

  “Nice. Did he buy it?”

  “I don’t know. He’s an actor, Jesse. It was hard to get a reading.”

  “He’s not Oscar material, Angele. He must have given away something.”

  “In fact, he did. He gave me a kiss on the cheek and told me he appreciated our help.”

  “We should have waited until he was out of the state before poking around the Hilton,” I said.

  “But then, I wouldn’t have gotten the kiss,” she said with a grin.

  “Well, there is that.”

  Our teas and salads arrived. We continued chatting between mouthfuls.

  “Did you have any time to check out his summer stock theatre work on the Cape?” I asked.

  “A little. Xavier had one of the leads in the play, Devils Watch. I found lots of sites with information. There were all sorts of news stories, reviews and gossip columns. Apparently, it was a big affair that lasted a month in Dennis Port. The New York Times wrote, ‘Broadway Goes North.’ That was the title of their opening night review. They liked the play but were rough on Xavier.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They suggested he should go back to soap operas where he belongs.”

  “Ouch.”

  “And that’s not all, Jesse. Tragedy struck the next day.”

  “Really? What happened?”

  “Sometime during the night, Armando Perez, the director of the play, fell—or was pushed—off the deck of his beach home overlooking Nantucket Sound. He landed on the boulders below. His body was discovered in the morning.”

  “I seem to remember reading about that. Was there a coroner’s inquest?”

  “Yes. The jury decided that the cause of death was undetermined, and no one was charged with murder. Mr. Perez had lots of alcohol in his system but no cocaine.”

  “No cocaine? Why did they mention that?”

  “Because two one-ounce bags were found in his home on his desk. One bag had been opened and was a couple of lines short.”

  “Interesting. Did you add ‘Nicole Shepard’ or ‘Stephanie Goulet’ into the web search?”

  “Yes. Nothing has come up yet, but I’ve only just started, and there are loads of photographs. I’ll have to go through them carefully and see if I can spot Nicole.”

  “While you’re at it, put Tina Woodbury into the mix. She and Nicole were tight. It’s entirely possible Tina’s name or face will show up. And don’t forget, her name could appear as Christina or Tina, and her last name could be Landon, Richards or Woodbury. Quite frankly, all these aliases are driving me nuts.”

  “I don’t think I’d recognize Tina. I saw her for only a few seconds downstairs, on her way to our office. Do we have a photograph of her?”

  “No. I’ll see what I can bring up on the Internet. Maybe I can get a picture from her ex-husband. He’ll be calling me this afternoon at four.”

  • • •

  I went with Angele to Sammy D’s and helped her sort out the rim and tire choices. It would take Sammy’s crew about forty-five minutes to mount and balance the tires, so Angele and I drove back to the office in my car. I didn’t want to miss Frank Richards’ phone call. We could pick up her car anytime before six, or the next day.

  At four o’clock sharp, the phone rang. The incoming number was blocked.

  “Jesse Thorpe investigations. May I help you?” I asked.

  “Are you Jesse Thorpe?”

  “Yes I am. Are you Frank Richards?”

  “Yes.”

  He’d ha
d all afternoon to decide what to say, so I was a bit surprised that he didn’t just spit it out. Eventually, though, he got around to it.

  “Tina’s the one you should be investigating, not me,” he said forcefully.

  He was probably right. In fact, we already were. But before I could formulate a responsible reply, he got rolling.

  “It’s true I haven’t kept up with her alimony, but it’s not about the money. I’d pay her in a heartbeat if I could do that without leaving a trace. She didn’t hire you to get her alimony. She hired you to find me. She’s dangerous, Mr. Thorpe. That’s why I left Maine.”

  As he was speaking, a number of things crossed my mind, and they didn’t stop crossing while he caught his breath. By the time he spoke again, my brain was completely entangled in a cat’s cradle of possibilities. At the very center of the web was the idea that it was entirely possible that I wasn’t speaking to Frank Richards. It could be Vince, who could be Tony. It could be that Tina had a cohort call to investigate me, to see what I had discovered about her.

  It’s been said that the only sure things in life are death and taxes. Down East they used to include one more: “And the Red Sox will fold in September.” After the Sox won the World Series in 2004, we went back to the basic two.

  There are other sure things, of course, the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle notwithstanding. But at this particular moment, all bets were off. At least, they were for me. I’d be holding my cards close to the vest until I was sure exactly who it was on the other end of the line.

  “Look,” he went on, “I’ll be happy to funnel her alimony through you. That will put me in compliance, and I’ll keep my whereabouts unknown.”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” I said.

  “The only problem with that is I’m not entirely sure I can trust you.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around,” I thought, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “As far as I know,” he added, “you could have been hired to find out where I am, and not just to collect her measly twelve grand. I’m talking about life and death here, Mr. Thorpe. Tina would rather see me dead than collect her money. She can make that much in a good afternoon.”