Honeymoons Can Be Murder: The Sixth Charlie Parker Mystery (The Charlie Parker Mysteries)

by Connie Shelton

  The entry I turned to read like a lurid novel. Apparently the old priest didn’t trust his memory regarding his parishioner’s confessions so he’d made notes. I wasn’t sure why he’d need to remember so many details, but he’d obviously wanted to. I came to a note about Father Ralph, saying that the younger priest had confessed an attraction to one of the parishioners, who was only referred to by initials. I glanced again at the doorway.

  Obviously, Father Ralph didn’t know this book existed or he would have removed it. And Father Sanchez wouldn’t have left me alone at the desk if he knew about it. With a vague feeling of guilt I slipped the leather book into my purse and zipped it shut. As closely as the old priest had followed the story of the theft ring, I had no doubt that any inside information would be noted somewhere in here. I pushed the heavy wooden drawer back to the point where the back compartment didn’t show.

  None of the other files in the drawer appeared to be directly connected to my investigation, but I did want to read the articles about the thefts in more depth. I carried the folder to Father Sanchez’s office and tapped on his doorsill.

  “Do you have a photocopier here?” I asked. I didn’t think he’d have any objection to my making copies of the articles. After all, they had been published in magazines I could access if I had a vast library at my disposal and about two hundred hours to spend looking them up.

  He looked up at me questioningly and I showed him the folder.

  “I’d like to read these when I have a little more time,” I explained, “rather than staying here and bothering you several more hours.”

  He took the folder and flipped through the articles.

  “I don’t see anything here I’ll need,” he said. “Just take the folder with you and bring it back when you are finished.”

  I again felt that small pang of guilt over the diary in my purse, but promised the Jesus hanging on the wall that I’d also bring it back.

  Rusty was waiting anxiously in the Jeep, fogging the windows with hot doggy breath, when I returned.

  “Hey, buddy. We’re ready to go now.”

  He wagged largely and leaped from the front seat to the back.

  The sun painted the sky in shades of gold, orange, and coral on the western horizon. Magenta rimmed the few small shaggy clouds with a brightness that was nearly painful to look at, turning the adobe buildings in town pink in their glow. By the time Rusty and I arrived at the cabin the temperature had dropped to the teens and the valley had settled into deep blue-gray shadow.

  Lights glowed at the cabin windows and the scent of cedar and pine woodsmoke drifted from the chimney. The heady scent of something meaty grabbed me as soon as I opened the door. Rusty, unhampered by having to remove snowy boots and jacket, zoomed straight to the kitchen.

  “Hey, I was beginning to wonder about you guys,” Drake greeted. “Start to worry when my sweetheart is out alone after dark.”

  Rusty thwapped Drake’s leg with his tail, reminding him that I’d not been out alone.

  I showed Drake the folder and the diary, but didn’t admit that I’d helped myself to one of them without permission.

  “I hope this will give me some clues about these thefts of artifacts and whether Ramon was involved.” Of course, I still had to prove that Eloy wasn’t connected with Ramon’s death and that was yet another whole set of problems. But somehow it just felt right that Ramon’d had some enemies out there other than his own brother.

  Drake dished up plates of beef Bourguignon, buttered noodles, and fresh asparagus spears, which we carried to TV trays in front of the fireplace.

  “Eloy had good news for me when I got there,” Drake said. “He got a call from a tour company that’s bringing in a busload of forty people. They’ve presold them helicopter rides as part of their New Mexico tour.”

  “Hey, that’s great!”

  “They’ll arrive day after tomorrow. It should be good for at least three or four hours of flight time.”

  I was pleased that his business here was going so well.

  “After dinner, I’ll sit down with some maps and work out a nice route I can do for them. I want to show them some really spectacular scenery, but I have to be sure I can fly the route in the amount of time they’re paying for or I’ll lose money on the deal,” he said.

  The food and wine soon took away the chill I’d acquired driving through the shadowy canyon with the stolen diary in my possession. Somehow, the sooner I read it and returned it, the better I’d feel. Drake became occupied with his maps, and I settled down on the sofa to read Father Domingo’s diary.

  The old man’s shaky writing filled about three-fourths of the book. I opened it to the final entry. It told of the return of the crosses to the Vatican authorities. So the book was very current. Father Domingo had died only two days later.

  Flipping backward through the pages, I noticed that there were not entries for every day. Probably only two or three per week. Sometimes the entries skipped a few weeks, once in awhile it skipped an entire month or two. Although the dates were only listed with a month and date--no years--it appeared to me this book went back about three years. Had the old man been keeping diaries like this during all his years in the priesthood?

  I started at the beginning and found that most of the entries pertained to church business—plans for holidays, memos to himself about visiting dignitaries, the arrival of Father Ralph, whom Domingo didn’t like much when he first took his post at St. Augustine. Interspersed with the day-to-day doings at the church were little tantalizing bits of scandal. Nothing big, just mentions of things heard in the confessional, things overheard at diocesan conferences. Face it, the old padre was a gossip lover. I worked my way through the first twenty pages of his wavering longhand. No mention of Father Ramon.

  I had to assume that other diaries existed, books that dated back to the time of Ramon Romero’s stint at St. Augustine, books that laid out Father Domingo’s personal views of the theft of valuable artifacts. Any man who took the trouble to collect magazine and news articles on a subject would surely hold deep feelings about it. Or maybe his gossipy old mind would have just rambled in speculation. Either way, he must have written it down.

  Scanning now, looking for any mention of the artifacts or of Father Ramon, I came to only one entry containing his name.

  Cornelia Baca came today, ridden with guilt. She has never told her husband of the real reason for their marriage, the fact that José is not his son, that she rushed into the marriage knowing she was pregnant with another man’s baby. She wants to know if she should tell him. I asked who the father is, was he a man of the community? This is the point where she breaks down completely, falling to the floor and begging God’s forgiveness. No, I finally learn. The father was the young priest, Father Ramon. Sadly, I am not shocked. The vow of celibacy is such a burden for a young priest. Many fall. Cornelia was only sixteen when this happened. What good would be served by telling her husband? Ramon is dead now, her son knows only one father, the father only one son. I counsel her to pray God’s forgiveness but to reveal her secret to no one else.

  So Ramon the saint had another dirty little secret besides the affair in Albuquerque. I wondered whether there was any way this could tie in to his death, and how many years had gone by since this affair. I scanned forward through the book to see if Cornelia Baca’s name or that of her son came up again. There was only one other entry.

  Young José Baca is a cause of concern. He confessed today that he is tempted to join a gang. It has not happened yet and I counseled him to stay close to his family, to honor his father and mother. If he only knew about his father. My burden grows heavy with the weight of the parish’s secrets. I am growing too old.

  I closed the diary and rubbed my eyes. It was after ten o’clock. Drake had put his maps aside and I could hear him in the bathroom brushing his teeth. I locked the doors, turned out the lights, and jostled Rusty from his stretched-out position on the rug in front of the fireplace.

&n
bsp; “Hey, lazy butt, let’s go to bed,” I said softly.

  I snuggled under the covers next to Drake but couldn’t seem to fall asleep right away. I kept fighting off this nagging thought that there were more diaries somewhere among Father Domingo’s possessions.

  Chapter 11

  It was pitch dark in the room when I rolled over for the fortieth time and looked at the clock. Five a.m. I really didn’t want to get up that early, but I was weary from trying not to thrash around so much that I’d awaken Drake. I finally gave up the warm covers, pulled on a pair of sweats and tiptoed to the bedroom door. Rusty heard me and rose from his rug on the floor. We stepped onto the landing and I gently closed the door before switching on the stairway lights. The dog immediately raced down the stairs with a thunder that only a fifty pound dog on wooden stairs can create. I had no hope whatsoever that Drake could have slept through it, but heard not a peep from the bedroom. I ducked into the bathroom, used it without flushing, then swished some mouthwash and ran a brush through my shoulder length auburn hair, wishing the sleepless night had not left those dark circles beneath my eyes.

  As quietly as possible I opened the front door and let Rusty out to do his business, while I put a pot of coffee on to brew. Like I needed to be any more awake than I already was. Glanced at my watch--5:06. I paced back to the front door, let Rusty in and paced back to the kitchen. It was going to be a long day unless I did something. And the thing that continually played in my mind was that I wanted to go back to that church and try to find Father Domingo’s other diaries.

  There are times when we tell ourselves that an idea is really stupid but we seem to have no power to put it behind us. And no matter how stupid the idea, I knew deep down inside that I was going to act on it. Drake would probably sleep until at least eight o’clock. And, in case the sound of my car leaving woke him, I would leave a note telling him what I was doing.

  It was still a dumb idea.

  I hastily wrote the note, grabbed my coat and gloves and slipped my feet into my snow boots. In that certain way our little human brains have of justifying anything we really want to do, I told myself that Father Sanchez would undoubtedly be conducting early mass by the time I got there and I could just tippy-toe back to the offices and have a tiny little look around. Just a little bitty look. It really wouldn’t take but a minute.

  Pre-dawn is about the darkest time there is. Even the covering of pure white snow did little to light my way to the Jeep. I crunched my way over the crystalline surface in the sub-zero air with Rusty trotting along behind. He looked at me quizzically as I yanked twice at the door handle to get the thick frost to release it. Inside, the vehicle was not one iota warmer than the outside air. I inserted the key into the ignition and held my breath as the engine groaned twice before starting. It sounded like a roaring monster truck as it warmed up in the absolutely silent mountain air. There’s no way Drake is sleeping through this, I told myself.

  I reached for the travel mug of hot coffee I’d poured. Steam wafted up through the small drinking hole and I sipped carefully at it. No additional lights appeared in the house during the few minutes I sat there allowing the car to warm up.

  The drive into town was becoming very familiar and it went quickly with no other traffic on the road. Even the usually clogged intersection at the plaza was completely devoid of activity. As I’d hoped, there was a scattering of cars in the church’s parking lot, indicating that a few devout souls attended early mass. I parked at the edge of the cluster, near a small side door that looked as if it led to the priest’s offices. Six-fifteen. I hoped the two priests would be busy for awhile.

  Rusty watched anxiously as I locked the car doors and told him to stay there. He isn’t accustomed to our making pre-dawn trips and this place didn’t have much potential as a fast food joint, as he tested the air with his nose. I’m sure he thought I’d totally lost it, and I must admit I was beginning to wonder the same thing.

  I glanced around, feeling nervous as a cat burglar, before gingerly trying the doorknob. I caught myself holding my breath, since the only alternate way I knew to get in here was to walk right through the middle of the church. Fortunately, this door opened. I pushed inward, willing it not to squeak, bump or grind. I let my breath out only after I was inside with the door closed behind me.

  I was standing in a short hallway flanked by coat and hat racks on both sides that intersected another hall ahead of me. The floors were brown saltillo tile, which I realized would show my every footprint with the graphic details of my boot treads outlined for the police, who would no doubt love to throw me in the slammer for breaking and entering on holy ground. I shook my head to erase the images I was scaring myself with. At this moment all I had to do was find my way to Father Domingo’s office. One step at a time.

  The halls were deadly quiet and colder than you-know-where. The long hall, which intersected the short entry where I stood, stretched for perhaps thirty feet in either direction, with a series of heavy carved wooden doors along it. All were firmly closed. Which way? I took a chance on going right, toward the chancel. I seemed to remember that Father Ralph had led me only one or two doors up this hall to the office on my last visit. I tried one door on my left. It was a bathroom. Guess even holy men have certain bodily needs.

  The next door was the correct one and I slipped in and closed it behind me. Pulling a flashlight, which I’d had the presence of mind to bring, from my purse, I switched it on and shined it quickly around the room. I pretty well knew what the contents of the desk were so I aimed my attention to the other furnishings.

  The room contained, in addition to the heavy old wood desk and its crackly leather armchair, only a side chair, a bookcase of pine carved with New Mexican-style squares and diagonals, and a four-drawer Hon file cabinet, circa 1950. I flashed my light over the bookcase, which appeared to be filled with Bibles in about thirty different bindings and a stack of back issues of Roman Catholic Today. The file cabinet looked like the better bet.

  The top two drawers contained modern hanging file folders, all neatly tabbed and alphabetized. The subjects ranged from Accounts Payable to Web Site Information. Strictly business. I had a hard time imagining old Father Domingo surfing the web, and assumed there must be an office staff that handled some of these more secular matters.

  Drawer number three contained a neatly folded cassock. Beneath it were a spare pair of black shoes and a black beaded rosary. No diaries.

  So, as luck would have it, the last drawer must be the one. I always tease Sally when she tells me she found something in the last place she looked. Because why would you keep looking anywhere else after you’d found what you wanted? I opened the bottom drawer to find it—empty. Now what? I switched off my flashlight and sat in the dark for a minute thinking about it.

  I decided that the worst thing I could do would be to wait around until the other priests finished with their parishioners and get myself caught. I slipped the stolen diary out of my purse and back into the drawer cubbyhole where I’d found it. Listened at the door a moment then carefully opened it with only a tiny click of the latch. Now, which way? Figuring that speed was of the essence now, I stepped back into the long hall and began trying doorknobs. I already knew which was the bathroom, and Father Sanchez’s office was directly across from Domingo’s, so I headed away from them.

  Open, flash light in, close. The other doors revealed two more offices, one with computer, copier, and other modern equipment; a coat closet full of priestly garb; and a storage room. Three doors remained—one for each priest, I assumed.

  The first opened into a small bedroom with an unmade bed, shoes on the floor, an open book on the nightstand, and the lights left on. Father Ralph’s domain, no doubt. It was somehow nice to know that even priests must get up in the morning and throw on their clothes to rush off to work. I would have pictured him arising in the wee hours to make his bed, tidy the room, then say a few prayers and reflect upon weighty matters before entering the church to min
ister to his flock. Just shows what I know.

  I closed the priest’s door quietly and approached the next one just as I heard voices at the other end of the hall. No time to make a decision; I scampered inside and closed the door behind me, standing with my back against the door, willing myself not to pant. I kept my ears tuned to the hall outside until the voices became muffled. It sounded like Father Ralph had taken someone into his office. I risked switching on the flashlight.

  It was indeed another bedroom and I was, luckily, alone. I wouldn’t let myself think of the possibilities had it been otherwise. The single bed was neatly made, but a slight dip in the center of the mattress made me wonder if this was the final imprint of the old priest’s body. I didn’t want to think about that. The other furnishings consisted of a nightstand with a lamp, a dresser, a crucifix over the bed, and a small statue of Jesus on the dresser. No personal possessions were visible and I feared for a moment that someone might have already cleaned out his room.

  Apparently the old priest was just a better housekeeper than the younger one because I did find the dresser drawers were filled. As quietly as possible, I slid each one open and patted down the contents. My efforts were rewarded on the third try, when that drawer opened to reveal two stacks of diaries. It was, of course, the last place I looked.

  There was no way I could take them all with me. Not only would they be missed, probably, but they wouldn’t fit into my purse. I’d have to settle for one or two and I better pick the right ones. I lifted the cover of the top book. Entries ended just prior to those in the diary I had taken home with me. The next one preceded this one chronologically, beginning five years ago. The one below it ended at that point and had started seven years ago. They all fit the time frame that included Ramon’s death and the investigation of the art thefts, so I decided to risk taking all three. I stuffed two into my purse and the other inside my parka, rearranging the remaining ones in the drawer so that, with any luck, no one would realize they were missing.