by Nic Saint
Well, it was one way of looking at things, I guess.
“But plastic flowers don’t have that wonderful scent real flowers have,” Estrella said.
“I think flowers stink,” Bancroft said, starting to sound more and more like Ebenezer Scrooge.
“How can you say that?!” Estrella cried. “Flowers smell great!”
“No, they don’t. They reek of death and decay.”
“Are you all right, Bancroft?” I asked. “You sound a little… off today.”
“If by off you mean I just had my heart cut out with a dull, rusty knife and then got it trampled on then yeah, I’m feeling a little off today.”
“He just found out Kim Kardashian had butt implants,” Busby said. “Or at least that’s what some gossip site is claiming.”
“I always thought Kim’s butt was the real deal,” Bancroft grumbled.
“He’s heartbroken,” Busby continued.
“I feel like nothing makes sense anymore. Like up is down and down is up.” He shook his head. “My world is shattered. Just… shattered.”
“Oh-kay,” I said. Bancroft is Kim Kardashian’s self-declared biggest fan, and whatever happens to the reality star has the capacity to turn his world upside down. Estrella is also a fan, but not as fanatical as our cousin.
“I always thought she had butt implants,” said Estrella. “Nobody’s butt looks like that.”
“Well, hers does,” Bancroft snapped. “Or at least that’s what I thought.” He groaned loudly and held his head in his hands. “The betrayal! It just hurts so much!”
“I like her butt,” said Busby, taking a protein bar from his fanny pack and ripping off the wrapper. “I like big butts. Always have. They just make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” He gobbled up the protein bar in one bite and chomped it down.
Meanwhile, Barnum was still scouring the store for a flower.
“Did you have a particular flower in mind, Barnum?” I asked, keeping an eye on him.
“Yeah, I’m looking for this flower,” he said, and took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. He pointed with a sticky finger at a picture of a flower someone had hand-drawn on the document.
“That’s a rose,” I said. “A red rose. So what do you need it for?”
“For an exorcism,” he said.
Oh, God. “You’re not doing an exorcism, Barnum,” I said.
“Yes, I am. Mrs. Mackle is possessed, I just know she is. So I want to do an exorcism, just like Father Reilly does. He’s going to teach me.”
“Mrs. Mackle, huh?” I asked, slightly amused.
“Mrs. Mackle isn’t possessed,” said Bancroft. “I had Mrs. Mackle when I was in first grade. She’s just a little eccentric.”
“She’s possessed,” Barnum insisted. “I can tell from the way she keeps looking at me. With those demon eyes of hers.”
“That’s probably because you were a bad boy,” I told him. I knew that if he kept messing around with the flowers I was going to look at him with demon eyes.
“I wasn’t,” Barnum insisted. “She’s possessed by a demon. I have to save her soul.”
“Sure,” I muttered, taking a closer look at the document. It looked like a letter someone had written. “Where did you get this, Barnum?”
“I borrowed it.”
“From who?”
“Whom,” Ernestine muttered.
“Father Reilly. I’ll bet it’s full of instructions on how to fight a demon.”
Alarmed, I scanned the letter. “You stole this from Father Reilly?”
“Borrowed it.”
“He can’t even read,” Bancroft said.
“I can too!” Barnum cried. “I’m six and I can read just fine!”
Ernestine and Estrella had joined me, and were reading along with me. “Looks like a love letter, if you ask me,” said Ernestine. “Look, it’s addressed to ‘Dear Petrona.’”
“Who’s Petrona?” asked Estrella.
“Maybe this is the married woman Renée mentioned? The woman Father Reilly had an affair with?”
“My heart bursts with sorrow that I can’t be with you at this time,” I read aloud. “A sorrow I can only share with you, and bear with all the fortitude I can muster. I miss you terribly, my dove, and fear we might never be together again.”
“Heady stuff,” said Ernestine. “He probably wrote this after he was sent to Mozambique.”
I looked up. “We have to figure out who this Petrona is and have a chat. Put her on our list of suspects.”
“Yeah, if Leann Peach was responsible for ending their affair, she had a great motive for murder,” Ernestine agreed.
“This is so touching, you guys,” said Estrella. “Listen to this. ‘I’ll always love you, my dove. Now and forever. There will never be another for me. I know this.’” She pressed the letter to her heart. “Isn’t that just the sweetest, most romantic thing you’ve ever heard? If a guy wrote me something like that I’d melt.”
“Just a bunch of rubbish,” Bancroft growled, doing his best impersonation of The Grinch. “Who writes sappy crap like that?”
“You just focus on Kim Kardashian’s butt,” Estrella said. “And leave the romance and genuine affection to regular people like us.”
“And Father Reilly,” I said. “Who would have thought he was such a passionate man?”
“I feel sorry for him,” Ernestine said. “To have loved and lost like that. Tragic.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s in town,” said Estrella, her eyes shining with excitement. “Maybe he’s here to visit Petrona. To rekindle their affection.” She walked around the store, still clutching the letter to her heart. “Maybe Petrona is divorced now, a free woman, unencumbered by a loveless marriage, and Father Reilly is ready to hang up his frock and make an honest woman out of her.”
“You’re such a romantic,” Busby laughed, unwrapping his second protein bar and shoving it into his mouth. “It’s just ridiculous!”
“It’s not ridiculous,” Estrella snapped. “It’s romantic. Of course you wouldn’t understand. Only a sensitive soul can appreciate true love and devotion.”
“I appreciate love,” said Busby between two chews.
“You appreciate big butts,” Strel reminded him.
“But only if they’re real,” I added with a smirk.
“What’s wrong with loving big butts?” Busby asked.
“Well, it’s not exactly the kind of stuff Jane Austen would have written about,” Ernestine said.
“Why not?” he asked. “Maybe Mr. Darcy was into big butts. Maybe Elizabeth Bennet had a huge derriere and this dude Darcy liked to tap it.”
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a big butt,” Stien murmured.
“I’ll bet you never even read the book,” I said.
“I saw the movie,” he said.
“Yes, Keira Knightley is well-known for her big butt,” Ernestine said. “I think we can all agree that it is by far her most striking feature.”
Busby thought hard, clearly trying to recollect the movie. Finally, he gave up. “I’ll have to watch it again,” he said. “But I’m sure I’m right.”
“Of course you are,” I said. “You’re always right.”
He smiled. “I’m glad you’re woman enough to admit it.”
Barnum had picked up another flower and had dropped it to the floor. Bancroft was poking at a nice flower display and completely ruining it, and Busby stood grinning like an ape at the thought of big butts. Suddenly I’d had it with these three. “Just get out,” I said vehemently.
“Huh? What?” Busby asked, his smile vanishing.
“Just go home, all of you. Stop ruining our store.”
“Your crappy store,” Bancroft growled.
“Out,” I said, making sweeping gestures. “All three of you, out. Now!” When they were finally gone, I put the letter on the counter. “We need to find this Petrona pers
on,” I said. “She may know more about Mrs. Peach.”
“I feel there’s a wonderful love story here, you guys,” said Estrella. “A wonderful, gripping love story. And I for one can’t wait to talk to Petrona.”
“Me too,” said Ernestine. “And I hope Bancroft and Busby choke on their big butts. When did our cousins become such… assholes?”
“I think they were always assholes,” I said.
“Men,” Ernestine growled. “Sometimes I just hate them.”
“Good thing there are men like Father Reilly,” said Estrella. “Men who are capable of expressing true love in such an eloquent way.”
Both my sisters looked at me. “No, Sam has never written me a love letter,” I said, cutting them off before they could ask. “Nor do I expect him to. Sam is simply not the letter-writing type. He’s more…”
“The physical type?” Estrella asked, poking her cheek with her tongue.
“Ha ha. Well, maybe he is. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” said Ernestine. “Some men are good with words, others are good with their… hands.”
“Sam is good with his hands,” I said. And other body parts I wasn’t going to mention.
“When he’s not lying about his partners being dead and buried, I think Sam is great,” said Estrella. “And I think he’s a true romantic.”
“Yeah, he might not express himself romantically, but his heart is in the right place,” Ernestine agreed. “You’re a lucky woman, Edie.”
“Thanks,” I said, folding the letter. “I guess I am.”
I took out my phone and called Renée. We had to know who this Petrona was, and where she lived. I was dying to meet her, and so were my romantically inclined sisters.
“Hey, Renée. I wanted to ask you about the married woman Father Reilly had an affair with. Her name isn’t by any chance Petrona, is it?”
“I told you about Petrona McClafferty,” Renée said in a gently chiding tone. “Don’t you remember? She was one of the choir members when I was still in the choir. Father Reilly was the conductor at the time, and all the members knew they were secretly seeing each other. You see, Petrona’s husband Orlando had been sick for a very long time. Bedridden, the poor man. In and out of the hospital. All throughout, Father Reilly was a great support to both Petrona and Orlando, who was a close friend of Father Reilly’s. So it didn’t come as a surprise that they would grow to be so close.”
“Do you have Petrona’s number? We would like to go talk to her,” I said, excited about the prospect of hearing the woman’s story from her own lips.
“Oh, dear,” said Renée. “Didn’t I tell you? Petrona died many years ago. When Father Reilly was sent off to Mozambique, she took her own life.”
Chapter 19
The apartment where Orlando McClafferty lived was small but cozy. It was located on the top floor of an old five-story red-brick building in Williamsburg. The ground floor had been sprayed with graffiti, and the street was rife with bearded hipsters, who’d recently discovered this neighborhood.
Mr. McClafferty himself was a kindly old man, who was far from bedridden, though he moved around with a little difficulty.
“Oh, I am what you might call a medical miracle,” he said with a chuckle as he lowered himself into a brown leather easy chair. On a side table I could see a bunch of pill bottles, and the TV was turned to CNN, blaring away in the background. “The doctors had given up all hope. Said I’d die in three months. That was ten years ago, and I’m still around. In fact if I keep improving like this I might be fitter in a decade than I was for the past sixty years!”
Estrella, who’d picked up a picture of Joan Rivers and was studying it, asked, “So you’re in better health now than you were when…”
“When my wife was still alive?” he asked. “Yes, I most certainly am. Renée called me before you came. She warned me you might have a few questions about Petrona.”
Ernestine was examining Orlando’s bookcase. “We don’t want to pry, sir, but…”
“But you’re going to, right?” he asked with a glint of humor in his eyes. “Go ahead. Ask away. It’s been so long I guess the pain has worn off.”
A woman entered, dressed in a nurse’s uniform. She regarded us sternly for a moment, then said, “Don’t forget to take your medication, honey.”
“I won’t,” he promised her.
I watched as she walked up and planted a kiss on his lips, then walked out.
“That was my wife Jeannine,” he said. “Yes, I married my nurse. What can I say? I’m a walking, talking cliché. My first wife got involved with my best friend, killed herself when he left, and instead of dying of heartache, Petrona’s death must have galvanized me, for a couple of months after the funeral I went through a surprise recovery, and have been improving ever since.”
“Father Reilly is staying at the house,” I said. “Did he visit you?”
“Oh, yes, he did. I never blamed him for getting involved with Petrona. In fact I heartily agreed. I wasn’t much of a husband to her. I got sick right after we got married, and she suffered even more than I did. So when they confessed to me how they felt about each other, I gave them my blessing, and told Kermit to give the eulogy at the funeral, drop the priesthood and marry Petrona and make her a happy woman.”
“Kermit?” I asked.
“Yeah. Kermit Reilly. We went to seminary together, though I dropped out when I met Petrona. He’s a good man, and a loyal friend. Too bad that witch had to get involved and ruin everything.”
I exchanged a look of worry with my sisters. “Witch? Which witch?”
“Leann Peach. I don’t know how she found out, but she did. She wrote to the bishop and before we knew what happened Kermit was shipped off to Mozambique.” He shook his head. “Petrona had a very hard time with it. Skype didn’t exist at the time, and where Kermit was stationed they didn’t even have a working phone. They wrote letters, but more often than not they didn’t arrive. So…”
“That’s a horrible story,” I said.
“Yeah. And it wasn’t as if I was much comfort to Petrona. I was in and out of a coma most of the time, so I missed half of what was going on with her. All I know is that six months in she swallowed a bunch of sleeping pills and that was it. I only found out about it weeks later, when the doctors finally decided to tell me. It was a terrible time.”
“How did… Kermit find out?” asked Ernestine, who was hanging on the man’s every word.
“Well, he didn’t, at first. He must have wondered why the letters stopped coming, even the few that did get through. It was only when the doctors tried this new experimental drug on me that I finally recovered enough to write him a letter and tell him what happened. That was about a year after the fact. Poor guy. When he came to visit me the other day he said it took all his strength and faith to go on. And the support of his Mozambican parishioners, of course. A very warm-hearted people, he tells me. Very sweet.”
“What about Leann Peach?” I asked.
His expression hardened. “That woman was pure evil. Though Kermit told me to forgive and forget, I never did. If not for her meddling, Petrona would still be alive. She ruined the lives of two perfectly wonderful people, and for what?”
“Did you… did you ever confront her?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t, unfortunately. I may be a medical miracle but it’s not as if I can go traipsing around town. Jeannine does all the shopping and running around. I’m already happy that I can go for a walk in the park. But that’s as far as my health allows. I called her once, but she immediately hung up when she heard it was me. I guess she didn’t like to be confronted with her victims,” he said wryly.
“Do you think Kermit could have had something to do with her death?” I asked.
He shook his head decidedly. “No way. That man is a saint. It’s him that told me to forgive and forget. To turn the other cheek. He said that Petrona is in a better place now, and that she looks down on us with love and kindne
ss in her heart, happy that we are doing fine.”
“Why is he here, actually?” asked Estrella, who’d taken a seat beside me on the couch. “Kermit, I mean. Why isn’t he still in Mozambique?”
“Well, he’s retired now,” said Orlando. “And he decided to retire here, in the neighborhood where he was born and raised. He’s actually waiting for his room in the Cardinal Cosh Center for Retired Priests to become available. I think it’ll be any day now. He’s looking forward to it, I must say. He looked happy when he was here, and I’m happy for him. It took him many years to find peace with himself, but he finally did, and he’s in a good place right now.”
“He blamed himself?” asked Ernestine.
“He did. ‘If only I’d been more discreet,’ he wrote me in his first letter after the tragedy. ‘If only I’d argued more with the bishop—convinced him not to send me away.’” He shrugged. “What’s done is done, and there’s no turning back the clock. That’s what he told me when he visited me.”
It was a touching story, and I saw Estrella wipe away a tear as Mr. McClafferty told it. “I think it’s wonderful that you remained friends throughout,” she said now. “That you could support each other.”
“We’re still friends to this day,” Orlando assured us. “In fact he told me about Safflower House. Such a wonderful place, he said, and filled with such wonderful, kind-hearted people.” He smiled. “He couldn’t stop extolling the virtues of your grandmother. Said I have to meet her one day.” He gestured at us. “And now I got to meet her granddaughters. And such charming young ladies you are.”
The three of us were sniffling and snuffling as we listened to the story. This was worse than The Notebook, and I’d sworn never to see that movie again, as it never failed to reduce me to a blubbering, sobbing mess.
When we left the apartment and rode the elevator down, I blew my nose noisily. “That was an incredible story,” said Estrella. “And to think Kermit—I mean Father Reilly—finally forgave Mrs. Peach. That’s just amazing. I don’t think I could do it. I’d hate that woman so much.”