by Lynn Bohart
“I came to the monastery unannounced tonight. I saw two people meet out in the garden. I followed one of them back to the stairwell and was hit from behind. Whoever it was must have been hiding under the stairs.” He gave the monk a wry look. “Did you ever think of putting lights back there?”
Father Damian looked startled. “We…uh…implemented some cost saving measures last year since none of the monks go out after dark. I use a small flashlight when I go to my quarters.”
Giorgio smirked at the absurdity of his comments and swung his legs around to sit up. “Well, you may be accommodating a murderer. Not to mention a number of monks who seem to have private business of their own outside after dark.”
“Now, just a minute, Detective,” the abbot erupted, but Giorgio waved him off with one hand, holding the cold compress with the other.
“Forget it. It doesn’t matter now. But I must tell you that it was a monk I followed back to the building.”
Father Damian’s eyes grew wide. “Do you mean to tell me you think…?”
Giorgio cut him off again. “And, it was a monk who hit me on the back of the head.”
“That’s impossible,” the younger monk cut in. “No one here would do that.”
“This is Brother Daniel,” Father Damian introduced the young man.
Giorgio looked up at the monk he’d only seen briefly the night before. “God moves in mysterious ways, Father.”
Giorgio stood up leaning heavily on the arm of the settee. Father Damian reached out a hand to steady him.
“What do you intend to do?”
“Ask a lot of questions. Beginning with — how did you know I was in the stairwell?”
“The dog,” he said bluntly. “He was standing at the back door howling.”
Giorgio looked down at Grosvner’s somber brown eyes wondering for the first time how Grosvner had escaped from the car. Then he remembered the broken door handle.
“Well, I need to talk with the caterers.”
Giorgio walked with halting steps toward the door.
“Why are you going to see the caterers?”
Father Daniel hurried to open the door. He left the two men exchanging confused looks and traversed the distance between Father Damian’s office and the kitchen, still unsteady on his feet. When he reached the doorway to the kitchen, he saw Mary Fields at the far counter packing away food. Grosvner went and politely sat at her feet, probably waiting for something to fall his way. Giorgio leaned against the door jam.
“You’re here late tonight,” Giorgio said weakly.
Fields turned. She saw the dog first and looked surprised. When she saw Giorgio’s ashen face and the towel held to the back of his head, she came forward.
“Are you all right, Detective? You look awful.”
“I’ve had an accident,” he lied, bringing the towel forward. There was a small amount of blood nestled in the center of it. He quickly folded the towel in half. “Maybe you have some ice.”
She went to a large, stainless steel refrigerator and opened up the freezer compartment.
“I was wondering if either one of your servers are here tonight?” Giorgio asked.
“Yes, both Colin and Peter were here, but they just left,” Fields said, returning with some ice. She wrapped it in the towel. “Peter had a date, and Colin had already asked if he could leave early. Why?”
Giorgio grunted. “Did either Peter or Colin go outside tonight?”
She looked at him with a perplexed expression. “Actually, I think they both did. Colin almost always goes out for a cigarette. And Peter went to the garden.”
“He went to the garden?”
“Like I said, he had a date and wanted to take her some flowers. Is that a problem?”
“I think it was tonight. I just don’t know for which one. Tell me, does Colin go out for his cigarette at the same time every night?”
“About the same time I guess. I never thought about it before.”
“It is the same time every night,” Nancy interrupted. She had come over from the sink and held a dishtowel in her hand. “I’ve noticed it.” The fluttering in her voice had disappeared. “He always goes out right after the main course has been served. So, if it’s not the same exact time, it’s at the same point in our routine.”
Giorgio turned his attention on Mary’s partner. “How long is he gone?”
“Maybe five minutes,” she replied.
“Does he come back with anything?”
They both stopped to think, then shook their heads.
“No,” Mary said. “I don’t think so, but he always wears his leather jacket. We’ve teased him about it because he comes in with his hand stuffed inside his pockets like he’s cold, even in warm weather. I don’t understand, Detective. Are either one of them in some kind of trouble?”
“I’m not sure. No one else came through here in the last half hour?” Both women shook their heads. “What about the bartenders? Were they the same ones as last night?”
“No,” Mary was quick to respond. “As I said, I contract for them through another agency. I often get guys I don’t know.” She peered at him closely, her dark brown eyes softening. “I can get you more ice, Detective.”
“No, I’m headed home. Thank you.”
Giorgio returned to the main lobby thinking that Anya Peters may have thrown him a red herring by mentioning the bartender with the dark eyes and earring. Grosvner sauntered after him as he went to Father Damian’s office. Father Damian was gone, so Giorgio turned the corner into the main hallway thinking he’d go to the outside bungalow, but stopped when he saw a light in Anya Peter’s office. He knocked softly and heard a voice say, “Come in.” Ms. Peters was at her desk reviewing some paperwork.
“Working late?” he inquired.
She looked up, her face illuminated by the harsh light of her desk lamp, her demeanor as repellent as always.
“I’m afraid with everything that’s happened, I’ve fallen behind.”
Grosvner lumbered over for some attention.
“Is this your dog, Detective?” Her eyes blazed as she pushed her chair away from Grosvner’s long snout.
“Yes. He helped me out of a difficult situation tonight.”
“Oh, yes,” she said, her eyes riveted on the dog. “Father Damian stopped in.”
She seemed to have little sympathy for Giorgio’s predicament. Instead, she was preoccupied with Grosvner, who was sniffing at her ankles. Clearly, she wasn’t a dog person.
“He must like your perfume,” Giorgio quipped, stepping around the desk. “Grosvner!” he commanded.
The hound turned his head so quickly one long ear slapped him in the face. Giorgio took him by the collar and pushed him into the hallway and closed the door.
“You didn’t see anything unusual tonight, I suppose?” he said, stepping back into the room.
Anya Peters had drawn her legs back under her desk and attempted to resume her work. She responded to his question without looking up.
“Of course not, Detective. I’ve been in here, working. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
It probably wasn’t the truth, but Giorgio wasn’t up to sparring. He needed to go home and lie down. He said a curt goodnight and made his way to the car where he found the passenger door open. With a sidelong glance at Grosvner, he helped the dog into the car before getting in himself.
Before turning the key, his eyes drifted up to the big building. Something was obviously going on up there after dark. But how was it all connected? Giorgio believed Olsen had been killed in her own room. Yet, how was she transported to the kitchen closet without being seen? Giorgio had followed a monk into the stairwell tonight and then lost him. Yet, he was sure it was the monk who had assaulted him. Why? And where had the monk been hidden? Details. Details.
He sighed and rubbed his eye sockets before starting the car.
“God is in the details,” he said under his breath, patting Grosvner on the head. “And you’re a good dog.”
Grosvner merely wagged his tail and licked his hand.
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning, Giorgio rolled over and winced at the sharp pain in his head. A cursory examination told him he’d grown a lump the size of a golf ball overnight. When he threw an arm out to his wife, he found only a rumpled pile of cold sheets beside him. Raised voices downstairs reminded him it was Monday and that Angie would be getting the kids ready for school. Groaning, he hauled himself out of bed and staggered to the shower.
By the time he entered the kitchen he was thinking that God had a way of healing bad situations. His harrowing experience the night before was sure to evaporate Angie’s foul mood. And the physical evidence, namely the lump on his head, would bring out her natural instinct to nurse him back to health. He could almost feel her fingers gently probing his scalp, waking up other parts of his body. He slumped in the kitchen doorway just waiting for the right moment to tell his story.
The kitchen was alive with activity. Grosvner sat behind Angie as she busied herself at the counter making lunches. Both children sat at the table having cereal and arguing over which one would sleep with the dog that night. Angie turned from the counter to give Tony his lunch just as Grosvner decided to snatch a discarded Cheerio from the floor. Her foot caught under his belly throwing her forward and catapulting the lunchbox out of her hand. Grosvner tracked its path as it opened mid-flight, throwing the sandwich and bag of chips against the wall next to Giorgio, and dropping the apple squarely into his mouth as if it were a well-rehearsed trick. The dog accepted his good luck with grace and removed himself to a corner to enjoy the unexpected snack. The children just sat with their mouths open.
“Oh, that animal!” Angie fumed, steadying herself with a hand on the back of a chair.
Tony looked down with a smile. “Hey, thanks Grosvner. Now I don’t have to eat it!”
Angie crossed around the table to pick up the sandwich and chips and return them to the lunch box. Then she shoved it across the table with a look at her son even a moron could have interpreted. Tony decided to act.
“I have to get my books, Mom.” With a flurry of motion, he was out the door.
“Me, too.” Marie disappeared after her brother.
Giorgio and Angie exchanged looks. But as he started to speak, she abruptly turned her back and returned to the counter.
“What do you want for breakfast?” she said over her shoulder.
And a cold shoulder it was. He paused, feeling he’d just dropped a line on center stage.
“Just toast and coffee. You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she replied flatly.
She opened the bread bag and slipped a piece of wheat bread into the toaster. He went to pour his own coffee, watching her from the corner of his eye.
“Angie,” he started, “what’s the matter? I mean…really the matter?” When she didn’t answer, he continued. “I guess it’s the dog, isn’t it? You said you’d like another one.”
She slammed a cupboard door, making him reach for the sore spot on his head in a weird act of self-defense.
“I never said I wanted another dog! YOU wanted another dog.”
He felt warmth rise to his cheeks and that certain part of his body went right back to sleep. There would be no sweet reconciliation this morning.
“You said you missed Butch.”
She turned on him, her normally soft brown eyes ablaze. “I said I missed him, like I might miss an itch I couldn’t scratch. That doesn’t mean I wanted another dog. This is just another juvenile attempt by you to divert attention from the real issue.”
“What do you mean? I got the damn dog for you!”
“Well, then, take it back! I don’t want the smelly thing.”
The toast popped up, and she turned and caught it as deftly as if it was merely another well-rehearsed trick in her side show. With a swift movement, she smeared butter across it and threw it onto a small plate, dumping the whole thing unceremoniously onto the table in front of him. He realized he was walking on thin ice and decided to tone it down.
“Angie,” he pleaded, “I can’t take him back. The kids love him.”
She tossed the butter knife into the sink and wiped her hands on a towel. “You knew what their reaction would be, but if you think that dog makes up for the fact you don’t want this baby, you’re more juvenile than I thought.” With that, she stormed from the kitchen.
Grosvner watched her depart, drool spilling over his lower lip. He lumbered over to where Giorgio slumped against the counter and dropped his head back to look up at his new owner. Giorgio stared back knowing he couldn’t return Grosvner to the pound. His whole demeanor had changed overnight. He fit the family like a glove. Now, if Giorgio could only make Angie see that. For the umpteenth-millionth time, he’d blown it, and didn’t know why.
Rolling thunder alerted him the kids were coming back downstairs, so he grabbed the toast and coffee and went into the entryway. Angie was putting on her coat as the kids donned theirs.
“Aren’t they going to take the bus?”
“It’s supposed to rain again.”
She opened the door to a gray sky, and the kids tumbled outside, backpacks in hand. Angie grabbed her purse from a small table and started after them.
“Angie,” he stopped her, “what about Grosvner?”
She turned and gave him a cold stare. “Take him with you.”
“I have to work.”
“They have police dogs in the department, don’t they? I won’t have him in the house while we’re gone. I have no idea if he’s trained to do anything but catch fruit.”
She turned and went down the steps, leaving Giorgio and the dog staring after her like two little children left behind at the bus stop.
“Oh, brother,” Giorgio said with a sigh. “I’m really in trouble this time.”
He looked down at Grosvner who stood with his front feet splayed in a clown stance, his long snout turned in Giorgio’s direction clearly confused by everyone’s departure.
“Sorry, old boy, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me today.”
Giorgio returned to the kitchen to dispense with his meager breakfast and read the morning paper. The murder had happened too late Saturday night for the Sunday addition, but today the story of Olson’s murder was front page news. While the report was sketchy, there was enough information to paint a grim picture of a young woman strangled at the monastery during a writers’ conference.
He finished his toast and went to turn on the television. One of the cable stations had just begun their report on the grisly murder of a young woman at a Catholic monastery in a small town in California. The reporter went on to speculate as to whether this was the case of a random killing by a deranged individual or something much closer to home. After all, the newsman said with a raised eyebrow, why would the killer take the victim’s little finger?
Giorgio hated reporters. When he’d been shot in New York, the media had distorted the entire situation making it sound as if he’d stumbled onto Anthony Cordova’s hiding place by mistake and taken a round to the chest as a result of his own carelessness. In fact, he and his partner, Ben Attner, had gone to the warehouse on a tip with backup on the way. But they’d arrived only moments after the weapons buy had taken place and Cordova and two of his henchmen were just coming out of the building. Bullets started flying, pinning Giorgio and Ben down on either side of their car. The bullet that hit Giorgio entered the left side of his chest, crushing a rib and puncturing his lung. Ben wasn’t so lucky. While no one had ever accused Giorgio of getting his partner killed, the implication was present in the eyes of every reporter that covered the story.
Now this idiot of a reporter had found out about Olson’s severed finger. Giorgio had been hoping they could keep that little bit of information from the media a while longer. He looked down at the newspaper in his hands. A small picture of Olson accompanied the short article. There was no mention of a missing finger or Giorgio as the
lead investigator. Giorgio decided that Max Dougherty, the department’s public affairs officer, had done a credible job. Now he had to go do his.
It was eight o’clock when they arrived at the police station. Stares and chuckles followed them down the wide hallway that led to the office he shared with Swan. Swan took one look at the dog following close on Giorgio’s heels and pushed his chair back to slap his leg. Grosvner lumbered over, lowering his head submissively.
“Great dog, Joe. Where’d you get him?”
“Humane Society. I thought it would be a nice surprise for Angie.” All the confidence he’d showed Rocky earlier about buying the dog had disappeared.
Swan looked over at his troubled friend. “I take it the dog wasn’t such a nice surprise.”
“That’s an understatement. I think the only thing she hates right now more than that dog is me.” He pulled his face into a wry grin and sat down at his desk.
The small office they shared was painted a faded pea green and held two old, chunky wooden desks, a bank of dented, metal file cabinets, and a water cooler that appeared to have been created around the dawn of time. An old framed map of the city was mounted on one wall. File folders and papers were stacked everywhere, and the only clean surface was a small Formica table set in between the windows. On it was a carved mahogany chess set in play. Swan was always in the middle of a challenge, sometimes with the Captain, sometimes with someone in another city.
“My wife and I used to raise Bassets,” he said, holding the dog’s noble head in his hands. “He’s got good breeding.” He pulled the ears forward and noticed the injuries. “What happened here?”
“He was abused. Somebody just dumped him. The Humane Society was ready to put him down.”
“Tragic.” Swan stroked the dog’s back, careful to avoid the burn marks. “Do you know how old he is?”
“No. Although I think he’s young.”
Swan looked him over from the heavy head to the short, wrinkled back feet. Grosvner allowed the evaluation with a polite wag of his tail.
“I’d say he’s between two and three years old. Probably not much more than that.” Swan stroked the velvet-soft ears and Grosvner groaned in ecstasy, the heavy folds of his throat twitching with pleasure. “He’s a beautiful dog, but somebody really did a number on him.”