“This is terrible, just terrible,” said Royce. He was a frail-looking eighty and was wringing his hands, which with his arthritis looked a painful thing to do. “But when Keane offered to repay the money and resign immediately, we thought that would be the best way to handle it. He was of an age to retire and was vested in a small pension fund, which he had no access to and so couldn’t use its moneys to repay what he’d taken.
“When it turned out he didn’t have enough in savings to make total restitution, his wife came to us and begged us to forgive him the rest, not make a public spectacle of him in front of the parish and especially his daughter, who was just starting high school. She looked dangerously sick, and my wife, who was a nurse, had told me Lucy had a heart condition. Lucy was dead a week after we accepted Keane’s resignation, and we were so scared the forced resignation triggered her heart attack that we voted unanimously to forgive the rest of the debt.”
“I don’t understand,” said Betsy. “Had he stolen an enormous amount of money? Or were his savings that small?”
“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” said Royce. “The reason he had no savings was because he’d been paying hush money to a string of women, starting two churches back.”
Father John said, “Why wasn’t I told about this?”
“What good would it have done?” said Royce. “It was a private thing, and he was good as dead. No need to keep talking about what’s over and done with. Or so we thought.”
Ned MacIntosh said, “He should have been arrested. It’s bad enough he failed to discern between his discretionary fund and the ordinary funds of the church. It’s even more disturbing that he converted at least some of the church’s money to his personal use. But using church funds to pay blackmail is beyond my forgiveness!”
“I’m afraid this isn’t a situation in which your personal forgiveness matters much,” said Father John gravely.
Royce said in his old man’s voice, “I agree, this is a situation in which the church failed both him and its members. And now, because we hid the truth, we may have put Ms. Devonshire in a position of great danger. But I’m afraid that if we reveal the facts now, Trinity’s reputation will be harmed, maybe the reputation of the Episcopal church. We have to decide whether we’re going to tell everything, or nothing—or do something in between.”
“What do you recommend, Ned?” asked Father John.
MacIntosh replied, “I say we announce that a review of Father Keane’s term as rector of Trinity has revealed some irregularities in—well. Shall we just say ‘irregularities,’ or should we go further and say ‘bookkeeping irregularities’? I don’t think we should get more specific than that.”
Royce said, “We’d better at least say ‘bookkeeping irregularities,’ or people will start to ask questions. And remember, I’m not the only person who knows the answers. There are probably eight others who have at least an inkling of why Father Keane resigned so abruptly. That’s not counting the women he was paying money to, including one who was a member of this parish.”
“Do you know who the local woman was?” asked Jill.
“No. Keane wouldn’t name names.”
“Gentleman to the end,” snorted Betsy.
Royce said, “His wife knew. He told me he had to tell her when all this started to break. He used to lie about how much he was making, but the verger, that was Smith Milhaus, found a checkbook and called her, asking questions. That started things moving. I was a comptroller for Sweetwater Technologies back then, so I volunteered to audit his books. It wasn’t hard to find what he’d been up to, and I confronted him. He seemed almost relieved to tell someone, poor devil.”
“Who did you tell?” asked Betsy.
Royce twisted his head in a kind of shrug. “I reported to the vestry that he hadn’t been faithful and was paying money—church money—to some women.”
“Do you know anything about a tapestry Mrs. Abrams was working on?” asked Betsy.
Royce frowned at her. “I remember someone found it after they left and said he’d take care of it. I assume that’s the one that turned up and started all this mess up again.”
“Is that person still around?” asked Jill.
“No. That was old Milhouse again, and he’s dead. On the other hand, three of those vestry members are still living in the area, and so are their wives. I’d like to believe nobody told anyone else, but that would be going against what I know of human behavior.”
“You may be wrong,” said Jill. “My parents were members of Trinity, and I was baptized here, but I never heard anything about why he quit.”
MacIntosh said, “And I never heard anything, either. Come on, Royce, you must have an inkling—”
“No,” said Father John. “We’re not here to speculate. We’re here to decide what we are going to do about our plan to name the expanded library after Father Keane. We haven’t formally announced it yet, but I know Patricia Fairland has been talking about it for weeks.”
“She got a real bee in her bonnet about this, didn’t she?” complained MacIntosh. “She didn’t used to be such a big noise in the church. Is it because her husband’s gonna be the senator from Minnesota?”
“No, it’s because she’s not working like a dog anymore,” said Royce. “She liked coming to Sunday school. It was only while she was putting her husband through law school that she quit coming to the adult education classes. She taught a class on medieval church art just a year ago. So don’t blame her. It could’ve come from any direction. But what do we do about it? Can we say there’s a rule against naming things after someone who’s still alive?”
“No,” said MacIntosh. “There are too many of us who know about the auditorium named for Dean Fontaine of Saint Mark’s. Last I heard, he’s still spending his pension money on fishing gear.”
A thoughtful silence fell. At last Father John said, “Okay, there are enough people in the parish to ensure trouble if we continue with our present plan. My advice is, we announce the financial irregularities and name the chapel after someone else.”
“I think we should name it after the first Native American Episcopal priest in Minnesota,” said MacIntosh. “The Reverend Enmetahbowh.”
“You’re probably the only member of this parish who ever heard of him,” said Royce. “I think we should name it after Bishop Whipple, first bishop of Minnesota.”
They looked at Father John who said, “I think we should consult the membership. At least these two nominees have the saving grace of being long dead, along with everyone who knew them.”
Betsy and Jill lingered after Royce and McIntosh left. “Thank you for arranging that, Father,” said Betsy. “I think we’ve confirmed what I suspected. Mike Malloy will be in touch about tonight.”
Even sitting in total darkness, there was no mistaking where they were. “The odor of sanctity,” Betsy’s father had called it, that mix of beeswax, incense, stone and mortar, and furniture polish. Also present was a strong scent of Christmas tree.
Betsy was sitting on a stone bench near the entrance to the new church in the wide hall, partly hidden behind the tall and beautiful fir. Beside her was Jill in an alert and patient waiting mode Betsy could only aspire to. There were other police officers hidden around the hall. One, she knew, was partly down the stairs to the basement. Mike Malloy was near the door to the hall; Betsy fancied she could see a faint light from the street glinting off his shoe. Another was inside the new church, which is why the doors to it were open—and why the odor of sanctity was carried to Betsy’s nostrils. Two were inside the chapel. Elsewhere in the hall was Lars, Jill’s boyfriend, and he’d brought another officer with him.
They’d been there for two hours. Betsy knew what a stakeout was, of course. But she had no idea how difficult it was to sit still for a very long time.
And what if after all she was wrong?
No, she wasn’t wrong. It was sad, but she wasn’t wrong.
She felt herself beginning to stiffen on the ben
ch and began stealthily to tense and release various muscles, in her arms, her back, her stomach, her legs, her shoulders, her neck. Jill breathed, “Sit still.”
Betsy started to reply, then realized it wasn’t because Jill had noticed her squirming but because someone was approaching the outside door.
There was the sound of a key in the lock, then the door opened with a very faint squeak. Booted feet padded softly into the hall, paused, and then the lights went on.
Patricia whirled, but Malloy was guarding the door, his hand coming down from the light switches. “Who are you?” demanded Patricia. Her voice was thick, as if her cold lingered.
“I’m Detective Sergeant Mike Malloy, with the Excelsior Police Department. May I ask what you’re doing here?”
“I’m a member of the vestry.”
“And there’s a meeting of the vestry at two o’clock in the morning?”
“Now look here—” she began.
“It’s over, Patricia,” said Betsy, and Patricia whirled again. Too bad she wasn’t wearing the swing coat; it flared so prettily. “We know what was on the tapestry. I’m sure you rearranged the applique while you were in Phoenix so it no longer spells your name. That’s it hanging over your arm. Where were you going to put it, in the rest room? That’s where you hid it the first time, isn’t it, on the hook on the back of the door?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Patricia with a faint show of puzzlement. “I found it after you left and decided to take it along and treat the mildew. I’m allergic, you know, and I couldn’t work on it like it was.” She started toward Betsy, her arm with the white-wrapped drape moving outward as if to hand it over, but Malloy took her by the other arm. She gave him a look that might have withered an ordinary mortal, but he only gazed back until her eyes dropped and her arm came back against her coat.
Betsy said, “You hadn’t looked closely at the tapestry at first because you’re allergic to mildew, but when I showed you those little symbols in the halo, you saw right away that the first three were a shamrock, a lamb, and a flaming heart, the attributes of Saints Patrick, Agnes, and Theresa, whose initials spell Pat, and you realized you were in big, big trouble.”
Patricia replied, still very calmly, “What makes you think I saw at a glance what nobody else saw?”
“Because you knew Lucy liked to hide words in her stitchery, and you taught a course about medieval Christian art, which is all about symbology and attributes.”
“And even if I recognized them, so what?”
“Because there was a message in those attributes: Pat’s boy + missing money = Keane. Father Keane did what he could, even stealing money to help you with the cuckoo’s egg you laid in Peter’s nest. The boy Peter is so proud of, the grandson his mother finally approves of, isn’t theirs, is he?”
“You’re wrong, the attributes spell only Keane’s name, that’s all. Look at it, if you like.” Again she held out the folded white sheet draped over her arm.
Betsy persisted, “Do you know you were not his first affair? There might even be other children.”
Patricia’s face reddened. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” she said in a flat voice.
“Howland Royce, a member of the old vestry, found evidence that Father Keane had been misappropriating funds for a long time, going back years, and that he admitted he’d been paying off a string of women.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Patricia.
“It’s true, Patricia,” said Jill. “I was there, too, and I heard him say Father Keane admitted it.”
Patricia coughed harshly. “Well, I still don’t see how that involves me. I was a young married woman trying to put my husband through law school when Father Keane quit. I don’t remember hearing why. But of course, back then I barely had time to come to Sunday service, much less stay after to hear the latest gossip around the coffee urn.”
“I’m sure you’ve noticed Brent has Keane’s hazel eyes,” said Betsy relentlessly. “Just like his daughter Mandy.”
“Do you know what would happen to my husband if you—” She raked the hall with her eyes. “If any of you repeat any of this in public? Do you have any idea what my husband would do if he thought that was true?”
“What he’d do to us?” said Betsy. “Or to you? That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? Your son. Your marriage. Your place in this community. You were young and risked your future for what you thought was a glorious love affair. Was it because your lover swept you away with his ardor, his charm, his—what? His assurances that you were his first and only extramarital affair? But then you got pregnant. And Keane wouldn’t leave his wife for you. If he did that, he would have had to give up his calling, wouldn’t he? He couldn’t continue being a priest after such a scandal. And at his age, it wouldn’t be easy to build a new career, one that would support a wife and child. Plus his former wife and daughter. With the gauzy curtain of love ripped apart, you could see this wasn’t going to work. So what to do? Your husband was still in law school and you’d agreed not to start a family until he finished. His wealthy parents disapproved of his early marriage to a woman beneath him and had cut off all aid. If any hint of the truth reached them, your bright future as wife of a wealthy attorney was dead. What a mess to find yourself in! And how sad that you’re right back in it.”
It was as if the whole room held its breath. “You don’t know,” sighed Patricia, her shoulders slumping. “It was so hard. Keane said he loved me. He said his marriage was a sham, that he had never loved anyone like he loved me in his whole life. I thought we had a special kind of love, one that excused anything. Like Abelard and Heloise, like Hepburn and Tracy. To sit in his office and hear him plan to steal—steal!—money to help me with the baby, was a kind of death. I wanted to say no, but Peter’s part-time job paid so little, and babies are more expensive than I dreamed …” Patricia’s voice trailed off.
“It was just easier to pretend the birth control failed between Peter and me, rather than with Keane. And it worked. Then Keane had that stroke, I thought it was the stress of the theft, and I felt so guilty. But I didn’t break, I just kept going, and at last things smoothed out for us. Peter’s father died, and his mother came around. She bought our new house for us—it has three fireplaces! —and invited us to Phoenix for Christmas.
“And then, after all this time, after all I’d gone through, all the sacrifices, all the secrets—that wretched tapestry! And worse, there you were, writing down the little symbols, taking that book home to look them up…
“I had to do those terrible, horrible things to you, Betsy. It was harder than you’ll ever know. You’re a very nice woman, working so hard and bravely to pick up the pieces of your life, I felt just awful about it. I really didn’t want to, and I kept hoping you’d leave town, but you wouldn’t go. But then Father John said he had the tapestry, and told us where it was, and I ran and got it and hung it on the hook on the back of the door of that little rest room. And I took it with me to Phoenix in a big plastic bag, and though I treated it for mildew it still made my eyes water and my nose run and I had to pretend I had a cold. But that was fine, I was so relieved, everything was going to be all right, I’d destroyed the proof. And even though now it’s all coming out, oh my God, Betsy, I’m so glad I didn’t kill you!”
“I know you took that car course and knew about brake lines, and I suppose you must have plenty of firewood for those three fireplaces, but how did you get the arsenic without giving your name? When I went to eBay, they wanted my name and address.”
“I started a new AOL account under a new name. And there are places that will forward your mail. And when you buy a money order, you can put any name you like on it. I did that some while ago when Peter thought I was spending too much on antiques. I just did it for fun, buying those old medicine bottles. I suppose they had a different definition of medicine back then, because some of those old bottles have arsenic, mercury sulfate, even strychnine in them. Some come in l
ittle bottles shaped like coffins, isn’t that amusing? I keep them in a locked cabinet, of course. Then when this happened, I read a book that said the thing murderers do is put just a little bit in the food to start a medical record of gastritis. I put it in the order of chicken salad and brought it up with the hot dish, and I couldn’t believe how sick it made you. I was just horrified. I am truly sorry, Betsy.”
Betsy fought a rising sickness by getting angry. She said tightly, “It’s possible you did these things with great reluctance. I think you would have come to my funeral and wept genuine tears. But I also think you would have gone home from the funeral sighing with relief.”
Patricia’s smile came with sad eyebrows. “Well, yes, I suppose I would have.” She turned to Malloy. “I suppose you’re going to arrest me now?”
“Oh, yes, you are definitely under arrest,” said Malloy. “You have a right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be taken down and used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult with an attorney and to have an attorney present during questioning. If you wish an attorney, but can’t afford one, one will be supplied to you at no cost. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”
“Yes, I do.”
Malloy took the tapestry and handed it to one of the uniformed officers, saying, “Tag this and bring it to the station.” Then he cuffed Patricia’s hands behind her back. She took it with grace and walked out ahead of him, her head high, her face settled into a withdrawn calm.
Betsy turned away, covering her face with her hands. She said through her fingers, “Can I go home now?”
Jill replied, “I’m sorry, but you have to come with me to the station. You would not believe the paperwork we have to fill out.”
“My God,” said Godwin the next morning. “That is … terrible! Who would have thought Patricia was doing this? Betsy, that is just terrible!”
Monica Ferris_Needlecraft Mysteries_03 Page 22