A Matter of Time
Authors: David Manuel
The diver saw a parrot fish and red snapper, but was intrigued by a little green fish, following it down into a wide cleft
in the reef. It was on its way to join another, which was feeding on something under the pink coral. Curious, she swam closer.
What had drawn them? It appeared to be something shiny and round, like a brown marble on the fine, white sand. A marble? She
reached down to retrieve it. But it was lodged in something under the sand.
Running out of breath—and patience—she brushed the sand away.The air in her lungs exploded into her face mask as she screamed.
The marble was an eye, in the face of a man…
PREVIOUS MYSTERIES
A MATTER OF DIAMONDS
“An exciting mystery [with] refreshingly complex characters.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“An entertaining and smooth read…a classic whodunnit full of twists, turns, and red herrings.”
—
Provincetown Banner
“Deliciously fresh characters…highly recommended.”
—
CBA Marketplace
“Strongly recommended.”
—
Library Journal
A MATTER OF ROSES
“Well-developed characters, an authentic Massachusetts location…and a complex plot make this a gripping read.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Chock-full of action and character subplots, this debut mystery (and series) is totally captivating.”
—
Library Journal
“A terrific little thriller…a sweet-smelling, suspenseful rose—but watch out for thorns!”
—Cape Cod Journal
“Recommended to readers who don’t like sugarcoating but who enjoy spiritual truths included in their mysteries.”
—
CBA Marketplace
A Matter of Diamonds
A Matter of Roses
Faith Abbey is in spirit quite close to the Community of Jesus, the ecumenical religious community of which the author has
been a member for 29 years.
This book is a work of fiction. Except as noted above, names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 2002 by David Manuel
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including
information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may
quote brief passages in a review.
This Warner Books edition is published by arrangement with Paraclete Press.
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: October 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56544-8
Contents
“Full Fathom Five, A Dead Man Lies…”
Praise For David Manuel’s Previous Mysteries
12 to the table down at sandys
16 a miserable saturday afternoon
To
my dear friends
John and Barry French
,
boon companions
on the pilgrim’s way
acknowledgments
The hardest part of writing fiction occurs before the actual writing begins. When everything is still up in the air, when
the pieces have not fallen into place, and the characters have yet to reveal their past, a writer needs uninterrupted time
and unrestricted space. Eventually he must narrow his focus, as a chess master reduces his world to 64 squares. But in the
beginning, he needs to ramble, mentally and physically.
Few locales are as ideal as the beach house of Charlie and Katy Towers of Jacksonville, Florida. Atlantic Beach is the best
drifting/musing beach I know of. I take this opportunity to acknowledge the kindness and generosity of Charlie and Katy, who
make their house available to me each February.
I would also like to acknowledge the invaluable input of my two editors—Time-Warner’s Sara Ann Freed, whose wise and perceptive
suggestions improved this book immeasurably, and Paraclete Press’s Lillian Miao, whose encouragement at a moment of deep discouragement
was crucial. I should also mention my brother, Bill,
and his wife, Christy, whose eagle eyes at the galley-proofing stage have saved me much embarrassment.
Finally, I would like to express my gratitude to John and Barry French of Scottsdale, Arizona, who have opened their home
and their hearts to me for early work on each of these mysteries.
the dream
A wall of green seawater crashed against the front windshield of the boat’s cabin. From the windshield’s corners, white hairline
fractures streaked like lightning across the Plexiglas. One more wave like that one would stove it in and send them straight
to the bottom.
And Brother Bartholomew, peering out into the eerie, gray-green half-light of the storm, could see it coming. Building, directly
in front of them.
Watching the advancing mountain of water, he opened his mouth to scream. No sound came. Icy fingers reached up into his entrails
and gripped them, forming a fist.
It grew dark in the cabin. The wave towered over them now, blotting out the sky. As he looked up at it, its top edge started
to curl down.
Now the scream came—and kept on coming, though hands were urgently shaking him.
“Bart! Come on, wake up!” demanded a frightened Brother William, his roommate. “It’s a dream!”
“The—wave!” Bartholomew managed, pointing at the ceiling of the dark room.
“You’re in bed!” shouted Brother Clement, his other
roommate, turning on a light. “In the friary. On dry ground.”
Bartholomew blinked. Reality began to seep in around the edges of what he was seeing. “What?”
He looked around—at his roommates, the desk, the two sturdy double-decker bunk beds. Slowly the fist in his stomach loosened.
Clement shook his head. “It’s my fault. I never should have persuaded you to come. I’m—really sorry.”
Bartholomew tried to smile. “Not your fault, Clem. I didn’t have to go. Shouldn’t have. My father died like that, twenty years
before the
Andrea Gayle
went down.” He shuddered. “
The Perfect Storm
was one movie I didn’t need to see. But when it came around again, after all those awards—” He shrugged. There was nothing
more to say.
At breakfast in the refectory the following morning, the other monks greeted him pleasantly enough. But no one jokingly asked
if he’d slept well. Or seen any good movies lately.
It must have been even worse than he thought.
The service of Lauds, which on weekdays preceded morning Mass, provided a welcome respite. He’d not always welcomed these
mini-services, known as offices or hours, during which they chanted the Psalms in Latin, in the manner prescribed by St. Gregory
fourteen hundred years ago. He had chafed at how they always seemed to cut across whatever he was doing, as if his time was
of no importance. Gradually he had come to see that it was God’s time, not his, and if this was how God intended him to spend
it, then so be it.
In the robing room, he went to his peg and lifted the beige robe over his head, letting it settle evenly on his
shoulders. He raised the cowl briefly to put on the appropriate surplice for the day—white for Eastertide and the great feast
days, red for Pentecost and the martyrs’ days, purple for Lent, blue for Advent, and green the rest of the time—then ducked
his head for the chain of the small wooden cross that rested on his chest.
Carved on the cross was the symbol of Faith Abbey, a shock of wheat with a single grain at its base—a visual reference to
John 12:24, “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”
Fingering the cross, he smiled ruefully. He’d fallen into the earth, all right, but he seemed to be resisting decomposition.
The act of robing was like a renewal of his vows, which for a monk were like wedding vows. With his first, he had relinquished
the right to own, to choose, and to marry. Five years later, secure and confident in his call, he had taken his final vow,
of stability and obedience. He would accept without question the authority of the Abbot or Abbess and the Senior Brother.
And he would never leave. He would be buried with his brothers in the abbey’s corner of the town cemetery.
