Death Goes on Retreat (25 page)

“Good afternoon, Sisters.” A deep, sonorous voice floated out from the sycamore grove, cutting off Mary Helen’s answer. “Monsignor! Good afternoon to you.” She hoped she didn’t sound as caught as she felt.

“Dibs,” Eileen said under her breath.

The old man smiled down benignly. “Ah, both a bench and shade. May I join you?”

Eileen slid over to make room.

“I’ll just take these things to the trash can.” Mary Helen gathered up Eileen’s neat pile. “Bees and bugs, you know.” She swatted at an imaginary insect.

The monsignor made a halfhearted but gentleman-like stab at helping, which Mary Helen deftly declined. “I’m sure you and Sister Eileen will find plenty to talk about until I get back,” she said.

“Yes indeed.” Eileen smiled her cat-in-the-cream smile.

The monsignor lowered his tall, stately frame onto the wooden bench, looking a little bewildered, but pleasant enough.

Poor devil, Mary Helen thought, wishing she were a bird on the bench. He has no idea what he’s in for. But neither do I, she reflected, wondering about whom she’d bump into first, Father Moreno or Father Harrington.

She was picking her way across the lawn when an unsuspecting Ed Moreno climbed out of the swimming pool and stood, dripping wet, in her path.

Searching through the piles of junk in St. Colette’s sheds and storage areas for anything that might provide a clue was a much bigger job than Bob Little had anticipated. Straightening up, he checked his watch. Soon it would be time for his meeting with Loody.

Unfortunately, Kemp and he had uncovered nothing more than rusty tools, broken boards, stacks of torn window screens, and at least one hundred varieties of bugs.
Nothing that could in any way point to the murderer. A couple more days and the case would be cold.

Anyone seeing Kemp would guess that he’d been crawling through caves. Dirt encrusted his flaxen hair, and his face and shirt were smeared with sweat and who knew what else.

Little imagined that he looked about the same. His stomach growled. Great! Not only was he hot, tired, and dirty, but now he was hungry too! He kicked at a stack of clay flowerpots partially covered with an old black plastic bag. They clattered to the ground.

“Find something?” Kemp asked hopefully.

“Not a damn thing. Only more junk!” Little surveyed the reddish-brown shards. “Hell, you wouldn’t need that many pots if you were replanting the Garden of Eden!”

He rubbed his forearm over his sweaty brow. He could feel the grime. “God,” he said, “I need a vacation.”

“How about a lunch break?” Kemp asked, obviously trying to sound upbeat.

Little dusted off his filthy hands. “Sounds good. I’ll wash up and call the office.”

Kemp looked puzzled.

“I need Crime Scene to examine Beverly Benton’s trunk. I’ll meet you in the dining room after I talk to them.”

When Little arrived, Kemp, too, had made an attempt to clean up. Only one or two cobwebs still clung to the back of his shirt. He was seated next to Loody, whose tan and green uniform was fresh and crisp. For some
reason the contrast between the two men infuriated Little.

“Hi, Bob.” Loody glanced up from a mountainous turkey sandwich. “Find anything the other guys didn’t?”

The smirk on his sunburned face stoked Little’s rage. “No luck,” he said, fighting down the urge to punch Loody in the nose.

“Don’t forget we need to talk.” Loody bit into his sandwich.

Was Little reading it wrong or was Eric Loody gloating? What the hell had he uncovered?

At one-thirty sharp Bob Little stood outside St. Jude’s dining room. His hastily eaten sandwich formed a cold lump in his stomach.

“What do you have, Eric?” he asked when finally Loody appeared. He hoped he sounded open and receptive. Why was it so easy to forget that they were on the same side?

Deliberately, Loody pulled himself up to his full height so that he topped Little by three or four inches. The narrow agate eyes shone with a foxlike sharpness that made Little think of Red Riding Hood.

What is this all about? he wondered, moving back.

“I’ve been talking to Beverly. The cook,” Loody added unnecessarily. “She’s been telling me some very interesting things. Apparently you don’t remember her.”

He waited while Little scoured his memory. Beverly, actually her bulk, was familiar, but to save his life he
couldn’t remember where he had seen her before. Was it a murder case? He’d investigated so many over the years that sometimes witnesses tended to blur.

The smirk on Loody’s face made his memory search more frantic. What does he know that I should know? Little wondered uncomfortably.

“I can’t remember where I’ve seen her,” Little admitted finally. “What did she tell you?”

Eric Loody eyed him maliciously. “I bet you’d remember if you tried,” he taunted.

Unexpectedly, Little felt the anger swell until his head throbbed with it. “God damn it, Eric! I’m telling you, I don’t remember the woman and I haven’t got time for guessing games. Now, what the hell did she tell you? If you have anything, let me hear it!”

Loody’s face darkened and his lips grew pale and tight. For a split second, Little thought that he might stomp away. But obviously the disclosure gave him too much pleasure. “She told me she is sure that little Miss Laura is the one that stabbed Greg Johnson.”

Could Beverly be right? Little wondered. In his mind he had ruled out Laura Purcell. Was he so far off? “Motive?” he managed to ask. “What was her motive?”

“Jealousy—according to Beverly. She claims that Laura went ballistic if Greg even looked at another girl and he did, or so says Beverly. She can cite chapter and verse.” He gave a hard, cruel bark.

“Has she any proof? Hell, she’s only known Laura a few weeks. And did she know Greg at all?”

“Once you talk to her you’ll discover she’s a very keen observer of human nature.” Loody gave a knowing smile.

Little studied him skeptically. “I did talk to her,” he said. He had been with the woman for almost an hour. Usually people opened up to him, even those who had things to hide. Why not Beverly? Why hadn’t she told him about her suspicions?

“You’ve got to win her confidence.” Loody’s obnoxious grin was back in place. “Yes, sir, Bob, she sees plenty. Told me a lot of interesting things.”

Bob Little could feel Loody’s hard eyes on him. “Yes sirree, Bob, the lady knows puh-lenty.”

Little’s mind raced. What was Loody hinting at? Where had he seen Beverly?

A quick, sharp laugh rang out from the dining room. Something about it was familiar. He heard a door open. Turning, he locked eyes with Beverly. All at once it returned to him like a heavyweight punch in the stomach. The air left him. He steadied himself against the building. His ears were ringing.

“You know what I mean?” Loody’s words sounded far, far away.

He did know what Eric Loody meant. Sure! He knew Beverly Benton. He also knew who had killed Greg Johnson. And with absolute certainty he knew exactly what he must do about it.

Father Ed Moreno stood on the lawn beside the swimming pool facing Sister Mary Helen. Without warning, he shook himself like a dog after a bath.

If he thinks a few drops of water will put me off, he’s
got another think coming. She sniffed and gave him her friendliest smile. “How-do?” she called.

Moreno buried his face in his towel. Water ran in rivulets from his deafening Hawaiian print trunks down his hairy legs. Despite the heat, he shivered. “Hi, Sister,” he said finally.

Mary Helen watched him dig the towel into his ears, then run his fingers through his thinning hair.

“What are you up to?” he asked with just a hint of suspicion in his voice.

“Me?” She feigned surprise. “Just trying to keep cool.” She glanced up at the cloudless blue sky.

“Is that so?” His lips twitched the way they did when he was about to make a joke.

Well, the joke wouldn’t be at her expense! She put on her most businesslike face. “I was on my way to the trash.” She lifted both hands, still full, and hurried off, hoping he’d stay put.

When she returned, she was relieved to see the towel spread out and Ed Moreno lying on it, facedown. His muscular shoulders and the balding spot on his crown were both beginning to redden. If she didn’t hurry, he’d be burned to a crisp before she was half through questioning him.

The problem, of course, was how to settle down casually next to him. There were no movable chairs around, and squatting on the soft grass seemed impractical. Getting down would be fine. Getting up was the trick!

Father Moreno must have sensed her presence. He lifted his head and squinted against the sun. “Can I do something for you?” he asked, rolling over and up into a
sitting position. It wasn’t the perfect setting for a quiet conversation, but it beat talking to his back.

“I was curious about your relationship with Greg Johnson,” Mary Helen blurted out, unable at the moment to think of a more tactful way to put it.

Ed Moreno gave a surprised laugh, “Anyone ever accuse you of being coy?” he asked.

Mary Helen’s face warmed. “Not too often,” she admitted.

Moreno struggled to his feet. “Let’s sit,” he said, and pointed toward a bench half hidden under a towering sycamore. A shrine to St. Francis hung from the tree’s trunk. The gentle saint’s hand was raised in blessing. A good omen, Mary Helen thought, settling herself beside the damp priest.

“You want to know about my relationship with the Johnson kid,” he said, his eyes not meeting hers. “Well, there wasn’t any. Next question?”

After years of teaching eighth-graders Mary Helen was immune to flip answers. “Why not?” she shot back.

Moreno’s head jerked up. “Why not what?” Obviously he was stalling.

“If the boy worked with you, why didn’t you have some sort of relationship with him?”

“When you say ‘work’ with Greg Johnson, you are using the term
work
lightly, Sister. Very lightly,” he replied, avoiding her question entirely.

Mary Helen perked up. “He was lazy, then?”

“That guy had lazy down to a science.” Father Moreno draped one leg over an arm of the bench and wriggled his bare toes in the sunshine. “When he first came to help out at Juvenile Hall, I thought he was just
warming up. But then when he never really did start to perk, I got concerned. He talked a lot, but never really did anything. You know the kind of guy I mean?” He raised his hand like an old-fashioned cigar store Indian. “Heap big smoke. Very little fire.”