The Big Brush-off (13 page)

As a boy, I always placed priests on a pedestal, and the older I got, many of them met my expectations. However, ten years ago, Father Ryan's work with so many young people aroused my suspicions. The man led a weeknight group for teenagers. Katie had been in that group. The man was handsome and charismatic, the kind young girls got crushes on. Ten years later, he appeared to truly want to help discover Katie's killer, but his cooperation could be masking his guilt.

The police and Mary Caldwell dismissed my concerns about Father Ryan and scoffed at the suggestion Katie might have reached for her rosary to leave a clue about her assailant's identity. They apparently concluded the priest, like George Hanson, enjoyed helping teens, but I wasn't sure about either when I first met them. Now, ten years later, I still wasn't sure.

Father Ryan didn't have to take Mary to New York to see me, but he had, and I wanted to know why.

I parked in front of the church and locked the .38 in the glove compartment. As I reached for the door handle, Laura tugged on my arm. “You want to share what's going on or would you prefer to keep me in the dark?”

“I intend to send Mildred four chapters by the end of the week.” I let out a sigh. “But I can't let this opportunity to find Katie's killer slip away. I'd never forgive myself.”

Her eyes glistened. “You don't know how happy you've made me.”

A plaque out front indicated the stone church with a white wooden steeple was more than a hundred years old. We went inside, where a half-dozen people prayed. We dipped our fingers into the holy water and each made the sign of the cross.

We didn't see a priest, so we sat in the back row. Laura knelt and closed her eyes and prayed, probably for the success of my novel. I wasn't sure the Lord spent much time worrying about my writing future.

Something about the inside of the church I'd never entered before reminded me of home. Like St. Timothy's in Queens, this church smelled of burning candles and furniture polish. Rows of wooden pews led to the front of the church, where a large crucifix towered over a white linen-covered altar with unlit gold candelabras on both sides.

Long-stemmed flowers sat in tall white vases beside the altar. Along both sides of the church, stained glass windows depicted the stations of the cross of Jesus' final journey in Jerusalem. Organ music from an overhead balcony played a familiar tune, whose title I'd never remember.

I nudged Laura as Father Ryan entered from a door alongside the altar. With the gray in his hair and wrinkles around his eyes, he looked like other priests I'd known all my life, none of whom I'd ever suspected of murder. He paused, nodded our way, and appeared to wait.

When Laura finished her prayer, I rose and led her up the aisle. I introduced her to Father Ryan, who gestured to a side door.

We followed him to the courtyard garden with flowers, shrubs, and a brick pathway connecting the church to the rectory. The three of us sat on a cement bench next to a large birdbath. We talked about Laura's career before I asked about Mary Caldwell.

He clamped his eyes shut then stared at his hands. “She's been in pain for so many years. It's so nice of you to come for the memorial service.”

Laura nodded. “We wouldn't miss it.”

“You've got the town buzzing,” he said with a grin. “It's not often a famous couple checks into the Hanover Inn.”

“Jake's working on a new novel, Father.”

“That's what I hear, but I was hoping you had another reason in mind.”

Laura glanced around at the beauty of the garden. “How long have you been at St. Catherine's?”

“Twelve years.” Father Ryan talked about his calling, his early years, and the small churches he worked in before coming to Hanover. He mentioned the devastation the Great Depression caused for the church. The man was doing a terrific job conveying the impression of a devout priest dedicated to his parishioners.

He smiled at Laura. “I heard you've been asking questions about Katie's murder.”

Laura patted her hair. “Just beauty parlor gossip, Father.”

He nodded. “I'd probably hear more sins at the beauty parlor than in the confessional.”

Laura laughed. The night air had frizzed her hair again, but I wasn't going to point that out.

Father Ryan checked his watch like he had an important meeting to attend. “So why'd you come by tonight?”

Laura smiled. “I wanted to ask Jake the same thing. He promised me dinner.”

Father Ryan's friendly smile vanished. “If you're not going to look into Katie's murder, it might have been better if you hadn't come back, for Mary's sake. You were her last hope.”

“You brought her to New York and raised her hopes.” He might be a priest, but I wasn't going to tell Father Ryan the truth, for the same reason I hadn't leveled with Mary.

Father Ryan shrugged. “Hope is one of a priest's many duties.”

Laura remained calm. “You're not being fair to Jake, Father.”

He raised his voice, surprising Laura and me. “Life isn't fair, Miss Wilson. It's not fair Katie died so young or that her mother will die without knowing who was responsible.”

His burst of anger didn't sound like most priests. Father Ryan's hands began to tremble. “So you're just going to wait it out, attend the memorial service, then leave Katie's murder unsolved forever.”

I took a quick glance at Laura, who appeared shocked by the man's behavior. It wasn't easy being a priest, but something appeared to be wrong with Father Ryan. “You overestimate my investigative capabilities. Besides, the sheriff has an open file.”

“Bishop?” Father Ryan snorted. “That's news to me and everyone else in this town.” He patted his pockets and pulled out a package of Chesterfields. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

I knew plenty of priests who drank. Some smoked pipes, but few smoked cigarettes. “Go right ahead.”

He lit the cigarette and tossed the match into the birdbath. He took a long drag and let it out. “I shouldn't have lost my temper. I was just hoping you might be able to look at the evidence and shine a fresh light on ten years of darkness.”

That sounded like a priest. “Would you be willing to help?”

Father Ryan cocked his head, the cigarette dangling from his lip. “There are limitations on what a priest can reveal. You've heard of the seal of the confessional?”

Laura and I nodded.

“Then you know a priest can't reveal what he learns from a confession by a penitent.”

Had someone confessed Katie's murder to the priest? “Do you know who killed Katie?”

He let out a puff and flicked the cigarette ash as smoothly as Fred Astaire. The shakes were gone. “I take the doctrine very seriously, Mr. Donovan. Even answering your question would violate that principle.”

I didn't trust a priest who smoked, or who lost his temper so easily. If Katie's killer found out we were investigating the murder, it could be dangerous for Laura and me. “If we decided to look into Katie's murder, we wouldn't expect you to reveal what was said in confession. Still, like anyone else who's lived in Hanover, you must have an opinion about people in this town.”

“You can ask me anything. I may not be able to answer.”

“Why did Alan Tremain stick around Hanover?”

“I've often wondered that myself. Alan rarely goes to church any longer. I've dropped by to chat, even taken my car to the garage for repairs, but I couldn't get him to open up.”

Laura tossed a leaf from the birdbath. “Since we arrived in Hanover no one seems to believe Jake is here to work on his novel. Some folks have made it clear they'd prefer we not dig up old dirt about the town.”

He stared at the cigarette as smoke curled into the night air. “It's fear, Miss Wilson. When Katie was killed, people wondered whether a monster walked among them. If someone as sweet as Katie was killed, they might be next. It's taken folks a while to get over that fear. Innocent people who became suspects, myself included, still get looks from folks who wonder,
Did he do it?
”

He dropped the cigarette and stepped on it. “People suspect me because I've sinned in my life, mistakes I can never take back, but I didn't kill Katie Caldwell.”

The door to the church opened and a nun stood in the entrance. “Excuse me, Father, it's time for confession to begin.”

Father Ryan shook our hands and showed us to the church. “If either of you finds time to look into Katie's death, be careful. I hope you have a plan.”

I smiled at the priest as I recalled a passage I learned as an altar boy. “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.”

“Proverbs 16:9.” Father Ryan chuckled as we stepped into the church. “You're full of surprises, Mr. Donovan.”

“That he is, Father.” Laura slipped her arm in mine. “That he is.”

As we drove from the church, I tried to read Laura's face to see what she thought of Father Ryan. “Well?”

“That's a troubled man.”

Two blocks from the church, we entered a restaurant I frequented the last time I was in town. We entered to the aroma of roast beef and freshly baked bread. I was glad we hadn't returned to the inn for Ginger's cooking.

The buzz quieted as most of the men turned from the counter and stared at Laura, but to my surprise, many of them were looking at me as well, with a not-too-happy expression.

We ignored the looks and took a corner booth alongside the front window. I recognized the owner from his bulbous nose, not too dissimilar to an overripe plum.

His hearty laugh was the same as he poured a cup of coffee for a customer at the counter. When he set the carafe back, his eyes locked on mine and a smile swept across his face. “Jake Donovan. I heard you were in town.”

He brought two menus to the table and gave Laura the once-over. “I heard you married an actress. Never dreamed it would be someone so beautiful.”

Laura blushed. “Why, thank you.”

“Wait here.” The man hurried behind the counter and disappeared through the kitchen door. In spite of his friendly attitude, his customers continued to look at us like we were carrying the plague.

The manager returned through the closed door with a book I recognized, my last Blackie Doyle novel. He hurried to our booth and held out the book. “Would you mind?”

“Of course not.” I signed the book, adding a note about the excellent comfort food in his diner.

“Miss Wilson?” He nodded toward the book.

“I'd be delighted.” Laura signed the book alongside my signature and handed it back. She picked up a menu. “What do you recommend?”

The owner beamed. “The special: meatloaf, homemade gravy, and mashed potatoes.”

When Laura nodded I handed him the menus. “Two, please.”

“Coming right up.” He carried the book behind the counter and disappeared through the kitchen door.

Laura excused herself and headed for the restroom.

When she went inside, a burly man with rolled-up sleeves and a pack of Camels in his shirt pocket got up from the counter and came to the booth. I didn't recognize him, but the look was starting to get familiar.

“Let me save you some time, Mr. Hotshot Writer. Why don't you and your dish take a powder? Go back to Hollywood and leave our town alone.”

“I'm sorry, we haven't been properly introduced. I'm Jake Donovan and you must be someone from the welcoming committee.” I held out my hand.

“Wise guy. Get up so I can whup your ass.”

His head looked like you could crack a baseball bat over it and he wouldn't blink. He was about forty and his torso was the size of an icebox. His hands had the calluses of a working man, but before I could come up with another witty reply, the front door opened. A familiar-looking woman about Laura's age came in and locked gazes with me.

In trousers and a denim shirt, the woman flashed a familiar smile. In her early thirties, she had a single streak of gray in her brown hair, something she didn't bother to hide. Rita Banks was a reporter for the local paper and didn't much care about her appearance, but she looked good enough.

She came to the booth and glared at the man. “Beat it, Hank, or I'll tell your mother you've been parking in front of her best friend's house all night.”

“I was just giving our visitor some advice.” Hank retreated to the counter.

Rita leaned over and planted a kiss on my lips. “Jake Donovan. I never expected to see you again.”

“Then it must be a pleasant surprise,” Laura said as she approached the booth. She didn't look happy.

If she was embarrassed, Rita didn't show it. She held out her hand. “Laura Wilson. I'm sorry, Jake and I go way back. I'm Rita Banks.”

Laura shook her hand then shot me a look. “I'm getting used to Jake having friends in towns he used to visit.”

Rita laughed. “You have nothing to be jealous about, Miss Wilson.” She shot me a look. “A famous movie star. I always knew you had potential, Jake.”

Laura sat beside me. “Won't you join us?”

“I was hoping you'd ask.” She studied Laura's hair. “I see you've been to our beauty parlor.”

Laura's eyes widened. She pulled a mirror from her purse, checked her look, and let out a groan.

“It'll be fine in a week.” Rita slipped a notebook from her back pocket and sat across from me in the booth.

“A week!” Laura stuffed the mirror in her purse.

I nodded toward the man from the welcoming committee. “What's with him?”

“Hank? He works for George Hanson doing odd jobs around town. Believe it or not, he used to be an okay guy.”

Rita was just the friendly sort. There was never anything between us, but Laura was still giving her the evil eye. “Rita's a reporter for the local paper.”

“Actually, I own the paper now. No one else was crazy enough to buy it.”

Rita opened her notebook and took out a pen. “You don't mind, do you? My readers would love to hear about the two celebrities in town. How'd you like me to describe your visit: you're working on a novel or you've come back to solve Katie Caldwell's murder?”

Several people at the counter glanced toward our booth. Laura and I were getting less popular by the minute.

Laura's charm came to the surface as she went into her actress mode. The two women chatted like old friends.

When the meal was delivered, Laura devoured the food, while Rita ordered coffee and took notes and asked us questions about our careers.

I skipped the part about my last meeting with Mildred. Rita asked Laura the usual questions: her favorite role, favorite co-star, how she got into the business, how we met. When she questioned me, it seemed more like she was trying to catch up on old times.

While Laura and Rita chatted like best friends, at the counter, Hank waved the owner over. I pretended not to notice when he bent the owner's ear, nodding in our direction. The furrowed brow of the owner convinced me he'd just heard I was investigating Katie Caldwell's murder, and he wasn't any happier about it than the rest of his customers.

Rita glanced toward the line of angry faces. “Off the record, Jake?”

I glanced at Laura, who nodded.

Rita leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Rumor has it you returned to solve Katie Caldwell's murder. As you can see, more than a few people aren't too happy about it.”

Laura patted my hand. “Jake wanted a quiet, out-of-the-way place to work on his next Blackie Doyle novel.”

“I'm sure that's true, and that's how I'll write it, but”—Rita pressed her palms together as if in prayer—“you two have been involved in at least one murder investigation. Laura, you used to work with Jake when he was a detective, and I've heard you've been asking questions.”

Laura smiled. “Just being friendly at the beauty parlor.”

“If you say so, but when Jake left, I kind of suspected he'd come back someday, if the case wasn't solved.”

At the counter, the cold stares, including from our former owner friend, were growing more intense. Small towns were funny. People fought and took sides over the silliest commotion, but when an outsider caused trouble, they banded together. I left my meal half-eaten and grabbed my fedora. “Let's finish the interview while Laura and I walk back to the inn.”

Rita thanked me as we paid the tab. When we left, I was glad to get out of there without Hank or anyone else causing any trouble.

Rita had finished the interview by the time we reached the town square. She didn't seem interested in interviewing celebrities.

Before she could ask about Katie's murder again, I turned the tables. I set one foot on a park bench. “When I left, I thought you might solve Katie's murder before the cops did.”

Rita laughed. “For a long time I thought so too, but things change. I'm not just a reporter any longer. When I dug for stories, I wanted to solve crimes the cops couldn't. Now that I run the paper, I realize it's just a business like any other. The newspaper depends on local advertising from businesses that consider advertising a luxury. Finance takes up most of my efforts. I don't have time to go around trying to solve a murder most people don't want solved.”

Sheriff Bishop drove past and waved. Rita watched him drive away for longer than Laura and I did. I might not be a detective any longer, but I detected something between Rita and Bishop.

Laura seemed to notice as well. “You think Katie might've been killed by an outsider who came to Hanover on Founder's Day?”

Rita pulled a nearly empty pack of Lucky Strikes from her trousers. She patted her pockets for a match.

From her purse, Laura pulled out a lighter I'd never seen. She lit the woman's cigarette.

Rita blew a plume of smoke into the night air. “Some people want to believe that, but I never did. There was no sign of a break-in. Her mother was working nights. Even in Hanover, she would've locked the door, especially with so many strangers in town. I'm certain Katie opened the door and let in the person who killed her.”

Laura asked the question I was about to. “Jake heard a rumor Sheriff Bishop drove Katie home that night.”

“Hanover thrives on rumors.” She puffed on the cigarette. “Bishop drove her home because he didn't want her walking with some unsavory characters in town. He wasn't drunk and hadn't been drinking.”

“He told you that.”

Rita dropped her cigarette and crushed it with her shoe. A smile curled from her lip. “You're still good, Jake. Yeah, Bishop and I see each other from time to time, something we think is still a secret in this town. You know Bishop, Jake, he's a straight shooter, no pun intended.”

“We were truthful. I came here to work on my novel and Laura and I want to attend the memorial service Sunday.”

Laura was watching the interaction between us.

Rita greeted a couple who walked by. The man whispered to the woman and they hurried on. Rita sat on a bench. “If you saw Mary in New York, you know she's ill. Sunday's memorial service will no doubt be her last. This time next year, you'll be writing a novel, Laura will be filming another wonderful comedy, and in Hanover, no one will give a damn about who killed Katie Caldwell.”

Rita crushed the cigarette under her shoe. “I think I've got everything I need for the story. If it's all right, I'll send a photographer by the inn to snap a couple pictures of the two celebrities. See you around.”

As she walked away, Laura and I headed for the inn.

I tapped the purse hanging from her shoulder. “When did you buy a lighter, and more important, why? You don't smoke, except in a movie.”

She hooked her arm in mine. “Darling, you have a short memory. You once told me a detective should always carry a lighter in case a smoker needs a light so the smoker feels obligated to talk instead of walking away.”

“That's good advice, but I never said that.”

Laura stopped. She furrowed her brow as if searching her memory. Her face relaxed. “That's right, it wasn't you. It was Blackie Doyle.”