When I woke up the next morning, the restaurant table was gone. The waiter must have been much quieter than the nurses.
It was Sunday. I told the charge nurse I wanted to go to Mass. An aide helped me dress and insisted on delivering me to the chapel in a wheelchair. I insisted that I walk. I won.
Over the years, there’d been many changes in my life, but attending Mass wasn’t one of them. Our parents had instilled that faith in us, and I felt connected when I was in church. Connected not only to people all over the world, but also to my ancestors.
As I walked into the chapel, I noticed Pete was already there, arranging things on the altar. He was on the night shift this weekend and was just coming off duty. Pete was still a priest in good standing, but was on a temporary leave from his priestly assignment. He was allowed and even encouraged to use his “priestly faculties” and often helped out at the hospital with Mass and bringing Communion to bedridden patients. I dearly loved going to Mass when he was the celebrant. What a blessing to have a brother who was a priest, and a friend, too.
“Father Brother.” I smiled when I thought about how he got that name. When Pete was ordained, Rob was on the verge of adolescence and didn’t like the idea that everybody was calling his brother “Father.” Mom tried to explain, but Rob started crying. When we asked him what was wrong, he said, “I don’t want him to be my father, I want him to still be my brother.” At that, Pete put his hand on his little brother’s shoulder and told him, “I’ll be your brother and I’ll be Father, too. You can still call me Pete, okay?” And Rob said, “Hey, you can be my Father Brother.” That’s how he got the name. And it stuck.
Pete hugged me gently during the sign of peace and flashed a grin when he gave me Communion. The Chapel only held a handful of people, so the service was short.
During the closing hymn—which Pete led in a booming, slightly off-key baritone—he looked toward me and raised an eyebrow. That was the sign he wanted to talk.
After another gentle hug Pete said, “You’re looking pretty energetic for someone who’s been gassed and hit by a truck.”
I thanked him, took his arm, and asked if he’d walk me back to my room. The bravado I’d shown by coming here without a wheelchair had been replaced by a painful exhaustion. I ached everywhere.
Pete adjusted his pace to mine. “What’s up with the murder investigation?”
“Nothing much. I know Carolyn Burns killed her husband,” I looked at Pete to see if he would make fun of me, “but I think she had an accomplice.”
Pete didn’t say anything, but he placed his hand on top of my own.
I continued, “There’s something about her books that bugs me. They’re good; maybe they’re too good. I mean, she’s not in the mental health field, but she writes as if she is. And Dr. Burns didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would have helped her with those details. I looked and the acknowledgements in her books didn’t thank anyone for helping.”
Pete pressed the button to summon the elevator. “What does Rob say?”
“I think he’s been avoiding me. You know he doesn’t want me involved in the investigation.”
“You can see his point, I’m sure.” He held the elevator door open for me. “You really don’t have any reason to be snooping.”
“Now you’re turning on me too?”
“Nope,” he gave my hand a squeeze. “I just don’t want you getting hurt. And I don’t want you to get in Rob and George’s way. I was wrong to encourage you earlier, Sam. It appears someone broke into your house and tried to kill you. I don’t know what I would have done if they’d been successful.”
My anger dissolved into mush. I couldn’t stay mad at Pete. We left the elevator and strolled to my room in a companionable silence.
After Pete left I waited for Jill to discharge me. I felt sore and knew that was just temporary. But I was still pissed off that someone had tried to kill me. Why in the world would someone want to see me dead? Tampering with the gas line in the house and the brake lines in the car had an almost deadly symmetry to it.
Since I hadn’t planned on a hospital stay, I hadn’t packed any of my books. To kill time, I settled in a chair, turned on the TV, and numbed my mind with the Beverly Hillbillies.
My enjoyment ended abruptly when my own private Jethro walked in.
“How ya doin’, Sam?”
I kept my attention on the television. I mumbled, “What do you want, B.H.?” What was wrong with me? Why was I so mean to him? My tendency to hold grudges was my least favorite attribute.
“Wanted to see how you were doing, and also let you know that we got Dr. Burns’ autopsy results. Just what we thought. He died from the blood loss from something sharp that someone stuck in his neck. Something like a knife or a scalpel. Hit his jugular vein and it was just like Niagara Falls. Swoosh.” He accompanied his narrative with suitable charades, hands scraping across his neck and face grimacing as he mimicked the death throes.
He finally got my attention and I smiled without wanting to. “You sound absolutely gleeful.”
“Sorry.” He behaved long enough to look uncomfortable. “Interesting thing. The killer knew how to use the instrument. It was a precise cut. Rather than sideways, the cut went up and down the vein. Very effective. Very lethal. Messy too.”
I didn’t say anything, but the wheels were turning. B.H. said the cut was messy. I wondered how the murderer got out of Burns’ office without leaving a bloody trail. I remembered that the footprints in the snow leading away from the window were clean. No blood outside. Had the cops thought about that?
I’d find out. “You said the cut was messy. Do you think the murderer was covered in blood?”
“None of your business.” He dismissed my question quickly. “Anyway I want to talk to you about your mishaps.”
“Yes,” I tried to sound open, but failed. My basic distrust of B.H. kept leaking through. I’d figure out the blood angle on my own.
“Tell me why you think your car was sabotaged.” He jerked me back to the present with his question.
“What do you mean, ‘think’? It felt like the brake lines were cut or something. They went out. Slammed all the way to the floor. I know someone messed with them.”
He tried to sit on the edge of my bed, but I moved my leg there so he slipped off. He recovered quickly and continued the conversation. “When you said the brakes went out you were right. They were in bad shape, but show no signs of tampering. I spoke to the mechanic myself.”
“But…”
B.H. held out a hand in a “stop” fashion. “And before you tell me that the mechanic was in on the plot to get you, I want to tell you that the mechanic is your cousin, Bobby.”
“Well…”
“Do you have any other reason to think your car was tampered with? Did anyone threaten you?” B.H. sat in the only chair available.
“Well, no, but since I’m on the trail of the murderer, I’m sure someone is after me, and…” I didn’t want to let him in on my certainty that Carolyn Burns committed the crime.
“Rob and I told you to stay out of it and let us handle the case. You’re a social worker, not a cop.”
This was beginning to get boring. Everyone kept telling me what my job was.
“Well, listen here, what about the gas in my house? You said that was deliberate.”
The stop sign went up again. “The man from the gas company said the line
might
have been cut. ‘Might have been cut’ is a long way from ‘was cut.’”
“Don’t you dare give me the ‘talk to the hand’ sign.” I threw a pillow at him and instantly regretted it for two reasons. First, it hurt like hell and second, it only made him chuckle. “You think you know everything. Just get out of here.”
“Uh-uh. Not until you tell me what you know about the murder.”
I relented a bit. “I’ll tell you what I know if you tell me what you know.”
He grinned. “Didn’t we say that to each other in fifth grade when we found out how babies were made? I went into the ‘guy’ movie with Fr. MacGregor and you went to the ‘girl’ movie with Sr. Mary Francis.”
I scowled. “Yeah, I remember. And it wasn’t long after that you said, ‘You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.’”
“You never did show me.”
I was triumphant. “And I never will.”
“Seriously, Sam. I need to find out what you know and what you think you know. And I promise I’ll tell you what I can. Deal?”
“Yeah, uh, okay.” I sighed. Loudly.
“Oh, I guess you don’t feel too good, huh? Maybe we can talk later. How about tomorrow? Maybe we can have dinner or something.”
“Yeah, right. And I’ll wear my prom dress.”
“Sam…”
I sighed again and added a groan for good measure. “Okay, that was a little much, I admit.”
He took that as a dismissal and left.
My last conscious thought before I dozed off again was that I’d have to figure out how the murderer escaped being bloody. My dreams were a kaleidoscope of prom dresses and bloody scalpels.
ELEVEN
J
ill discharged me late
Sunday afternoon with admonitions to be careful. I refused her offer of a wheelchair to the parking lot, but lost that battle. She passed me to a smiling aide with a shiny wheelchair. And before I could murmur much more than “good-bye and thanks,” I was whisked away faster than you could say “Indianapolis 500.” We quickly reached the parking lot and when the aide asked which car was mine, I didn’t know. B.H. had gotten a rental car for me while mine was being repaired. Nice gesture, and it almost started melting this cold, cold heart. I looked on the key chain and noted the rental was a generic little sedan. New. Automatic. No character. This car was nothing like my baby. I had a ’68 Volkswagen Beetle. A classic. With character. After a row by row search, we found a license plate that matched the one on the key chain. Even though I was unimpressed with the vehicle, today my poor muscles could appreciate the power steering and automatic transmission.
I drove home, picked up Clancy from Gus’s house, and spent the rest of the day alternating between resting and apologizing to Clancy. She must be a Catholic dog; she’s got the guilt trip down pat. I did manage to take her for a short, and slow, walk. After that tiring exercise, I slept. And slept.
I woke up at 8 AM on Monday to a dog with a leash in her mouth. “Okay, girl, I’ve got time for a short walk and that’s all. I’ve got a funeral to go to.”
Clancy didn’t argue the point. She waited patiently while I donned my sweat pants and jacket.
We walked a few blocks west on Maine Street. I was grateful the ice had melted on the sidewalks. There was still some snow on the lawns, forming a perfect frame for the Victorian mansions on our street.
“Thanks for walking slowly today, girl. I’m still stiff from the accident. But you don’t seem to feel any bad effects.” I swear she started limping. “Nice try, but you won’t get any sympathy from me.”
After turning around and re-tracing our steps, we reached our little corner of heaven about 20 minutes after we began.
“I promise a longer walk tomorrow. And I’ll try to go a little faster too.” We both smiled. “I’ve got to get ready for the funeral. I wouldn’t miss this show for the world.”
As I unhooked Clancy’s leash, I continued, “Even though B.H. said no one is out to get me, I’m not convinced that the gas line and my car wreck were accidents. I have a feeling about this and I’m going to trust my instincts.”
Clancy jumped on the bed and watched while I gingerly climbed into my closet again, looking for the perfect outfit. Classy, yet understated. Demure, yet attractive. I knew Michael would be at the funeral, and if I could hold my vertigo long enough, I’d find out what his connection was to Dr. and Mrs. Burns.
I found I couldn’t concentrate on clothes yet and turned to my confidante. “I can’t believe that Felicia Greene is Carolyn Burns. Doesn’t that just jerk your chain? My favorite novelist is my least favorite villain. How can I love those books so much and hate the author? Doesn’t seem logical.”
I continued the conversation thread, although silently. Carolyn’s books were psychological thrillers, dealing with psychotic and mentally ill murderers. I smiled as I contemplated Carolyn Burns as the model for all the villains in her books. I thought about re-reading her books, trying to get inside her criminal mind. I left the bedroom and semi-limped through the house, gathering up Felicia Greene’s books as I went. They formed two good-sized stacks next to my bed; but looking through them would have to wait. I needed to get back to the important business at hand—what to wear.
The only decent thing I had was my power suit. I certainly didn’t want to wear it again. Just because it was the only good thing I owned didn’t mean I wanted people to know it. I got creative. I took an old black cocktail dress and added a black blazer. Looked pretty good. And fit my criteria: classy, understated, demure. Michael would be an idiot not to be attracted to me.
I drove to the church for the funeral Mass. The majority of people in Quincy are Catholic. Even bad guys. As I arrived I was surprised to note that the parking lot was nearly full, although it was early. Like most in my family, I’m compulsively early. Always want to get a good seat.
The church was pretty full, for a Monday, and for a funeral Mass. I found a seat toward the front. I wanted to see the action. None of my family was there, so it was easy to find a solitary seat.
I knelt to pray and felt someone looking at me. Across the aisle I saw a grinning Gus. I nodded and discreetly waved. Georgianne was sitting regally beside her husband. I nodded to her also, while keeping a nonchalant expression. It was hard not to laugh, though. She pictured herself as one of the ruling class and pompously looked down her nose as much as the Burns’ butler.
Right before Mass started, Carolyn Burns was escorted up the aisle by none other than Michael O’Dear. Luckily, I’d prepared myself for the shock, so only felt a distant dizziness and wasn’t in danger of getting sick. I think I’d be too scared to do that anyway, remembering the ridicule afforded to those kids who fainted or hurled in church during my school years.
“Hi ya, Sam.”
He was making a habit of interrupting my pleasant thoughts. It was no surprise that he couldn’t even leave me alone when I was praying, or almost praying.