Blood Ties (17 page)

My gaze locked with Kevin’s. We couldn’t possibly be that lucky. “Do you think it’s here?”

“She forgot it at our house when Dick threw her out.

Th

e police took it.”

Damn. Kevin shrugged and moved into the kitchen. I followed, wondering if Sam had found another place to jot things down.

Course, I was disappointed by the state of the kitchen.

No dirty dishes littered the orange Formica countertops.

Th

e garbage can hadn’t been ransacked for clues, leaving smelly rubble on the faded linoleum fl oor. Th e refrigerator

was empty.

Kevin wrapped a tea towel around the avocado slim line phone. “Disconnected,” he said. He turned to Meredith. “Show me where she was sleeping.”

Th

ey left the kitchen and I wandered to the table, 174

careful not to touch anything. Th

e cops didn’t need extra

prints — especially mine — to muck things up. I gazed out the window to the backyard. Looked like this was another dead-end. What had I expected? A hastily written note detailing who Samantha had thought wanted to kill her and why?

A repetitive chirping interrupted my frustrated mus-ings. I listened, following the source of the squawk to a cuckoo clock. Th

e bird popped out fi ve more times, signaling nine o’clock. I glanced at my watch and frowned.

It was ten. Apparently the clock hadn’t been set ahead after the spring daylight savings time change. My gaze dropped to the calendar hanging on the side of the fridge next to the clock. A glossy picture with bouquets of tulips announced the month. April. Scribbles fi lled the square blocks of several days.

My frown deepened. It didn’t make sense. If someone had changed the calendar to the right month, why not the clock too? Especially considering their close proximity?

I squinted at the loopy handwriting. Pretty girlish for a grandmother.

Who hadn’t been in here in months.

Bing. Light bulb. As usual, Sam had been chronicling the events of her last days. But not in the kitty day planner.

I yelled for Kevin.

Life is filled with compromises.

I wanted to steal the calendar. Kevin didn’t. So we didn’t.

Instead, we copied the information into one of the notebooks Meredith uncovered in Samantha’s bedroom.

Kevin decided that Meredith, in the guise of being helpful, should point out her Grandmother’s vacant house in another day or two. Kevin said purposely keeping the cops out of the loop was career suicide, but we needed a head start. And the information on the calendar was our fi rst lead.

At the café we fi t the dates into a timetable.

“Shelley was right. Sam did try counseling elsewhere.

Looks like she waited a couple of days.”

“Meredith was right too,” I pointed out. “Sam didn’t take Shelley’s suggestion since she tried a diff erent 176

Catholic church.”

Kevin snapped his sleeve back and frowned at his Seiko. “Meredith also said something about the priests in their parish being old, right?”

“Yeah.

So?”

“Th

ink this Father Tim is ‘young and hip’ to the scene?

Is that why Sam switched? Found someone to confi de in that might understand?”

“Beats me,” I said. “Father Tim. Th

ink that’s his real

name?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Seems too easy just to call up the diocese offi ce and

ask at which heavenly branch Father Tim usually works.”

He didn’t even crack a smile.

We decided to try every Catholic church in town. Since it was still early on the Lord’s Day, I hoped we’d get lucky and not have to drag this out for more than one Sunday.

“Even if we do fi nd him, he probably won’t tell us anything.”

“Why

not?”

Kevin gave me his patented, you-are-an-idiot look.

“Ever heard of priest confi dentiality?”

Duh. I’d suff ered through an episode or two of
Father
Dowling Mysteries.

“You think this is a dead-end?”

“I hope not. But I’m beginning to think this
case
is at a dead-end. We found where Sam spent the last two weeks.

177

By all rights, David should decide if we should continue.”

“Well, I think it’s worth a try.”

Coff ee sloshed over the rim of the cup as he checked the illuminated face of his watch again. Th en he shuffl

ed

the two pathetic sheets of paper — a pretense of studying our meager notes.

I pulled the notes from his hands. “Okay, what’s up?”

Kevin glanced at me sharply. “What?”

“You’ve looked at your watch twice in the last fi ve minutes. You late for an appointment?”

“Sort of. Lilly and I have brunch reservations at Sylvan Lake Lodge.” Fiddling with his sleeve, he rechecked the time. “In an hour.”

I waited, giving him ample time to consider his idi-otic statement. When he didn’t become contrite, I said,

“We fi nally get a break and you’re gonna run off and ‘do brunch’?” I supposed it was marginally better than him running off to do
Lilly
. Still, it wasn’t jealousy; I had no desire to search for Father Tim alone. I’d had enough of my own company last night. “Jesus, Kevin. When did you let Lilly tie a string around your dick?”

He stared at me, his expression somewhere between incredulous and cruel. “Do you always have to be so crude?”

Suffi

ciently put in my place, my cheeks fl amed, but my cheap shot didn’t make the facts untrue.

“Sorry if it off ended your delicate sensibilities. But blowing this off to get your fair share of quiche Lorraine 178

and apple brown Betty is ridiculous. You asked for my help on this case, I didn’t volunteer.” Might as well play the fi nal queen bitch card, seeing as he’d already cast me in that role. Th

e last swig of my latte’ didn’t sweeten my words. “And, I’ve yet to see a paycheck.”

Th

e padded chair banged into the wall when he stood.

As he strode away from me, he unclipped his cell phone.

I followed a minute later. Screw his privacy. I needed a cigarette and wasn’t about to wait with bated breath for him to dismiss me. I’d been summarily dismissed enough in the last week. Had he called Lilly at his house? Or hers?

His hostile look prevented an inquiry.

“You ready?” he asked in that brusque tone which always makes my hackles rise.

“Seriously? You just cancelled your date with her?”

“Yep.” His long, angry strides ate the distance to his car.

I chased him, relieved I wasn’t stumbling in high heels. “So, is Lilly gonna have a cow? Make you pay for this later?”

“Not likely, since I blamed it on you.” He climbed in and slammed the door.

Great. I slid in, fl ipped on the CD player, not caring what music spewed out as long as it masked the thorny silence.

Our

fi rst stop was St. Augustine’s. People dressed in Sunday fi nery milled about the parking lot; two priests stood outside the rectory, glad-handing parishioners. We 179

watched without comment for several minutes. I turned when Kevin whistled softly. “What?”

He pointed to the priests. “See that one, brown curly hair, young, he’s got his back to us now? Watch when he turns around.”

I got eye strain studying the man, even when he faced us. Nothing about him made me gasp and say, “Oh, my God! It’s him!” He did seem sort of familiar, but I gave up.

“Okay. Am I supposed to recognize him?”

“Yeah. Remember Tim O’Reilly?”

Vaguely. We hadn’t exactly hung out with that crowd.

My thoughts clicked to sophomore year in high school and my one wild night of partying with the senior class studs at some cheerleader’s house; Troy James, football star and his group of hangers-on including big-mouthed jackass, Danny Christopherson, brooding Bobby Adair, know-it-all Mike Lawrence, and token funny man, Tim O’Reilly.

Tim had kept everybody in stitches as we’d played quarters. Even in my drunken oblivion I remembered he’d had a wicked sense of humor, one of those lovable life-of-the-party guys all teenage girls love to hang around with but wouldn’t be caught dead dating. Is that why he’d turned to the priesthood? No better off ers?

“No way,” I said.

“Way,” Kevin countered. “Looks like we’ve found our Father Tim. Let’s get to him before another old lady bends his ear.”

180

We skirted the piles of construction material blocked off by yellow tape. I took a fl eeting look at the huge skeletal structure of concrete, two-by-fours and roof trusses. It appeared the coff ers in this church were full if they were putting on an addition that rivaled the Sistine Chapel. Father Tim opened the elaborately hand-carved wooden door and disappeared inside the black hole.

Kevin hustled after him. I tried to keep up, but being a smoker and not all that thrilled at fi nding myself in church, I lagged behind. By the time I caught up, Kevin was grinning and pumping Tim’s hand. Th e tail end of the

conversation drifted to me down the dark hallway.

“I know. Joining the priesthood shocked a lot of people, but it just seemed right. I was lucky enough to get assigned back in Rapid City three years ago.” He spun toward me when Kevin glanced over his shoulder.

No handshaking for me. Tim enveloped me in a suff ocating hug. He stepped back and memorized every pore, burgeoning wrinkle, and weighed the luggage under my eyes.

“Julie, Julie. I’m sure you hear this all the time, but you haven’t changed a bit since high school. Still drinking beer, listening to loud music, and chasing boys?”

“Until the day I die,” I said with a real grin, taking in his unlined face and choirboy smile. Upon closer examina-tion, he hadn’t changed much either.

“So what are you two doing here? Th

inking about

181

joining?” He rubbed his hands together in mock glee.

“Been a long time since I’ve done a conversion.”

“No. Actually, we’ve got some questions.” Kevin gestured to the long stone hallway surrounding us. “Can we go someplace private?”

“Sure, my offi

ce is right down there. Watch the con-

struction. Th

ey’ve moved inside this week to repair the choir loft.”

Once inside the tomb-like room, Tim tugged at his vestment. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to change.” He pointed to the chairs facing his desk. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

When he exited the room through a small door, I wondered where it went. To a secret passageway that led directly to God? I stuff ed the sarcasm and studied his offi ce.

Th

e dark room was manly, but impressive. A rough-hewn timber desk dominated the space; every horizontal inch was piled high with papers, hymnals, and ledgers.

Behind the pine monstrosity hung several paintings, religious in nature, and strands of rosaries. But the breathtak-ing stained glass window above it all had sucked me into a state of near euphoria.

Hard to believe that a person with an aversion to organized religion had a Jones for the works of art created in the name of God, but I did. Th

is spectacular window

off ered vibrant hues of blue and purple which bled into red and orange as dawn broke over the lush golden hill 182

of Mt. Calvary, illuminating the three empty crosses. Th e

simplicity shook me, as did the artist’s unspoken promise that some things lasted an eternity. If one believed. I didn’t, and luckily, Kevin’s voice broke through my reverie before I dropped to my knees, crossed myself and handed over my wallet.

“You

okay?”

I nodded, fl opping into the navy wing back chair next to him as Father Tim re-entered the room.

“Much better,” he sighed, still wearing a collar but not formal service robes. “Now, what can I do for you? I’m assuming this isn’t a social visit?”

“No.” Kevin smiled. “But, I don’t know if you can help us. I’m sure you’ve heard about Samantha Friel?”

Father Tim nodded sagely. “An awful, awful thing.”

“I was hired to fi nd her.” He handed Tim a business card. “To make a long story short, we’ve come across information that you’d been counseling her. What can you tell us about that?”

Cut to the chase why don’t you, Kev?

A startled look momentarily crossed Father Tim’s docile face. His gaze dropped to the card, as he lovingly placed it on a prayer book. He steepled his hands, tapping the index fi ngers on his chin, pursing his lips, giving the appearance of deep thought.

Had he practiced that gesticulation? Was it rule number one in the man-of-the-cloth handbook? Every 183

member of the clergy I’d run across had perfected that placating gesture.

After a few moments he smiled benignly. “I’ll admit surprise you knew she’d sought counseling. My impression was she didn’t want anyone to know.”

“Did she tell you why she wanted to keep her sessions under wraps?”

“She was deeply ashamed.” He frowned; a mix of pity and confusion. “I’m afraid I wasn’t much help to her.”

“How many times did you counsel her?”

“Twice.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Kevin nudged my toe with his and I kept quiet, letting the scene play out.

“Only twice?” Kevin asked mildly.

“Unfortunately, yes. Th

e second visit surprised me be-

cause the fi rst one didn’t go well.”

“Why?”

“Nervousness, shame, I don’t really know. She pretty much talked in circles and wouldn’t actually get to the point.”

“And the second time?”

“Basically the same story.” He shifted back into his chair, digging his fi nger under the white strip. “I wished I could’ve helped her, especially after I heard . . .”

Kevin nodded as if in agreement, but said, “And yet you didn’t call the police. Why?”

My partner Kevin. Mr. Smooth.

184

Th

e good Father removed his hands from his throat and drummed them on his desk. “I’m sure it seems strange, but I had good reason. First, she didn’t tell me anything relevant. Second, whatever she would’ve told me, I’m honor bound to keep in confi dence. Ethically and legally.”