“Well, I like him better as our bishop.”
Phil grinned. “I agree.”
“So, do you think Bishop Cruz knows about Monsignor Crowell?”
“Probably. But at this point he probably hasn't heard anything to worry him too much. I mean, this is part and parcel of the Church hierarchy. Some people play power games, political games. Unless they overstep in some egregious way, nothing is going to happen.”
Chloe nodded and put her cards down. “But if Crowell is stepping on Father Brendan …”
“In the first place, we don't know what happened in that interview. It may have been about Steve's murder, and certainly the diocese is going to have concerns there, Chloe.”
“Well, of course.”
Phil shrugged. “Unless I can find out something concrete, we can only speculate.”
“I’ll ask Father.”
“I don't know that Lucy would appreciate that.”
“Hey, I’m on a case. I’ll tell him I found out through other sources. Which will be true.”
Phil laughed. “Okay, okay. Now for the interesting stuff?”
Chloe looked surprised. “What do you mean?”
“What's the story with you and that gorgeous police detective?”
Chloe's face darkened, and Phil found herself regretting her lighthearted teasing. She shouldn't have mentioned it at all. “Chloe …”
But Chloe waved a dismissing hand. “We have a history, that's all. An old, old history.”
“And not a completely happy one, I gather.” Phil hesitated, then plunged on. “Forgive an old nun who has to live some things vicariously, but … was it romantic?”
Chloe looked at her, her eyes gone as glacial as the North Pole. But then the expression softened just a bit. “You're not an old nun by any means. And it wasn't romantic. There was … no time for that.”
“I see. So I’m just supposed to sit on my hands and wonder forever?”
Chloe smiled faintly. “I’m afraid so, Phil. I’m afraid so.”
Phil sighed and reached for another handful of mix. “Nobody ever told me how positively boring it could be to live a religious life.”
“Boring? You're kidding, right?”
Phil shrugged. “Nobody ever tells me the really good stuff. They don't want to sully my ears.”
Chloe couldn't help smiling. “Trust me, Phil. There's nothing that would sully your ears in my relationship with Matt. It's just too painful to talk about.”
“Sometimes sharing pain can make the load lighter. But whatever. I’m here if you ever want to talk. Just tell me one thing. Is the guy married?”
“No.”
Phil nodded. “Okay, I’ll shut up.” But she wondered if Chloe realized how much she had just revealed. An uninterested woman wouldn't know Matt's marital status. Inwardly, Phil smiled.
For good or ill, keeping secrets was as natural to a priest as breathing. Over the years Dominic had been party to many secrets, but they had never been secrets of a kind he had had the least desire to share. They had been ugly little secrets, sometimes even horrifying, he had read in petitions for annulment. They involved people he didn't know and would probably never meet. They were already past by the time he read about them, and while they sometimes made his heart ache, he had never felt the least urge to discuss them.
Thus it shocked him that he felt compelled to tell someone what Brendan had told him about the interview with Crowell. The compulsion kept him awake late into the night, and when he finally did sleep, it wasn't for long.
The seal of the confessional was not on their conversation; he knew that. But it didn't make any difference. Words spoken to a priest were assumed to be confidential, and Brendan would never imagine that Dominic might share them elsewhere.
But throughout the dark hours of the night, the compulsion grew. One of his favorite mystery novels was
The Rosary Murders
by William X. Kienzle. In it, Father Koessler asked the perennial question: If someone tells you in confession that he has poisoned the communion wine, what can you do? There was, of course, nothing, unless you could find a way to spill the wine.
A horrendous dilemma, and one Dominic was eternally grateful that he'd never faced.
But now he felt he was facing something along similar lines. It was clear to him that someone wanted to destroy Brendan, and it was not simply Monsignor Crowell. He was sure, in his very bones, that Crowell hadn't invented the complaint, however gleefully he might use it against Brendan.
So what now? This information might be important to the police investigation, especially since it seemed to link what was happening now with something that had happened while Brendan was in the navy. A clue in the past might lead to a resolution now … and might save Brendan.
But even though the seal hadn't actually been on their conversation, it was implied. Troubled, Dominic wrestled with the problem for most of the night.
In the morning the problem was no more clear, nor was his head, foggy with lack of sleep. He had the morning Mass, and he vested with less agility than usual, things slipping from his fingers. He was sure that when he left the sacristy he looked as if he'd slept in his robes.
The usual forty or so people were present, many of them the heart and soul of St. Simeon's. They were faces he already knew well, in just a few short weeks, not only from daily Mass, but from their presence around the parish hall and offices as they volunteered their time and talent.
But one face was not usually here. Chloe, like many in the parish, had to be at work or on her way to work at this hour of the morning. Today, however, she sat in the front pew.
It was like a message from God. As soon as Dominic's gaze lit on her, he knew what he needed to do. When he gave her the Eucharist, he murmured, “I need to see you after Mass.”
She nodded, meeting his gaze briefly, then moved on to the chalice of wine.
After Mass, there were the usual number of people who wanted to speak with him. Some simply wanted to socialize for a few minutes. Others had problems they wanted to share. Many expressed concern for Brendan and asked how he was getting along. If there was malice in this parish against the pastor, none of these people evinced it.
But then, those who went to daily Mass were without a doubt some of the best people in any church.
Chloe, thank goodness, waited patiently until he was able to signal her to follow him into the sacristy. Once there, he stripped his vestments, speaking as he did so.
“I’m going to break a confidence here,” he said, reaching for a hanger. “I’d appreciate it if you'd keep it to yourself. Primarily, don't tell the cops.”
Chloe tilted her head to one side. “I can't promise that, Father. I’m not just a parishioner, I’m also a lawyer, which makes me an officer of the court. I can't be involved in anything that might be obstruction of justice.”
Dominic sighed, finished hanging his vestments, then sat facing her. “I don't think this falls into that category. But I’ll let you use your best judgment, then. Just understand that this was told to me in confidence, and the only reason I’m breaking that confidence is because I believe it might have some bearing on what's happening here.”
Chloe nodded. “I’ll treat it carefully, Father. As an attorney, I understand confidentiality as well as a priest.”
He smiled wryly. “Maybe you do.”
“I know I do.”
“Very well. We're on the same page.”
Chloe nodded. “Close enough. So what's going on?”
Dominic hesitated, trying to decide what was essential and what he could skip over so as not to divulge anything unnecessary. Finally, he decided to approach the matter as if he'd heard it from somewhere else.
“It's come to my attention,” he said, “that another complaint has been lodged against Father Brendan at the chancery. From what I understand, this complaint alleges an improper relationship with young Steve King.”
“That's already on the table. Father. Somebody spilled that to the cops.”
“Yes, but there's more. Its seems this complainer linked the matter of King to an incident while Brendan was a navy chaplain.”
Chloe became very still and very quiet. Dominic, who hadn't known her very long, wasn't used to this habit of hers, and he found it quite unsettling. In fact, it was downright unnerving how her blue eyes could suddenly seem icy enough to freeze anything they happened to gaze upon. At the moment, thank goodness, she wasn't looking at him.
“Father …” She spoke slowly, thoughtfully. “Are you telling me that Brendan was accused once before of having a romantic relationship with a young man?”
“I don't know if that's the case. I don't know if he was accused or not. In fact, I know nothing about what really happened. I … tried to find out, and met with a dead end.”
“Shit.” Chloe spoke the word, then glanced at him. “Sorry.”
“Quite all right. I believe I’ve used that word a time or two myself.”
A small, mirthless smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Thanks. Okay. I’ll find out what's going on. Somehow.”
“I’m just concerned that there may be a link, at least in the mind of someone who's threatening the pastor.”
“There may well be. I don't know. It may be nothing but malicious gossip. But I’ll check it out.”
“Thank you. And, by the way, I don't especially care to know what you find out.”
Chloe looked at him, her eyes seeming to penetrate past his surface to the not-quite-shiny state of his soul. “You weren't sent here just to be parochial vicar, were you.”
It wasn't a question. Dominic, who thought he'd forgotten how to blush at least thirty years ago, felt his cheeks heating.
“You don't have to answer,” Chloe said pleasantly enough. “Just guard his back, Father. Because regardless of what problems the Church hierarchy may have with Brendan, they at least won't kill him.”
He nodded, unable to speak, and watched as this extraordinarily self-possessed and icy woman walked out of the sacristy.
Being asked to help Chloe with an investigation was often the high point of Phil's life. After fifteen years of teaching third- and fourth-graders, most of the problems she faced had become entirely too familiar. Chloe's occasional requests for her to do research of some kind were invariably welcome.
One of her favorite jobs had been driving down to a bad part of town and parking where a cop had supposedly been parked while watching a drug exchange. She thought she'd earned her fedora that day, because there was no way the police officer could have seen a drug transaction at the corner where it supposedly took place, through the sign he was parked behind.
But this request was different.
“Well, of course I have contacts in the chancery,” she said in answer to Chloe's request, “but they aren't going to give me anything except gossip. Certainly not someone's personnel records.”
“I don't need you to
get
them,” Chloe argued. “I just need to know if there's anything in them about an incident involving the death of a young man while Brendan was in the navy. Since he was a priest at the time, there might be something there about it.”
“I don't know, Chloe. Those records are
very
private. There's not only the question of you and me being privy to something that's so private, but there's the question of asking someone else to check it out.”
“I understand that. But the simple fact is, Brendan's life is in the balance. And a complaint made at the chancery suggests that Steve's death was not the first time Brendan was associated with the death of a young man. If there's a link there, it could lead us to the killer.”
The two women were sitting in Chloe's living room, sharing a pot of green tea on a sunny April afternoon that had turned unexpectedly chilly. For now, Brendan was safe under the watchful eyes of about three hundred people as he performed a wedding. In forty-five minutes, though, one of them needed to get over to the church to keep an eye on him.
Phil poured some more tea into her small Japanese cup and sipped it. This was a leap she wasn't sure she was ready to make, yet already her mind was considering ways she might achieve what Chloe wanted.
“The problem with me,” Phil announced after a moment, “is that I can't resist a challenge.”
“I know.” Chloe laughed. “That's what makes you such a great investigator.”
“And a fool. I could get really burned on this, and so could whoever helps me.”
Chloe didn't say anything. That was the worst thing about Chloe. She didn't argue. If she'd argued, Phil would at least have had something to argue against.
“Oh, all right,” Phil said finally. “I’ll see what I can do. But I can't make any promises.”
“You realize,” Chloe said, “that if we don't get to the bottom of this, and quickly, someone might be inspired to call the police with the same story. If that were to happen, Father Brendan wouldn't have a lick of privacy anymore, not from the police and not from the press.”
Trust Chloe to give her the good reasons
after
she'd made her decision. Still, it helped ease her conscience somewhat. “Do me a favor, Chloe?”
“Sure, Phil.”
“Remind me to go to confession. Soon.” Chloe's laugh was little comfort.
The watcher called the killer and told him the priest was going to be gone from Tampa in five days. The killer heard this news with a sinking heart, even though he knew he was the cause of it. Those phone calls to the Tampa chancery offices had finally had an effect.
He hung up the phone and turned to his wife, who was watching some sitcom on the television. “I have to go out of town again.”
She looked up, dismayed. Since the death of their son she'd begun to hate it when he traveled, even though she'd been alone before. It was as if she was afraid he was going to go away and never come back, just as their son had.
“Do you have to?” she asked, a hint of a whine in her voice.
“There's an emergency.”
“When?”
“I’ll leave in the morning.”
She sighed. “How long will you be gone?”
“A couple of days. I’ll call and let you know.”
Then, as always, she went back to her television show, leaving him alone.
He went to his son's room, as he often did. In the years since Tom joined the navy, he and his wife had talked about converting the room into a guest room, but they'd somehow never gotten around to it. Oh, they'd started. They'd taken down the posters and the high school memorabilia, packing it all carefully away for Tom.