Loonies (32 page)

“If we have any information on the case worth revealing to the media,” Steem said, “we will do so at the proper time.”

“I’m sure you will,” Brian said.

“Any more mystery notes from your anonymous source?”

Brian shook his head. “Not a word.” As he turned to leave the trio, he looked back. “In fact, it’s kind of funny.”

“What?” Steem asked, irritated.

“I haven’t gotten any messages since Wibbels was murdered and Winch arrested.” He shrugged. “Makes you think.”

Of course it was a lie, but why not keep the two detectives wondering. Besides, it brought him a little pleasure to see the confused looks on their faces.

On the way back to the newspaper office from the courthouse, Brian stopped at St. John’s Church, hoping to catch Father Scrimsher at the rectory. As he walked up to the front door, a cooing sound drew his glance toward the vacant brick building that had been the diocese’s old-folks’ home. Several pigeons perched on the edge of the roof.

Brian rang the doorbell and waited patiently. When the door opened, he faced a smiling Father Scrimsher.

“Mr. Keays,” the priest said. “What an unexpected pleasure. What brings you here? Did you forget it wasn’t Sunday?” The thick flesh around his neck jiggled as he laughed.

Brian returned the man’s grin with one of his own. “No, I was just wondering if I could take a minute of your time.”

The priest gestured for him to enter and led him to the parlor. There were overstuffed chairs with wooden arms by a small coffee table. Brian sat in one, and Father Scrimsher settled his heavy buttocks in the other. Brian noticed the fireplace at the back wall of the room and thought of Corwin Dudle, on the roof, listening to that dialogue those many years ago and how that conversation commenced the obsession that absorbed the rest of the man’s life.

There was movement in the hallway.

“Sister Bernice,” Scrimsher called out. “Would you be so kind as to bring us some tea?”

Brian caught a glimpse of the nun in her habit.

“Yes, Father,” she said in a low voice and disappeared down the hall.

Scrimsher turned to Brian. “Is this newspaper business? Or maybe a spiritual call?”

“I guess you would have to say the former,” Brian said, taking out his notepad and a pen.

Scrimsher gave the objects a suspicious glance. “Usually what’s said in these confines is of a private nature.”

“I just thought we could have a chat about a few things I’ve been checking into.”

“And what would this be in regard to?” The priest seemed edgy.

Brian thought about how to phrase his questions delicately. “I understand you had some consultations with Dr. Wymbs,” he started. “Maybe regarding patients at the institute?”

He watched the priest for reaction. What he saw looked more like confusion than anything.

The priest’s eyebrows arched. “I’m not quite sure what you are referring to.”

Brian sucked on the end of his pen, wishing it were a cigarette. “Dr. Wymbs used to come here to see you, correct?”

Scrimsher’s eyes studied him, giving Brian the feeling that the priest was trying to figure out where this questioning was going. “The doctor was not a regular churchgoer,” he said, “if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“No,” Brian said. “I was thinking of a visit more on a professional level.”

Scrimsher’s eyebrows almost collided. “I don’t quite follow.”

He hoped the priest wouldn’t lie—maybe avoid, but not lie. So he put the question more directly. “Dr. Wymbs did come see you, didn’t he?” At least once that Brian knew of, but maybe more often than that.

Scrimsher cleared his throat. Before he had a chance to speak, Sister Bernice ambled in, carrying a wooden tray with a small tea kettle, two tea cups, and a pair of matching containers for sugar and cream. She set the tray on the coffee table.

“Thank you, Sister Bernice,” Scrimsher said.

“You’re welcome, Father.” She bowed slightly before leaving.

“Tea?” Scrimsher said, arching his eyebrows as he looked at Brian.

“No, thank you.” Coffee maybe, he thought, but not tea. He wished the priest had offered him coffee.

“You were saying?” Scrimsher said, pouring hot water into one of the teacups, steam rising from its surface.

Brian waited as the man scooped a couple teaspoons of sugar into his cup and topped it off with a dollop of cream. He wanted the man’s full attention, and he had it after the priest took a slurping sip and leaned back in his chair.

“I was saying,” Brian proceeded, “that I know the doctor visited you, and I was just wondering if you provided some service, maybe to assist treating patients at the institute?” It was Brian’s turn to arch an eyebrow.

Scrimsher held his gaze, his eyes searching for some hidden motive behind the question.

“I do recall,” Scrimsher said, “a day when Dr. Wymbs dropped by for a brief visit.”

“I see,” Brian said, pretending to jot it down in his notepad, noticing the priest’s intense look. “And was the visit initiated by you or by the doctor?”

“Heavens,” the priest said. “That was so many years ago. I would only be able to hazard a guess.”

“Would you be able to guess what the reason was for the visit?”

Scrimsher’s lips tightened. His eyes moved back and forth as if searching for an answer. “I’m sure it was a private matter.”

“Were there any follow-up visits?”

Scrimsher set his tea cup down with disinterest and interlocked his fingers, resting his hands on his lap. “If there were, they were most likely infrequent. Dr. Wymbs was a very private man who rarely made appearances in the community.”

Brian put the top of his pen in his mouth, thinking. “I was under the impression that the doctor made trips into town to look after certain patients.” He watched Scrimsher’s eyes.

“Patients?”

“Yes.”

“His patients were at the institute.”

“But I’m talking about the ones who were well enough to leave the institute.”

Scrimsher shifted in his seat. “That’s not something I’d have any knowledge of.”

“I guess I thought maybe you were assisting the doctor in some way.”

The priest laughed. “Assisting? Mr. Keays, I don’t quite know why you’d think anything like that. How on earth do you think I was assisting Dr. Wymbs?”

Brian shrugged. “I thought it could be possible you were counseling patients in a spiritual way. Maybe even hearing confessions.”

Scrimsher chewed this over before answering. “I hear lots of confessions from my parishioners.”

“Of course,” Brian said. “And maybe even people who might not be from your parish. Maybe people from the institute who needed to cleanse themselves of their sins.” He worried he was laying it on too thick.

“We all sin, Mr. Keays. It’s part of human nature.”

“I guess I never thought of it that way.”

“I’m not quite sure what you are looking for,” Scrimsher said. “But I have a feeling I haven’t been able to provide any answers.” His lips spread in a cheerful smile.

“Maybe I’m just looking in all the wrong places.” Brian got up, thanking the priest for his time.

Scrimsher struggled to pull his weight out of the chair, reaching a hand to his back. “Aging is never graceful,” he said with a smile. “When I first came to this parish, I was a young man, and quite fit and handsome, mind you.”

“No one gets younger.”

“And forgive me if I can’t quite remember things from a long time ago. The past gets further away every day.”

He led Brian to the front door. As Brian stepped outside, he turned back to the priest.

“The vacant building out back used to be an old-folks’ home right?”

“Yes,” Scrimsher said. “The church ran it for many years, but then funds got tight and the place was shut down. That too was a very long time ago. It was already closed by the time I joined this parish.”

“And it hasn’t been used since?”

“About thirty years ago, it was used as a haven for troubled teen girls, mostly runaways. Sister Bernice helped run the place.” Scrimsher pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped sweat off his brow. “It only lasted a few years, and then it too shut down. The economy even affects the church, believe it or not.”

“I see,” Brian said.

“Why the interest?”

He shook his head. “Just too bad to see a fine piece of architecture going to waste.” He smiled. “That’s all.”

He bid the priest goodbye and returned to the newspaper office.

Later in the afternoon, Brian pondered what to do with all the information he had learned the past couple of days. What he needed to do was convince Corwin Dudle to let him share some of the knowledge with Noah Treece. Even though the police chief wasn’t half the detective that The Silhouette was, he’d rather Noah get credit for breaking the case than Steem and his henchman, Wickwire.

His head and stomach hurt thinking about it, and he stepped out the back door to smoke a cigarette by the dumpster. The smoke going into his lungs was soothing. It helped him think more clearly. And what he was thinking of was the wall in Dudle’s basement. Even though the chimney sweep had provided valuable information, it doesn’t mean Brian wouldn’t have found any of it out for himself eventually. If anything, The Silhouette had just accelerated the process. And the interviews Brian had conducted with the former inhabitants of the Mustard House, all his doing, had contributed some valuable pieces to the puzzle. He could certainly go to Noah with that. That wouldn’t be breaking his word to Dudle.

After all, the man had been providing him clues since the beginning. What was the point of that if he couldn’t do anything with it? He understood Dudle had concerns about who to trust in this town. Who wouldn’t, considering how many residents of Smokey Hollow might not be quite right. Certainly one wasn’t, no matter what the late Dr. Wymbs had thought. But the chimney sweep had entrusted Brian with his discoveries, so it was really up to him to act before something else happened.

The back door to the newspaper office opened, and Isaac Monck poked his head out.

“Bev says there something on the scanner you’d want to hear,” he said.

Too late, Brian thought, something must have already happened.

He stubbed his cigarette onto the side of the dumpster and tossed the butt into the container before rushing back into the office, nearly shoving Monck out of the way. Beverly Crump was standing beside the police scanner in his office. She adjusted her glasses as if to hear better. She looked at him as he entered. He didn’t say a word for fear of talking over a vital dispatch. At the moment, the scanner was quiet. He looked at her with querying eyes.

“They’ve called the medical examiner to Cricket Lane,” she said.

“Did you hear an address?”

She shook her head.

It didn’t matter. He’d drive down the street and look for police vehicles. He grabbed his camera and portable scanner off his desk and bolted out the front door. He drove down Main Street faster than he should have and barely halted at the stop sign at the end before turning onto Fogg Road. When he approached Cricket Lane, his tires squealed as the car cornered onto the street, slowing down once he was on the residential road. He passed the house he had gone to on the Women’s Garden Club tour, thinking how long ago that day seemed.

Up ahead he saw the usual assortment of vehicles, police, fire, ambulance, and, of course, State Police. The medical examiner’s car wasn’t there, so that meant it hadn’t been too long since whatever happened had been discovered. He pulled to the curb, parking far enough back so as not to be in the way. He could feel the excitement in his body as he got out of the car. Even though he was coming into something that was most likely awful, it fueled his adrenaline and he could feel the beat in his heart.

He walked down the sidewalk toward a white gambrel house with cranberry shutters and a large brick center chimney. He spotted Day Shift Alvin posted outside the front door of the home. There were two vehicles in the home’s driveway, and as Brian realized who one of them belonged to, his pace slowed, as did his heart. He stopped at the end of the driveway, looking up at the house.

“Oh god, no.”

Stuck in the gutter along the front edge of the house’s roof was a black top hat.

Brian got his camera out. Even though something crawled in his stomach, sickening him, he looked through the viewfinder at the hat on the roof and snapped a couple pictures. He knew it would be a dramatic shot. It didn’t matter at that moment what the hat represented, what he knew it meant. He was a journalist, and he had to set aside the prickling feeling inside and take the damn picture.

He despised that feeling.

But he took the damn picture anyway.

After that, he didn’t think his feet would move. They adhered to the driveway, as if the tar had liquefied in this stifling summer heat and swallowed his shoes. But he had to know for sure what was going on in that house, so he got his legs going and approached Alvin at the door.

“Hi, Alvin,” he said.

“Mr. Keays.”

“I’ve got some important info they’re going to want in there.”

“You know the drill,” Alvin replied.

“You don’t understand,” he pleaded. “This is stuff related to what I think happened in there. They need to know this.”

Maybe it was the distressed tone of his voice or something Alvin saw in his face, but the cop went inside, leaving Brian by the front steps. He looked around the neighborhood. No one was about, and it felt lonely. I don’t want to be alone out here, Brian thought. Don’t leave me alone. It seemed to take forever. But then Brian realized he wasn’t quite alone. Up on the hill, he spotted a man on the water tower, the same man he had been seeing up there all summer…and now he knew who it was.

The front door opened and Alvin came out with Noah.

“Hey, Brian,” the chief said. “You got something?”

“It’s Corwin Dudle dead in there, right?”

“Yeah,” Noah said, putting his hands on his hips. “Stuck in the chimney.”

Brian grimaced. Maybe this wasn’t what he thought. Maybe this was just a mishap, the sweep slipping and falling into the chimney and breaking his neck. “An accident?” he asked, hoping but doubtful.