Authors: LYNN BOHART
“May I help you?
We’re not usually open on Sunday,” she offered, “but I thought under the circumstances,” she paused awkwardly, “well, you know, I thought maybe there might be people looking for solace.
Is there
something I can help you with?”
Giorgio glanced at the man by the bookshelf
,
but he was absorbed with a book,
stroking his goatee in thought.
“I’m with the police.
I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Her eyes grew wide.
She was in her mid forties and wore a gray wool sweater.
“I wasn’t here last night, but I’ll tell you anything I know.”
Just then, the man with the goatee approached and held out a book to purchase.
The woman excused herself to take care of the sale.
Giorgio stepped to the side, glancing at a glass case holding a selection of Rosary beads and crosses.
N
ext to the
case
was a beautiful antique oak wash stand with a locked box labeled “Mail
”
.
No mail today, Giorgio thought.
It’s Sunday.
“Oh, shit!” he muttered to himself.
He hadn’t thought to ask Father Damian if Sunday morning services would be canceled.
The last thing he wanted was a hundred or so worshippers arriving.
“Excuse me,” he called out to the sales lady.
“I’ll stop by later.
I need to find Father Damian.”
Back in the hallway, he almost bumped into Rocky.
His brother excused himself, backing away.
“Sorry.
I just saw Swan and he gave me a list of people who still need to be interviewed.”
The man from the gift shop emerged with his purchase safely tucked under one arm.
He turned and retreat
ed
up the staircase.
Several other people milled about, probably waiting for taxies or friends.
Giorgio looked about with a fleeting sense of panic.
They needed to get this done before they were inundated with more people.
“I need to find Father Damian.
I’ll see you later.”
The brothers parted
,
and Giorgio went to Father Damian’s office
. H
e wasn’t there
.
Giorgio
took a chance and went looking for Anya Peters.
He found her in an office around the corner from
the abbot
’s.
She was talking with John Marsh, the conference chairman.
The door was ajar, so he poked his head in
side
.
“Come in Detective.
You’ve met Mr. Marsh?”
She was wearing a pale green pantsuit that softened the green glaze of her eyes, but
her demeanor was as cool as the floor tiles.
She wasn’t happy to see him.
He acknowledged Marsh.
“How are you feeling this morning?”
Marsh looked like the star of a cheap horror flick.
His eyes were ringed with shadow
,
and he’d only briefly run a comb through his hair.
The dated tuxedo from the night before had been replaced with an ill-fitting, rumpled gray suit.
A dark spec of blood on his chin
broadcast that
he’d nicked himself shaving.
“I’m afraid breakfast was rather somber,” he mumbled.
“We canceled the closing activities and just bid everyone a fond farewell until next year.
If there is a next year.”
“Are most people in the banquet room now?”
“Anyone who felt like eating,” he said cynically. “I believe a few people called cabs
,
and some have checked out early this morning.”
“I found two keys in the box outside my door when I arrived,” Peters confirmed.
She gazed impassively at Giorgio as if having a detective in her office was an ordinary occurrence.
Giorgio sighed.
“Please make a note of who they were.
Also, I was wondering if Father Damian had thought to cancel Sunday services.”
“This church doesn’t have a parish anymore.
They only hold public services on Christmas and Easter.
Is there anything else we can help you with today, Det
ective?”
Murder seemed to be a mere imposition to Ms. Peters.
It didn’t mean she was guilty of anything more than rude behavior, but he often found that rude behavior camouflaged something else.
In high school, a boy named Jason Wright had beat up boys half his size on a regular basis.
No one knew why until they realized he couldn’t read and had successfully hidden it for years.
A little tutoring had changed more than Jason’s reading skills.
The thought made Giorgio wonder what Anya Peters’ was hiding
.
“I’d like to talk with the woman who organized the dinner,” Giorgio said to Marsh.
“I’ll get her for you.”
Marsh rose and left the room
. A
n awkward silence
stretched
behind him.
Anya Peters shuffled papers on her desk attempting to ignore Giorgio.
A feeling of irritation swept over him.
Motivated by the bitter argument with Angie, he fished in the pocket of his leather jacket and placed the pearl earri
ng on the desk in front of her.
“I believe this is yours.”
The air went still between them.
She openly stared at the earring w
hile her hand fluttered
to her left ear lobe.
When she realized she had on a different pair of earrings, she attempted to resume her composure
.
“I don’t think that’s mine,” she
stated with little confidence.
“No?
I noticed you were missing an earring last night that looked just like this.
I found this one tucked into the sofa in Father Damian’s office.
It appears to match the one you were wearing.”
She reached for the earring
,
but he closed his hand around it first.
Her eyes betrayed a smoldering distaste while she contemplated her next move.
“I had a meeting last night with Father Damian,” she responded almost too quickly.
“I remember sitting on the sofa.
Perhaps it came off then.”
“Was that before you left at seven-thirty, or before you left around nine o’clock?”
Her eyes snapped wide open exposing green, glacial pools.
“I don’t know what you mean.
I told you when I left the premises.”
“Yes, but someone has contradicted your story.
I thought perhaps you’d like to set the record straight.”
Just then Marsh reappeared at the doorway.
“Ms. Chase is waiting for you in the foyer, Detective.”
Giorgio rose, his hand still resting on the earring.
“Please
ask her to wait.
I’ll be there in a minute.”
Marsh left
,
and Giorgio lifted the earring and d
ropped it back into his pocket.
“You were seen leaving the parking lot around nine o’clock, Ms. Peters.
I
must assume you
were here
when the murder took place.”
“I had nothing to do with that.”
Her green eyes darkened as if a cloud had moved
ac
ross a small pond of water.
“Then why did you lie about the time you left?”
“Because,” she paused, “I was working on something personal, that’s all.
Father Damian doesn’t like me to do personal business here, so I said I left at seven-thirty.”
“Wouldn’t he have seen you here after your usual time?”
“He would have been in the Chapel.”
She stuck her chin out as if she just made a masterful move in a chess game.
“I see,” Giorgio said, remembering what the janitor said about meeting Father Damian in the hallway instead of at the chapel.
“Well,” he paused at the doorway, “I’m sure
I’ll be able to confirm that.”
He left Peters’ office with a feeling of intense satisfaction he couldn’t explain, but knowing he’d probably only uncovered an illicit affair.
He would have to decide la
ter if it had any significance.
Coming into the main lobby he found a short, rotund woman sitting like Humpty Dumpty on the bench, her feet barely touching the floor.
Heavy jowls framed her billiard-ball face.
When she saw him, she attempted to rise, but instead, fell backwards, flopping her immense bottom back onto the wooden seat. He
waved away her attempts and joined her.
“I’m Detective Salvatori.”
She offered a warm, mushy hand that reminded him of an overripe grapefruit.
“I’m Olivia Chase,” she said with a throaty voice.
“I made all the arrangements for the dinner.
Mr. Marsh said you wanted t
o talk to me about the murder.”
She seemed pleased to be discussing the murder and peered at him through small eyes lost in folds of flesh.
“Well, actually,” he said, wiping his hand on his pants, “I was wondering if anyone came late to dinner or didn’t show up at all.”
She coughed suddenly, the way someone does when they’re trying to loosen phlegm.
Giorgio tried to look casual as he backed away a few in
ches.
“Sorry, I’ve got a cold,” she gurgled.
“Let me see.
We were going to play a game, so everyone had assigned seats.
As I recall, one man arrived late
,
and one didn’t show at all.”
“Do you know their names?”
Giorgio rested his hand on his chin as if in thought, but in fact he was trying desperately to cover his mouth and avoid taking a breath.
“Oh, yes,” she said confidently.
“Because it would have affected the game you see.
I had to sit in for Cory Poindexter
,
and Mr. Marsh sat in for Jeff
Dorman
.”
“Which one never showed?”
“Jeff
Dorman
.
As it turned out, he had checked out earlier and I wasn’t told.”
“Do you know where Cory Poindexter had been?”
“No.
He came in eventually and took my place.
It was rather awkward because I’d already eaten the main course and had to move.”