Confession Is Murder (16 page)

Father Brennan was the last to arrive. He took his glass of whiskey straight to the table and sat down. “Bless us, Oh Lord,” he began, and they bowed their heads.

As soon as he said “Amen” everyone began grabbing for the dishes and filling their plates.

“You didn’t do no soup this time,” Grandma Theresa said, wagging her fork at Lucille. “I always look forward to your soup.” She took the big blue-and-white bowl of penne and helped herself.

“I was going to make some escarole soup, but you should have seen the escarole, it was terrible. A bunch of wilted crap. So I decided what the hell, we wouldn’t have any soup this time.”

“I wish we could have soup.” Grandma Theresa looked at her plate and poked at the penne with her fork.

“What kind of tomatoes did you buy?” Angela said. She put down her fork and smacked her lips experimentally. “The sauce is bitter.”

“I know, I know. That’s the last time I buy that brand. Better to pay a few cents more for the San Marzanos.”

“You could put in a spoon of sugar. That’s what I do.” Angela had another bite of her pasta and made a face.

Sheesh, it wasn’t that sour, Lucille thought. No one else was complaining. How come none of them didn’t appreciate they was getting a free meal? And she didn’t see no one rushing to be first to help out in the kitchen neither.

She looked around the table: Angela, her husband Loretto, Gabe, Flo, Tony Jr., Bernadette, Grandma Theresa, Connie, Father Brennan, cousin Louis, and cousin Millie. And an empty spot where Frank should have been.

Lucille was looking at the familiar faces around her when a terrible thought struck. What if one of them had killed Joseph? Didn’t they always say that most murders were committed by someone the victim knew—like a spouse, or a neighbor or friend? She looked at her family again. That just didn’t seem possible.

Lucille pushed the thought aside and shoved the bowl of penne closer to Father Brennan. “Father, have some more, please, there’s plenty.”

“Thank you, Lucille, I think I will.”

“Has there been any news about, you know . . .” Angela inclined her head delicately toward Connie.

Lucille frowned and shook her head then glanced quickly at Connie. She didn’t seem to have noticed. “Nothing new that I’ve heard.” She wasn’t going to tell anyone about Frank. Not yet. Not till she’d had the chance to break the news to Bernadette first.

“Aunt Lucille.” Gabe rubbed his napkin across his chin, missing the smudge of tomato sauce on his cheek. “I heard Detective Sambuco talking the other day in the break room.”

Lucille shot Gabe a warning look and quickly sent up a prayer to St. John Nepomucene, patron saint against indiscretions.

Both went unheeded.

“I heard they’ve issued a warrant for Uncle Frank’s arrest.” Gabe looked around the table.

“Gabe, honestly!” Angela said.

“It’s true. Well, at least Patrolman Brentano said that’s what he heard.”

“Nonsense,” Cousin Louis slurred into the silence. “Cherchez la femme, I always say.” He hiccoughed. “Look for the woman. Bound to be one mixed up in it somewhere.”

“That’s not true.” Connie threw her napkin down on the table and jumped up from her chair. “There was no other woman in Joseph’s life, I know it. I was the only one he ever wanted!”

And she ran, crying, from the room.

Lucille pulled at the neck of her nightgown. It felt like a noose. She could hardly swallow. She wondered if the police had found Frankie and if he were in jail right now. The thought made her feel hot and cold all over. All she could think about were those programs she’d seen on TV where prison visitors would have to sit on opposite sides of a thick piece of glass and talk to their loved ones on a telephone. She couldn’t imagine spending the next thirty years doing that with Frankie.

She had to do something—think of something. But what?

• • •

Lucille pulled into St. Rocco’s just as Father Brennan was pulling out. She parked next to Jeanette’s wagon, locked the car, and began to walk toward the church. The wind had picked up, flattening the grass and bending the trees. Four geese honked overhead, and Lucille looked up as they flew by. She shivered. Something about the lonely sound of that honking always gave her the creeps.

She had her hand on the door when a thought occurred to her. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it sooner. Maybe Mrs. Batalata had been there praying her fifty-four-day novena. And maybe she’d seen something. Lucille might not have noticed her sitting in the back, and she might have slipped out during all the commotion. Maybe Mrs. B. didn’t even realize the importance of what she’d seen. The same thing had happened on an old rerun of
Columbo
Lucille watched on TV once.

She trudged back up the steps and glanced around the parking lot. Just her luck, there was no sign of Mrs. B.’s Impala. Maybe tomorrow.

But Lucille didn’t want to wait. She couldn’t stand another night like last night, wondering and worrying. If she could solve this thing now, maybe they could all go back to their normal lives again.

She got off early today—she’d go see Mrs. B at home.

Jeanette was finishing a jelly doughnut and reading a magazine when Lucille walked in. She looked up. “You find that deposit yet? Because if you don’t you’re going to have to make good on it, you know.” She picked a blob of grape jelly off her dress with her index finger and ate it.

Great, Lucille thought. Not that the deposit amounted to all that much, but right now she couldn’t afford nothing out of the ordinary. Frankie wasn’t working on account of he was trying to avoid the police, and Lucille didn’t know how much longer the money in her checking account would last.

“I’ll find it, don’t worry.” She pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk and took out the phone directory.

“What are you looking for?” Jeanette had one hand on her Rolodex.

“Nothing. It don’t matter. Just something personal, okay?”

Jeanette continued to stare at her. Lucille turned to the Bs and looked up.

“Isn’t it funny how people get certain ideas in their head? Like your husband’s idea that you were having an affair with my brother-in-law?” Lucille flipped a few pages in the phone book. “There are some who might say that that gave your hubby a good reason to murder him, you know what I mean?”

“You know that’s not true. You’re just saying that.” Jeanette stared at Lucille for another moment and then jumped up. Her chair tipped over and hit the floor with a bang.

Lucille went back to the phone directory. She ran her finger down the page. Just her luck there’d be half a column of Batalatas in New Providence. She didn’t know Mrs. B.’s given name or the name of her husband. She’d have to check the church’s records. Father Brennan kept all the names and addresses on index cards in his office. They’d bought a computer over a year ago, but the church still didn’t have the money to bring someone in to set everything up. Maybe there’d be a little left from this year’s spaghetti supper, seeing as how they’d made a lot more money than usual.

Lucille would have to wait till Jeanette went on her break or out for lunch to look through them. She just hoped Father Brennan would be out of the office long enough.

Lucille kept looking at the clock. Of all days for Jeanette to become hardworking—she’d been plugging away for hours now without taking a break. Maybe she ought to put it off till tomorrow? Nah, she needed to get this over with today.

A half hour before Lucille’s shift ended, Jeanette finally got up, stretched, and announced she was going out to grab a bite.

Lucille tried not to act too enthusiastic in case Jeanette got suspicious. When the outer door slammed shut, she waited two minutes by her watch and then began to sidle over toward Father Brennan’s office. She stopped on the threshold. She didn’t want to go in there. Father Brennan’s big leather chair was pulled right up to his desk, almost as if he was sitting there, but invisible or something. What if he had one of them hidden video cameras? She’d be caught red-handed. Lucille started to turn away. Maybe this wasn’t the right time for her to go detecting. Maybe it would be better if she did it tomorrow when she felt more like it.

But she knew she was kidding herself. She sent up a prayer to St. Expeditus, patron saint against procrastination, took a step toward Father Brennan’s office, and slipped through the open door.

The cards with the names and addresses of St. Rocco’s parishioners were in a small set of file drawers on top of the cabinets next to Father Brennan’s desk. Lucille tiptoed over. Her heart was beating extra fast, and she could feel perspiration starting in her armpits.

She eased open the file drawer marked “A to C” and began riffling through the cards. She thought she heard the office door open, and she slammed the drawer shut quickly, her back to the cabinet. She peered around the corner, but everything was quiet—no one was there.

Sheesh, here she’d lost her place and everything. She began to go through the cards again. Finally she found Batalata, Mrs. Luigi. 1498B Gales Drive, New Providence.

Lucille took a piece of paper from Father Brennan’s desk and copied the address down carefully. She was pushing the file drawer back in when she head a noise again. This time she was certain it was the outer door. Should she hide? She glanced around Father Brennan’s office, but the only possible place seemed to be under the desk, and that didn’t seem like such a good idea. She peered around the corner, but she was so scared she could hardly make herself open her eyes. Finally she took a peek and saw a dark shape. Father Brennan! She had to get out of there.

“Lucille. What are you doing in here? Do you need something?”

“Who me, Father?

He didn’t answer—he just got that pained expression on his face he always seemed to have when he talked to her.

“I was just . . . just . . . checking on something.”

“Yes?”

“It’s like this, see. There was this spider. Not one of them skinny ones, a big hairy one about this big.” Lucille held her thumb and ring finger together in a circle. “And it was heading toward your office. I wanted to step on it, but it gave me the creeps like. But I was going to follow it to make sure it didn’t climb up on your chair or nothing. I wouldn’t want you to get bit or anything.”

“That was very brave of you, Lucille. Where is this spider now?”

Lucille squinted up at Father Brennan. She couldn’t tell if he believed her or not. She didn’t care. She just wanted to get the hell out of there. Her shift was over, and she was leaving as soon as possible.

“I don’t know where it went, see. I kinda lost track of it so that’s what I was doing. I was looking for it.”

Father Brennan nodded. “I think I can manage now, thank you. I am not afraid of spiders.”

“If you’re sure . . .”

Father Brennan nodded.

Lucille didn’t waste any more time. She grabbed her jacket from the back of her desk chair, sending it spinning, and ran, arms pumping, up the stairs, out the door, and across the parking lot to her car. She turned the ignition, and this time it caught on the first try. After a quick glance behind her, she roared out of the parking lot onto South Street. She clipped the curb a bit pulling out, but she didn’t care. She’d have to face Father Brennan again tomorrow, but she’d deal with that when the time came.

Meanwhile she had to contend with the thought that she’d lied. Not just lied, but lied to a priest. What kind of sinner did that make her? God probably had a special place in hell for people who did stuff like that. But it wasn’t her fault. She wouldn’t have to be doing all this stuff if it weren’t for Joseph being murdered and that idiot Sambuco thinking Frankie had done it. If it weren’t for that, she’d sure give the whole thing up.

Chapter 12

Lucille took a right turn onto Gales Drive, where Mrs. Batalata lived. It was a short street of two-story apartment buildings, not far from the center of New Providence and just a couple of blocks from the church and the Clip and Curl Beauty Salon. People either began or ended their life here, Lucille thought. Or sometimes both. Moved in as newlyweds and stayed till the first kid was born; moved back after retirement and selling the family house. The location made it easy to get around if you didn’t have a car or couldn’t drive anymore.

Lucille drove down the street, searching for Mrs. B.’s place. A couple of elderly women, buttoned up against the cold, sat on a park bench trying to catch the last rays of the sun. Kids on bikes zipped up and down the sidewalk calling to each other, their tires crunching through the dried autumn leaves.

Lucille got lucky—there was a parking space right out in front of the red brick building. Mrs. B.’s apartment was on the first floor facing the street. Lucille went up to the door. A terra-cotta pot filled with the remains of some neglected geraniums sat on the stoop. She rang the bell and waited. Nothing. She rang again. The old lady might be deaf for all she knew. She waited some more. Finally the front door opened.

A young woman stood there in jeans and a stained T-shirt, a baby on her hip.

“You looking for the old lady who lives here?”

“Yes.” Lucille ducked as the baby reached out a sticky hand and tried to grab her hair.

“I haven’t seen her in a couple of days. I used to hear her go out every morning like clockwork.”

“You think she’s sick or something?”

The girl shrugged, bobbing the baby up and down with the movement. “I don’t know. But it did kind of worry me. Thought maybe I ought to get in touch with someone. But who? Besides, I’m awful busy.” She gestured toward the baby, who was now sucking his thumb.

“Yeah, it’s always hard to know what to do,” Lucille agreed. “You don’t want to interfere, but on the other hand . . .”

“Yeah, that’s it exactly.” The girl nodded. “Listen, if you don’t mind, I left something on the stove.”

“Sure, sure.”

Lucille followed her into the hallway. Mrs. Batalata’s apartment was on the right, and there was a long flight of stairs running up to the second floor.

Lucille listened at the door but didn’t hear anything. She looked around, then tried the handle. The place was locked up tight.