Deadly Blessings (20 page)

I brought my attention back to work matters.
“I went to Matthew Breczyk’s funeral this morning.”

Grimace of commiseration. “Yeah. How did
that go?”

“
It was a
funeral,” I said, with a bit of sarcasm. I didn’t know precisely
why annoyance had crept into my words, but it had. Something
uncomfortable had crawled into my heart and was sitting there. I
couldn’t quite get a grip on what it was. Not that I expected him
to do backflips when I sat down, but he had a look on his face that
made me sorry I stopped in. Matthew’s funeral had taken a lot out
of me, and Father Bruno had conducted the affair in such a sincere,
heartbroken manner. I wondered if I
had
misjudged the man. Emil hadn’t
shown up, thank goodness; he was probably guarding the rectory and
downing the stash of altar wine.

Maybe I was seeing things
through an unpleasant filter. I’d come in, half-tempted to broach
the topic of his departure from the
Daily
Times
. Make no mistake—I was curious. But
this didn’t feel like a good time for the subject. Maybe I was just
cranky. In that case, the best bet would be to stick to business.
“Did you get the rest of the hair care story research I left for
you?”

“
Yeah.”

That was it. “Yeah.” From this point on,
William would be in charge of writing the script, working with the
talent coordinator, and attending the taping. I don’t know what I
was hoping for. An invitation to be part of it, perhaps? But I
wasn’t about to ingratiate myself where I might be considered a
hindrance rather than a help.

Pushing against the arms of the chair, I
stood, eager to get out of tobacco heaven. “Okay, good. Let me know
if you need anything else.”

* * * * *

“
Alex? Is that
you?”

Father John Triphammer stopped raking the
leaves that covered the rectory’s side yard like a raggedy blanket.
Colorful yet muted, the ground moved and shifted with every twist
of the wind beneath the wispy gray afternoon sky. This yard, which
brooked the thirty-foot distance between the rectory and my grammar
school, had always been off-limits to the students. We had another
yard for recess, on the other side of the school. This one, with
its shrine to Mary, complete with a weatherproof kneeler dead
center amid all the trees, was meant for meditation. But no one
ever really used it.

Father Trip, as he was
affectionately known, leaned on the rake’s handle, his eyes
crinkling up as he smiled. I always thought he was a handsome man
and I had a massive crush on him back when I was in grammar school,
blissfully unaware that having crushes on priests was a no-no. He
reminded me a lot of Dick Van Dyke in those days. My parents always
watched the black-and-white reruns and I think I fell a little in
love with Rob Petrie. Tall, with a narrow face, and an easy smile,
Father Trip wore his hair cropped short, and just these past few
years, white hair won the battle for his head. Nowadays the priest
still resembled the actor, but now he looked more like the
Diagnosis Murder
version. When he said Mass, standing below the bright
overhead lights, he often looked encircled in a halo.

Not that Father Trip was any kind of saint.
I’d seen him at social gatherings, where he blended in and traded
barbs with the parishioners. He could be sharp-tongued when piqued.
While he never stepped over the priestly line with anyone, he came
about as close to being a regular guy as a man in a collar could
get.

Right now, he had a blue flannel shirt on,
with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His hooded gray
sweatshirt lay discarded over the cyclone fence that surrounded the
yard.

I stretched my arms out, feigning inspection
of myself. “Yep. It’s me. In the flesh.” I was in jeans and a
T-shirt. On my way out the door, I’d grabbed an oversized
sweatshirt for warmth. Maroon, with my university crest in gold
across my chest, it made me feel comforted whenever I wore it,
engulfing me both in warmth and memories.

Father Trip grinned. “You need something.”
It wasn’t a question.

Embarrassed cringe on my part. “That
obvious?”

“
Well, let’s see. Except
for Christmas and Easter, the only time I ever see you anymore is
when you have a Catholic question.” His eyes shifted, suddenly
serious. “You know, Alex, you don’t have to be afraid to come
visit. I’m not going to try and drag you back into the fold, or
convince you to start attending Mass again.”

“
I know,” I said, gazing
around at the enormous maple trees that dotted the small yard. He’d
never get all these leaves raked up today. Not alone. “You got
another rake?”

He turned to glance back against the side of
the rectory wall. “I must have known you were coming.”

Grabbing it, I started in. “Scary,” I said.
“Maybe you have ESP.”

“
Or a direct line to the
Almighty?”

We worked in silence for a short while.
Overcast, the gray sky was still bright. Enough so, that when I
looked up, the branches of the trees that had gone bare made a
pattern against the brightness. The sight of it made me sad for
some reason I didn’t understand. I caught a flit of red—a cardinal
alighted on one of the branches and chirped its distinctive call.
Leaves pulled and pushed against each other in a soft shush,
lulling me into silence. It seemed almost wrong to break the
rhythmic quiet of our task.

Within minutes, I’d shucked my own
sweatshirt as a gleam of perspiration came over my face and onto my
arms. It felt good to move.

I walked over to the cement Madonna and
brushed errant leaves off her head.

“
So, what are you
investigating this time?” Father Trip asked, never stopping his
movement. “Milla Voight?”

“
God!” I said, amazed.
Immediately, I was embarrassed for my exclamation.

“
Taking the Lord’s name in
vain, Alex? And in front of a priest, no less.” Father Trip’s
question was half-admonishment, half-tease. “Maybe you had better
think about coming back to confession one of these
days.”

“
How did you know what I
wanted to talk with you about?”

“
Keep raking,” he said.
“It’ll be your penance.”

I listened to the twin
scrapes of our wiggly fingered rakes against the uneven stubble of
the ground for several beats. “How
did
you know?”

“
The Church is taking
Father de los Santos’ escape to South America seriously. Very
seriously.” His head down, Father Trip’s eyes met mine; his voice
lowered a notch. “They don’t want a repeat of the scandals from a
few years back.”

I moved closer, toward the base of a tree
nearer to him, lowering my voice as well. “You mean they think this
might not be an isolated incident?”

He shrugged, but I noticed that he dug
deeper into the piles of leaves as he spoke this time. “I pray to
God that it is. But the fact that Milla Voight is dead, and so
conveniently, is making the media sit up and take notice.” He
glanced at me, and I felt the weight of his words. “All I hope for
is that the truth comes out. But I’m afraid that people will see a
conspiracy where there is nothing but the very bad judgment of one
priest, and the unfortunate death of a young woman.”

He stopped raking. “The Church values human
life. Life is sacred. There is no man in the Catholic Clergy today
who would so callously end another human’s life to protect himself
from scandal. This I believe. I would stake my vocation on it.”

“
Do you know Father Bruno
Creighter?”

I paused in my raking, but Father Trip’s
quick glance of reminder got me started again. He nodded and began
again, too.

“
We’ve met, briefly,
several times, but I know him by reputation more than
personally.”

“
He was Father de los
Santos’—umm—boss? For lack of a better term. What’s the word on
him?”

A strong breeze shot past, flipping my hair
into my mouth and twirling away the top layer of leaves off the
pile I created. I reached my rake out to recapture them.

“
From what I understand,
Father Bruno is heartsick. The man is well-known as a staunch
proponent of the Catholic Church, and he abhors anything or anyone
who sullies the Church’s good name. This is particularly hard for
him because the young priest was one of his golden boys. A
candidate for eventual pastor. What with the shortage of young men
entering the priesthood, the granting of a parish to someone with
his qualifications is no longer unheard of.”

“
Leaves a bit of a hole in
the organization?”

“
Not only that, but Bruno’s
a career priest.” Father Trip must have caught my raised eyebrows
because he quickly added, “Don’t misunderstand me, I’m not
minimizing his devotion. But with his media contacts, he’s got a
shot at Bishop and from there, a clear path to Archbishop. Maybe
even Cardinal. He’s proven his usefulness, his dedication. And he’s
a go-getter. He’s overseen the ordination of more young men than
anyone in years. And he’s got friends in high places.” He smiled as
he paused for a moment.

“
Such as?”

“
He’s technically a citizen
of the Vatican. Was born in Italy to devout parents and made lots
of useful connections before he was sent over here.”

“
Creighter isn’t an Italian
name.”

“
Italian on his mother’s
side. Doesn’t matter anyway, he’s got the drive, the network, you
name it.”

“
So if he’s such a Catholic
catch, why hasn’t he moved up already?”

Father Trip pulled out a big brown lawn bag
and began scooping armfuls of debris into it. “Could be any number
of reasons. Timing being key. You realize that no one can move up
until a position is vacated. And with life expectancies going up
all the time, there’s not a whole lot of turnover at some of those
higher levels.”

“
Is there any dirt on
him?”

“
Alex!” Father Trip’s
reaction came out sharp, but a look at him told me he bordered on
hurt. His tone softened. “There aren’t a whole lot of secrets in
the Church. Not anymore. And that’s a good thing. I think if there
were anything about Father Bruno that could tarnish his reputation,
I would have heard about it by now.”

“
Okay, okay. But there’s a
guy who works for him. Emil.”

“
Emil?”

“
Yeah, he’s the secretary
or something. I’m not really sure. But he works for
Bruno—”

“
Father Bruno.”

“
Sorry. He works for Father
Bruno and he’s—I don’t know—icky.”

“
Well, there’s an objective
observation.”

A leaf fluttered down over my head and
landed on my right shoulder, its scratchy edges hanging tight to
the fabric of my T-shirt. I brushed it away. “What I mean is, he
works for the Church, but I get a bad feeling from him. He’s got
connections, I think, that he shouldn’t.”

“
Connections?” I could hear
the skepticism in his voice. I wanted to avoid telling Father Trip
about the prostitution ring. It didn’t yet feel like my story to
tell; the fewer people who knew about it, the better.

“
Something’s wrong. There’s
not much more I can tell you, just yet.” I bit my lip. “Would you
mind checking around? Just a little?” I pulled the leaves closer to
the big pile that had accumulated, obscuring the bright white of my
Reeboks. Keeping my attention to task, I waited.

It wasn’t until I heard him sigh that I
looked up. “Have you really become as cynical as you sound?”

I stopped scraping the leaves. “Not
cynical,” I said slowly, meeting his gaze. The look in his eyes was
pained concern and I hated the fact that I put it there. “Just less
willing to take things at face value.”

He gave me a lopsided grin, and with it, a
sense of willingness to lighten the mood. “Whatever happened to
that little girl who trusted everybody?”

Looking at the big pile of leaves, curled
corners of brown and red and orange, I couldn’t resist. I sat down
with a sigh of pleasure, feeling the crunch beneath my butt as a
puff of mossy autumn smells enveloped me. I covered my covered my
blue-jeaned legs, just like I used to do as a kid. “She’s still
here,” I said smiling up at him. “But life changes people. And
she’s grown up.”

“
Grown up?” he asked, and
he held my gaze a moment before averting his eyes. “Or grown
away?”

The following morning I cancelled my
employment physical. Despite the fact that Lisa had given me the
address of an established medical group in the area, the idea of
submitting to an examination for a job selling sex made my skin
crawl. I wanted to go undercover, but not under those kinds of
covers. The nurse who handled my phone call asked me if there was
any sort of problem, or if later in the day suited my schedule.

My suspicious mind raced, wondering how if
any of the staff of this place were on Lisa’s payroll as well. The
nurse’s voice was so sincere, yet she pressed.

“
I have an opening
tomorrow, if that would be any better. A cancellation at ten? How’s
that?” Her voice sounded mid-fifties, brassy, eager.

“
Umm,” I hedged.

“
I’m just trying to help,
you understand. I see from the notice here, that this is for new
employment, and we try to do our very best to expedite when we
can.” I could hear the smile in her voice as she said
that.