Death in the Secret Garden (16 page)

Rocco sighed. ‘He doesn't remember.'

Bea parked her Ford in front of Sarge's place. For the hundredth time she surveyed the bar's exterior. It hadn't changed. It was still a dump. It was a hard drinker's spa run by a man who had long ago fallen off the cusp of daily drinking into complete alcoholism. Last winter she had finally persuaded the two men to change their movable feast to the Murphysville Inn. She had permanently reserved a table near the large fireplace. It had been a comfortable place that was atmospheric, clean, and nearly quaint. All had gone well until Rocco tilted his chair too far back and had nearly fallen into the open hearth. Without consulting her, they had returned their moveable feast to Sarge's.

She had her hand on the bar's front door when the feeling struck with overwhelming force. The power of the vivid memories was breathtaking. A montage of bright impressions clicked by so rapidly that they excluded the present-day world. She saw her daughter's wobbly progress on the birthday bike that carried her toward the deadly street. Time reversed, and she watched a child's first unaided steps punctuated with a triumphant smile. This was followed by the pure innocence of a sleeping one-year-old that she kissed and covered up. Then she saw herself standing before their full-length mirror. She watched her belly in amazement as the first bird-wing flutters of life awoke within her.

Bea placed both palms against the wall of the building and leaned forward as she fought to regain her breath.

Sarge Renfroe was at her side. ‘You all right, ma'am?' He grasped her arm. ‘I saw you through the door. Want me to get Mr. Wentworth?'

‘No,' she managed to say. ‘It's passing and I'll be OK.'

Sarge was gone. Lyon was by her side with wide eyes of concern. ‘I'll take you to the emergency room.'

‘No.' She straightened and pushed away from the wall. The visions fled as quickly as they had arrived. ‘I'm all right. Perhaps some coffee will set me right.'

‘What happened?'

‘Suddenly, without warning it all came back. I saw her whole life and relived it again.'

Arm in arm they entered the building. Further comment was not necessary. They had both suffered from these vivid flashbacks of their daughter's life and death. In the beginning the pain had been nearly unbearable, but as years passed the visions had become less frequent. Today's episode had caught her by surprise.

‘You look pale,' Rocco said as they sat at the booth.

‘What's happening with you guys?' Bea asked with forced joviality.

‘Rocco has arrested Canon Mead MacIntire as our serial killer,' Lyon said.

Bea was appalled. ‘That man walks around ants on the sidewalk. He nurses sick birds with broken wings. He is completely dominated by his wife and secretary.'

‘That's it right there,' Rocco said. ‘I believe he's gone through his own personal revolution.'

‘He was a professional client of Ashley's,' Lyon said.

‘In the biblical sense?' Bea asked.

‘Old and new testament,' Rocco added.

‘Hey, guys, wait a cotton-picking minute,' Bea said. ‘What about the used-car salesman's wife, Mildred the shark and her young lover? I can see those two coming up with some weird murderous agenda, but the canon? It's like charging Mother Theresa with lascivious carriage.'

‘Don't hardly get to charge anyone with that these days,' Rocco said sadly. ‘The good canon has confessed. In fact, he keeps on confessing. We have our killer, all right.'

‘What about your army friend in the tree house?' Bea asked.

‘I think that is a possibility that should be considered,' Lyon said. ‘Spook is certainly delusional. Perhaps he perceived the women as Viet Cong agents who had to be killed for his own survival.'

‘The medical examiner tells me that all three women were shot in the umbilicus,' Rocco said. ‘Lars says you could cover the shot pattern with a quarter. If Spook took to shooting people at close range, he might hit them somewhere in the body, but not with shot patterns covered by a coin, no matter what its denomination. Norby buys the case against the canon and has released Spook.'

‘Phone for you, Senator,' Sarge said laconically from the bar. He extended the phone as far as its cord would reach as Bea picked it up. ‘Says she's the governor,' Sarge snorted.

‘Yes, Margaret,' Bea said without hesitation.

The governor's voice was nearly a whisper. ‘I knew you would retaliate, Beatrice. I never dreamed you would sink to these depths.'

‘What are you talking about, Governor?'

‘Your having Bill's body exhumed is despicable. You knew that would raise all sorts of questions in people's minds.'

‘I had nothing to do with any exhumation. That is a police matter.'

‘Everyone in the state knows how tight your husband and that Murphysville police chief are. It was easy enough for you to arrange. What are you up to, Senator? Trying to see if he still has an erection?' The connection clicked dead.

‘Oh, boy,' Bea said.

Canon Mead MacIntire kneeled on the rough concrete of the holding cell. He had been in that position for some hours now. The duty officer checked on him every fifteen minutes and always asked, ‘You OK, sir?'

‘Yes,' he always answered in a soft voice.

They would leave him alone then, and close the outer door when they left. He slid his knees along the rough concrete and felt the flesh abrade. Blood seeped through his trousers from the scrape wounds. It hurt. He delighted in the pain.

He had planned to terminate his life immediately as he did not deserve to live. They had removed his belt and shoe laces. The rough blanket on the metal bunk was hemmed with a closely stitched heavy thread that made it impossible to unravel a strip for a proper hanging.

There must be a way to reach purgatory. Perhaps God would reveal the way. He pressed his eyes shut and then it came to him. The way was led by prayer.

Canon MacIntire grasped the cell-door bars and pulled himself painfully erect. His violated knees were painful, but he was able to back to the bunk and sit with both hands clasped between his knees. He would wait patiently until the next personal check.

Patrolman Jamie Martin stood outside the cell and looked at the minister with concern. ‘Are you all right, sir?'

The canon looked at the young officer with bleary eyes. ‘Are you a parishioner of mine, my son?'

‘No, sir. Me and my family go to Saint Anne's.'

‘Then you know Father Magrusky?'

‘Yes, sir. I was an altar boy when I was a kid.'

‘Were you now?' Canon MacIntire unconsciously straightened his posture. He looked at the patrolman with renewed interest. ‘That is excellent.'

‘For three years,' Jamie added.

‘Then you know of the importance of the mass and the eucharist?'

‘Sure.'

‘You are aware that we of the Anglican Church are very close to the Romans in our service?'

‘I've heard that you guys are half-assed Catholics.' Jamie reddened. ‘I didn't mean it the way it sounded.'

‘I understand. You are aware of how important it is for my everlasting soul that I, as a minister of God, serve a personal mass.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘That it is the only way to salvation.'

‘Got it.'

Mead's voice assumed a sing-song quality. ‘That my soul has deep needs.'

‘Yes.'

‘That God must be served.'

‘Yes.'

‘I must perform my ministry and I need my vestments in order to do this.'

‘You mean your costume? The stuff you wear at the altar?'

‘That is correct. Would you get them for me? The church is only two blocks from here. The front door is unlocked, and the vestments are in the vestry. That's the small room behind the altar.'

‘I can find it.'

‘Would you do this for me, my son?'

‘Yes, sir. What do you need?'

‘I must have the dark vestments for a requiem.'

‘Tell me what I should get, Father. I have a break coming up in five minutes and can be back in fifteen.'

‘Here is what I must have …'

It was twenty minutes before Jamie returned to the holding cell. He carried a bulging gym bag. ‘I think I have everything you requested, Father.'

‘Thank you, my son.'

Jamie unlocked the cell door and handed the canon the gym bag. ‘Anything else I can get you, sir?'

‘No, my son. Now, leave me alone so I can make peace with my God.'

After Jamie Martin left the holding cell, MacIntire unzipped the gym bag and ceremoniously removed the garments. He unfolded them with great care, taking pains to kiss each item as he laid it neatly in a row on the bunk. When the vestments were in proper order, he began slowly to put them on.

The silk and linen vestments were not the vivid and joyous colors of an Easter celebration, but were the muted black required of a requiem. He did not have a cassock in the gym bag, but he donned the vestments in proper order as if he did wear one. First was the alb, a full-length vestment with long sleeves. The chasuble, a sleeveless outer vestment, was next. He reverently kissed the black silken stole, or maniple, before he placed it around his neck. The girdle, a rope of hemp with tassels used to confine the alb, was placed temporarily aside.

He fell to his knees before the bunk and clasped the rope-like girdle in his fingers. He prayed with the garment as if it were a holy relic.

When his prayer was complete, Canon Mead MacIntire looped one end of the girdle around his neck in a slip knot. Then he tied the other end to the top bar of the cell door and hanged himself.

Twelve

Skee Rumford admired Lori Wappinger's body as she led the way into the state forest. She carried a small wicker picnic basket stuffed with egg salad and chicken sandwiches. He toted the blanket and a cold six pack of Sam Adams beer.

Lori had good moves when she walked. She had a firm body that really turned him on. She didn't have the sophisticated expertise of the mature Mildred Rashish, but what young woman could match the Shark's extensive sexual background? He had discovered that Lori was a quick learner who took to his tutoring with an enthusiastic zest.

Skee had realized when he was fifteen years old that he was blessed with remarkable attributes that satisfied certain women. He wasn't quite sure where these talents originated—certainly not from his old man, who was a world-class klutz scared to death of Skee's mom. From time to time he had attempted to understand this ability, but he had quickly become confused. He had given up any attempt to understand, and just enjoyed the fact that many women seemed to admire his body and ability to bring them satisfaction. Hey, don't knock it, he thought without further insight.

‘Not much further?' he called to Lori.

She turned to smile without stopping. ‘Soon now, lover boy.'

A few minutes more and maybe a double header
, his body sang. He walked behind her and let his hand run across her round rump.

She stopped and dropped the picnic basket. ‘Hey, man,' she said. ‘Come here.' She opened her arms. He carefully put the beer down before stepping into her arms. He felt her shiver as they clung together. ‘Hey, I'm really turned on. Spread the blanket.'

‘I know a better spot.' He retrieved the beer and blanket. ‘It's a clearing just ahead. Come on!' He jogged between two granite boulders that led into a small clearing. He heard her lilting laugh behind him as he quickly spread the blanket and skimmed off his tee shirt.

‘This is about the same as the other place,' she said as he nuzzled her neck. ‘What's so special?'

‘This will really turn you on.' He whispered into her ear. ‘This is the exact spot where Boots got whacked.'

‘What?'

‘That's right. This little clearing is where they found her body. This is where some guy offed her.'

‘Here?' Her arms dropped to her side as she stepped away from him. ‘She died right here?'

‘This very spot.'

‘You brought me here to do it? You want to make love where your last girlfriend died?'

‘That's a turn on, huh?'

‘That's sick.'

His smile faded. ‘What the hell are you talking about?'

‘Just what I said. That is really sick.'

‘All right, forget it. We'll go back to the first place.'

‘How can you forget something that's already been said? I'm going back to the car, el creepo.'

‘Hey! You got me worked up.'

‘You should have thought of that before you decided to play Friday the Thirteenth.' She started for the road.

‘Come back here.'

‘Go screw yourself.' Lori started to run.

‘Hey, bitch!' Skee caught up to her and grabbed her arm. He spun her around. ‘You're going to give me some.'

Lori looked at him as if for the first time. ‘Wow, have I been wrong.'

He attempted to kiss her as she turned her head away. He put his hand under her chin and forced her to face him. She clenched her teeth as he mashed his lips against hers. ‘Bitch!' he spat again.

‘Weirdo,' she replied as she attempted to spin away from his grip.

‘We came out here to screw and that's what we're going to do.'

‘Over my dead body.'

‘That's what Boots probably said.' Skee Rumford was not about to squander his gift to women. He wasn't going to let some naive little twerp turn him down after all the women he'd serviced in his short life. ‘I'm getting some.'

‘You'll have to rape me and I'll fight.'

‘You do and I'll knock the shit out of you.' He put his hands into the waistband of her shorts and ripped them off.

Lyon Wentworth hated grass. Although only two of their acres were lawn, they seemed to possess extremely zesty grass that grew at a phenomenal rate. Last summer he left it unmowed for the month of July and that had forced him to use a hand blade to trim it low enough to mow. This year he had an innovative answer.