Bad to the Last Drop (15 page)

"Sounds great," Pat said. "We'll sing." Feeling more in the spirit of the season than she had in a long time, Pat tossed her phone into her purse. Then she turned off the engine, pulled her cap down over her ears, and stepped out of the car.

Funny,
she thought,
the Christmas spirit seems to sneak up on me every year. For whatever reason, there is magic in the air.

Her new winter boots plowed through the slushy piles of snow as she reached into her pocket for a few coins as she approached the man by the red kettle. "This is going to be a wonderful Christmas," she said aloud to no one in particular.

It was an unusual occurrence to have to wait for a table at the Deepwater. Ashland was a town where one didn't need to make restaurant reservations, even on a weekend.

"I'm surprised by this line," said Peter Thomas to the man next in line.

Bill Montgomery smiled at him. "It's Friday night, and it's winter. I guess everyone has the same idea of getting out. Cabin fever is a real disease here, you know."

"Yeah, right. Next they'll call it CF disease and have a prescription drug for it."

"Oh, they already have a drug designed just for it," Bill answered seriously.

"Really? I was just kidding."

"Oh, yes," Bill retorted. "It's called margaritas. Of course, you have to take the prescription regularly, throughout the season."

Peter smiled, hoping he looked amused by Bill's words. Then asked, "Have we met before? I know it sounds trite but—"

"I'm one of the regulars at the Black Cat," Bill explained. "Even if you don't know me, I know who you are. You're investigating Joe Abramov's death, aren't you?"

Peter nodded, "Yes, I am assisting on it," he admitted. "So that's where I must have seen you, at the coffeehouse. Still—"

"You're next," Bill broke in. "Enjoy your dinner."

Turning, Peter saw the waitress waiting for him. "Thanks. And good meeting you." Deep in his own thoughts as he followed the waitress to his table, Peter didn't notice that Bill continued to watch him.

Back in their small room at the Harbor View Motel, the two agents glared at each other across a table.

"You do realize what you did, don't you?" Peter asked angrily.

"Of course I do. I warned the old biddies off," replied Andy.

"Warned them off? You young fool. You waved a red cape in front of a couple of bulls. And don't ever forget it. Those two, however they look, are not stupid. And they could be dangerous."

"Oh, pl ease, what do you mean by that?" Andy snorted derisively. "They can't possibly figure out what is going on. Hell, even
we
can't figure out Abramov's murder. And what do you mean 'dangerous'? I have never seen two less dangerous people. My mother is more dangerous than they are. What are you afraid they'll do? Start breaking laws by jay-walking and then run amok?"

Sighing heavily, Peter measured his response. "Yes, they are potentially dangerous—they are old enough, smart enough, and bored enough with their lives to find the danger of a murder investigation exciting. They also know everyone in this town. People talk to them. And you, in front of all the townies at the Black Cat, challenged them to solve Abramov's murder—and yes, in case you didn't notice, you confirmed for them that it was murder."

Looking slightly embarrassed, Andy muttered, "Well, I just can't stand here doing nothing anymore." He stood up and began pacing back and forth. "I need to
do
something. There doesn't seem to be any motive for the murder. Maybe it was just a random killing. It happens."

"Sure and his apartment building burning down was random, too, right?" Peter taunted. "All right, since you're restless, go check with the brother once more, and then find out if Joe left anything with any friends. While you're doing that, I'll get the court order to go into his safe deposit box—that may be our only hope. And try not to challenge anyone else to solve this while you're out, okay?"

Andy left, slamming the door and muttering, "What am I supposed to do? Look in the Yellow Pages under army, covert?"

Pat decided to take a nice long walk—the afternoon was sunny and still, so she made her way to Gabriele's German Cookies & Chocolates. By the time she'd walked the five blocks to the store, however, she was shivering, in spite of wearing three layers of clothing. She was already dreading the walk home as she entered the shop, but the smell of fresh-baked cookies and warm chocolate made her feel the walk would almost be worth it.

Although a bell tinkled over the door as she came in, Pat still called out "Hello!" to get the attention of the two German women who worked in the shop. Pat had just helped herself to a sample from the counter as Gabriele came out of the back kitchen.

"Hello. May I help you?" she said, wiping a bit of flour from her cheek.

"Oh, yes," Pat said. "I'd like to buy several dozen cookies, but I walked here, and I was wondering if I could leave my purchases and come by later today in my car."

"Of course. I'll just put them in a box over there," Gabriele said, pointing to a corner behind the counter. "And if I'm not here when you come back, you'll know where to find them."

"Thanks," Pat replied, "and thanks for the sample. These truffles are heavenly." She took another bite and continued to nibble as she thought about which cookies to buy, looking. Then she addressed Gabriele casually. "I was just wondering ... do you remember if Joe Abramov ever came in here?"

"Joe? Oh, yes, he used to tease my sister, Heike. What a character. He would pinch her cheek and say, 'Heike, if you were only Russian, I wouldn't have to send home for a wife.'" Shaking her head, she smiled. "A little crazy, you know, but a good kind. It was like the war had taken a bite out of him—like a bite from a cookie. There just was something missing. But he was kind to us. He used to pick up the broom and sweep our front steps and sidewalk. Of course, I did always give him a truffle or two. It's sad, isn't it? And now I miss a person who I never thought about much when he was alive."

The wind had come up while Pat was in the shop, and she shivered now as she made her way down Main Street and turned on Chapple Avenue. It still amazed her how many people Joe had known and touched in this small town.
Then again,
she thought suspiciously,
Joe probably knew enough about the people that someone here might have done away with him.
Chiding herself for being ridiculous, she picked up the pace, trying to keep her fingers and toes from going numb. The old Catholic church was just ahead, its warm interior beckoning her. If she could just slip inside, Pat decided, she could warm up a bit before walking the rest of the way home. Pulling hard on the huge door, she opened it enough to get inside and then closed it quickly against the cold.

Pat slipped into a back pew, taking a moment to appreciate the lovely old place—it had the feel of sacred that many of the new churches didn't seem to have. The stained-glass windows let the afternoon light in, giving a glow to the space around her. She sighed deeply, relaxing in the quiet and warmth.
Will I ever decide to preach in a place like this again?
she wondered.

Although she wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, even her best friend, she missed the rush of Sunday mornings: the children, the laughter, the prayers, and the music. But she still felt itchy every time she started to think about going another round with a church.
Listen to me,
she thought, shaking her head,
I make it sound like a boxing match.

"Hello." Pat nearly jumped out of the pew at the sound of the voice that came quietly from behind her. She turned to see a tall, lanky, kindly appearing man approach.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you. I'm the pastor here; I've seen you with Deb Linberg in the Black Cat. You're Pat, aren't you? I'm Father Luke."

"Hello, Father. I'm afraid you've caught me," Pat replied politely. "I came in to warm up. You have a lovely church here."

Father Luke smiled his acknowledgment. "Would you like to take a tour and have a cup of coffee while you warm up?" he asked hospitably.

"Thank you, I'd like that very much." Pat followed him down the stairs to the kitchen, where he poured her a steaming cup of coffee. Pat wrapped her hands around the cup, warming her fingers. As they walked companionably, the pastor giving her a quick tour of the church building, Pat said, "Father, I'll bet you know just about everyone in town."

"Yes, indeed," Father Luke said, nodding. I've been here twelve years now, and there aren't many I can't say hi to as I pass them on the street."

"You must have known Joe Abramov, then?" Pat asked boldly. "I met him at the Black Cat. It was such a shame, wasn't it, that he died? He knew a lot of people in town too."

Father Luke glanced over at her. "Yes, of course. He wasn't a member here. I don't think Joe belonged to any church, but he would stop in from time to time. He was a troubled man. Yes, indeed."

"Did he ... talk to you?" Pat asked. "About his troubles, I mean?" When he didn't respond, she went on quickly. "I'm a pastor, too, you know. So I know that sometimes people talk to us when they can't talk to their own families. If it isn't breaking the confessional, I just wondered ..."

Father Luke motioned to a pew. "Here, sit down. First of all, you should know that I would never tell anyone anything from the confessional," he said, looking down his nose at her. Pat tried not to squirm like a third grader in the principal's office. "But I have heard that you and your friend are trying to help the Abramov sisters with this. As Joe is dead, I can give you this: he did come to me many times. He spoke of his past and some of the terrible things he had to do in Vietnam and even afterward. I pray that it gave him comfort to talk it out." He hesitated, as if unsure that he should go on, but then nodded his head, almost imperceptibly. "But when he heard that the parish was having financial problems, so much so that they couldn't pay my whole salary, Joe started putting money in an envelope—a hundred dollars or so each time he came to visit, and he wasn't even a member. He would slip it quietly under the door to my office. One day, the janitor spotted him doing it. But when I asked him about it, he just shrugged. He'd say, 'You helped me a lot, Father, and it's money I won. What better way is there for me to use it?' The truth is, the church is small and getting smaller, and the people are getting older, and we needed the money." Adjusting his plastic collar as if it suddenly had become a little too tight, he got up.

"May I ask how much he gave your church, Father?" Pat inquired quietly as she put on her gloves.

Father Luke shrugged. "How much? Probably about ten thousand dollars. Please remember that I've told you so that Joe's sisters will know where some of his money went. I have told you in confidence."

Turning, he left the room, and Pat opened the door to the winter cold. She could hardly wait to get home to call Deb. As she walked, her thoughts turned to Christmas.
My first Christmas not to be rushing from service to service. Trying to get in visits to all the homebound. Reassuring the choir director. My first year when I can have Christmas with my family, plan a real meal, not pick one up pre-made from Byerly's. What a perfect gift, and it doesn't even need wrapping.