Black Princess Mystery (7 page)

Watkins
entered and smiled at Tasheka, then turned to the detective. “We have a
positive identification of the victim, Detective Henry.”

“Good,”
said Thorston.

“The dead
man is Timothy Gerald Murphy. He was the priest in Lakeside.”

“No!”
Tasheka exclaimed, jumping up. “That is not possible!”

“It’s
confirmed,” Watkins explained.

Tasheka
sat down and froze as still as a mannequin. She literally looked to be among
the un-living at that moment. There was something in her eyes, something
tragic, and something that could not be spoken in words. She looked like a
little girl lost in the big city. But it was not fear that prevailed in her
countenance, it was more a sense of profound dread. Though she would tell no
one, there was a great guilt weighing on her, a guilt that, if revealed, would
destroy her in the estimation of all men. No, they must not learn anything.
Especially McNab. Then, like a flash, she remembered the little grave marker in
Big Mike’s store display. It had read—
TG
.
Tasheka Green? Or Timothy Gerald?

Watkins
made a strange face. “There’s something I have to tell you, Detective Henry.”
He glanced at Tasheka and then looked back to Thorston. “Can I see you in
private for a moment?”

Chapter
Four

“This is
impossible!” Tasheka suddenly declared, seeming to snap out of a trance. She
glared angrily at Watkins. “It could not have been Father Tim.” She raised her
voice. “It could not have been!”

Watkins
held up his hands as if surrendering. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Tasheka
looked around the room with vacant eyes. Her mind was frozen in neutral, trying
somehow to make sense out of the unimaginable. Father Tim dead? No, it was
physically impossible for him to be the body she had seen. Completely,
unequivocally impossible.

“McNab
wouldn’t make a mistake like that,” Thorston said with the comforting demeanor
of a parent. “If he says it is Father Tim Murphy, it is Father Tim Murphy.”

“I saw
him,” Tasheka insisted, fidgeting in her chair. “I’m not losing my mind. I’m
not! I saw him at the church. He picked up the newspaper. His car was there,
but it was gone when I returned. I’m not making this up.”

The two
men stared at her.

“I saw him
as I was walking to the golf course,” Tasheka reiterated, almost begging them
to believe her. “There is no physical way that Father Tim Murphy could be at
the church and then dead and buried under virgin snow a few minutes later. How
could that happen? Explain it.”

“Maybe you
didn’t see the priest at the church,” Thorston said, as if merely throwing out
an idea. “Maybe it was someone else.”

“Oh, no,”
Tasheka said emotionally. “I saw him very clearly for several minutes. I saw
Father Tim Murphy. I know I didn’t imagine it. I know I saw him.”

“Can I get
you a glass of water, Ms. Green?” Thorston asked, bending down with a look of
compassion.

Something
suddenly occurred to her. “Jake Thompson drove by and saw Father Tim,” she
said, remembering the lethal stare he had cast at the priest. “I’m sure of it.”

“We’ll
investigate,” Thorston assured her.

“A dead
priest,” Watkins mumbled. “The papers are going to love this.”

Tasheka
shook her head. “The dead man is not Father Tim Murphy!” There was a frantic
tone in her voice and it sounded as if she might explode in anger. “I repeat—the
dead man is not Father Tim Murphy!”

“Calm
down,” Thorston said, standing up straight and lightly touching her shoulder.
“There’s obviously an explanation.”

Watkins
looked meaningfully at the young detective and gestured with his head.

“Could you
wait for me in the car?” Thorston asked Tasheka with a supplicating smile.
“I’ll drive you home.”

In a daze,
Tasheka walked out of the office. A few moments later, she realized she had
forgotten her purse and turned around to retrieve it. As she approached the
door, she stopped behind a row of cabinets and heard the two men speaking. Like
a spy, she stood unseen and intently listened to every word. Directly across
from her was McNab’s neatly arranged office, his name boldly mounted on the
door. Through the window she could see numerous plaques for various
achievements and trophies topped by figures holding darts, bowling balls, and
pool cues. On his desk was a framed enlargement of McNab surrounded by his
fellow workers, the word
POPS
written
on the bottom. Everyone was smiling and laughing as they leaned over a huge
birthday cake.

“The back
of his head was smashed in,” said Watkins in a low voice that Tasheka could
clearly hear. “He’s also pretty sure about the weapon, but he’s going to refer
to it simply as a heavy object.”

“What does
he think it was?”

“A golf
club.”

“A golf
club?” Thorston asked with surprise.

“He has it
pegged as a nine-iron, if you can believe that.”

“A nine-iron?”
Thorston returned. “It must have left a pretty good divot for him to be that
exact.”

“I was
talking to Bill myself and he said you could clearly discern the angle of the
blade by the way it penetrated the skull. One blow in particular left an
unmistakable impression. He figured that was the last one. Brains were
splattered all over the place. He was hit three times.”

Thorston
nodded. “This is obviously the work of a man.”

“The work
of a man, or the work of a woman who wanted it to seem like a man,” Watkins
said. “McNab has the time of death figured out, too.”

“How?”

“Apparently
the priest walked to the golf club every night. They said you could set your
watch by him. He’d reach the parking lot at nine, walk to the tree they call
Dead Man’s Oak at nine-fifteen, stand there for five minutes, and then head
home. McNab figures he got there at the normal time, but someone was hiding
behind the tree. The priest’s watch had also broken in the fall and had stopped
precisely at nine-fifteen.”

“Impressive,”
Thorston said, nodding. “The priest was murdered at nine-fifteen with a nine-iron
to the back of the skull, and he was struck three times. Not bad for a few
minutes work, I’d say.”

“You’ve
got to give him his due,” Watkins agreed. “Spider’s sharp.”

Tasheka
stared at McNab’s office and looked at his shiny name plate, polished to
perfection. She knew that simply because she found and reported the body, McNab
suspected her. Police always suspected the person who reports a dead body, just
as they always suspect a husband or wife when the spouse is killed. She was now
a fly in the spider’s web. But what could she have done? Pretend she didn’t see
it? No, she had to report it. The only problem was that by fulfilling her civic
duty she now became the hunted. It was not a pleasant feeling.

“There’s
one other really important thing,” Watkins said.

Just at
that moment a secretary rounded the corner and started to approach. Tasheka
instantly turned and walked out of the building. By the time she reached the
parking lot, she had composed herself. Though she was still sure the victim was
not Father Tim, she immediately used her mobile phone in the parking lot and
called the priest’s number. Again there was no answer. She called directory
assistance and found the number for Jake Thompson. She nervously, as if her
life depended on it, pressed the numbers. Jake’s wife answered.

“Hi,
Linda, this is Tasheka Green.”

“Hi,
Tasheka,” she answered sleepily, obviously surprised to be receiving the call.
“What can I do for you?”

“Is Jake
home?”

“No, he
went to town.”

“He hasn’t
called you?”

“Well, to
tell you the truth, I had a headache this morning and when Jake left, I locked
the door, took the phone off the hook, and went back to bed. I just got up ten
minutes ago. What’s up?”

“So you
haven’t heard the news?”

“What
news?”

“Someone
died on the golf course.”

“What!”
she exclaimed, suddenly sounding wide awake. “The Lakeside Golf Course? Died?”

“I think
it may have been a murder.”

“You’re
not serious, are you?” Linda whispered. “Murder?”

“It looks
that way right now.”

“This is
unbelievable,” Linda said with great emotion, “but why are you calling Jake?”

“The
police think the victim might be Father Tim.”

“What!”
Linda screamed in shock. “Father Tim? You can’t be serious!”

“It can’t
be Father Tim because this morning I saw him at the church. It was him, I’m
sure of it. But the police don’t believe me. The reason I’m calling is that
Jake drove by and saw him, too. I need him to tell the police before this crazy
rumor spreads. There’s no way Father Tim is dead. No way.”

“This is
so, so shocking,” Linda stammered numbly. “What do you want me to do?”

“The
moment Jake comes home, have him call the police station. The two detectives
working on the case are Detective Bill McNab and Detective Thorston Henry. If
they’re not available, have him leave a message and talk to someone else. But
do it as soon as possible. I’m sure they think I’m crazy, but I know I saw
Father Tim alive and well.”

“I’ll pass
the message on.”

“Thanks,
Linda.”

“Sure
thing,” Linda mumbled distractedly and then hung up.

“Ready?”
Thorston asked as he came out of the police station. He held up her purse with
a friendly smile. “You forgot this.”

“Thank
you,” she said, accepting it with gratitude.

“I got a
lot of compliments on it as I walked through the station,” Thorston noted with
a humorous sparkle in his eyes. “Herman the maintenance man said it goes well
with my outfit.”

Tasheka
smiled and allowed herself a small laugh.

“Do you
know of anyone who may have had a grudge against Father Murphy?” he asked as
they walked to the car.

“Tim is
not dead,” she snapped irritably.

“All
right.” He held up a hand as if to shield himself from a lethal blow. “Let’s
say Detective McNab is wrong and the body is not Tim Murphy. Accepting that as
established fact, can you tell me if anyone has a grudge against the priest?”

She stared
ahead in tight-lipped silence.

“Please,
Tasheka,” Thorston encouraged, “I’ll find all this out anyway, it’s just that
you have an air of integrity and I know you’ll tell me the truth.” He paused.
“Does anyone have a grudge against Father Murphy?”

“Not that
I know of,” she surrendered, glancing at him for a split second. Her angry
expression softened. “Everyone likes him. He’s friendly and charming, he worked
with the junior golfers at the club last summer, and he was very nice to me and
my mother when Dad got sick. Everyone has personality conflicts and there may
be someone who disliked him, I don’t know, but would someone have hated him
enough to kill him? No, I can’t see it. But this is all a moot point because by
the time we get back to Lakeside, I’m sure he’ll be home.”

“Okay,”
Thorston said, backing off.

They
remained mute all the way back to Lakeside, but Tasheka insisted Thorston drive
past the church. There was no sign of life and Father Murphy’s car was not
there.

“See,” she
said, adamantly pointing. “Father Tim’s car was there this morning, but now it’s
still gone.” She turned to him with a challenging look. “If it isn’t here what
does that mean? I’ll tell you what it means. The car is with him.”

“And where
is he?” Thorston asked.

“I don’t
know,” Tasheka said. “You’re the detective. You find him.”

“According
to us, we already have. You’re the one who won’t accept that fact.”

“It’s not
a fact,” she snapped, turning away with a pouting look.

“Can I ask
you something?”

“What?”
she answered impatiently.

“I know
this is really bad timing,” he said with a nervous sigh, “and you’re probably
going to think I’m being totally inappropriate, but I wouldn’t forgive myself
if I didn’t ask.” He took a deep breath. “Could I see you sometime in an
informal way?”

Tasheka instantly
calmed down. “What do you mean?”

“A cup of
coffee…or something,” he said, blushing.

“A date?”

“Something,”
he told her.

 
“Do you think you could handle me?”

“Why? Are
you hard to handle?”

“You’d
have to ask a man who’s dated me.”

“Rather
than conduct a search,” Thorston said, “how about I find out for myself. Are
you open to the idea?”

“I’m open
to it,” she said, looking deeply into his eyes.

“Good.”