Death Goes on Retreat (13 page)

“About ready to call it a day?” Dave Kemp was waiting for Little when he got off the phone.

The two men walked together into the parking lot. The sun, moving below the redwoods, sent long, cooling shadows across the shimmering blacktop. The forensic team was packing up. A van from the animal shelter had arrived to pick up the two dogs. Only one green-and-white sheriff’s car remained in the lot, Loody’s.

Eric Loody loomed like a lone sentinel beside the bright yellow police barrier, a second deterrent to anyone tempted to enter.

“Anything happening?” Little asked him.

“It’s been pretty quiet for the last couple of hours.” The top of Loody’s large nearly hairless head was a strawberry red. “I convinced all those padres that came here to go home.” His small eyes narrowed even farther. “There must be some souls to save or whatever it is they do, somewhere else. A carload of nuns tried to get in. One little mouthy one told me it was their right.”

He sniffled. “I told her she had the right to remain silent, the right—”

“So all went peacefully?” Little interrupted. It was all he could do not to shout his disgust at Loody’s bullying. A carload of nuns, for chrissake!

Beside him, Kemp shifted. His partner must be reacting the same way.

“Everything was peaceful,” Loody said, unaware of the effect he was having on them.

“What time is your replacement coming?” Little asked.

“Should be any minute.”

“See you tomorrow then.” Waving to the forensic
team, Little and Kemp crossed to their unmarked champagne Ford. At least, the owner’s manual in the glove compartment said the color was champagne. Little thought of it more as “tugboat gray.”

“How about a cold one before we go home?” Kemp turned the key and flipped on the air conditioner. Little loosened his tie, waiting for the hot blast of air to cool.

The two detectives found a quiet booth at 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, a trendy place on a side street in downtown Santa Cruz. True to its name, it did have ninety-nine different kinds of beer, all on display along the wall.

When they arrived, it was nearly empty. Too early, really, for the serious happy hour crowd; too late for even the most leisurely businessmen’s lunch.

A couple of women laden with Gottschalk’s department store bags were sitting at the bar sipping something foamy and red. The younger of the two glanced over her shoulder appraising Kemp and himself, Little thought, almost as if they were designer dresses on a sale rack.

Her eyes flicked for a moment on Little, then honed in on Kemp. It’s almost as if Terry shows, he thought, searching the vacant room for a waitress. In the end, Kemp, obviously unaware of anything but his thirst, went to the bar. He carried back two cold Elephant malts, the beer of the day.

Both men took long swallows, then stopped to savor the taste in silence. “Milk of the gods,” Little said at last.

Kemp nodded and licked his upper lip. “Okay,” he said. “Where are we?”

Little’s eyes burned. He closed them for a minute. “So far, what we know for sure is that all the priests
were acquainted with the victim. The nuns had met him. We know that everyone we talked to had the opportunity to kill him because they were all there last night.

“That is, if Greg Johnson was killed at St. Colette’s. And from the looks of the scene, he was. The question is—how did the killer get Johnson back to St. Colette’s and up that hill without him making a racket? And apparently he didn’t because someone would have heard him holler. The place is so quiet and sound carries.” His brown eyes riveted on Kemp.

Obviously unable to shed any light on the question, Kemp took another swallow of his malt. “We don’t have a motive either,” he said, finally. “Although from the looks of the body, I’d guess it was what the media call a crime of passion.”

Little nodded. “Inspector Murphy, the call I got from San Francisco, says the victim’s mother thinks that it could be the girlfriend. I suppose she could get him to follow her up the hill.”

“Laura Purcell.” Kemp supplied the name.

“Right, or maybe the priest, Tom Harrington.”

“The smiley guy with the Gucci loafers?”

“The same. Murphy said something about the mother saying she’d do it herself.”

“The mother?” Kemp’s eyes opened wide in disbelief. “Why?”

“For religious reasons.”

Kemp finished the rest of his drink in one gulp and called over for another. “So, what’s your gut feeling?” he asked, wiping the foam from his mustache.

“Too soon,” Little said honestly. “We need to hear
from the forensic boys tomorrow. And we need to know where Greg Johnson was last night after he left Laura.”

“If he left her,” Kemp added.

Little waited until the waitress set down Kemp’s drink. “I know I’ve seen that Beverly somewhere, but I can’t place her. Check on her first thing in the morning, will you, Dave? Tomorrow, I’ll talk to Laura. See if this case becomes clearer.”

“What about your gut feeling?” Little asked out of courtesy. Kemp shrugged as Little knew he would. Gut feelings take time to acquire.

“Another beer?” Kemp asked.

“No.” Little patted his stomach. He wanted to get going. Terry should be home from work by now. Maybe they could get in a game of beach volleyball before dinner. Better get some exercise unless he wanted little old nuns beating him up hills.

“Her color is coming back,” Felicita whispered.

Mary Helen bristled. If there was anything she detested, it was being talked about as if she weren’t there. But she held her tongue. No doubt Felicita was concerned and trying to be kind.

“Do you think we should help her back to her room? Lying down for a while might help,” Felicita said.

Eileen did not answer. She knew better.

When Beverly asked, “Should I get her some more brandy?” Mary Helen knew it was time to speak up. More brandy and they’d be carrying her to bed.

“I wonder what she’d say if she could speak?” she
said ironically. Then added, “I’m really just fine.” She didn’t want to sound too unappreciative. “It was just such a shock finding those animals.” She stopped. The color in Beverly’s face drained and unexpected tears brimmed in her coffee-brown eyes.

“They were good dogs,” she whispered. Mary Helen reached out to squeeze her hand and, to her surprise, Beverly let it be squeezed.

“Why don’t you get some fresh air?” Felicita suggested, and Mary Helen didn’t argue. Reluctant to trust her legs too far, Mary Helen eased into one of the canvas director’s chairs on the deck outside St. Jude’s. Taking a long, relaxing breath, she gazed out at the vista. The sun, inching toward the mountain of evergreens, sent wide shadows from the wooden railing down the length of the porch. A breeze rustled the fern ever so slightly. Although the sun was several hours from setting, the night cool was already in the air.

Thank God, Mary Helen thought. Despite the fact that she herself was not a native San Franciscan, she had lived there long enough to have a native’s abhorrence of heat. As far as she was concerned, seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit was God’s temperature and as warm as any place or any person needed to be.

Satisfied that Mary Helen was comfortable, Felicita bustled away on some errand or other. Beverly, apparently embarrassed by her own lapse into gentleness, recovered enough to make several pointed remarks about “people who had nothing else to do.” Mary Helen did not doubt that they’d soon hear her saucepans banging, even from this distance.

Eileen pulled up a deck chair close to hers. “Where
are the priests?” Mary Helen whispered. They seemed to be alone, but one never knew.

“I imagine they’ve all taken to their rooms for a siesta. Heaven knows after the day we’ve had, we can all use a snooze. I thought I’d swallowed my heart when I heard your scream.”

Mary Helen hesitated. Wasn’t your heart already swallowed? she wanted to ask, but thought better of it. Eileen was obviously upset. Her brogue gave it away, that and the way she was pressing her stubby fingers together.

“By the way, what were you doing up there? Alone,” she added, as if it were an accusation.

“I was simply taking a walk.” Mary Helen hoped she sounded offended. “What else would I be doing?”

“Don’t give me that malarkey. What were you looking for?”

Mary Helen wanted to defend her innocence for a few more volleys, but she really felt much too weary. “If you must know, I was looking for the dogs.”

“Why ever?”

“Because they were so noisy when we first arrived. Then this morning not a sound from them. It just didn’t make sense. Either someone had coaxed them away or . . .” Suddenly Mary Helen felt light-headed.

“Do you suppose someone silenced those poor creatures so that he could get onto the property undetected?” Eileen asked hopefully.

Mary Helen knew where her friend was heading.

“A perfect stranger.” Eileen shivered. “Perhaps one of those serial killers that Father Moreno mentioned?”

“That doesn’t explain what Greg Johnson himself was doing here.” Mary Helen hated to splash cold water on
Eileen’s theory. Frankly, it was the explanation she was hoping for herself: Somehow, a crazed killer slipping onto the property, silencing the dogs, then attacking the first victim he stumbled across seemed more palatable than the murderer being someone you knew. It did not, however, explain Greg Johnson’s presence at St. Colette’s.

“We’ll have to ask Laura what happened after they left here,” Mary Helen said.

“You can’t suspect Laura, can you?” Eileen’s gray eyes welled up with sympathy. “She was so upset when she found out that Greg was dead. No one could have put on that haunted look or those agonizing screams. Not even a drama student,” she added quickly.

The Berkeley ferry bell gonged out the advent of the day’s final meal. The two old nuns slowly rose to join the rest of the group in St. Jude’s.

The dining room and the kitchen area were oddly silent. “Beverly’s gone home early,” Felicita announced when they all assembled. You could hear her relief. “She set out a cold buffet and we can pick up.”

The nuns, pros at pick-up suppers, led the way. The line moved quickly, since, as both nuns knew, the speed of the line is always in direct proportion to the amount of food being taken.

With little enthusiasm and half-filled plates, the group settled once again at the Formica-topped table. The long, hot day had taken its toll on them all.

Mike Denski, staring straight ahead, seemed to have aged ten years since last night. A tight-lipped line replaced Tom Harrington’s usual crooked grin, while across from him, Andy Carr looked as if someone had
let out all his air. Even Ed Moreno was silent and morose. Perhaps the worst of all was Monsignor McHugh. Tonight the venerable old man looked every bit his age.

“Would anyone care for a glass of wine?” Felicita offered cautiously, as though the idea might be offensive in the light of the day’s events.

“A meal without wine is like a day without sunshine.” Tom Harrington pushed his wineglass toward her.

“Who said that?” Ed asked. “Gallo Brothers?”

“I could skip any more sun,” Mike Denski said softly.

“Use a little wine for thy stomach’s sake.” Loosely quoting St. Paul, the monsignor put a pious spin on the question and settled the matter once and for all.

Although the wine didn’t raise anyone’s spirits appreciably, or, Mary Helen suspected, improve anyone’s digestion either, it did bring on a mellow mood. She watched as, one by one, they relaxed.

“I guess this has been about the longest day of my life,” Andy Carr said finally.

No one spoke, but there were nods of agreement.

“What I can’t understand is why the police are questioning us.” Denski’s face was flushed. Nervously, he curled the piece of hair at the end of a long sideburn.

“Why wouldn’t they? We were here, after all,” Ed Moreno began logically. “Each one of us, priests, I mean, knew him. That’s quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

“Not really.” Andy Carr’s voice was flat. “This is a small archdiocese and we have very few vocations. The chances are pretty good that we’d all know any young guy who was in the seminary.”

“True enough.” Tom Harrington twirled the stem of his wineglass. Felicita leaned forward and they all watched as she refilled it.

“What kind of a fellow was Greg Johnson?” Mary Helen wondered aloud. “Why would anyone want to murder him?”

Her question hung frozen on the air. What a moment before had been a pleasant enough conversation became dead silence.

“What do you mean?” Con McHugh asked icily.

“I’m just curious,” Mary Helen said. “I only saw the boy once. At first meeting, despite his rather dubious seminary career, he seemed like a very nice young man; not the kind of person someone would kill.”

“I see.” McHugh sounded relieved. “I’ve known Greg almost all his life. And he was a nice boy, actually a good boy, always thoughtful and considerate of his mother. He grew up to be a fine, upstanding young man.”

“No wonder he had to sow a few wild oats after he entered the seminary,” Tom interjected, almost as if he were talking to himself.

“What does that mean?” The monsignor stiffened.