Death Goes on Retreat (24 page)

Unexpected tears flooded her eyes and she turned her head.

“May I warm your bottom?” Carr asked.

His question shocked her until she realized he was pointing to her coffee mug.

“Dumb joke.” He lumbered up from his chair. “It always works at AA meetings.”

And here, too, Mary Helen thought, no longer feeling like weeping. Instead she felt like grabbing the conversation by the horns and wrestling it right down to her satisfaction.

“How did you say you knew Greg Johnson?” she asked when Father Carr had refilled their two cups.

It was Carr’s turn to look surprised, but he recovered quickly. The man, obviously used to handling all types of crowds, simply rolled right into the answer.

“The reason I made the young lad’s acquaintance”— Carr blew on his coffee—“is because while he was still in the seminary he managed to get himself arrested in a
Gay Rights demonstration. Would have ended up in the pokey, too, if I hadn’t pulled in a couple of favors.”

“You got him off, then?”

Carr nodded grimly. “With just a few hours of community service.”

“Why didn’t you let him go to jail? That was his purpose, wasn’t it?”

Carr stared at her in unconcealed admiration. “My point exactly, Sister. But you have no idea what Absolute Norm, the archbishop, is like when there’s the hint of a scandal.”

Mary Helen did not have to wait long to be told.

“He’s like a crazy man, Sister. That kid hadn’t been cooling his heels five minutes before ‘himself’ is on the horn insisting that I talk to somebody, anybody, and get the little smart-ass out before he”—Carr dropped his voice in a perfect imitation of the prelate—“ ‘does irreparable harm to the image of the Church.’ As if the Church hasn’t weathered its share of scandals over the years.”

“And did you? Get him out, that is?”

“Yeah, I did. You can’t be chaplain for the Police Department, the Fire Department, AAs, Knights of Malta, and the Port of San Francisco for as long as I’ve been without having a few connections.”

He pulled on the corner of his scruffy beard. “But I’m telling you, Sister, I sure didn’t want to. I think if those young guys want to champion a cause, we owe it to them to let them do it and take the consequences of what they choose.”

From the vehemence in his usually jovial voice, Mary
Helen knew that Andy Carr deeply felt what he was saying. “Why didn’t you?” she asked.

His hazel eyes softened. “I’ve been a priest for so long,” he said, almost as if he was just realizing the reason, “that when your bishop, himself, asks you to do something, if you can, you do it. You know what I mean, Sister? I guess it’s an old-fashioned kind of obedience.”

Mary Helen smiled sympathetically. She did know what he meant. They were both members of a vanishing breed.

“Besides,” he added with a chuckle, “when the archbishop called me he sounded so upset, I was afraid that if I didn’t do something, he’d go into cardiac arrest. And the Norm you know,” he said sheepishly, “to put it quite brutally, Sister, is better than the Norm you don’t!”

Mary Helen was tempted to cross Carr off her list right then, but she wanted to make absolutely certain. “You sound angry that Greg Johnson put you in an awkward position,” she said flatly.

“And you sound like a Perry Mason rerun.” For the first time, Andy Carr’s chuckle had a hollow ring.

Mary Helen felt her face flush. “I guess I do,” she admitted. “I’m just inquisitive.”

“No, Sister, not just inquisitive.” His eyes bored into hers. “If I remember correctly, you have an extraordinary talent not only for discovering dead bodies, but for stumbling on perps who did them in.”

Mary Helen wondered how to respond and was relieved when there was no need.

“But I tell you, Sister, in my case you are barking up the wrong cleric. You’re absolutely right that I was mad,
hopping mad, at that kid for putting me in a very awkward position. But he’s not the first person, nor will he be the last, unfortunately, who’s done that.”

Mary Helen thought with abhorrence of all the stories that had surfaced recently in the
Chronicle
about priests. One had to work hard to discover God’s presence in the midst of all the scandal. Her dismay must have shown in her face.

“Fortunately, Sister, the guys I’ve pulled out of the fire are small potatoes compared to the ones you’re thinking about. Thank God!” He cleared his throat. “It’s hard to reconcile, isn’t it? Until you remember that there are no perfect people. Priest or no, we’re all sinful human beings. What is it that good old St. Paul says? That God chose what is foolish and what is weak in this world to confound the strong?

“And, while we’re on the subject, I don’t kill my fellow priests, or anybody else for that matter, because they are weak or sinful or because they get themselves into situations which I neither understand nor condone.

“Actually, I try my best to deal with each one of them with compassion. I hope with the same compassion that Christ showed in dealing with the publicans and the sinners of his day. I hope with the same compassion that Christ will one day show to me.”

Mary Helen caught the flash of innate benevolence in his intelligent eyes and knew that no one could doubt his innocence.

“Most of the guys are penitent and grateful,” he continued. “No, I take it back. All of them are penitent and grateful. Some of them are more vocal about it than others. But this Johnson kid? This guy was a whole different
kettle of fish. He wouldn’t even admit that what he did might possibly have been imprudent. If anything, he acted as if my pulling strings somehow tainted his integrity, which in a way, I guess, it did. If it was up to me, I’d have let him have a taste of jail. It would put some teeth into his commitment, if you know what I mean.”

Carr gave a grudging chuckle. “He told the archbishop in front of me that it was his right to go to jail ‘for justice’s sake.’ Which is easy to say when there’s no chance of your staying there. I thought Norm was going to come unglued.” Carr shook his head.

“No, Sister, I wouldn’t kill anyone for his imprudence or even for his sinfulness. If I had killed that kid, which by the way I didn’t, it would have had nothing to do with the causes he supported or even for the sins he committed. If you’ll excuse my language, Sister, it would have been because the pompous little bastard was nothing more than a gosh darn grandstander! Half the people he met probably wanted to wring his neck.”

Father Carr gave an embarrassed little grin. “In answer to your original question, however, I did not kill Greg Johnson and I can’t imagine who did! Anything else you want to know?”

His question hung on the silent air waiting for Mary Helen to answer. For once, she was relieved to see Beverly and her cart slam through the swinging door with the makings of a cold buffet lunch.

“How about a picnic?” Mary Helen asked, thrusting a hastily made bologna sandwich toward Sister Eileen.

Eileen wrinkled her short nose. Her face was flushed and she was still puffing from her walk around the property. “I never eat bologna without potato chips,” she said.

“Well then, hurry up!” Mary Helen whispered although no one was in sight. “I want to get away before the rest arrive.”

“Get away from what?”

“Meet me at the picnic table next to the sycamore grove.”

“Is it in the shade?” Eileen asked, but Mary Helen pretended not to hear. This partial-deafness business was really quite handy.

“Now, what or who is it that we want to avoid?” Eileen straddled the attached bench. “Back there you were beginning to sound suspiciously like a James Bond movie.”

She set down chips, napkins, paper plates, and two cans of diet cola that she’d somehow managed to juggle all the way from the dining room. “I’m a regular Houdini,” she said, surveying her cache.

“I want to avoid them all.” Mary Helen watched Eileen pile chips on her bologna, add the top slice of bread, and then push. Although she had witnessed the ritual hundreds of times before, it always fascinated her.

“Delicious,” Eileen said, taking a crunchy bite.

“That walk surely did relax you,” Mary Helen snapped. “It’s as if you’ve completely forgotten our list.”

“Of course I haven’t.” Eileen broke off a crust for the blue jay perched at the end of the table, eyeing them. “Tell me what more you’ve found out.”

With a noisy flutter of wings, the bird scooped up the bread as if he were afraid that Eileen would change her mind. They watched him dart away.

“We agree that Laura is innocent, right?”

“Right. If she really did kill Greg, she’d have made up a much better alibi. Besides, under all that drama I think she is genuinely heartbroken by his death,” Mary Helen said.

“And Felicita?”

“No apparent motive. Besides, she’s too high-strung.”

“The mother?”

“I’ll have to call Kate and ask what she found out.” Mary Helen checked her wristwatch. “I’ll do it this evening when she gets home from work.”

“What about young Father Mike? Did you have a chance to talk with him?”

Mary Helen was relieved. Obviously the list was on Eileen’s mind. In fact she had it down pat. “No love lost between Greg and him, but he’s not mean enough,” she said, wasting no time on explanation.

Surely soon someone would spot the two of them on the secluded bench and join them. If not for their company, then for the fresh air and shade.

“Andy Carr?” Eileen was doctoring the second half of her bologna sandwich.

“He hasn’t the heart for murder,” Mary Helen said. “And no real motive.”

“Who’s left, then?” Eileen’s gray eyes were worried.
“The monsignor, Ed Moreno, and Tom Harrington. I can’t imagine any of them killing that young man.”

“I can’t either.” Mary Helen hated to admit it, but absolutely nothing was becoming clearer.

“Could it be someone we’ve yet to meet?” Eileen offered hopefully. “An acquaintance? Someone from school or work? Someone from his protesting past?”

“Laura said Greg never gave out their phone number, remember?” Mary Helen felt like the proverbial wet blanket.

“How long do you think the Sheriff’s Department can keep us sequestered at St. Colette’s? Three or four more days?”

The prospect of more days at the retreat center gave Mary Helen renewed impetus. “What about Beverly?” she said.

“Good choice,” Eileen agreed, “except that she wasn’t here when it happened.”

“Just because she went home that night, doesn’t mean she didn’t come back.”

Eileen frowned. “As far as we know, she hardly knew Greg Johnson. What would be her motive?”

“What is anyone’s motive?” Mary Helen snapped, then instantly regretted it. She felt frustrated, but Eileen must too. It wasn’t fair to be short with her.

“Sorry,” said sheepishly.

“Forgiven, old dear.” Eileen fed the jay another crust of bread. “You’ve heard of cabin fever, I know.”

Mary Helen nodded, wondering where this was going.

“I think we’re getting its cousin, mountaintop pyrexia.” Eileen popped a stray potato chip into her
mouth. “Even poor Felicita. You haven’t forgotten her outburst in the dining room this morning?”

Mary Helen hadn’t forgotten it. Neither, she suspected, had Ed Moreno. It was extraordinary for the outgoing priest to be silenced at all by anyone, let alone by meek, accommodating Felicita.

“Beware the fury of the patient man. In this case, woman,” Mary Helen corrected herself. “Although I think she felt more frustration than fury.”

“My point, exactly! Mountaintop pyrexia! And the only way out is to discover the murderer, the quicker the better!”

“Maybe we are being a bit foolhardy,” Mary Helen said, more for form than from actual reluctance. Eileen winked. “When in the name of all that’s good and holy has that ever stopped either one of us?” She began to gather up the empty cans and plates. “How shall we approach the remainder of the list? Each take a priest? Then whoever’s finished first tackle the final one?”

“Let’s not overlook Beverly.”

Eileen’s gray eyebrows shot up. “I think Beverly is a two-woman job.”

Without further discussion they decided to question the cook together.

“Which priest do you want?” Eileen asked.