SUICIDAL SUSPICIONS: A Kate Huntington Mystery (The Kate Huntington Mystery Series Book 8) (17 page)

She thought about that for a moment. Not really, since the memory that had been bubbling up in Josie’s psyche could have sent her into another depression.

“I hope so.” Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the edge of the priest’s desk. “Josie was starting to remember something. Something that happened when she was little. And she had a gut feeling that it had to do with St. Bartholomew’s.”

Kate was intentionally paraphrasing her client’s words to indicate more of a connection to St. Bart’s than Josie had implied.

Father Sam tilted his head. “She thought something happened here?”

“Not necessarily.” Kate let those words hang in the air, waiting to see what Father Sam might reveal.

“What did she remember?”

“Nothing all that specific. She’d asked you about why her parents took her out of school here. Do you remember any more about that?”

He shook his head, then dropped his gaze from her face to his cluttered desk. “I don’t even remember discussing that with her.”

Her gut said he was lying. A lump grew in her throat.

Gut feelings aren’t always right
, she told herself.

“Who was in charge of the school back then?” she asked.

He raised his eyes from the desk to look straight up at the ceiling. After a moment, he said, “I don’t recall.”

Another lie. When trying to remember something, people usually looked up and to their left or their right, as they searched the hemispheres of their brains for the information.

She decided to let it go. Liz would be able to track down the names.

Father Sam was now looking directly at her. “Katie, you may be messing with something dangerous here. You’ve convinced me that she didn’t commit suicide. I’ll tell her parents that Josie can be transferred to their plot at New Cathedral Cemetery.”

“Thanks, Father Sam. That will be a big comfort to them.” She managed a smile that she hoped looked genuine. Her chest ached at the thought that the old priest was lying to her.

What did that mean? And who else might have some memory of Josie’s short tenure at St. Bart’s school?

“Who was the youth director then?” she asked.

Father Sam stared across the room. He shook his head. “It’s a pain getting old, Katie. I can see the woman’s face in my mind’s eye, but I can’t recall her name.”

“Never mind. I can find it.”

Something flashed in his eyes and then was gone, so fast she couldn’t interpret it.

She rose and extended her hand. “Thanks for your time, Father.”

He also rose and took her hand, but instead of shaking it he held it between his two. “Be careful, Katie. I don’t want anything happening to you. Indeed, I wish you’d let this go and let the police take care of it. It’s not safe to be trying to track down a killer.”

This time her smile was more genuine. “I’ll be careful, Father. You get to your supper. I can see myself out.”

Once in her car, she stopped to analyze that final exchange. Father Sam seemed genuinely concerned for her. And he was right. Chasing murderers was dangerous. But coupled with the sense that he had lied to her, she couldn’t help wondering if he was trying to warn her off.

Then again, he came from a generation that saw women as the weaker sex. So maybe he really was just worried about her.

Grr! Dear Lord, save me from men who want to protect me.

She mentally did the math. Josie had recently turned thirty-one–yet another bone of contention between her and her mother, that she was not married with children by her thirties. Josie would have been in second grade roughly twenty-four years ago. That would have been the early nineties.

She instructed her Bluetooth to call Liz’s cell phone.

“Hey, Kate.” Liz’s booming voice filled her car.

“Hey there. You said to call if I thought of anything else you could do. Do you mind looking something up for me?”

“No problem.”

“Could you find out who was in charge of St. Bartholomew’s Catholic grade school twenty-four years ago?”

“Pish, give me something hard to do! Hang on.”

Kate imagined her friend stretching out her arms, pretending to crack her knuckles before tackling her laptop’s keyboard. Any kind of computer research was mental ambrosia for Liz, even if–maybe especially if–it involved some mild to moderate hacking. But this time, Kate only needed her superior research skills.

“Sister Michelina Larsen.”

“That was quick. Can you find out where she is now?” Kate prayed that the woman was still alive.

“Okay, give me a sec.” The soft clacking of keyboard keys, then Liz rattled off an address. “That’s a retirement home for nuns.”

“I’m driving. Can you email that address to me?”

“Email? How quaint. I’ll text it to you.”

“Wait! Which is harder to hack into?”

“They’re both pretty easy if you know what you’re doing. Why so paranoid?” Liz’s tone morphed to worried. “What are you getting into, Kate?”

“Never mind. Text is fine. I’ve just had this weird feeling lately that someone is watching me.”

A pregnant pause. “Aren’t you the one who’s always saying to trust those gut feelings?”

Kate let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re not helping with my paranoia.”

“How’s Skip feel about you investigating a potential murder?”

“He’s assigned Manny to help if things get dicey, but so far I’m only interviewing priests and nuns.”

Another beat of silence. “Be careful, okay?”

“I will be. I am. Thanks for checking on that for me. Bye.”

“Take care of yourself.” Liz disconnected.

When Kate pulled up in front of her house, she turned off the car but she didn’t get out. Instead she grabbed her cell phone from the passenger seat, checked the text Liz had sent and called the number for the nuns’ retirement home where Sister Michelina Larsen now lived.

The call went to voicemail. An elderly, female voice asked her to leave her name, number and who she was calling for.

Deciding to try again in the morning, Kate disconnected without leaving a message.

~~~~~~~~

She only had slightly better luck the next day. The same quavery voice from the voicemail recording answered in person. Kate asked for Sister Michelina Larsen.

“She’s not here right now, I’m afraid. She’s visiting her sister in Chicago.”

“When is she due back?”

“Monday evening. Shall I have her call you on Tuesday?”

“Yes, please. Tell her I’m a former parishioner of St. Bartholomew’s and I have a couple questions for her.” Kate gave the elderly nun her cell phone number.

Hanging up, she wracked her brain trying to think of what else she could do at this point. Nothing came to mind except to keep reading Josie’s journal.

She glanced at her watch. That would have to wait until later. It was time for her first session.

.

At the end of the day, Kate stole a few minutes before going home to read the last few journal entries before Josie’s death. Over the weekend, she hoped to find time to go back to the beginning of the journal and read the whole thing. It was so hard reliving her dead client’s life through the journal, but it was the best chance she had of finding more leads.

She flipped a page over.

March 8

I think I’ve got it. And my gut says it ties in with that face I used to get flashes of. Kate’s always saying to trust my gut. Now I just have to find him.

“Come on, Josie. Who is
him
?” Kate muttered under her breath.

And what’s this about flashes of a face? Yet another item that Josie had never mentioned to her.

She turned the page and there was the last entry, made the day before Josie left her final message on Kate’s voicemail.

March 9

I had the dream again last night, and I’m pretty sure I’m on the right track. It’s related to those flashes. I get scared silly inside at the thought of pursuing this. I know what Kate would say to that–it’s the little kid part of me that’s scared. The adult can handle this!

The adult actually feels excited about all this, and it’s so nice! It feels different from the mania. It’s REAL excitement!

The next page was blank, as were the rest of the pages in the little booklet.

Which flashes was that last entry referring to? The flashes of the man’s face in the past, or the more recent glimpses of memory, in which there were flashes of light?

Kate sat back in her desk chair. Tears stung her eyes.

Josie had made substantial psychological progress those last two weeks of her life. She had been using the things Kate had said to guide her, but she was essentially doing it on her own. This was exactly what a therapist wanted to see. The main goal of her job was to work herself out of a job.

No doubt, that would have happened with Josie, probably within the next few months.

If she had lived.

~~~~~~~~

Saturday dawned sunny and warm. Mother Nature had finally gotten the memo that it was spring.

The kids wanted to play outside. Kate sent them to their rooms for sweaters, and then they all went into the backyard.

She took Josie’s journal with her and headed for the Adirondack chair at the far end of the yard. It was the one she had sat in each evening during the weeks after her first husband’s death.

As soon as she sat down, sadness washed over her. Maybe this chair wasn’t the best idea. It had too many associations.

Then again, sad probably was the most appropriate mood for reading the journal. She opened it at the beginning. The first entry was nine months ago.

She skimmed the pages, looking for references to flashes of a man’s face, stopping to read more carefully whenever the dreams were mentioned. The sounds of her children whooping and hollering faded into the background.

There were entries for almost every day, sometimes several a day. Occasionally there would be gaps.

At the halfway point there had still been no mention of a man’s face. Kate stuck her finger between the pages to hold her place and flipped to the back to re-read the next to the last entry again.

…
that face I used to get flashes of.

Those words
used to
triggered a memory of the first session with Josie three years ago. She’d encouraged her new client to keep a journal, to help her sort out her feelings. Josie had said that she used to do that when she was in therapy before, and it had been helpful.

A shadow fell across the page. Kate looked up. Her daughter was standing in front of her.

“Can I go ride Fiddlesticks today, Mommy?”

“Not today, sweetie,” Kate answered without really thinking about it.

“But it’s such a pretty day,” Edie whined. “And I already got most of my homework done for Monday. I’ll finish tonight, I promise.”

Kate’s chest tightened. Homework had been the furthest thing from her mind. She’d said no as a knee-jerk reaction because she was too absorbed in the journal to be bothered with taking Edie to the horse farm where her pony was boarded.

Rustling in the leaves and a longer shadow fell across her lap, announcing Skip’s arrival.

She tilted her head up at him, shading her eyes with her free hand. “Can you keep an eye on Billy? I’m going to take Edie out to the farm.”

“Woot!” Edie turned and raced toward the house to change into her riding clothes.

“No problem,” Skip said.

She struggled to get out of the tilted seat of the chair. Skip offered a hand up. She fumbled the journal, almost dropping it. Her finger slipped out from between the pages.

Crap! Now I’ll have to re-read part of it to find my place again.

She slid it into the pocket of her jacket. She could read while Edie was riding.

.

Oct. 22

I ran into Father Bill today. He seemed kind of embarrassed or shy or something. Maybe he doesn’t like to be reminded of his priest days. He might be ashamed of having left the priesthood to get married, although why he would feel that way, I can’t fathom.

Kate glanced up from where she was perched on the paddock fence. Edie, in jodhpurs, riding helmet and boots, was happily trotting Fiddlesticks around the ring.

I hope he doesn’t regret that. The girls and I at school used to call him Father What-A-Waste. He’s gained some weight and lost some of his hair, but he’s still a good-looking man. I always liked him; he somehow seemed heroic to me
–

“Look, Mommy. Watch this!”

Kate raised her head. Edie was heading the pony toward a jump along the side of the worn path of the ring. The jump’s top rail wasn’t very high, but her riding teacher had only recently begun to work with her on jumping.

The little girl kicked the pony’s sides. Fiddlesticks broke into a reluctant canter.

“Edie! No!”

Too late.

The pony’s front legs left the ground.

Kate held her breath. She let it out when it looked like pony and child would clear the jump.

Then Fiddle’s back hoof struck the top bar. It fell off its pegs, as it was supposed to do, but the contact had thrown the pony off balance. He staggered sideways, and Edie tumbled off.

The sound of helmet hitting wood stopped Kate’s heart.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The emergency room pediatrician at Sinai Hospital was examining Edie. He looked in her ears with his scope, then asked her to follow his finger as he shone a light into her eyes.

Kate stood in the doorway of the small room, where Edie could see her. But she was also watching the glass doors separating the pediatric emergency center from the rest of the hospital.

The doctor glanced at Kate. “Any nausea?”

“What’s that?” Edie said.

“She threw up in the car coming here,” Kate said.

Edie’s cheeks turned pink.

“It’s not your fault, sweetie,” Kate said, feeling like crap inside. “Bumps on the head can make us sick sometimes.”

Her ears registered the faint whoosh of the doors opening. She looked up as Skip entered the emergency center. He saw her and strode in her direction. The storm clouds on his face did not bode well.