SUICIDAL SUSPICIONS: A Kate Huntington Mystery (The Kate Huntington Mystery Series Book 8) (33 page)

A sharp intake of air. “Who did that to you?”

Kate turned her head back around. The nun was now looking directly at her.

“I didn’t see his face, but I’ve got a pretty good idea who it was. He’s small potatoes though. Someone else was involved in whatever happened at St. Bart’s when Josie was a kid. Someone the Catholic Church was willing to protect. A mere janitor they would’ve thrown under the bus.”

Another sharp intake of air. The nun covered her face with her hands. Kate heard mumbled words, but couldn’t make them out.

Not until the nun dropped her hands again. “In your Son’s holy name. Amen,” she whispered and crossed herself.

She leaned forward and met Kate’s eye. “I was asking for forgiveness because I’m about to break one of my vows.” The no-nonsense persona was back.

Sister Michelina suddenly leaned to one side and reached for a dark object on the lower shelf of a small table beside her chair.

Kate's heart went into overdrive. She opened her mouth to yell for Manny.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Skip called the ex-priest’s office again. This time he was told that Mr. Coleman had left early. “Was he going home?”

“I’m not sure, sir. Would you like his voicemail?”

“No, thanks. I’ll catch up with him later.”

He disconnected and sat back in his desk chair. Rough estimate, he’d spent at least an hour now, in five-minute increments, trying to catch up with this guy. Might as well waste some more time going to his house to see if he was there. If he was, Skip could totally take him by surprise.

Which might be a very good thing, since Skip now suspected this guy knew exactly what he was calling about. Maybe the same big wheel who had stifled Judith’s investigation had contacted Coleman and pressured him to keep quiet.

Skip pushed himself to a stand and headed out of his office.

Or maybe Coleman was involved in whatever happened at St. Bart’s. Kate had said that Josie seemed to like and trust him. What was it she’d called him in her journal–her hero? You’d think if the guy had abused her, she’d have hated him, or at least been afraid of him. Even if she didn’t remember the actual abuse, wouldn’t the emotional associations still be there?

He made a mental note to ask Kate about that. But just in case this guy turned out to be something other than an innocuous, middle-aged ex-priest… Skip took out his cell phone as he walked across the parking lot to his truck. He punched his partner’s speed dial number.

It rang four times and went to voicemail, which meant Rose was interviewing someone related to the insurance fraud case she was working on. That was the only time either of them put their phones on vibrate and didn’t answer them.

He left a message telling her where he was going, then disconnected. Putting his own phone on vibrate, he dropped it into his shirt pocket and climbed into his truck.

Skip drove slowly past Coleman’s house. There were no cars in the driveway, but they could be in the over-sized garage attached to the large colonial. Had to be at least five bedrooms. Coleman had done well for himself in the secular world.

He circled the block and pulled his truck to the curb just beyond the entrance to their driveway.

A petite woman, almost painfully thin, with long, shiny auburn hair, answered the door. Skip guessed her to be in her mid-thirties.

“Mrs. Coleman, I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to talk to your husband about something.”

The woman blinked. “My husband? What about?”

“Is he home?”

“No, not yet. He took our sons to baseball practice. What did you want to talk to him about?”

“I’m a private investigator, ma’am. I’m working a case related to where he used to work. He might have some information that would be useful.”

“Where he used to work? He’s only ever worked at Brown and Hall Investments.”

“From when he was a priest,” Skip said.

Her brown eyes went wide and her mouth made a small o. Then her expression quickly shifted. She smiled and stepped back. “You’re welcome to wait for him. He should be home soon.” The woman held out a delicate hand in a come-in gesture.

This woman’s a little too trusting for her own good
, Skip thought as he entered the house.

“Would you like something to drink?” Mrs. Coleman asked. “Coffee, tea, a soda?”

“Coffee’d be good, ma’am.”

“Please, call me Sybil.
Ma’am
makes me feel old.” She ushered him into a spacious living room, then headed toward the back of the house. “I’ll just be a minute,” she said over her shoulder.

Skip studied the family photos covering most of one wall of the living room. It looked like the Colemans had five kids. In one picture, the eldest and her mother stood next to each other. If one didn’t know better, they could be mistaken for sisters. There was an older boy, a teenager, and two younger ones. Skip couldn’t tell which was older. They looked to be about the same age. The youngest child was another girl.

Mr. Coleman hadn’t aged as well as his wife. In the later pictures, he was balding, with considerable gray in his remaining hair, and an expanding waistline.

Several minutes ticked by. Finally, Mrs. Coleman returned bearing a tray. “Sorry that took so long. I decided to make a fresh pot.”

~~~~~~~~

Kate was very glad she’d caught herself before screaming Manny’s name. It would have been quite embarrassing to admit she’d thought a nun was going to shoot her… with a Bible.

Sister Michelina had held the book against her chest, over her heart. Then she’d put it in her lap and folded her hands on top of it.

“Which vow is that, Sister?” Kate said softly.

“Obedience.” The nun cleared her throat, then tapped the Bible. “But this is a higher authority.” She fell silent again, staring across the room, her eyes out of focus.

Kate knew the look well. She’d seen it on her clients’ faces often enough as they stepped mentally back into the past.

“Mrs. Huntington, are you familiar with Saint Michelina?”

“No, Sister.”

“I chose her as the saint whose name I would take along with my vows because she is the patron saint of mentally ill people, and of children who die before they have a chance to grow up. I had a younger sister. She was born with Down’s syndrome, although we didn’t call it that back then. It was just called retarded. She wandered off when my mother was distracted by something, and fell in a pond on our neighbor’s property. She didn’t know how to swim.”

Kate’s throat tightened. “I’m so sorry.”

The nun turned her head toward Kate, her eyes shiny. “I vowed that day to devote my life to innocent children, for you see, I was the distraction. I was fourteen, a miserable age, and I was constantly picking fights with my mother.”

“You were still a child yourself.”

Sister Michelina held up a hand. “I’ve long since come to terms with my guilt from back then. I was a teenager, doing what teenagers do. I certainly never intended to do anything that would harm my sister. I loved her. She was so sweet.” Her voice broke. A tear wandered down her cheek. She swatted at it with her hand as if it were a pesky fly.

“So I took the name of Michelina, and I vowed to teach children, help them in any way I could, and of course protect them from harm. And I failed miserably.” She took a deep breath. “Yes, there was abuse at St. Bartholomew’s, and yes there was a priest involved.”

Kate’s heart sank.
Oh, Father Sam.

“And when they were caught, yes, there was a cover-up. I was told in no uncertain terms by two priests, a monsignor and my mother superior that I would be breaking my vow of obedience if I told a soul, ever. I was also promised that the children involved would get free counseling and the culprits would be dealt with.”

None of this surprised Kate. She should have been excited to have her theory confirmed, but all she felt was sad. “And neither of those things happened,” she said quietly.

The sister shook her head. “No.” She paused, blinking hard. “My child, will you pray with me?”

Kate was anxious to hear more details of what had happened at St. Bart’s, but one could hardly say no when a nun asked you to pray with her. “Of course.”

The elderly nun gingerly lowered herself from the chair onto her knees.

Kate started to slide off her chair. Pain shot up her spine and bounced around in her head. She gritted her teeth. “I’m afraid I can’t kneel, Sister. I’m still pretty sore.”

“That’s fine, child.” Sister Michelina smiled over at her. “I’m sure God will understand.” She pulled a string of beads from her pocket. “Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee…”

Kate suppressed a sigh. It wasn’t going to be a short and simple prayer. The nun was going to say the whole dang rosary.

Kate had no choice but to join in.

~~~~~~~~

Mrs. Coleman placed the tray on the coffee table and gestured toward the large sofa, covered in a flowered fabric. Skip sat down, and she settled onto the edge of a matching upholstered armchair.

She poured coffee into two china cups on the tray. “Sugar or cream?”

“Black’s fine. I was admiring your family.” Skip gestured toward the wall of photos. “Good-looking kids.”

“Thanks. Catherine, our oldest, is sixteen, a junior in high school. Samuel’s a sophomore. The twins are in middle school, and Bernadette, our youngest, will start there next year.”

Skip tasted his coffee. It was excellent. He took a hearty swig. “You don’t look old enough to have a sixteen-year-old daughter.” The woman was so slender and delicate looking, he had trouble imagining her chasing five kids around the house.

Mrs. Coleman’s cheeks turned a pale pink. “Thank you. You’re very kind.” She picked up her own cup, blew gently on the hot liquid and touched the cup to her lips.

“Not at all, just the truth,” Skip said.

Mrs. Coleman’s blush deepened as she lowered her cup. “Please, have a cookie.” She pointed toward the plate next to the coffee carafe on the tray. “I was a young bride. I’d just turned twenty when Bill and I married. He’s a little older than me. He was thirty-eight.”

Eighteen years struck Skip as a lot more than
a little older
. The man probably hadn’t been out of the priesthood all that long when the couple tied the knot.

And as good Catholics, apparently no birth control had been in use, so Mrs. Coleman was most likely pregnant within the first year of marriage. That would put her at thirty-seven or eight.

Skip drank more coffee, then set the cup in its saucer. To be polite, he took a cookie. It was a plain sugar cookie and looked to be store-bought. He took a bite. It was stale.

“Did you know Mr.… uh, your husband, when he was still at the high school?” He would have been Father then, not Mister. But his wife might not like to be reminded of that.

Mrs. Coleman’s face relaxed. She smiled–the second or third smile since he’d been there, but this one looked more genuine. “Yes, I was a student there, and then I worked in the office after graduation.”

Skip tried to return her smile but his own felt kind of lopsided. He wasn’t Catholic, but the concept of a young woman knowing her future husband in the capacity of a celibate priest felt kind of creepy to him. Of course it wasn’t all that unusual for priests and nuns to fall in love and leave the church to get married. But somehow that seemed more innocent, more chaste, than a woman just barely out of her teens becoming enamored of a priest, and he with her.
Especially
he with her.

“Would you like some more coffee?” Mrs. Coleman asked.

“Sure. It’s excellent.”

“Thank you.” She ducked her head as she poured. “I don’t skimp when it comes to coffee beans. Bill loves this dark roast the best.”

Skip eyed the half cookie resting in his hand, wishing he could get away with dunking it in the coffee. It would improve it significantly. How could someone make great coffee but serve store-bought cookies that were probably well past their best-used-by date?

Then again, considering how skinny this woman was, coffee was probably a more common staple in her diet than cookies.

Skip popped the cookie in his mouth and then took a swig of coffee to wash it down.

Mrs. Coleman picked up her own coffee and sat back in her chair. She rested the cup on her jeans-clad thigh. “Things were quite calm the first year that I worked there. I was only a file clerk then. But shortly after I was made Bill’s secretary, I started hearing veiled rumors that one of the male teachers might have been doing some things that were not really appropriate.”

Hmm, had they miscalculated? Had Josie been abused in high school, not at St. Bart’s? But wait, she was just a kid when she told her mother about someone making her take her clothes off.

Sadness weighed on his chest at the thought that the young woman might have been abused at
both
places.

Belatedly it dawned on him that Mrs. Coleman was giving him information that most people wouldn’t volunteer so readily. He kept his expression bland but he was now watching the woman more closely. He took another sip of coffee. “Did anyone investigate?”

“No not really. You have to realize it was the nineties. Society wasn’t as tuned in to such things back then.”

Yeah, even in the nineties it would have been investigated
.
Internally, at least.
But maybe a lowly secretary wouldn’t have heard about the investigation. “Who was the priest?”

“I didn’t say it was a priest.” Her tone was a little sharp.

Skip didn’t have to be Catholic to know that a male teacher in an all girls school was most likely a priest. “I assumed that it was.”

“Well, it could have been,” Mrs. Coleman said, her conversational tone sounding a bit forced. “I never heard who it was exactly, except that it was definitely one of the teachers.”

That struck Skip as odd. How would she know definitively it was a teacher when she didn’t know the person’s actual identity? He tilted his head to one side.

The room tilted in the other direction. He blinked. The room righted itself.

What the hell?
Had he just imagined that the room shifted?