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by Sue Grafton

  I thought about the two photographs I’d found. “I came across a snapshot of Lenore the day she was confirmed. She must have been twelve or thirteen.”

  “Eleven and a half. I was there that day. She was a lovely child and a lovely young woman.”

  “Why did she dye her hair?”

  “Who?”

  “Lenore. In the photograph of her with April, I was struck by how unhappy she looked. She’d dyed her hair a bleached blond that made her look hard. I wondered if the change was a sign of her illness.”

  Clara looked at me in confusion. “Lennie never dyed her hair. She was always a brunette.”

  “Not in the photograph I found.”

  “I don’t think so. There must be some mistake.”

  I reached down and removed the photograph of Lenore and April in the red leather frame and passed it across the table to her.

  She barely glanced at it. “That’s not Lennie.”

  “Who is it then?”

  “Ned and his mother, Frankie,” she said. “That photograph was taken two days before she left.”

  I took another look. “You’re telling me that’s a boy? I assumed the child was April.”

  “She was the spitting image of Ned at the same age, but that’s not her. It’s him.”

  “Doesn’t that look like a little girl to you?”

  “Of course. Even though the boy was almost four, Frankie refused to have his hair cut. It wasn’t until she left that his daddy took him to a barbershop and had it all shaved off. Poor little boy cried like his heart would break.”

  I took one more look, still only half convinced, and then returned the photograph to the pouch. “Is there anyone still around who was with the police department back then? Because I’d love to talk to someone who actually remembers Lenore’s death.”

  “I know a gentleman who worked for the coroner’s office. Stanley Munce is retired now, and I’m not sure how helpful he’d be. He’s off visiting his daughter, but I can ask when he gets home. I don’t believe there was much of an investigation.”

  “Did Pete intend to talk to anyone other than you and Lenore’s priest?”

  “Father Xavier’s the only one I know about.”

  “I’d like to talk to him myself. It was my primary reason for driving up.”

  “He’ll be at the rectory. Do you know where that is?”

  “I passed it earlier when I was touring the town,” I said. “Would it be all right with you if I mentioned our conversation?”

  “You don’t need my permission. I keep no secrets from him. He still hears my confession every week, though I must say my sins are so boring, he falls asleep half the time.”

  “You have my card,” I said. “If you think of anything else, would you give me a call? You’re welcome to make it collect.”

  “No need of that. I’ll tell Mr. Munce about your questions and we’ll see if he remembers her.”

  24

  The rectory at St. Elizabeth’s was a short ten-minute drive. Given the fact that I have little or no experience with the Catholic Church, I wasn’t sure what kind of reception to expect. I got out of the car with the mailing pouch in hand, which I thought of by now as my calling card. I had my choice of the church proper, the administration building, and the religious education building, which also included St. Elizabeth’s Parish School, serving prekindergarten through eighth grade.

  I went first to the sanctuary, where the outside door stood open. I passed into the dimly lighted foyer and found that the double doors leading into the church were closed. I paused long enough to pick up a copy of the program for that week. The Pastor and Pastor Emeritus were listed, along with Father Xavier, Retired, and Father Rutherford Justice, Weekend Associate. Masses were said daily at 7:45 A.M., with two on Saturday and two on Sunday. Baptisms were the first and second Sundays of the month, and weddings could only be scheduled if the bride and groom were already registered, contributing, and active members of St. Elizabeth’s Parish for at least one year before requesting a marriage date. Clearly, no hasty marital shenanigans would be tolerated.

  I shifted the mailing pouch to my left hand and slid the four-page newsletter into my shoulder bag. I returned to the parking lot, where I saw a sign pointing to a small building I thought might house the nuts-and-bolts business of running a parish church. I felt like an interloper, which of course I was, unclear on the underlying etiquette of secular matters in a sanctified setting.

  I reached a door that said OFFICE and peered through the glass window. There was no one in evidence. I tried the knob and found the door unlocked. I opened it and stuck my head in.

  “Hello?”

  No response. I hesitated and then stepped inside. The interior was quite ordinary. Aside from a smattering of religious art and artifacts, the office was simply office-like: two desks, office chairs, file cabinets, bookcases.

  I heard approaching footsteps and a woman appeared from a short corridor to my right. She was in her midseventies, with iron gray hair worn in a halo of tiny frizzy curls. The look reminded me of the ads for Toni Home Permanents back when I was a little girl. In those days, a beauty salon permanent cost fifteen dollars, while a Toni Home Permanent kit cost two dollars, sulfur-scented waving lotion and curlers included. The savings alone was thrilling, especially when you considered that a refill was only a dollar more, which further reduced the cost. My Aunt Gin’s friends were smitten with the prospect of beautification at home. Aunt Gin sniffed at the very idea. In her mind, spending even one dollar on beauty products was a waste. As it turned out, she was the only one among her friends who had the patience to follow directions, so our trailer was the source of an entire army of frizzy-haired women smelling of spoiled eggs.

  I said, “I’m looking for Father Xavier.”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place. I’m Lucille Berrigan, the parish secretary. Is he expecting you?” She wore a navy blue rayon pantsuit and crepe-soled shoes.

  I handed her a business card, which she didn’t bother to read. “I don’t actually have an appointment, but I’m hoping he can spare a few minutes of his time.”

  “You’ll have to be quick about it. He’s out in the garden with his sun hat and trowel and looks to be settling in for a snooze.”

  “Would it be better if I returned another time? I hate to interrupt.”

  “Now is fine unless this is something I might help you with . . .” She glanced at the card. “. . . Ms. Millhone.”

  “I have questions about Lenore Redfern.”

  “Then he’s definitely the one to consult. He was close to the family. Wonderful people. If you’re interested in matters of chronology, we have handwritten records of every marriage, baptism, confirmation, funeral, and sick call going all the way back to the turn of the century.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Looking after our families is one of the roles we fill.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. If you can show me where he is, I’ll let you get back to work.”

  “Of course.”

  She motioned me to the window and pointed to an old gentleman in jeans and a black shirt with a clerical collar. He’d settled on a weathered wooden bench with his legs outstretched and a wide-brimmed canvas hat tilted down over his face. She gestured for me to follow, and I trotted after her to a side door that opened onto a hard-packed dirt-and-gravel path. The garden itself was enclosed by a round-shouldered adobe wall that looked like it had been there for a century.

  I stood for a moment, reluctant to disturb his nap. She made an impatient shooing motion, urging me to move on. She gestured in roughly the same manner as my Aunt Gin when I was five and waiting in line to see Santa Claus. On that occasion, I’d burst into tears and refused to talk to him at all. What upset me was that his lips were too wet and he had a wen beside his nose that looked like a kernel of burn
t popcorn.

  “Father Xavier?”

  His bony hands were loosely clasped across his waist, and I could see his lips puff outward with every breath. He had to be in his late eighties; well into the shrinking part of life. He was thin, so narrow through the shoulders and hips that he probably had to buy his pants in the boys’ department.

  I cleared my throat. “Father Xavier?”

  “Listening.”

  “Sorry to bother you, but I have some questions about Lenore Redfern and the package she sent you. I was hoping you could tell me about the circumstances.”

  I thought he was formulating a response, but then his lips made a tiny sound as they parted with the next breath.

  I waited a beat. “Just in your own words would be fine.”

  No response.

  I sat down beside him on the bench and checked my watch. It was just after the noon hour—12:17 to be exact. I surveyed the area, thinking how heartily Henry would have approved of the garden. The sun was hot. The earth surrounding us was largely hard-packed dirt. No grass at all. The plants were roughly divided between cacti and succulents. No sprinklers, no soaker hoses. I did see a birdbath, but it was empty. A chickadee, undismayed, enjoyed an extravagant dust shower and flew away. The air smelled like rosemary. I could do with a snooze myself.

  I glanced at the office window, where Ms. Berrigan was acting out an elaborate pantomime of waking the priest, urging me to shake his arm. I couldn’t do it. I put a hand behind my ear as though I’d failed to comprehend. She turned and looked behind her, which I took to mean the phone was ringing or someone else had appeared in the office, requiring help.

  I checked my watch again and saw that one whole minute had flown by. I took a quick look at Father Xavier, whose dark eyes were open. His face was pleated with wrinkles. His pupils were almost engulfed by the pouches above and below his eyes. He sat up, looked at me briefly, and then saw the mailing pouch.

  “What’s that doing here? Mr. Wolinsky said he’d see that April received the contents as her mother intended. He promised he’d deliver it.”

  “Pete was a friend of mine. He died in August.”

  Father Xavier crossed himself and kissed the cross that hung around his neck on a chain. “My apologies if I was abrupt. I didn’t expect to see that package again.”

  “I found it among Pete’s effects. I intend to pass the items along to April, but I wanted to understand the situation first. I drove from Santa Teresa this morning, hoping you’d explain.”

  “Of course. It was good of you to make the trip, and I’ll tell you what I can.”

  “It’s my understanding Pete paid you a visit a year ago. Why did he want to see you?”

  “I believe he was interested in background information.”

  “On Lenore?”

  “No, no. It was Ned he was inquiring about. Something to do with a lawsuit. He’d come to believe Ned had serious psychological problems that might have showed up early in his life. He asked about Ned’s childhood. His family of origin.”

  “Do you remember what you told him?”

  “It wasn’t much. I wasn’t acquainted with his family. Ned wasn’t a Catholic. This is a small town, but it’s not that small.”

  “You knew Lenore?”

  “Oh, yes. From baptism to her First Communion and right up until her death.”

  “I’m assuming she sent you these items because she wanted April to have her confirmation Bible and her rosary.”

  “As keepsakes, yes,” he said. “You knew Lenore took her own life.”

  “That’s what I was told. I had a conversation with Clara Doyle and we talked about that. I noticed Lenore included a card for April’s fourth birthday.”

  “I believe that’s correct.”

  “Do you think she bought the card because she knew she wouldn’t be around when the time came?”

  “So it would seem. She sent me the package to hold on to until such time as April was confirmed. After Lenore died, Ned took the child and left Burning Oaks. I had no idea where they went, but I kept the mailer in the expectation I’d hear from him. I intended to place it in April’s hands myself once she was of an age to appreciate the meaning. To tell you the truth, I forgot all about it until Mr. Wolinsky showed up. He told me April was married and living in Santa Teresa. Ms. Berrigan was the one who reminded me the mailer was in storage, so I gave it to him to deliver. You’ll have to forgive me if I sounded cross when you first arrived. I thought Mr. Wolinsky failed to make good on his promise to me.”

  “No need to apologize. I understand completely.”

  “I appreciate your patience.”

  “Clara told me Lenore died just before Easter. This was postmarked March 27. Did you realize the extreme emotional state she was in?”

  “We were all aware of her distress. I spoke with her parents on a number of occasions. Naturally, they were worried about her and hoped I might intervene. I did what I could, but Lenore was very fragile by then, almost beyond reasoning.”

  “So you weren’t shocked or surprised when she overdosed.”

  “I was saddened. I took it as a failure on my part.”

  “Did she tell you what she intended to do?”

  “She told her husband and he came to me. She was a very troubled young woman. Since Ned wasn’t Catholic, they’d wed in a civil ceremony at the courthouse. He believed Lenore was upset in part because she knew they weren’t married in the eyes of the Church. He assured me he was willing to take instruction and convert if it would ease her suffering.”

  I felt an inappropriate laugh bubble up and coughed to cover it. I said, “Really? He thought the basis for her depression was his failure to convert to the Catholic faith?”

  “I believe it was more a matter of his desire to do what he could for her.”

  “That speaks well of him, assuming he was sincere.”

  “I’m certain he was. I’ve no doubt of it. We had a lengthy chat, after which I counseled Lenore to allow him the opportunity to demonstrate his good intentions.”

  “Did she seem open to the idea?”

  “She was upset.”

  “And why was that?”

  “She said I’d taken his side. She said I was all she had left and now he’d poisoned the well. She felt he’d turned me against her, which wasn’t true.” He blinked and his nose reddened. “I assured her it wasn’t the case. I wanted her to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Because you felt he was acting in good faith?”

  “He gave me every reason to believe he’d follow through. I encouraged him to come to Mass with her. I also suggested he join the group class we offer on the Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults so that he could learn Church history, as well as our beliefs and values. He needed a sponsor, of course, and I explained that if all went well, once the end of the liturgical cycle neared, he would be deemed ‘an elect.’ At that point, he’d prepare for the Rite of Election, the Call to Continuing Conversion, and the Easter Vigil.”

  “He hadn’t yet taken instruction, so you’re talking about his conversion Easter of the following year?”

  “I am.”

  “Sounds like a lengthy process.”

  “And rightly so. There are many steps along the way.”

  “Am I correct in assuming he was eventually baptized a Catholic?”

  “Unfortunately, he was not. Lenore’s death was a devastating blow. I’d hoped his faith would shore him up, but I could see he was faltering. We spoke many times and I thought he was coming around, but then he took little April and left town without a word. I’ve heard nothing from him since.”

  I hesitated, unsure how hard to push. “There are people who believe he killed her. Were you aware of that?”

  “If Clara Doyle said as much, she’s to be censured.”

  “No, no.
She refused to comment. This was an inference I drew, but not from anything she told me. I suspect Pete was tracking the idea, or why else would he drive all this way?”

  “There are always those willing to believe the worst. It’s unfortunate.”

  “Did you ever hear rumors to that effect? That Ned might have done it?”

  “None that I gave any credence to.”

  “What about the police? Did they investigate?”

  “I’m certain they did. I don’t know the particulars, but they must have been satisfied she acted of her own free will.”

  “Clara tells me Lenore had two sisters. Do you have any idea where they are at this point?”

  He shook his head. It seemed to me his attitude had chilled.

  “You mentioned Pete’s asking about Ned’s family of origin. What happened to his mother? Clara told me she left.”

  “I believe he was four when Frankie walked out.”

  “Is there someone who might confirm that?”

  Father Xavier shook his head. “I can’t think of a soul.”

  “Were Norma and Boyd Kastle your parishioners?”

  He brightened. “Oh yes. I knew them well. She was a lovely woman. Even in her final illness, she was just as gracious as she could be.”

  25

  I found a drive-through fast food restaurant and ate in my car. Cheeseburger, limp fries, a Diet Pepsi, and a piece of gum that I chewed as a substitute for brushing my teeth. After this elegant repast, I sat and made notes, filling up three dozen index cards that ended up smelling of onions as well. So far, I had no access to the past except for other people’s recollections, which are often telling, but not always to be trusted. Memory is subject to a filtering process that we don’t always recognize and can’t always control. We remember what we can bear and we block what we cannot. I wondered if there was anything to be learned from the local police, who would at least have access to the investigator’s report from the time of Lenore’s death.

  I was pleasantly surprised by how easy it was to gain access to the Burning Oaks chief of police. It helped, I’m sure, that Burning Oaks is a small town with a low crime rate, most of which is property-related as opposed to crimes against persons. In addition to DUIs, driving without a valid license or proof of insurance was the number-one cause of traffic arrests. I was also guessing the public relations aspect of the department was a point of pride. This was the kind of law enforcement that made little kids want to grow up to be cops.