Deadly Blessings

by Julie Hyzy

  “Well, no. And yes.” I shot him a grin and launched into my charade. I might as well strive for consistency. “I lost my job. I kinda knew I would, but it still hit me when it happened.”

  His brows furrowed.

  “That’s the bad news. The good news is I asked Sophie if maybe she’d talk to her boss for me. See if there’s any place for me where she works.”

  “Well, that is good news.” He smiled, in a distracted, thoughtful way.

  Conjuring up a look of concern, I bit my lip. “Is that okay? I mean, it just dawned on me this minute that you might not be happy about it. If that takes away a job opening that you can use for one of the kids from Europe …” I let the sentence hang for just a second before interrupting myself. “I never thought of that till just now. I can really use the job, but I don’t want to mess things up.”

  “No, that’s quite all right, my dear. Good luck in the new job. I know you’ll do well.”

  A lineup of women waited to talk to the good father. I made my excuses and left. The prayer vigil and subsequent chitchatting left me no time to stop home, and I headed straight to meet Dan.

  Sitting here in the booth now, my stomach made another insistent growl, causing Dan to cock an eyebrow at me. It was so loud I wondered if the waitress heard, because an instant later she stood at the table’s side, pen poised over her order pad. What I wanted was a Reuben sandwich, fries and an iced tea, but I’d already downed a cup of coffee and it was pretty late at night for heavy food.

  “I’ll take two eggs, over hard, with rye toast,” I said. “And bacon.”

  Our waitress turned to Dan. He shook his head. She eyed our half-empty mugs and headed back toward the kitchen.

  “I thought we were just here for coffee,” Dan said. “I didn’t know you were going to eat.”

  I shrugged, in an effort to dismiss his complaint. What difference did it make? “Oh, here,” I began, digging into my purse for Dan’s keys.

  “Not yet,” Dan said, reaching forward, touching my hand. From the look on his face, it was more a restraining move than a romantic one.

  “What’s with you?”

  He smiled. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I wanted to sit and talk a while. If that’s all right?”

  “Sure,” I said, adding a tiny bit of half and half to the coffee. It didn’t make a dent in the deep brown liquid, so I added more. “What’s up?”

  Dan made an effort at small talk, asking polite questions about the shake up at the station, and about William in particular. I could tell something important was on his mind. A pair of lines formed between his eyebrows, a sure sign of his concentration. His eyes held mine, in a way that used to make my heart beat faster, but now, even the neat symmetry of his face, the model-perfect look he wore with grace and style wasn’t enough to even give me pause. I got the feeling he wasn’t concentrating on my simple answers to his questions; he seemed to be elsewhere.

  He leaned forward, arms resting on the speckled silver tabletop, “Whose wake did you go to tonight?”

  “I told you, a friend’s brother.”

  “What was his name?”

  “Why?”

  My food arrived, the heavy stoneware plate thudding as the waitress dropped the end one second too early. I watched the steam rise from the buttery fare, and thought the shiny grease on the hash browns was about the best thing I’d seen all day. Starting in, I forked in a mouthful of eggs, then salted them lightly before moving on.

  Dan didn’t seem to be in any hurry to answer my inquiry.

  “Why are you asking me?” I repeated.

  The expression on his face was one of muted anger. “Because,” he said, leaning back in the booth and folding his arms across his chest, “I think you’re still on that Milla Voight story and you’ve been lying to me all along.”

  Anger rose up with such vehemence and such power, that I dropped my fork with a clatter.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “You went to Matthew Breczyk’s wake, didn’t you?”

  “And what if I did?”

  “You’re still working the story.”

  We were getting progressively louder and I hissed for him to keep our voices down, then added, “I’m not.”

  “Then why the hell were you there?”

  “That’s none of your goddamn business.” I said, thinking, asshole.

  “I think you owe me an explanation.”

  My stomach squirming, I looked down at the food. All of a sudden it looked like mishmash swimming in a pool of grease. I couldn’t touch another bite.

  “No,” I said, with as much calm as I could muster, “but you owe me.” I stood up, bright lights of anger going off like flashbulbs in my head. “This one’s your treat. I’m outta here.”

  I grabbed my purse and was out the door in an instant, my mind registering at once that Dan hadn’t followed me.

  I wanted him to, and it bothered me that I did. Not because of any hoped-for reconciliation, but for some tangible evidence that I’d ever meant anything to him.

  My car was parked at the far end of the small parking lot. I stopped at my back bumper and turned around. It was cold. It was dark. And the surrounding area was silent, except for the buzz of the restaurant’s neon sign and the hum of the streetlights above.

  Supremely pissed, I jammed my fists into my sides, and stood there a long moment, imagining all the scathing comments I should have made if I would’ve thought of them before I stormed out. A quick, cool breeze drew past me, lifting the ends of my hair, almost in a caress. I blew out a breath of frustration and watched as it swirled and dissipated into the night air. He wasn’t worth the energy I expended on him.

  Deep down, I knew I was better off that we’d gone our separate ways. I supposed the thing that bothered me most of all was that he didn’t realize I’d had such a change of heart. That I was glad we broke up. Part of me wanted to ram that knowledge down his scrawny little throat. But my more logical, less emotional side fortunately took control and reminded me that his belief that I still carried a torch for him was no real skin off my nose. And in time, it would fade.

  Deal with it, I told myself.

  With that, I got in my Escort and, about to start the engine, I came across Dan’s keys. I’d forgotten about them entirely.

  I muttered under my breath at my lack of concentration, and made my way back into the restaurant with his house and car keys in hand.

  The hostess was back at her perch against the counter, but the look on her face as I walked in was one of apprehension. Maybe she thought I came back to make a scene. I smiled at her, hoping to give her reassurance, and started toward Dan’s table.

  And then I understood the waitress’s reaction.

  My side of the booth was now occupied by the polished blonde in the stunning business suit. She and Dan, their fingers entwined, were engaged in animated conversation, so much so that neither noticed until I stood next to the table.

  I plastered on my best fake smile. “Hi. I’m Alex St. James,” I said, extending my hand. To her credit, she let go of Dan long enough to shake it, though with only the very tips of her manicured fingers. I got immense pleasure out of the fact that my sudden appearance seemed to have rendered her speechless. “And you are?” I asked.

  She blinked, shot a furious glance at Dan, and then her poise returned enough to answer. “Pamela Ricketts.”

  “Pleasure.”

  I turned to Dan, wiggling the keychain high so that it made a nifty metallic musical sound. “Almost forgot to give you these.”

  Pamela Ricketts said nothing, but if looks could kill, Dan would be dead on the floor.

  Stunned, but somehow cheered, I turned to leave. Dan grabbed my wrist, effectively stopping me. “The reason I wanted to meet with you tonight—which I was going to tell you before you got all huffy—is because I have some information about that guy, William Armstrong, who just joined your station.”

  I pulled my arm
out of his grasp. “Uh-huh.”

  “I know why he left the Daily Times.”

  “Good for you,” I said, the big smile still in place. “Have a nice night.” I gave a jaunty little wave, fought an irresistible instinct to bolt, and took my sweet time walking out the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Today was going to suck. Big time.

  I hit the snooze alarm three times, but didn’t avail myself of the additional opportunity to sleep. I dozed a bit overnight, but I never fell into a sound enough slumber that would provide the attitude and energy I needed to pull my sorry butt out of bed this morning.

  Fingers laced behind my head were now turning numb, and my gaze fixed on a volcano-shaped crack in the ceiling. I shivered. In my vain attempts to find the right position all night to coax myself to sleep, I twisted and turned until my sheet and blanket looked like some giant had wrung out his wash. Right now, shucked to the side, the bright rainbow-quilted bed cover that survived the eighties about as well as I had, did nothing to protect me from the morning’s chill.

  The idea of attending Matthew’s funeral was enough to make me want to burrow in and forget that I’d gotten involved in this mess. That and Dan’s new girlfriend. How blind was I?

  I felt emotions swell and, like waves of an incoming tide sweeping me along though my body remained perfectly still. I was stunned. The idea that he so casually brought us together in such an underhanded way, bugged me. If he wanted to go for a late night tête-à-tête with luscious little Pamela, why didn’t he just have her there at the table, so we could meet like civilized folks?

  I was hurt, in a vague way. He’d made a concerted effort to keep Blondie secret and I didn’t understand why. Although she obviously did.

  Mostly I was angry at myself, for letting the jerk’s actions bother me. And I was annoyed that he said something about William. Something that led me to believe that whatever the scoop was on his leaving the Daily Times, it was not going to put him in a good light.

  Asshole.

  Dan, not William.

  I tried to convince myself that Sophie could get through today without me. I’d so much rather just stay in bed. Of course, that wouldn’t be fair to Sophie, even if she had good old Father Bruno there to hold her hand.

  Father Bruno. Now there was a man I wanted to know more about.

  My energy thus engaged, I swung my legs around and planted my feet on the cold wooden floor. It was only after I started the car to head for the service that I realized it was a priest who’d gotten me excited enough to get out of bed. I was starting to scare myself.

  * * * * *

  “Hi,” I said, holding my hands against William’s doorjamb, “Got a couple of minutes?”

  “Sure,” he said, glancing up with what seemed like downright disinterest, “what’s up?”

  When William told me that his view out the window was of the building next door, he didn’t mention that it was so close-up, so near, that if he broke the picture window and reached out, he could touch the cool white marble. I never knew what a lousy vista it was from here. The office’s prior occupant had been an older guy who swore, complained, and smoked. He kept the dark drapes pulled across the window’s expanse—always. Now I knew why. It still smelled faintly of stale cigarettes, and the formerly white walls had an uneven stain of brown up near the ceiling where the old guy’s exhalations had settled and left the equivalent of a tobacco-water line. William kept his back to his window, which, despite the bland view, was bright. Very bright. He sat almost in silhouette, until I got up close and moved to a blue nubby upholstered office chair. Another reservoir of leftover smoke, it shot a gust up to engulf me as I sat.

  “How do you stand the smell in here?” I asked.

  “Bass promised me a cleaning crew would be in one of these days to spiff up the place.” He shook his head. “Every night I go home, my clothes reek. I’ve been keeping the dry cleaners happy, let me tell you.”

  Like a tantalizing puzzle to be solved, I studied our Mr. Armstrong. My expertise was reading people. I excelled at it. Which is how I managed to keep Bass happy—by providing plenty of in-depth research on a steady stream of interviewees. But, except for small glimpses into William’s personality, which I suspected he doled out when the mood struck, I couldn’t read this fellow, despite my senses being on red alert every time he was nearby. And he didn’t seem to be in the mood to dole out much right now.

  I brought my attention back to work matters. “I went to Matthew Breczyk’s funeral this morning.”

  Grimace of commiseration. “Yeah. How did that go?”

  “It was a funeral,” I said, with a bit of sarcasm. I didn’t know precisely why annoyance had crept into my words, but it had. Something uncomfortable had crawled into my heart and was sitting there. I couldn’t quite get a grip on what it was. Not that I expected him to do backflips when I sat down, but he had a look on his face that made me sorry I stopped in. Matthew’s funeral had taken a lot out of me, and Father Bruno had conducted the affair in such a sincere, heartbroken manner. I wondered if I had misjudged the man. Emil hadn’t shown up, thank goodness; he was probably guarding the rectory and downing the stash of altar wine.

  Maybe I was seeing things through an unpleasant filter. I’d come in, half-tempted to broach the topic of his departure from the Daily Times. Make no mistake—I was curious. But this didn’t feel like a good time for the subject. Maybe I was just cranky. In that case, the best bet would be to stick to business. “Did you get the rest of the hair care story research I left for you?”

  “Yeah.”

  That was it. “Yeah.” From this point on, William would be in charge of writing the script, working with the talent coordinator, and attending the taping. I don’t know what I was hoping for. An invitation to be part of it, perhaps? But I wasn’t about to ingratiate myself where I might be considered a hindrance rather than a help.

  Pushing against the arms of the chair, I stood, eager to get out of tobacco heaven. “Okay, good. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  * * * * *

  “Alex? Is that you?”

  Father John Triphammer stopped raking the leaves that covered the rectory’s side yard like a raggedy blanket. Colorful yet muted, the ground moved and shifted with every twist of the wind beneath the wispy gray afternoon sky. This yard, which brooked the thirty-foot distance between the rectory and my grammar school, had always been off-limits to the students. We had another yard for recess, on the other side of the school. This one, with its shrine to Mary, complete with a weatherproof kneeler dead center amid all the trees, was meant for meditation. But no one ever really used it.

  Father Trip, as he was affectionately known, leaned on the rake’s handle, his eyes crinkling up as he smiled. I always thought he was a handsome man and I had a massive crush on him back when I was in grammar school, blissfully unaware that having crushes on priests was a no-no. He reminded me a lot of Dick Van Dyke in those days. My parents always watched the black-and-white reruns and I think I fell a little in love with Rob Petrie. Tall, with a narrow face, and an easy smile, Father Trip wore his hair cropped short, and just these past few years, white hair won the battle for his head. Nowadays the priest still resembled the actor, but now he looked more like the Diagnosis Murder version. When he said Mass, standing below the bright overhead lights, he often looked encircled in a halo.

  Not that Father Trip was any kind of saint. I’d seen him at social gatherings, where he blended in and traded barbs with the parishioners. He could be sharp-tongued when piqued. While he never stepped over the priestly line with anyone, he came about as close to being a regular guy as a man in a collar could get.

  Right now, he had a blue flannel shirt on, with the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. His hooded gray sweatshirt lay discarded over the cyclone fence that surrounded the yard.

  I stretched my arms out, feigning inspection of myself. “Yep. It’s me. In the flesh.” I was in jeans and a T-shirt. On my way out
the door, I’d grabbed an oversized sweatshirt for warmth. Maroon, with my university crest in gold across my chest, it made me feel comforted whenever I wore it, engulfing me both in warmth and memories.

  Father Trip grinned. “You need something.” It wasn’t a question.

  Embarrassed cringe on my part. “That obvious?”

  “Well, let’s see. Except for Christmas and Easter, the only time I ever see you anymore is when you have a Catholic question.” His eyes shifted, suddenly serious. “You know, Alex, you don’t have to be afraid to come visit. I’m not going to try and drag you back into the fold, or convince you to start attending Mass again.”

  “I know,” I said, gazing around at the enormous maple trees that dotted the small yard. He’d never get all these leaves raked up today. Not alone. “You got another rake?”

  He turned to glance back against the side of the rectory wall. “I must have known you were coming.”

  Grabbing it, I started in. “Scary,” I said. “Maybe you have ESP.”

  “Or a direct line to the Almighty?”

  We worked in silence for a short while. Overcast, the gray sky was still bright. Enough so, that when I looked up, the branches of the trees that had gone bare made a pattern against the brightness. The sight of it made me sad for some reason I didn’t understand. I caught a flit of red—a cardinal alighted on one of the branches and chirped its distinctive call. Leaves pulled and pushed against each other in a soft shush, lulling me into silence. It seemed almost wrong to break the rhythmic quiet of our task.

  Within minutes, I’d shucked my own sweatshirt as a gleam of perspiration came over my face and onto my arms. It felt good to move.

  I walked over to the cement Madonna and brushed errant leaves off her head.

  “So, what are you investigating this time?” Father Trip asked, never stopping his movement. “Milla Voight?”

  “God!” I said, amazed. Immediately, I was embarrassed for my exclamation.

  “Taking the Lord’s name in vain, Alex? And in front of a priest, no less.” Father Trip’s question was half-admonishment, half-tease. “Maybe you had better think about coming back to confession one of these days.”