When I got to the sacristy the door was closed. I knocked and a white-haired man wearing a Roman collar opened the door. I had my fingers crossed that he spoke some English. I needn’t have worried.
“What can I do for you, laddie?”
“Thank God,” I said.
“Yes, you should, every day.”
I introduced myself.
“I’m Father Michael Walsh.
“Are you the new pastor?”
“No. I’m from Seattle, by way of County Mayo and Baltimore.” He still had the hint of a brogue. “I’m just filling in at Gates of Heaven until they find a permanent replacement for Father Salazar, God rest his soul.”
“It’s a long drive, isn’t it?”
He laughed.
“Come on in, and I’ll explain. Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, please. Black.”
The interior of the trailer was sparse but spotless. There was a pot of coffee percolating in an electric pot sitting atop a small counter by the sink. I had noticed an electric cable running from the church to the trailer. The coffee smelled delicious. Percolated coffee is far superior to the drip kind in my estimation, especially when fresh. A woman was on the far side of the trailer buffing a table.
“That’s Carmelita,” Walsh said as he brought over two mugs of black coffee. “She keeps things shipshape here and in the church. Wonderful woman.” We had sat at a small folding table. There was a plate of cookies on the table. “She made these. They’re called galletas de azúcar.”
I was about to take one, just to be polite, when he translated.
“Sugar cookies.”
“I’m fine,” I said, quickly sipping my coffee. It was fresh. “You were going to tell me how you wound up here.”
“It’s very simple. This parish is poor, as you can tell by the facilities, but serves a devoted flock. But given the shortage of priests, it may take some time for a permanent replacement to be found. The nearest Catholic Church is only 10 miles away, but that would still pose a problem for many of our parishioners, who are quite set in their ways.” He looked at me. “And, sad to say, it might pose a problem to the people who go to that other church.”
His meaning was clear. Those other “Christians” might not be too happy to find themselves in a pew next to the people who tended their lawns and worked their fields.
“Someone should probably tell them that St. Peter won’t be as choosy at the real gates of Heaven,” I said.
“Maybe he will be,” Walsh said, “but not in the way they expect. But don’t get the wrong idea, the pastor of that church comes here to minister as often as he can, but it’s not enough. So, the call went out up and down the West Coast, for any priests who could get away from their own parishes, or retirement homes, to fill in a month here, a month there. I’m an assistant pastor at St. Benedict’s in Seattle and I told the Monsignor that I could use a break.”
“This is a break?”
“It never stops raining in Seattle. Besides, I like these people. They have a generosity of spirit that is refreshing. At this stage of my life I think they do more for me than I do for them.”
I asked Father Walsh what he knew about the murder.
“Only what I’ve been told. I didn’t know the man. There have probably been six other priests filling in, and I don’t think any of them knew him either. He was killed before any of us arrived. I can say that the parishioners thought the world of him. He apparently gave wonderful sermons.” Walsh laughed. “I understand that when he spoke about the miracle of the loaves and fishes he always bragged about the latest steelhead he’d caught. Apparently they were the size of a submarine. But, say, you should talk to Carmelita. She worked for Father Salazar for years.”
He called the woman over and explained, in English, who I was.
She was a grandmotherly type, short and sturdy in a shapeless blue print dress that was frayed but very clean. Walsh fixed her a cup of coffee.
“Policía?” she asked.
“Detective privado,” Walsh told her.
“Si,” she said, smiling. “Like Magnum, P.I.”
Obviously, she was devoted to TV reruns. I wondered if she knew Tom Selleck had since been promoted to New York City Police Commissioner on Blue Bloods. I thought it best to move on.
“What can you tell me about Father Salazar?”
Carmelita started crying. Wonderful.
Walsh patted her on the arm until she composed herself. And then, over three cups of coffee, she told me, in passable English, nothing I didn’t already know. Salazar was a saint. The old people loved him. The young people loved him. The kids loved him. He didn’t have an enemy in the world. She hadn’t noticed any strangers lurking about. Father didn’t appeared concerned about anything and was looking forward to getting the new fly rod he had ordered on Amazon. Whoever killed him should burn in hell with his gónadas cut off.
“Carmelita!”
“Lo siento, padre,” she said.
Walsh patted her arm again.
***
I spent the next two days trying to find anything Tyrone missed. I sorely wanted to find something. It didn’t even have to be a smoking ice pick. Just a clue I could throw in his obnoxious face. I know it was childish, but childish doesn’t mean unsatisfying.
I borrowed Carmelita for almost a full day as a translator when I spoke to farm workers and their wives. Many were initially suspicious until I convinced them that I wasn’t interested in their immigration status. Even then I had to swear that they would never be called to testify on anything. Not that they knew anything other than that father Salazar was a saint.
I walked the trout stream where he was killed and spoke to every fisherman I found. I visited the town’s barbershops, taverns and general stores; anywhere people gathered and gossiped. All I got for my efforts were some exaggerated fish stories, a decent haircut, some hefty bar bills and an “original Pomo Indian beaded bracelet” I thought Alice might like. There was a Walmart. Where isn’t there a Walmart? But I knew that would be waste of time.
On my last night in Windsor, I was sitting in the Harvest House trying to talk myself into dessert. When I find a great restaurant in an unfamiliar locale, I usually stick with it. What are the odds of finding another? I had just finished my steak with a cabernet and anchovy reduction sauce, and was savoring my second glass of the house red when an attractive young woman came by my table and asked if she could join me for a minute. I’d seen her several times greeting people coming in and assumed she was an employee.
“I’m Laurie Gibbons,” she said, extending her hand. “This is my restaurant.”
“Your winery, as well?”
“My family.”
We chatted for a while and then she said, “I understand you are looking into the murder of Father Salazar.”
That didn’t surprise me. Windsor wasn’t that big a place and word gets around to the locals. I guessed I had been making a nuisance of myself.
“That’s right.”
“Do you really think a serial killer is responsible?”
That did surprise me. I didn’t recall telling my theory to anyone except the local cops. In fact, I’d made it a point not to, lest it color how people reacted to my questions.
“Who told you that?”
“Detective Tyrone told some friends of mine that the police had this new theory and the F.B.I. was involved. He also said that it was OK for people to talk to you about it if you came around.”
Tyrone had kept his word to me, but I was a little annoyed that he had poisoned the well, although I suspected I’d spoken to most of the people before he had, since none of them had mentioned the serial killer aspect to me.
“It’s possible,” I said, carefully. “But it’s still just a theory.”
“Well, I hope they get whoever did it,” Gibbons said. “Father Salazar was a wonderful man. He used to bring us the fish he caught and barter them for some wine and Gravensteins.”
�
�What’s a Gravenstein?”
“It’s the local apple. This area was famous for them. But most of the land has gone over to vineyards. One of the few large orchards left is on our property. Very tart, but they make the best apple pies. Father Salazar loved them.” She laughed. “He always arrived around dinner time, so I’d also cook up one of his trout or bass for him. I really miss him.”
Naturally, I asked her if she had any ideas about the murder. She didn’t. We spent a few minutes talking about my exciting life as a private eye. I left out a lot. If you tell someone that you’ve almost been cut up by a chain saw or poisoned with nerve gas, you’ll be there all night.
“Your life really isn’t all that exciting, is it?” she said.
“I do get to eat in a lot of terrific restaurants.”
Someone from the bar area called her name and she excused herself. I ordered coffee, and when it came the waiter also put down a large piece of apple pie.
“Compliments of the house.”
“Gravenstein, I presume.”
“Of course.”
I’ll keep looking, but, to date, it is the best apple pie I’ve ever had.
CHAPTER 18 - DRESSED TO DIE
There seemed to be little more to learn in Windsor, so early the next morning I headed back to San Francisco and flew to Denver, to find out what I could about the murder of Jeanette LeFebvre, the young postulant.
I grabbed a coffee and an egg sandwich on rye in the Denver International terminal. I still had half my coffee in a cup and had just picked up my rental car when Alice called.
“How is it going?”
I told her.
“Another serial killer? Are you specializing? Perhaps you should put that on your business card.”
“It’s just a working hypothesis.”
“You will be careful, won’t you?”
“If he exists, I don’t think he is targeting agnostics.”
“They make exceptions, as you found out the last time.”
“I was blinded by her beauty.”
“I thought it was the soda bread.”
“I have more than one weakness. But I will be the soul of caution. I think I’m more at risk from jet lag than anything else. Cormac says I’ve become a Rhode more traveled.”
I heard her throaty laugh, a laugh that made me wish I was in Paris instead of Denver.
“Please tell him for me that’s terrible. But you do seem to be getting around more than ever.”
“You’re forgetting Afghanistan. And a few other charming tourist spots.”
“You were sent there. You had no choice.”
“Speaking of world travelers, when are you coming home?”
I hadn’t meant to say it like that.
“I mean, how is the Sorbonne?”
“I know what you mean, Alton. I miss you, too. The semester ends in June. Then I’m going to take a few weeks in England, visiting some friends I’ve made here. I can’t use my apartment until August 1st.”
Alice had sublet her Greenwich Village apartment to a pair of graduate students at N.Y.U.
“When you get back, you could always stay at my place until they leave.”
“I sense an ulterior motive behind that offer.”
“There’s nothing ulterior about it. I’ve been spending a lot of time in convents. Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder.”
“That was very good. Would I have to cook?”
“I thought you wanted me to avoid risking my life.”
“I suppose you will insist on having regular sex.”
“There is nothing regular about sex with you, Alice. I’m even thinking about having the bedroom soundproofed.”
“Only the bedroom?”
“You remembered.”
***
Although Jeanette LeFebvre was killed in Lafayette, a suburb about 25 miles north of Denver with its own police department, the local cops had asked for help from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation. I suspected I had something to do with that. Nothing gets peoples’ attention like the phrase “serial killer.” The C.B.I. agent in charge of the investigation, a detective named Jack Delaney, had suggested we meet at the crime scene.
“The nuns aren’t used to strangers,” Delaney said when we shook hands outside the Convent of the Contemplative Sisters of Fatima. He was tall and lanky, and looked like he should be riding a horse with a badge on his vest and a lever-action Winchester sheathed on his saddle. “But they know me pretty well by now. Make your job a little easier.”
“I appreciate this, detective. I have to say I’m not used to this kind of cooperation.”
He laughed.
“I made a couple of calls. Some cops in Massachusetts and New York said you can make yourself useful. I’ve been at this too long to turn down any help. Especially on a hair-ball case like this. They said you were the one to connect the murders.”
“I had help with that.”
“They also said you have a personal stake in this.”
“The woman killed in Massachusetts was a friend of mine.”
“That sucks. Sorry. You learn anything in Sonoma?”
It didn’t take me long to tell him what I’d found out. Or, rather, what I didn’t.
“Like I said,” Delaney said. “A hair ball.” He looked at his watch. “Come on. Let’s go in. It’s 4. The nuns have an hour of free time now. I like to be punctual. They lead a very structured life. Everything is scheduled.”
Which might make it easier for a killer to pick a time and target, I thought.
The convent was more modern than I expected. It looked something like a small ski lodge, but with more glass. I asked Delaney about it.
“Actually, you’re not far off. It was only built about 15 years ago by a guy who does ski lodges and chalets. A real religious guy, donated the land and the building to the order. They were in a much bigger building but didn’t need all the room. The money they made from the sale will keep them going for years. There aren’t that many nuns left in the order.”
“One less, now.”
“Yeah.”
Delaney rang the bell. The door was opened by a young Asian girl wearing a short-sleeved brown dress that fell just below her knees. She had on a small cap and veil. He told her that we had an appointment with Sister Teresa. The girl led us down a hallway. Inside, the place was more convent-like. Statues of saints, religious paintings and artifacts on the walls. Simple furniture.
“No ski racks,” I murmured to Delaney.
“Try to behave.”
“Please wait in here,” the girl said, pointing into a small library.
She closed the door behind her as she left. We both went to a window and looked out to a small courtyard where several nuns were sitting in Adirondack chairs, reading. Two others were engaged in a spirited game of badminton. Like the nuns in the chairs, they were wearing full habits, black, with large white cowls. Unlike the girl who answered the door, their skirts reached the ground.
“I thought these sisters were cloistered,” I said.
“Cloistered doesn’t mean dead,” a voice behind us said.
We turned. A middle-aged nun, dressed like the ones in the yard, stood in the middle of the room. We hadn’t heard her come in.
“It’s nice to see you again, Detective Delaney,” she said.
He made the introductions. Sister Teresa was the Prioress of the convent.
“I am also Director of Novitiates. We are shorthanded, so I am forced to wear two hats.” She smiled. “Or cowls, I guess. Please, sit.”
We arranged ourselves around a small table near the window.
“There are levels of cloistering, Mr. Rhode,” Sister Teresa said. “Some insist on strict silence and isolation from the world. The sisters who belong to such orders rarely see anyone outside their convent, including their families. Their lives are devoted to prayer. We, here at Fatima, are considered contemplative. We spend much of our day in prayer, of course, but we do have some interaction wi
th the community. And even the most cloistered orders provide outlets for free time, play and exercise. Here, our sisters have access to a wide range of activities. Our grounds are quite large. We even have a pond where some of the sisters like to fish.”
“I guess I was a little surprised to see nuns playing badminton in full habits,” I said. “I presume the girl who let us in was a postulant, like Jeanette LeFebvre.”
“Yes.”
“And postulants dress differently than you do.”
“Yes. This calling, as you might guess, isn’t for everyone. There is a long period of instruction.” Sister Teresa smiled again. “I believe you called it a religious boot camp, Detective Delaney. Colorful, but quite accurate. The first step toward taking permanent vows is postulancy, Mr. Rhode. Aspirants begin to live with us. They receive a Miraculous Medal, which they will wear their entire lives, and a brown dress with a short veil. They are taught basic doctrinal principles, and then the ropes, so to speak, of day-to-day living. After a year or so, if their calling is real and they want to commit fully to God, they will be admitted as a novice and be permitted to wear the full habit right up until their full investiture and, finally, the perpetual vows that make them full members of the order. The whole process may take years.” She paused. “We want to be sure. We want them to be sure. We are not looking for women who just want to escape life. We are looking for women who want to embrace life. A life in the service of God.” She looked out the window. “Of course, that doesn’t preclude badminton. I’m a pretty good player, myself.”
“Do postulants have specific jobs?”
Everyone in the community works, Mr. Rhode. We do our own cooking, cleaning and the like. We have a gardener, and a service comes in to maintain the grounds and the building, but we grow produce in our own vegetable garden. Postulants are typically assigned to work there, especially if they have a knack for it.”
“Did Jeanette LeFebvre have the knack?”
“Oh, yes. She loved it. I believe she came from a farming family. A wonderful girl. We are all still stunned by her death.” She looked at Delaney. “Any progress in solving her murder, Detective?’
He looked at me.
SISTER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 4) Page 11
