It wasn’t that the translation of the journal itself was proving difficult. As an immigrant, Father Spiro had not surprisingly lapsed into archaic words, but Father Fortis’ vacations with his family in Greece served him in good stead. And the book was proving fascinating. It was, as both Worthy and he had hoped, Father Spiro’s confidential journal and contained material that the priest wanted protected. Best of all, a quick review of the dates provided by Mrs. Nichols revealed exact matches with the journal.
What was frustrating, however, was the total absence of names in the journal. Instead, Father Spiro had used a puzzling code for each entry, four different Greek letters that carried no obvious meaning.
Also troubling Father Fortis had been Worthy’s final comment when he dropped the book by that morning. “No one in the parish is to know that we found the book. It’s too bad that even Mrs. Hazelton knows about it.” That meant that Father Fortis would have to deliver a bald-faced lie to the parish council waiting for him down the hall. He was indeed in a unique and demanding position at St. Cosmas. He was a monk trying to be a good priest to a community that was grieving over a terrible tragedy. But he was also a type of detective, one who needed to remember that these same parishioners were all suspects.
As he walked down the hallway to the meeting, it struck him that the double life he found himself in had been Father Spiro’s predicament as well. The translated bits of the journal proved that the old man had borne several heavy burdens in secret, while in public view he functioned as St. Cosmas’ presbyter, or priest. No wonder the man had been losing his hair.
“Ah, Father, good,” Mr. Margolis said as he came into the library. “I think we can now get started.”
Father Fortis took the chair at the head of the table and gazed around the room. Next to Mr. Margolis were the two professors, Dr. Stanos and Dr. Boras. They were a tag team, he thought, and it was clear who was the leader. Across the table sat Dr. Pappas—straight from the hospital, given the name tag pinned to his lapel. “Chief cardiologist,” Father Fortis read. Next to him sat Mr. Sanderson, an accountant and a convert, if he remembered correctly. At the far end, sitting by himself, was the outspoken restaurateur, Mr. Angelo.
After offering the prayer, Father Fortis turned the meeting over to Mr. Margolis. “I’ll contribute where I can, but of course I didn’t really know Father Spiro.”
“Of course, Father,” Mr. Margolis said before thanking those present for being so prompt. “And I’m sure we all want the same thing, something fitting for our dear Father Spiro.”
“Something with dignity,” Dr. Boras inserted.
“That’s assumed,” Dr. Pappas said with an indulgent smile.
“Of course, of course,” Mr. Margolis added. “I’d suggest that we begin by making a list of ideas. You should know that the women’s group has suggested a nice granite stone for our memorial garden.”
The restaurateur cleared his throat. “And what would we do with a hunk of granite when we move?” Answering his own question, he added, “Here’s what I suggest. I say we announce next Sunday that we’re going to move the church in his honor. We’ve been arguing about it for too long—is the neighborhood safe, can’t we add on here—but all that is past. It took our own beloved priest getting strangled in our very sanctuary, our temple, to show us that we’ve waited far too long.”
Mr. Sanderson spoke. “Mr. Angelo, moving the church, even if the parish agreed on it, is years away. The reality is that the parish hasn’t even found an appropriate plot of vacant land.”
The restaurateur countered with a gnomic, “Reality is what reality is.”
“A very Buddhist perspective, Jimmy,” Dr. Stanos said with a laugh. “But—”
Dr. Pappas interrupted. “Look, Jimmy, tonight is not the night to fight about land and moving the parish. I propose a plaque. A nice bronze one with Father Spiro’s likeness etched into it. And if we move, we can take that with us.”
“How much money are we talking about?” Dr. Stanos asked.
“Cost-wise? A few thousand. No more, I’d think,” Mr. Sanderson, the accountant, offered.
Dr. Stanos smiled across the table. “Mike, here I am a mere college professor saying this to a cardiologist—a Chevy talking to a Mercedes—but a few thousand dollars sounds cheap.”
The comment was met by loud laughter from Dr. Boras, but Father Fortis sensed something else in the room. Dr. Pappas was being challenged by Stanos, with Dr. Boras backing him up.
“I’ll have you know, John, that it’s a two-year-old Mercedes,” Dr. Pappas countered with his own laugh. “I take it that you and Lydia have another suggestion. I thought I saw you huddling out in the parking lot.”
“Well, actually, Lydia and I,” Dr. Stanos said, nodding deferentially to the woman next to him, “do have a suggestion. Some of you remember that the two of us had been working for about a year with Father Spiro on an icon exhibit and lecture over at the college. We’d like the committee to consider going forward with that, which is already in our budget, but using the event to announce an annual lecture series in Father’s honor. We could title it, ‘Hellenic Culture and Orthodoxy in the Modern World.’ ”
“It’s a golden opportunity to make a connection between St. Cosmas and the college. And it would be a lasting connection,” Dr. Boras added, “one that would carry on if the parish were ever to move.”
“A lecture series?” Dr. Pappas questioned. “Father was a wonderful man, but hardly a scholar. I’m not sure that he even finished college.”
“Yes, he did!” the restaurateur insisted. “In Thessaloniki.”
“Well, taking a few courses for priests back in the old country hardly makes someone an intellectual—”
The restaurateur sat forward, his fist pounding the table top. “Who’s talking about an intellectual? No offense, professors, but what good are they anyway? Father had wisdom.”
Dr. Pappas’ eyebrows arched knowingly toward the academics.
“Father Spiro clearly had gifts of ministry, even if he wasn’t well educated in the American sense,” Dr. Stanos said. “But the truth is that Orthodoxy in America is too passive, too easily intimidated. We hunch over with an inferiority complex. Do you know that Greeks are near the top, percentage-wise, among those who pursue higher education? Let me tell you after twenty-five years in the academy that few see us that way. A lecture series would be our chance to show our faith and culture in a public and positive light.”
“So you’re proposing a lecture every year?” Mr. Sanderson asked.
“Two hours of high-brow talk with baklava and Greek coffee afterwards,” Dr. Pappas joked.
The restaurateur hooted from the other end. “I can just see our old-timers sitting through a lecture.”
Dr. Boras leaned forward. “The lecture would, of course, be open to the parish, but its primary purpose would be to attract faculty and students.”
The deliberations of the committee continued with little being decided. Father Fortis found himself viewing the group in light of Worthy’s comment about suspects. Power flowed back and forth in the room, and the jockeying for influence soon prompted Mr. Margolis to raise his voice. But could any of them have killed Father Spiro? Mr. Margolis himself had admitted to disagreeing with the old priest, fighting with him, most recently over the issue of retirement. But was that a motive for murder?
Jimmy Angelo, the restaurateur, was clearly the angry type, as many restaurant owners were, in Father Fortis’ experience. Working six days of week without a vacation for thirty years could do that to a person. But Mr. Angelo’s prickly reaction to Dr. Pappas had passed quickly. He was quick to anger, but also quick to let it go.
Dr. Stanos? The professor obviously knew Father Spiro well and was bold enough to challenge Dr. Pappas’ supremacy on the council. And he was willing to use the tragedy for his own faintly shielded advantage at the college. But the same could be said for Dr. Boras.
Michael Sanderson was harder to read. A convert und
er Father Daniel, he’d enough support within the parish to get elected to the council. Quite a feat for a recent member, much less a non-Greek.
Finally, what about Dr. Pappas, the Mercedes-driving cardiologist? He was the power behind the council and obviously didn’t hold much respect for Father Spiro. But it had been Father Fortis’ experience that many physicians held little respect for anyone beyond other physicians. Disdain might be typical of doctors, but that was hardly a basis for murder. And what would have been Pappas’ motive?
“Father Fortis, can you tell us?” Mr. Margolis asked.
“Hmm? I’m sorry, it’s been a long day. What have you decided?”
“About the memorial? We’ve decided to bring the three suggestions back to the parish council.”
“Three? I heard a plaque and the lecture series.”
“The women’s group proposed the memorial stone.”
“Oh, yes, right. Well, that sounds fine,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Shall we close with prayer?”
“Just a minute, Father,” Mr. Margolis said. “We want to know if you have an update. About the investigation, I mean. We’ve all had parishioners call us, first about the break-in at St. Michael’s, and then about the article in the paper. Will Lieutenant Worthy remain with us?”
“Of course. Why not?” he replied shortly. “You may tell this to whomever asks you: that reporter was not ethical. I for one won’t speak with her again.”
“Come now, Father,” Dr. Pappas said. “The reporter made a valid point. I know Lieutenant Worthy is your friend, but to take the entire weekend off?”
“He didn’t take it off,” Father Fortis snapped. “Sorry, I’m just a bit tired. Lieutenant Worthy had an opportunity to spend two days with his daughter, who had previously refused his overtures. You see, he’s been through a painful divorce.” As soon as the last line came out, he regretted the pleading tone of it.
“I for one hope that he does stay on,” Dr. Stanos added, much to Father Fortis’ relief. “I appreciate his independence, his willingness to follow his own trail and let his partner follow his own. It’s the kind of initiative that I appreciate in my students.”
“If we see it in our students,” Dr. Boras added.
Dr. Pappas ignored her comment and spoke directly to Dr. Stanos. “But it doesn’t take an intellectual to see that the two robberies are amazingly similar, John.”
The doctor likes to have the last word, Father Fortis thought as he invited those present for a second time to rise for the closing prayer.
“One last thing, Father. Have you heard any more about that book?” Mr. Sanderson asked. “You know, the one in the photo? Did the police ever find it?”
Father Fortis looked over the parish council members to the Christ icon on the wall The severe face gazed down at him, waiting to hear his response. Was it fair to pray for the courage to lie?
“As far as I know, they are no longer interested in the book. I guess every case, from what they tell me, has clues that seem promising but then don’t pan out.” Seeing that Mr. Sanderson wasn’t finished, he hastened to add, “Now, please join me as we pray. Our Father, who art in heaven ….”
Chapter Twelve
Father Fortis took a long swallow of morning coffee in an attempt to clear his groggy head. Across from him at the diner, Worthy was eagerly attacking his bacon and eggs.
“Sorry, Nick, about your staying up all night translating this,” Worthy said, motioning toward the book.
“I’ll be better after a couple of cups of this stuff. Plus, the good news is that I’d say it was worth it.” Father Fortis yawned as he opened the book to extract his pages of translation. “As we thought, the book is a type of diary, a confessional diary, to be more exact, Christopher. Father Spiro begins the document with a prayer asking for forgiveness for having to keep it. And then he explains that he resorted to the diary because he was afraid of forgetting.”
Worthy frowned. “So, he admits to having mental lapses. Perhaps the first stages of Alzheimer’s?”
“Listen, Christopher. After only two weeks at St. Cosmas, I can confirm that forgetting the details of leading a parish is easy to do. I take the diary to be a type of insurance—he didn’t want to let these people down. I don’t think he ever expected anyone else to read it. In fact, that’s the way he ends the opening prayer.” He turned the first page. “Here it is. ‘May God keep prying eyes from ever finding this.’ ”
“That would explain his anger in that first photo,” Worthy said.
“And why he hid the book before Mr. Bagios could take the other photos.” Father Fortis took another swallow of coffee. “I must admit, my friend, that this prayer caused me to search my own soul. Do I really have the right to violate his wishes? But, in the end, I believe he would want us to use it. And not just to catch his killer. No, I think he’d be worried that the killer might not be through.”
“Always our fear, Nick. But does he actually talk about a killer in the diary?”
Father Fortis held up his hand. “Not in so many words. And I need to share the bad news. Father Spiro took another precaution, just in case someone did find the book. He never used any names.”
Worthy sat back and sighed. “Oh, that’s great.”
“On the other hand, he does use a sort of code to identify people. A four-letter code. The only problem is that I can’t make any sense of it.”
“I guess it was too much to hope that the book would do our work for us.”
“It’s more like a layer on an onion, my friend. But a very important layer.”
Worthy pushed his plate aside. “Show me what you mean.”
Father Fortis turned the book over and pointed to four letters. “I can’t always tell if the letters are English or Greek letters transliterated into English. But you can see that he’s written PABA.”
Worthy stared at the words. “I guess we should be grateful that he dated the entries.”
“Yes, indeed, and the mysterious code at least stays consistent. What I mean is, Father Spiro used the same four letters whenever someone came back to see him.”
“So, in a nutshell, what kind of secrets was he keeping?”
Father Fortis flipped two pages and pointed to an entry at the top. “This one begins with the code MRAG, and it’s in the diary twice. It’s from someone in the parish who wanted Father Spiro to help with a work problem.”
“Lloyd Hartunian?”
“That’s my assumption too, Christopher. The date fits. Translated, it says, ‘Wants me to talk to boss. Wants a miracle. Thinks I can clear the way.’ ”
Worthy picked up a strip of bacon and munched on it. “And the second entry?”
Father Fortis turned toward the back of the diary. “This one was from three weeks ago. Same code, as you can see. It reads, ‘Totally unreasonable. Has neither backing nor ability. Very angry, but she’s right.’ ”
“She? Either that woman he lives with, or maybe his boss.”
“I can’t imagine the woman at the house ever contradicting him,” Father Fortis said.
“Okay, that’s easy to check out. We can interview his boss together.”
Father Fortis nodded. “Just say when.”
“I’m interviewing Bales tomorrow. Why don’t you call the store and find out when Hartunian has his day off? I don’t want him to know we’re looking into him.”
“Good thinking. Who is this Bales again, by the way?”
“The guy who Sherrod thinks killed the priest. He’s also the guy Henderson beat to a pulp.”
“Oh, I see.”
Worthy wiped his hands with a napkin. “Let’s move on to the next person. By the way, how many people are coded in here?”
“About eight, by my count, but I think there’s only three worth talking about. The second one is coded as NISP. He’s listed more than anyone else in the diary.”
“MRAG, now NISP,” Worthy repeated. “I don’t imagine they mean anything together?”
�
�Not that I can think of. Besides, this is a very different kind of problem. The first visit was back on May thirteenth. It reads, ‘Mother’s idea he’s here. Believes God hates him. It began before Christmas. Won’t say why.’ ”
Father Fortis began turning pages when Worthy stopped him. “It. What’s the ‘it’ mean? Wait a minute, Nick. Does that sound like a kid to you?”
“Possibly, though it could be a grown man still tied to his mother. I’ve seen that before.”
“Right. Okay, go ahead.”
“The next entry from NISP is dated over two months later, July seventeenth. It reads, “Came back. Told Mother he will stop coming to church. Asked questions about damnation. Effeminate. Wonder if he could harm self?’ ”
“Sounds sexual,” Worthy offered.
“Exactly right. Listen to the third entry.”
“Dated when?” Worthy asked.
“Sorry. It’s November nineteenth.”
“Quite a gap of time. Wait a minute,” Worthy said, holding up his hand. “That’s Amy’s birthday, and it was on a Tuesday. I thought you said that Father Spiro scheduled his confessions on Thursday.”
“You’re right, my friend. I’d forgotten. So this was a special confession.”
“Maybe like the one on the morning he was killed,” Worthy added. “What’s it say?”
“Oddly, it seems a rehash of the second. The person says he still wants to quit church. Angry that God would reject what I’ve translated as ‘his kind.’ ”
“That’s getting clearer, isn’t it?” Worthy said.
“And now I come to the last entry from NISP, January third, just a few days before Father Spiro was strangled. Let me read it to you exactly. ‘Says he loves the man. I asked if trapped. He says his own fault. Can’t take Eucharist. But no previous history. Won’t name man. Do I know him?’ ”
Let the Dead Bury the Dead Page 15
